Fast Guns Out of Texas

by Ralph Cotton

  “I’m afraid you’re right,” Clarity whispered. “Giddis has decided it’s time for us to go.” She took on a determined look. “But I am not going down without a fight.”

  “Fight?” Violet looked at her. “Who are you kidding? We can’t fight these animals! We wouldn’t stand a chance in hell.” She looked at the two men riding fifteen feet ahead of the wagon. “We’ve both seen Willie snap a man’s neck like it’s a twig—chicken style as he calls it.” She nodded at Palmer’s back. “Sly Palmer is no better. He’ll do anything Giddis Black tells him to do.”

  “When the time comes I’m going to fight them,” Clarity repeated with finality. “If you’re not going to fight, you better be ready to run.” She clenched the leather wagon reins in her hands.

  A half hour later at a spot where another trail intersected and ran a few yards into a pine woodlands, Palmer dropped back beside the wagon and quickly stepped down from his horse and onto the wagon seat, forcing Clarity aside. “I’ll take those,” he said, jerking the traces from her hand.

  “What—what are you doing?” she asked, looking worried. She moved over against Violet, letting Palmer take charge of the wagon. Beside the wagon, Willie had dropped back and taken the reins to Palmer’s horse, grinning down at the frightened women.

  “Don’t act too surprised, ladies,” Palmer said. “I know you both saw this coming a mile away.”

  “You don’t have to do this, Sly!” Clarity said, talking fast as he guided the wagon deeper into the thick pines. “You can let us run away! Giddis doesn’t have to know! You’ll never see us again, I swear! We both swear, don’t we, Violet?” The wagon rolled on, tall stands of wild grass and brush sweeping beneath it along the seldom-used trail.

  “That’s right,” said Violet. “We’ll get down from the hills and never be heard from again.” She looked around wildly, seeing Willie had stepped down from his saddle and walked along close beside her side of the wagon.

  “Now, now, girls,” said Palmer, “you’ve had some good times, made some money. Now it’s over. It’s time to pay the devil his due.”

  “No, Sly, listen!” said Violet as Willie’s big hand reached down and grabbed her. “We’ll never tell anybody what we know, what we’ve seen!”

  Palmer gave her a shove as Willie dragged her from the wagon seat. “No! Please!” she begged.

  Palmer immediately reached a hand down and clamped it on Clarity’s knee, holding her in place. But even as he did so, she slipped her hand inside her coat pocket and around the razor while Palmer’s attention went to Violet and Willie. “Stop fooling around, Willie,” Palmer chuckled, seeing the big man prance around, one hand holding Violet by her throat as she struggled.

  “Chicken style!” Willie shouted. “Bloc, bloc, bloc!” He held his other hand tucked up under his arm, his elbow flapping up and down like a rooster’s wing as he made his clucking sound and high-stepped back and forth.

  Clarity had looked away, trying to pick her direction of escape. She heard Violet’s choking scream and looked back in time to see Willie’s big hands twist the helpless woman’s head sharply until her scream ended in a sickening snap. “Bloc, bloc, bloc,” Willie said again, this time in a quieter tone. He held Violet’s suddenly limp body in one hand and shook it back and forth loosely. “Your turn,” he said, grinning, staring past Palmer at Clarity. He let Violet’s body fall to the ground and took a step toward the wagon.

  “In a pig’s eye!” Clarity hissed. She sprang to her feet as Palmer turned to shove her over to Willie’s large waiting hands. Before Palmer could even comprehend what she’d done, the razor had streaked down across his face, leaving a long streak of blood down his forehead from the left, crossing the bridge of his nose and ending on the right side of his chin.

  “Oh God! She’s cut me, Willie!” he screamed, feeling the white-hot flash of sharp steel running deep through meat and cartilage. He threw a hand to his face, feeling his warm blood spill freely. But as his hands went to his face, Clarity wasted no time.

  “Here’s you another, Sly!” she shrieked, sounding hysterical. “For Violet!”

  Her next slash went for his throat, but missed by an inch as Willie, having hurried around the wagon, grabbed her and dragged her out. The razor left its trail of fresh blood down Palmer’s chest.

  “Get your hands off me, you flipping pig!” Clarity shrieked, Willie holding her high in the air as the razor slashed back and forth for his face, missing but keeping him too busy to do the same gruesome handiwork he’d done to Violet.

