Gunman's Song (20 page)

“So now you've found me,” Vincent Mills replied in a not-so-pleasant voice. Before raising the shirt bib and buttoning it, he stuffed the tails down into his denim trousers and buttoned his fly. “Now what?”

Buddy had walked forward, but stopped and watched Vincent pick up his special Mexican handtooled holster from his bunk and swing it around his waist. Buddy shrugged. “I'm supposed to tell you to get back to work! Sully says you and me gotta round up stray calves from the basin and bring 'em back before dark. There's a bitch wolf prowled in from the Llano plain. She'll go through them calves like a kid eating rock candy.”

“Let her,” said Vincent Mills. He took his range Colt from his worn work holster hanging from a peg
beside his bunk. Buddy watched him check it and shove it down into the hand-tooled holster. “I'm through carrying calves in my lap for the day.” He raised a boot to the edge of his bunk frame and tied the holster to his thigh. “Watch this,” he said, swinging his hands back and forth, clapping them in front of his chest. “Start counting,” he said with a grin.

“All right!” said Buddy, always eager to see his pal put on this little exhibition. Each time Vincent's hands clapped, Buddy counted, “One…two…three.” But as he said “three,” Buddy saw Vincent's Colt pointed straight out, its hammer cocked back, ready for action. “
Gol-ly!
Vincent, I
swear,
I never do see you draw the pistol! One second it's in the holster; the next it's in your hand! How do you do that?”

“Practice,
mi amigo,
” said Vincent, uncocking the Colt, and looking at it admiringly as he turned it back and forth in his hand; then he slipped in down into the holster. “While you and this bunch of steer jockeys are playing checkers or swapping each other tall tales, I'm out there drawing this pistol against the wind—shooting heads off rattlesnakes and prairie dogs.” As he spoke his hand effortlessly began drawing the pistol on a smooth forward swing of his arm, then slipping it back into the holster on the back swing.

Buddy Edwards stood staring, mesmerized, his expression that of a child watching a magician conjure miracles out of thin air. But then he caught himself and batted his eyes and said, “Vincent, we got to go. Will you show me that again tonight?”

“You go, Buddy,” Vincent said flatly. “I got plans.”

“Sully said we still got work to be done before we
can go to town, Vincent,” Buddy persisted. “He said Mr. McNalty is talking about cutting some hands out of here anyhow, the way beef has dropped.”

Vincent Mills gave a sarcastic toss of his head. “McNalty is the owner; he can cut who he wants to cut, I reckon. Far as I'm concerned him and Sully can both kiss the broad side of my ass. I'm going to town and that's that.”

“Why so early?” Buddy asked. “Turkey Wells station ain't going nowhere.” He spread his hands with an uncertain grin. “Heck, I'll go with you just as soon as I finish with them calves.”

“I'm already finished with them calves, Buddy,” said Vincent. “And you're right, the station will still be there…but the person I'm going to see might not be.”

“You mean Lori Harmon?” said Buddy. “I don't reckon she'll be gone either by this evening.”

“No, I don't mean Lori,” said Vincent. His expression grew more serious and excitement glittered in his eyes. “I got word from Tugs Albin that Mace Renfield is waiting in Turkey Wells for Fast Larry Shaw. Renfield means to face him off in the street and kill him!” As he'd spoken, Vincent had stepped closer to Buddy Edwards until he began tapping his finger on Buddy's chest for emphasis.

Buddy's eyes widened. “You mean there's going to be a gunfight? Right there at the station?” But then Buddy cut a dubious glance at him and said, “Vincent, you ain't funnin' me, are you?”

“No, this is on the square and by the level,” said Vincent, the very thought of it causing him to also get excited. “A fellow who goes by the name Willie the Devil came through and tipped off Renfield that
Fast Larry is on his way. The way I got it figured is, Shaw should be riding in sometime today. I wouldn't miss being there for every wet-assed calf twix here and the Red!”

“Dang,” said Buddy, growing more interested, “the fastest gun alive coming right here…right here where we live!”

“That's just a figure of speech,” said Vincent, “the thing about the fastest gun alive. There ain't no such thing as the fastest gun alive.”

“Why ain't there?” Buddy asked.

Because, pard,” said Vincent, “there is always somebody faster.” He tapped himself on his temple.

