It was early afternoon when Cray Dawson rode into town. He stayed close to the boardwalk without drawing any attention to himself and stopped his horse out front of the mercantile store. Being from Somos Santos he knew it wouldn’t be long before someone recognized either him or Stony. Keeping his head ducked, he hitched Stony’s reins and stepped up quickly onto the boardwalk and inside the store. But he hadn’t made it across the floor to the counter when the store owner, Mort Able, called out to him, saying, “Well, well, Crayton Dawson. It’s about time we heard something from you!”
There were no other customers in the store, so Dawson tipped his hat and said, “Howdy, Mort.” He pulled the folded supply list from his pocket. “I’d be much obliged if you could fill this for me while I take care of some important business.”
“Why certainly, Crayton,” said the store owner. “Anything I can help you with?”
“No, but thanks for the offer all the same,” said Dawson. He thought about something then said, “Mort, you’ve been here on the main street about as long as I can remember. Tell me something—how long would you say it takes for news to make its way from one end of the street to the other?”
Mort hesitated for a second. “Do you means news like you riding into town?”
Dawson nodded.
Mort Able rubbed his chin in contemplation. “Oh…I’d say five to ten minutes, giving that you didn’t ride in whooping and yelling.”
“That’s about what I had figured,” said Dawson. He nodded toward the rear of the store. “Do you mind if I use your back door?”
“Well, no…” Mort Able gave him a curious look, asking quietly, “You ain’t in any trouble are you?”
“No, Mort, I’m not in any trouble,” said Dawson, already headed toward the back door.
“Well, that’s good news, Crayton,” Able said. “I heard what happened to you here awhile back. It was a damned shame, that bullying punk doing what he did to you.”
Dawson stopped before reaching the back door. “I don’t suppose you might know where I would find him this time of day, do you?”
“Henry Snead? Ha!” said Mort Able. “He’s the same place he’s been all day…over at the Silver Seven. I was there less than an hour ago, getting me a beer. Henry was bragging to Gains Bouchard and a couple of his Double D cowboys about how he beat you up.”
“He was telling that story to Bouchard and his men?” Dawson asked.
“He sure was…and I could tell they didn’t like hearing it one bit,” said Able.
Dawson smiled. “That’s good to know, Mort.” He looked around and saw a keg filled with hickory ax handles. “Mind if I borrow one of these?”
“No, sir,” said the store owner, a sly grin coming to his face. “You just help yourself…and if you break it, just consider it on the house.”
“Thanks,” said Dawson, picking up one of the handles and heading out the back door.
As soon as the rear door closed, Mort Able snatched his clerk’s apron from around his waist and hurried to the front door, grabbing his bowler hat from a peg on the wall. Quickly he flipped a sign around in his glass door, turning it from OPEN to CLOSED with a flick of his wrist. Then he hurried out, slamming the door behind him, and heading for the boardwalk directly across the street from the Silver Seven Saloon.
Inside the saloon, Henry Snead stood with his back against the bar, a froth-capped mug of beer in his right hand, his tight shirtsleeves rolled up high enough to show his thick muscles. Gathered around him a few local drinkers had been listening closely to his version of the fight between himself and Cray Dawson. At the far end of the bar stood Gains Bouchard and his drovers, staring at Snead with expressions that showed little appreciation for his story. Beside Bouchard, Sandy Edelman clamped a hand firmly on Stanley Grubs’s right forearm to keep him from jerking his pistol from his holster and going toward Snead.
“Let it lay, Stanley,” Edelman said in a private tone. “You heard what the boss told the councilmen. We ain’t starting no trouble.”
“Cray Dawson has always been on the square with me,” said Grubs, relenting, but glaring at Snead with contempt. “I don’t like listening to this fool lie about whipping him.”
Nor do I, Stanley,” Gains Bouchard cut in, speaking barely above a whisper. “But it’s a plain simple fact that this turd sent Dawson out of here on his belly. Until Dawson changes the outcome, that is how things stand, whether we all like it or not.”
“Damn it!” Grubs growled. He spat a stream of tobacco into a brass spittoon and ran a hand across his mouth. Beside him, Jimmie Turner and Mike Cassidy nodded in agreement with him and sipped their whiskey, glowering at Henry Snead as he continued his fight story.
Finally Mike Cassidy said, “You boys listen to this horse shit if it suits you…I’m going upstairs and grab the first whore who shows her face.”
“Hell, yes,” said Jimmie Turner, setting his empty whiskey glass on the bar. “That move has my name written all over it.” The two shoved away from the bar and climbed the stairs. No sooner than they had disappeared behind two separate doors, an old man stuck his head inside the saloon and called out, “Crayton Dawson is in town! I just now got the word! He’s coming this way!”
