Ride to Hell's Gate

by Ralph Cotton

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  PART 1

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  PART 2

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  PART 3

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Teaser chapter

  Praise for the Novels of Ralph Cotton

  ‘‘Disarming realism . . . solidly crafted.’’

  —Publishers Weekly

  ‘‘The sort of story we all hope to find within us: the bloodstained, gun-smoked, grease-stained yarn that yanks a reader right out of today.’’ —Terry Johnston

  ‘‘Cotton writes with the authentic ring of a silver dollar, a storyteller in the best tradition of the Old West.’’

  —Matt Braun

  ‘‘Evokes a sense of outlawry . . . distinctive.’’

  —Lexington Herald-Leader

  ‘‘Cotton’s blend of history and imagination works because authentic Old West detail and dialogue fill his books.’’ —Wild West Magazine

  SIGNET

  Published by New American Library, a division of

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

  New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto,

  Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

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  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices:

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

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  First Printing, September 2008

  Copyright © Ralph Cotton, 2008

  All rights reserved

  REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

  Printed in the United States of America

  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.

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

  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.

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  eISBN : 978-1-4406-3466-6

  For Mary Lynn . . . of course

  PART 1

  Chapter 1

  Matamoros, Mexico

  Lawrence Shaw, aka Fast Larry, aka the Fastest Gun Alive, aka the Mad Gunman, aka Chever Reed, had been too drunk for too long to be standing in a dirt street about to do battle. Yet here he stood, squinting through a whiskey haze. He held his right hand poised at the butt of the big Colt holstered on his hip. He stood with his feet spread shoulder-width apart, not so much in preparation for a gunfight, but rather to settle the unsteady world beneath him and keep himself from falling.

  ‘‘I know who you are,’’ Titus Boland, stone sober, called out from thirty feet away, advancing slowly toward Shaw as he spoke.

  So do I, Shaw answered to himself, not sure what he meant, or if he could have formed any intelligent reply even if he’d intended to. Instead he only nodded; he dared not attempt a step forward, not until the world stopped spinning and wobbling before his bloodshot eyes.

  ‘‘You’re sure as hell not Chever Reed, the attorney from Brownsville, the man you’ve tricked everybody here into thinking you are. You’re Lawrence Shaw, the murdering coward from Somo Santos, Texas,’’ Boland called out. ‘‘I aim to take from you what you took from my poor brother, Ned, in Eagle Pass . . . your life!’’

  All right, now on with it. Shaw nodded again; he didn’t care. He stared at Boland, feeling his bleary eyes begin to focus. He wasn’t the least bit concerned with Titus Boland’s angry threats, even though he knew Boland meant every word he’d said and had every intention of killing him, right here, right now, drunk or sober. It made no difference to Boland. Me neither, as far as that goes, Shaw thought, taking a deep, drunken breath.

  Lawrence Shaw had long forgotten how many men had shouted the same threats at him from countless dirt streets, from hastily abandoned saloon bars, from overturned card tables, from hotels, restaurants, houses of ill repute. . . . Death threats all sounded the same; they had for a long time.

  ‘‘Let’s get it done,’’ Shaw managed to say without his thick tongue betraying him. He almost attempted a step forward now that his senses seemed to be returning. But unsure, he stopped himself at the last second and remained standing perfectly still.

  ‘‘I’ve been killing you in my sleep for more than three years, Fast Larry!’’ Boland bellowed. ‘‘Today I’m bringing everybody’s chickens home to roost.’’

  A few feet behind him, to his left, one of Boland’s gunmen pals, Albert McClinton, looked sidelong at Vincent Tomes and whispered, ‘‘What the hell is he talking about, chickens roosting?’’

  ‘‘I don’t know. Hush up,’’ Tomes replied nervously without taking his eyes off Shaw. ‘‘This Shaw fellow is faster than a rattlesnake. We do not want to be caught unawares by him.’’

  ‘‘Yeah, but chickens roosting?’’ Albert persisted, still in a whisper. ‘‘I don’t see what chickens roosting has got to do with any—’’

  ‘‘It’s just a figure of speech, damn it!’’ Tomes growled. ‘‘Now spread out, so’s one shot don’t kill us both! I wish I’d never got talked into this.’’

  ‘‘That goes double for me,’’ McClinton murmured.

  Okay, there’s three of them. Shaw grinned to himself. Good. Maybe these three were the ones who would do it. Maybe this would be the day the undertaker closed the lid over his face and lowered him into the ground forever. Mexico, eh
. . . ? So this was where it would happen. He cut a glance across the wide street, seeing colorful banners and streamers fluttering on a breeze in front of the American consulate building a block away.

