Fast Guns Out of Texas

by Ralph Cotton

  Way to handle it, Peru, Caldwell said to himself, raising his glass with a trace of a private smile. He could not have found a better person for the role of killing Shaw if he’d tried. He hadn’t planned on things turning out this way, but after seeing how Peru handled himself, and how skillfully he handled a gun, Caldwell and the sheriff both had decided they could breathe a little easier.

  Yet, no sooner had Caldwell thought about being able to breathe easier than he heard the voice from the middle of the empty street, “Madden Peru, this is John Bob Selman, I come to call you out!”

  Caldwell saw Peru stop at the doors and look out over them. Grabbing his shotgun from against the bar, Caldwell started toward the door, saying, “Let me handle this, Peru. I’m the law when the sheriff’s not around.”

  But Peru raised a hand toward him, stopping him in his tracks. “This ain’t about the law, Barber. This is me and him. Anyway, I know this ole boy. Likely he’s just liquored up and full of Chinese dope.”

  “Anything that threatens the peace in Crabtown is about the law,” said Caldwell. But he’d stopped and lowered his shotgun, letting Peru know that his had been more an offer of help.

  Peru read his eye and said, “Obliged, but I knew this would come, soon as word got out. If I didn’t want it, I should have kept killing Shaw a secret.” As he spoke, he slipped his Colt effortlessly from his holster, checked it, and spun it back into place, making certain it stayed loose. “I’d be lying if I said otherwise.” The miners, the few other early evening drinkers, Caldwell, and the bartender all hurried to the doors and the large dirty window for a look as Peru stepped out on the boardwalk and left the doors swinging behind him.

  “John Bob Selman,” Peru said flatly, stepping off the boardwalk and into the empty street, “I haven’t seen you since we both tried our hand at legal droving.” Behind Selman the street lay empty, the townsfolk having taken cover after seeing John Bob walk intently toward the saloon while he checked his gun.

  “Don’t even talk to me about legal steers,” said Selman. “I hate them from the point on their horns to the smell on their ass.” He opened and closed his right hand as if to loosen it up. “I heard all the way in Rustler’s Hole that you outgunned Fast Larry Shaw.”

  “You heard true sure enough, John Bob,” said Peru, standing comfortably, as if he’d done this a hundred times throughout his life. “Now what is this about you calling me out?” He gave Selman a pointed gaze and said in a quiet tone, “Have you been sucking the Chinaman’s pipe on your way over here?”

  “Naw!” John Bob glanced around and added with a twitch in his cheek, “I didn’t know there was any dope up here in Crabtown.”

  “Oh yeah, lots of it,” said Peru. He liked standing here, feeling in charge, knowing the risk but willing to take it. He reminded himself to savor this cool evening wind on his neck, and the hushed silence surrounding the street. If he lived, this was what he lived for, he realized. “But sucking dope ain’t what’s on your mind now, is it?” He took a short step forward and stopped. “What was all that about you calling me out?”

  Cutting a hungry glance past the Chinese letters on either side of the Chinese laundry’s doors, Selman swallowed dryly and said, “That’s right, Peru, I’m here to take from you what you took from Fast Larry Shaw.”

  “I didn’t know you even knew Shaw, John Bob,” said Peru, giving a slight grin.

  “I didn’t,” said Selman, “but that makes no never mind to me. How come you never said nothing about being a gun hawk? All that time, you never said a word.”

  “It never come up,” Peru said with a shrug, keeping his gun hand loose and ready. “But now here you are, the first one, and you come all the way from Rustler’s Hole just to see me?” He offered a slight grin. “I’m more than just a little honored, John Bob.” He took on an air of resolve. “Let’s get right to it—what do you say?”

  “Suits me.” Selman’s eyes went longingly to the Chinese laundry again for just a second. Looking back at Peru, he said, “Good stuff, is it, over there? I mean, you know, for afterward?”

  “Afterward?” Peru said, bemused. “John Bob, what is it you think you came here to do, have a night on the town? If we throw down, there ain’t no afterward for you. Everything is going to be was from then on. I’m going to kill you blood-running dead. You understand?”

