Ride to Hell's Gate

by Ralph Cotton

  Shaw couldn’t answer her. He sweated; he wondered if she could smell him, knowing how much whiskey and mescal he had poured through his system in the past month. He struggled for something to say, something polite, sociable. But the haunting sight of her, the too familiar sound of her voice, the scent, the feel of her hand on his arm. My God. What a cruel terrible joke for fate to play upon him, he thought, staring blankly at her.

  ‘‘Yes, some cool water, I think,’’ she answered herself, as if seeing how uncomfortable she made him. She backed away another step, turned and said, ‘‘I’ll only be a moment.’’

  Don’t do this to yourself, Shaw thought. This was not Rosa, and he knew it. Settle down. Don’t look like a drunken fool!

  By the time the old Mexican arrived with a tray, carrying a clay pitcher filled with water and a clay drinking cup, Shaw had gotten himself in hand. He watched Anna Bengreen fill the cup herself and hold it out to him. ‘‘Gracias, ma’am,’’ Shaw said, taking the cup of water, his hat on the bench beside him. His bandanna was dark with sweat where he had raised it and wiped his forehead. ‘‘I rode out here to thank you for all you did for me, not to impose on your hospitality.’’

  ‘‘It is not an imposition, Mr. Shaw.’’ She smiled, gesturing for the old man to set the tray down on a table beside the bench. ‘‘I am pleased to learn you are up and around so quickly after what happened to you.’’ She pulled a small chair up and sat down facing him and motioned for Ernesto to leave. Shaw sipped the cool water and felt himself grow more comfortable.

  ‘‘All the same, ma’am,’’ he said, ‘‘I am much obliged for all you did for me those three days before I came to.’’ He paused, looked down at his boots and added, ‘‘I also want to tell you how truly sorry I am for having offended you on the street the other day. I’m ashamed of myself.’’

  The woman’s expression perked up. She gave him a curious look. ‘‘Perhaps you are confused, Mr. Shaw. It is true I attended to you when you were brought to Sheriff Luna’s jail. I cleaned and dressed your shoulder wound, but only the one time.’’ She raised a finger for emphasis. ‘‘The rest of the time, it must have been Luna himself who took care of you.’’

  ‘‘It was Mr. Moon, not you . . . ?’’ Shaw let the information sink in.

  Anna Bengreen smiled. ‘‘Luna knows that when I was little more than a child I worked as a nurse at the Castillo de los Santos in Barcelona, Mr. Shaw,’’ she said. ‘‘I was in town searching for a vaquero, someone to work for me. The vaqueros who worked here left when they heard Cedros Altos would be sold. Only Ernesto, his wife and two sons remain. When you were shot, Luna sent for me. You were unconscious when I arrived, and you remained so when I left. But it was only one time that I attended to you.’’

  Shaw pondered everything she’d said. ‘‘The Castillo de los Santos?’’ he said. ‘‘Then you must have been a . . .’’ He let his words trail, not certain how she would take them.

  ‘‘A nun?’’ she asked with a soft, patient smile, finishing his words for him. ‘‘No,’’ she said, ‘‘but that was to have become my avocation when I went there.’’ She sighed slightly and looked away for a moment. ‘‘But it was not to be. I left the Castillo de los Santos in my second year and traveled to the United States.’’

  ‘‘I see,’’ said Shaw, although he wondered why Luna had said she’d been the one to attend to him those days when his senses were more dead than alive. ‘‘I’m still obliged to you,’’ he added, ‘‘and I still want to apolo—’’

  She cut him off, saying, ‘‘Do not apologize to me, Mr. Shaw. You said nothing to offend me. I do not even recall seeing you on the streets of Matamoros. I’m afraid Sheriff Luna is mistaken.’’

  ‘‘I didn’t say anything untoward to you in Matamoros?’’ Shaw asked to make certain.

  ‘‘The first time I saw you was when you were lying on a cot inside the jail,’’ Anna assured him.

  Shaw murmured under his breath, ‘‘That sneaking dog, Luna.’’ He looked down and shook his head slowly, catching on to what Luna had in mind.

  ‘‘Is something wrong, Mr. Shaw?’’ she asked, watching him closely.

