Gunman's Song (13 page)

Shaw didn't seem to hear him. He called out to the Big Spur, “Are you coming out, or do I have to come drag you out?”

“Shaw, do you hear me?” the sheriff said.

“I hear you, Sheriff Neff,” said Shaw, not taking his eyes off of the doors to the Big Spur. “I know you're just doing your job…but so am I.” He took a step closer to the Big Spur Saloon. “Hear me in there? You wanted a gunfight. Come get it!”

Inside the Big Spur, Elton Minton looked scared. Sweat glistened on his brow as he turned from the sound of Shaw's voice and looked back into the corner where Sammy Boy sat nursing a glass of whiskey. The bottle in front of him was not nearly as full
as it had been when he'd sat down only moments earlier. “Well, Sammy, here he is,” said Elton. “What are you waiting for?”

Sammy Boy tossed Elton a sidelong glance, saying, “Go to hell, Elton.” Then he stared down at his shot glass.

“Hey, what is this?” Willie the Devil raged at Elton, hearing Sammy Boy's response. He grabbed Elton's forearm. “Is he going to crawfish on us, after me putting up three thousand dollars?” Willie's hand rested on the butt of his pistol.

“No, Willie!” said Elton. “He'll be all right; just give me a minute with him.” Elton hurried to the table where Sammy Boy White sat staring into his shot glass. “Sammy, what are you doing to me?” he pleaded. “I set this whole thing up for you…now you've got to get out there and face Shaw or Willie the Devil and the whole Talbert gang are going to be down our shirts!”

Sammy Boy said flatly, “You set this up for yourself, Elton. All I am is a target you're hanging in front of Shaw. Whether I live or die doesn't matter to you.” He picked up the bottle and swallowed a shot.

“Sammy, you can't do me this way…these men will kill me!” Elton pleaded.

Sammy Boy White stood up slowly, adjusting his tied-down holster and slipping his pistol up and down to keep it loose. “Don't worry, Elton; I ain't like you—I wouldn't double-cross a friend. I'll go face Shaw. Afterward, whatever money you make off this deal is mine…don't even try to talk about it later. I'm calling it quits with you.”

“Well,” Willie the Devil called out to Elton from the bar, “is Sammy Boy going out there or not?”

“Yes, he's going,” said Elton. “I told you we've got nothing to worry about with Sammy Boy White. He's as game as a prize rooster! Right, Sammy?” Elton started to slap Sammy on his back, but then he thought better of it, seeing the look on the gunman's face.

As Sammy Boy started for the bat-wing doors, Willie gave Donald Hornetti a nod and Hornetti quietly slipped over to the stairs to the second floor with his rifle in his hand. Sammy Boy took note of what Hornetti was doing but pretended not to see him. As Sammy Boy stopped and looked out over the bat-wing doors, Donald Hornetti hurried to the front of the building to a small room overlooking the street. Inside the room he stepped up to the window and opened it stealthily.

At the bat-wing doors, Sammy Boy White called out to Shaw standing in the middle of the street. “Fast Larry Shaw,” he said, “I'm Sammy Boy White from Abilene. I expect you've heard of me lately.”

Shaw had heard his name over the past year, but he made no reply. He stood silent, relaxed but poised, ready to move at the slightest provocation.

“Well,” Sammy Boy said, seeing Shaw wasn't going to talk to him, “I want you to know I had nothing to do with killing that man. I'm a straightup gunman, not a backshooter.” As he spoke, he made an upward gesture with his eyes, warning Shaw of Donald Hornetti's position above them. “I'm coming at you with nothing in mind except to show the world that I'm the fastest gun.” He pushed the doors open and stepped out on the boardwalk. “All I want is a fair fight,” he said. Again he lifted his eyes, trying to warn Shaw.

But it wasn't necessary. Shaw had already caught the slow movement of the window. So had Cray Dawson.

Shaw decided that the young gunman was worthy of some respect. He nodded slightly, letting Sammy Boy know that he had gotten his message. Then he said in low, calm voice, “Yep, I've heard of you, Sammy Boy White. You killed Deacon Hurley and Frank Topp. I guess that's what's got you thinking you're ready for me.”

“I've been ready, Fast Larry,” said Sammy Boy.