  Selman cut a glance again toward the Chinese laundry, then back to Peru. “You should have said something, all that time, Peru!” His voice turned shaky and harsh. “Damn you for not doing that!”

  “I apologize, John Bob, if that helps,” said Peru. “The truth is I never realized how fast I’d gotten until lately. Three, four years ago, I doubt I could have taken Fast Larry Shaw.” He paused as if to let the words sink in and give his next words more emphasis. “But now I did.” He took another short step. “Now I’ll kill you, too. Ready?”

  “Not so fast.” Selman fought himself to keep from taking a step back. He licked his dry lips, thinking of how soft and cool he would be right now, wrapped in a tingling sweet opium embrace. “Maybe I was a little too quick to anger. But you should have said something.” Before Peru could reply, he jerked his head toward the Chinese laundry. “So, is it . . . good stuff, that is?”

  “I never use it,” said Peru, “but “I’ve heard it’s real good.”

  “Real good!” Selman grinned. “Damn . . .” He gazed steadily at the laundry doors for a moment.

  “But let’s get this shooting done, what do you say?” said Peru.

  “Huh?” Selman turned his eyes back to him as he’d blanked out for a moment.

  “You? Me? A shoot-out? Remember?” Peru reminded him.

  “Oh. Yeah.” Selman licked his dry lips again, paused for a moment, then said, “I don’t want to kill you, Peru, not really. I just was upset, you never saying nothing about being so fast.”

  “But now I’ve apologized for it,” said Peru. “So, are we square with one another?”

  “If we’re not, I’ll let you know later,” said Selman, taking another short step backward, his eyes still drifting toward the laundry. He started to turn, and so did Peru. At the batwing doors, Caldwell stepped out, his shotgun hanging in his hand. But then Selman stopped and chastised himself. “No, damn it!” he cursed. “I came here to do something! I ain’t quitting until it’s done!” His hand poised near his holstered Colt.

  While Peru and Selman had talked, Sheriff Foley had returned to town, seen the empty street, and slipped down from his horse and moved up on the two men from the side, staying in the afternoon shadows. He’d felt relieved seeing Selman start to turn away; but now that the young gunman grew angry and turned back facing Peru, the sheriff moved quick.

  “Both of yas get your hands in the air!” Foley shouted at Selman, seeing the gunman’s hand ready to make a move.

  “Sheriff, stay back!” said Peru, raising his hands as Foley had ordered, yet knowing he still had things under control.

  But Foley would have none of it. “You both heard me,” he shouted at Selman. He advanced hoping to draw Selman’s attention away from shooting Peru. Seeing things ready to fly out of control, Caldwell brought the shotgun up.

  Sheriff . . . ? Selman misunderstood. He glared at Peru and shouted, “This is how you do it? Three agin one? You and your law dog pal?” He went for his gun in spite of the odds.

  Even with his hands chest high in the air, Peru got his Colt out and fired before Caldwell had either a chance or a reason to raise his shotgun and fire. Peru’s bullet hammered Selman in the chest, sent him backward to the ground. But a wild shot from Selman’s Colt exploded sidelong, a blue-orange streak splitting the afternoon light.

  Caldwell saw the shot hit Sheriff Foley, causing him to jackknife and drop to his knees, both hands clutching his stomach. “Oh no!” Caldwell leaped from the boardwalk and ran toward the downed sheriff.

  John Bob Selman’s Colt rose from the dirt and managed to fire one more shot before he died. The shot sliced t
hrough Caldwell’s shoulder and caused him to stagger to a halt, but only long enough to swing the shotgun and fire a blast of nail heads into the dying gunman.

  Within seconds both Caldwell and Peru had knelt down over the fallen lawman. Peru held the sheriff’s head in his lap, owing to Caldwell’s wounded shoulder. “I—I made a bad . . . mistake not trusting you . . . Peru,” Foley said in a tight pain-filled voice. “You had it . . . settled.”

  “Take it easy, Sheriff,” said Peru, wiping his hand back over the sheriff’s sweaty forehead. “You’re going to be all right.”

  Foley shook his head weakly. “No . . . I’m not.” He nodded toward Caldwell, who held a hand pressed to his bleeding shoulder, dark blood having already soaked through his black linen suit coat. “You . . . look after Jedson. I’m heading home . . .” He let out a breath, his eyelids slipped down halfway closed.

