Gunman's Song (19 page)

“There, I got one!” Caldwell called out. “Did you see it? I hit it!”

“Good shot,” said Dawson. Then he said to Shaw, “I can't get over how happy she seemed. Do you suppose she might have just gotten a telegraph from you?”

Shaw's jaw tightened, but he didn't answer. Instead he walked a few steps closer to Caldwell, stooped down, picked up a rock, hefted it in his hand, and called out, “Here, Undertaker, hit this.”

“Wait up!” said Caldwell. “I'm not ready!” But as the rock sailed upward in a high, slow arc, he adjusted the pistol quickly in his hand, cocked it, and fired, trying to take aim on the rock long after it had passed the high point of its arc and started speeding toward the ground. “Missed it!” he shouted. But the sound of Shaw's Colt roared and shattered the rock as it dropped to shoulder height. Caldwell felt sharp particles sting him from twenty feet away. “Good Lord!” Caldwell shouted. “What a shot!”

Dawson had walked down beside Shaw, and upon seeing the shot he said, “If that was meant to make a powerful impression on him, I think you succeeded.”

Shaw stared at the open space in the air where the bullet had struck the rock and blown it into a thousand
sand tiny bits. “You never know if the man you're teaching might be the next one who tries to kill you.”

“It ain't been but a few minutes ago you said he shouldn't be allowed to stand near a loaded gun.”

“That was before he hit something,” said Shaw. He walked back to where he'd dropped his horse's reins on the ground.

“Shaw,” said Dawson, “I'm sorry I brought it up, what I said about seeing her in town. I shouldn't have mentioned it.”

Shaw only nodded, picked up the reins, and said, “When you two get finished busting rocks we'll ride on into the Turkey Wells station, spend the night, and see which way Willie the Devil went from there.” He turned and began to lead the big buckskin up toward the trail.

Caldwell listened, then asked Dawson as Lawrence Shaw led the stallion back up to the trail, “What is the Turkey Wells station, and how do we know those two men went through there?”

“It's a cattle-shack, town near Turkey Mountain,” said Dawson. “Turkey Wells gets its water from the west fork of Turkey Creek. The station is the best place around there to swap out tired horses and pick up some snakehead whiskey. They went through there; you can count on it.”

“Snakehead whiskey?” Caldwell gave him a dubious look. “I'm almost afraid to ask you why they call it that.”

Dawson gave a thin smile, watching Shaw as he walked a few yards ahead of them. “They used to claim the whiskey drummers put rattlesnake heads in the whiskey barrels to give it a little bite. But that
was mostly just some hot air blowing.” He watched Caldwell reload the Colt, noting that his small, delicate hands had already become more adept at handling the pistol mechanism. “So how does it feel Caldwell, getting the hang of gun-handling?”

“I don't know if I'd say I'm getting the hang of it yet,” Caldwell replied, “but I must say, I feel like I've already learned a lot.” As he spoke, he closed the cylinder on the Colt and hefted the gun in his hand as if getting a better feel for the weight of it. “I think if I stick with it I could become self-sufficient.”

“That's the spirit,” said Dawson, watching the young undertaker try to twirl the big Colt on his trigger finger.

The gun made only a half turn before the weight of it caused Caldwell's finger to bend sideways and lose its hold. The pistol fell to the ground, landed on its hammer, and sent a shot whistling wildly toward Lawrence Shaw's back. Before Caldwell even realized what had happened, Shaw had spun with his Colt out and cocked, pointed at him. “No! Please!” Caldwell shouted in terror, looking up at the open bore of Shaw's big Colt, seeing the dead, expressionless look on Shaw's face.

“Shaw, it went off!” Dawson called out in Caldwell's defense. But Shaw had already seen what had happened, and had already lowered the tip of his barrel. His expression was still flat and indiscernible. “Dang it, Caldwell,” said Dawson. “Don't try things like that until you get to where you know what you're doing!” He stooped and snatched up the Colt from the rocky ground. “Never keep a full six load…always leave one empty, for safety, unless you're in the middle of a shooting situation!”