  ‘‘Oh, it’s nothing you did, ma’am,’’ Shaw pointed out quickly. ‘‘But I think Luna made a few things up just to bring the two of us together, face-to-face.’’

  ‘‘Oh? And why would he do a thing like that?’’ Anna asked.

  ‘‘Because he’s a meddling dog,’’ Shaw said before stopping himself. Then he took a deep, calming breath and said, ‘‘Ma’am, you said you were searching for someone to work for you. I bet you didn’t find anyone, did you?’’

  ‘‘No,’’ said Anna. ‘‘Each time I inquired about someone in particular, Sheriff Luna said they were not the kind of man I should trust out here where I am all alone.’’

  ‘‘That’s what I thought,’’ said Shaw. ‘‘Ma’am, Luna knows I used to be a cowhand. But he knows I’m not anymore. He knew I wouldn’t ride out here looking for work. But he knew I would go out of my way to apologize for anything wrong I might have said to you.’’ Shaw set the water glass on the table beside the pitcher. ‘‘So, he made that part up, and sent me out here hat in hand, figuring once I got here I’d go to work for you.’’

  ‘‘I don’t understand,’’ said Anna. ‘‘How did he know you would want to work for me?’’

  Shaw thought about Rosa as he watched Anna brush a strand of hair from her cheek, of how much Anna Reyes Bengreen looked like her. ‘‘Oh, it’s just something he knew,’’ Shaw said, not wanting to explain that to her right then. He reached his free hand up and kneaded his healing shoulder. ‘‘Luna knows I need work. He knows I’ve been sort of down-and-out of late.’’

  ‘‘Oh?’’ She looked him up and down. ‘‘But what made him think you are the person I would choose to have work for me?’’

  Shaw read the look in her eyes; her expression was kind, but knowing. She wasn’t naïve, he thought. She knew a down-and-out drunk when she saw one. It was hard to miss. ‘‘Ma’am,’’ he said, picking his words as he went, ‘‘I think Luna wanted you to see that a man who would ride this far just to apologize for something he doesn’t even remember doing would have something to his credit.’’

  She considered it for a moment, then nodded and said with a warm and genuine smile, ‘‘If that is what he thought, he was correct. Only an honorable man would do such a thing. It is a long ride from Matamoros, especially with a wounded shoulder.’’

  Again he felt her eyes take him in, as if able to see through him, the same way Rosa always could. He realized it would be hard for him to ever hide anything from this woman. ‘‘Ma’am, I want you to know that I haven’t always been this way. I’m not a drunk. It’s just that lately I’ve had lots of things not go the way I—’’

  ‘‘Please call me Anna, Mr. Shaw?’’ she asked, cutting in, not allowing him to go any further in either denouncement or defense of his low condition.

  ‘‘Yes, ma’am—Anna,’’ Shaw said, catching and correcting himself.

  Before he could finish what he’d started to say about his sore condition, she went on to ask, ‘‘And may I call you Lawrence?’’

  ‘‘Yes, Anna, I hope you will,’’ Shaw said. He leveled his shoulders, summoning up what dignity he could on such short notice. He realized she didn’t want to discuss his drinking problems, or any of his other problems. He made an effort to stand up from the bench; but she stopped him with a look, saying, ‘‘Now that we know what to call each other, are you looking for work, Lawrence?’’

  ‘‘Well, I need work. . . .’’ Shaw let his answer linger as he rubbed his chin and looked around the open land surrounding the outer stone wall. ‘‘But if you don’t mind me saying so, it looks like you’ve already sold off most of your cattle.’’

  ‘‘Yes, that is true,’’ said Anna. ‘‘I have only a few head of cattle and twenty-two head of horses left— my late husband’s personal herd of riding horses. But now that some
less reputable vaqueros from the neighboring ranches know I am selling out, they steal from me nightly. I had hoped that if they knew there is a man around, especially one who is a good shot with a rifle, it would keep them scared away until I am finished with my business here.’’ She gave him a questioning look. ‘‘Is this the kind of work you would be comfortable doing?’’

  Shaw gave her a level gaze. ‘‘I’m comfortable scaring thieves away,’’ he said. ‘‘It shouldn’t take long for word to get around that there’s a rifle standing guard. Then they’ll leave things alone.’’

  ‘‘You are a good shot with your left hand?’’ she asked, then added quickly, ‘‘I would not want you to accidentally shoot someone.’’

