Gun Country

As darkness fell across the badlands, Lowe’s men sat near a fire playing poker with a battered deck of cards that New York Joe Toledo had rummaged from the bottom of his saddlebags. Off to herself, Tuesday Bonhart sat near the fire sipping coffee from a tin cup. She wore a heavy men’s coat, but with the dingy white wool lapels hanging halfway open down her chest. Beneath it she wore one of Dexter Lowe’s wool shirts, its front hanging open in the same manner.

From the circle of cardplayers, Bell Mason shot a glance at the woman and then shook his head and said to the rest of the players, “It’s hard being this close to something that warm and wiggly and not squeeze on it a time or two, just for luck—especially the way my luck’s been running.”

“Huh,” said Toledo, hunched over the cards in his hands, “if you thinks your luck’s been bad so far, squeeze that one. You won’t believe how much worse your luck will turn.”

“I see your point,” said Mason, holding the deck in his bob-fingered jersey gloves. He licked a thumb and dealt two cards around. “But still, it’s unnatural for a man to be this close to something like her and not want to rub her all over himself.”

“Speaking of a bullet-in-the-head,” said Mason, glancing around, “where’s the drifter?”

“He’s over there, sleeping like a dead man,” said Toledo. “I’ve been keeping an eye on him. A while ago he was kicking like a dog having a running fit,” he added.

“I had a dog like that once,” said Mason. “Sonsabitch would kick and growl and carry on something awful. You couldn’t make him stop. Wake him, he’d look at you, go back to sleep and start kicking all over again.” He arranged his cards in his hand and shook his head just thinking about it.

“I says let the man sleep,” said Toledo. “The more he sleeps, the less time we got to wonder if he’s going to go nuts and start shooting.”

“I’m not if you’re not,” Toledo retorted, knowing that everybody had walked wide of the man with the thick bandage around his head, and the Colt that seemed to streak upward from its holster too fast to be seen.

“Good answer,” Mason chuckled, seeing the bested look on Hardine’s face. He adjusted the cards in his hand and concentrated on the game.

Hardine slipped three cards from his hand and dropped them onto a spread blanket. “Two . . . ,” he said.

“Look at this,” Toledo said, turning their attention toward the woman as she stood with a filled cup steaming in hand and walked away from the fire toward the spot where Shaw lay on the ground.

“Fellows, this is nothing but trouble in the brewing if Dexter Lowe finds out,” Mason said in almost a whisper.

“If she does it with this drifter, I say she has to do it with the rest of us, before Lowe returns,” said Earl Hardine.

Twenty yards away, at the outer edge of the fire’s glow, Shaw lay loosely wrapped in a ragged blanket. His saddle served as a pillow; the battered stovepipe hat lay upside down on the ground, his thrashings having discarded it from covering his face.

The pain inside his head had dissipated, but in its wake he felt a strange pressure that made him awaken with a start, as if remaining asleep would cause something vital to burst inside him. When he felt the presence of the young whore drift in between him and the thin glow of firelight, his eyes snapped open. Who—who’s there . . . ?

Shaw’s words had not been spoken aloud, but seeing his reaction caused Tuesday to stop in her tracks. She heard the click of a hammer cocking beneath the blanket. “It’s me, Fast Larry,” she said quickly but in a lowered voice. “I thought you’d want some coffee.”

“Coffee . . . ?” Shaw’s eyes searched all around, across the men at the campfire, then back to the young woman standing over him. He considered her words for a second, then replied, “Tuesday, I’m sleeping.” But his hand relaxed around the butt of the Colt beneath the ragged blanket. His thumb lowered the hammer.

“I know,” she said, “but you didn’t eat much. I saw you didn’t take any coffee. I just thought . . . well, you know.” She held the steaming cup out to him.

Shaw eased out of the blanket and sat up carefully, so as to keep his head from starting to hurt again. Touching a palm to his bandaged head, he looked over at the campfire and saw the men all turn their faces away in unison and concentrate on their cards. “Is Lowe back?” Shaw asked, having a feeling he already knew the answer.

“Obliged,” Shaw murmured, taking the cup, seeing that nothing else would do. “Let me ask you something, Tuesday,” he said. “Do you think this is a good idea, you being over here, knowing how jealous Lowe is, knowing he’s riding in any time?” He set the cup on the ground, reached over, picked up the stovepipe hat and put it on over his bandage.

