by Ralph Cotton
‘‘It makes no sense.’’ Dawson shook his head and looked away from the terrible sight. ‘‘He had no reason to do this. It was in his best interest to keep her alive. If we’d found her here afoot, we’d have to take her back to Poco Río. By the time we’d have gotten back onto his trail it would have given him twice the head-start time.’’
‘‘Nobody can figure why a man like Leo Fairday does what he does,’’ said Caldwell, holstering his Colt and swinging down from his saddle. He stepped forward, fanning away the gathering flies with his gloved hand. ‘‘There’s not time to take her back to town now, not if we want to catch her killer.’’
‘‘All we can do for her now is cut her loose and get her buried,’’ Dawson agreed. He stepped down from his saddle and led both their horses to the side and hitched them to a short stand of brush. ‘‘We’ll mark her grave so anybody from Poco Río who comes looking can find her easy enough.’’
‘‘I’ll be surprised if anybody from town comes looking for her,’’ said Caldwell. As he spoke he took a jackknife from his pocket, opened it and cut through the rawhide strips tied tight around her wrists. ‘‘Nobody there seemed to care that Fairday left town with a gun shoved beneath her chin. They were too busy picking over the dead in the street.’’
‘‘They’re poor, Jedson,’’ Dawson offered in the people of Poco Río’s defense. ‘‘Whatever they do, they’re doing to stay alive.’’
‘‘I didn’t mean to judge them,’’ said Caldwell. He picked up the bloody blanket lying in the dirt, shook it out and laid it over the dead girl. ‘‘There, you poor thing,’’ he said under his breath, tucking the blanket under her enough to pick her up and walk toward the edge of the trail with her.
Having no shovel with which to dig a grave, the two scrapped out a low bed in the hard earth, laid the blanket-wrapped girl in it and carried rocks and piled them over her. When they finished, they stood over the grave, hats in hand, and stared down as if in meditation.
‘‘It’s all my fault what happened to you,’’ Dawson said at length, speaking to the dead girl beneath the stony mound.
‘‘No, it’s not, ma’am,’’ Caldwell interceded, his head bowed but his eyes tilted stubbornly up at Dawson. ‘‘Leo Fairday is to blame for killing you, and nobody else. We did what we said we would . . . but he killed you anyway.’’
After a pause, Dawson said, still speaking down to the rocks, ‘‘But if we hadn’t come to Poco Río looking for Fairday and the others, none of the rest of this would have happened. You’d still be alive.’’
‘‘Still,’’ Caldwell replied toward the ground, his eyes again turned up to Dawson, ‘‘if we don’t stop men like Fairday and his kind, how will the world ever get—’’
‘‘All right, that’s enough,’’ Dawson said, cutting him off, realizing that they were both talking to each other, yet using the dead girl’s gravestone as some silent mediator. He gave Caldwell a look of disbelief. But before placing his hat back atop his head, he looked back down at the ground and said, ‘‘We will bring this man to justice for what he did to you. You have my word.’’
‘‘Mine too,’’ Caldwell added, closing his eyes for a second as if in prayer, then murmuring, ‘‘Amen.’’
‘‘Amen,’’ said Dawson. He stooped down and laid a folded note he’d written between two rocks, leaving enough of the paper sticking out to be noticed by anyone passing by. ‘‘There,’’ he said. He looked back and forth, noting the well-worn trail. ‘‘Somebody will come along and see the grave. This will have to do for now.’’
The two walked toward their horses, looking down at the hoofprints leading up the winding hill trail. The tracks of Fairday’s horse overlapped with those of Black Jake Patterson’s. ‘‘If these two haven’t already met up, they will before long,’’ said Dawson.
‘‘Where’s the nearest place for them to get fresh horses and supplies?’’ Caldwell asked, not being familiar with this region of harsh Mexican countryside.
‘‘There’s a trading post outside of Matamoros,’’ Dawson said without having to stop and think about it. ‘‘If we were them, that’s where we’d be headed.’’
Without another word on the matter the two mounted their horses and rode on.
Somewhere in the sweet, cool darkness of sleep and alcohol, Rosa had come to him. He had felt the touch of her hands upon his chest, his forehead; he had smelled her familiar scent. He had heard her voice. She had talked as if nothing had ever happened to her. She was alive! Yes alive!