  “Sheriff! Sheriff Foley!” Peru shook him vigorously, as if to bring him back to consciousness.

  Caldwell, having seen more death than the young gunman, said in a resolved tone, “He’s gone, Peru.” Looking all around as townsfolk ventured out and drew nearer, he said with his eyes glistening wet, “Get him up off the street. Don’t let them see him like this.”

  Two days later, looking out the dust-covered window of the sheriff’s office, Peru said over his shoulder in grim reflection, “If I hadn’t come here declaring I killed Lawrence Shaw, none of this would have happened.”

  “I can’t argue with that,” said Caldwell, struggling with tying a clean black necktie one-handed, left-handed at that, his right arm in a sling. “But the same can be said about any one action being the cause of the next thing that happens, be the next thing good or bad.”

  “What?” Peru turned, giving him a puzzled look.

  “I’m simply saying, if you want to dwell on circumstance, everything we do causes the next thing that happens. Much of what happens next is out of our control. All we can judge ourselves by is our intent at that particular time.” He continued struggling with the necktie as he asked, “Did you come here with the intention of setting off a string of acts that would lead to Sheriff Foley’s death?”

  “Don’t talk crazy. Of course I didn’t. I liked that ole lawman,” Peru said.

  “All right, then don’t reach back into the past and find a way to make yourself guilty. You can only judge your intentions.” He stopped struggling with his necktie and raised a half-gloved finger for emphasis.

  “I never attended some fancy barber school, or some high-thinking undertaker school,” said Peru, stepping forward and shoving Caldwell’s hand aside. He took the necktie between his thumbs and fingers, adjusted its length, and tied it into a looping bow. “But I know right and wrong, and I feel I did wrong in coming here.” He gave an extra tug on the necktie as if to make sure it didn’t come loose. “To tell you the truth, walking around in Shaw’s boots and clothes had caused me some strange thoughts. I feel bad about killing him. Even though it was self-defense,” he added pointedly.

  “In that case . . .” Caldwell picked up a dusty hand mirror and inspected Peru’s tying abilities. He nodded his approval, saying, “You’ll have to do whatever you feel is right to divest yourself of this guilt . . . the guilt of killing Shaw . . . the guilt of causing Sheriff Foley’s death.” He couldn’t tell Peru that even his guilt was built on a false premise. Shaw’s boots . . . ? Ha, thought Caldwell, if he only knew.

  “I don’t know how to get rid of guilt. I never had any before. Killing Shaw made me a somebody, but being a somebody makes me have to think about things different. I wasn’t guilty of nothing when I was a horse thie—” He caught himself in time to stop and say, “A nobody, that is.” He rubbed his temples. “Jesus,” he asked with a troubled look, “what do people do to stop themselves feeling guilty?”

  “Religious folk, those who believe in a higher presence, pray, and get forgiven,” said Caldwell. He shrugged his good shoulder a bit stiffly. “Others of us, like myself, learn to rationalize our actions, try to improve . . . better ourselves morally, so to speak.”

  “You don’t believe in God?” Peru asked, surprised.

  “Oh yes!” said Caldwell. “I believe in God! But like most people I believe in God as a way to hedge my bet on eternity.” He grinned, winked, and reached for his freshly brushed bowler hat. “I believe in God just in case he exists. Nobody wants to be caught short come judgment day.”

  “You’re not much help, Barber,” said Peru. “I didn’t come here to get Sheriff Foley killed. But it worked out that way, owing to the kind of person I am. Had I come here on a better and more honorable purpose, I expect my actions would have caused better things to have happened around me.”

  “Whoa! I’m impressed at such a level of higher thought,” said Caldwell. He placed his bowler atop his head and tapped it down snugly. “All this, from wearing a dead man’s boots?” He looked down at Stiff-leg Charlie’s boots on Peru’s feet, the left boot as smooth as brand-new on top. As he stared down he wondered if there would ever be a point when Peru could know the truth. Judging from the changes he’d witnessed Peru going through he wondered if in this case honesty was really the best policy.