“Probably not.” Tuesday smiled, letting her lapels open a little wider. “You just looked so lonesome, lying over here all by yourself. I thought I’d come see how you’re feeling.”

“I’m feeling all right, Tuesday,” Shaw said as she stooped down in front of him, allowing him to see an ample portion of her breasts behind the sheep wool lapels. He nodded toward the campfire, seeing a guard come walking into the firelight ahead of Dexter Lowe. “I think you need to get away from here.”

“Oh, shit!” Tuesday said, standing quickly, snapping the coat shut across her and even holding it closed at the top of the collar. “I just came to bring you some coffee, okay?” she whispered as if setting herself up an alibi, even though it was true as far as Shaw was concerned.

At the fire, Dexter Lowe stepped down and handed his horse’s reins to the rifleman who’d walked in with him. Upon looking over and seeing Tuesday standing over Shaw, he said to the cardplayers, “What the hell is this? What’s she doing over there?” His voice took on an accusing tone toward all of them.

The men shot one another a look. Trying to change the subject and get down to business, Toledo asked, “What’d you find out? What’s our part in things?”

“I already told Hatcher everything,” Lowe said in a testy voice, keeping his eyes on the young whore. “I’ll tell the rest of yas in a minute.”

“Yeah, he told me all right,” said Able Hatcher, the rifleman holding the reins to Lowe’s horse. Toledo and the others noted a look of disappointment on Hatcher’s beard-stubbled face.

“Oh, you’re unhappy with what we’re going to be doing?” Lowe growled at Hatcher, his hand gripped around his gun butt.

Hatcher, finding himself on dangerous ground, raised his hands chest high in a show of peace. “Whoa, I’m happy just being alive.”

“Good,” said Lowe. He faced the rest of the group and asked again, “Now, what the hell is Tuesday doing over there with that drifter?”

“She just walked over there, Dex,” said Sonny Lloyd Sheer, hoping to keep down any trouble this close to pulling off a big job. “Hasn’t been more than two minutes, right, hombres?”

“No time at all,” said Joe Toledo. There had been a time when he’d thought it might be fun watching Dexter Lowe and the drifter lock horns over the whore. But that time had passed. Now it was time to get down to business.

But Lowe would have none of it. He stomped back and forth, seething as Tuesday walked over to him. When she drew closer he shouted at her, “Can’t I be gone a day without you throwing your heels in the air for any gun-slinging drifter in sight?”

Tuesday stopped a few away and threw a hand onto her hip. She huffed and batted her eyes as if in disbelief, then shouted back to him, “Oh, I get it. You think I can’t be friends with a man without doing it with him?”

“From all I’ve seen and heard, you can’t,” Lowe snapped at her, “not if he’s got as much as two bits in his pocket.” He gestured a hand in Shaw’s direction. “Or in this man’s case, not if he’s packing a big gun, something you think can do you some good!”

Shaw sat listening from his blanket. He shook his head and sipped his coffee. Jesus, what an outfit. . . .

As Tuesday came closer to the campfire, Mason tried to direct Lowe toward business by saying, “Think maybe we ought to talk some about—”

“Stay out of this, Mason!” Lowe shouted. “I’ve had a bellyful of you as it is.” He turned back to Tuesday just in time to catch her hand before it slapped him in the face.

“Hit me? You worthless little whore!” Lowe shouted. He backhanded her to the ground and kicked at her viciously as she scooted backward away from him, screaming. “I’ll carve your heart out!” A knife appeared in his left hand as he snatched at her with his right.

Tuesday scooted backward faster, her heels digging into the ground; she screamed louder, shoving herself with the palms on her hands. “Help, he’s going to kill me!”

Shaw had seen things start to get worse. He’d already stood up and started walking toward the campfire, putting on his battered stovepipe hat and carrying his gun belt looped over his shoulder. When he saw the knife come into play, he quickened his pace.

Seeing Shaw coming, the men rose slowly and stood facing him, unsure of what might happen next, out of the drifter or Lowe, either one.

“That’s enough, Lowe,” Shaw said in a strong voice, even though the pain filled his head at the sound of his own voice.

But Lowe had lost all reasoning. He spun from Tuesday on the ground to Shaw standing before him. “You’re telling me that’s enough, Shaw?” he raged, his hand poised near the pistol on his hip. “You ragged has-been sonsabitch!”

