by Ralph Cotton
‘‘Yeah, I say they’ll go for an ambush,’’ said Caldwell, reaching down and taking the saddle and tack and laying it up over his horse’s rump.
‘‘I think they’ll cut out,’’ Dawson said. ‘‘But just to be on the safe side, when we get to the hills we’ll swing wide to the north and follow the low trails.’’
‘‘It’ll take us longer,’’ Caldwell said, swinging down from his saddle beside Dawson.
‘‘But it’ll be easier walking,’’ Dawson replied, ‘‘and less chance of getting caught in a trap. We’ll take shade as soon as we reach the hills, rest until late evening and walk all night.’’
‘‘There’s just no defense for bad luck,’’ Caldwell said, looking down at the dead horse as he walked alongside Dawson.
‘‘I expect not,’’ Dawson said grimly, staring ahead toward the hills.
The two walked on, haggard, wounded, needing medical attention, food and rest. ‘‘I still say we need more men,’’ Caldwell said, offering a tired, wry smile.
‘‘I still say, don’t expect any,’’ Dawson replied dryly.
For three days Titus Boland and his comrades lurked around the outskirts of Matamoros. Tomes and McClinton waited and watched restlessly while Boland nursed his swollen chin and split lips and drank bottle after bottle of rye whiskey to ease his pain. The more he drank, the more he talked about catching the Mexican sheriff on some dark street and gunning him down.
‘‘It’s time we got out of here before he does something foolish and gets all three of us hanged,’’ Tomes said quietly to McClinton as the two watched Boland sit with his drunken head bowed, a bloody wet cloth pressed to his large, purple chin. ‘‘These Mexicans don’t take it lightly, some gringos like us just up and killing their town lawman.’’
‘‘But we can’t just leave him,’’ said McClinton. ‘‘He’s the one who can get us into the Barrows Gang. He’s the one who knows Crazy Ed, don’t forget.’’
Tomes gave him a look. ‘‘It’s not Crazy Ed,’’ he said correcting him. ‘‘It’s Wild Eddie. You wouldn’t want Eddie Barrows hearing you call him Crazy Ed. It would most likely get your tongue cut out.’’
‘‘See what I mean?’’ said McClinton. ‘‘Not knowing the Barrows, I might have made such a slip purely out of ignorance.’’
Tomes looked at him for a moment longer, considering things, then said, ‘‘Yeah, I expect we might need him with us at that.’’ He looked away, to where Titus sat swaying back and forth in the dirt. ‘‘He’ll be facedown again in a few minutes. Why don’t you go get our horses ready. We’ll load him up and get out of here.’’
McClinton nodded, watching Boland weave back and forth. ‘‘Yeah, he’ll thank us for it once he gets his senses back.’’
‘‘He should,’’ said Tomes. ‘‘We’ll probably be saving his life, getting him away from here before Lawrence Shaw gets up and around.’’
McClinton turned and walked away toward a field of sparse wild grass where they’d picketed their horses. When he’d returned with the mounts saddled and ready for the trail, before Titus Boland knew what was happening the two had raised him up into his saddle and ridden away. By the time the pain in his chin began clearing his whiskey-dulled mind, the three had ridden ten miles farther from town and halfway up the hill trail where Black Jake Patterson and Leo Fairday sat perched in the cover of rock awaiting Dawson and Caldwell.
‘‘Well now, look at this,’’ Black Jake said, looking to the west at the three horsemen riding upward at a walk along the winding trail below. ‘‘That’s Titus Boland in front.’’
Fairday turned from watching the trail in the other direction and looked down at the horsemen. ‘‘It sure is,’’ he confirmed. ‘‘Who’s the other two?’’
‘‘I have no idea,’’ said Black Jake, raising his rifle to his shoulder.
‘‘You’re not going to shoot them, are you?’’ Fairday asked.
‘‘Naw,’’ said Black Jake, cocking his rifle, ‘‘I’m just going to have some fun with them.’’ He took close aim along the rifle sights.
Realizing this was the same nasty stupid joke Black Jake had done to him when he’d ridden up on him, Fairday growled under his breath, ‘‘This rotten snake.’’
