Gunman's Song Read Free

“Can I say something?”
    â€œSay what suits you, Cray,” said Shaw.
    â€œI believe your reputation kept Bratcher and his posse from going any farther. For all anybody knew this bunch could have been aiming to kill you. Once the posse realized these men were bold enough to come looking for a big gun like you, it more or less took some of their bark off.”
    â€œSo the posse men were afraid of them,” said Shaw.
    â€œThat, and the fact that it looked like they were headed for the border,” said Dawson. “Not manylawmen want to cross that water. You know how that goes.”
    â€œYep,” said Lawrence Shaw, “I know how that goes.”
    They started to step onto the boardwalk out front of the Ace High Saloon when a voice called out twenty yards away, “Shaw! Fast Larry Shaw! I’ve been looking for you.”
    Shaw and Cray Dawson turned, facing the young gunman who stood taking off a pair of leather gloves by loosening one finger at a time. Beside him stood a shorter young man wearing a tattered brown bowler hat. He took the young gunman’s gloves and backed away.
    â€œWant me to go get Sheriff Bratcher?” Dawson asked.
    â€œIt never changes anything,” Shaw said absently, keeping his eyes on the gunman, at the same time looking past him and from side to side, making sure nobody was hidden with a rifle just for backup. “The sheriff can’t stop it.”
    â€œNo,” said Cray Dawson, “I meant to witness it, make sure you don’t get accused of any wrongdoing.”
    â€œWrongdoing…I never get accused,” said Shaw, raising a hand slowly, pressing Dawson farther away from him. Dawson took the hint and moved back on his own.
    â€œWhat is it, mister?” Shaw replied to the gunman, already stepping slowly sideways to the middle of the street.
    â€œYou know what it is, Shaw,” said the man. “It’s five thousand dollars. That’s what it is.”
    â€œDang!” Cray Dawson whispered, “five thousand dollars?”
    Shaw answered the young gunman. “That’ll get you into the ground real proper with a lot left over. But it’s your call.”
    From inside the Ace High Saloon the old sheriff had heard the young gunman call out Shaw’s name. He stepped out through the saloon doors with his hand on a big Walker Colt holstered on his hip. Beside him stood a young deputy with a tin badge drooping down from his sagging shirt pocket. The deputy raised a sawed-off shotgun with his thumb lying across the hammer. “I know what it is too,” Sheriff Bratcher called out to both gunmen, “And I ain’t having it. You want to get Shaw to kill you, take it somewhere away from Somos Santos.” As soon as Sheriff Bratcher spoke, he turned to the deputy and said in a lowered tone, “Freddie, get out from under me. Spread out along that boardwalk where you can do me some good. I hate for one shot to kill us both.”
    â€œHowdy, Sheriff Bratcher,” Shaw said from the middle of the street without taking his eyes off the gunman.
    â€œHowdy, Shaw,” said Sheriff Bratcher. “I see you’ve brought more trouble to my town.”
    â€œI didn’t bring it, Sheriff; it was here waiting for me,” Shaw said.
    â€œI notice you didn’t try talking him out of it, though,” said Bratcher.
    â€œI figured that was your job, Sheriff,” said Shaw. “I won’t kill him here in Somos Santos if I can keep from it.”
    â€œI got news for you, Fast Larry,” the young gunman called out, “you ain’t killing me nowhere, nohow. So let’s get ’em pulled.”
    â€œYou heard the sheriff, mister,” said Shaw. “He said no gunfighting here.”
    â€œTo hell with him,” said the young man. “He can’t stop it.”
    â€œWhoa, now that’s not using your head,” said Shaw. “We pull iron, the sheriff