Between Hell and Texas (2 page)

Heads nodded vigorously.

“With all respect, Mister Daniels,” said Cray Dawson,
“I’m no gunman. I’m just a regular fellow who joined a friend in search of the men who killed his wife. We found them, and we held them accountable for what they did. Now it’s over and I’m headed home. This time next month I’ll probably be sticking green horses or watching cattle swat flies off their rumps.”

“Mister Dawson, I’m sure you are much too modest,” said Daniels.

The surveyors nodded in unison again. This time their eyes fixed intently on Dawson, awaiting his response.

But Cray Dawson made no reply. He finished his coffee and sat in silence for a moment, staring into the empty cup. “Well…” Then he stood up, set the empty coffee cup on a shelf and said, “Much obliged for the coffee and food. I’ll take my leave now.”

“But, Mister Dawson,” said Daniels, “it’s still storming something awful out there. You’re welcome to spend the night. We’d be greatly honored to say a famous gunman like you stayed here in the rail camp. You’ll likely find nothing but floods and washouts twixt here and the Quemado Valley.”

“Thanks all the same,” said Dawson, “I best get on.”

To avoid answering questions that held no meaning to him and discussing events he’d sooner forget, Cray Dawson rode his horse up a narrow, mud-slick path and made a camp in the deep shelter of a cliff overhang. At length, the fury of the storm passed, but in its wake heavy rain fell straight down with no sign of letup. Across the wide belly of the valley churning water rushed along filled with deadfall oak,
scrub pine and mesquite brush. Twice in the night Dawson awakened to the unrelenting sound of water pounding the endless land, and twice in the night he again fell asleep to the explosion of gunfire in his memory, and to the sound of men dying.

By daylight the pounding rain had reduced itself to a thin, steady drizzle. Dawson rode high above the valley through a dull gray-copper morning. With the collar of his rain slicker turned high in back and his Stetson bowed low on his forehead, he kept to the higher ridges and broken hillsides until, by late afternoon, he put his big bay onto the wide, muddy trail leading into Eagle Pass. A half hour later he rode along the puddled street past the Desert Flower, where he and Lawrence Shaw had stayed, and where Lawrence Shaw had taken up with Della Starks, the recently widowed owner of the inn. Dawson started to turn his bay to the inn, but then, thinking better of it, he rode on down the empty, darkening street through a slow, cold drizzle to the hitch rail out front of the Big Spur Saloon.

Inside the saloon there were only five customers. Three of them were drovers who stood at the center of the bar. They wore long rain slickers and wet hats that drooped heavily. They stood, each in his own dark, wet circle on the wooden plank floor, two of them laughing quietly at something the other had said. A fourth man drank alone at the far end of the bar. The fifth man sat at a table dealing solitaire to himself, with a bottle of rye whiskey standing near his right hand. All five drinkers turned their eyes to the sound of the bat-wing doors creaking. Laughter fell away as Cray Dawson stepped inside and looked around before walking to the bar.

“Who’s this?” one of the men at the bar asked his companions in a lowered voice, the three of them noting the rifle in Dawson’s wet, gloved hand.

“Wants to dry his rifle,” one of the men answered just above a whisper.

At the bar, Dawson laid the Winchester repeater up on his right atop the bar and took off his wet gloves. A young bartender appeared as if from out of nowhere and said, “What will you have, Mister?”

“Whiskey,” said Dawson, taking a short look along the bar.

As the bartender reached for a shot glass and a bottle, Dawson took off his wet hat, shook it and placed it back on. At the end of the bar a pair of bloodshot eyes widened. “Lord, it’s you ain’t it?” said a shaky, whiskey-slurred voice.

Dawson just looked at the old man.

The old man pointed a trembling, weathered finger and said through a gray, whiskey-stained beard, “I saw what you did here! This is him!” he said to the other drinkers. “This is the man who stood with Lawrence Shaw, the day all the shooting took place!”

“Harve Bratcher, keep quiet! You don’t know nothing,” said the bartender, filling Dawson’s shot glass. Then he said to Dawson, “Mister, that old teamster gets drunk, he thinks he knows everybody.”

“No, wait, Dink,” said one of the drovers to the young bartender, taking a closer look at Cray Dawson. “I believe Harve’s right this time.” He said to Cray Dawson, as if in awe, “You are the man who was here…the one who covered Fast Larry Shaw’s back!”

“Yes, I am,” said Dawson, raising his drink, hoping that would be the end of it but knowing it
wouldn’t. He chastised himself silently for coming here.

