Fast Guns Out of Texas

by Ralph Cotton

  For the past two weeks, while Dawson had dug at the walls of the mine with pick and shovel, Darvin Arden and Clarity Jones had been busy, cleaning, scrubbing, shooting snakes, and hauling away debris. But at last the little two-room shack on the rocky hillside had begun to look livable, Dawson thought, standing at the entrance to the mine shaft looking back at the lantern glow in the front window. He wished he’d made as much progress with his mining.

  To his disappointment, the Deeb claim had not been a newer find, as the date on the deed indicated, but rather one of the older mines from the early sixties that had been legally filed only a few years after it had gone through a string of new owners. Had there been gold taken from this mine? Of course there had, he told himself. Why else would the shaft reach so far into the hillside? Was there still gold in there somewhere? Yes, he was certain of it. But how deep? How much farther?

  Dawson knew that the answer to his question lay not in distances measured by feet and yards, but in the backbreaking labor of time. How many days, weeks, months, even years? he asked himself, looking up the steep hillside, seeing it disappear upward into the silvery morning mist. How many years did it take to make a lifetime? he asked himself. His answer was simple. All of them, he replied, lighting an oil lantern, adjusting the cover, and stepping into the mine, leading his mule behind him.

  Finding an offshoot of the main shaft thirty feet back, he moved along it in the glow of light until he’d located the spot where he’d been digging the night before. He hung the lantern on an iron peg that had been driven into the rock by some former owner. Then he turned the mule and backed it closer to a three-by-four-foot wooden sled-wagon and hitched ropes from the wagon to the mule’s collar.

  For the next half hour Dawson swung the pick against the wall of solid rock until an assortment of smaller broken rock lay piled up around his feet. “First load of the morning,” he said idly to the mule. Leaning his pick against the wall, he lifted the larger rocks by hand and loaded them into the sled.

  With the shovel he scooped up the smaller rocks and loose dirt, picked up the long rope leads, and gave the mule a loose slap on its rump. “Now it’s your turn,” he said to the animal, following along behind the sled load of rock.

  Outside the mine, at a steep sloping hillside twenty feet away, he kneeled beside the sled, picked up each rock in turn, and inspected it for color. Those with the slightest variation in color or trace of yellow, he set aside, to be broken into smaller pieces and reexamined. The rest he disregarded as worthless and tossed out down the hill into the tons of similar rocks lying below.

  He saw nothing of note or value in the load, or in the following loads he hauled out and examined throughout the morning. But by the time he’d stopped and walked to the shack for a noon meal, he had set aside only a few rocks he felt worthy of any further examination. So far his work at the mine had been slow and unpromising. But this was what miners did, he reminded himself, standing up from the table and stretching his stiff shoulders.

  “I’ll be through repairing the back windows before long,” said the old seaman. “Can you use some help with the digging?”

  “I can always use help with the digging,” Dawson replied. He left the shack, walked back to where he’d left the mule, and started his routine all over again. By the time evening shadows began to stretch long across the hillsides and deep canyons, he had set aside a good number of rocks to be broken up and reexamined the following day.

  After he’d finished the last load of the day, he had begun piling what he referred to as the keepers onto the sled when Clarity walked up beside him in the evening light. “Supper’s ready,” she said. “Did you find any color today?”

  “No,” Dawson said flatly, “not today, not yesterday, not the day before.”

  “Cap says it takes time,” she offered.

  “He’s right about that,” Dawson replied, not wanting to sound cross with her. It wasn’t her fault that he’d found no gold, no promising vein of any significant color. What did he know about the prospecting or the mining of gold? He rose to his feet, damp with the day’s sweat and slapping dirt from his knees. He started to say more, but before he could he noted the single rider step his horse into view from within a stand of pine.

  “Uh-oh, he looks familiar,” Clarity said in a whisper, even though the rider was still thirty yards away.

  “Go tell Cap we’ve got company,” Dawson said.

  “Should I get the shotgun?” she asked.

  Without taking his eye off the rider, Dawson said, “Yes, keep it in sight, don’t cock it. I’ve got my Colt.”