Use your head, Buddy. The world is too big for any one person to be the best at any one thing. You can understand that, can't you?”

Buddy struggled with it for a second, then said, “No, not really…but I admit that I don't know a whole lot. Not like you do, anyway.”

“Well, take my word for it. There is no such thing as the fastest gun alive.” As he spoke he once again began drawing and holstering his pistol. “Anybody who is mighty damn good with a gun has the same chance as the next against a man like Fast Larry Shaw. Given the right timing, the right situation, I might beat him.”

“You're not thinking about trying something like that, are you, Vincent?” Buddy asked warily.

“Me? Naw, don't worry about that,” said Vincent, tossing the idea aside. “I'm going just to watch. But I ain't so sure I couldn't take Shaw or Renfield either one, if it ever came right down to it.”

“Whew, good,” said Buddy, letting out a breath of relief. “I'm glad to hear you say that.”

“Hey!” said Vincent, refocusing on his plans. “Do you want to go with me or not? I'm all ready to go!”

“Heck-fire, yes! I'm going!” said Buddy Edwards, snapping into motion, jerking his shirttail up out of his trousers. “Just let me put on my St. Louis shirt and wash my face! I'm ready!”

Lawrence Shaw, Cray Dawson, and Jedson Caldwell rode into the Turkey Wells station during the busiest part of the day. Out front of a long line of plank buildings with tin roofs, wagons creaked back and forth across sun-hardened ruts in the wide dirt street. Cow ponies stood at hitch rails out front of crude shacks and makeshift tent saloons, where the sound of banjos and mouth harps gave way to occasional shouts and fits of laughter. Behind the shacks and across a short rise of land Turkey Mountain stood five hundred feet in the air, looking down on its namesake with blank indifference.

Riding single-file with Shaw in the lead, the three maneuvered their animals toward a building that had a physician's sign hanging out front—the only building there having a front porch with a roof over it. Shaw rode straight in his saddle, knowing that there would be those who would recognize him. Behind him Caldwell rode a bit slumped, and behind Caldwell, Dawson rode, keeping a watchful eye on building fronts and rooflines. When Shaw stopped and stepped down from his big buckskin, he did so with no regard for the pain in his wounded shoulder. But he turned to Caldwell as the other two stopped; and when Dawson had also stepped down from his saddle, he and Shaw assisted Caldwell down from his
saddle and up onto the doctor's porch. “I feel funny doing this,” Caldwell said in a lowered voice.

“It was your bullet that caused the problem,” Shaw reminded him.

“Oh, I'm not complaining,” Caldwell said quickly as Dawson reached for the doorknob and opened the door. “It just seems odd, I mean. Like when a young boy plays sick to take off from school, you know?”

“No, I don't,” said Shaw without interest. He allowed Caldwell to enter first; then he and Dawson followed.

A white-haired doctor stood up from a threadbare divan and walked stiffly forward to greet them. Seeing that Caldwell had walked in a bit stooped, he centered his attention on him, saying, “Well, now, what have we here?”

But as soon as Caldwell heard Dawson close the door behind them, he straightened up and stepped to one side as Shaw came forward. “It's not him, Doctor; it's me,” Shaw said. “I took a bullet in the shoulder from behind.” As Shaw spoke, he raised his right arm slightly, as if the doctor could see the soreness. “This man cut the bullet out, but I'm obliged if you'll check it and dress it clean for me.”

“Oh…” The old doctor's word trailed off in concern. “Well, come on in here and let's take a look at it.” He adjusted his wire-rimmed spectacles up on the bridge of his nose, giving Shaw a closer look as the three filed past him toward the wooden chair and a sheet-covered gurney in the far corner. “I'm Dr. Isenhower,” he said, “and you look familiar. I believe I myself once removed a bullet from your torso.”

Shaw stopped and turned to him before sitting
down in the chair. “That you have, Doctor.” He slipped his left arm from his coatsleeve and eased the right sleeve down carefully. “It has been a long time, but your memory serves you well. I'm Lawrence Shaw.”

“Ah, yes, Lawrence Shaw, the gunfighter.” The old doctor nodded, rolling up his shirtsleeves with thick, clean fingers. “Now I understand why you have your friend here walking in like he's got a bellyache. You can't afford to have anybody see that you're not up to your game, eh?”