  “I don’t know where it’s coming from,” said Peru. “But I know Sheriff Foley was a good man, and I believe he tried to help me be a better man. I feel responsible for him going into the ground today, and I don’t know of any way to make up for it.” As he spoke he reached out, opened the door for the injured barber, and followed him out onto the boardwalk.

  “I could have opened the door for myself. I’m not completely helpless, you know,” Caldwell said, stepping down off the boardwalk.

  Beside him, Peru said, “Sheriff Foley told me to look after you, Barber. I intend to do it.”

  “I understood him to mean right then,” said Caldwell, walking along toward the barbershop, where Victor Earles stood beside a minister in front of a large gathering of townsfolk, “to look after me and my bleeding shoulder.”

  “Yeah, I know,” said Peru. “But I think he meant more than that. I think he meant look after you until you’re back able to keep the law here in Crabtown. So that’s what I’m doing.”

  “That could take a while,” said Caldwell, thinking things over as they walked. “I expect once the word gets out about Sheriff Foley’s death, there’ll be some riffraff who think they can ride into Crabtown and do as they please.” As if struck by a sudden idea, Caldwell stopped in the street and said to Peru, “I’ll tell you what can help you get rid of this guilt you’re feeling.” He looked Peru up and down as if appraising him all over again.

  “Yeah? What’s that?”

  “The town wants me to be acting sheriff in spite of my wounded shoulder. I’ll do it, but only if you’ll be my officially sworn deputy.”

  Peru paused, giving him a peculiar look for a moment, before saying, “Pin on a badge? Me?” He looked around as if making sure no one heard them and said in a lowered voice, “I’m going to be level with you, I’ve come close to being an outlaw most of my life.”

  Caldwell gave him a wry smile. “You’d be surprised how many good lawmen have come in off that same trail.” Seeing Peru start to waver toward the idea, he said as further inducement, “You wouldn’t believe how much guilt you can get rid of pinning a star in front of your heart.”

  PART 2

  Chapter 11

  A month would pass before Cray Dawson and Madeline Mercer stood on her front porch in the first early rays of sunlight and said their good-byes. Much of their days and nights together had been spent wrapped in one another’s arms, both of them having spent too many long nights alone before Dawson veered off his trail to Black’s Cut to check on her—something that, as it turned out, he would always be obliged to Jedson Caldwell for asking him to do.

  In the crisp Montana morning, Madeline Mercer had spread open the blanket she’d draped around her and enclosed Dawson inside, drawing him against her warm nakedness. She whispered, “Hurry ba
ck,” and pressed her lips to his.

  After they’d kissed long and deep, Dawson’s lips left hers only by the slightest fraction, enough for him to reply against her cheek, “I’m not even sure I can leave.”

  “Then don’t,” the young widow whispered, her hand traveling down him beneath the blanket.

  But Dawson had to go. He knew it, and so did she.

  He longed for the warmth of her now, of her skin against him, of her mouth close to his. Leaving her might have been a mistake, he told himself, studying the low flames of his campfire on a ridge overlooking a dome of light above Black’s Cut in the near distance. I’ll wait for you no matter how long it takes, she had whispered the night before he’d left, the two of them beneath the warm quilt, still breathless from their passion. She’d smiled. But please hurry back to me. . . .

  Yes, he told himself, now that he’d come to his destination. Leaving was a mistake. No matter what amount of gold he managed to scrape out of the hills around Black’s Cut, he would not be satisfied until he made his way back to Madeline Mercer. Stirring a stick around in the coals of his fire, he thought about her, and chastised himself for a damn fool, out here in the chilled Montana night, the woman lying aching for him as much as he ached for her.

  All right, enough! He stood up from the fire, a tin cup of coffee in hand, and walked over to check the animals, trying to take his mind off her. She said she would wait, and she would. He had to quit thinking so much about it. The best thing he could do for now was get to his claim, work it, establish its worth, and see what his prospecting venture had brought him.

  He sipped the coffee and stared for a moment at the closing lights of Black’s Cut. Yet, he could not put the woman out of his mind so easily. He thought about the irony of how the first and only love of his life had been Rosa, Lawrence Shaw’s deceased wife.