Henry Snead stopped his story, saying to the gathered drinkers, “You gentlemen will have to excuse me. I better get out to the street. It appears I might have to whip this man all over again.” He grinned with a feigned sigh. “Some people never learn.” He unbuckled his gun belt and laid it up on the bar. Turning in a slow circle with his arms raised, he said, “I want everybody here to witness the fact that I am unarmed.”
Having heard the old man shout from the doorway, Martin Lematte stepped in from the back room and looked back and forth, saying, “Did I hear that Crayton Dawson is in town?”
“So the man said,” Henry Snead called out to him. “But don’t worry, this will only take a minute.”
At the end of the bar, Gains Bouchard gave his men a nod. They turned as one, walked out the rear door of the saloon and hurried along the alley back out to the street. They arrived in time to see Henry Snead step down off the boardwalk and face Cray Dawson from less than ten feet away. The saloon emptied, men shuffling along the boardwalk for a good view. Others gathered around in a half circle in the dirt street. Lematte’s deputies appeared from every direction. They gave Lematte a glance, looking for some direction from him as he stepped out onto the boardwalk.
Lematte spotted Gains Bouchard and his drovers spreading out behind the crowd. Realizing where Bouchard’s loyalties would lie, Lematte shook his head slightly, signaling his deputies to stay out of it. At a window above the saloon, Mike Cassidy stood looking down without his shirt on. Behind him, Miami Jones peeped over his shoulder, then said, “Come on, cowboy, what’s it going to be, me or a street fight?”
Cassidy reached around, grabbed his gun belt, and threw it around his waist. “Keep it warm for me, Ma’am. I best get on down there.”
Following him out the door of the room, Miami met Suzzette coming along the hallway. “What’s all the commotion outside?” Suzzette asked, stepping into Miami’s room, toward the open window.
“I don’t know,” said Miami. “A fight of some sort.” She reached out to close the curtains, but Suzzette looked down and caught a glimpse of Cray Dawson.
“Wait!” Suzzette gasped, grabbing Miami’s arm.
“Not you too!” Miami laughed. But she stopped laughing when she saw the look on Suzzette’s face. “Oh, I see…you know this man, don’t you?”
“Yes,” said Suzzette, her voice hushed and without breath in it.
“Uh-oh,” said Miami, looking closely at her. “I mean you really know this man.”
On the street, Henry Snead hooked both thumbs in his belt, liking all the attention that he felt focused on him. “Well, well now,” he said, grinning, standing firm as Cray Dawson took a step forward, closing the distance between them. “I see you brought along an equalizer.” He nodded at the ax handle in Dawson’s fist. “I hope you don’t think I’m going to give you the advantage of—”
His words stopped in his mouth. He heard the ax handle slice through the air, but before he could see it or make any attempt to get out of its way, his jaw exploded. The impact of the blow sent his head flying sideways, but then the ax handle sliced the air again, this time catching the other side of his jaw and sending his head swinging in the opposite direction. A wincing moan rose from the crowd. Snead tried to shake his batted head and come forward, his fists raised as if to protect his face and do battle. “Come on!” he bellowed, managing to steady himself on wobbly feet. “I ain’t hurt!”
But now the ax handle paid no attention to Henry’s face. The exploding he’d felt in his jaw had moved down to his knee. He crumbled straight down and rocked back and forth, addled, unable to fight, unable to fall.
Cray Dawson took his time now, stepping a bit to one side and looking around at the deputies as he spoke. “Anybody who knows me, knows that Somos Santos is my home,” Dawson called out to the crowd, focusing on Lematte and his deputies. “I want to be able to come here without any trouble from anybody.” The ax handle streaked through the air and struck Snead across the small of his back. Snead snapped upright, then started to fall slowly forward.
“You all know that I live with a woman right out there off the Old Spanish Trail,” said Dawson, giving a nod out across the rocky land. With a quick step forward, he swung the handle again, this time stooping slightly to make certain it hit Henry Snead just below his ribs, sending a gush of air from his bloody mouth. “I won’t tolerate anybody coming around uninvited.” Snead’s gold tooth hit the dirt at Dawson’s feet.
“We’re putting a stop to this,” said one of the deputies. But before he made a move, a pistol barrel nudged against the side of his cheekbone. Mike Cassidy stood bare-chested beside him.
“You’re not going to do anything but behave yourself,” Cassidy warned him, cocking the pistol.
In the dirt Snead buckled forward, his arms wrapped around his stomach, his cheek on the ground, his behind in the air. Dawson raised his boot and shoved the helpless man over onto his side. Snead groaned pitifully. “Does everybody here understand what I’m saying?” said Dawson. He looked back and forth at the faces of the deputies, the cowboys, and the townsmen. A silence set in. The only sound on the street was that of Snead groaning. Cray Dawson pitched the ax handle atop Henry Snead with disregard and walked to where Martin Lematte stood with his cigar in his mouth.
“Sheriff Lematte,” said Dawson, “I want to report a robbery.”
“A robbery?” Lematte looked surprised, and worried.
