Between Hell and Texas (7 page)

“Who is she, Cray?” Suzzette asked. “Are you
going to her? Now? You’re walking out of my arms, into hers?”

“No, Suzzette,” Dawson said. “It’s not the way you think it is. The woman I love, I can never have.” He hesitated, then said, “She’s dead, Suzzette. I love her…she’s dead…and even still I can’t seem to live without her.”

Suzzette studied his eyes for a moment, trying to understand. Then she nodded and said in an accepting tone, “All right. I’ll help you forget her, Cray. Just give me the chance. You’ll see. I’ll be so good for you, it will make you forget the past, I promise.”

“It’s no good, Suzzette, I’m sorry,” he said, turning her hands loose slowly. “It’s not fair to you, and it won’t do me a bit of good. There are men who are born to only love one woman in their life. I’m one of those men.” He offered a tired, hopeless smile. “And she was that kind of women. I’d give anything if I could spend the rest of my life with you, Suzzette, but it’s not to be that way.”

“Well then,” Suzzette said, wiping her eyes on the back of her hand, “I can always say I tried. I saw my chance and I took a shot at it.” She offered a weak smile herself. “You’re
really
missing out on something good, Cray Dawson. You know what they say…if a whore loves a man she’ll go all out for him.”

“Don’t Suzzette,” said Dawson. “I don’t like hearing you call yourself that.”

“Well, it’s what I am.” She shrugged. “You would have been my move to respectability, Cray Dawson. But now I have to start all over.”

“Being a gunman’s woman isn’t respectability, Suzzette,” he said.

“It is from where I’m looking at it,” she said.
“You’re going to do something with yourself, Cray Dawson, I can see it. It shows in every way about you. I wouldn’t be Suzzette the whore if I was with you. I would be somebody too.”

“Suzzette, I ain’t nothing but a drover…and it’s all I’ll ever be. It’s all I even want to be,” he said, returning her smile.

“Even that would have been all right by me,” she said. “It just happens that I’ve fallen in love with you.” She offered a sad laugh. “Sounds crazy doesn’t it? A saloon whore like me, falling in love?”

“Suzzette, don’t,” said Dawson softly. “You’re a good woman. Don’t ever let anybody make you think otherwise.”

“Sure,” she said, passing it off, sniffling. “If I’m such a good woman, why is it I just keep on losing?”

Dawson offered no answer.

“Anyway, you’ve been good for me these past few days,” she said. “I’m getting out of that business and I’m staying out of it.”

“That’s good to hear,” said Dawson. “You can be more…I’ve seen that in you, Suzzette. I hope you will.” He stepped back, picked up his saddlebags and laid them over his shoulder, feeling the motion of it down low in his belly. Then he picked up his rifle from where it leaned against a small table, and his hat from atop the table. “It’s time I get back to my work.”

“Watch yourself out there, Cray Dawson,” she said. “I’ll be thinking about you.”

Dawson walked out, down the stair, and through the muddy alley to the main street. On his way to the livery barn he met Sheriff Neff, who stepped out of a small restaurant where he’d just finished his
breakfast. “Morning, Sheriff,” he said, slowing to a stop for a moment. “You’ll be happy to know that I’m leaving.”

Neff smiled, picking his teeth with a wooden matchstick. “You’re right, Dawson, that’s good news. Good for you because it means you’re healing up…good for me because I won’t have to worry about some fool wanting to kill you on my streets.” He looked both ways along the street, then added, “Keep a wary eye for those two idiots you shot it out with. I run them out of here, but they could be anywhere along the trail.”

“Obliged for the warning, Sheriff,” said Dawson, “but I think they’ve had enough.” He gave the sheriff a level gaze, saying, “For a man who doesn’t care for gunfighters, you’ve treated me fairly.”

“Yeah, well, maybe I was wrong about you, Dawson. You said you ain’t a gunman, and I reckon you meant it. You could have killed those two fools but you didn’t. I suppose that says something decent for you. Maybe you’re all right, for a man tied down at the hip.” His smile widened. “Now that you’re leaving I wish you only the best.” He touched his fingers to his wide Stetson brim. “In fact, since you’re
leaving
, I wish you a good day.”

Dawson left the sheriff, walked on to the livery barn and within moments had the big bay saddled and ready for the trail. Before leaving, he called Vernon forward from the rear of the barn. Vernon walked toward him hesitantly, his soft-billed cap in his hand. “Mister Dawson, I’m awfully sorry about what I done, telling them men where to find you. I reckon I just wasn’t thinking. I meant you no harm though, I swear I didn’t.”

