Gunman's Song (5 page)

“No,” said Caldwell, “I'm afraid the barbers have monopolized undertaking, much the same way as they have dentistry. An undertaker can't compete with the barbers when it comes to burying the dead. Only a few weeks back I was threatened with a razor by the barber over in Hide City. Said if I didn't leave town I'd be burying an important part of
myself!
Needless to say, I left immediately.”

Dawson gave Shaw a questioning look. “What do you say, Shaw? If there's ‘cheros lifting scalps, three men riding together might be better than two.”

Shaw considered it, then said to Caldwell, “Can you shoot?”

“No, sir, Mr. Shaw, not a lick,” said Caldwell.

Dawson chuckled and shook his head. “You sure ain't got much to offer, Caldwell. Can you cook? Make coffee?”

“Cook, I don't think so,” said Caldwell, “at least nothing that you'd want to eat unless you were near starvation. Coffee, I do all right with…I've never poisoned anyone…that I know of, anyway.” Seeing the reluctance in Shaw's eyes, Caldwell added hastily, “But like he said, three men looks stronger than two. And in a desperate situation, you could always leave me behind and get away while the Comancheros are busy killing me.”

“Now you're making sense,” Shaw said gruffly, looking away across the flatlands. He heeled the big buckskin forward without another word.

“Does that mean I'm welcome to ride along with yas?” Caldwell asked Cray Dawson in a meek tone, watching Shaw ride away from them.

“Try not to say any more than you have to for the next twenty miles or so,” said Dawson, gesturing for Caldwell to ride in front of him. “We hope to be in Eagle Pass day after tomorrow.”

“Not a word,” said Caldwell, “I promise.” He hurried into his saddle and gave his horse a jerk forward, having to plant his hand down on his bowler hat to keep from losing it. Dawson smiled to himself and followed close behind, keeping an eye on him. Along the dry creekbed the old Mexican goatherders lifted their hands in farewell, watching the three horses file past them.

Shaw led the way on the dirt trail most of the afternoon. Caldwell kept his promise and didn't speak another word until after they had reached the end of the flatlands and began winding their way up and down across one low rise after another toward a string of low hills that stood purple and gray in the failing evening light. When Shaw stopped the big
buckskin at the crest of a rise and halted Dawson and Caldwell with a raised hand, the undertaker craned his neck and stared in the same direction as Shaw as he asked Dawson in a nervous whisper, “Why are we stopped here? What's wrong? Are there Comancheros?”

But Shaw heard him and answered for Dawson, “I don't know if they're Comancheros or not…but there's a wagon and it's not moving. I've been getting a little better look at them each time we top a rise.”

Dawson stood in his stirrups and gazed out through the evening shadows. “We could circle wide of it…but if somebody has slipped a wheel, I'd hate to leave them stranded out here with ‘cheros on the loose.”

“We'll ride in on them,” said Shaw, raising his rifle from his scabbard, checking it, and laying it across his lap. “Be ready in case it's a trap.”

“A trap?” Caldwell said, sounding shaky, moving his horse closer to Cray Dawson. “Should you give me a gun or something?”

“Thought you couldn't shoot,” said Dawson, looking pointedly at him.

“I can't,” Caldwell replied, “but if you'll set it up for me I can keep pulling the trigger until it stops firing.”

“Jesus,” said Dawson, “just stick close to me for now. When we get past this, maybe I'll show you some pointers on shooting.”

“Thanks,” said Caldwell, his face ashen with fear. “I believe it's time I seriously learn to defend myself.”

Dawson and Caldwell followed Lawrence Shaw
until even in the closing dusk they could see the old Studebaker canvas-top wagon sitting with a rear wheel resting on a short pile of flat rocks. A few feet away stood four mules grazing on sparse clumps of grass.

At the rear of the wagon, a tall woman with long auburn hair saw the three riders coming across the rolling land and she said to the bald-headed man who worked feverishly on the broken wheel, “Dillard, someone's coming!” Then she walked around the side of the wagon, picked up the double-barreled shotgun, and walked briskly back and held it out to the man as he hurriedly wiped axle grease from his hands onto a dirty rag.

“If I ever get the hell out of this damn mess, I'll never leave the town limits again. I ought to have my ass kicked for ever coming along.”

