Gunman's Song (27 page)

“Think it'd be all right if I boiled some coffee?” Stanley asked meekly, as if not to impose on his partner.

“Boil some
coffee
?” Curley said in disbelief. He gazed up at the blistering sunlight and shook his
head. Then he looked back at Stanley Little. “I don't give a damn if you boil your head!”

“I won't cause no smoke,” said Stanley, scooting back from the edge before standing up and dusting his trousers.

“See that you don't,” said Curley. “From what I hear, Fast Larry Shaw is like a panther. He can sniff trouble on the turn of a breeze.”

Stanley Little moved about the area behind them, gathering small dried twigs and kindling. In moments he'd built a small fire and boiled some coffee; then he immediately put out the fire and carried the pot over to where Stanley still lay in the same spot watching evening shadows spread long across the earth. “Here we go,” he said, setting the pot down beside Curley Tomes. Having used his hat as a pot holder, he shook it out and set it back atop his bald head. “By dark it ought to be simmered to about the way we like it.”

“Good,” said Curley, concentrating on the land without turning to face him, “now see if you can sit there real quiet-like for a while.”

In the moonlight, Jedson Caldwell held the horses while Lawrence Shaw and Cray Dawson worked their way silently through the brush toward the edge of the basin they had circled in the darkness. Against a short rock sticking up from the sandy earth, Shaw lifted his Colt from his holster and checked it as he said almost in a whisper, “Do you think we ought to send Caldwell on his way before we catch up to the whole Talbert gang? It might keep him from getting killed.”

“I think Caldwell has to make up his own mind,” said Dawson, also raising his pistol and checking it in the clear moonlight.

“I don't know why he rode with us to begin with,” said Shaw. “I can't figure the man out…and I don't like riding with a man I can't figure out.” He kept the Colt in his hand after checking it, instead of slipping it back into his holster.

Looking at Shaw as he finished checking his gun, Dawson said, “Then I reckon that means you've got me figured out pretty good?”

“You never was hard to figure out, Cray Dawson,” said Shaw. “Besides, you and I was good friends years ago. There's some people who don't change much over the years.”

“Maybe I haven't changed much since we were friends chasing brush-tailed mustangs together,” Dawson offered, also keeping his Colt in his hand, “but things have happened in my life. Things that were just as important as you going off and making a big reputation for yourself.”

“I didn't mean it like that,” said Shaw. Trying to dismiss the subject, he said, “Come on, let's get on up there, see how many there are.”

“Shaw!” Dawson said, not allowing himself to be put off, “we still ain't talked things out.”

“Keep your voice down,” Shaw said, hearing Cray Dawson speak above their whispered tone. “They'll hear you.”

Lowering his voice again, Cray Dawson said, “All right, but I want things straight between us, Shaw.”

“They are,” said Shaw bluntly. “You might not realize it, but things
are
straight between us.”

“Damn it, no, they're not,” Dawson hissed to himself. Seeing Shaw had already started moving away through the cover of brush, he arose from against the rock in a crouch and hurried along silently behind him.

When Shaw stopped again, this time behind a stand of creosote and the bone-dry remnants of a juniper bough, they were too close to the outlaws for Dawson to risk saying a word. Less than ten yards from them, they could see well enough in the moonlight to know that there were only two men lying along the rim looking out onto the sandy basin. Shaw inched forward; Dawson followed until they were close enough to hear the two men talking quietly.

“I wouldn't say so to his face,” said Stanley Little, “but to me, Barton and Blue Snake are going about this thing with Shaw the wrong way.”

“Yeah?” said Curley Tomes with a trace of sarcasm. “I suppose you would have a better way of handling a big gun like Fast Larry Shaw?”

“Yes, I think I would,” said Stanley. “If I was Barton Talbert, I would look up Fast Larry Shaw face-to-face, tell him how it all happened, and let the chips fall where they will, so to speak…take my punishment, if I had any coming.”

“Sure you would, you lying dog.” Curley chuckled. “You was there when it happened; so was I. Why don't we go find Shaw and explain it? Let the chips fall where they will, so to speak. That would be about the same, wouldn't it?”

“No, it wouldn't be,” said Stanley, “because Talbert and Blue Snake are the ones running this bunch; they're the ones responsible for what happened.”

“You're wrong there, pard,” said Curley. “If the woman hadn't put up such a fight, she'd be alive today. That's the fact of the matter. All she had to do was keep her mouth shut about everything; who would ever know any of it—”

“Freeze!” Cray Dawson shouted, cutting the outlaw off. Beside him he could see that Shaw was on the verge of killing them without another word.

“What the…?” Both faces turned toward Dawson's shadowy figure standing close behind them, covering them with a cocked Colt in his hand. Stanley Little's hands went up immediately in submission. But Curley's hand tightened on the rifle lying beside him on the ground.

“Any move you make will be your last,” said Dawson. As he spoke he reached down and placed his free hand on Shaw's shoulder as if to hold him
in place. “Easy,” he said to him, “we need them alive for now.”

“Is that you, Fast Larry?” asked Stanley Little. “I reckon you got the drop on us fair and square. But I had nothing to do with that woman getting killed. I tried to stop them. I fought for her like a wild man! But it done no good!”

“Shut up, Stanley,” said Curley Tomes, lifting his hand slowly away from his rifle and raising both hands over his head.

“I'm not Shaw,” said Dawson. “But he is.”

Lawrence Shaw stood up slowly, taking a deep breath, knowing that Dawson was right; they needed to find out how many of the same men riding with Talbert now were there the day of Rosa's death. Not that it would mean anything except to him and Shaw. Whoever was with Talbert now would know what had happened and they would have already made their decision to stay and fight. Turning slightly without taking his eyes off the two men, Dawson called out, “Caldwell! Bring the horses on up!”