On the winding trail, Titus Boland toppled sidelong from his saddle when the rifle shot spooked his horse and caused it to rear up. Tomes and McClinton kept their horses settled and spurred them off the trail into the shelter of rock and brush. But Boland let out a painful scream and rolled back and forth in the dirt in agony, cupping his chin with both hands. Fresh blood oozed from his swollen lips. Tomes and McClinton winced at the sight as they drew their guns and searched the towering hillside.
Above them, Black Jake stared down with a bewildered expression and said to Fairday, ‘‘Damn, Leo, I never saw a grown man carry on that way.’’
Leo just stared at him, his temper ready to boil over and explode any second.
‘‘Hello, the trail,’’ Black Jake called down at length when Boland quieted down, stopped rolling and struggled up onto a knee. ‘‘Hey, Titus, is that you?’’ he asked.
Unable to speak, Titus only whimpered and nodded his head. From their cover, Tomes called up to the ledge where Black Jake stood, rifle in hand, ‘‘Hell, yes, it’s Titus Boland. If you thought it might be him, why’d you shoot at us in the first place?’’
‘‘That was just a warning shot,’’ Black Jake called out, keeping himself from chuckling at his joke. ‘‘You can’t be too careful these days.’’ He looked at Fairday with a grin. But Fairday didn’t share in his humor. He stared coldly back at him.
‘‘Who’s up there?’’ McClinton called out.
Turning back to the lower trail, Jake called down to the two men behind cover, ‘‘It’s Black Jake Patterson and Leo Fairday. What’s wrong with Titus anyway? Cat got his tongue? What’s he squalling about?’’
‘‘The constable back in Matamoros cracked him in the chin with a shotgun butt, broke a bunch of his teeth. He’s a mess.’’
‘‘It sounded like it, the way he carried on,’’ Black Jake chuckled. ‘‘Stay where you are. We’re riding down.’’
‘‘What about Dawson and his pal?’’ Fairday asked, giving Jake a hard stare.
‘‘Don’t worry about them,’’ said Black Jake. ‘‘If they heard that shot they won’t be coming along this trail. I think they took a different trail anyway.’’
Fairday stared at him, seething.
By the time the two had ridden down to the lower trail, Tomes and McClinton had helped Boland to his feet. He stood with his boots spread, the wet cloth back against his bleeding mouth. ‘‘Just a warning shot?’’ Boland asked, his voice sounding thick and stiff, and angry through his swollen lips. His Colt hung in his hand.
As they stepped down from their horses, Fairday pointed out quickly to Boland and his comrades, ‘‘It was Black Jake’s doing, not mine. He knew it was you down here. He did me the same way. He’s a horse’s ass, you want to know my thoughts on the matter.’’
Black Jake chuckled and said to Boland, ‘‘Hell, I wouldn’t have done it if I’d known you was hurt. How’d you let a Mexican constable get the drop on you anyway? I always figured you better than that.’’
Boland stared at him, seething in rage. ‘‘A warning shot?’’
‘‘Yeah, a warning shot,’’ Black Jake said, seeing the look in Boland’s eyes. ‘‘Why don’t you let it go, before one of us ends up doing something we’ll be sor—’’
Boland swung his six-shooter up and emptied it into Black Jake’s chest before he could finish his words.
Blood streaked the air as bullets ripped through Black Jake. In the ringing silence afterward, Boland, Tomes and McClinton all turned and stared at Fairday. Above them the noise had sent birds of all sizes and colors streaking away in every direction. The explosions rolled and echoed out across the land.
‘‘There’s your warning shot,’’ Boland growled.
&
nbsp; Fairday raised his hands chest high in a show of peace and said, ‘‘Fellows, draw your horns in. You only did what I’ve been wanting to do all day.’’
Boland eased his smoking gun toward the ground, keeping his eyes on Fairday. He opened the chamber and dropped the empty brass cartridges to the dirt and replaced them with fresh rounds from his gun belt while the other two kept Fairday covered. ‘‘What were you two doing up there?’’ Boland asked in his strained, distorted voice.
Fairday said quickly, ‘‘Waiting to surprise a couple of lawdogs from over the border. But I expect the surprise part is gone now.’’
‘‘Are you still riding with the Barrows brothers?’’ Boland asked stiffly. He closed his gun chamber with a flick of the wrist.
‘‘Yeah, why?’’ Fairday eyed the loaded gun warily.
