Gunman's Song (6 page)

Shaw looked around at the faces of Dillard Frome, Cray Dawson, and Jedson Caldwell. Frome stepped over and tried to put his arm around Della, but she brushed it away. Seeing that no one seemed able to console her, Lawrence Shaw stepped down from his saddle, walked over, and embraced her, drawing her against his chest. “You'll be all right, ma'am. You'll soon replace those things, maybe with something even better.”

“Do you…do you suppose so, Lawrence?” she asked, sniffling a bit, her cheek pressed firmly against him.

“Of course you will,” said Shaw. He shot Dawson and the others a glance, almost shrugging. Dawson
shook his head and looked away. “We'll go up a little farther, then make a camp for the night. No fire though—they might decide to hit us in our sleep.”

“Won't it get awfully chilly without a fire?” Della asked.

“We have blankets, ma'am,” said Shaw. “Don't worry; we won't let you get cold.”

“Lawrence…?” She paused, letting her words trail off.

“Yes, ma'am?” said Shaw.

“Will you stay close to me tonight?” Della lowered her voice, but Dawson and the others could still hear her.

“As close as I can, ma'am,” said Shaw.

“But I mean
real
close, Lawrence,” she whispered. “Will you stay
real
close to me?”

“We'll see how it goes,” said Shaw, feeling a bit embarrassed, knowing Dawson was watching and listening.

“God almighty!” Dawson whispered to himself, turning away and watching the flames of the wagon lick high into the night. “He beats all I've ever seen.”

They made a dark camp beside the winding trail at the foot of an upreaching stretch of rock where jagged boulders—some as large as houses—littered the hillside and stood up like grave markers to some ancient race of giants. After sharing a sparse meal of jerked beef and tepid canteen water Cray Dawson and Shaw had brought with them, Shaw and Della stood up from the group and Shaw picked up a blanket from the ground. “We need to take turns standing watch,” Shaw said. “Dawson…?” His words trailed off.

“Sure,” said Dawson, “I'll take the first.” In the quarter-moon darkness he looked up at the black silhouettes of Shaw and Della Starks, seeing Della reach out and slip an arm around Shaw's waist and stand closer to him.

“
Gracias,
” said Shaw. Then, carrying the blanket with his canteen of whiskey over his shoulder, he disappeared with Della into the larger darkness surrounding them. Caldwell, Dawson, and Dillard Frome sat hunkered quietly for a moment, not knowing what to say.

Finally Caldwell broke the silence, saying, “Dan Hollis was the same way, I noticed, what little time I
was around him. Women flocked for his attention…bartenders set him up drinks for free…restaurants didn't want to take his money. I never saw anything like it. I studied my head off learning the art of mortuary science, a respectable profession that serves a better purpose to the world.” He spit and chuckled under his breath. “All I really needed to do was learn to shoot a gun, the way Hollis did.”

“And don't forget,” said Cray Dawson, “Hollis wasn't even the best. Imagine if a person's the best, like Shaw. I bet Shaw doesn't even pay for a shave and a haircut most places he goes.”

“Same way with musicians,” Frome said quietly and bitterly. “Had a wife once who left me for a guitar player—they never pay for anything either…sons a' bitches.”

Dawson and Caldwell didn't know what to say. After a pause, Frome lowered his voice and said, “One thing's for sure: If Fast Larry ever paid for anything before, he'll never have to again, not if he cools Della's fire just right.”

“I wouldn't get in a habit of calling him Fast Larry,” Dawson said to Frome. “He doesn't like going by that name anymore.”

“Oh!” said Frome, a bit startled. “Thanks for the advice. I meant no harm, that's for sure.”

“I know,” said Dawson, “that's why I warned you. What did you mean, he'll never pay for nothing again if he cools Della's fire?”

