by Ralph Cotton
After Rosa’s death Dawson thought he would never be fortunate enough to love another woman; and for a long while it appeared he’d been right. Shaw, whether right or wrong, had taken up with Carmelita, Rosa’s younger sister, shortly after returning home to visit his wife’s grave.
When Shaw left Carmelita, as he, Dawson, and Carmelita herself knew he would, she and Dawson had taken up with one another and tried for a time to make a life together. But it didn’t work out. How could it? he asked himself. Carmelita had fallen too much in love with her dead sister’s husband; Dawson had been too long and too hopelessly in love with Rosa Shaw. The only thing that had drawn him to Carmelita had been her kinship to Rosa.
He shook his head thinking about it. Had Carmelita stayed with him, they would have soon begun destroying one another, instead of only making one another miserable, which they had done from the start. So she left . . . he told himself, as if relating the story to Madeline, the two of them snuggled under the covers in a glow of candlelight. It was something he would have to tell her, someday, after they had been together awhile longer, maybe even . . . well, married, he told himself.
Married . . . ? a voice asked inside his mind. Yes, why not? the same voice answered. He wasn’t a rounder, at least not by choice. He wanted to settle down, have a wife, a family, like any other normal man. He sipped the coffee and wondered for a moment how Madeline would take it, hearing him tell her that the only three women who’d ever been in his life had stepped into it by having at some point stepped out of Lawrence Shaw’s. Rosa, Carmelita, and now you, Madeline . . . he revealed to her in his mind, finishing the coffee and slinging the grinds from the cup.
But that was enough of that, he thought, walking back to the fire and setting the cup upside down on a clean flat rock. He wasn’t a man to quit what he’d started. Tomorrow he’d arrive in Black’s Cut, replenish his own supplies and pick up fresh grain for his horse and mule, and go find his claim. Madeline said she’d wait for his return before completing the sale of the Mercer spread and heading east. He believed her. He had to.
He thought about how Caldwell had warned him about Black’s Cut and about Giddis Black, the man who ran the boomtown with an iron fist. He appreciated the barber’s advice, but he wasn’t overly concerned. He was just passing through, he reminded himself, picking up his blanket, shaking it out, and spreading it on the ground near the banked fire. His business lay up in the hills surrounding Black’s Cut, where men found their fortunes in placer gold.
If there was one thing Giddis Black couldn’t abide, it was a devious whore. He stood at the edge of the catwalk on the roof of Black’s Best Chance Saloon & Brothel, two floors above the mud street. He gazed idly up at the mountains northwest of the little boomtown bearing his name. Smoke from his cigar raced away in the chilled morning breeze. Let one whore get by with cunningness, he told himself, and soon every whore in the place would be testing him. He’d learned long ago that deviousness among a stable full of whores had a way of spreading like the plague.
Hearing the trapdoor on the roof squeak open, then close, twenty feet behind him where the catwalk began, he said without looking around, “Top of the morning, Palmer. What do you have for me?” Half turning he held out his hand and rubbed his thumb and fingers together in the universal sign of greed.
“Three good ones,” said Sly “Devil” Palmer, running his hand inside his wool coat. He looked down and back and forth along the street, as if making sure no one was watching, something that apparently no longer concerned Black. “One is dust and stream nuggets. The other two are bills and coins.” He handed Black a long leather wallet and two small leather pouches tied with drawstrings.
“Ahh,” said Black, taking the three items, hefting them in his palm. “Dust and nuggets are always better,” he said, grinning, raising an eyebrow toward the wallet, “but we turn nothing down.” He eyed Palmer with partly feigned suspicion. “Did you give me a fair cut?”
“As fair as you deserve,” said Palmer, the two of them used to one another’s banter.
“Umm-hmm.” Black nodded, dropping the three items into his long greatcoat pocket and smoothing down the pocket flap. “I’ll count it this morning over coffee. Will you join me, or is sitting at a table another civilized act you’ve abandoned to the wilds?”
Palmer gave a dark grin. “Sure I’ll drink some coffee with you this morning. If Landry shows up, what do I say about how much was there?” He nodded at the items bulging in Black’s pocket. He said it knowing what Black’s response would be.