  “Sly, what do I do?” Willie called out. He could barely keep his face away from the sharp slashing steel. “Tell me something!”

  “Damn it, kill her, Willie,” Palmer shouted, slinging his bloody face back and forth. “I can’t see anything!”

  Lost without Palmer’s guidance, knowing nothing else to do, Willie threw Clarity and her slashing razor as far from him as he could, then quickly looked himself up and down to see if he’d been cut. His eyes bulged wildly as he looked into the deep open gash running the length of his thick inner forearm, from wrist to elbow. “She cut me, too!” he bellowed.

  “Willie! Get her, damn it! Kill her!” Palmer cried out. He caught a glimpse of her landing twelve feet away before blood filled his eyes again. He managed to draw his gun with a wet slick hand.

  Clarity hurriedly scrambled to her feet and turned, seeing she’d landed near the edge of a steep drop-off and had nowhere to run. “Come, get some more, Willie!” she shouted as Palmer wiped blood from his eyes and tried to aim his Colt. “Dying hurts, doesn’t it, you swives!” she shouted, slashing the razor back and forth in the air.

  Willie stalked forward. “I’ll kill you, whore!”

  “No, you won’t, you rat stool!” said Clarity, looking wildly about, knowing she had only seconds before Willie grabbed her again, or Palmer’s Colt exploded. “I’ll pick my own way to die!” She backed over the edge of the cliff and slid downward on her belly through dirt and loose rock until she felt the earth disappear.

  “Damn whores,” Palmer lamented, seeing Clarity disappear with a short scream. “Look at me, Willie. She’s cut me something awful!”

  “Me too.” Willie gripped his forearm, trying to hold the severed meat and tendons together. He walked to the edge of the cliff and looked down. He saw Clarity’s wool coat spread out on the rocks a hundred feet below.

  “Willie, you’ve got to get me back to Black’s Cut before I bleed to death . . . that damn whore!” Palmer cursed.

  “I don’t think she’s dead,” Willie said flatly.

  “What the hell do you mean? Of course she’s dead,” said Palmer. “We both saw her jump.”

  “Come look and see if that’s her down there,” said Willie. He stood halfway between Palmer and the edge of the cliff, blood running in long strands from his wounded forearm.

  “We’ve got no time for your foolishness, Willie,” said Palmer. “The whores are dead. We’ve got to get back to town before we both bleed to death.”

  Chapter 13

  Dawson rode into Black’s Cut in the midafternoon sunlight, having stopped and grained, watered, and rested both animals shortly after meeting Palmer and Willie on the trail. While the animals rested, he’d spread a blanket on the dirt in the shade of a white oak, and cleaned and checked his Colt, his Winchester, and the short-barreled shotgun he carried shoved into his bedroll.

  He’d been prepared for the kind of reception he might receive in Black’s Cut after Caldwell had warned him about the place. But, while he’d believed Caldwell, there was nothing like running into the two men on the trail to sharpen his wits and keep him on his toes. Serving the law in Somos Santos had taught him to never ride into a hostile town or situation with tired animals or unattended weaponry.

  Not if you can help it . . . he reminded himself, looking back and forth along the crowded muddy street running the length of Black’s Cut. He stopped his horse and mule for a moment to better take in the scene before
him. Ahead of him on his right stood an imposing clapboard, log, and stone structure whose freshly painted sign read BLACK’S BEST CHANCE SALOON & BROTHEL.

  On his left, straight across from the saloon, stood a building of about the same age and construction whose sign read BLACK’S CUT HOTEL. A few doors past the hotel another long sign read BLACK & LANDRY MERCANTILE STORE. Out in front of the mercantile stood two hitch rails filled with pack mules and horses. Along the boardwalk, wagons stood waiting, their tailgates down. Miners and clerks filed back and forth, stacking bags of flour, beans, and feed grain into the open wagon beds.

  “She’s a busy place, ain’t she, mate?” said a raspy voice a few feet from him. Dawson looked toward the voice and saw a short, wiry old man wearing ragged seaman’s clothes and a stocking cap. He grinned at Dawson around the stem of a large tobacco-stained briar pipe as his rough hands reached out and rubbed the mule’s muzzle and chin.

