Gunman's Song (16 page)

“And this suite of rooms,” Shaw said, “I suppose it will be close to yours but not so much so that anyone will know we're sleeping together?”

“Right,” she said. “At first, anyway. Later, who knows…we might go ahead and let everybody know. We can be daring and progressive, scandalous even.” She giggled playfully. “I think the public enjoys a certain element of lusty wickedness now and then.”

“I like it,” said Shaw, nuzzling her, kissing her as he spoke. “I can keep a suite of rooms and be a kept man…property of Della Starks.”

“Wait,” said Della, nudging him away an inch.
“You're not angry, are you? I didn't mean to offend you.”

Shaw chuckled. “No, I'm not angry, Della, not in the least. Hell, that's the best offer I've had in a
long,
long time.” He drew her back against him and held her tightly, staring across her naked shoulder into the deep, endless darkness of the room.

Early in the morning, Shaw slipped out of bed without awakening her and dressed in the silver morning light through the window. He and Cray Dawson had breakfast by themselves in the large dining room. Dawson didn't ask why Della Starks hadn't joined them for breakfast. He'd already gotten the idea that while the woman wanted Shaw to share her bed, she was a bit hesitant about being seen with him. When the Jenkinses had served breakfast and left the dining room, Dawson said to Shaw, “When you asked me to stay here last night and finish my coffee…did you know Ladelphia was going to make a play for me, to try and get me to influence you?”

Buttering a biscuit, Shaw offered a trace of a smile. “She did that? She made a play for you?” he asked instead of answering Dawson's question.

Dawson studied him for a second. “Yes, she did,” he said.

“And you think I might have known she was going to?” said Shaw. He laid his butter knife down, took a bite of the biscuit, and gave Dawson a flat expression, his eyes revealing nothing.

“It crossed my mind,” said Dawson, already seeing that Shaw wasn't going to give him an answer. Shaw was good at letting things hang, making a person come to his own conclusion, be it right or wrong.

“We'll be on the trail by daylight,” said Shaw, distancing himself from the subject.

“Can I say something?” said Cray Dawson.

Shaw just stared at him.

“I don't need anybody setting things up for me when it comes to a woman,” Dawson said firmly. “So if you did that…I'd appreciate it kindly if you didn't do it again. All right?”

“All right,” said Shaw, sipping his coffee, still giving no indication whether he'd done it or not. “Do you have Watts's card?” he asked, taking another bite of biscuit.

Dawson lowered his eyes. “Yeah, I've got it somewhere…just in case you ever happened to want it.” He sipped his coffee again, then said, “For what it's worth, I'm glad you didn't let Watts's proposition spoil the evening. I thought we were just having a good ol' dinner among sociable folks. I never saw it coming, him waiting to shanghai you into working for a…whatever it is.”

“A circus,” said Shaw, “a bearbaiting show full of exhibitionists and oddities.” He shrugged. “It was just another job offer. I can spot them coming a mile away. Most times it's gun work of a different type…somebody they want taken down a notch, or in some cases even killed. There was a time when I took on jobs like that, and I made a good living at it. But not anymore.” Shaw seemed to consider it for a moment, then said, “It's not the first time I've been propositioned to join a circus.” He seemed to consider something. “Hell, it's not even the
last
time, come to think of it.”

“What do you mean by that?” Dawson asked.

“Nothing,” said Shaw, “just thinking out loud. Everybody
wants a watchdog, but nobody wants his fleas.”

Dawson gave him a curious look, getting the idea that something had happened between Shaw and Della Starks during the night. “Can I say something?” he asked again, seeing the sullen look on Shaw's face.

“That's twice you've asked me.” Shaw stared at him.

“You could do something else,” said Dawson. “Something besides being a gunman, that is.”

“Yeah? What?” Shaw asked.

“I don't know…something, though,” Dawson said.

“It's all I know. It's all I was ever any good at,” said Shaw.

“You could
learn
something else,” said Dawson. “I remember in school you weren't thickheaded. And working the ranches around town, and breaking horses alongside me. You did a good day's work same as the next. You weren't lazy…you just never seemed interested in anything besides drawing a gun and shooting it.”

“I know it,” Shaw said, this time with a trace of a tired smile. “See, that's what I mean. Gun handling is all that ever came to me naturally…it's all that ever held my interest.” As he spoke he shoved his empty plate away from him and turned up the last drink from his coffee cup. Dismissing the subject, he said, “I'll go tell Della good-bye and meet you at the barn.” He stood up. “It might take a few minutes.” Seeing the look on Dawson's face, Shaw added, “It's expected of me.”

Dawson shook his head, saying, “Um-hm,” under his breath.

“What's that supposed to mean?” Shaw asked.

“Nothing,” said Dawson, standing up himself. “If it's
expected
of you, I reckon you best go get it done. I'll go get the horses ready.”

Dawson left the Desert Flower Inn and took his time preparing the horses for the trail. A half hour had passed when he'd arrived back at the hitch rail out front of the inn, leading Shaw's buckskin by its reins. Another five minutes passed before Shaw stepped out onto the boardwalk carrying his hat in his left hand. The sun had begun to break over the eastern edge of the earth. As Shaw placed his hat atop his head and stepped down from the boardwalk, Sheriff Neff called out, “Shaw! I want to talk to you.”

Shaw and Dawson both turned at the sound of the sheriff's voice and saw him walking slowly across the street toward them, a rifle cocked and held in a fire-from-the-hip position. Behind the sheriff two of the town councilmen stood watching. “What's this all about?” Dawson asked Shaw under his breath, his hand poised near his pistol butt.

