This Violent Land (6 page)

 

C
lell Dawson stood at the bar of the Yellow Dog Saloon, staring down into his mug of beer. The bar, the saloon, and the town were all parts of his life, even though he had never been there before. Rough towns and rougher saloons had become part of his heritage, and he couldn't deny it without denying his own existence.

Clell had noticed the young man when he first came into the bar, a slick-looking dandy, all dressed out in black and silver. Black trousers, black shirt, a silver belt buckle, his black holster decorated with silver conchos, a silver bolo tie, and a silver band around his black hat.

Clell knew who he was. He didn't actually know the man's name, but he knew who he was. For the last three or four years, he had encountered men like him all through the West.

Clell sometimes hired out his guns, but he wasn't without scruples and sold his talent only to people who had need for a paladin to right wrongs for them. However, on those occasions when he found himself in need of money, he wasn't totally averse to out and out breaking the law by holding up a stagecoach, or a bank, or even a train.

As a result of such activities, there was paper out on him, and from time to time a bounty hunter would recognize him and try to collect. But it wasn't only bounty hunters he had to be aware of. There were others who also hired out their guns . . . with somewhat less scruples than even his rather loose adherence to principles. If they could add to their ré-sumé the accomplishment of having beaten Clell Dawson to the draw, it would not only get rid of some of the competition, it would also increase their asking price.

Clell was sure that the dandy in black and silver was just such a man.

“Hey, you,” the dandy called out.

Clell made no response, continuing to stare into his glass of beer.

“Mister, when I'm talkin' to you, you damn well better quit broodin' into your beer and pay attention to me.” The young man's voice was harsh, causing the other customers in the saloon to interrupt their own activities and conversations and follow what was developing before them. They knew the young man in black. His real name was Steve Blake, but he called himself The Concho Kid. He had proven his skill with a pistol many times. At least three times right in the Yellow Dog Saloon.

Clell looked over toward him. “Well now, by all means, I do want to be well-advised. So I suppose I had better be looking at you.”

“When's the last time you had a bath?” The Concho Kid asked.

In fact, Clell had taken a bath quite recently, so the only thing he had on him was some trail dust, which he intended to get off yet that night. He'd wanted a beer to get some of the trail dust out of his mouth first.

“I can't rightly say,” Clell replied, purposely baiting the young man. “I don't know. Last year, I guess.”

“Last year? You haven't had a bath since last year?”

“Maybe the year before. Why do you ask?”

“You're stinkin' up the place. You need a bath.”

“Well now, I admit that you're a fine-looking young man. I mean, what with wearing that black outfit with all those silver geegaws and all. But if you're looking for some man to get naked and take a bath with, I have to tell you that I'm just not your type. I'm afraid you're gonna have to look somewhere else, because I'm not interested.”

At the unexpected reply from the man who was being challenged by The Concho Kid, the others in the saloon laughed. At an angry glare from the gunfighter, they choked their laughs off.

Concho turned his attention back to Clell. “Mister, that smart mouth of yours may have just bit off more than you want to chew. Do you know who you're talkin' to?”

“Yes, of course I know who I'm talking to,” Clell said.

A proud smile spread across Concho's face.

“I've run into people like you from Laramie to Laredo—young punks who think they can draw fast and shoot straight and who want to run up a reputation by adding another notch to the handle of their gun. How many notches do you have now?”

“Twelve,” The Concho Kid replied with a sneer.

“Twelve. My oh my, that's just awfully impressive. Maybe they'll put that on your tombstone. Here lies . . . what
is
your name?”

“They call me The Concho Kid.”

“You mean you don't have a regular name like everyone else in the world?”

“I'm The Concho Kid, damnit! That's all you need to know. Are you tryin' to tell me that you've never heard of me?”

“Can't say as I have,” Clell replied with a wry smile. He had heard of The Kid, but he had no intention of giving the young punk the satisfaction of knowing that. “But if that's the name you want on your tombstone, I imagine you can be obliged.”

Clell held his hand out, as if gesturing toward a tombstone. “Here lies The Concho Kid. He had twelve notches on his gun when he was killed. It's rather ironic, don't you think, that you'd get killed on your thirteenth try?”

A collective gasp of surprise erupted from the others in the saloon. Did the stranger in the dirty clothes really not know who he was talking to?

The arrogant smile left Concho's face. “What? What did you say?”

“You heard what I said, sonny. Of course, if you want to shut up now, and mind your own business, you might live long enough to get another notch someday. But I can guarantee you, boy, you aren't going to be putting another notch on that gun today. Not here, anyway.”

“Mister, I was just goin' to fun with you a little bit,” The Concho Kid said. “But now, I think I'm going to kill you. What's
your
name, anyway? I wouldn't want to kill somebody without even knowing their name.”

Clell's smile broadened, and that smile unnerved Concho, who was used to seeing fear in the faces of the men he faced.

“Well, I'm afraid I don't have a fancy name like yours. My name is—”

“Draw!” The Concho Kid shouted, his hand already dipping toward his pistol as he shouted the challenge.

His gun didn't even clear leather before a pistol appeared in Clell's hand, his draw so fast it was a blur. Clell fired once, the bullet hitting The Concho Kid in the middle of his chest.

With an expression of surprise on his face, he took a step back, dropped his own gun, then slapped his hand over the wound. Blood streamed through his fingers. “How?” he asked with a pained expression on his face. “Who?”

“Well now, Concho, that's two different questions,” Clell replied. “Which one do you want me to answer?”

It didn't matter which one he answered. The Concho Kid had crumpled to the sawdust-covered floor and lay there dead.

