Between Hell and Texas (4 page)

“Sure thing, Vernon,” said Dawson, taking Stony’s reins and leading him out through the front door, across a muddy corral, onto the muddy street.

Closing the livery corral gate behind him, Dawson led the bay along the edge of the boardwalk, keeping away from the middle of the street where water stood three inches deep. He wanted no trouble, yet he knew better than to allow himself to get caught on horseback in the rain on a muddy street, should a fight be forced upon him. With his Winchester rifle in hand he moved at a cautious pace, keeping his attention toward the Big Spur Saloon even as he appeared to stare straight ahead. He made it past the saloon by eight yards and thought he might ease out of town unnoticed, but then he heard a booming, gravelly voice call out, “
Mister Dalton!
” pronouncing his name incorrectly. “I have been hearing your
name all across the hill country. I believe it’s fitting time we said our
howdies
, don’t you?”

Dawson stopped in his tracks and turned toward the Big Spur Saloon, across the street behind him. Raising the Winchester he cradled it in the crook of his left arm and kept his right hand around the stock, his thumb across the hammer. “I am Cray
Dawson
,” he said, looking at the tall, lean man who stood with his weight shifted onto his right leg. “I take it you must be Mister Ash?”

“
Mad Albert
to be exact,” the man said, wearing a wide, mirthless grin mantled by a thin black mustache. “Please call me Mad Albert.” His eyes were hidden behind a pair of dark-tinted wire-rims in spite of the sunless morning. His wide-brimmed hat hung behind him on a leather strip. He wore a rawhide poncho, the right front of it flipped up over his left shoulder. His right hand rested on the bone handle of a big Colt similar to Dawson’s. His black right glove was off, stuck down in his gun belt. “I would like to buy you a drink for breakfast, Mister
Dalton
,” he said, again mispronouncing his name.

Realizing that Ash might be doing it deliberately, Dawson let it pass this time. “I’m on my way out of town, Mad Albert,” said Dawson. “Another time perhaps?”

“In matters of both courtesy and killing, I always say ‘
no time like the present
,’” Ash said. He gestured with his free hand toward the gray sky and the rain. “It appears that all natural forces are against your departure anyway.”

“I don’t want any trouble with you, Mad Albert,” Dawson said firmly, his voice carrying a warning tone.

Ash appeared to be taken aback by Dawson’s
abruptness, but it was hard to tell if his gesture was sincere or feigned. “Nor I with you, sir!” he said as if surprised by such a thought. “I’m only suggesting a breakfast drink…call it one for the trail. I’m not used to having an invitation turned down. Do you rebuff me, sir?”

Dawson took a deep breath and considered his position: standing in the rain, the mud, his horse right behind him in the line of fire. Without answering, he nudged forward on Stony’s reins and led the bay toward the Big Spur Saloon.

“There now, that’s more like it, Mister
Dalton
,” said Ash, grinning even more as Dawson walked the bay to the hitch rail out front of the saloon, hitched the reins, and shoved his Winchester into the saddle boot. Dawson noted that the gunman seemed sincere. Raising a long, gloved finger, Ash added, “I always say that a man who doesn’t have his morning whiskey is an unenlightened soul.” He stepped to the side and gestured Dawson to the bat-wing doors. “After you, sir!”

Dawson stepped inside the saloon and walked to the bar, feeling a bit uncomfortable with Mad Albert Ash behind him. But at the bar, Ash stood beside him, allowing three feet of space between them, and said to the young bartender, “Two tall ones if you will.”

At the end of the bar, two men stood rigidly, wearing worried expressions. Two full glasses of whiskey stood in front of them. When the bartender had poured shots of rye for Ash and Dawson, Mad Albert said to the two other drinkers, “Well, gentlemen, you are both free to go now…I’ve found someone else to converse with.”

“Thank you, Mister Ash,” said one of the men in a shaky voice. They downed their drinks and hurried out the door.

It dawned on Dawson that Mad Albert Ash was slightly drunk, but doing a good job of keeping it hidden. “And then there were
only two
,” said Ash, pulling his dark visor lens down enough to gaze at Dawson. A scar above his left eye caused a high arch in his black eyebrow, giving him an angry look. “Tell me the truth now,
Dalton
. You thought I came here to kill you, didn’t you?”