“I-I'm sorry,” said Caldwell, visibly shaken, staring wide-eyed at Lawrence Shaw, seeing the unyielding look on Shaw's face. “Mr. Shaw! Please! This was an accident! I had no idea—”

Shaw cut him off, saying, “Dawson, you better set up to boil some water. Strip up some clean cloth.”

“What?” Dawson asked, a puzzled look coming to his face.

“He's put a bullet in me, sure as hell,” said Shaw. It took him two tries to slip his Colt into his holster. Only then did Cray Dawson and Jedson Caldwell see the trickle of blood running down the palm of his right hand and dripping to the ground. Shaw raised his left hand around under his right arm and winced in pain.

“Oh, my God! Oh, my God!” Caldwell clasped his hands to his mouth, on the verge of tears. “I'm so sorry! I'm so sorr—”

“Shut up, Caldwell!” Dawson snapped, hoping to settle him down. “Get a canteen off the horses! Hurry up!”

As Caldwell hurried to the horses, Dawson rushed forward and helped Shaw seat himself on a flat rock. “See what I meant a while ago?” said Shaw with a trace of a wry smile. “The fool's already shot one of us.

“All right, but it was an accident,” said Dawson. “I saw it happen.”

“I know it was,” said Shaw, having difficulty raising his right arm so Dawson could help him get out of his riding coat. “But this is the worst time for it to happen. Of all the luck. I just get over a bullet graze in my
left
shoulder. Now he shoots me in my
right.
That'll be the last I draw my Colt until this thing heals.”

Helping Shaw out of his shirt, Dawson remarked, “That was a pretty fast response for a man with a bullet in him.”

“Nothing quickens the blood like somebody shooting at you from behind,” Shaw said with a slight grunt, lifting his arm again, this time noticing how much his upper arm had already started to swell. “I just wish I knew who to ask, Why the right arm?” He rolled a skeptical glance upward at the wide Texas sky. “Why not the left?”

Caldwell came sliding down beside Dawson with two canteens, hastily uncapping one and handing it to Shaw. “So help me God, Mr. Shaw,” he said, his voice still trembling, “I wouldn't have had this happen for anything in the world!”

Lawrence Shaw gave him his flat stare. “There's hardened gunmen who would give anything they own to say they shot Fast Larry Shaw,” he said with a twist of irony in his voice. “You shot me before you even learned not to pack a sixth load.”

“Mr. Dawson told me the first thing not to load six unless I knew I was in trouble and needed it…I just forgot for a second.”

“A second is all it takes with a gun, Caldwell,” said Shaw, wincing as Dawson pulled him slightly forward and leaned around, taking a look at the bullet hole just above his right shoulder blade. He also took a glance at the healed but still tender-looking graze on Shaw's left shoulder. Shaking his head, he went back to the fresh wound.

“Did it come out anywhere?” Dawson asked.

“Not that I've seen,” said Shaw, feeling around on his chest with his left hand as if making sure he hadn't missed seeing an exit wound.

“Then it looks like you've got some cutting in store soon as we get you to the Turkey Wells station,” said Dawson.

“Huh-uh,” said Shaw. “I'm not going into that cowhand-shack town letting everybody know I'm not up to myself. I might as well hang a target board around my neck. That's why I said get some water boiling.”

“I hate cutting a bullet out,” said Dawson. As he spoke he uncapped the other canteen.

“But you have done it?” Shaw asked.

“If I said no would it keep me from having to?” Dawson asked, raising the other canteen and pouring a trickle of water on the bandanna he'd loosened from around Shaw's neck. He touched it carefully to the bleeding bullet hole and held it for a second.

“No, you've got the job,” said Shaw, “like it or not.”

“That's what I figured,” said Dawson, already focusing his attention on the task at hand. He pressed firmly on the bandanna, soaking up the blood from the wound. Then he removed the bandanna and judged how long it took for the wound to well back up with blood. “Looks like it's in there pretty deep,” he said. “Probably lodged up against a bone good and tight.”

“Whatever it takes,” said Shaw, “just get it done. The longer it lays in there, the better my chance at getting blood poisoning.”