“On second thought maybe you’d better go on about your business.” He patted his coat pocket and added, “I’ll explain the accounting, if Landry has any questions.”
“Suits me,” Palmer said. He touched his fingers to his battered hat brim. “I’ll be taking my leave, unless we have other matters to discuss.”
“Wait,” said Black, “I’m afraid we do.” He puffed on his cigar and let out a stream of smoke. “I’m going to need you and Willie to take Violet and Clarity out of town and see to it they never come back.”
“You mean . . . ?” Palmer left his question hanging.
“Yes, that is exactly what I mean,” said Black. A thin, tight smile formed between his drooping mustache and his narrow pointed goatee. “Violet has tested my patience to the limit.” He pointed his smoking cigar at the lanky gunman and said, “Learn from this, Sly. . . . Never make a whore your favorite. She’ll see it as a weakness and try to exploit you with her guile, and you’ll end up killing her every time. Do you hear me?”
“Yeah, I do,” said Palmer, nodding. Then he stopped nodding. “It’s a damn shame, though, as scarce as whores are right now.”
“Be that as it may,” said Black, “get them out of here. I never want to see them again. They’ve both seen too damn much while we were getting started here.” He stared into Palmer’s eyes. “What these whores know could hang us both.”
“Yep, no denying, they were both right there at times and places where they shouldn’t have been,” Palmer agreed. He seemed to reminisce for a moment, picturing himself, Giddis Black, and the two whores. But his vision only lasted for a moment before he said, “How soon do you want it done?”
“Right away,” said Black. “The sooner the better.”
“Want me to take Giddis Junior?” Palmer asked.
“No, leave my son out of it,” Black said firmly. “Take Willie along. Tell him to do it quietly.”
“Chicken style, you mean?” Palmer grinned.
“Sure, chicken style, why not?” Black shrugged. “What do we care? If it makes Willie happy. Just get it done, please,” he said, wanting to dismiss the matter. “I don’t need too many details.”
But Palmer enjoyed taunting him. “Chicken style is not only quieter. It’s cheaper than bullets, too.”
“All right, whatever you decide,” said Black, sounding impatient with the conversation. “You handle this—tell Willie what to do. You’re in charge.” He rubbed his hands together, saying as he turned away from the gunman, “I wash my hands of it.”
“Consider it done, Giddis,” said Palmer. He touched his hat brim again.
This time as he turned and walked away, Black looked back at him with a dark confident glint in his eyes. “Good man . . .” he murmured as Palmer opened the trapdoor, stepped down inside the building, and lowered it behind him.
Sly Palmer walked down the steep stairs, then out onto the second-floor landing overlooking the bar and the row of empty gaming tables. He stood for a moment, his hands spread along the railing. At the center of the bar stood two old men, the first of the morning drinkers. At the far end of the bar he saw Violet O’Conner and Clarity Jones, the two women he and Black had been discussing.
Both women looked haggard and spent, having been up all night, dancing, drinking, and entertaining the late-night crowd between frequent trips up the stairs to one of the small bedrooms. Clarity stood at the bar, sipping a cup of hot coffee. Violet sat atop
the bar, examining her sore feet in turn. Her dress was up over one knee, and her shoes were off.
Glancing up at the landing as she sipped her coffee, Clarity said under her breath, “Don’t look up, but Sly Palmer is staring down at us like we’re a couple of candy sticks.”
Violet nodded, casting a sidelong glance herself. “Okay, I see him,” she said. “Looking is all right, so long as he doesn’t want to handle the goods. I’m done in. Besides, I don’t like that two-at-a-time stuff anyway. All it does is make him feel like he’s some kind of big randy stag.”
“Well, you best be getting a friendly face on, girl-o. Here he comes,” Clarity said quietly with a trace of an English accent, speaking over the edge of her warm coffee cup.
“Oh, hell, I’ll try,” said Violet. She shoved her disheveled hair back with her hand. “Why can’t all these pigs understand that every working girl needs her beauty rest now and then?”
“If they understood that,” Clarity whispered, “they wouldn’t be such pigs, now, would they, dearest?”