‘‘Just asking,’’ said Boland, twirling his gun once backward and dropping it into its holster. ‘‘We’re looking for the Barrows ourselves. We heard that since they’ve thrown in with Luis Sepreano and his Army of Liberación, they’re all living high on the hog. We want to ride with them ourselves.’’
Before Fairday could reply, Tomes, who had stepped forward and looked down at Black Jake’s body, said, ‘‘It appears that you just killed the one sonsabitch who could’ve taken us straight to the Barrows.’’
Seeing an opportunity to better his position with the three gunmen, Fairday said, ‘‘You’re half right. But you’re now looking at the one other man who can do it.’’ He thumbed himself on the chest and grinned. ‘‘That’s where I’m headed right now.’’
Boland considered it as he motioned for McClinton to hand him a canteen. Canteen in hand, he poured a trickle of water onto a bloody damp cloth he pulled from his vest pocket. ‘‘You’ve ridden with the Barrows brothers a long time—that’s a fact,’’ he said. He touched the wet cloth gently to his bleeding lips and purple chin.
‘‘A fact indeed,’’ Fairday grinned, looking from one to the other.
‘‘One problem,’’ said Boland, giving Fairday a dark stare. ‘‘What’s Eddie Barrows going to say about this?’’ He nodded at Patterson’s bullet-riddled body lying on the ground.
‘‘Oh, he’s going to be mad as hell,’’ Fairday said, weighing his words. As he spoke he took a testing step toward his and Patterson’s horses. ‘‘I expect he’ll want to kill those two lawdogs that did it.’’
‘‘I like the way you think, Leo.’’ Boland tried to smile, but his swollen lips only twisted into a crooked, pained grimace. Turning to Tomes and McClinton, he said as he pressed the wet cloth back to his split and bleeding lips, ‘‘Holster your cannons, boys. Looks like we’re all of the same mind here.’’
Relieved, Fairday stepped into his saddle and walked his horse toward Boland and the others, leading Patterson’s horse by its reins.
Chapter 5
Shaw stood with his right arm in a sling that Luna had fashioned for him out of the clean white cloth he’d said Widow Bengreen left there for that very purpose. ‘‘You must wear this for more than just a few days if you want your arm to recover quickly and have your skills come back to you as strong as they were before,’’ Luna had advised him.
My skills, Shaw thought bitterly, kneading his wounded shoulder gently, testing the soreness. There had been a time when his skills would have been riding, sticking atop a wild cow pony, roping, rounding strays, taking a herd across a swollen stream without losing a head. He realized that those were not the skills Luna spoke of. Those skills had slowly been overtaken by his skills with a gun—his knack for killing. But he said nothing. Luna meant well.
Instead he said, ‘‘Gracias, my friend,’’ then turned and walked away toward the town livery stables.
Watching him walk out of sight, Luna said under his breath, ‘‘I hope this works out for you, mi amigo.’’ Then he turned back into his small office and shut the door behind him.
Inside the livery stables Shaw stood aside and watched a Mexican stable boy bridle and saddle his horse for him. When the boy finished and led the horse to him and extended his palm, Shaw put a small gold Mexican coin in his hand and thanked him. But instead of backing away, the boy gestured at Shaw’s arm in the sling and asked him in broken English, ‘‘Can I get you a stool to climb up on?’’
‘‘I’m good,’’ Shaw replied. He took the saddle horn with his left hand and stepped stiffly up into his saddle, the effort of it causing his right shoulder to throb in pain for a moment, until he settled and took up his reins and put the horse forward at a walk.
With a warm meal in his belly and Luna’s hot coffee washing away much of the lingering alcohol haze that had clouded his senses, Shaw rode away from Matamoros. Following Luna’s directions, he rode northwest toward the late Judge Logan Bengreen’s spread. He stopped in the afternoon and gazed along a narrow trail leading into a Bengreen hillside strewn with bear grass, cactus and clumps of juniper. A small herd of cattle drifted aimlessly, grazing on tobosa grass in narrow flats between lower lying hillsides.
‘‘This must be it,’’ he said to his horse, patting the big buckskin’s neck with a gloved hand. ‘‘Let’s get this over with and get back to town.’’ He noted the agitation that crept into his voice; he sighed, realizing it wouldn’t be long before he needed a drink to calm both his hand and his state of mind. Laying the reins on his saddle horn, he reached back with his left hand, lifted the flap to his saddlebags and rummaged around, searching for the feel of a bottle but finding none.