  “It is, indeed.” Dawson noted that the old seaman’s left leg was missing, replaced by a thick oaken peg. “Can you tell me where I’ll find the territorial land office?”

  “Locating a claim, are you?” Still stroking the mule’s muzzle the strange-looking little seaman nodded toward the far end of the street where a group of men and pack animals lounged in front of a log and earth building where an American flag stood swaying on a mild breeze. “If you are, you’ll be waiting for a long spell.”

  Dawson gazed at the group of men and asked, “How well do you know the lay of the land?”

  The seaman grinned. “If it’s a claim filed within the last year and a half, I can just about hike out afoot and lay a hand down on its middle. How well does that sound to you?”

  “Well enough,” said Dawson. He turned slightly in his saddle and pulled the folded mine claim from inside his coat. “I’m Crayton Dawson. The fellow I bought this from said it was filed last fall before the snow set in.”

  “I’m Cap’n Darvin Arden,” said the seaman, touching his stocking cap. “Call me Cap, if you will.”

  “Pleased, Cap,” said Dawson.

  Eyeing the folded claim in Dawson’s hand he asked, “Who might the original claim holder be?”

  “A miner named Jimmy Deebs,” said Dawson. “Do you know him?”

  “Aye, I do,” said Arden, giving Dawson an unpleasant expression. “I wouldn’t get my hopes up working a claim I acquired from Jimmy Deebs, if I were you. Deebs made more money buying and reselling claims than he ever made working one.”

  “He told me as much,” said Dawson. “I bought the claim knowing he hadn’t found much on it, so I’ve got no complaints. But I understand it’s close to one of the big veins the four Georgians struck back in sixty-four.”

  “Ha,” said Arden, “the only big strike the Georgians ever made was down in Crabtown. Funny how a little blind luck like that can turn a man into an expert, eh?” He gave Dawson a crafty smile, still stroking the mule’s muzzle, and asked, “Tell me, Dawson, did no one inform you of Giddis Black? He takes a slice off everybody’s loaf, for him and his partner, Landry.” He nodded toward the Black & Landry Mercantile Store.

  “Let me ask you,” said Dawson, “if this Black and Landry are partners, how come Landry’s name is only on the mercantile and Black’s name is all over town?”

  “Landry wants it that way, I’ve heard,” said the old seaman. “He likes staying back, unseen and unheard. They say if you bring him into public light, it’s like unleashing a whirlwind.” He wagged a finger. “It would serve you well to remember that, mate.”

  “Obliged.” Dawson nodded. “I’ll try. Fact is, I met two of Black’s men on the trail earlier, names of Palmer and Willie.” Dawson glanced again at the sign. “I think we came to an understanding.”

  “You did?” The old sailor looked surprised. “You came to an understanding with Sly Palmer and Willie Goode?” He studied Dawson closer, looking puzzled by not seeing any wounds or signs of a scuffle. But then a light seemed to come on in his mind as his eyes went across the butt of Dawson’s Colt. “Ah . . .” he said in revelation. “Crayton Dawson it is. You’ll have to pardon this old sea dog for not catching the line on the first toss. No offense intended.”

  “None taken, Cap,” said Dawson, almost wishing the old seaman hadn’t suddenly recognized his name. “I told Palmer I’d pick up what fresh supplies I need from Black.”

  “I can see you reasoning with Palmer, especially if he knew who you are. But Willie Goode is a lunatic and a monster. I’m surprised you didn’t have a fight on your hands.”

  “Let’s just say he and I came to our own understanding, right from the get-go,” said Dawson.

  “I hope you shot him dead,” said Arden, lowering his tone. “If not, he’ll be coming back at you, while your back is turned more than likely.”

  “It’s a chance I’ll have to take,” said Dawson. “I didn’t come looking for trouble.”

  “But you might find it anyhow,” said Arden, “and not just from Willie.” He looked around guardedly. “Giddis Junior is on a drinking spree. His father, Giddis Senior, always sends some of his thugs to look after his murdering son. Junior is no better than Willie, maybe a little less touched in the head. He might not care about any understanding you and Sly Palmer have come to.”

  Tapping a rough finger to his temple, Arden said, “Now that I know who you are, I understand how it is you met two of Black’s men and still have your animals, your supplies, and your hide as well. But don’t sell these thugs short, Dawson,” he warned. “Anybody can die.”