Dawson wasn’t going to allow himself to be intimidated. “I admit, I thought you might have come here to
try
,” he said.

Ash chuckled. “Good answer,
Dalton
.” He raised his drink and sipped it, then set it down and said, “I have to admit, when I heard what you did in Turkey Creek…then at Brakett Flats, I thought to myself, is this young man trying to outdo me?”

“It had nothing to do with you, Mad Albert,” said Dawson. He took a short sip of whiskey, then set it down.

Ash shrugged. “I realized that of course, once I heard the whole story. But we are a vain lot, us rootin-tootin gunslingers.” He grinned. “No matter what happens, we always wonder what it will have to do with us, our
reputations
that is.” He gave Dawson a questioning look. “Tell me,
Dalton
, do you always wonder that way yourself…as if anything that happens in the world of guns and gunmen is all about
you?
”

“No,” said Dawson, carefully considering his answer, already seeing how Albert Ash got his nickname. “But to tell you the truth I don’t consider
myself a gunman, at least not the way other people seem to.”

“Oh really?” said Ash flatly. “Yet, the first thing that crossed your mind when you heard I was in town was whether or not I would
try
to kill you?”

“I wouldn’t say it was the first thing,” said Dawson, not giving in.

“Oh? Then what was?” Ash asked.

“All right,” said Dawson, “you’re right. I thought it.”

“Ah! Yes, indeed,” said Ash. “So you see, we all think the same way. If we hear that someone has come along and done something spectacular with a gun, we immediately think our position has been threatened. I’m certain we’re all a pompous bunch of snobs. And, notice I don’t judge myself any less guilty than the rest of you. I’m afraid that I too am hopelessly swollen on my own importance.”

Dawson only nodded, not wanting to argue the point—or any other point—with Mad Albert Ash. He shoved the glass of unfinished whiskey back from him. “You’ve been at this business a long time, Mad Albert. I doubt anybody will ever take that away from you.”

“Well, aren’t you kind to say so,” Ash said, his drunkenness becoming more apparent. Seeing that Dawson was getting ready to leave, he said, “What’s your hurry,
Dalton?
”

“My horse is standing in the rain,” said Dawson.

“Now that’s admirable,” said Ash. “I respect a man who will sacrifice his own comfort for that of a simple beast.”

Thinking of the night before, Dawson replied, “You wouldn’t believe what I’ve given up lately for that horse.”

Ash only nodded. “
Dalton
, I’m glad we’ve had the opportunity to meet one another without guns in our hands.”

“My pleasure,” said Dawson, not sure what meaning this held for Mad Albert Ash, but glad that he wasn’t going to have to fight the man.

Before Dawson could turn and leave, Ash said, “Tell me,
Dalton
, do you believe we are evil men?”

“I’m not the one to say,” said Dawson. “Every man has to answer that sort of question for himself.”

“Well spoken!” Ash grinned, raising his glass as if in a toast. “I, too, feel that way, most times. The problem is that sometimes I am haunted by the many ghosts inside my shirt. They cause me to doubt myself.” He tossed back the drink and set the shot glass on the bar top, hard. Then, in reflection, he said, “We are all the terrible product of this unsettled time and place we live in,
Dalton
. We are civilized creatures…but
creatures
nonetheless. In Roman days there were mercenaries who hired their blades to the highest bidder. That’s what we are, isn’t it? Bold
mercenaries?
”

“I don’t know,” said Dawson. “I’m just on my way home.”

Ash continued to speak as Dawson left. “We are all on our way
home
, aren’t we?” He laughed aloud, then said, “
Dalton
, I’ve been at this for a long,
long
time! When I started, I took a bite out of the liver of the first man I ever killed. That was up in the high country! Can you imagine if I were to do that today? Stick a man in his gullet, rip out his liver, and take a big bite?” He hooted and laughed and raved. “Now that would most certainly raise some brows, wouldn’t it? Wouldn’t it! But see how civilized I’ve become? I don’t do that anymore. No, sir!”

Leaving Mad Albert alone with his drunken ranting and his shirt full of ghosts, Cray Dawson walked through the bat-wing doors out onto the boardwalk, only to be met by two men standing in the rain, one with a shotgun, the other with a Spencer rifle, both pointed at him. Raising his hands chest high, Dawson said quietly and cautiously, “Every time I
leave
this place, I get guns pointed at me. I’m getting tired of it.” Rain poured straight down.

