Gunman's Song

by Ralph Cotton

  “If you don’t mind me saying, I’ve been seeing that for some time. I had even wondered if Shaw could see it…apparently he did.” Caldwell stopped for a moment, thinking it over; then he said, “She must’ve been a remarkable woman, if two men loved her so much they’re willing to share the memory of her.”

  “She was a remarkable woman,” said Dawson. “I just wish to God I could have known what was going on that day. I would have been there even though Lawrence Shaw wasn’t!”

  “You really do blame yourself, don’t you?” Caldwell asked carefully.

  Dawson hung his head. “I actually saw them on their way along the road after they left the Shaw home. I had no idea where they had been.”

  “Even if you had, it wouldn’t have saved her,” said Caldwell. “It would only have meant that you would have found her killers sooner.” He shrugged. “I call that little comfort for so great a loss.”

  “That’s all I get,” said Dawson. “But tomorrow I will be there at sunrise, and even if it means I have to fight Lawrence Shaw, I’m taking vengeance on Rosa’s murderers.”

  “You won’t have to fight him,” said Caldwell. “The last thing he said was that he wouldn’t try to stop us if we showed up.”

  “He said that, huh?” said Dawson.

  “Yes, he did,” said Caldwell, nodding. “He said, ‘Show up at sunrise; I won’t try to stop you.’ “

  Dawson let out a tired breath. “Then something I said must’ve changed his mind after he took time to think it over. That ain’t like him,” he said. He shook his head, then added, “Never fall in love with another man’s wife, Caldwell; it’ll bring you and everybody else nothing but misery. I expect I am lucky Shaw didn’t put a bullet in me. The plain truth is, I hurt so bad I just didn’t really care.” He stood up, dusted his trouser seat, and took down his saddle and blanket roll.

  Caldwell did the same, saying, “So tomorrow we’ll meet Shaw there first thing, at sunrise?”

  “Yep,” said Dawson. “I will, anyway. If you want to ride on, nobody will ever blame you.”

  Taking down his own saddle and blanket roll, Caldwell said, “I know…but if it’s all the same, I want to be there.”

  Dawson just looked at him.

  “Call it a test,” said Caldwell. Then without another word on the matter he shook out his blanket and spread it on the ground at his saddle.

  Dawson nodded and did the same.

  Caldwell lay awake in restless anticipation of the upcoming events, while Cray Dawson soon fell fast asleep. But at midnight, as Caldwell still wrestled with his blanket and tossed and turned, he was suddenly startled by the sound of Dawson’s voice, saying to himself, “Damn you, Shaw! I should have known better!”

  Jedson Caldwell sat up quickly, leaning on both palms, looking around as if expecting to see Lawrence Shaw in their midst. “What’s going on, Dawson?” he asked, bewildered.

  “Shaw just jackpotted us, that’s what’s going on!” said Dawson. “It just came to me in my sleep what he’s trying to do, only it’s not going to work! No, sir! Not if I can help it!”

  “What is he trying to do?” asked Caldwell.

  Cray Dawson snatched his saddle and blanket from the ground and hurried over to where the horses stood at rest. “Come on, Caldwell, if you’re coming! We’ve got to get a move on!”

  “But it’s the middle of the night!” Caldwell protested, even as he grabbed his boots in one hand, his saddle and blanket in the other. “Where are we going?”

  “Shaw told you it was all right for us to be there at sunrise because he knew damned well he was going into Brakett Flats tonight! He’s deliberately trying to get himself killed!

  Bobby Fitt stood guard until midnight, until Harper Furlin limped over to the abandoned gallows to relieve him. “I don’t see the damn point in us standing guard like this,” Harper said, feeling cross and testy from the pain in his swollen, wounded foot. “If I wanted to stand guard I’d have joined the army.”

  “I know,” said Bobby Fitt, “I’ve never seen Talbert so worried about anything since I’ve been riding with him.” He looked Harper up and down. How’s the bad foot doing?”

  “No good at all,” said Harper Furlin. “The only thing would help it is if I could stomp it up and down on Denver Jack’s face.”

  Bobby Fitt chuckled slightly under his breath. “It’s a well-known fact that Denver Jack Fish will shoot a man without warning, and with very little provocation.”

  Harper only sneered and cursed silently.

