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  SURROUNDED

  His words cut short as a rifle shot exploded from a ridgeline above them. The shot ricocheted off a rock and whined upward an inch from Jewel Higgs’s ear. “Jesus!” Higgs shouted. His horse spooked and reared high as he ducked away from the whistling bullet.

  Joe Poole snatched for his pistol with one hand as he tried to settle his horse with his other. Above them, a succession of rifle shots exploded, kicking up dirt and loose rock around the hooves of the already spooked horses.

  “Run for it!” screamed Eddie Grafe. “They’ve got us surrounded!”

  Twenty yards above the trail, Cray Dawson stood up, watching the gunmen race their terrified horses along the widening trail toward Somos Santos. Dust billowed high in their wake. Dawson raised his rifle to his shoulder….

  BETWEEN

  HELL AND

  TEXAS

  Ralph Cotton

  A SIGNET BOOK

  SIGNET

  Published by New American Library, a division of

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street,

  New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.

  Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand,

  London WC2R 0RL, England

  Penguin Books Australia Ltd, 250 Camberwell Road,

  Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia

  Penguin Books Canada Ltd, 10 Alcorn Avenue,

  Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4V 3B2

  Penguin Books (N.Z.) Ltd, Cnr Rosedale and Airborne Roads,

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  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices:

  80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  First published by Signet, an imprint of New American Library,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  First Printing, March 2004

  Copyright © Ralph Cotton, 2004

  All rights reserved

  ISBN: 978-1-101-65084-4

  REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCAREGISTRADA

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  BOOKS ARE AVAILABLE AT QUANTITY DISCOUNTS WHEN USED TO PROMOTE PRODUCTS OR SERVICES. FOR INFORMATION PLEASE WRITE TO PREMIUM MARKETING DIVISION, PENGUIN GROUP (USA) INC., 375 HUDSON STREET, NEW YORK, NEW YORK 10014.

  The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  For Mary Lynn…of course.

  Table of Contents

  Part 1

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Part 2

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Part 3

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  About the Author

  PART 1

  Chapter 1

  Cray Dawson had taken a partial load of buckshot in the back of his shoulder the day he and Lawrence Shaw killed Barton Talbert and his gang on the streets of Brakett Flats. But the pellets were small and it only took the town doctor a few minutes to remove them with a pair of long tweezers and the point of a sharp surgery blade. Within three days both Dawson and Shaw stepped up into their saddles, ready to ride away. The third man who had stood with them in the Talbert shootout, a young undertaker by the name of Jedson Caldwell, had already left town, headed for New Orleans he’d said. Lawrence Shaw hadn’t made it clear where he might be headed, but for Dawson the decision came easy. He’d said all along that once the Talbert Gang had been taken down he would head back home. Home being Somos Santos, Texas.

  “Tell anybody who needs to know that it’ll be a while before I get back there,” said Lawrence Shaw.

  “I’ll tell her,” said Dawson, giving Shaw a look. He knew Shaw was referring to Carmelita, the sister of Shaw’s dead wife, Rosa.

  “She needs to go on back to her people,” said Shaw.

  “I’ll tell her that too,” said Dawson.

  “Obliged. Watch your backside, Pard,” Lawrence Shaw told him, the two of them stepping their mounts back from the hitch rail. “You’re going to find life a little different now that you’ve gained a reputation as a big gun.” Shaw gave him a flat smile.

  “I’m not a big gun,” said Dawson. “Gunfighting’s over for me. All I want is a front porch facing south.” He touched his fingers to his hat brim, watching Lawrence Shaw do the same, Shaw having to raise his arm slightly from a sling to do it.

  “We’ll see, amigo,” Shaw said in parting. “Reputations are like guns; they’re easier to pick up than they are to put down.” Then he raised a glance to the southwest, where a black cloud boiled low on the distant horizon. “Got a storm coming…un tormenta Mexicana.”

  “It’ll pass,” said Dawson. “Adios, Shaw.”

  But for the rest of the day the storm pounded Dawson as he made his way toward the Quemado Valley, taking higher paths above rising creeks and run-off water. At a railroad settlement he stopped in the late afternoon and took dry shelter with a six-man survey crew that’d been mapping a route through the hillsides. After introducing himself to the surveyors he sat down with them and ate a plate of beans and salt pork. Then he sipped a steaming cup of coffee, feeling their questioning eyes upon him until finally he asked the leader, a fellow from Ohio named Robert Daniels, “Is there something on your mind, Mister Daniels?”

  Daniels looked stunned at first, but then he let out a breath and said with a red face, “Well, yes, there is, if you don’t mind me asking. Are you the Crayton Dawson who had the shootout with the Talberts in Brakett Flats?”

  It had already started, Dawson reminded himself. “Yes, I am,” he said reluctantly, going back to the coffee; raising it to his lips hoping the questions would stop there. But he knew that wouldn’t be the case.

  “My goodness, Mister Dawson!” said Daniels, pulling his wire-rim spectacles down the bridge of his nose, taking a closer look at Dawson above the thick lenses. “It certainly is an honor meeting you…we heard all about the fight. And we heard how you had also shot three gunmen over in Turkey Creek!”