Yet, no sooner had he allowed himself to hope this was not a dream than Rosa had disappeared, simply vanished, and Shaw’s eyes opened at the sound of a shotgun cocking near his ear. Without moving his head, he cut a sidelong glace toward Gerardo Luna who stepped back with a grin as he lowered the shotgun’s hammer.
‘‘I knew pequeño angel would awaken you. She has awakened many men whose dreams are haunted by their past. Haven’t you, little angel?’’ He spoke to the shotgun and patted it as if it were a living thing.
‘‘Who says . . . I have haunted dreams—?’’ Shaw’s broken voice turned into a deep cough, followed by a groan as a pain shot through his wounded shoulder. Reality had set in upon him. He clasped a hand down to the bandage on his bare chest. ‘‘How long . . . have I been asleep?’’
‘‘Asleep, I don’t know,’’ Luna replied with a shrug. ‘‘You have been passed out for three days.’’
‘‘Three days?’’ Shaw looked stunned and confused. ‘‘I’ve never been knocked out that long from a gunshot wound.’’
‘‘You were so drunk I don’t think you knew you were shot,’’ said Luna. He examined the shotgun in his hands and said matter-of-factly, ‘‘I can tell much about a man by the way he awakens to the sound of my little angel’s hammer.’’ He stepped back out of the small cell, laid the shotgun across a battered desk and picked up a coffee mug with a sliver of steam rising from its brim.
‘‘Oh?’’ Shaw said, not caring.
‘‘Si,’’ said Luna. ‘‘If a man’s eyes fly open and his ears perk up like a rabbit’s, he is a man who has spent much of his life in fear. He is a runner, not a fighter.’’
Shaw’s pain eased enough for him to collapse back on the cot. ‘‘That’s real interesting, Mr. Moon,’’ he said with a dry, cynical tone.
‘‘Do you want to know what kind of man wakes up the way you did?’’ Luna asked.
‘‘No, I don’t.’’ Shaw closed his eyes for a moment and hoped everything around him would be gone when he reopened them.
‘‘I’ll tell you what kind,’’ Luna said, undaunted. ‘‘The kind of man who wants to die—the kind of man who wants to embrace death like some dark, mysterious lover, but whose instincts to live are too strong and stubborn to allow him to do so.’’
‘‘All right, now I know,’’ Shaw said, trying to dismiss the matter. ‘‘You’re saying I’m too ornery to die.’’
Luna considered Shaw’s take on the matter, then said with a raised finger for emphasis, ‘‘Yes, too ornery , up until now perhaps. But today is a brand-new day. Who knows, perhaps there is some younger, faster gunman on his way here right now who will go out of his way to oblige you. It will be what both of you are looking for.’’
‘‘Lucky him, lucky me,’’ Shaw said wryly. ‘‘Speaking of gunmen’’—he raised his head enough to look at the bandage above his right breast—‘‘who put the bullet in me?’’
‘‘Which one?’’ Luna asked with a slight grin, seeing the scar tissue of several old bullet wounds.
Shaw stared at him with a no-nonsense look. ‘‘You know which one I mean.’’
‘‘Titus Boland shot you,’’ Luna said flatly, his tone turning more serious when he realized he had said nothing that Shaw had not already considered a thousand times in his drunken, tormented mind. ‘‘The shot broke some bone in your shoulder joint. It will take time to heal properly.’’
‘‘Titus Boland . . . ,’’ said Shaw, paying little
attention to Luna’s assessment of his wound. He struggled with no success to recall anything at all about the incident. ‘‘I must have been awfully drunk.’’ He ran his left fingers back through his hair.
‘‘Oh, you think so?’’ Luna asked wryly. ‘‘You passed out in the middle of a gunfight.’’
Shaw ignored his remark. He shook his head slowly, digging deep for recollection. ‘‘I killed a man named Ned Boland up in Eagle Pass, must have been two or three years back. I remember that.’’
‘‘Si, Titus Boland remembers it too,’’ said Luna. ‘‘He said Ned was his brother.’’
‘‘Is he still in Matamoros?’’ Shaw asked with no concern.
‘‘No,’’ said Luna, ‘‘my little angel sent him and his amigos on their way. But I have no doubt he’s nearby, looking for a chance to kill you.’’
‘‘His chin? Did I . . . ?’’ Shaw pondered the incident, still drawing a blank.
‘‘No,’’ said Luna, ‘‘I told you it was my little angel. She cracked his chin real good for him.’’
