Gun Country

At the saloon, Shaw stood with his head bowed, his hat off and lying atop the bar. A full shot glass and the bottle of whiskey stood before him. The old liveryman stood looking out the dusty window toward the livery barn where the gunmen had gathered in the silvery-gray morning light.

A few townsfolk looked on through cracks in ragged curtains and from partly opened doors. Behind the bar the bartender said to Shaw in a quiet voice, “I expect that must hurt something fierce.”

“That’s what everybody says,” Shaw replied. He sipped the whiskey without raising his head.

A moment of tense silence passed, and then the bartender ventured, “Well . . . does it?”

“I have no idea,” Shaw said, not wanting to get into the particulars of the incident. He had, in fact, a real good idea who had shot him, but it wasn’t the sort of information he wanted to share with anyone, especially a bartender.

“Damn, J.W.,” said Radler, turning from the dusty window and looking over at the bar. “Can’t you see my friend here is in pain, and doesn’t want to jaw about how it happened, who done it or nothing else?”

“Well, you’re going to have plenty of time to make conversation soon as Dexter Lowe and his gun-monkeys get here,” said the liveryman. He looked at Shaw as he walked over and stood beside him at the bar. “I except you will too, pard,” he said in a softer tone, realizing Shaw’s pain. “Is there anything I can do for you before they come barging in?”

“Naw,” Shaw said, his head still lowered. “You might want to get out of here. Things could get dangerous here any minute.”

The bartender rolled his eyes upward a bit, as if realizing that Lowe and his men were going to make short work of this wounded stranger.

“I ain’t worried about it,” said Radler. He gave a short devilish grin. “This town has been bullied around by these gunmen long enough. It’s time somebody stood up to them.”

“What I mean is, somebody who’s as tough as they are, which I’m betting you are, Mister . . . ?” He let his words trail, hoping for an introduction. But none came.

“One man against Lowe and his killers?” said the bartender. Again he rolled his eyes slightly at the improbably of it.

Raising his head enough to look across the bar at the bartender, Shaw asked, “Do you have a clean bar towel I can cut a couple strips out of?”

“You mean for a fresh bandage?” the bartender asked, eyeing the dirt- and bloodstained wrapping on Shaw’s head. Even as he asked he reached under the bar and produced a clean, neatly folded bar towel.

“No,” Shaw said grudgingly, not wanting to talk and further encourage the pain inside his wounded head. He bit down on an edge of the towel and ripped a strip off as the two men watched.

“I get it,” said Radler, watching Shaw rip the strips in half, then into the two smaller strips that he rolled into tight little balls. “Loud noise makes your head hurt worse, does it?”

“That’s right, Radler,” said Shaw. He stuck one cloth ball into his right ear and laid the other on the bar near his left hand. He slid the bar towel back to the bartender. “Obliged,” he said.

“Obliged . . . ?” The bartender just looked at the ragged-edged towel. “Hell, you’ve ruined it.”

“Dang it, J.W.,” said Radler, “Why do I have to keep reminding you how bad my pard here is hurting?”

“Yeah, but still,” said the bartender, fingering the now worthless towel, “towels don’t come free to me.”

“I’ll pay you for it,” Shaw said quietly. He reached into his vest pocket for a coin.

But J.W., who had been studying Shaw’s face, finally found a spark of recognition. “Did I ever see you in Somos Santos, Texas, Mister?”

“It’s possible,” said Shaw, laying a coin on the bar top. “I’m from there.”

“Oh, Jesus!” said the bartender, realizing who he’d been talking to these past few minutes. He backed away, snatched a derby hat from a wall peg and jammed it down onto his head on his way out from behind the bar.

“Never mind, it’s on the house!” said the bartender, sounding shaken by his recognition of Shaw. “So’s everything else right now. I’m closing!” He hurried toward the rear door, snatching his coat from a wall peg on his way.

“Closing . . . ?” Radler called out. “What the hell’s got into you, J.W.? There’s fixing to be a gunfight here.”

“Nothing’s got into me,” said J.W. “I’m skedaddling out of here before the trouble starts! If you’ve got any sense, Radler, so will you!” he added. Without slowing down to wait for the old liveryman, he swung open the rear door, stepped out and slammed the door behind himself.

“What the hell got him so rattled?” Radler asked, dumbfounded. “I know he’s seen his share of fighting in here, guns, knives or bare knuckles.”

Shaw nodded toward the rear door. “Why don’t you go too?” he said softly but with finality.

“Huh?” Radler looked surprised. “What if you need some help? J.W. keeps a short-barreled twelve under the bar. I can get it and see to it everything—”

Shaw raised a hand, cutting him off. “You want to help? There’ll be a couple of lawmen coming before long. Tell them you saw me.” He didn’t want to reveal any more than he had to to get a message to Dawson and Caldwell.

“You mean you want me to sic the law on you?” Radler asked, looking puzzled. “I mean, that is, if you still, you know . . .”

“Obliged, but I’ll be all right,” Shaw said with quiet confidence, cutting him off again. He gave a stiff gesture toward the rear door. “Go on, get out of here.”

When Dexter Lowe and his men reached the street in front of the saloon, the morning gray had begun to lift beneath the first rays of sunlight. The wind from the desert had died down to a lower whir as it moved off across the dusty sand basin like some large retreating beast. Earl Hardine stayed at the livery barn, looking around.