  Dawson said quietly, “Two of those men I shot in Turkey Creek weren’t involved in the gunplay. One got shot by a secondhand bullet, the other was a pard of his who drew on me. I wish I hadn’t shot him. But I can’t change it.”

  “Well,” said Daniels, as if he hadn’t heard a word about the particulars surrounding the shooting, “it takes nerves of iron to face even one man with a gun, I’m sure, let alone two or three!” He nodded at the other surveyors for support.

  They nodded in agreement. One asked, “What
was it like standing side by side with Fast Larry Shaw?”

  “I’d known Shaw for years,” said Dawson. “We grew up together in Somos Santos, rode herd together soon as we were big enough to lift a rope. So I reckon I never gave it much thought, riding with him this time.”

  “My goodness,” said Daniels, repeating himself, “you rode a vengeance trail with the fastest gun alive and thought nothing of it! That in itself says a lot about you. You are quite a gunman, sir, and I salute you. Indeed, we all salute you, right fellows?”

  Heads nodded vigorously.

  “With all respect, Mister Daniels,” said Cray Dawson, “I’m no gunman. I’m just a regular fellow who joined a friend in search of the men who killed his wife. We found them, and we held them accountable for what they did. Now it’s over and I’m headed home. This time next month I’ll probably be sticking green horses or watching cattle swat flies off their rumps.”

  “Mister Dawson, I’m sure you are much too modest,” said Daniels.

  The surveyors nodded in unison again. This time their eyes fixed intently on Dawson, awaiting his response.

  But Cray Dawson made no reply. He finished his coffee and sat in silence for a moment, staring into the empty cup. “Well…” Then he stood up, set the empty coffee cup on a shelf and said, “Much obliged for the coffee and food. I’ll take my leave now.”

  “But, Mister Dawson,” said Daniels, “it’s still storming something awful out there. You’re welcome to spend the night. We’d be greatly honored to say a famous gunman like you stayed here in the rail camp. You’ll likely find nothing but floods and washouts twixt here and the Quemado Valley.”

  “Thanks all the same,” said Dawson, “I best get on.”

  To avoid answering questions that held no meaning to him and discussing events he’d sooner forget, Cray Dawson rode his horse up a narrow, mud-slick path and made a camp in the deep shelter of a cliff overhang. At length, the fury of the storm passed, but in its wake heavy rain fell straight down with no sign of letup. Across the wide belly of the valley churning water rushed along filled with deadfall oak, scrub pine and mesquite brush. Twice in the night Dawson awakened to the unrelenting sound of water pounding the endless land, and twice in the night he again fell asleep to the explosion of gunfire in his memory, and to the sound of men dying.

  By daylight the pounding rain had reduced itself to a thin, steady drizzle. Dawson rode high above the valley through a dull gray-copper morning. With the collar of his rain slicker turned high in back and his Stetson bowed low on his forehead, he kept to the higher ridges and broken hillsides until, by late afternoon, he put his big bay onto the wide, muddy trail leading into Eagle Pass. A half hour later he rode along the puddled street past the Desert Flower, where he and Lawrence Shaw had stayed, and where Lawrence Shaw had taken up with Della Starks, the recently widowed owner of the inn. Dawson started to turn his bay to the inn, but then, thinking better of it, he rode on down the empty, darkening street through a slow, cold drizzle to the hitch rail out front of the Big Spur Saloon.

  Inside the saloon there were only five customers. Three of them were drovers who stood at the center of the bar. They wore long rain slickers and wet hats that drooped heavily. They stood, each in his own dark, wet circle on the wooden plank floor, two of them laughing quietly at something the other had said. A fourth man drank alone at the far end of the bar. The fifth man sat at a table dealing solitaire to himself, with a bottle of rye whiskey standing near his right hand. All five drinkers turned their eyes to the sound of the bat-wing doors creaking. Laughter fell away as Cray Dawson stepped inside and looked around before walking to the bar.

  “Who’s this?” one of the men at the bar asked his companions in a lowered voice, the three of them noting the rifle in Dawson’s wet, gloved hand.

  “Wants to dry his rifle,” one of the men answered just above a whisper.

  At the bar, Dawson laid the Winchester repeater up on his right atop the bar and took off his wet gloves. A young bartender appeared as if from out of nowhere and said, “What will you have, Mister?”

  “Whiskey,” said Dawson, taking a short look along the bar.

  As the bartender reached for a shot glass and a bottle, Dawson took off his wet hat, shook it and placed it back on. At the end of the bar a pair of bloodshot eyes widened. “Lord, it’s you ain’t it?” said a shaky, whiskey-slurred voice.

  Dawson just looked at the old man.

  The old man pointed a trembling, weathered finger and said through a gray, whiskey-stained beard, “I saw what you did here! This is him!” he said to the other drinkers. “This is the man who stood with Lawrence Shaw, the day all the shooting took place!”

  “Harve Bratcher, keep quiet! You don’t know nothing,” said the bartender, filling Dawson’s shot glass. Then he said to Dawson, “Mister, that old teamster gets drunk, he thinks he knows everybody.”