  Mexico would do, he told himself. He’d always liked Mexico. Rosa was from Mexico, not far from here. That was good enough for him. Ah, Rosa, dear precious Rosa, he said silently to his deceased wife, partly closing his eyes. For a numb, drunken moment he felt a deep joy sweep over him. Was she here? Could she see him? He hoped so; God, he hoped so. I’m coming to you at last, Rosa, he spoke silently to her, even as the three gunmen settled into position.

  ‘‘Here it is, Shaw!’’ Boland shouted, his fingers opening and closing restlessly. ‘‘Anything you want to say before I send you straight to hell?’’

  Shaw shook his head slowly, a dreamy smile on his lips as he thought of Rosa, seeing her loving face, her dark eyes. He could feel her arms warm around him. ‘‘Get it done,’’ he said, his hand poised and relaxed near his holster as if he might or might not decide to draw it when the time came.

  ‘‘My God, look at him!’’ Tomes whispered to McClinton in a shaken voice as the two stood a few feet apart. ‘‘He’s as calm and cold-blooded as any man I’ve seen! He has no doubt what’s about to happen here.’’

  ‘‘Because he knows for cocksure that he’s going to kill us all,’’ McClinton replied, his voice strained and shaky.

  ‘‘Go for your gun, Shaw!’’ Boland raged, seeing Shaw’s indifferent attitude. ‘‘Else I’ll kill you anyway. It makes me no never-mind if you fight back or not!’’

  Still wearing his drunken, reposed smile, Shaw slapped his hand to his gun butt.

  Instantly Boland made the same move, his Colt coming up cocked and firing as Shaw’s hand seemed to stick to his holstered gun. McClinton and Tomes stood stunned, not believing their eyes, as Boland’s bullet punched Shaw in the right shoulder. The drunken man pitched forward, unfazed by the gunshot wound, and landed passed out cold, facedown in the dirt.

  ‘‘Watch it, Boland!’’ Tomes warned, sidestepping away with his gun drawn and ready to fire. ‘‘It’s just a ploy!’’

  ‘‘A ploy?’’ Titus Boland cut Tomes a disgusted look as he advanced toward Shaw, who was lying limply in the street. ‘‘This is no ploy. He’s hit. I nailed him fair and square.’’ He stopped a few feet from Shaw and aimed the gun down at the back of his head. ‘‘This one here is for my poor deceased brother.’’

  But before Boland could pull the trigger, he and the other two froze at the sound of a shotgun cocking behind them. ‘‘Drop your guns, hombres,’’ a voice said with urgent determination.

  Without turning or dropping his gun, Boland said over his shoulder, ‘‘Oh? And just who is making this request?’’

  ‘‘It is no request. It is an order,’’ the voice said. ‘‘I am Gerardo Luna, constable of Matamoros. But it will not matter to you who I am if you do not do as I say.’’

  ‘‘Gerardo Luna? The one all the local vaqueros and rounders call Moon?’’ Recognizing the name, Boland lowered his gun and let his aim move away from Shaw’s head.

  ‘‘Senor Moon to you,’’ said the Mexican lawman. He stepped forward, in between Tomes and McClinton, and nudged first one, then the other with his shotgun barrel. Their guns fell to the dirt.

  ‘‘With all respect, Senor Moon,’’ Boland said, his gun still in hand, ‘‘but you’re meddling in a fair fight. He drew first.’’

  ‘‘His gun is still holstered,’’ said Luna with an accent.‘‘He is drunk. He passed out and fell. I saw it on my way here. Lucky for you I was not in range, or mi pequeño ángel here would have shot you into the sky. Now, you drop it, or I drop you.’’

  Boland sighed. He uncocked his Colt and let it fall to the dirt. He relaxed a little and looked at the shotgun in Luna’s hands. ‘‘Your little angel, eh?’’

  ‘‘Si, my little angel,’’ Luna repeated. He gestured down at the ornate eight-gauge shotgun with its brass-trimmed, fluted barrel and its tall hammers, which were drawn back.

  ‘‘Well, ain’t that just sweet as can be,’’ Boland said stiffly. ‘‘Maybe we’ll meet someday while your little angel ain’t handy. We’ll reflect back on this thing from a whole other outlook. You just might find I’m a man you do not want to anger—’’

  Almost before the words left his mouth, Tomes and McClinton winced at the sound of the shotgun butt snapping up into his chin. Blood and broken teeth spilled from his lips as he fell to the ground beside Shaw.

  ‘‘Whoa!’’ Tomes said instinctively. ‘‘You had no cause to bust the man up that way.’’

  ‘‘Oh, you think not?’’ Luna took a step toward him.

  Tomes and McClinton both backed away. Tomes raised a hand in a show of peace and said quickly, ‘‘Although I can certainly understand how you might have thought it was justified. . . . Titus has a way of getting testy if he goes unchecked.’’

  ‘‘Which, in all honesty, he is prone to do from time to time,’’ McClinton joined in, also raising his hands chest high in submission.