“That’s right,” said Dawson. “The last time I was in Somos Santos I had four hundred and eighty dollars in my shirt pocket. After I left the Silver Seven it was missing.” His gaze narrowed and riveted on Lematte. “I’m counting on you and your deputies clearing this thing up for me. I’m getting my money back before I leave town this evening.”
Lematte looked stunned. “Dawson, I hope you don’t think I had anything to do with Snead doing what he did to you here the other day!”
“He’s wearing a deputy’s badge,” Dawson said firmly. “He’s one of your boys.”
Karl Nolly cut in, saying, “That’s right, Snead is a deputy, Dawson! That means you just beat the hell out of a deputized lawman!”
“Nolly! Shut up!” Lematte demanded. He looked past Dawson at the crowd growing closer around them. “Everybody break it up now!” he shouted. “Go on home! There’s nothing else to see here!”
“About that money, Lematte,” Dawson said flatly.
“I’ve been hoping you’d show up, Dawson,” said Lematte. “I want to talk to you about that money.”
“I’m here,” said Dawson. “Start talking.”
“Excuse me just a second,” said Lematte. As the townsmen drifted away, leaving only the deputies and Gains Bouchard and his drovers, Lematte turned from Dawson and called out to two men who were dragging Snead out of the street. “As soon as that bum is able to ride,” said Lematte, “stick him on a horse and run him out of here.”
Turning back to Dawson, Lematte said, “I hope you never thought that I had anything to do with what happened to you in the Silver Seven.”
“The thought never entered my mind,” Dawson said with a trace of sarcasm.
“Good,” said Lematte. “I’d like for you and me to be friends, Dawson.”
“What about that money?” said Dawson.
Lematte stared at him for a moment, seeing that he wasn’t going to let up on the subject. “All right, Dawson,” he said. “It just happens that someone found a handful of dollars in the street the night after you left here. I counted it and it came to exactly four hundred and eighty dollars. If you say it’s yours, feel free to pick it up at my office.” He nodded toward the sheriff’s office down the street, where a large wooden star hung above the door.
“I will,” said Dawson.
“But I meant what I told you,” said Lematte. “I do want us to be friends. There’s a lot we could do for this town, working side by side, Dawson.”
“I doubt it,” said Dawson. He glanced around at the faces of Bouchard and his drovers, giving Bouchard a look that said everything was under control.
Gains Bouchard jerked his head toward the saloon, saying to his men, “Come on, boys, I’m going to set us all up a drink.” He said to Dawson as he and his men moved toward the Silver Seven Saloon, “Crayton, you’ve got one coming too, soon as you can join us.”
“Obliged, Mister Bouchard,” said Dawson.
“Don’t turn me down without even thinking about it,” Lematte said to Dawson.
“I already have turned you down,” Dawson replied.
“But surely there’s something I can do to change your mind, Dawson,” Lematte coaxed.
“I’ll be by to pick up my money,” said Dawson. He started to turn away. But he stopped abruptly at the sight of Suzzette standing on the boardwalk out front of the saloon. Their eyes met and Suzzette offered a slight smile.
Lematte saw the way they looked at one another and said quickly, “Dawson, that’s Suzzette…one of my new girls. I bet you and she would hit it right off. She’s a Texas gal. Quite a looker if I might say so.”
“Suzzette…” Dawson murmured almost to himself, still surprised at seeing her in Somos Santos.
“That’s right, Suzzette,” said Lematte, misreading the look on Dawson’s face. “Go on over and say howdy to her.” He grinned and called out to Suzzette, “Sweetheart, I’ve got somebody here I want you to meet. Why don’t you take him upstairs and pour him a private drink.”
Cray Dawson just looked at Lematte, speechless.
Lematte slapped him on the back, saying, “Well, go on, Dawson. What are you waiting for? This one is on the house. Call it an offer of friendship from me to you.” He leaned closer to Dawson and said, “And don’t worry about your money; it’ll be waiting for you at my office. Come get it when you please.”
Cray Dawson walked to the boardwalk slowly, not taking his eyes off of Suzzette.
Beside Lematte, Karl Nolly said, “Sheriff, I don’t like this a bit. These two act like they know one another.”
“Maybe that’s good,” Lematte replied in a lowered voice. “This whore might have come along at just the right time. Snoop around some. If you find out there’s anything between them, let me know first.”
“What are you thinking, Sheriff?” asked Nolly.
“You saw what was going here,” said Lematte, “the way Bouchard and the Double D boys were ready to back Dawson’s play? We can’t afford to have all of them against us, not if we’re going to run this town the way we want to.” He dropped the cigar to the ground and crushed it under his boot heel. “They’ve all just about worn out their welcome with me.”
“Cleveland Ellis and Moon Braden said they’re both itching to take Dawson on,” said Nolly. “Think we ought to sic them on him, see if they might get lucky?”
“Sic them on him,” said Lematte. “Just make sure he doesn’t see that it’s us standing behind them.”