Between Hell and Texas (9 page)

“What have we here, Karl?” Sheriff Martin Lematte said to the man standing beside him on the boardwalk out front of the saloon.

“I don’t know,” said Karl Nolly. He spread a slight grin. “But if he’s carrying any money, I think we better get a hold of it, before he wastes it on something foolish.”

“There you go reading my mind again,” said Lematte, smiling himself, working a thin cigar back and forth between his lips as the pair stood watching the big bay slow to a walk toward the hitch rail.

“Good evening to you, stranger,” Lematte said, smiling affably, ripping his black flat-crowned hat. “Welcome to Somos Santos.”

Cray Dawson remembered Bouchard’s warning. But he returned Lematte’s smile, and touched his fingertips to his hat brim. “Evening, Sheriff,” he said, stepping down from his saddle and twirling Stony’s reins around the hitch rail. He nodded at Karl Nolly. “Deputy.”

“What brings you to Somos Santos, stranger?” asked Nolly, noting the big tied-down Colt on Dawson’s hip.

Dawson stifled a short laugh and said, “It seems odd being called
stranger
.” He looked back and forth along the nearly empty street, then said flatly, “I’m from here.” He stared at them blankly until the two men felt compelled to reply.

Lematte squirmed slightly, then recovered and said with an even friendlier smile, “Well, then! Don’t I feel foolish!” He showed Karl Nolly his smile to make sure the deputy saw how polite he wanted this to be. “I’m afraid I’ve only been the sheriff here a short while. Apparently you left Somos Santos before my time,
Mister
…?” He left his words open, hoping they would be filled in.

“My name’s Dawson…Crayton Dawson,” he said, again touching his hat brim slightly.

“Mister Dawson,” said Lematte, “I certainly hope you’ve taken no offense at my ignorance. I’m Sheriff Martin Lematte, at your service…. This is my most trusted deputy, Karl Nolly.”

“Also at your service,” said Nolly, but his eyes said otherwise as they studied Dawson curiously.

“We’re both pleased to make your acquaintance,” said Lematte. His smile seemed genuine, as did his eyes and expression. “I hope you’ll find Somos Santos to be as enjoyable as you left it.” He spread his arms as if to display the town with pride. “You’ll notice there have been some changes, I’m sure.”

Dawson looked up at the sign hanging above the saloon, and read aloud, “The Silver Seven Saloon.” Then he cut his gaze back to Lematte and asked, “What happened to the Ace High? I always thought Ace High was a fine name.”

“Indeed, so did I,” said Lematte. “But since the Ace High fell on financial difficulty, and Karl and I had to bail it out, we thought it might be best to start with a clean slate so to speak, name and all.” He looked up at the sign then back at Dawson. “I named her after a silver mine I used to own up in Colorado. I hope you like our decision, Mister Dawson.”

“Just curious is all,” said Dawson, stepping up onto the boardwalk. “What become of Nelson Hawkins, the Ace High owner?”

Lematte looked down and shook his head slowly with a sigh of regret. “That is not a happy story,” he said. “It pains me to tell you, but poor Mister Hawkins took his business losses so personally that he went home one night and stared too long into his gun barrel, if you know what I mean.”

Dawson didn’t let the news move him one way or the other. “Nelson never struck me as that type.”

“I know! Me neither,” said Lematte, as if still stunned by the event. “But isn’t that always the ones who do it? The ones you least suspect.” He seemed to recover from his shock and regret and said, “But, Mister Dawson, let’s not let this news spoil your evening. We have every game of chance you can imagine inside the Silver Seven!”

“Crayton
Daw
son?” said Karl Nolly, sounding amazed, as if his mind had just awakened to an important discovery.

“Yes, Crayton Dawson, wasn’t it?” said Lematte, giving Nolly a bewildered look. “Did I miss something?” Saying Dawson’s name again triggered Lematte’s memory. His eyes widened the same as Nolly’s.

“You’re
the
Crayton Dawson?” asked Nolly. His hand crept instinctively closer to his Colt. But seeing Dawson look closely at his action, he raised his hand to the center of his chest and idly scratched himself, clearly showing he had no intention of reaching for his gun.

“Yes, I’m
the
Crayton Dawson. I just rode in for a drink,” he said. “I heard there was a new sheriff here. What’s become of Nate Bratcher?”

“Well, now, there is another sad story I’m afraid,” said Lematte. “After the election, even though I made it perfectly clear that Bratcher could stay on as a deputy…he just started drinking more and more, then wandered off one night. Nobody has seen him since. I’m afraid something terrible has happened to him.”