‘‘What kind of fool drunkard rides this far without a bottle of rye for emergencies?’’ he asked himself aloud. He raised his hat enough to wipe the back of his glove across his sweaty forehead. Then he adjusted his hat back into place and nudged the horse forward.
Moments later as he rounded a turn, Shaw saw the Logan Bengreen hacienda seem to rise up from the earth a thousand yards ahead of him. At the sight of the majestic stone, timber and adobe structure standing behind a long meandering stone wall, he slowed the buckskin’s walk. For a few seconds he allowed the horse to step back and forth while he took in a tall stone archway with iron gates swung open.
Beyond the gateway at the center of a large front yard filled with flowers, trees and vines, he saw a low, ornate stone wall circling a well. Red clay roof tiles mantled both the sprawling hacienda and the separate buildings standing behind and on either side. ‘‘Well now,’’ Shaw said quietly to the horse, ‘‘what was a woman who lives in a place like this doing riding all the way to town, to take care of a wounded drunk like me?’’
As he drew closer to the front yard he saw a curtain sway, then close at one of the front windows. When his horse stepped off the dirt trail and onto a wide stone-paved walkway, he looked all around, a bit surprised that none of the Bengreens’ hired help had met him at the open gates.
As he stepped down and led his horse around the well, he saw the large front door open. He reached up and removed his hat as a tall, raven-haired woman stepped out onto the porch, a shotgun cradled in her arms.
My God, Rosa, he thought at the sight of her. Yet upon noting the shotgun in her arms, he stopped short instinctively and stared, giving the big double-barrel all the respect it deserved. ‘‘Ma’am, it’s me, Lawrence Shaw,’’ he said, his own voice sounding strained and shallow to him.
Recognizing him, the woman called out with a trace of a Spanish accent, ‘‘Yes . . . welcome, Mr. Shaw. You must be feeling better, to take such a long ride as this?’’
Shaw was immediately taken aback at the sound of her voice, a voice that sounded too much like his late wife Rosa’s to be ignored. ‘‘Ma’am, I—I—’’ He stopped and stood speechless, staring, wondering if this was one of his drunken visions coming upon him unexpectedly, the kind where Rosa walked right up to him as if she’d only just returned from a long journey, rather than from the grave.
‘‘Mr. Shaw? Are you all right?’’ the woman asked, looking concerned upon seeing him sway unsteadily. She lowered the big shotgun f
rom her arm and leaned it against the front of the house.
Easy now. Shaw tried to steady himself, realizing that this was neither Rosa nor one of his haunted, drunken visions of her. He was sober. Well, at least reasonably so, he reminded himself. He wasn’t imagining this; he wasn’t going to roll over and wake up and find this all a dream. All he could do was play this out, see where it took him.
‘‘Uh, yes, ma’am,’’ he managed to say at length. He forced himself to look closer and more calmly at her as she stepped down from the porch and walked toward him.
‘‘Mrs. Bengreen . . . ?’’ he asked shakily, with uncertainty. Of course it’s Mrs. Bengreen. Who else would it be?
‘‘Yes, Mr. Shaw, I’m Anna Reyes Bengreen,’’ she replied. ‘‘Are you certain you are all right?’’
Shaw let out a breath. Her voice sounded so much like Rosa’s that it had staggered him. But there were differences he noted now that he managed to collect himself a little and get his whiskey-jangled nerves settled back into place.
‘‘Yes, ma’am, I’m all right, just a little worn-out from the trail. I’ll be fine in a . . .’’
His words died as he looked into her eyes, thinking once again in spite of himself that this was Rosa reaching out to him, taking him by his forearm and leading him to the shade of the wide front porch. ‘‘Here, you must let me help you to the porch,’’ said Anna Bengreen.
Shaw stepped onto the porch, her hand on his arm guiding, assisting him. ‘‘Ma’am, what you must think of me,’’ he said apologetically, turning and lowering himself onto a cushioned wooden bench hewn from the trunk of a Chinaberry tree.
‘‘Nonsense, Mr. Shaw,’’ said Anna Bengreen. ‘‘Do not forget, I have cleaned and dressed your wounded shoulder. I am aware of your condition.’’ She stepped back and smiled down at him. ‘‘Let me get you something . . . some cool water perhaps?’’ She looked around and gestured toward an old Mexican who stood lurking inside a door at the far end of the porch.