“Yeah, I’m telling you,” Shaw said, seeing that Lowe wasn’t going to be satisfied until there was blood on the ground. “Drop the knife and back away.”

“Oh yeah?” said Lowe, his eyes wide, glistening with fury in the flicker of firelight. “I’ll drop it.” He spun back toward the downed woman. “I’ll drop it in her damned black heart—”

Before Shaw even went for the Colt in the holster hanging from his shoulder, the loud pop of a derringer resounded in Tuesday’s upstretched hand. Lowe stopped abruptly; his head jerked back to one side; a ribbon of blood uncurled in a spray from the back of his head. He crumbled to the ground at her heels; the knife flew from his limp hand.

The men stood stunned, their mouths agape, staring, at Lowe lying in an odd-looking position. He’d landed slightly on his knees, his right cheek pressed to the ground, his arms splayed out on either side, like a man who had tried unsuccessfully to fly.

“Holy God! She’s killed Dex,” said Bell Mason, who seemed to be the first to grasp the situation.

“Before he could kill her,” Shaw put in quietly. Not knowing what the men might do, he eased his Colt from the holster and kept it hanging loosely at his side, letting them know where he stood should they make a move toward the woman. “Everybody saw it. . . .”

“Yeah, but damn it . . . ,” said Toledo. Hands spread, he stared back and forth as if lost for words and looking for help.

Sonny Lloyd Sheer and Dan Sax stood staring coldly at Shaw. Shaw expected trouble from Sheer, knowing that Lowe had left him in charge. But so far so good, he thought.

“She had no choice,” said Shaw, stepping sidelong over to Tuesday without taking his eyes off the men. He reached a hand down, took hers and lifted her to her feet. Tuesday appeared to be as stunned as the men.

“I didn’t mean to kill him, Fast Larry,” she said in a voice filled with shock and disbelief. “I didn’t know what else—”

Hardine cut in and said in a voice lowered to a whisper, “I’ll be damned. What’s going on here? Last I heard, you were working for the law.”

“Do I look like I’m working for the law now?” Shaw asked, taking a threatening step forward. “I was a hired gunman long before I ever carried a badge.” He needed to take control, get back to his job and find out about Madden Corio’s upcoming job. “Do you think Dexter Lowe would have partnered with me if he thought I still worked for the law?”

“Dex knew he’d been working for the law,” Tuesday put in quickly. “He didn’t care. He told me him and Shaw were going to run the gang as partners. He just wanted to keep it a secret for a while. Of course he had no idea Shaw had been head-shot, or that he’d have a run-in with Thornton, Stobble and Mason here.” She nodded toward Bell Mason.

“Fact is,” Tuesday continued, “if Shaw hadn’t been on Lowe’s side, he’d have killed all three. As it is, this idiot killed the other two.” Again she gestured toward Bell Mason.

“Dex never told me nothing about you, Shaw,” Sheer said, sounding suspicious of the whole story.

“But he told me about you, Sonny,” said Shaw. “I’m keeping you second in charge now that Lowe’s dead, unless you want out.”

Sheer didn’t want out. He needed time to decide what he believed and didn’t believe. But meanwhile, he wanted to keep his hand in the game. He cut a glance to Dan Sax, then said to Shaw, “I’ll stick, for now. I’ve been waiting too long for this big job. I’m not cutting out now.”

The rest of the men stood staring, adding uncertainty to their shock. Finally Hatcher scratched his head up under his hat brim. “Damn, lawman . . . outlaw. I don’t know what to make of all this.”

“Make what you want of it,” Shaw said, making a bold attempt at taking over. “But right now, you best get to telling us what it was Lowe told you before he got the chance to tell me.”

The men stood in silence a moment longer and Shaw saw he was in good position. Pain pounded in his head, but he had no time to think of it. Now was the time to put matters to test and see where he stood. He reached out with the toe of his scuffed boot and shoved Lowe’s body over onto its side. To Sheer he said, “Sonny, get somebody to drag Dexter out of here, get him underground. Rock him over so the ’yotes can’t get to him.”

Sonny stared at Shaw for a moment; then he looked at Earl Hardine and Joe Toledo. “You two heard him. Get Dex drug out of here and get him buried. The quicker he’s underground, the quicker we can get down to business.”