“What's your name, mister?” the bartender asked, shocked at what he had just seen.

“Dawson. Clell Dawson.” He put his pistol away.

Again, there was a collective gasp from the saloon patrons, for
Clell Dawson
was a name known all through the West.

“Damn,” the bartender said. “If The Kid had known that, he would have never drawn on you.”

“Yeah, he would have. That boy had a need to prove himself stuck in his craw, and he would have drawn on me if I had been his own brother.” Finishing his beer, Clell nodded at the bartender, then left the saloon, walked next door, and checked in to the hotel.

 

 

 

“Janey, you shouldn't have bought me this,” Sally said, looking at the dress spread out on the bed in her small house. “I mean, why would you do such a thing?”

“Because you're my friend, and when I saw this dress while I was in Denver, I just knew it would look so good on you. Your eyes are such a beautiful color, and this dress will make them stand out. Do try it on.”

“I really shouldn't. I mean, I've never given you anything. I feel like such a—”

“Nonsense. You
have
given me something. You've given me your friendship. That's something none of the other . . . ladies . . . of Bury have done.” Janey set the word
ladies
apart from the rest of the sentence as if questioning whether there really were any ladies in Bury.

“And why shouldn't I?” Sally said with a broad smile. “After all, you did save my life the first day I arrived in town.”

“Yes,” Janey said, returning the smile. “I did, didn't I?”

“How was your trip to Denver? You were gone for two weeks.”

“I very much enjoyed it. I got to see a play . . .
Around the World in Eighty Days
it was called . . . and oh, it was so delightful. And I saw a musical revue. I know you're from the Northeast and you're used to big cities, but for a Missouri girl like me, it was all just wonderful and fascinating. I bought so many beautiful things, not only for you, but for Flora and Emma, too, and all the other girls.”

“You are a valuable friend to have, Janey, in more ways than one,” Sally said. “I will have to do something for you, someday.”

“Like I told you, Sally, you're my friend. You know who I am and what I am, but still, you're my friend. You've already done a lot for me. Let's go so I can give away the other things.”

They walked down to the Pink House, where Janey presented her gifts to Flora and the others.

“You really shouldn't have spent so much of your money on us,” Flora protested.

Janey laughed. “It wasn't my money, it was Josh Richards's money. I told him that if he wanted me to get some papers signed for him in Denver, it was going to cost him five hundred dollars.”

“What papers did he want signed?” Flora asked.

“They were deeds of transfer—probably illegal. They probably made him ten times as much money as I made him give me.”

“Janey, why do you stay with him?” Flora wanted to know. “By your own admission, he is a crook. Someday someone is going to catch up with him.”

“I'm sure they will, someday. But for now, I intend to ride that horse for as long as it has a saddle.”

Flora laughed. “I like that, riding a horse for as long as it has a saddle.”

“I have a gift, too,” Emma announced. “I made a blackberry cobbler.”

Flora's girls squealed with delight as she began cutting it up.

“Oh, this is so good!” one of the girls said as she took a bite.

“My mother used to make blackberry cobbler,” Janey said. “My younger brother loved them. He could probably eat this whole thing by himself.”

“Your brother? You've never mentioned that you had a brother,” Flora said.

“Actually I have two of them. I think. I haven't seen either one of them in a very long time, and I have no idea where either one of them are right now, or, to be honest, even if they are still alive.”

“Oh, I'm sorry.”

“Yes, well, I'm not sure Kirby would want to see me, even if he is alive.” Janey recalled taking all the money when she left the farm. She hadn't stolen the money, at least, not in her eyes. It was supposed to have been an investment. Garner had sworn to her that he would double, even triple the money, and it had been her intention to return the money to Kirby, with interest.

But of course, that hadn't happened.

 

 

 

“Smoke, didn't you say when you were in Red Cliff that you met someone who told you the men you were looking for were in New Mexico?” Marshal Holloway asked.

“He didn't say that it was definite they were in New Mexico,” Smoke replied with a shrug. “He said he had heard that they might be down there.”

“Then I've got another job lined up that might work out well for you. I had intended to send Doodle, but when I recalled what you told me about meeting that Confederate colonel, I decided to send you. I want you to go to Salcedo.That's a little town on the Colorado and New Mexico border. After you take care of a little incident that happened there a couple days ago, you might want to take a look around to see if you can find those three men.”

Smoke smiled. “I appreciate that, Marshal. Thanks for giving me the opportunity. What is the incident you want me to take care of?”

“Well, it might a little more than just an
incident
. A few days ago a group of men broke a Mexican out of jail, then they lynched him.”

Smoke frowned. “What about the local law?”

Marshal Holloway shook his head. “Well, now, that might be a part of the problem, you see. The only thing they have for local law is a couple city marshals, and this morning I got a telegram from one of the local citizens by the name of Leroy Peyton.

“It so happens that I know Peyton. He was a judge back in Kansas before he moved out here. He had to be careful with the way he worded the telegram, but he sort of suggests that Bradford and Cassidy might have been in on it. If Peyton believes that, I'd be willing to say there might be something to it.”

Smoke had never heard of them. “Bradford and Cassidy?”

“They're the city marshals.”

“What about the county sheriff?”

“The county sheriff is more of a political position than anything else. Right now the sheriff is Roy Beck, but he's well into his seventies. There's no way he can handle this. That's why I'm sending you.”

Smoke nodded. “All right. I'll see what I can do.”

“Handle it any way you want, Smoke. Then, when it's done, you can take some time off to go into New Mexico and look around.”