Shaw looked around at the people who had begun to gather along the boardwalks and in the doorways. He looked at the faces pressed close to the large, dusty windows of the saloon. “Sometimes I wish these bet makers would strap on a gun and walk out. I believe I'd enjoy shooting a few of them.”

“They put the odds in your favor, Fast Larry,” said Sammy Boy, as if that should matter to a man like Lawrence Shaw.

“Mr. White,” said Shaw, “I haven't been interested in what odds they give me for a mighty long time.” As he spoke he backed up a step and turned quarterwise, inviting Sammy Boy to come down and take a step into the dirt street.

But instead of stepping down from the boardwalk, Sammy Boy White walked along the storefronts until he reached a distance of twenty-five feet. Then he stepped down and moved slowly to the middle of the street, facing Shaw.

Across from the saloon Cray Dawson came forward into sight at the edge of the boardwalk and looked deliberately up into Donald Hornetti's face.

Hornetti ducked back out of the half-open window
and pressed his back against the wall. “Damn it!” he said to himself. “They've seen me!” Sweat glistened on his forehead. He tried to force himself to turn back to the window and make his play, but the trembling in his stomach wouldn't permit it.

Cray Dawson felt that same trembling inside himself, but he forced himself to stand fast, facing the window, knowing that at any second the man could spring back into position and begin firing. He reminded himself that he was here to watch Shaw's back. Nothing would stop him from doing what he'd said he would do, even if it meant his life. Keeping a watch on Shaw and Sammy Boy White in his peripheral vision, he stared straight at the half-open window, keeping his gun hand poised an inch from the butt of his Colt.

“Speaking of odds,” said Shaw, “what's the odds on you not going through with this? I already see that you're not the backshooting coward who killed that man a while ago.”

“The odds on me not going through with this are
none,
” said Sammy Boy. “It wasn't right what happened a while ago…but it doesn't change a thing as far as I'm concerned. It was meant fo me and you to meet here. This is fate. The other is just the bad stuff that happens.”

Shaw nodded slowly. “Then let's quit talking and get at it. This sun's too hot for a social gathering.”

Without another word, and no sooner than Shaw's words had cleared his lips, Sammy Boy White's hand came up filled, the big Colt cocked. He was young and fast and hungry to make a name for himself. But before his gun leveled and fired at Lawrence Shaw, the bullet from Shaw's Colt struck him in the right
side of his chest, the impact of it knocking him backward and spinning him so fast that one boot came off his foot and tumbled across the ground.

Shaw immediately turned his Colt toward the upstairs window above the saloon. Yet even as he did so, he heard Cray Dawson's Colt explode. With a short scream, Donald Hornetti came forward through the half-open window in a spray of broken glass, crashed onto the overhang above the boardwalk, and rolled off of it into the dirt street. As the man landed in a rise of dust, Shaw turned toward the bat-wing doors as if expecting more trouble. And he was right in his expectation: The bartender, Porter Chapin, came running out with a shotgun in one hand and a pistol in his other, his white apron still around his waist. He let out a loud yell, jumping down into the street, but he didn't manage to get either gun pointed at Lawrence Shaw before Shaw's Colt nailed him through the heart and sent him backward, dead on the ground.

“Jesus!” Cray Dawson whispered, his Colt still smoking in his hand. He wondered for a second if it would ever be safe to holster his gun. He stepped out into the middle of the street a few yards away from Shaw, turning back and forth, taking in every face, every hand, searching every doorway and alley.

Both men turned quickly toward the sound of two horses pounding away from the direction of the livery barn a block away. Shaw raised his Colt toward the riders, then stopped himself, seeing no guns pointed in his or Dawson's direction. Cray Dawson had also raised his Colt toward the two fleeing riders. But seeing him ready to fire, Shaw said, “Let them go.”

Dawson replied even as he lowered his Colt slightly, “I'd bet anything they were in on this in some way.”

“So would I,” said Shaw. “But if they're part of Talbert's gang, letting them go will make sure he hears about what happened here.” He lowered his Colt but kept it in his hand, replacing his spent cartridges, watching Willie the Devil and Elton Minton ride away in a rise of thick dust.

Sheriff Neff appeared from within the crowd of onlookers on the boardwalk and hurried over to where Sammy Boy White lay sprawled on the ground. “This one is still alive!” he shouted. “Somebody go get Doc Phelps; tell him to hurry it up!”

