Gunman's Song (15 page)

As Dawson spoke, Shaw stopped for only a second, then continued to carve his section of ribs into strips easier to handle. Albert stood silent for an uncomfortable second. Then Ledham said in a blunt tone of voice, “Why not tell him why there's so many guests missing tonight?”

“Please, Mr. Ledham,” said Otto Watts discreetly.

“Please nothing,” said Ledham, his ancient voice sounding raspy but strong. “I didn't get to be eighty-seven by beating around the mulberry bush.” He gave Shaw a cold, hard gaze. “The other guests didn't want to dine with you, Mr. Shaw. It appears that the thing about you that
attracts
them to the street is the very same thing that
repels
them from the food trough.”

An awkward silence loomed for a moment as the rest of the diners waited to see how Shaw would take such a remark. Shaw stared at the old man for a moment with a flat, indiscernible expression. Then he raised a water glass in salute and said to the other three guests, “Then let them find themselves a trough to eat from. I'm grateful that you three have honored
me here in these fine surroundings.” He narrowed a gaze at Ledham and said with a slight chuckle in his voice, “And were you as sharp with your aim as you are with your words, Mr. Ledham, I'm grateful our paths never crossed when you had your bark on.”

“You done well saying it.” Ledham grinned, raising his water glass in a return salute, the group feeling any sign of tension dissipate. “And I say if they don't like eating with us it's their own loss.”

“Hear, hear,” said Otto Watts, raising his glass. Dawson joined the toast, as did the young woman.

They ate amid an atmosphere of pleasant conversation that included nothing about gunfights or reputations. When the dinner was over, Cray Dawson noted how at peace Lawrence Shaw seemed to be for the first time since the two had left Somos Santos. What Dawson found particularly pleasing was the fact that the young woman did not spend the entire meal ignoring everyone but Shaw. It appeared to Dawson that Shaw even seemed to enjoy that fact himself. But then, at the end of the meal when Ledham arose stiffly, excused himself, and, with the aid of a walking cane, made his way out of the dining room, Cray Dawson was surprised to see Lawrence Shaw turn his attention to Otto Watts and in a businesslike manner say, “All right, Watts, lay it out for me.”

“Sir?” said Watts, as if not knowing what Shaw meant.

Cray Dawson was genuinely bewildered. But studying the two, he began to see that something was in the works. He chastised himself silently for not having seen it before, the way Shaw had.

Shaw said to Watts, “I can understand Mr. Ledham wanting to dine with a real live gunman. He likes
going back to his home and telling everybody he knows. I might understand you wanting to do the same, except I doubt very seriously if you would have brought your daughter along if that was the case.” He turned a slight smile to Ladelphia, looking her up and down, then said to Watts, “If Miss Ladelphia really
is
your daughter.”

“You have keen senses, Mr. Shaw,” said Otto Watts. “My compliments to you, sir.” He cut a glance toward Dawson, seeing whether it was all right to discuss business before him.

“Mr. Dawson can hear anything you've got to say to me,” Shaw said, encouraging Watts to continue. “What is it? Do you want me to run some squatters off some land you own? A business partner who cut out with your part of the profit?”

“No, nothing of the sort,” said Watts, dismissing the idea with the toss of a thick hand. “What I do have is a very lucrative proposition for you.” He started to reach inside his coat pocket, but, reminding himself of his present company, he slowed his hand as if to show there was no intent to draw a gun. Shaw nodded his approval and Watts slowly produced a business card and handed it to him. “I think you'll be interested in what my business can do for you, Mr. Shaw.” He turned a short glance to Cray Dawson. “Mr. Dawson too, if he is anywhere near as good a shootist as you are…and I expect he must be, since he's traveling with you.”

“I'm no shootist,” said Cray Dawson flatly, already sorry Otto Watts and the young lady had joined them for dinner. Ladelphia sat watching with a pleasant smile.

As Shaw picked up the card, Watts said, “I traveled
all the way from St. Louis up to Arizona Territory to make this same offer to Mr. Clayton Mumpe. But as you know, Mr. Mumpe died suddenly.” He offered a proud smile. “I might say he died the second you put a bullet in him.”

Shaw ignored Watts's words. He read the card and turned it over as if to see if there was anything more on the back. He offered a tired but curious expression, saying almost to himself, “You're a bearbaiter, Watts?”

“No, indeed,” said Watts. “The Otto Watts Troupe is much more than a bearbaiting spectacle! Although I do have a bear who will take on all comers, be they man or beast.” As he continued he raised a finger to accompany each item he mentioned. “I presently have a fire-eater who also swallows swords, a lady contortionist who has performed both here and in Europe, a bareback rider, and a spiritualist who communicates with those who have crossed over into the great beyond.”

“But you started as a bearbaiter?” Shaw said, laying the card on the tabletop and keeping his finger on it.

“Well, I admit, the bear fights were sort of a stepping-stone for me,” said Watts, his face reddening a bit. “But I have expanded into a complete carnival-type entertainment enterprise!” He spread his hands. “We are sweeping the Eastern towns and might very well be heading for jolly old England come next spring!”

“I suppose the bear fights still draw a sizable audience?” Shaw said.

“Yes, that's true, but—”

“No, thank you, Watts,” said Shaw. He slid the
card back in front of Otto Watts, then stood up, letting him know the conversation was over.

Dawson started to stand up too, but Shaw placed a hand on his shoulder. “Finish your coffee, Dawson,” he said quietly. “I'm going to step upstairs to my room.” He looked at Otto Watts and Ladelphia. “If you will both excuse me.”

Dawson could tell by the look on Watts's face that he was bursting to say more, to try to pitch Shaw the idea of traveling with his troupe. But Shaw's stern expression discouraged him.