  He heard her hurry away to the shack. He heard the front door open, and less than a minute later he heard it close, followed by Clarity’s footsteps running back across the rocky ground. She stopped a step behind him and moved slightly to the side. Dawson stared at the approaching rider, recognizing him now as the space between them grew shorter.

  “Ouch,” said a gruff voice, the man gesturing toward Clarity’s bare feet. “I’d hate to see this lovely lady get herself a stone bruise, running like that.” He stopped his horse a few yards away and continued, saying, “Dawson, every time I see you I get the strongest notion that you don’t like bounty hunters.”

  “Evening, Holley,” said Dawson. He held both hands loosely at his sides. “What brings you this way?” Clarity holding the shotgun was just a diversion. In the deep hip pocket of his canvas trousers, Dawson kept his Colt, a bandanna shoved down over its butt to keep it hidden and free of dirt.

  “Same thing as last time we met,” said Brue Holley. “I’m still looking around, keeping my ears open, hoping to get an idea who really killed Fast Larry Shaw.” He grinned behind his mustache. “I’m in pursuit of other wanted men too. But I still want the reputation of killing the man who killed Fast Larry.”

  “Good luck, then,” said Dawson, not wanting to talk about it any more than they already had back in Crabtown. “I’m working my claim, as you can see.” He gestured with his free hand, then let it fall back to his side.

  “Yeah, I see.” Holley looked all around. “I have to say, finding you up here is a surprise. I expect you came up through Black’s Cut instead of the way I rode up. I never saw your prints till I picked them up last evening before dark.”

  “Yes,” said Dawson, “we picked up supplies in Black’s Cut, then moved on.” He didn’t want to tell the bounty hunter what had happened in Black’s Cut.

  “Oh?” said Holley. “Did you meet my friend Giddis Black and his associates?”

  His friend . . . ? Dawson tried to keep from looking surprised. “No,” he said coolly, “I never got the pleasure. Maybe next time through, when I go for more supplies.”

  Holley studied his eyes for a moment as if trying to discern things unspoken. He looked curiously at the woman, then at the shack, then back at Dawson and said, “Who is that holding me in his rifle sights?”

  “Just a fellow prospector,” Dawson said, “trying to figure out if you’re a friend or foe.”

  “Oh, and which am I?” Holley asked.

  “You’re neither,” Dawson said with no expression. “How does that suit you?”

  “Suits me fine.” Holley backed his horse a few steps before turning it back toward the pines. “I’m spending a day or two camped down on the other side of the pines, before I head into Black’s Cut. So, if you see a campfire, don’t be concerned, it’s only mine.” Grinning, he added, “Stop by and see me when you get back to town.” He touched his hat brim and smiled down at Clarity. “You too, of course, Miss Clarity,” he added, with emphasis, making sure Dawson knew that he and the woman were not strangers.

  The two stood watching in silence until the bounty hunter rode back into the shelter of the pines along the sloping hillside. “How well do you know him?” Dawson asked.

  “How well do you think?” Clarity replied, giving him a look.

  “I’m not butting into your business,” said Dawson. “I just want to know where you sta
nd with the man.”

  “I’m a whore, Cray,” Clarity said, humbly. “That’s where I stand with any man.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Dawson, “I meant nothing by it.”

  “Neither did I,” said Clarity.

  Finally, Arden walked out of the shack, limped up beside Dawson, and said, “I’ve seen that one before. Giddis Black sent that bounty hunter looking for us, you can bet on it.”

  “No.” Dawson shook his head. “He’s on his way to Black’s Cut, hasn’t been there yet . . . hasn’t heard what happened.”

  “Aye,” said Arden, “then I’m wrong. He hasn’t told Giddis yet.”

  “You didn’t miss it by much, Cap,” said Dawson. “As soon as he gets to Black’s Cut and hears what happened, he’ll tell Giddis where we are. He’ll probably offer to bring us in to him, for a fee.”

  Clarity said quietly, “He knows something is wrong. He knows you’re lying about not meeting Giddis Black.”