Cray Dawson saw Lawrence Shaw turn his attention to where Sammy Boy White lay in the dirt, the sheriff squatting down over him. The look in Shaw's eyes and the gun in his hand caused Dawson to say, “No, Shaw, don't do it.”

But Shaw walked over to Sammy Boy White without acknowledging Dawson, his pistol still in his hand. Seeing Sammy Boy's gun lying close to his outstretched hand, Shaw nudged it away with his boot toe, then reached down and picked it up and shoved it down into his belt. “Mr. White,” he said, “can you hear me?” His pistol pointed down at Sammy Boy, but without conviction.

Sammy Boy White strained his face and opened his eyes slightly. “I-I hear you,” he said, putting forth much effort, blood welling up around his wound and running in a steady stream down to the dirt.

“Then listen to me close,” said Shaw. “You showed honor, telling me about the man above the saloon. That's why you're still alive. I never leave a
man breathing who might come back on me someday.” Shaw's Colt tensed slightly as he asked in a firm tone, “You're not going to be something I'll live to regret, are you?”

Sheriff Neff cut in, saying to anyone listening, “Has anybody gone to get the doctor? This man is bleeding bad!”

“I can't…promise nothing,” Sammy Boy said, straining for the words. “I ain't a liar. I want the name awfully bad.”

“Yeah.” Shaw shook his head. “At least you're honest about it.”

“Shaw, don't!” shouted Cray Dawson, seeing Shaw's grip tighten around the Colt's handle.

Sheriff Neff saw it too, and at the sound of Dawson shouting, he ducked back away from Sammy Boy White.

But Shaw didn't shoot. Instead he drew a deep breath, relaxed his gun hand, and took a step back. “You were fast, Mr. White, as fast as any I've seen. You'd be wise to satisfy yourself with that and leave things as they are between us. There's more to life than being fast with a gun.”

“Dang it, where's that doctor?” Sheriff Neff said under his breath.

“I want what…you've got, Shaw,” said Sammy Boy, struggling harder for his words as an old doctor and a young boy came running from the far end of the street, the doctor carrying a small black bag and holding a hand on his bowler to keep it from flying off his head.

“You only want the things you can see, Mr. White,” said Shaw. “If that's all there is to you, you'd be better off if I killed you.” Shaw turned and walked
to the Big Spur Saloon. Cray Dawson fell into step behind him, still watching both sides of the street.

While the two stepped up onto the boardwalk out front of the Big Spur, the dust left behind by Willie the Devil and Elton Minton still hung in the air at the far end of town. Willie and Elton didn't even slow their horses until they reached a fork in the old Northern Trail five miles out of Eagle Pass. When Elton finally brought his horse to a halt, Willie the Devil looked back at him, then circled his horse and came riding back, drawing his pistol from his holster. “I told you we ain't stopping! Now get that horse in front of me where I can keep an eye on yas!”

“Willie,” said Elton, “this horse is going to drop dead beneath me if I don't rest him for a while!”

Willie pointed the pistol at Elton. “You're going to be dropping dead if you don't come on and do like I tell you!”

Elton raised a hand toward Willie as if holding him back. “Please, Willie. This was a bad idea, me coming with you…I'm only going to slow you down. Why is this so important to you, anyway? We made our play in Eagle Pass. It didn't work out the way we wanted it to. So what? We still made some money! You took the whole cash box!”

With his free hand, Willie the Devil patted the tin cash box he held on his lap. “Oh, yeah, we made some money…we took it all, once I saw that loco bartender was more interested in being a big gun than he was in watching the betting money.” Willie managed a slight laugh that soon disappeared, leaving him with a dark, solemn expression. “But the money was only part of it. I meant for Fast Larry Shaw to be laying dead in the street back there.
Thanks to your slow-as-hell friend Sammy Boy White, I've got to go tell Barton Talbert how his brother Sidlow got shot up like a target board and I didn't kill the man who did it!” As he spoke Willie's voice grew louder until when he'd finished he seemed on the verge of losing his temper. “I've never seen anything get so messed up as this! I ought to kill you and be done with it!”

“Willie, please,” Elton pleaded, “you've got all the money, yours and mine. Keep it; just let me go!”

“Huh-uh,” said Willie, “you still owe me. You promised me that Sammy Boy was going to kill Shaw. When you make a promise to the Devil, you better be prepared to make good on it.”