  “You’re right,” said Dawson. He looked again at the men standing idly in front of the land office. “Think you can direct me to the claim? If so, I’ll get my supplies and be on my way.”

  “I can do better than direct you,” said Arden. “I’ll get my own mule and take you there. But I wouldn’t chance getting my supplies right now, if I were you,” he added. “That’s pushing your luck.”

  “I told Palmer I would,” said Dawson. “My word’s good, even to a boomtown thug.”

  Arden shrugged. “All right, then, Crayton Dawson,” he said with a slight chuckle, “you can’t say I didn’t give you proper warning. I’ll get my mule and meet you at the mercantile.” He started to turn away, but then stopped in afterthought and said, “Might we be taking along a strong bottle of rye . . . for the sake of our spirits and my long ride back?”

  “Sure, we’ll do that,” Dawson agreed. He nudged his horse forward onto the heavily trafficked street.

  Standing at the counter of the mercantile store, Dawson and a nervous young clerk packed his individually bagged staples and feed grain into a large white canvas bag. Dawson paid the clerk in dollar bills and silver coin, said, “Obliged,” and swung the canvas bag up over his left shoulder. He walked away calmly, although he’d watched through the front window as three men surrounded Arden when the old sailor rode his sorrel mule up to the hitch rail out front. Arden had stepped down with a worried look on his face, but had never entered the mercantile store. Stopping on the boardwalk, Dawson knew why.

  “I’m sorry, mate,” said Arden, standing on one foot, his peg leg lying where one of the men had pitched it from the boardwalk into the soft mud along the hitch rail. “They wouldn’t let me come warn you.”

  Beside him stood an evil-eyed young man with black beard-stubble and bushy yellow hair sticking out like straw from beneath a weathered black silk top hat. A dead dried wildflower stood in his hat-band. He cut in, saying with a dark whiskey-fueled laugh, “I’m Junior, the rotten sonsabitch who yanked Cap’s leg off and threw it in the mud. What kind of crazy bastard you suppose does something like that?” His left hand helped support the unsteady sailor. His right hand held a long Remington pistol down at his side.

  “Beats me, Junior,” said Dawson. “Your problems are your problems. But now that you’ve got all the attention, what can I do for you?” As he spoke he noted one of the three gunmen standing between him and his pack mule and horse. The third gunman stood b
eside his mule, holding an ax handle with both hands.

  “Oh, he’s a really smooth customer, boys,” said Junior Black, noting Dawson’s remark, the way he appeared unimpressed with either Junior or his two allies. Leaving the old sailor to wobble and catch himself on a support post, Junior stepped forward, twirling the big Remington slowly back and forth on his finger.

  “If this is about the mule and supplies, I met a couple of your men on the trail. We agreed that I might—”

  “Save it, Cap already told me,” said Junior, cutting him off. “But for all I know you and this half a piece of punk wood made that story up.” He stopped a few feet from Dawson and looked him up and down, appraising him. “He also said you’re some kind of fast gun out of Texas.” He gave a skeptical smirk. “What do you say, DeLaurie?” he asked the man holding the ax handle. “Does he look like a rootin’tootin’ fast gun sonsabitch to you?”

  “Naw,” said Chester DeLaurie, patting the ax handle into the palm of his hand, “except for the sonsabitch part.”

  “What about you, Newhouse?” said Junior to the other man, a stocky young man with the broad back of a teamster and a face like a bag full of rocks with skin drawn over it.

  “Maybe he’s another one thinks of himself as Fast Larry Shaw.” Curlin Newhouse gave a thin, tight grin. “Let’s get on with this, I’m needing another drink.”

  What was that . . . ? Dawson’s interest piqued, but this was no time to get curious. He looked the third man up and down, anticipating how Junior Black had intended this encounter to go.

  “Yeah,” said Junior, “me too.” Turning to Dawson he said in a raised voice, using an official-sounding tone, as if to make a public example of him, “For riding into Black’s Cut with animals and supplies you bought some place else, I’m hereby levying a fine of fifty dollars on you.”

  “A fifty-dollar fine?” said Dawson. “What if I can’t pay it?” He could pay the fine if need be; he just wanted to hear what Junior and his pals had planned for him. From the sound of Junior’s raised voice, pedestrians drew closer and began to watch.