  “Why do you say that?” Dawson asked.

  “Because he knows I wouldn’t be out here with you unless Giddis either approved of it, or else I’ve run away.”

  “Either way he’ll take the news to Giddis Black first thing,” said Dawson.

  “Yes,” Clarity replied, giving him a calm but serious look. “If Giddis didn’t know where to look before, he’ll sure know it now.

  “Then you’ve got to kill him, before he gets to Black’s Cut,” she added matter-of-factly.

  Dawson and Arden looked at her. “That’s murder, child,” said Arden.

  “So?” She looked at the old seaman in surprise. “What do you call what Giddis will do to you if he finds you? What do you call what his men did to poor Violet, what he intended to have done to me? Once Holley gets to town, trouble is coming our way.” She turned with the shotgun and walked away toward the shack, shaking her head.

  “I’m afraid she’s right, Dawson,” the old seaman said. He looked all around with a sigh and said, “In a place as large as this, you would think a man could find peace for himself.”

  “I expect some of us aren’t meant to find peace,” Dawson replied grimly. He unhitched the mule from the rock sled, leaving the sled where it stood. He picked up the lead ropes to the mule and gave the animal a light slap on the rump. “I’ll get the mule fed and watered. We’ll talk over supper, figure out what to do next.”

  Arden said in a lowered voice, “I believe the one he wants worst of all is Clarity. I know the two of yas have grown close, but for her sake maybe it’s best one of us takes her as far as Crabtown and gets her out of Giddis Black’s reach.”

  “I think you’re right,” said Dawson. “Let’s see if she’ll go along with it.”

  The two split off into separate directions, Dawson walking the mule up to the small lean-to shelter while the old seaman limped the rest of the way up to the shack. Outside the lean-to, Dawson grained the mule and rubbed it down. Leading the tired animal to its stall he set an oaken bucket full of water in front of it and stood while it drank its fill.

  When the mule raised its dripping muzzle and slung its head, Dawson picked up the bucket, stepped out of the stall, and closed the stall door behind him. He’d turned and hung the empty bucket on a peg when he realized he had not seen his horse standing in its stall at the far end of the lean-to.

  When he’d hurried to the horse’s stall and looked in, making sure it was empty, he cursed under his breath, then turned and started toward the shack. Halfway there, he saw Arden step out onto the porch, a lantern in his hand, and look toward him. “My horse is missing! Have you seen Clarity?” he shouted, on his way.

  “No,” said Arden. “She’s not inside. I was coming to see if she’s out here with you.”

  “Damn it, Clarity,” Dawson whispered, stopping, looking off in the direction where Brue Holley said he’d made a camp. “I hope you’re not about to get yourself killed.”

  Chapter 17

  After dark, Brue Holley sat in clear sight, stirring a stick in his campfire and watching sparks leap upward through the licking flames. His Winchester lay across his lap. Three feet back from the fire his bedroll lay spread out on the ground, awaiting him. When he heard the first faint sound of a horse’s hooves, he tensed a bit and listened intently until he heard the woman’s voice call his name out softly.

  He only grinned and waited until she called out again, saying, “Brue? It’s me, Clarity.” A silent pause followed, and then she called out playfully, “You knew I’d be coming out here. Aren’t you going to be a gentleman and invite me in?”

  “That all depends. Are you alone, the way I intended you to be?” Holly replied, his hand still on his rifle, his thumb still over the hammer. “I don’t want any company except you, little darling.”

  “Yes, of course I’m alone,” said Clarity, “just like always.”

  Holley chuckled to himself, then said, “Well, did you come here to make my bells ring? You always could make my bells ring, one way or another.”

  “Oh, you bet I’m going to ring your bells all right,” Clarity said, stepping down from Dawson’s horse at the edge of the circling firelight. “It’s all I’ve thought of since I saw you earlier.”

  Holly stood up, grinning. He laid his rifle aside and stood with his hand on his gun butt. “Then what are you waiting for, woman? Get yourself in here, let’s take a good look at you.”