When Shaw was out of the dining room, Watts picked up a white napkin and wiped it across his forehead, saying to Dawson, “I wish you would relay my offer to Mr. Shaw, sir…perhaps at a time when he is more receptive?” He slid the card across the table to Cray Dawson, who only stared down at it.

“He meant what he said.” Dawson looked back and forth between Watts and the woman and raised his coffee cup to his lips. “I reckon he feels the same way I do about bearbaiting. I have no use for it.”

“Mr. Dawson,” said Ladelphia, her voice dropping to a seductive tone, “is there anything I can do tonight that would make you change your mind?”

Dawson set his cup down and just stared at her.

Outside the dining room Lawrence Shaw had lingered for a moment, hearing what Otto Watts and the woman had to say. At the sound of Dawson's reply to Watts, and Ladelphia's alluring question, Shaw shook his head as he walked to the stairs and climbed them with a trace of a smile. He wondered for a moment what Cray Dawson's response would be. He liked the way Dawson had handled Watts. The more he saw of Cray Dawson the better he felt
about riding with him. Dawson struck him as a good man to have by his side. He knew there were more things that had to be talked about between them, but they would come when they were supposed to, when the time was right. Shaw was certain there was still some rough road ahead before he settled accounts with Barton Talbert and his gang.

At the top of the stairs Lawrence Shaw turned toward his room, but then stopped with his hand on the doorknob when he heard Della Starks whisper his name. Turning, he saw her standing in her doorway, wearing a French evening gown. She cut a glance back and forth to make sure no one was around, then gave him a welcoming nod. “I've been waiting for you,” she whispered, watching him step quietly to her door, then past her into the candlelit room. Closing the door softly, she leaned back against it and said in a hushed, breathless tone, “I thought you'd never get here!” Behind her Shaw heard her lock the door. Then she stepped forward and he wrapped his arms around her.

They kissed long and deep, and when it ended he still held her, lingering cheek-to-cheek. Shaw whispered, “You missed a good dinner. You should have been there.”

“I know,” she said, her voice trembling in anticipation. “But I was too hungry for other things to bother with eating.” The two pulled away from each other enough to walk to the bedroom.

She fell back onto the big feather bed and threw open her gown wantonly. “Come here, you big gunman…I'm on fire.”

Shaw stared into her eyes, but took his time, taking off his gun belt and pitching it past her, up by the
pillows. He unbuttoned his shirt, took it off, and dropped it on a small stuffed footstool.

“For God's sake, Lawrence!” she said, cupping her breasts toward him, sucking air between her lips as if she were in pain. “Come on down here this instant!”

He did.

In the night, Shaw awakened with a start at the sound of a pistol shot resounding from somewhere deep in his unconsciousness. He sat up on the side of the bed in the silent darkness, running his hands back through his sweat-dampened hair.

“Lawrence,” Della whispered, her hand coming around his waist, lying on his thigh, “what's wrong?”

“Nothing, Rosa—I mean, Della. Go…go on back to sleep,” he said haltingly. But she only scooted over closer to him, her arm going farther around him, encircling him as she slid upright behind him, her hand rubbing the center of his chest.

“Hey, it's all right. I'm Della, remember?” she whispered, her lips caressing his ear as she spoke. “You're safe here.”

“Sorry,” Shaw said, still shaken slightly by a dream that had already vanished except for its terrible lingering intensity. “I must have slept too soundly.”

“I know,” she said, “you had a bad dream. But it's gone now.” She soothed him with her lips, her hands, her body warm against his back. “Look at you; you're shivering like it's cold.” She coaxed him
back into the bed and down beside her, drawing a blanket across them both.

“I'll be all right,” he said, relaxing against her, feeling her breasts hot against him, her body warm against the length of him.

“Yes, you will,” she whispered. “Here, let me hold you. I want to hold you and take care of you.” She pressed his face to her bosom and they lay in silence for a moment, Shaw feeling her hand upon him like warm velvet gloves. Then she whispered, “I want you to stay here with me, and I want to take care of you.”

“Della,” Shaw said softly, “you know that I'm on the trail. I can't stop until this thing is settled.”

“I know,” she said. “I won't try to stop you. I know what you have to do. But when it's over, Lawrence, I want you to come back to me. Will you come back to me?”

Shaw didn't answer, yet somehow his silence gave her reason to create an image of the two of them together. “Just think,” she whispered, “you and me, with all the time in the world, all the money we'll ever need. We can go to Europe. We can live in New York. You won't have to do anything…but accompany me, of course.” She drew delicate circles on his warm back with her finger as she spoke. “We'll have everything two people could possibly want.”

“It sounds wonderful,” Shaw whispered.

“Then you'll do it?” she said, sounding hopeful. “You'll come back here to me?”

A silence passed; then Shaw said, “Yes, I'll come back to you. We'll travel; we'll do all those things.”

“Oh, Lawrence.” She held him tighter. “It
will
be wonderful! You'll see.” She began making plans
aloud. “Of course, I'll maintain the pretense of being the Widow Starks. We'll say you are my personal assistant…a gentleman bodyguard, so to speak. We'll have a room for you, a whole suite of rooms. But that will just be for show, just until we can manage to get you a title of some sort.”

“A title?” Shaw asked.

“Yes, a title,” she replied. “Or at least a legitimate calling, say cattle rancher, or land investor.”

“I see,” said Shaw.

Catching a different note to his voice, Della said, “Well, I know you don't want to be thought of as a gunman for the rest of your life, do you?”

“No,” said Shaw, “I sure don't.” He considered it, lying warm against her firm, ample breasts. “A title, huh? How about, Lawrence Shaw, principal of Shaw Enterprises? That sounds important, but really doesn't say much of anything.”

“We'll think about it,” Della said, kissing his face, his neck.