“All right, he was here with Shaw,” the young bartender said quickly, seeing the look on Dawson’s face. “Now he’s here for a drink, and he doesn’t need a bunch of questions thrown at him…am I right?”

“Obliged,” said Dawson.

“I mean no offense, Mister,” said the drover, “but it ain’t every day a gunman like you shows up at the bar!” He almost took a step closer, but Dawson’s eyes turned to him and seemed to hold him in place. “I’m Bud Emery, owner of the Emery Spread east of here near the Nueces,” he said, touching his wet hat brim. “These two men ride for me, Emmet Crowder and Jake Laslow. Both good hands.”

The two cowhands nodded, touching their hat brims.

Cray Dawson responded in kind, then raised his shot glass and tossed back the rest of his whiskey.

“And your name, Mister?” asked Bud Emery, raising his brow slightly as if he might have missed something.

Dawson replied, “I’m Crayton Dawson.”

“From Somos Santos?” asked Emmet Crowder, an older cowhand with a scar showing through his chin whiskers, partially covered by the rise of his faded bandanna.

“Yes,” said Dawson, turning to him now, wondering how he knew.

As if seeing the question in Dawson’s eyes, Crowder said, “You wintered with Pearsall and his bunch up north above the Cimarron…the McAllister Spread? Before the English bought him out?”

“Yep.” Dawson nodded in acknowledgment, feeling
a little better knowing that somebody might see him as a drover rather than a gunman.

“We never met,” said Crowder, “but I heard of you from Jimmie Pearsall. He said you was a top hand,”—he grinned—“but that you didn’t like the cold.”

“He was right about the cold,” said Dawson, modestly sidestepping the complement of being a top hand.

“Hot dang!” said Crowder. “Wait till I tell Pearsall I seen you…you backing a big gunman like Fast Larry Shaw! He’ll split something open and fall plumb through it. I’m betting!”

“Ole Jimmie Pearsall…” Dawson reflected. He eased down a bit, gesturing for the bartender to pour him another.

Jake Laslow, the youngest of the three drovers, looked at Dawson’s glass as the bartender filled it. He blurted out mindlessly, “I’ll pay for that drink, Mister Dawson, if you’ll draw that Colt once, just as fast as you can!”

Dawson stared straight ahead across the bar as if his attention had just been riveted to the shelves of whiskey.

“Damn it, Jake, what’s wrong with you?” asked Bud Emery, appearing shocked by his cowhand’s remark. “You don’t say something like that to a man!”

“I was just wanting to see how fast it is!” said Jake Laslow. Then, correcting himself, he added with a red face, “His
draw
, that is.”

“Pay him no mind, Dawson,” said Crowder. “He was kicked away from the teat too soon or something.” He turned a cold gaze to Jake Laslow. “I hope I don’t have to box his jaws before the day’s over.”

“Now wait a minute, old man,” said Laslow to Emmet Crowder. “I might have spoken a little out of turn.” He turned a nod of apology to Cray Dawson, then said to Crowder, “But don’t go threatening to box my jaws unless you’re ready to take it up!” He leaned toward Crowder, but Bud Emery held him back with a palm flat on his chest. As Laslow spoke, Dawson saw the old teamster at the end of the bar slip away and out the back door.

“Everybody settle down!” the young bartender shouted, slapping a hand down on the bar top, causing a stack of clean shot glasses to rattle. “Can’t a man come in for a drink without a ruckus being raised?”

Cray Dawson pushed his empty glass back and picked up the rifle from the bar top. Silence fell almost with a gasp. “Got a towel?” he asked the bartender.

A towel came up from beneath the bar and dropped into Dawson’s hand. He took his time wiping the Winchester dry. When he’d finished he dropped the towel on the bar. “Obliged,” he said. He fished a coin from his pocket and flipped it to the bartender, who snatched it from midair.

“I’ll tell Pearsall I seen ya,” said Emmet Crowder in a guarded tone.

“
Adios
,” said Dawson.

On his way out of the Big Spur Saloon Dawson heard Bud Emery say to Jake Laslow in a low growl, “You stupid turd, he could’ve killed you.”

On the boardwalk, Dawson came to an abrupt halt, looking at the five men spread in a half circle in the muddy street facing the saloon. Rain dripped from the shotgun and rifle barrels pointed at him from less
than fifteen feet away. The man at the center of the half circle stood without a long gun, but with his right hand on the butt of a tied-down Colt .45. A sheriff’s badge glinted in the wet evening gloom. “Cray Dawson,” he said in a level, official-sounding voice, “Keep your gun hand away from that side-shooter and lay that rifle down, easy like.”