  ‘‘Don’t worry, ma’am,’’ said Shaw, ‘‘I’m best at drawing and shooting right-handed. But with a rifle I hit what I shoot at with either hand.’’

  ‘‘But only to scare them away,’’ she pointed out.

  ‘‘Yes, ma’am,’’ said Shaw, ‘‘I understand.’’

  She considered for a second. ‘‘Of course if they should become too bold, and try to harm either of us . . .’’ She paused for a moment in dark contemplation. ‘‘Then I suppose it would become necessary, you would be capable of . . .’’ She glanced toward his wounded shoulder.

  ‘‘Don’t worry, Anna,’’ Shaw said, ‘‘I am capable. My thinking was off the day this happened. If I’m protecting you and your ranch, nobody is going to harm you.’’

  Chapter 6

  No sooner had Dawson and Caldwell led Caldwell’s horses to the town stables and begun watering them at the public trough than Gerardo Luna walked up to them with his ornate shotgun draped over his forearm. ‘‘Marshal Crayton Dawson, mi amigo!’’ Luna said, having recognized him immediately as the two walked into Matamoros off the flat, dusty trail. ‘‘What brings you to my town?’’ As he spoke he gestured an arm, taking in all of the sprawling village.

  ‘‘Good day to you, Mr. Moon,’’ said Dawson, stepping forward to meet his old friend. ‘‘Since when do I need a reason to come visit my friend?’’

  ‘‘You will never need a reason.’’ Luna smiled. ‘‘But I will wager you are on the trail of some felon.’’ He shifted a glance to Caldwell.

  ‘‘Mr. Moon,’’ said Dawson, ‘‘I’d like you to meet my deputy, Jedson Caldwell.’’ Gesturing a hand toward Luna he said, ‘‘Jedson, this is Gerardo Luna, the man I have been telling you about—the law in Matamoros.’’

  ‘‘It is a pleasure meeting you, Sheriff Luna. I’ve heard a lot about you,’’ said Caldwell, stepping forward with his right hand extended.

  Shaking hands, Luna said, ‘‘And I have heard much about you, Senor Caldwell.’’

  ‘‘Oh?’’ said Caldwell. Both he and Dawson gave the sheriff a questioning look.

  ‘‘Si,’’ said Luna, ‘‘Lawrence Shaw has told me much about you.’’ Luna’s smile waned a bit as he added, ‘‘Before he got started staying too drunk to carry on a conversation, that is.’’

  ‘‘Shaw is here in Matamoros?’’ Dawson asked.

  Luna sighed. ‘‘He was here. I sent him away.’’

  ‘‘You ran him out of town?’’ Dawson asked.

  ‘‘You know I would not do that, no matter how drunk and rank he became,’’ said Luna. ‘‘I sent him to a place where I hope he will sober up and get back to his old self.’’

  ‘‘I see,’’ said Dawson. ‘‘That’s good.’’ He and Caldwell gave each other a look, both of them knowing how much help a big gun like Shaw would have been, had he been there sober, ready to ride. ‘‘Well, let’s hope it gets him straightened out,’’ Dawson added, sounding just a little disappointed.

  ‘‘Yes, let us hope so.’’ Luna eyed the two lawmen, having understood the look they’d exchanged. ‘‘But now, what about you?’’ he asked Dawson. ‘‘You still have not told me what brings you here to my town.’’

  ‘‘The Barrows Brothers Gang.’’ Dawson’s expressionturned grim, down to business. ‘‘Word has it they have thrown in with Luis Sepreano and his Army of Liberation.’’

  ‘‘Army of Liberación . . .’’ Luna spit in distaste. ‘‘Luis Sepreano has gathered for himself an army of murderers and thieves, nothing more.’’

  ‘‘Yep, and now he’s taken in the Barrows Gang. With them riding with him, he gets the run of both sides of the border. Your government agrees with the American consulate that this bunch has to be stopped.’’

  Luna gave Dawson a look of bemused disbelief. ‘‘So, the two governments have decided to send out one U.S. marshal and one deputy?’’

  Dawson gave a wry smile. ‘‘It took me three days to convince them I needed a deputy.’’

  Luna looked back and forth between the two lawmen and shook his head. ‘‘You need more men.’’