A short silence passed; then Caldwell replied, “I'm coming.”

Stanley Little and Curley Tomes stared wide-eyed as Lawrence Shaw stepped forward, his Colt cocked and pointed at them. They found no comfort in his uncocking the gun and lowering it into his holster. Stopping a few feet from them, Lawrence Shaw stooped down, carefully laid his hand against the coffeepot, judging the heat of it, then said as he raised the pot by the handle and shook it gently, judging its contents, “Looks like we're down to grit
and grinds,” he said, controlling the rage that had begun to boil inside him as he'd listened to their words.

Dawson walked forward, keeping his gun on the two men, saying, “I'll get up a fire and boil some fresh, soon as Caldwell gets here with the horses.”

“We've got plenty more fixins,” Stanley Little volunteered, as if having coffee might save them.

“We brought our own,” Shaw said grimly. “You sit real still. I want to ask you some questions.”

“You want to take our guns?” Stanley asked, being overly obliging.

“Why?” Shaw asked bluntly.

“You know, in case we was to make a grab for them?” said Stanley.

“Anytime you feel the urge, feel free to make a grab,” said Shaw. “This is not a social call.”

Moments later Caldwell appeared cautiously on the sandy slope as if rising up out of the land. He led the three horses over to one side and groundtied them to a stand of mesquite near the two horses already there. “Did everything go all right?” he asked timidly, stepping over beside Dawson as he stared at the two men with their hands raised.

“Get some coffee from the saddlebags,” Shaw said, not answering his question.

Dawson worked up a small fire while Caldwell cleaned out the pot and poured water in it from Stanley Little's and Curley Tomes's canteens. A few minutes later as the coffee began to boil, Dawson stepped in and picked up both men's guns from the ground and laid them a safe distance away.

“Tell me the whole story,” Shaw said to Stanley
Little, “just the way you said you would if you were with Barton Talbert.”

“You're going to kill us, ain't you?” Stanley ventured.

“What do you think?” said Shaw.

“I think it was all one terrible mistake,” said Stanley. “Like I said, I tried to stop them. Tried to talk sense to them.”

“Hell, shut up, Stanley!” said Curley Tomes. “He don't give a damn. He's going to kill us anyway!” He turned to Lawrence Shaw. “Here's the truth of it, Shaw, for the better or the worse. We never went by your place to cause any trouble. The fact is, Barton Talbert wanted to meet you…wanted to be able to say he shook hands with the fastest gun alive.” An expression of pained irony came upon his face. “Damn it all! He idolized you, to tell the truth. Said he was honored that you came from the same part of Texas where he was born. Said every Texan ought to be proud of you!”

“That's the truth, so help us God!” Stanley interjected.

“Go on,” Shaw said to Curley, “tell me all of it.”

Dawson cut in, saying, “We don't need to hear the details; tell us who was there, the ones who took part in it!”

“No,” said Shaw to Curley Tomes, “tell us everything that happened that day.”

“Everything?” Curley asked cautiously.

“Everything,” said Shaw. “Leave nothing out.”

Dawson stepped away and stooped down beside the fire. He stared into the flames as Caldwell raised the coffeepot and poured steaming coffee into three tin cups sitting on the ground.

“We got there to your house,” said Curley Tomes to Shaw. “At first it looked like nobody was at home. Sidlow knocked and knocked but nobody came to the door. We were all still mounted except Sidlow, Blue Snake, and Barton. They had already turned to get back on their horses when the door opened, and there was your wife.” He swallowed and said in contemplation, “Damn it…if she just would've waited another minute or two we would have been gone. None of this would have happened.”

“I don't want to hear any more of it,” Dawson said in a tight, low voice.

“Then step away from the fire,” Shaw said to him.

“No,” said Dawson, “I'll stick. If you're here, I'm here.”

“Go on,” Shaw said to Curley Tomes. Without turning, Shaw reached out with a gloved hand and took the cup of coffee Caldwell held out to him.

“All right, I'll try.” Curley rubbed his forehead with both hands as if the memory troubled him. When he'd drawn a deep breath and let it out slowly, he continued, saying, “She…she was a real pretty woman, Shaw…and she came to that door smiling, just as friendly as can be, like she might have been expecting somebody.”

Shaw bit the inside of his lip, recalling how in his last telegram he'd told her he was on his way home. “Go on,” he said again.

“Anyway, her expression changed the minute she saw Barton Talbert and us,” said Curley. “Barton tried to explain to her that he was just there to meet you, and nothing else. But she was real suspicious. Told him it wasn't the first time somebody came by there looking for you. Said she was telling him the
same she told all the others, to get off the place and stay off. Then she tried to slam the door, but Sidlow shoved his boot into it and kept it open. Then the woman—your wife, that is—she got hard to handle. Started screaming at Sidlow and Barton. She wouldn't shut up long enough for Barton to even apologize!”

Stanley Little cut in, saying, “That's when Barton and Sidlow went nuts. Sidlow hauled off and kicked the door in! I hollered and tried to stop him, but he didn't listen to me!”

“That ain't true,” said Curley. “Well, most of it is, except you didn't say a damn word. Neither did the rest of us. We let that poor woman die, never done a thing. Some of us even took advantage—”

“Stop it, damn it to hell!” shouted Cray Dawson, slinging his coffee cup away, coming to his feet.

“Get back, Dawson,” said Shaw. He held out a hand as if to stop Cray Dawson from going past him to attack Curley Tomes.

“I'm just telling you the truth, like you asked!” said Curley, looking concerned about Dawson.

“I know,” said Shaw, “go on.” He shot Dawson a flat stare that told him to get back and stay back. Dawson relented, stepped back, and stooped down beside Jedson Caldwell near the fire.