Dawson just looked at the two.

“Was Bratcher a friend of yours, Dawson?” Nolly asked, trying to get a feel for Dawson and where he stood.

“Not particularly,” said Dawson, playing it down just to see if these men might reveal anything to him. “We weren’t friends…we weren’t enemies. I hate to hear about him being dead though.”

“Well, yes,” said Lematte, “and so do—”

“Nobody
said
he’s dead,” Nolly cut in. “He just wandered off, that’s all.” He gave Dawson a questioning look.

“Dead…wandered off. What’s the difference?” Dawson shrugged. “Either way, I doubt if he’ll be showing up for supper.” He offered a thin smile.

Lematte and Nolly looked at one another, unsure how to take Dawson’s words. But then Lematte gave a short, bemused chuckle and said, “Yes, come to think of it, Dawson, you’re right; either way I doubt if he
will
be showing up for supper.”

“Say, Dawson,” Nolly commented, now that the air seemed calm between them, “we heard all about what you did up in Turkey Creek and Brakett Flats. That was some powerful account you gave of yourself. Feel like talking about it?”

“You mean over a drink?” Dawson implied.

Lematte smiled. “Bravo, Dawson! Of course he
meant over a drink. Come on, the drinks are on me.” He shook a finger. “But I better warn you, I intend to win it all back from you at one of the gambling tables.”

“You’re on,” said Dawson, stepping toward the doors of the Silver Seven Saloon. “But I better warn
you
, Lematte…I don’t plan on losing anything.”

Two hours later, Cray Dawson stood at the roulette table with a stack of chips in front of him. At the bar, Martin Lematte and Karl Nolly stood watching closely, each of them keeping a detached expression on his face. When another round of hoots and applause went up around the roulette table, Karl said under his breath, “I’d like to make him eat that gaming table, legs and all!”

“Believe me, Karl,” said Martin Lematte, “if I thought you were able to do something like that, we wouldn’t be letting him win. But I suggest you think twice before you start any trouble with this gunman. We’re doing damn good here…let’s not make a foolish mistake and get ourselves killed in the process.”

“If I make a move on him, there won’t be any mistakes, Lematte,” said Nolly. “You might be smarter than me about lots of things, but not when it comes to killing. When I make up my mind to kill a man, he might just as well sell his horse…he won’t be needing it.”

“That’s all well and good,” said Lematte. “But before we start burying men you’ve yet to kill, let me see if I can get Dawson leaning our way. Give him a taste of money. It wouldn’t hurt to get a fast gun like him on our side.”

“I just hate seeing all this money going into his pocket instead of ours,” said Nolly.

“So do I,” Lematte said quietly, watching the roulette wheel from across the saloon. “But just call it seed money.” Seeing Dawson look around toward them, Lematte raised his shot glass in friendly salute.

“Look at him,” said Nolly when Dawson turned back toward the wheel. “It’s almost like he knows we’re letting him win…like he’s rubbing our faces in something.”

“He doesn’t know a thing,” said Lematte. “You’re just letting your imagination run away with you. All these big, bold gunmen have a smugness to them. They’re all arrogant sons-a-bitches. They all think they’re smarter than they really are.” He smiled. “But that’s to our advantage if we get him on our side…and if he doesn’t get on our side, that same arrogance will be his downfall, I’ll wager.”

As the two talked back and forth between themselves, the roulette table boss came walking over wiping sweat from his forehead and said to Lematte in a hoarse whisper, “Sheriff, this guy is killing us! What do you want me to do?”

“Keep doing what you’ve been doing, Ferguson, letting him win. Give him about ten more minutes, then start using the foot pedal. Start him losing slowly. We’ll see if he’s smart enough to know when to quit.”

“Whatever you say, Sheriff,” said Ferguson. “But this fellow is giving my table a beating.” He backed up, turned, and hurried back to the table in time to see Cray Dawson rake in another tall stack of chips.

Martin Lematte saw a young tough named Henry Snead walking up to him and he said to Karl Nolly,
“Good, here comes Snead. Now we’ll get a chance to see how Crayton Dawson handles himself.”

Sliding in beside Lematte at the bar, Henry Snead said, “Collins told me to get right over here. Said there’s some saddle tramp winning too much money.”

Seeing sweat run down Snead’s face, Lematte looked up and down at the dark circles on his shirt and asked, “Why are you so sweaty?”

Snead flexed his large arms and broadened his chest. “I was lifting nail kegs just for the fun of it,” he said. “I like to keep myself ready for anything.”