Dawson turned to Caldwell. “Start us a fire and get some water boiling. Then unsaddle the horses
and let them graze awhile. When I get the knife ready, you'll have to help hold him down while I cut in there and get the bullet out.”

“No, he won't,” said Shaw. “This ain't the first bullet I've had in me. I don't require holding.”

“Suit yourself,” said Dawson.

Caldwell built a small fire out of mesquite and scraps of downed oak branch kindling. When the flames stood steady in a bed of glowing coals, Dawson poured some water from a canteen into a tin pot and set it on the fire. Shaw watched, appearing uninterested until Dawson swished the long knife blade around in the boiling water. “Bring me a saddle over here, Caldwell,” said Shaw, watching Caldwell tear a clean shirt into long strips for bandages.

Caldwell stopped what he was doing, fetched a saddle, and brought it back to where Shaw sat a few feet from the fire, his bare back bowed forward, blood oozing from beneath the bandanna Dawson had wadded and laid over the wound temporarily. “Lay it across my lap,” Shaw said to Caldwell.

“Across your lap?” said Caldwell.

“You heard me,” said Shaw. “I need something to hold on to when he commences to cutting.”

Caldwell shuddered at the thought, but eased the saddle down in a way that Shaw could bow over it and wrap his arms under the far edge.

“This ought to do,” Shaw said to Dawson. “Are you about ready?”

“Just about,” said Dawson, his sleeves rolled up, his hat off. He raised the knife blade and dried it on a clean strip of cloth from the pile Caldwell had torn. He began whistling steadily under his breath as he prepared the knife.

“I don't need the entertainment,” said Shaw a bit gruffly.

“It helps settle me,” Dawson replied, going back to the whistling but keeping it even lower. Caldwell watched in rapt fascination, a pained look on his face.

“Caldwell,” said Shaw, “you want to get good at gun handling…I'm about to tell you something that will make you better than you ever believed you could be with a pistol.”

“What's that, Mr. Shaw?” Caldwell asked hesitantly.

“It's going to take me a week or more before my shoulder heals,” said Shaw. “After me taking a bullet from you, if you're not handling that Colt to my satisfaction by the time my wound mends, you have my word that I'll take that gun you're wearing and bend the barrel over your head.”

Cray Dawson stifled a laugh and busied himself testing the temperature of the knife blade by holding it close to his forearm.

But Caldwell saw no humor in it. He looked terrified. “Mr. Shaw, please!” he pleaded. “I'll never get proficient with a pistol in that short a period of time!”

Shaw ignored him and said to Cray Dawson as he bowed forward over the saddle in his lap, “I don't mind if it's a little too hot, Dawson. Let's get it done.”

“I wish we had some whiskey first,” Dawson said, taking a deep breath, getting ready.

“I don't require whiskey either,” said Shaw, getting a grip around the saddle with both arms, the pain radiating in his wounded shoulder.

“I wasn't talking about
you,
” said Dawson on his
knees, leaning forward over Shaw's bowed back. He lifted the bloody bandanna, handed it to Caldwell, then said, “Here goes.”

“Oh, my, Mr. Shaw!” said Caldwell, growing faint as he watched the sharp point of the knife sink down into Shaw's flesh.

“Caldwell,” said Dawson, annoyed by the man's squeamishness, “you handle dead bodies; how can this bother you so bad?”

“It's just different handling the dead,” said Caldwell. “I'm aware that they feel nothing. This is too painful! Oh,
mercy
!” he said, watching Dawson go back to the wound with the knife point.

Gripping the saddle until his whole body trembled violently, Shaw said in a strained and rasping voice, “No mercy for me, Caldwell…this is just a part of my game.”

At the bunkhouse of the Turkey Track Ranch, Rafter One spread, Buddy Edwards stepped inside out of the noonday heat and looked around, his eyes taking a second to adjust from the stabbing sunlight to the darkened shade. At the far end of the long plank building he saw a slim young cowboy pulling a clean bib-front shirt over his head. “Hey, Vince! What're you doing? Sully and us have been looking all over for you!”