  Leaving the gallows Bobby Fitt walked over to the saloon, where Willie the Devil and Elton Minton were still drinking, the Devil fervently swapping gunfighting tales with a couple of townsmen who had grown bold enough to drink with what remained of Barton Talbert’s men at the bar. “What happens if this fight doesn’t take place?” one townsman asked the Devil.

  Willie the Devil spread his hands in a gesture of innocence, saying, “Then everybody gets their money back, of course! Look, friend, making book on these gunfights is not something I do for money. This is all done through my love of sporting events.”

  “I never thought of two men shooting at each other as a sporting event,” said the townsman, scratching his head.

  “Then you haven’t studied much history,” said the Devil. “The contest of man against man in a contest of life or death is the oldest sport in the world. The Romans did it with swords and pikes and other assorted cutting and maiming objects. So did the Greeks, the Chinese…God knows who else! Shooting a man with a gun is perhaps the most humane way in the world to kill him. I hate even thinking about some of the others.” He winced in contemplation.

  “I hadn’t thought of it, but I reckon you’re right,” said the townsman, again scratching his head.

  “You bet I am,” said Willie the Devil, smiling broadly. “The Devil wouldn’t steer you wrong! Right, Elton?”

  “Right you are, Devil,” said Elton Minton, who stood farther down the bar. Elton had taken up with a young woman who had been drinking and consorting freely with the outlaws ever since Talbert had convinced the mayor to allow the young women of the town out of hiding. The young woman raised her dress hem slowly and smiled as Elton stuffed a dollar bill under her garter.

  “Why do most of the men call you Scarecrow?” she asked Elton, taking her slow, sweet time lowering her hemline.

  “I didn’t know they did,” said Elton with a dumb look on his face.

  As Bobby Fitt poured a glass of rye and raised it to his lips, Blue Snake walked through the open doorway with a sour scowl on his face and his eyes blurry and red-rimmed from both whiskey and sleep. “I ate another polecat in my sleep,” he said, walking to the bar. He looked back and forth, seeing the line of empty bottles, glasses, and stubbed-out cigar butts along the whiskey-stained bar top. Flies swirled. “What happened to that peckerwood bartender?” he asked, swiping a hand to shoo the cloud of flies away.

  “He’s been gone three days,” said Bobby Fitt, “ever since Denver Jack wanted to shoot a bottle off his head.”

  “Yeah, I remember,” said Blue Snake. Then, as if remembering something important, he asked, “Ain’t you supposed to be standing guard?”

  “Just till midnight,” said Bobby. “Harper relieved me a few minutes ago.”

  “Harper? Hell,” said Blue Snake, “the shape his foot’s in, he ain’t going to pay attention to what’s coming or going. Talbert ain’t going to like it.” He jerked his head toward the street. “Get over there and send Harper to bed.”

  “I don’t know why,” said Bobby Fitt, throwing back his drink of rye. “There ain’t nothing going to happen till sunrise anyway. You heard what Bo Kregger said about gunfighters like Shaw.”

  “That’s right, I heard him,” said Blue Snake with finality. “Now go send Harper to bed. Talbert is jumpier than a squirrel.”

  Bobby Fitt grumbled under his breath but did as he was told. He left the saloon, but was back inside of a minute, a stunned look on his
face. Blue Snake, you better come see this! Ol’ Harper has committed suicide!”

  “Like hell,” said Blue Snake, hurrying past him out the door. “Come on, all three of you!” he shouted over his shoulder.

  But as Willie the Devil ran out the door, Elton acted as if he hadn’t heard Blue Snake’s command. “Aren’t you going with them, Scarecrow?” the young woman asked playfully.

  “No,” said Elton, “I’m strictly here for the sporting event.” Taking the woman by her arm, he headed for the stairs leading up to the second floor. “Come on up to my room; I want to show you my betting slips.”

  “Oh, goody!” said the woman, going along with him.

  But as the two townsmen stood peering out the open doorway, before Elton and the woman reached the stairs, Lawrence Shaw stepped out of the shadows from the rear of the saloon, his Colt raised and cocked in Elton’s face.

  “Fast Larry Shaw!” Elton Minton gasped, seeing the big open gun bore staring him in the eye.

