Gunman's Song (28 page)

Curley swallowed again, then said, “She…she took off running through the house, but Sidlow ran after her. I swear, Barton and Blue Snake tried to stop him but it was too late! There was a gunshot; then Sidlow hollered out that she had a gun and shot at him. Well, that's when Barton and Blue Snake ran inside and the rest of us got down off our horses and ran over to the house. There was another shot; then Sidlow or Blue Snake, one, got the gun away
from her and dragged her outside. She was kicking and screaming like a wildcat. Barton tried to calm her down but she scratched his face.”

“I didn't see that,” said Stanley. “I was looking away.”

Shaw ignored him and stared at Curley Tomes.

“Well, that set Barton off,” Curley said. “He hit her, hard…I mean with his fist.” He stopped for a second and drew a breath, having trouble with the picture of it in his mind. “From there on things just got worse, until finally…well, you know.” His voice fell lower, softer “Then she was dead.”

“What's their names?” Dawson asked, his voice trembling. “I saw their faces; I want to know their names.”

Shaw and Caldwell just looked at him, seeing him stare into the low flames, his eyes glistening with tears.

“Tell us,” Shaw said, his voice sounding calm and unaffected compared to Cray Dawson's.

Curley Tomes nodded. Then he took a minute to think about it and said, “There was Denver Jack Fish…Jesse Turnbaugh, Bobby Fitt…the Furlin brothers, Harper and Gladso, Blue Snake Terril, and of course Talbert and Sidlow.”

“And us,” said Stanley. “Don't forget us.”

“Shut up, Stanley, said Curley. “You ain't gaining nothing for yourself.” He considered it, then with a puzzled look he asked Shaw, “Is he?”

Shaw shook his head no.

“I didn't think so,” said Curley with finality.

“Who else has joined them besides the Devil and his new partner?” Cray Dawson asked.

“That's about all,” said Curley Tomes, addressing
Shaw. “Willie the Devil came riding in the other day with that scarecrow-looking fellow. Said Shaw had killed Donald Hornetti and was on a rage…coming our way.”

“I never liked Donald Hornetti much anyway,” said Stanley. As they'd all talked, Stanley had managed to scoot a bit closer to Shaw, as if they were old friends who hadn't seen each other for a while.

Ignoring Stanley, Shaw asked Curley, “Are they still in the same place where the Devil met them?”

“Yep, they're still in Brakett Flats,” said Curley. He shrugged. “You can be there by morning if you've a mind to.”

“Who's their gun?” Shaw asked pointedly, studying Curley's eyes to see if he was telling the truth.

“Their gun? I don't know what you mean,” said Curley.

“They wouldn't be there waiting unless they had somebody who thought they could take me…who is it? Mad Albert Ash…Teddy Roach?” He continued to search Curley's eyes.

“Hell, what's the use…” said Curley. “Barton's got Bo Kregger siding with him and Blue Snake.”

“Bo Kregger,” said Shaw, trying to pull up the name and face from his memory. “He shot a man once for calling him ‘Slick,' didn't he?”

“Damn!” said Curley, impressed by Shaw. “I'd plumb forgot about that, but yes, he did, now that you mention it. He sure hated that name!”

“Slick Bo Kregger,” said Shaw. “He carries a pair of Colts instead of just one like everybody else, right?”

“No, he only wears one,” said Curley, seeing that Shaw was testing him, “unless I miscounted.”

Shaw only nodded.

Stanley said quietly, “I don't suppose you'd be willing to let us go, since we never really laid a hand on your wife?”

“Not a chance,” said Shaw. “You wasn't waiting here to enjoy the sunrise.”

“But we told you everything you asked…that's worth something, ain't it?” Stanley persisted.

Caldwell stood up and stepped over closer, interested in what Shaw might have to say at this point. But Shaw didn't answer.

“You could at least give us a fighting chance,” said Stanley.

“What good would it do?” Shaw shrugged.

“You've got a point there,” said Stanley.

Caldwell said to Shaw, “Excuse me! But you're not going to actually kill these men, are you?”