The two turned with charming smiles as Sly Palmer walked up closer. Palmer swept an arm around Violet and pulled her closer to the bar with him until he held both women in an embrace. “How’s my favorite doves?” he asked, nuzzling the bare flesh above their low-cut dresses.
“Uhh, stop,” said Violet, pretending to enjoy the rough beard stubble scraping her skin, “you’ll get me all steamy!”
“Where have you been so long, Sly Palmer?” Clarity demanded in mock anger. “We haven’t known what to do with ourselves!” She gave him a slight shove and a feigned frown.
“Well, ladies, I’m here now,” said Palmer, “and I’m taking you both on a little wagon trip with me over to Helms. So get your coats and hats.”
But Violet gave him a dubious look. “Helms? Why? What’s at Helms?”
“Giddis has some new Chinese girls coming. He wants us to meet them at Helms.”
That was good enough for Clarity. She slipped down from the bar top and began stepping into her shoes. But Violet wasn’t as compliant. “Why are we going? We never went to meet new girls before.”
Palmer shrugged. “These Chinese girls are shy as fawns. Seeing Willie might scare them. Seeing you two will make them feel better. Giddis says he wants them cleaned up and made presentable before they get here.”
“Willie’s going?” Violet asked, her expression turning more concerned.
“Don’t worry, he won’t be in the wagon. I’ll keep him settled down.”
“I don’t like him being near me,” said Violet. “Does he have to come along?”
“Yep, he’s coming,” said Palmer with finality. “There’s been hostiles killing and burning all along the trail from Helms and Crabtown. If we get them on our backs you’ll be glad we have Willie on our side.”
“Giddis wants us to do this?” Violet asked.
“If you don’t believe me, ask him yourself,” said Palmer, nodding up toward the landing just as Giddis Black stepped into sight and leaned on both arms on the railing.
Looking up, Violet and Clarity saw Black give a single nod, as if he’d overheard their conversation from his lofty perch. “All right,” said Violet, knowing from the dark look in Black’s eyes that he was in no mood to be questioned, “we’ll get our coats.”
“Good,” said Palmer. “I’ll go have Willie get the wagon ready.”
As the two women walked to the coatrack in the rear of the saloon, Violet said in a lowered voice, “I don’t like this. We better both watch our steps out there.”
“We certainly will,” said Clarity. “But I’m sure we’ll be all right.” Yet, as she took her coat from the rack and slipped it on, she palmed a pearl-handled straight razor she took from inside her dress and tucked it down into her coat pocket.
Chapter 12
At midmorning, Dawson met the wagon and the two men on horseback at a turn in the trail on his way to Black’s Cut.
He touched his hat to the women and veered his horse and mule to one side, giving the party the right-of-way. As he did so, he noted nervous smiles on the women’s faces, and unpleasant scowls on the faces of the men. But he gave it no mind until both wagon and horsemen had ridden past him.
But then, one of the riders, a monstrous man wearing a full and tangled beard, swerved his horse around and rode up on him fast from behind. On instinct Dawson spun his horse and brought his Colt up, cocked and ready, pointed arm’s length at the big man’s forehead. “Whoa, Willie, stop!” Dawson heard the other man shout. But it was Dawson’s Colt, not the other man’s command, that had already brought the big man’s horse sliding to a halt.
At a distance of five feet, the big man growled, staring into the darkness of the gun barrel. “Take that gun sight out of my face!” he said in a harsh tone.
Dawson kept the Colt fixed and steady, replying just as harshly, “Pull your face back out of my gun sight.”
Seeing this stranger meant business, Sly Palmer said as he turned his horse and gigged it back to them, “Everybody hold on! There’s no need for this!”
But Dawson had made his stand and wasn’t about to let down until he knew why the big man had come charging at him. He swung his Colt toward Palmer, enough to slow him to a halt and cause him to raise his hands slightly. Then he swung the gun back toward Willie, who backed his horse a few grudging steps backward. The women sat watching breathlessly from the wagon seat. “Somebody start talking,” Dawson said in a low, even voice.
Willie started to say something, but Palmer shut him up with a cold stare. Then he said to Dawson, “I’m Sylvester Palmer, stranger. My friend Willie here gets a little out of hand sometimes. He meant nothing by it.”