  “No, wait, Dink,” said one of the drovers to the young bartender, taking a closer look at Cray Dawson. “I believe Harve’s right this time.” He said to Cray Dawson, as if in awe, “You are the man who was here…the one who covered Fast Larry Shaw’s back!”

  “Yes, I am,” said Dawson, raising his drink, hoping that would be the end of it but knowing it wouldn’t. He chastised himself silently for coming here.

  “All right, he was here with Shaw,” the young bartender said quickly, seeing the look on Dawson’s face. “Now he’s here for a drink, and he doesn’t need a bunch of questions thrown at him…am I right?”

  “Obliged,” said Dawson.

  “I mean no offense, Mister,” said the drover, “but it ain’t every day a gunman like you shows up at the bar!” He almost took a step closer, but Dawson’s eyes turned to him and seemed to hold him in place. “I’m Bud Emery, owner of the Emery Spread east of here near the Nueces,” he said, touching his wet hat brim. “These two men ride for me, Emmet Crowder and Jake Laslow. Both good hands.”

  The two cowhands nodded, touching their hat brims.

  Cray Dawson responded in kind, then raised his shot glass and tossed back the rest of his whiskey.

  “And your name, Mister?” asked Bud Emery, raising his brow slightly as if he might have missed something.

  Dawson replied, “I’m Crayton Dawson.”

  “From Somos Santos?” asked Emmet Crowder, an older cowhand with a scar showing through his chin whiskers, partially covered by the rise of his faded bandanna.

  “Yes,” said Dawson, turning to him now, wondering how he knew.

  As if seeing the question in Dawson’s eyes, Crowder said, “You wintered with Pearsall and his bunch up north above the Cimarron…the McAllister Spread? Before the English bought him out?”

  “Yep.” Dawson nodded in acknowledgment, feeling a little better knowing that somebody might see him as a drover rather than a gunman.

  “We never met,” said Crowder, “but I heard of you from Jimmie Pearsall. He said you was a top hand,”—he grinned—“but that you didn’t like the cold.”

  “He was right about the cold,” said Dawson, modestly sidestepping the complement of being a top hand.

  “Hot dang!” said Crowder. “Wait till I tell Pearsall I seen you…you backing a big gunman like Fast Larry Shaw! He’ll split something open and fall plumb through it. I’m betting!”

  “Ole Jimmie Pearsall…” Dawson reflected. He eased down a bit, gesturing for the bartender to pour him another.

  Jake Laslow, the youngest of the three drovers, looked at Dawson’s glass as the bartender filled it. He blurted out mindlessly, “I’ll pay for that drink, Mister Dawson, if you’ll draw that Colt once, just as fast as you can!”

  Dawson stared straight ahead across the bar as if his attention had just been riveted to the shelves of whiskey.

  “Damn it, Jake, what’s wrong with you?” asked Bud Emery, appearing shocked by his cowhand’s remark. “You don’t say something like that to a man!”

  “I was just wanting to see how fast it is!” sa
id Jake Laslow. Then, correcting himself, he added with a red face, “His draw, that is.”

  “Pay him no mind, Dawson,” said Crowder. “He was kicked away from the teat too soon or something.” He turned a cold gaze to Jake Laslow. “I hope I don’t have to box his jaws before the day’s over.”

  “Now wait a minute, old man,” said Laslow to Emmet Crowder. “I might have spoken a little out of turn.” He turned a nod of apology to Cray Dawson, then said to Crowder, “But don’t go threatening to box my jaws unless you’re ready to take it up!” He leaned toward Crowder, but Bud Emery held him back with a palm flat on his chest. As Laslow spoke, Dawson saw the old teamster at the end of the bar slip away and out the back door.

  “Everybody settle down!” the young bartender shouted, slapping a hand down on the bar top, causing a stack of clean shot glasses to rattle. “Can’t a man come in for a drink without a ruckus being raised?”

  Cray Dawson pushed his empty glass back and picked up the rifle from the bar top. Silence fell almost with a gasp. “Got a towel?” he asked the bartender.

  A towel came up from beneath the bar and dropped into Dawson’s hand. He took his time wiping the Winchester dry. When he’d finished he dropped the towel on the bar. “Obliged,” he said. He fished a coin from his pocket and flipped it to the bartender, who snatched it from midair.

  “I’ll tell Pearsall I seen ya,” said Emmet Crowder in a guarded tone.

  “Adios,” said Dawson.

  On his way out of the Big Spur Saloon Dawson heard Bud Emery say to Jake Laslow in a low growl, “You stupid turd, he could’ve killed you.”

  On the boardwalk, Dawson came to an abrupt halt, looking at the five men spread in a half circle in the muddy street facing the saloon. Rain dripped from the shotgun and rifle barrels pointed at him from less than fifteen feet away. The man at the center of the half circle stood without a long gun, but with his right hand on the butt of a tied-down Colt .45. A sheriff’s badge glinted in the wet evening gloom. “Cray Dawson,” he said in a level, official-sounding voice, “Keep your gun hand away from that side-shooter and lay that rifle down, easy like.”