“Forget it, Vernon,” Dawson said, “I know you didn’t mean to cause me trouble. I just wanted to tell you ‘no hard feelings,’ before I left.”

Vernon looked relieved. “Thank you kindly, Mister Dawson. I’ve been worried sick thinking you’re mad at me.” He offered a crooked grin. “Of course, I reckon if you’d truly been mad at me, I’d be dead by now, wouldn’t I?”

Dawson saw that Vernon only saw him as a gunman and nothing else. There was respect in the stableman’s eyes, and fear, and even envy. But there was nothing there to make Dawson think that Vernon considered him a man just like himself. To Vernon he was a larger-than-life killer of men. There was nothing he could say to change that. Instead of replying, he smiled and stepped up into his saddle. “You tell that boy of yours I’ll meet him and shake his hand next time I’m through here.”

“Will you?” Vernon followed along beside the big bay a few steps, excitedly. “Will you sure enough?” His face had lit up like a child’s at Christmas. “I’ll sure tell him! You can count on it! He’ll be proud as a young rooster!”

Dawson put the bay forward onto the muddy street and rode south until Eagle Pass lay shimmering in the morning light behind him.

Dawson rode steadily throughout the day, feeling only the slightest discomfort in his lower belly. He stopped at noon only long enough to water Stony in a runoff stream of the Nueces before heading southeast in the direction of Somos Santos. While the healing stomach wound had not pained him, it had slowed him down. As the evening shadows drew
long across the broken hillsides he realized it would take a hard push to get him to his weathered frame house, seven miles from town. Having brought no supplies, or even coffee for what he thought would be only a one-day ride, Dawson turned onto the old Missionary Trail toward the evening lights of the Bouchard Double D Spread, where he knew he would be welcome to share a meal and spend the night.

He followed a slim trail branching off to his right until, at the end of a narrowing valley, he stopped at the rail gates of the Double D, where he heard a voice call out from the shadow of a buckboard wagon, “Halt! Who are you and what’s your business here?”

Surprised by such an encounter, Dawson called out in reply, “I’m Cray Dawson, your neighbor. My business is a hot meal and a bunk for the night.”

“Cray?” said a familiar voice. “Is it really you?”

“Have I ever lied to you, Sonny?” said Dawson, recognizing the voice of his longtime trail partner, Sonny Wells.

“Not yet,” said Sonny Wells, stepping up from beneath the buckboard wagon dusting his trousers with his left hand, his right holding a Henry rifle. “Crayton, we’ve heard many a tall tale about you lately. I hope you’re here to clear them up.”

“I’ll do what I can,” said Dawson, crossing his wrists on his saddle horn, looking down at the wide rail gate standing closed between them. “What’s this all about? Last time I saw this gate closed was back when I was a kid…Gains Bouchard got wild-eyed drunk and chased his brother Gilbert off with a claw hammer.”

Unlatching the gate, the slim, straight-shouldered cowboy looked up with a grin from beneath his sugar-loaf brim. “Them was good ole times.” He gave the gate a hard shove and stepped to the side, allowing Dawson to ride through. Then, as he closed the gate he said, “Gains says there’s too much meanness in the world these days. He told me to start pinning her down, so I do, every night at dark now.”

“What kind of meanness is he talking about?” Dawson asked, stopping the bay and looking down at Sonny Wells.

Sonny shrugged. “Who knows? Most of it’s in his head I reckon. But there has been lots more cattle rustled than usual, some killed,
some
for no reason. These days we find them butchered where they grazed, cooked and et and the biggest part of them left to waste. I expect that’s the kind of meanness Gains can’t abide.”

“I expect so too,” Dawson said quietly. He gave a look toward the main house and bunkhouses, where lanterns glowed through windows and open doors. “So, Gains Bouchard is closing his gate to it.”

“Hard to believe, ain’t it?” said Sonny, latching the gate. “Lately he walks like a man with a snake up his leg. Maybe you ought to talk to him, see if you can ease his mind some. You always could talk to him.”

“I never could talk
to
him,” said Dawson. “I could only talk in his direction. I don’t know if anything I said ever stuck or not.”

“It might now,” said Sonny, grinning, “You being a big gunman and all.”

“Don’t start on me, Sonny,” said Dawson. “I
thought if there was one place I wouldn’t hear what a big gunman I am, it would be here.”

“Then you thought wrong,
big gunman
,” Sonny teased. “You’ve been the talk of the place ever since you rode with Shaw to avenge Rosa’s death.”