  ‘‘I see,’’ said Luna, the short shotgun still clenched in his fists. ‘‘I am happy that you both agree with my decision.’’ He jerked a nod toward the knocked-out gunman. ‘‘Now get him up and out of here. It looks bad, hombres lying in the middle of my street.’’

  Poco Río, Mexico

  Cray Dawson stepped from behind the stone wall circling the village well, raised his Colt and took aim at the fleeing horseman through a rise of dust from the horse’s hooves. But at the last second he held his fire, seeing the faces of frightened women and children, seeking cover, dart back and forth.

  ‘‘Don’t let him get away,’’ warned his partner, Jedson Caldwell, standing across the narrow street from him with a hand pressed to his bleeding side.

  ‘‘I couldn’t risk it.’’ Dawson lowered his Colt and let it hang at his side. ‘‘Too many villagers in the way.’’ Blood from a bullet graze ran down his left forearm and dripped from the cuff of his shirtsleeve. Inside one of the small adobe and plank homes a baby cried loudly.

  ‘‘That was Black Jake Patterson,’’ Caldwell said, stepping forward and standing beside Dawson. The two watched the fleeing gunman sink down out of sight over a rise of sand. ‘‘There’s still one more somewhere around here,’’ he added cautiously, scanningthe street as he spoke, his eyes going to four sweat-streaked horses at a hitch rail.

  ‘‘Yes, it’s Leo Fairday,’’ said Dawson. He looked at the three bodies strewn along the narrow street. Then he looked at the darkened doorway of a dingy cantina and called out, ‘‘Leo, I know you’re in there. Throw out your gun and show yourself. We’ll take you in alive.’’

  ‘‘Now that is damned generous of you, Dawson,’’ said a voice from inside the cantina. The voice was followed by a dark chuckle. ‘‘But I’ve another idea you might want to think about.’’

  A burly older gunman, Leo Fairday, stepped forward from the cantina. He held his left arm wrapped around the neck of a young girl who wore nothing but a ragged blanket she held against her breasts.

  ‘‘Turn her loose, Fairday,’’ Dawson said. ‘‘Holding her hostage won’t buy you a thing.’’ Yet even as Dawson spoke he knew this changed everything.

  ‘‘Oh, I say you’re wrong, lawdog,’’ said Fairday with the same dark chuckle, the tip of his big Remington shoved up tight under the young woman’s cheek. ‘‘I say it buys me the way to my horse and a good head start out of here . . . less you want to spend the evening picking her brains off your hats.’’

  ‘‘Senors, por favor, do not let me die, I beg of you!’’ the girl sobbed in broken English. ‘‘I have a small baby! She needs her mother—!’’

  ‘‘Shut up, whore,’’ Fairday warned, poking her harder with the gun barrel. ‘‘I’ll say whether you live or die. All these bummers can do is what I tell them to do.’’

  ‘‘Easy, Fairday,’’ Dawson said calmly. ‘‘You’ll get what you’re a
sking for.’’ He lowered his gun barrel but left the big Colt cocked and ready in case he needed it. Looking at Caldwell he said, ‘‘Let him go, Jed. He gets off free this time.’’ He turned a cold stare back to Fairday. ‘‘But only if he turns her loose, unharmed.’’

  ‘‘I’ll let her go, Dawson, once I get my knees in the wind and catch up to my pard there.’’ Fairday nodded toward the dust from the other fleeing gunman. He stepped backward to the hitch rail where he’d tied his horse earlier. ‘‘But until then this girl stays alive only if everybody acts right, comprende?’’ He poked the gun barrel enough to cause the girl to gasp in pain. She stared wide-eyed and fearfully at Dawson.

  ‘‘Yeah, I understand,’’ Dawson said. There was no point in trying to reason or threaten. He could only grit his teeth and stand by helplessly watching as the gunman stepped between two horses and swung up into his saddle in a way that gave neither Dawson nor Caldwell a chance to take a shot at him.

  ‘‘Give me your word!’’ Fairday demanded.

  ‘‘All right, you’ve got my word,’’ said Dawson. ‘‘Don’t hurt her.’’

  ‘‘ ‘Don’t hurt her,’ ’’ Fairday mimicked with a chuckle, backing the horse out into the street with the naked girl on his lap. With the cocked gun still beneath her chin, he said with mock mannerism, ‘‘Do have yourselves a mescal, gentlemen.’’ Then his false manners changed quickly. ‘‘If I see your dust on my trail before I reach the hills, you’ll find this little chili pepper staked down Apache style, gutted like a deer.’’

  Dawson and Caldwell stood watching the young woman tremble in terror at the sound of Fairday’s words. When the horse had backed and sidestepped itself ten yards away from them, Fairday turned the animal quickly and rode away, looking back over his shoulder.