“What did you think I was going to do with them, Undertaker?” Shaw asked, turning his attention slightly toward Caldwell.

“I don't know, but my goodness!” Caldwell exclaimed. “I never thought you would just execute them! That's not human!”

“But squaring off in the middle of a street is?” Shaw inquired. “How about a hanging? Tying a man's hands behind his back? Smacking his horse on the rump? Leaving him swinging with his toes pointed to the ground? Does that work better for you, Undertaker?”

“Wait a minute,” said Curley Tomes, “why do you call him Undertaker?”

“Because that's what he is,” said Shaw.

“Hot damn! That gives me the creeps,” said Curley, shivering and rubbing his hands up and down
his arms. “I wish nobody had brought that up, not at a time like this, for God's sake!”

While Curley talked, Stanley Little had managed to slip his hand down to his boot, where he kept a small hidden derringer. “Now!” shouted Curley Tomes, giving his partner the signal to make a move as he rolled toward the spot where Dawson had laid their rifles.

Before Caldwell or Dawson made a move, Shaw's Colt came up cocked and sent a bullet through Stanley Little's heart. As Curley Tomes came up onto his knee leveling a rifle toward him, Shaw's second shot turned him a backward flip and dropped him dead on the ground.

“Jesus!” Caldwell shouted in surprise.

Shaw stood up, and walked over to where Curley lay dead at his feet. Looking back at Caldwell as he cocked his Colt, he said, “Feel better now, Undertaker?” He fired a shot down into Curley's upturned forehead.

“My God, he's already dead!” said Caldwell. “Why are you doing this?

Shaw walked over to Stanley Little's body, rolled him faceup with the toe of his boot, and aimed the Colt down. Seeing what he was going to do, Caldwell turned his face away and held his breath until the shot resounded. Then he turned to Dawson, who had sunk back down beside the fire now that Shaw had killed the two men. “Why is he shooting them? I can't believe this! They're both dead!”

“Shut up, Undertaker,” Cray Dawson said bitterly. “He knows what he's doing.”

“I can't live this way!” said Caldwell. “How can
any
sane man stand to live like this?”

“If you can't stand it, you might want to think about pulling out now,” Dawson said quietly. “Things are going to get awfully bloody from here on.” He stared into the low flames with a dark expression in his eyes.

Willie the Devil sat upon the edge of the bar, writing down bets on strips of paper with a pencil stub. He looked at the short line of townsmen who had ventured out of their homes once they'd heard that Lawrence Shaw was on his way to town. Willie the Devil wasn't about to mention that it was all speculation at this point. If Shaw showed up in Brakett Flats things would start happening pretty fast. The Devil wanted to make sure he had all bets covered.

“I think it speaks well for this town, these gentlemen participating in our little fiesta get-together, which will be getting under way shortly!” Willie the Devil said, raising his voice for all to hear as he spoke to Elton Minton. Elton stood at the bar, taking money and stuffing it down into a tin cash box. Then, speaking directly to the townsmen, Willie said, “Everybody tell us clearly who you intend to bet on. We want no mistakes. We want nothing but satisfied customers!” In the front corner of the saloon a small Mexican band had quickly formed. Racy guitar and accordion music swelled in the ceiling rafters amid a cloud of cigar smoke.

Most of the townsmen looked frightened at being there among members of the Talbert gang. They left
as soon as they had their bets placed. At the far end of the bar a fight erupted between the Furlin brothers and Denver Jack Fish. A couple of townsmen left their place in line and scurried from the saloon, one leaving his hat behind when it sailed off his head. A deathlike silence fell over the place when Denver Jack Fish drew his big Russian forty-five and blasted a hole through Harper Furlin's foot.

Before Gladso could respond on his brother's behalf, Denver Jack Fish backed away with his pistol aimed at the tin sheriff's badge on Gladso's chest. No sooner had Fish disappeared out through the doorway and Gladso began attending to his brother's wounded foot than Willie the Devil waved his arms frantically to get the band playing again, shouting, “Nothing to worry about, gentlemen! Just a little glimpse at the kind of action we're going to see between two top gunmen once Fast Larry Shaw arrives!”