Dawson had mourned Rosa Shaw in silence so long that even the sound of her name palled his spirit. He felt his expression change and he was powerless to hide it.

Seeing the change sweep across Dawson’s brow, Sonny said quickly, “We all thought highly of you for what you done, Crayton. It was a terrible thing what the Talbert Gang did to that poor, good woman.”

“It’s over now,” said Dawson, not wanting to think about it…to talk about it.

“Yes it is.” Sonny nodded as he continued, not taking Dawson’s hint. “We all knew it took some nerves of steel, you backing a gunman like Fast Larry Shaw in the first place. Then when we heard about you gunning down three men at once!
Whooie!
You can bet we was all talking about that!”

Gesturing with a nod toward the glowing lantern lights at the house, Dawson asked, “Think I can get some grub before Shaney shuts the chuck wagon down?”

Sonny Wells gave him a look up and down. “From the looks of you I’d say you need to see Shaney as quick as you can.”

“Good to see you again, Pard,” said Dawson, turning his bay toward the house.

Giving Dawson a tip of his hat, Sonny said, “Aw…Get on out of here, then.”

Dawson rode Stony up to the house and around it
to a wide backyard where a dozen drovers sat on the ground with tin plates and coffee cups in their hands. A large campfire crackled and glowed. Shaney the cook sat on the open tailgate of a small chuck wagon, drinking cool water from a long-handled dipper. But at the sight of Cray Dawson, the old cook stood up, spit a stream of water to the ground, then called out to him, “Crayton Dawson, what is wrong with Sonny Wells, letting the likes of you in here?”

“He took one look at me and said I’m an emergency case,” said Dawson.

“Right he is,” said Shaney, wiping his hands on his greasy apron. “Fall down off that horse and get your plate out. We’ll soon have some meat on your bones.”

“Obliged,” said Dawson, “but I’m traveling light this evening.”

“Traveling light?” The cook sounded surprised. “A man who don’t carry his own eating tools, don’t deserve to eat, I always said.” But then he called out over his shoulder to his cook’s helper, “Frenchy! Get Mister Dawson a plate and something to eat with. I want no man losing his fingers at my camp.”

As the young helper hurried to get Dawson a plate, a cup, and eating utensils, Dawson stepped down from his saddle with a short wince, feeling the pain grow stronger in his stomach. Shaney noticed his expression but made no mention of it. Instead he took the reins to the bay and said to Dawson, “You grab yourself a piece of ground. Frenchy will load your plate.”

“Obliged,” said Dawson to the old cook, looking around at the faces in the shadowy glow of the campfire.
“I’ll need the loan of short supplies when I leave here in the morning, if you can spare it.”

“Come morning I’ll fix you up a poke—coffee, beans, and whatnot,” said the cook, tossing the request aside for the time being. “I reckon you know everybody here, except Cleveland Ellis and Moon Braden.”

“I’m Moon Braden,” said a gruff voice from beneath a lowered hat brim.

“I’m Ellis,” said another gruff voice, this one coming from a big man wearing a pair of studded stove-pipe chaps, sitting to Braden’s right.

Dawson gave them a nod.

“I reckon you remember Eldon and Max Furry?” said Shaney.

“The Furry boys, sure,” said Dawson. “Howdy, boys.”

Both the young drovers nodded, staring wide-eyed at Cray Dawson. He could tell by the look on their faces that they had both heard about what had happened in Brakett Flats and Turkey Creek.

“And Sandy Edelman, our ramrod?” said Shaney, pointing a finger as he spoke. “And Stanley Grubs…Jimmie Turner, Mike Cassidy…Broken Nose Simms?”

“Howdy all,” said Dawson, nodding in turn at the men as they made short remarks, or gave a toss of a hand or a nod as they continued eating.

Then Shaney turned to three men on his other side. “And of course you know Decker, Barney and Slouch?”

“Indeed I do,” said Dawson, touching his hat brim.

Frenchy Dupre hurried back with the eating utensils and a heaping plate full of beans and steaming
salt pork with a chunk of bread on the side. “Here you are, Crayton, you eat right up,” he said. “I’ll fetch you some coffee now.”

Dawson noted that Moon Braden nudged Cleveland Ellis. The two looked his way, said something in private, then chuckled under their breath.

Sandy Edelman, a seasoned drover and foreman for the Double D said, “Dawson, I know you probably don’t want to talk about it, but I just want to say, ‘Good job,’ you and Shaw killing them dirty bastards. Hanging would have been too good for them.”