“Sheriff Neff,” said Cray Dawson, “what can I do for you?” Stooping straight down slowly, laying the Winchester down near his left boot, he kept his right hand raised chest high.

Sheriff Neff offered a flicker of a grin, rain running from his hat brim, from the sleeves of his long black linen duster. “Where is he, Dawson?” Neff’s eyes glanced at the Desert Flower Inn, then snapped back to Cray Dawson.

“I have no idea, Sheriff,” said Dawson. “Shaw and I broke away in Brakett Flats. I’m headed home to Somos Santos.”

“Shaw’s not down there?” Neff nodded at the Desert Flower.

“I told you, Sheriff, I’m alone, headed home,” said Dawson with resolve.

“I heard the whole story about what happened in Brakett Flats,” said Neff.

“Good,” said Dawson. “Then you had to hear that Shaw and I acted in self-defense.”

Neff brushed it aside. “I don’t give a damn what you did. Anybody who killed the Talbert Gang ought to get a medal and a marching band.”

Dawson just stared at him, knowing there was more to come. The other four men stood poised, rain running down them.

“But I told you and Shaw to stay out of my town. What are you doing back here?”

“I thought it would be all right, Sheriff,” said Dawson, “since it’s only me, and since all the trouble is over.”

“Uh-uh,” said Neff. “That went for you too. The trouble ain’t over. Trouble is never over with you gunmen.” He gestured to the old teamster standing in the rain near the edge of an alley. “Harve said you hadn’t been in the Big Spur five minutes, you got Bud Emery’s men at one another’s throats.”

“I had nothing to do with it, Sheriff. But I’m no gunman,” Dawson said, correcting him. “I’m just a citizen like everybody else…. I’m headed home I told you.”

“Not a gunman?” Neff grinned, bemused. “You sound like you really think that.”

“I do think it,” said Dawson.

“Suppose if I was to tie you to a hitch rail and horsewhip the piss out of you, you’d stay away from my town?” Neff asked.

Dawson bristled. His hand remained chest high, but it poised now. “If it comes to horsewhipping, Sheriff,” he said in a tight, level voice, “I expect I’ll die in your town.” He looked from one pair of eyes to the next. “But not
alone
,” he added.

“Easy now,” said Sheriff Neff, seeing the look on Dawson’s face. “See, that’s what I’m talking about.” He pointed his finger, keeping his hand away from his pistol butt. “You’d die before you’d take a whipping. That’s what makes you different than a citizen like
anybody else
. You and Shaw and the rest of you live by your own law. I ain’t blaming you. I’m just telling you. I don’t want none of you here.”

“Then I’ll leave, Sheriff,” said Dawson, seeing now that Neff was only making a point. “Let me get to my horse. I won’t be back here, you’ve got my word.”

Sheriff Neff looked him up and down; his wet, muddy boots, his wet hat and gloves. He looked at the bay standing soaked and shivering at the hitch rail. “Ah, hell,” he growled, “I reckon one night won’t hurt nothing…provided you stay out of the saloon, get you and your horse a dry spot and stay on it.” He looked at the four men standing around him and said, “All right, lower them, boys.”

“Much obliged, Sheriff,” said Dawson, stooping down, picking up his rifle slowly and letting everybody see him place it up under his arm. “I’ll clear out of here come first light, rain or no rain.”

“See that you do,” said Sheriff Neff. He pushed up his wet hat brim and said, “Right after you left here last time, that damned Sammy Boy White killed Fat Man Hughes and two other men right out here in the street.”

“I thought Sammy Boy was dead,” said Dawson.

Sheriff Neff gave him a look of warning. “First light, Dawson…I reckon I already
know
where you’ll be staying the night.” His eyes gestured toward the Desert Flower Inn then back to Dawson.

Dawson looked embarrassed. “Obliged, Sheriff. First light…my word on it.”

As soon as the sheriff and his men had pulled back and walked away, Dawson let out a breath of relief, unhitched his bay and rode it around to the back door of the Desert Flower Inn. After knocking, then waiting, then knocking again, harder this time, and waiting another few minutes in the drizzling rain, Dawson had turned back to where the bay stood near the back porch. But before he could step into the saddle, a woman’s voice called out from inside, “Who’s there?”

Recognizing Della Starks’s voice, Dawson replied, “Miss Della, it’s me, Crayton Dawson, remember?”

“Crayton who?” said Della Starks.

“Crayton Dawson, Miss Della,” said Dawson. “Shaw and I helped you get here after your wagon broke a wheel? We shot it out with a band of Comancheros?”