‘‘Then I suppose he’s got a mad-on at you, too,’’ said Shaw. ‘‘If he’s anything like his brother, Ned, he won’t stop until a bullet stops him.’’ He paused for a moment, realizing that Gerardo Luna must’ve saved his life out on the street. Whether he’d wanted his life saved or not didn’t matter. What did matter was the fact that Luna put his own life on the line for him. ‘‘I’m obliged, Mr. Moon,’’ Shaw said with sincerity.
‘‘You can thank me by sobering up and staying away from anyone else who wants to kill you,’’ Luna said. ‘‘Whatever it is that makes you want to die is not going to be of any help if—’’
‘‘All right,’’ said Shaw, cutting him off, ‘‘I’ve had enough sermons this morning.’’ He pushed himself up onto the side of the cot and reached out a shaky hand toward the coffee mug.
Luna held the mug steady by its stem until Shaw got his hands around it. Shaw took a deep sip in spite of the coffee’s hotness. ‘‘I don’t suppose you’d want to reach into your desk, get out your bottle of whiskey?’’
‘‘No whiskey, not at this time of day,’’ Luna said firmly. ‘‘I did not save you in order to watch you drink yourself to death.’’
‘‘Yeah?’’ Shaw said, looking up at him. ‘‘Then why did you save me?’’
‘‘Because I am a lawman,’’ said Luna. ‘‘It is my job, to stand up for those who cannot take care of themselves.’’
Shaw felt the sting of the Mexican constable’s words. ‘‘I can take care of myself,’’ he said in a lowered voice. ‘‘Titus Boland and his friends just caught me on a bad day.’’
‘‘I see,’’ Luna said coolly, ‘‘and when was your next good day going to be?’’
Shaw only stared at him in silence and sipped the hot coffee. Finally he said quietly, ‘‘Mr. Moon, I appreciate what you did for me. But the fact is, I’m not looking for a good day. Not looking, not expecting. If I had ended up lying dead in the street, it would have been no loss—not to me, not to anybody else.’’
‘‘In that case you are a sorry piece of work, Lawrence Shaw,’’ Luna said, his expression turning grim, ‘‘but it makes no difference if you are worth saving or not, or whether or not you want to live or die. As long as you are in my town, I am responsible for you.’’ He thumbed himself on the chest.
‘‘Then I will get out of your town just as soon as I can get a shirt on,’’ Shaw said, looking around for his shirt and boots. He tried lifting his right arm but could not manage to do so. He winced in pain, and gave up trying to stand up by himself. ‘‘Give me a hand, and I’ll get out of here.’’
‘‘How do you know you are not under arrest?’’ Luna asked.
‘‘Under arrest for what?’’ Shaw snapped.
‘‘For being too loco or stupid for your own good,’’ Luna snapped right back. ‘‘A man who walks the street unable to use his gun hand when men are out to kill him must be either loco or an imbecile. I will not allow you to leave here until you are sober and better able to defend yourself.’’
Shaw cooled down and let out a breath. After a moment of silence he said in a humble tone, ‘‘Gracias, Mr. Moon. I don’t deserve your friendship.’’
‘‘Si, I agree with you on that,’’ Luna said. He backed away, out of the cell. Then he closed the iron-barred door and locked it. ‘‘If you wonder who bandaged your wound, it is a woman you insulted on the street the other day.’’
‘‘I insulted a woman?’’ Shaw looked bewildered. ‘‘That’s not something I make a practice of doing.’’
‘‘I know, but you did insult her,’’ said Luna. ‘‘Her name is Anna Reyes Bengreen. She is the widow of Judge Logan Bengreen from Texas. When you are able, you must go see her and apologize for what you said.’’
‘‘Yes, I suppose I should,’’ said Shaw, rubbing his beard stubble. ‘‘What did I say to her anyway?’’
‘‘It is better that she tell you when you go see her,’’ said Luna. ‘‘You would be too ashamed to face her if I told you beforehand.’’
‘‘That bad, huh?’’ said Shaw. He hung his head and cursed himself under his breath.
Luna stared blankly at him. ‘‘I am leaving you locked in there, but only until I return with some food for you.’’
Shaw nodded his bowed head in submission and stared down at the stone floor until he heard the front door close. Once he knew he was alone he murmured under his breath, ‘‘Well, Rosa, it looks like I messed it up again.’’ He squeezed his eyes shut in anguish. Too damned miserable to live; too damned ornery to die . . .