“Then quit leaving,” said the young man holding the shotgun.

The other man lowered his rifle barrel an inch and said in a hushed tone, nodding toward the sound of Ash’s voice, “You’re with him, ain’t you?”

“Do I look like I’m with him?” Dawson asked in response.

“If you’re with him, you’re dead,” said the man with the shotgun.

“Then I’m for
damn
-sure not with him.” Dawson looked the two young men over, getting a picture of what they were up to. He let his hands down slightly.

“Keep ’em up, Mister!” growled the one with the rifle. “I’ll drop you deader than hell!”

“You’re out to kill yourself a big gunman, huh?” Dawson asked.

The young man gave him a look of bemused disbelief. “Now what would make you think a thing like that?”

“So what if we are?” said the one with the shotgun, stepping closer. “Are you going to try to stop us?”

“All I’m wanting to do is walk down to that big bay, get on him, and ride out of here,” Dawson replied.

“You won’t try to warn him?” asked the one with the rifle.

“He don’t need warning,” said Dawson. “He’ll know before you get to the doors.

“Yeah,” said the one with the rifle, “how do you know he will?”

“He’s been doing this longer than you two have been alive,” said Dawson, hoping to dissuade them. “He’ll know. Don’t ask me how, but he’ll know…and he’ll kill you.”

The two looked at one another. “Go on, Clifford,” said the one with the shotgun. “This saddle tramp don’t know nothing. He ain’t no gunman! He ain’t nobody!”

Clifford looked closer at Cray Dawson, at the big tied-down Colt and asked, “You ain’t are you, Mister…nobody that is?”

“No,” said Dawson. “I ain’t nobody…nobody worth killing anyway. But I know something about how gunmen think, and how they sense things. He’ll hear a board creak, a boot squeak. Hell, he might even just hear the difference in the sound of the rain once you both step out of it. But he’ll kill you, that much I’m sure of.”

“Clifford, are you going to do it or not?” the one with the shotgun asked, coming up onto the boardwalk, keeping Dawson covered.

“Damn it, Randall, yes! I’m going to do it,” Clifford whispered harshly. “But I ain’t going in there.”

“What are you going to do then?” asked his companion.

Clifford bit his lip, thinking, then said, “Give me the shotgun. I’ll nail him from over the doors.”

“Hold it,” said Dawson. “Don’t ambush the man.

You get no reputation that way, unless you want to be known as cowards.”

“Shut up,” said Randall, poking the shotgun at Dawson’s stomach. “I’m sick of your mouth!”

“Here, give it to me, Randall,” said Clifford, grabbing the shotgun.

Seeing his chance as the shotgun changed hands, Dawson snatched the barrel and shoved it upward. A blaze of fire erupted, blowing a large hole in the boardwalk overhang. Randall fell back off the boardwalk into the mud, grabbing for the pistol he wore shoved down behind his belt. Dawson was too busy wrestling the shotgun from Clifford’s hands to go for his Colt. Just as he managed to shove Clifford backward, Randall fired. Dawson buckled at the waist as the impact of the bullet lifted him slightly and tossed him sidelong against the front of the Big Spur Saloon. He tried reaching for his Colt but his hands seemed frozen in place, clutching his bloody stomach.

“You meddling son of a bit—” Clifford drew his pistol, leveled it at Dawson from less than ten feet, and cocked it quickly.

Dawson was coming back to himself now, getting his hand down to his Colt. But his hand was too bloody to get a grip on it. Shots from Randall’s pistol hissed past his head. He could see almost in slow motion the fall of Clifford’s gun hammer. Then everything seemed to stop and take off in a different direction. Clifford flew backward, a hole the size of a fist in his chest. In the mud, Randall had struggled upward onto his knees, but then he flew backward in a wide splash as a bullet nailed him between the eyes.

Dawson saw Mad Albert Ash step onto the boardwalk,
his Colt up, cocked and smoking. He turned the barrel quickly in both directions. Then seeing Dawson slumped against the front of the building, he stepped over and stooped down, still keeping an eye on the street. “Damn, I expect you were right,
Dalton
,” he said. “You really
aren’t
much of a gunman. Are you?”

“That’s what…I’ve been trying to tell…everybody,” Dawson said, his bloody hands clutching his belly.