“Here, take this gun and try to act like a man,” she said. “You were pretty keen on coming along when all you thought you had to help me do was claim that tavern and pick up any money the old man left me. Stop bellyaching!” She forced the shotgun into his hand, shoving him back a step. “If it's Comancheros, we're both going to die. Let's try to do so with some dignity.”

“Dignity, my ass,” Dillard Frome growled, checking the shotgun and raising it to his shoulder. “If they're not Comancheros, don't forget, we're Dillard and Della Frome, man and wife.” He looked her up and down with contempt. “God forbid…” he added under his breath.

“Don't worry, Dillard; I know that little ‘we're married' routine by heart.” Della reached up under her dress, took out a short double-action Colt Thunderer,
and held it down in front of her with both hands, her right finger on the trigger. “That's just about close enough,” she called out to the riders when they had drawn closer. She raised the pistol and pointed it.

Shaw called out from fifty yards away, “Ma'am, I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't point that gun at us. We're on our way to Eagle Pass.” His eyes went to Dillard and the shotgun, then back to the woman. “We saw your wagon and came to see if you need help,” he continued. “If you do, we're here. If you don't, we bid you good evening and we'll be on our way.”

“Wait,” said Della, seeing the no-nonsense manner in which the man had presented himself and his colleagues. “Yes, we do need help. As you can see, our wagon had a busted wheel.” She lowered the pistol a bit and nodded toward the rear of the wagon. “Pardon my lack of courtesy…we've heard there are Comancheros roaming about.”

“Where are you men coming from?” Dillard Frome asked, lowering his shotgun as the three nudged their horses forward again. He waited for an answer but didn't get one until Shaw stopped his horse ten feet away and the other two closed up beside him.

“We're coming from Somos Santos,” Shaw said. “We haven't seen any Comancheros. But that doesn't mean they're not around here.”

Cray Dawson tipped his hat at the woman and asked, “And who do I have the pleasure of speaking to?”

Dillard Frome cut in, saying, “This is my wife Della…Dillard and Della Frome, that's us.”

“Bull, he's out of his mind!” said Della, disputing Dillard, ignoring Cray Dawson and staring into Lawrence
Shaw's cool green eyes as he looked back and forth, studiously taking in the wagon, the broken wheel, and the campsite. “We say we're man and wife in case anybody might be inclined to take advantage. But the truth is, I'm a widow. I'm Della…Della Starks, the widow of Purvis Starks, deceased owner of the Desert Flower Inn in Eagle Pass. You may have heard of it?”

“I'm Cray Dawson, ma'am…and yes, I have heard of it,” Dawson said, touching his hat brim. “In fact I've drank there.”

Della Starks didn't even look at him as she said, “Is that a fact?” Instead she stared at Shaw as she said, “And what about you, mister? Have you ever been there?”

Shaw nodded, preoccupied with studying the rolling land, the dark hill line. “Sure, I've been there. We need to get out of here and into the hills.”

Della looked surprised. “Oh? Right now? It's almost dark.”

“That's right, it is,” said Shaw, “and anybody within miles has had all afternoon to spot you two out here and plan to do whatever suits them under the cover of darkness.”

“We can't leave the wagon, mister,” said Dillard Frome. “All Miss Della's things are in there.”

“Then good luck to you both,” said Shaw, backing his horse a step, ready to turn it and ride away.

“Is that it?” said Della, trying to sound outraged by Shaw, but still taken by his eyes, his demeanor. “Is that your so-called
help
?”

“Ma'am, you don't need our help to die…the Comancheros will oblige you on that matter.”

Della cocked a hand onto her hip and said to Cray Dawson, “Is your friend here always so cross and rude?”

Having seen the way the woman was affected by Shaw, Dawson said, “No, ma'am, but while we waste time palavering…there could be Comancheros slipping up all around us. Do you have anything in that wagon you can't live without?”

“Well, not really…but I hate losing it,” said Della.

“If we get unwanted company in the night, you'll be glad you left it…if we don't, it'll all be here come morning, won't it?”

Seeing that Lawrence Shaw was already leaving, Della tried to appear as if she were considering it. But then quickly she said, “Well, that does make sense.” She said to Dillard Frome, “Grab the mules, Dillard; let's not keep these gentlemen waiting.”