  Clarity stepped closer into the firelight, her wool coat wrapped around her. “Huh-uh,” said Holly, wagging a long rough finger at her. “That’s not how I want to see you. I want to see all of you. Step out of your garments right there, before you come any closer. I don’t want to see nothing on you but nipples and fur.”

  “My goodness, Holley!” Clarity stopped and put a hand on her hip as if in exasperation. “You act like you don’t trust me.”

  Holley’s grin faded. “Oh, I trust you, my little English fox. But I trust you more naked than I do with pockets.” His hand rested on the gun butt standing on his hip. “Now, let me see some skin, or get on away from here.”

  Clarity gave a pouting look. “When you told us where you were camped, I thought you were saying it so I’d come visit you. Now I get here and you’re acting like I’m up to no good.”

  “Save the act,” said Holley, his hand tightening on the Colt. “I’m not joking. Take off that coat, then your dress.”

  “Very well, then,” said Clarity, seeing him on the verge of drawing his black-handled Remington, “but you’ve taken all the surprise out of my visit.” She opened the coat and dropped it to the ground.

  “My Gawd!” Brue said, his breath suddenly turning shallow. Clarity had worn nothing under the coat. She stood naked and pale, firelight glimmering on her fine cream-colored skin.

  “Can I come closer now?” she asked teasingly, already moving forward toward him. “I need some big warm hands all over me.”

  “Oh yes, you come right ahead,” Holley said, loosening his gun belt and draping it in close reach over his saddle lying on the ground. “I didn’t mean to doubt you, little lady,” he said as she stepped past him, lay down on the bedroll, and looked up at him as he peeled off his boots and pitched them aside.

  “I should hope not,” she said, “after all the times we’ve done this.” She gave an impatient smile and said, “Are you going to make me wait all night for it? I came here because I need to feel a man between my thighs.” She cupped a breast and watched him hurriedly pull off his trousers and drop them in the dirt.

  “Oh? Dawson wasn’t good enough for you?” Holley said, crouching down over her, laying a rough hand on the tender flesh beneath her navel.

  She gave a slight sigh of ecstasy and closed a hand over his, guiding it upward. “No, not after seeing you today, not after remembering how good it’s always been between us.”

  “I’ll be telling Giddis I seen you out here with Crayton Dawson soon as I get to Black’s Cut,” he said, on his knees between her legs, ready to lie down atop her. “So if this is su
pposed to keep my mouth shut, it better be the best I ever had.” He grinned down at her.

  “This is all I came here for,” she whispered as if in deep longing, her free hand reaching down and squeezing him tightly. “Am I going to get what I want, or not?” Her hand slid off him and down between her thighs to her soft folds of flesh, lingering there for a moment while her free hand held him away from her.

  “Oh yeah, you’re sure enough going to get it,” said Holley. He felt her hand move away from his chest to allow him entrance. Lying down atop her, he hurried, reaching and groping, eager now, his blood rushing, his breathing quickened. He made a hard lunge into her and felt her legs go up around him. She let out a gasp as he lunged again.

  But as he began to take her, he felt a white-hot burn streak deep along the side of his throat beneath his ear. “Damn it!” he said, slapping a hand to his neck without stopping his hard steady thrusting inside her. But he did stop thrusting as he felt the warm stickiness of blood all over his hand. “I’m bleeding,” he said in surprise.

  Without answering, Clarity tightened her legs around him and rolled him onto his side, taking him farther away from the holstered Colt lying on the saddle at the head of the bedroll.

  “Damn! Turn me loose! I’m bleeding,” Holley said, not yet understanding what had happened to him. Then suddenly it came to him, and he struggled with her knees until she unlocked them and scurried from beneath him. She grabbed the Remington and yanked it from the holster just before his blood-slick hand could get to it. “You cut me, you English whore!” he bellowed, seeing the gout of blood spew from his throat with each beat of his heart.

  “Yes, I’ve killed you, Holley,” she said calmly, standing over him, splattered with his blood, the Remington in her hand pointed down at him. “Now be a good chap and lie still. It will all be over soon.” Her voice took on a soothing condoling quality.