Frome scooted closer in the darkness. “All that malarkey she was dishing out about losing her dresses and hats,” Frome said. “Ha! That woman goes through dresses, shoes, and whatnot like the queen of England.” His voice lowered even more. “She's
dirty-dog rich you know. She'll hand-feed Shaw like he's a lapdog.”

“The queen of England?” Caldwell asked.

The two ignored him. “Her husband owned that Desert Flower, but he also owned a couple of copper mines and half interest in a stage line. Hell! He even owned part of a beef brokerage company in Chicago. He left it all to Della too.” Frome stopped for a second as if letting it sink in, then said, “To be honest, I wanted to get my claws into some of it. Looks like Shaw has jumped my stake.”

“Rich, huh?” said Dawson.

“Filthy,” said Frome.

“My, my,” said Caldwell.

“It just about figures,” said Dawson.

A brief silence passed as each man pictured himself in Shaw's place. Then Caldwell said, “I guess I just don't understand it. What makes women so attracted to gunslingers anyway?”

“I don't know,” said Dawson. “Power, I guess?” He shrugged. “I hate to think it's just because they're good at killing people. It sure looks like it at times, though.

“It's their fame, their
notoriety,
” said Caldwell, as if the answer had just come to him in a flash. “That's it. Women want men other folks have heard of. Not some unheard-of undertaker like me.”

“They all want men that other women want; that much I'll go along with,” said Dawson. “I've never seen a woman want a man as bad as she does once she sees that some other woman will have him.” He nodded. “I've had that happen to me, believe it or not.”

“So have I,” said Frome. “Being a bartender most
of my life, I've had a string of wives that would reach hand in hand across Missouri. I've seen it all when it comes to women…not that I yet understand them…not that I yet understand why God ever made them.”

“Oh, I understand why,” said Dawson in wistful remembrance. He sipped from his canteen. “All I figured I'd ever need was one good woman. I figured I'd spend my life with her and never stray. But it wasn't meant to be,” he said.

“How do you know it wasn't? said Caldwell. “You're young; you might still meet that special woman.”

“Oh, I met her already,” said Dawson. “That's the bad thing of it. I met her, I fell in love with her…she fell in love with another man, and that was that. It wasn't meant to be, us spending our lives together.”

Caldwell said, “Who knows, maybe someday she'll—”

“Naw, I don't think so,” said Dawson, stopping him. As if he felt he'd revealed too much about himself, Dawson dropped the subject and said to Frome, “You've been a bartender; you tell us…why do gunfighters not have to pay for their drinks?”

Frome said, “I always set them up because I figured it might keep them pacified, so to speak. You never know when a gunslinger might take something the wrong way and commence blowing your head off. That's probably why other drinkers like to pay for their drinks too…to keep on their good side.”

“Their good side,” Dawson mused quietly.

“Well, not all women fall for gunfighters,” Caldwell said. “There are some women who snub their
noses at men like Shaw. They go for the kind of man who is settled and responsible and spends his life making something of himself and leaving something behind for his family. My father was that kind of man. I'm sure my mother respected him and loved him.”

“Yep, you're right,” said Dawson, “not all women fall for gunfighters. But they all seem to fall for the kind of man who has a gunfighter's nature…whether he is an actual gunfighter or not.”

“That dangerous type,” said Frome. “Or men with that kiss-my-ass attitude toward them, or toward the whole world, I reckon.”

“Maybe,” said Dawson, pondering Frome's words.

“Or,” said Frome, “to get right down to the heart of the matter, I believe when all is said and done it's the size of a man's pecker that draws women to him.

Dawson and Caldwell just stared at him.

“It's a fact,” said Frome. “All that don't-give-a-damn attitude comes from a man knowing he's ahead of the herd when it comes to women…that's what a woman senses in him, and that's what draws them to him.” He jerked his head toward the darkness in the direction Shaw and Della had taken. “That's why he's got Della's feet stuck in the air and we're sitting in the dirt. Pecker size.” He nodded. “That's what it's all about.”

Another silence passed; then Caldwell said absently, “God, I hope not.”