“That dirty son of a bitch blew my toe off!” Harper Furlin shrieked. But the end of his words was drowned out by the boom of a big bass guitar and the squeal of the accordion.

Willie the Devil stepped along the bar quickly and said to Gladso, “Get him out of here before he drives off the bettors!”

“Go to hell, Devil!” Harper shouted as Gladso pressed a wet bar towel on his bleeding foot.

“Yeah, get away from here, Willie,” said Gladso. Thumbing the badge on his chest he added, “One word from me and your betting is over!”

Willie the Devil shook his head in disgust and turned back his end of the bar, saying to himself, “The stupid bastard thinks he really is a sheriff!”

Outside the saloon, Barton Talbert, Blue Snake, and
Bo Kregger looked on as Denver Jack Fish left the saloon looking back over his shoulder, shoving his big Russian down into his holster. He stopped at the corner of an alley within hearing distance of Blue Snake, Kregger, and Talbert.

“Sounds like he must've shot Harper,” said Blue Snake, looking over at Denver Jack, who nodded in affirmation.

With no further comment on the matter Blue Snake went back to polishing a painted thumbnail against the back of his glove. Beside him Bo Kregger only nodded and stood watching until his curiosity got the best of him. Finally he asked, “Why the hell is both your thumbnails painted? Are you wanting to be a woman or something?”

Blue Snake bristled but held his temper, knowing better than to get sharp with a big gunman like Kregger. “I like a little flare of color,” said Blue Snake, getting a glimpse of Denver Jack Fish, seeing the grin on his face caused by Bo Kregger's words. “I learned it from a Frenchwoman back in Waco…she had lots of style.” He jutted his chin. “It looked damn good on her.”

“Maybe on
her
it did, but
damn,
son!” said Bo Kregger, chuckling under his breath.

“What are you trying to say, Bo?” Blue Snake asked, his jaw tightening. Big gunman or no, there was only so much he could take.

“I ain't
trying
to say it,” said Bo Kregger. “I
am
saying it. Your thumbs look plumb whorehouse sissy to me. I'm wondering if you ever find yourself feeling all giddy and out of control.”

Blue Snake snarled, “There ain't a damn thing giddy about me—”

“Hold it, what this?” said Barton Talbert, cutting him off. From the far end of town two horses came walking in slowly from the sand flats. Across their back lay two bodies, their arms hanging stiffly down the horses' sides.

“I'll be damned,” Blue Snake whispered in awe, already getting the message.

“That's Stanley's and Curley's horses,” said Barton Talbert.

“Then I'd say it's a good possibility that's Stanley and Curley across their backs,” Bo Kregger offered with a slight smile. “Looks like Fast Larry Shaw is letting us know he's here.” Kregger stepped forward with his shoulders leveled, as if facing Shaw in the middle of the dirt street. “I'm here, Shaw,” he called out loudly along the street, his voice resounding out toward the sand flats. “You hear me, Shaw? I'll be right here waiting. Anytime you're ready!”

The street fell silent. From the edge of an alley, Denver Jack Fish ventured forward and looked out in the direction the two horses had come from. Along the boardwalk people appeared one and two at a time, looking at the two horses and their gruesome cargo. Meeting the horses, Blue Snake and Barton Talbert stopped them and pulled them out of the middle of the street. Blue Snake reached out, took a handful of Stanley Little's hair in his gloved hand, and tried to lift his head for a look at his face.

“Stanley's stiff as a board,” said Blue Snake. Catching a glimpse of Bo Kregger watching him with a smug grin, he jerked harder on the dead man. But instead of Stanley's head rising, the whole body slipped upward, then toppled off onto the street. The horse neighed and jumped aside.

“What sort of message is this?” asked Talbert, looking down at Stanley's body. Rigor mortis had set in and Stanley's body lay on its back in the same shape it had lain in across the saddle. His arms lay flat, extended above his head. Lying jackknifed at the waist, Stanley stared up blindly from between his boots, a bullet hole showing raw and red between his wide eyes.