Chapter 4
The shot from Cray Dawson’s big Colt rolled away across the flat, hard land and lost itself in the distant hill line. In those hills, the two fleeing gunmen brought their horses to a halt and looked back. Black Jake took a dusty field lens from his saddlebags and raised it to his eye.
Squinting against the sun’s glare and fine swirling dust, Leo Fairday asked impatiently, ‘‘Well? Tell me something, Jake.’’
‘‘About what?’’ Black Jake said, staring through the lens with a reserved grin. He liked teasing and agitating Fairday.
‘‘About what?’’ Leo bristled, but kept himself in check. ‘‘About what the hell he’s shooting at?’’
Black Jake took his time. He lowered the lens and rubbed his eye, then said coolly, ‘‘His horse.’’
‘‘His horse?’’ Fairday growled. ‘‘What the hell are you talking about? He’s shooting at his horse.’’
Fairday shrugged. ‘‘You asked what he was shooting at. I told you.’’
Fairday cursed and nudged his horse closer. ‘‘Let me look,’’ he demanded, reaching a hand out for the dusty field lens.
But Black Jake backed up his horse a step and held the lens out of reach. ‘‘Don’t you believe me, Leo? I thought we were pards,’’ he said teasingly. But then, seeing the rage in Fairday’s eyes, he said, ‘‘His horse must’ve broken a leg or something. He shot it.’’ As he spoke, he handed over the lens.
Growling under his breath, Fairday took the lens, wiped it on his sleeve and looked out across the rolling sand. Focusing on Clay Dawson standing with his smoking Colt hanging down his side, Fairday eased down and said to Black Jake, ‘‘Why didn’t you just say so?’’ He kept his eye to the lens.
Black Jake looked him up and down with a grin of contempt, shrugged again and said, ‘‘I just did. Wasn’t you listening?’’
Leo knew the man was intentionally goading him, treating him in a less than respectful manner. But he held on to his temper and let it pass. Black Jake Patterson had been with the Barrows Brothers Gang a lot longer than he himself had. Rumor had it that Black Jake had once saved Wild Eddie Barrows’ life. Fairday wasn’t about to risk having Wild Eddie down his shirt, he reminded himself. No sir . . .
Fairday didn’t answer the question. Instead he managed a smile as he lowered the lens and passed it back to Black Jake. ‘‘This is just the
stroke of luck we need. It’s still fifteen miles to Matamoros. They’re down to one horse between them. I’d say we’ve seen the last of them.’’
‘‘Yep,’’ said Black Jake, putting the lens back under the flap of his saddlebags. He took off his crumpled hat, dusted it against his leg and put it back on, adjusting the dents in the crown with his thumb and fingers. ‘‘We can slow down now, rest these animals some and ride into town at our own pace.’’ He paused and studied Fairday for a moment, then said, ‘‘Or, we can pick a good spot across the hilltops, lay up and shoot their eyes out when they come along. What best suits you?’’
‘‘You know what best suits me,’’ said Fairday. He ran a gloved hand across the rifle in his saddle boot. ‘‘I owe Dawson for causing me to kill that young whore.’’
‘‘Dawson caused it, huh, Leo?’’ Black Jake mused, looking intently at the aging gunman.
‘‘Damned right he caused it,’’ said Leo, his view on the matter changing now that he sensed they were getting the upper hand, ‘‘and I’ll kill him for it, like the dog that he is.’’
Black Jake chuckled and shook his head slightly as the two turned their horses back to the narrow trail and nudged them forward at a walk.
On the sandy lowland, Crayton Dawson squinted off toward the hills as he shoved his Colt back into its holster. ‘‘I expect they heard the shot,’’ he said to Caldwell who sat slumped in his saddle, the shoulders of his black coat, hat and his dark beard stubble covered with a dusting of fine silver sand.
‘‘They’ve seen us too, unless they’ve already topped the hills and gone on,’’ Caldwell replied, disheartened. ‘‘Either way, we just made them real happy.’’
Dawson looked down at the dead horse lying stretched out in the sand, a strong desert breeze having already gusted enough to begin spreading a thin silver sheen over the animal’s sides.
‘‘I figure we’ll lose them sure enough,’’ he said. He stooped down and hefted his saddle and bridle onto his shoulder. ‘‘Either they’ve seen us and already cut out, or else they’ll pick a good spot and try to ambush us up in the hills.’’