Gunman's Song by Ralph Cotton Page A

it now.”
    Dawson stared at him in the darkness. “Have you got any better ideas?”
    â€œAny idea beats that one.” Shaw’s head seemed to have suddenly shaken itself free of the whiskey. He swung the gun belt from his shoulder and slung it around his waist and buckled it, all in one smooth motion. Dawson saw him bend slightly and tie his holster down. “We’re going to back these horses off into the rocks the first place we find that looks right. Then we’re going to build a fire and make ourselves some coffee. We’ll be sitting on a ridgeline when they get here. We’ll make sure we’re looking down on thetrail, where we see a good ways, and keep them from sneaking in on us. How does that sound to you?”
    Dawson considered it and said, “I hope there’s more to it.”
    Shaw chuckled under his breath. “You always was one for details.” Then he said as he drew his Colt and checked and spun it back and forth in the darkness, “We’ll tell them who they’re up against and offer not to kill a bunch of them if they turn away and ride on.”
    â€œDamn it,” said Dawson, “I was afraid you would say something like that. What are we going to do if they don’t believe we can kill a bunch of them?”
    As they spoke Shaw had walked away a few feet from where Della slept on the blanket. He lifted his gun belt enough to open his trousers. “Then I expect we will kill a bunch of them…the rest of them will get the point and ride on.” He began to relieve himself.
    Dawson shook his head, but reminded himself that this was the way Shaw had always done things—with bold deliberation. “I’ll get the others,” he said. “Think I ought to give Caldwell a gun?”
    â€œGive him a gun,” said Shaw, “but keep an eye on him.”
    â€œThat goes without saying,” said Cray Dawson, sounding a bit irritated that Shaw thought he had to remind him of something so simple.
    â€œThen why did you ask?” said Shaw.
    â€œNever mind,” said Dawson, realizing this wasn’t worth explaining and discussing right then. He turned and hurried back to where Caldwell and Frome lay snoring with the blanket pulled tight across themselves.
    When he had awakened them and told them what was going on, the two hurriedly arose and began gathering the horses and mules.
    â€œI thought you said they would be satisfied with the wagon and wouldn’t come after us,” said Caldwell, as if Dawson had somehow let him down.
    â€œI was wrong, Caldwell,” Dawson said. “Do you want to stop and talk about it, or get ready to defend ourselves when they get up here?”
    â€œDefend ourselves?” Caldwell said, both he and Dillard Frome stopping cold and looking at Dawson. “Aren’t we going to make a run for it? Like we did last night?”
    â€œLast night was different,” said Dawson, finding himself defending Shaw’s idea of making a stand. “We had no cover. Now that we’ve got some rocks for protection and have taken some higher ground, we don’t want to let these Comancheros chase us into Eagle Pass with our tails between our legs, do we?” Dawson was surprised to hear himself talking a lot like Shaw.
    â€œWell, yeah,” said Dillard Frome, scratching his bald head in the darkness. “I don’t care what the folks at Eagle Pass think of me. Far as I’m concerned, a good run beats a bad stand every time around the track.”
    â€œBut we’re not going to make a
bad
stand,” Dawson heard himself say. “Now let’s get these animals gathered and get going.”
    Shortly after dawn the first Comanchero scout rode slowly up the winding trail and had to visor a hand above his eyes to look up into the sun at the rise of smoke from the campfire. Perched atop a ridgelinetwenty feet above him, Lawrence Shaw and Cray Dawson sat at the