“Hey, in the saloon, lawdogs, bounty hunters, whatever you are!” Lowe shouted, flanked by Sonny Lloyd and New York Joe Toledo. “Are you going to come out or are we going to come in and get you?” Off to their right a serious-looking gunman named Dan Sax stood with a rifle poised and ready. Behind Lowe stood the half-naked young whore.

“There’s only one of me in here,” Shaw called out from inside the otherwise empty saloon. “I’m not coming out. If you want me, come on in.”

“By hell we will come in there,” said Lowe. “It makes us no difference. You don’t shoot three of my men and expect not to pay the reaper for it.”

“I didn’t shoot any of your men,” Shaw called out, his own voice accelerating his pain. “I only swatted their lights out with a shovel.”

On his other side, New York Joe Toledo said in his deep, growling voice, “We all heard the shots, Dex. Besides, I’ve never seen a swat from a shovel leave a man spitting up his busted lungs.” He raised his voice toward the saloon. “This man is a lying no-good sonsabitch. He shot these three! Now you’ve got to answer for it. You hear me in there?”

“I hear you,” said Shaw, “but you’re dead wrong. I didn’t shoot those men.”

Shaw didn’t answer. Instead he grimaced in pain and kneaded his temples with both hands. “What the hell do I care?” he said under his breath.

Back in the direction of the livery barn, Earl Hardine called out, “Dex, wait! I’ve got Mason here! He ain’t shot. He’s just been knocked cold!”

“What the hell’s this?” Lowe said to no one in particular. He watched Hardine help Mason stagger along the middle of the street toward him.

When the two stopped in front of him, Earl Hardine said, “He’s got a knot the size of a melon the back of his head. His gun was lying in the dirt empty. It was still smoking some when I got there.”

“Yeah, I saw him. He’s dead,” said Hardine. “Shot all to hell . . . got a chest full of splinters too. His gun was fully loaded.”

“Yep,” said Hardine. “It looked like he was shot through the rear barn door. It’s full of bullet holes too.”

“You’re saying Mason here was the one doing the shooting?” Lowe asked pointedly, looking Mason up and down curiously.

“It sure looks that way,” said Hardine, Mason standing half knocked out, his arm looped around his shoulder. “I haven’t gotten much sense out of this knocked-out sonsabitch yet.” He shook the dazed gunman a little as he spoke. “See what I mean?”

“Yeah, I see,” Lowe said skeptically. “Hey, Mason, wake up!” he shouted, roughly slapping the groggy gunman’s face back and forth. A long string of drool swung down from his lips to his chin. “Tell us what the hell happened back there. Did you get spooked and shoot Thornton and Stobble?”

Mason’s lowered head bobbed a little. “He can’t hear you, Dex,” said Hardine with sarcasm.

“I can fix that,” said Lowe. He jammed his pistol barrel up under Mason’s chin and cocked the hammer. “Here’s how it goes, Bell. You either straighten up right now, or I’m sending you on the longest journey of your worthless life.”

“Don’t shoot him, Dex, please!” said the half-naked young whore. She stood cringing behind him with her hands over her ears.

“Wait—wait a minute, Dex,” said Mason as if through a foggy veil. “I’m coming around some. I’m just having trouble staying awake and talking.”

Hearing the grogginess in Mason’s voice, Dex gritted his teeth and said, “Adios, Bell, I’ve got no time for the weak and afflicted.” He jammed the barrel tighter as if to pull the trigger.

“No, please, Dex!” Mason said in a frightened but more coherent voice. “I’m all right, look!” He opened his eyes wide above his swollen crooked nose. “I was just knocked out for a while is all!”

“Look, Earl, we’re seeing a miracle here,” said Lowe with a bitter twist to his voice. He gave Mason a rough shake. “You better tell me what the hell happened back there and make it quick.”

“It all went crazy, Dex, I swear to God,” said Mason in a frightened whimper. “This man had already done something to Stopple and Thornton, I just didn’t know what! For all I knew he’d slit their throats. I was alone. He slammed the door! I started shooting. But I never shot Thornton or Stobble, I’m damned positive!”

“You could’ve held your fire and kept the yellow from running down your leg,” New York Joe Toledo put in, standing a few feet away listening.

“There was three of us,” said Mason. “He had already put the other two out of action. Damn it, Joe! I’d already seen that Thornton and Stopple couldn’t do nothing against him.” He paused, then lied, “I heard shooting. Shooting back was the only natural thing to do!”

“Son of a bitch . . . ,” Lowe growled. He stared away from Mason and Toledo, toward the saloon, as early sunlight peeped over the distant horizon. “You in there,” he demanded, after a moment of serious consideration. “Get on out here. We’ve got some talking to do.”

Realizing that whoever was in the saloon wasn’t about to take any orders from him, Lowe let out a breath and said, “All right, stay where you are. We’re coming in. But we’re not coming in shooting.” As he spoke he holstered his Colt and drew his hands up chest high. “I want to talk.” He paused, then asked, “All right? After all, I’ve got two of my men dead and one knocked half senseless.”

There was a moment of tense silence as Lowe and his men looked back and forth at one another.

“Suit yourself,” Shaw finally called out, his pain increasing with every word he spoke.

“All right now,” Lowe said quietly to those around him. “Everybody be ready for a signal from me once I see who this is, and what we need to do about him. Like as not I’m still going to kill him.”