“Do you hear that, Karl?” Lematte beamed humorously at Nolly. “He lifts kegs of nails ‘just for the fun of it.’”

“I heard,” said Karl Nolly, sounding disinterested.

Henry Snead looked over at the roulette table, where the only player who seemed to be doing anything was the tall, thin cowboy with the tied-down Colt. “I guess that’s him, huh?” Snead asked.

Lematte smiled at Nolly, then said to Snead, “Yes, that’s the man.” He drew on his cigar as if considering something. “Tell me, Snead, how would you like to earn yourself a deputy badge tonight?”

“Nothing would suit me better.” Snead rubbed his fist into the palm of his hand. “Want me to go smack him around some…maybe drag him outside and stick his head down in a horse trough?”

“Now that would be interesting to watch.” Again Lematte grinned at Nolly. “But use discretion, Snead.”

“Use what?” Snead looked confused.

“What I mean is, Henry,” said Lematte, “don’t let
him know Nolly and I have anything to do with it. It will be our secret, yours and mine, all right?”

“Suits me,” said Snead. “Can I go over there now?”

“Well, why not?” Lematte grinned. “But don’t make a move for another ten minutes.”

“I’m not carrying a watch,” said Snead, looking concerned.

“Watch me for a nod. You can do that can’t you?” Lematte asked with a note of sarcasm.

“Sure thing,” said Snead.

At the table, Cray Dawson had not looked around during the time Henry Snead stood talking to Martin Lematte, so he had no warning of what was about to come. He’d been winning steadily from the time he started playing. But then his luck began to change slowly. Dawson realized right away that he’d been set up, first to win, now to lose. He didn’t know why, but he did know that he wasn’t about to give back any more money than he had to. If Lematte wanted to play games with him, Dawson would see to it that it cost him. After four bad spins in a row, Dawson drew his chips off into his hat and handed it to the table boss, saying, “Cash me in. Gentlemen, I’m calling it a night.”

He watched Ferguson the table boss count the chips and place them to the side. Then he watched a large roll of bills come up from under the table near Ferguson’s hand, and saw Ferguson quickly count out four hundred and eighty dollars and slide the money across the green felt tabletop to him. “Much obliged,” said Dawson, folding the money and stuffing it down into his shirt pocket. He stepped back and turned to walk toward the bar, but from
out of nowhere a thick fist hooked him low in the stomach and lifted him onto his toes. He jackknifed forward, bowed at the waist. The pain cutting into his tender, healing flesh paralyzed him for a moment, and dropped him to his knees. He rocked back and forth unsteadily, gasping for breath.

“Jeez!” said Henry Snead, looking surprised as he stepped back rubbing his fist. At first he’d been poised for a fight, but seeing no sign of one coming he shrugged and chuckled under his breath, looking around as if making sure everybody saw what he’d done. “This guy is really weak in the gut, huh?”

A few tense seconds passed as everybody in the Silver Seven seemed to hold their breath. Henry Snead, seeing that Dawson wasn’t going to be doing anything in retaliation, finally reached down and dragged him to his feet and toward the front doors, saying, “Come on, cowboy…you can’t sit there and get sick all over the floor. Then I’d
really
have to thump on you.” Snead gave Lematte a triumphant look as he dragged Cray Dawson past him as if the man were a scarecrow.

Turning back to the bar, Lematte said to Nolly, “Well, I suppose that’s that. Who would ever guess a man like Crayton Dawson would be such a pushover?”

“I always say they’re all nothing without a gun in their hand,” said Nolly.

“I have to say I am a little disappointed,” said Lematte, raising a shot glass. “I had thought we might have a bit of sport here this evening. I always enjoy figuring a man out. I thought there would be more to Cray Dawson than
this
.” He gestured toward the floor in disgust.

“Maybe you like to figure a gunman out,” said Karl Nolly, standing beside Lematte at the bar but staring at the bat-wing doors. “Myself, I’m glad he’s gone. I just hope we’ve seen the last of him.”

“I don’t think we need concern ourselves there,” said Lematte. “I know a thing or two about people. He’s not coming back. There’s no fight in that man. You saw what he did as soon as the wheel stopped spinning his way—he quit! You saw what happened when he took a punch in the gut—he folded up!” He tossed back the shot of whiskey and let out a hiss. “Our boy Henry Snead has taken Dawson in front of everybody. These gunmen can’t stand that sort of thing. He’ll want to get as far from here as he can, I expect. He’ll go somewhere and nurse his sore gut.” He saluted Nolly with his empty whiskey glass and a smug grin. “So long,
Mister
Dawson!”