“Could have fooled me,” said Dawson, looking the big man up and down as he spoke, keeping his gun level and cocked.
“I know,” said Sly Palmer, offering a thin apologetic smile. “He’s big and ugly, and he scares the hell out of most folks. But he misunderstood, seeing you riding toward Black’s Cut with your own mule and supplies.”
Here we go . . . Dawson recalled what Caldwell had told him about buying supplies before getting to Black’s Cut. “What business is it of his where I buy supplies?” Dawson asked Palmer as if Willie weren’t there. He gave no sign of lowering the big Colt.
“All right, here it is, stranger,” said Palmer. “Willie and I work for Giddis Black. He runs everything in Black’s Cut.”
“So I’ve heard,” said Dawson. “Keep talking.” He kept a menacing gaze moving slowly back and forth between them.
Willie said in a thick rumbling voice, “We sell mules in Black’s Cut, mister. Supplies too.”
“That’s good to know,” said Dawson. “I’m ready for more supplies. I’ll be buying them as soon as I get to town. Once I find my holdings and get set up I’ll be needing more, probably an extra mule too. Think your boss will mind selling me what I need, or will I have to bring it all up from Crabtown?”
“He’ll be happy to do business with you.” Palmer grinned, understanding Dawson. He nodded slightly at the Colt, and Dawson lowered it but kept it in hand, his thumb over the hammer.
Looking relieved, Sly Palmer said in a more sociable tone of voice, “You gathered yourself mighty damn fast with that six-shooter. What’s your name, mister? Where you from?”
“I’m Dawson . . . Cray Dawson.” He kept his Colt in his hand but backed his horse a step, turned the animal quarterwise to the men, and brought the mule up beside him on the lead rope. “I’m out of Texas, over Somos Santos way.”
“Out of Tex—Wait a minute!” Palmer had brushed past the name, then stopped and given him a stunned look as the name caught up to him. “Cray Dawson? The one who rode with Fast Larry Shaw before he died. That one?”
“Yep, that one,” said Dawson. He was not overly surprised that news of Shaw’s death had traveled this far.
“Well now, Willie, boy,” said Palmer, “it appears you were about to get yourself killed by a fast gun out of Tex
as.”
“I ain’t dead yet,” Willie said in a thick, dull voice, giving Dawson a hard stare and a grim expression.
Dawson ignored the big man and said to Palmer, “If we’re all through here, I’ll be getting on to Black’s Cut.”
“Yeah, we’re through,” said Palmer, backing his horse a step. “When you get to town, some of the other boys might want to give you a hard time. But you tell them we talked and you understand how things work.”
“I’ll do that,” said Dawson, also backing his horse a step. Looking past the two men he saw one of the women step down from the wagon and start walking toward him as if she had something she wanted to say. Turning and seeing her, Willie gave his horse a kick, rode alongside the woman, and picked her up roughly, as if she were a rag doll. Seeing her offer no sign of a struggle, Dawson only watched closely with a curious gaze.
“These are a couple of doves works for us,” said Palmer, seeing the look on Dawson’s face. “We like to air them out on their days off. Makes them easier to live with.” He grinned, touched his hat brim, and moved his horse off sidelong to Dawson for a few feet before turning and riding away.
“That was peculiar,” Dawson said to his horse, holding both reins and the lead rope in his left hand, and keeping his Colt in his right. He kept watching, seeing the big man drop the woman back into the wagon, then seeing the wagon roll on its way.
From the wagon seat, Clarity risked taking a guarded glance back at the rider, having noted the way he’d handled both Palmer and Willie. But she caught only a quick glimpse of him as the wagon rolled down out of sight on the hilly trail. Beside Clarity, Violet sat rubbing her shoulder and arm where Willie had snatched her up from the ground and held her tightly until he dropped her back into the wagon. “That wasn’t a wise thing to do,” Clarity whispered sideways to her.
“I don’t trust them,” Violet whispered in reply. “We’re never going back to Black’s Cut alive—I just know it. They’re going to kill us out here.” Her voice quivered with fear.