Hearing her, Shaw stopped his buckskin, turned it quarterwise to her, and sat leaning his forearm on his saddle horn, his rifle resting in his other hand propped up on his thigh.

“Do you men ever introduce yourselves?” Della asked. “Or do you leave a lady to wonder?”

Cray Dawson said, “I did introduce myself; you must've missed it.” He touched his fingers to his hat brim again, saying, “I'm Cray Dawson, ma'am. This is Lawrence Shaw, and this is Jedson Cald—”

“Lawrence Shaw?” she said with a slight gasp, cutting Dawson off. She didn't even give a glance toward Jedson Caldwell. “Not Lawrence Shaw the gunfighter?”

Shaw turned a level glance to her, saying,
“Ma'am,” with a touch of his hat brim. Then he looked away, more interested in what might be lurking in wait on the darkening land.

“Well…I certainly feel like I'm in good hands now,” Della said, looking flushed all of a sudden. “Mr. Shaw, may I call you Lawrence?”

“Do what suits.” Shaw shrugged, not paying any attention to her walking forward as Dillard arrived pulling the four mules along on a lead rope.

“Della, take your pick,” said Dillard Frome, holding the lead rope toward her.

“Don't be a fool, Dillard,” Della snapped at him, shoving his hand full of lead rope away. “I'm not about to ride a smelly bareback mule! Lawrence, would you be a dear?” she asked, reaching up to Shaw with both arms spread upward toward him.

“Amazing,” Cray Dawson whispered to himself, marveling at how at the sight of Shaw and the mention of his name the woman seemed unable to keep her hands off of him.

Shaw looked around again, giving Dawson an embarrassed glance. Then he said grudgingly to Della Starks, “All right, ma'am, but just until we get inside the hills. I can't afford to blow this horse out.”

Della started to climb up behind him, but Shaw swept down with his free arm, cradled it around her, and lifted her onto his lap. Dawson shook his head and nudged his horse forward, Caldwell tagging his horse right beside him, staring in disbelief at the woman on Shaw's lap.

“I've never been treated that way by a woman,” Caldwell said between himself and Dawson.

“Neither have I,” said Dawson. “I guess I just ain't
killed enough people.” They rode on, Dawson growing silent for a moment, then saying quietly, “I take it back, Caldwell…once, I met a woman who treated me real special like that. Only once in my whole life.” He seemed to think about it for a moment, then turned his face to the dark hill line. “We better get on up there. Shaw's right: We're sitting ducks out here.”

They rode across the rolling land for the next hour as night closed in around them. By the time they'd ridden upward into the hill line they heard distant shouting and whooping intermingled with gunfire coming from the direction of the wagon. “Oh, Lawrence!” said Della, tightening her embrace on Shaw. “You were right! You saved my life! How can I ever thank you enough?”

“Ma'am, you don't owe me a thing,” said Shaw in earnest. “I'm just glad we came by when we did.”

Hearing the two, Cray Dawson only nodded to himself with a wry smile. “It figures,” he whispered to himself.

Beside Dawson, Jedson Caldwell looked back and said, “Do you suppose they will follow our tracks?”

“Probably not tonight,” said Dawson. “They'll be satisfied with what they've found back there. It'll keep their attention until morning.”

“But let's keep moving, just in case it doesn't,” Shaw said over his shoulder to them, Della sitting in his lap with her arms around his neck.

They pushed on, and as soon as they rode higher and deeper into the shelter of the hills, Lawrence Shaw stopped the big buckskin and gently but firmly set Della Starks down from his saddle and turned
the horse beside the narrow trail, watching as the others filed in behind him. “Give Miss Della a mule,” he said to Dillard Frome.

Della said, “But I was so comfortable in your lap, Lawrence. And I feel so safe. Can't I just go on riding—”

“I told you just until we reached the hills, ma'am,” said Shaw. “I can't afford to wear this horse out.”

“Oh, all right then,” said Della, feigning a pout. “You men and your horses. Sometimes I think you prefer them over women.”

Ignoring her, Shaw looked back across the land toward the constant shouting and shooting. “There it goes,” he said, pointing back through the darkness. They all looked back into the night on the rolling land below and saw high, licking flames spring up where the wagon sat. Rifle and pistol shots grew heavier. Della held her hands to her mouth and sobbed. “All my beautiful dresses and gowns…all my hats! They're all gone.”