  “Fast Larry?” said one of the townsmen in disbelief. Seeing both townsmen snap around in the open doorway to get a look at him, Shaw said, “Gentlemen, keep your eyes turned to the street. Don’t draw attention to me.”

  “Oops! No! We won’t do that!” said a townsman, grabbing his companion and turning him back toward the street.

  “You…you remember me, don’t you?” said Elton in a shaky voice. The young woman, who had been shocked at first, now looked Shaw up and down with an inviting smile.

  “Should I?” Shaw said to Elton.

  “I’m the one who took care of the bets on you and Mace Renfield. Remember me?” said Elton.

  The young woman cut in, saying, “The men call him Scarecrow.”

  “The one who stole all the betting money?” Shaw said.

  Elton fell silent, his eyes seeming transfixed on the gun barrel.

  “I’m not here to kill you, Scarecrow,” said Shaw. “And I don’t care about the betting money you stole. “I want you to go tell those boys out in the street that I’m up there”—he gestured a nod toward the rooms upstairs—“having a drink with this young lady. Tell them I’ll be right down…I’m here to kill them.”

  “All right!” One of the men in the doorway said, raising a fist in a cheer without turning around. “I’ve got three dollars bet on you, Fast Larry! I just want you to know!”

  Shaw didn’t answer. Taking the woman by her forearm, he directed her toward the stairs. “After you, ma’am,” he said.

  “Well, thank you, Mr. Shaw,” the woman said. “My name is Florence, by the way.”

  “Lawrence Shaw, ma’am,” Shaw replied, “at your service.”

  “Oh, my, I hope so!” Florence whispered suggestively.

  Shaw said to Elton, who stood stunned, “Well, are you going, or do I have to clip your toenails?” He lowered the barrel toward Elton’s feet. Elton jumped back as if a snake had nipped at his toes.

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Shaw! I’m gone!” Elton said.

  As soon as Elton was out the door, the townsmen ventured a glance around and saw Shaw and the woman climbing the stairs, Shaw escorting her with her hand lying on his forearm. But when they reached the top of the stairs and turned a corner out of sight, Shaw said, nodding toward a door at the far end of the hall, “I suppose that’s the way out of here?”

  “I don’t know,” said Florence, “not as seasoned and seductive now that she thought they were about to enter one of the small rooms. “I’ve never really been here before. I just thought it would be exciting!”

  “And now your stomach is feeling a little queasy?” said Shaw.

  “I’m sorry,” said Florence.

  “Think nothing of it, ma’am,” said Shaw. “The fact is, I want you to get out that door and down the back stairs as quick as you can. Get away and stay away. Will you do that?”

  “But if there’s going to be a gunfight—” Her words stopped short when she saw the look on Shaw’s face. “All right…yes, I’ll go, and I’ll stay out of your way.”

  “All right, get going,” said Shaw, giving her a slight nudge.

  “Good luck, Fast Larry,” she said as she turned away.

  Fast Larry…“Much obliged, ma’am,” Shaw said patiently.

  On the street by the gallows, Blue Snake, Willie the Devil, and Bobby Fitt stood staring at the body of Harper Furlin as Elton Minton came running up beside him, out of breath. Elton skidded to a halt at seeing Harper’s body twist back and forth slowly on the long gallows rope, his toes only two inches off the ground.

  “My, my! Harper hanged himself,” Bobby Fitt said quietly. “His foot must’ve hurt lots more than he let on.”

  Blue Snake stared at Bobby Fitt. “Damn it, Bobby, Shaw did this! Harper didn’t kill himself!”

  “He’s there!” said Elton, grabbing Blue Snake by the shoulder to keep from falling.

  “Who’s there? There where?” Blue Snake demanded, throwing Elton’s hand off of him roughly.

  A cry of pain and outrage arose as Gladso Furlin arrived and saw Harper’s body hanging from the gallows. He flung himself forward, raising Harper into his arms.

  “Fast Larry!” said Elton, still struggling to catch his breath. “He’s in the saloon! Right now! Upstairs with that young woman, Florence!”

  Barton Talbert arrived just in time to hear what Elton said. Behind Talbert, Bo Kregger walked along sleepily, shoving his shirt down into his trousers, his gun belt hanging from his shoulder. He gave an unconcerned glance to Gladso and his dead brother and shook his head. “Fast Larry Shaw ain’t in the saloon. I told you sunrise, damn it!”