“Easy does it,” Shaw replied to Dawson. “It looks like he's just needing to make a show before we leave…let everybody know he's worth his keep.”

“Shaw, you're not welcome here anymore,” said Neff, stopping fifteen feet away, appearing to take a stand. “I want you and your friend to get out of my town.”

“Yep,” Shaw whispered sidelong to Dawson, “this is just a formality. I'll give him what he needs.” He raised his voice. “I don't want no trouble, Sheriff,” Shaw said, making it a point to lift his gun hand away from his holster. “We're not breaking any law.”
Even as Shaw played along with the sheriff's farce, he kept his senses tuned warily toward the roofline, the alleyways, and the councilmen themselves.

“I know you're not, Shaw,” said Neff. “But there's already been killing and there's apt to be more if I don't make you clear out of here.” Without making any menacing move with the rifle, the sheriff said, “Now get in your saddle and ride.”

Shaw nodded toward a restaurant up the street and said, “Sheriff, can't we at least go have breakfast first?”

“No,” said Neff. “You can stop and eat alongside the trail. Now get going. This is my town and I run it free of gunfighters.”

“All right, Sheriff, you win,” said Shaw. “We're leaving.” Without making any sudden moves he stepped around the buckskin and up into his saddle. “Sorry for the trouble,” he said, touching his hat brim as the two turned their horses toward the end of town.

The sheriff nodded and stood stonelike in the middle of the street until Shaw and Dawson rode past the town-limits sign.

“Well,” said Dawson, glancing back over his shoulder as they rode away, “that beats all I ever seen. He had to know we were already on our way out of town.”

“Sure he knew it,” said Shaw matter-of-factly. “The councilmen had to see it too. But it made everybody look good…and it didn't cost us a thing.” He gave his buckskin a nudge with his boot heels and quickened its pace. Dawson shook his head and stayed a step back from him.

They rode to the fork in the trail and had started
to head north when Shaw looked back and said, “Somebody's following us from town.”

Dawson looked back at the rise of dust along the flatland, but he wouldn't have had to see the dust; a hundred yards away a lone rider had come up out of a dip in the land and rode toward them, waving a bowler hat back and forth in the air. “It's Caldwell,” said Dawson.

“I might have known,” said Lawrence Shaw, turning his mount a bit, ready to ride away. “It looks like everywhere we go we're going to have that undertaker hanging around behind us.”

“I swear I'd almost forgotten all about him,” said Dawson.

“I can see why. He's not an easy man to remember,” Shaw said, gazing toward Caldwell with no interest.

“Shouldn't we hold up to see what he wants?” Dawson asked, seeing Shaw was ready to ride on.

“Why?” said Shaw. “It's not likely he'll miss us.” But he stayed the animal anyway, and lifted his canteen from his saddle horn and drank from it while Jedson Caldwell raced his horse along the trail.

Reaching them, Caldwell slid his horse to a halt and turned it sideways on the trail facing them. “Whew!” he said, “for a while there I thought I'd lost you fellows.” He fanned himself with his bowler hat and caught his breath. “Do either of you mind if I tag along a ways farther? I'm not ashamed to tell you that I'm afraid to travel alone out here.”

Dawson and Shaw looked at him, noting that both his eyes were black and his nose was swollen and bruised. Neither of them said it was all right for him to ride with them, but neither of them turned him
away. “What in the world happened to your face, Caldwell?” Dawson asked.

“Oh, this,” said Caldwell, playing his injury down. “It's nothing, really. The barber I helped prepare the dead did this to me.” He offered a painful smile. “Apparently he considered my offer of services to be competitive to his business. He was friendly as could be while there was folks around…and not too hard to get along with while I washed the bodies and covered their wounds. But once I'd done most of the work, he grew belligerent…then abusive, as you can see.” He gestured a hand at his bruised and battered face.

Showing no interest in Caldwell, Shaw gave Dawson a flat expression, capped his canteen, and turned his buckskin back to the trail. But Dawson stayed beside Caldwell, the two following Shaw a few feet behind. “Is it all right with him, me coming along?” asked Jedson Caldwell.

“It's all right,” said Dawson. “Just stay out of his way.”

“Where are we headed?” Caldwell asked.

Dawson checked his expression as he said, “We're heading after Willie the Devil and Elton Minton, the two who left town in such a hurry yesterday.”

“Oh,” said Caldwell, seeming concerned. “So there could be shooting if you catch up to them?”

“I believe that's a possibility,” said Dawson. “Are you game for that when it comes down to it?”

“Well, I would be,” said Caldwell with hesitancy, “except that barber took away the gun you gave me. Do either of you have another one?”

“No, that was the only spare I could come up with,” said Dawson.

Listening, Shaw slowed his buckskin, reached inside his saddlebags, and took out the Colt he'd taken off of Sammy Boy White. He held it out at arm's length and gave it to Jedson Caldwell. “Whatever you do, Caldwell,” Shaw said, “you better not lose that gun.”

Caldwell looked frightened, saying, “Wait a minute, Mr. Shaw! Perhaps I'd better not take it then!”

“Take it,” said Shaw forcefully, riding on without looking back at him. “Just don't lose it.” Then he said to Cray Dawson, “Why don't you teach him how to shoot that gun first chance you get? It might make the world safer for all of us.”

“What did he say?” Caldwell asked Dawson, sounding jittery.

“Never mind,” said Dawson, gigging his horse forward. “We've got a long, hot ride ahead of us. Just relax and take it easy.”