“That's right, Doctor,” said Shaw. “So I'm trusting you to keep quiet about my being here with a gunshot wound. This
is
my gun hand.”

“Of course,” said the doctor. He shook his head as he sat down on a three-legged wooden stool and scooted it over and around beside Shaw, giving himself a good view of Shaw's back. “We wouldn't want folks to know that you're temporarily incapable of killing a person, now, would we?”

Shaw cocked his head toward the doctor and said, “I didn't come here to be talked down to, Doctor. But what you just said is true…there's men who'd come at me like vultures if they thought I was down in my arm. That's not by my choosing. They're the ones smelling blood, not me. You think this is something I want? I'd have to be a fool to want it.”

“My apologies, Mr. Shaw,” said the doctor. “Sometimes my sense of humanity gets the better of me.” He gave Shaw a slight nudge with his left hand beneath the bandaged wound, saying, “Lean forward for me.”

While the doctor examined Shaw's wound and
changed the bandage, Cray Dawson and Jedson Caldwell stood at the window, looking out onto the busy dirt street.

Across the street and to the right, a man wearing a tall Stetson with a Montana crown stood out front of a ragged saloon tent, holding a mug of beer in his gloved hand. As Dawson and Caldwell watched, three more men walked out of the tent, one carrying a bottle of whiskey, one twirling a long knife by a ring on its handle. “This must be Saturday night coming up,” Dawson said absently.

“Yes, it must,” Caldwell said, looking back and forth along the street, seeing two more riders arriving in town, coming in from the northwest. “It looks like every cowhand for fifty miles is riding in and liquoring up.”

Out front of the Ragged Tent Saloon, the men passed the bottle around while the one with the beer mug nodded toward the doctor's office and said something to the others, causing them to also look in the same direction.

“They already know you're here, Shaw,” Dawson called out over his shoulder. “I suppose Caldwell and me could take the horses around back. When you're ready to go we can slip out of town.”

“That's a bad idea, Dawson,” said Shaw from the back corner. “No gunman leaves town without a meal or a drink or two. That's a sure way to get a bad rumor started.”

“What do you propose then?” Cray Dawson asked.

“We'll go have a beer, ask if anybody's seen Willie the Devil and Elton Minton. Then we'll leave here in our own time.”

“I understand,” said Dawson, “but what if one of these drunken cowhands decides he wants to hang your name on his belt? Then what?”

“I'll just have to be extra careful not to let that happen,” said Shaw.

“But if it does anyway, then?” Dawson asked.

“Then I just have to play it the best I can,” said Shaw. He turned to the doctor, asking, “Doc, can you paint that wound with laudanum once you're finished, get it good and numb up there, so's I can move without the pain stopping me?”

“That's a foolish idea, Lawrence,” said the old doctor. “You can't make something work when it's in need of healing. That's the law of nature.”

“So is staying alive,” said Shaw. “Paint it good for me…we'll see which law is the strongest.”

“I'd tell you you're crazy, Mr. Shaw,” said the doctor in a sharp but respectful tone, “but I've got a feeling you already know that.”

“It has crossed my mind some,” said Shaw, returning the old doctor's wry sense of humor.

As the doctor continued to attend to Shaw's wound, the two arriving riders turned their horses to a hitch rail and stepped down out front of another saloon farther down the street, this one a plank shack with a wide rack of white-tailed deer antlers fastened above the door. “Goodness gracious, Vincent!” said Buddy Edwards, looking along the street as if in amazement. “You can just feel something in the air today! I reckon everybody must know that Fast Larry is on his way!”

“Yeah,” said Vincent Mills, “that's the feel of tension and excitement that always comes when a couple of big guns is on the prod.” He grinned. “I truly
love that feeling.” Taking off his worn range gloves and shoving them into his belt, he walked ahead of Buddy into the Buck Horn Saloon.

At the crowded makeshift bar, a set of rough oak planks lying across the tops of a row on wooden whiskey barrels, Vincent called out above the steady roar of conversation, “Frenchy, pour us a couple of shots of rye and leave the bottle. Some beer too.”

As the bartender nodded and reached for two shot glasses, a beared face at the bar turned toward Vincent and Buddy. “Hey, Vincent! I thought I heard your voice.” Scooting sideways, forcing an opening at the bar, the man said, “Here, y'all step right in.”