Dawson and Frome stared at him. He caught himself and said quickly, “I mean, that seems like such a minor attribute on which to judge a man.”

Dawson spit and stood up and dusted his trousers.
“Hell…it's as good a way as any, I reckon. At least it offers an answer where there seems to be no other.” He picked up his rifle and walked to another rock a few feet away. “Frome, I'll wake you in a couple of hours, give you some time to study up some more wisdoms for us.” He sat down and looked out toward the firelight that still glowed brightly in the black of night.

In a few moments Jedson Caldwell and Dillard Frome scooted closer together and leaned back against the same broad upthrust of rock. They shared a single threadbare blanket, each of them grasping a corner of it in his fist and hanging on, lest the other take it over in his sleep.

Pecker size,
Cray Dawson thought. Behind him he heard the sound of the two men snoring, and the sound of Della Starks whispering something to Shaw in a gasping voice only a few feet away. Dawson offered a tired smile to the wide, empty night and ducked his hat brim down on his forehead.
All this time I've wondered why, Rosa…now I reckon I know.

When it came time to wake Frome, Cray Dawson still sat watching the glowing wagon, only now he did so more intently, as if gauging the distance and studying something on the dark land lying between the hills and wagon below. There had been no gunfire for the past couple of hours. The night lay in dead silence without so much as a yelp from a coyote or the batting of a night bird's wings. Yet he sat stonelike, refusing to move, every fiber of his being concentrated on the silent land below.

There it was, he thought, his senses honing in on the sound of a horse's nicker in the distance. It
stopped abruptly, but too late. It was nearly inaudible, but he'd heard it. It came from down the hill line almost at the base. The Comancheros had left the wagon ablaze and headed across the land, perhaps following the tracks, perhaps just running on common knowledge that whoever had been at the wagon had no safe way to run except for the shelter of the hills. He stood up and dusted his trousers again, feeling the chill of night tighten around him. He shook himself off and walked in the direction where he'd heard Shaw and Della in the darkness.

“Shaw, wake up,” he whispered, reaching down and poking his rifle barrel gently into Shaw's ribs, barely making out his dark outline in the blanket that wrapped around the pair.

Shaw awakened quickly, Dawson hearing the soft click of his Colt muffled by the blanket. “What is it?”

“They're coming,” said Dawson. “I heard them below us.”

Shaw arose with the smell of whiskey about him. Della moaned and tugged at the blanket. “You heard them?” Shaw asked hoarsely. “How did you hear them this far up?”

“I was paying attention, listening real close,” said Dawson. “They're coming, damn it! Take my word for it.”

“All right,” said Shaw, “I didn't mean to doubt you…let me clear my head here.” He blew out a breath, and Dawson heard the canteen cap come loose. He heard Shaw swig down a drink of whiskey.

“Jesus, Shaw, you said you were going to stop drinking,” Dawson said.

“I am…as soon as this runs out. That's what I said, remember?” He rummaged around on the
ground, found his trousers, and pulled them on. With his gun belt hung on his shoulder he found his boots and stepped into them. “I meant it too,” Shaw said. “I never used to drink like this. It's just been since Rosa's death.” He stopped and let out a sigh, then said, “I know that's no excuse. I've got to quit; that's all there is to it.”

“Ain't judging you, Shaw,” said Dawson. “I'll go get the others and gather the horses while you pull yourself together.”

“Good idea,” Shaw said with much effort, rubbing his temples as if to get his brain working.

“With a good start, we ought to be able to outrun until we reach the outskirts of Eagle Pass.” That said, Cray Dawson turned to leave.

But Shaw stopped him, saying, “Whoa! Whoa! What are you talking about, outrunning them? We're not running from these cutthroat cowards. How would that look to the folks at Eagle Pass, us coming in out of breath, looking back over our shoulder?” Shaw shook his head. “Huh-uh…I've been taking a stand too long to start making a run for it now.”