Gunman's Song by Ralph Cotton Page B

the Devil to was Fat Man Hughes, who still sat on the high stool at the end of the bar. When Elton told Hughes that Sammy Boy was going to call Shaw out into the street, the big man’s face lit up with anticipation andgreed. “Sure, I’ll take some of your wager,” Hughes said, reaching for his thick roll as he eyed Willie the Devil, saying to Elton, “I see you found yourself a backer, huh?”
    Willie the Devil offered a crafty smile and replied before Elton got a chance, “I believe we’ve met before, Mr. Hughes…I’m Willie Devlin. Willie the Devil, as you may recall? I’m somewhat of a sporting man myself.”
    â€œYeah.” Fat Man Hughes shrugged, unimpressed. “I remember you. Your roll never was as large as mine.”
    Willie the Devil didn’t let Hughes’s words bother him. “Perhaps after today it will be, though.”
    Hughes grinned. “I like a man who thinks positive!” Flipping out his thick roll of money, licking a thumb, and riffling through the bills, he asked, “Now, sir, what can I do you for?”
    Elton said, “I’ve got one thousand and five hundred dollars that says Sammy Boy is going to beat Lawrence Shaw straight up…outdraw him and outshoot him, plain and simple. Since Shaw’s the big gun and Sammy Boy’s an unknown, what odds are you going to offer me?”
    â€œOdds, huh?” Fat Man Hughes’s belly bounced up and down as he laughed and shook his head. “Boy, Elton, you’re so full of shit, if I stepped on your foot it would squirt out both ears.” He quickly peeled off a stack of bills, saying, “Five to one, Elton; take it or leave it.”
    â€œI’ll take it,” said Elton, turning to Willie the Devil for the money.
    Fat Man Hughes flagged the bartender over to hold the bets in the small tin lockbox he kept underthe bar for wagers of this sort. “Porter,” he said to the broad-shouldered bartender, “we have a gunfight in the making between Elton’s friend Sammy Boy White and Lawrence Shaw. Hold this for safekeeping, if you please.”
    â€œWhoa,” said Porter Chapin, looking excited at the prospect, “Sammy Boy is fast with a gun; I’ve got to give him that.” He took the money from Willie the Devil and Fat Man Hughes, counted it quickly, folded it, then held it up and said, “Can I get some money down on this thing?”
    Fat Man Hughes had lowered his big body from the stool, picked the seat of his trousers, and adjusted his wrinkled suit coat. “You’ll have to talk to Elton here,” he said to the bartender. “It’s his endeavor…I’ve got to go to the jake. Keep my seat open, if you will, please.”
    Elton and Willie the Devil waited until Hughes was out the back door before Elton said, “How fast do you think Sammy is, Porter, just between you and me?”
    â€œHe’s damn fast,” said Porter, reaching behind his white apron into his trouser pocket. “I know Shaw is supposed to be the fastest gun alive…but everybody’s got to fall someday. Give me twenty dollars on Sammy Boy.”
    â€œDone,” said Elton. “Of course you know Sammy and me are pals; I’m not offering any odds.”
    â€œI don’t care,” said the bartender, “I can take even money any day on a gunfight. The main thing is just to be able to say I had an interest in it.”
    â€œYes, that’s the spirit.” Willie the Devil beamed. “I bet there are many here who feel the same way.” He looked around the saloon as he rubbed his hands together.
    *  *  *
    Cray Dawson and Lawrence Shaw had carried their saddlebags to their separate rooms at the Desert Flower Inn. As Dawson unpacked a clean shirt and socks, Shaw stepped in from the hall, first rapping quietly on the wooden door. “I know you think I did the wrong thing killing Sidlow