  “Maybe he forgot to set his watch,” said Blue Snake dryly, as he drew his pistol and checked it. “Willie, Bobby, Scarecrow…let’s go get him.”

  Barton Talbert turned to Bo Kregger. “If Scarecrow saw him, he’s there! What are you thinking, anyway?”

  “He ain’t there,” said Bo Kregger confidently, rubbing his sleepy eyes. “He might have just been there, and he might have taken some woman upstairs, but he ain’t there now.”

  “We can at least check and see!” said Barton Talbert.

  “Suit yourself,” said Kregger. “He won’t be here till morning, just like I said.” He turned and started to walk away.

  “Bo! Where are you going?” Talbert asked.

  “Where does it look like I’m going?” said Kregger. “Back to bed. I’ve got a busy morning coming.”

  Chapter 22

  Inside the saloon, Blue Snake stood back cautiously, his Colt in hand, poised, looking up at the top of the stairs. “Shaw! He brought us, just like you told him to! Come on down! This is Blue Snake Terril! I’ll fight you man-to-man! Nobody will interfere; you’ve got my word on it!”

  Close beside Blue Snake, Bobby Fitt whispered, “Want me to see if there’s a shotgun under the bar?”

  “Hell, yes, get the shotgun! What’s the matter with you?” Blue Snake whispered harshly. “Hurry up!”

  “Got it!” said Bobby, hurrying behind the bar, snatching up the shotgun, and waving it to show Blue Snake.

  “Shaw,” said Blue Snake, “you know that Bo Kregger is here, and he’s wanting you awfully bad. But I say first come, first served, don’t you?” He paused for a reply, but when none came, he said, “I understand you’ve got to take vengeance for what happened. But since I had nothing to do with what happened to your wife, I figure you and me ought to treat one another with respect. I’m going to give you a minute to think about it. Then I believe you and me ought to handle this like a couple of honorable men. That’s my thinking on it.”

  “I got the kerosene!” Willie the Devil whispered, appearing from the back stockroom of the saloon.

  “It’s about damn time!” said Blue Snake, still whispering. “Get some matches and get ready.”

  “For God’s sake! Don’t burn the saloon!” one of the townsmen pleaded shrilly, nearing hysteria. He jumped up from where he and his companion had hidden beneath a rough wooden table and screamed
toward the top of the stairs, “Mr. Shaw! Please! If there’s any humanity in you, don’t let them burn the—”

  He cut his words short, seeing Blue Snake swing his big Colt toward him. Before Blue Snake could get a shot off, both townsmen turned the table over as they ran from the saloon.

  “Never mind them, Shaw!” said Blue Snake. “They’re just drunken citizens! What do they know about bold gunmen like you and me, right?”

  While Blue Snake spoke to the empty stairwell, Bo Kregger heard the two townsmen running from the saloon as he made his way to the front of the hotel. Looking back, he said aloud to himself, “You stupid sons a’ bitches. No wonder you’ll all be dead tomorrow.”

  Hiking his gun belt onto his shoulder, he started to step onto the front porch of the hotel when something made him freeze. Gooseflesh ran the length of his arms. His back tightened as if a cold serpent had caressed his spine. “Shaw?” he whispered to himself, his gunman’s instincts sensing something that his mind had not yet fathomed, let alone accepted. “No, wait!” he said, turning around to face the dark street.

  In the blackness of the overhang out front of the women’s hat store, Shaw stood, his tall outline somehow even darker than the broad blackness surrounding him. He was invisible, yet Bo Kregger saw him, his hat brim, his long riding duster, his high, upturned collar. Then, in that tight curve of time and air when the sequence of events pile one upon another to become death, Bo Kregger saw the bright orange-blue flash that exposed Shaw for another split second as Kregger tightened his grip on his gun belt and said in disappointment and dread, “Damn it, I never even got to—”

  And even as he said it, he heard Shaw reply, or thought he heard him reply, “She was my wife, you understand.”

  The roar of the bullet sounded short to Bo Kregger as it lifted him up by the heart and flung him backward against the front of the hotel, dead, his eyes staring into the darkness, stuck in rapt awareness, like a man having learned a great lesson too late.