  ‘‘I’ve mentioned that myself,’’ Caldwell said, giving Dawson a thin smile of satisfaction.

  Ignoring the remark, Dawson said to Luna, ‘‘We shot it out with some of Barrows’ men in Poco Río and chased two of them toward here. But my horses went down on me and we had to pull away. We heard shooting yesterday on our way around the hills. But I figure they know we’re heading here and have cut out in another direction by now.’’

  ‘‘Do I know these two desperados?’’ Luna asked, his hand deftly stroking along the butt of his shotgun.

  ‘‘Probably,’’ said Dawson. ‘‘It’s Leo Fairday and Black Jake Patterson. They’ve been riding both sides of the border for a long time, even before they threw in the Barrows.’’

  ‘‘Yes, I know these two,’’ said Luna, ‘‘and they are both bad and dangerous men. They are both wanted throughout Mexico, but no one man has been able to stand up against the gangs they ride with. Patterson is best friends with the Barrows brothers. Leo Fairday has long been wanted for killing a woman he once lived with near Poco Río. It is said she was the mother of his child.’’

  ‘‘We don’t doubt it, after what we’ve seen,’’ said Caldwell, giving Dawson a look.

  ‘‘Oh?’’ Luna inquired.

  Dawson’s expression turned darker. ‘‘Fairday took a young whore hostage in Poco Río. He said he’d let her go if we gave him a head start to the hills. I figured he’d leave her for us to have to take back to town. But instead, we found her gutted like an animal.’’

  ‘‘Senseless,’’ Luna commented. ‘‘But rest at ease knowing that I will introduce them to mi pequeño ángel, if they show up in my town.’’ He patted the shotgun.

  ‘‘We’d both appreciate any help your little angel might give us, Luna,’’ said Dawson. ‘‘But like I said, they’ve most like cut out by now. We’ll be pushing on as soon as I can get a fresh cayuses under me and we take on some trail supplies.’’

  ‘‘Pushing on to where?’’ Luna asked.

  ‘‘We’ll backtrack and try picking up their trail at the hills where we heard all the shooting,’’ said Dawson. ‘‘I hope it wasn’t Fairday and Patterson waylaying some innocent travelers.’’

  ‘‘I am riding with you.’’ Luna’s hand tightened on his shotgun.

  ‘‘What about Matamoros?’’ Dawson asked. ‘‘What if I’m wrong about them cutting out? What if they decide to come here anyway?’’

  Luna let out a tense breath. ‘‘You are right, my friend,’’ he said. ‘‘It is at times like this I must remind myself that my first duty is to protect my town.’’

  ‘‘Not that we wouldn’t welcome you with us,’’ said Dawson, ‘‘you and your little angel.’’ He nodded at Luna’s ornate shotgun.

  ‘‘I am honored,’’ Luna said seriously. Then he looked off toward the American consulate building that towered above the rooflines from two squares away. ‘‘I wonder if your leaders or mine even realize how bad things could get along the border with Sepreano and the Barrows joining forces.’’

  ‘‘Of course they realize,’’ Caldwell said with a dark chuckle. ‘‘That’s why we’re here.’’

  Dawson considere
d things for a moment, gazing off with Luna toward the looming American consulate building where an American flag flew alongside a Mexican flag. ‘‘How long do you suppose Shaw has been drunk?’’

  ‘‘How long?’’ Luna looked at him. ‘‘Long enough that he passed out in a gunfight. Long enough that he did not even remember being in the gunfight until he awakened three days later and saw a bullet hole in his shoulder. Even then I had to tell him about it.’’

  ‘‘He’s turned into a falling-down drunk,’’ Dawson said with remorse. ‘‘I hate hearing that.’’

  ‘‘Perhaps he will change,’’ Luna said. ‘‘But for now he and his fast gun are of no help to you. Riding with you to face the Barrows and Sepreano, he would get himself killed.’’ Luna considered it, then added, ‘‘Although it would appear that getting himself killed is what he is trying to do these days.’’

  ‘‘I’m glad you’re here looking out for him, Mr. Moon,’’ Dawson said. ‘‘We’ve been friends since we were kids in Somo Santos. Losing Rosa has just about caused him to lose his mind.’’ He wasn’t about to mention how much he himself had loved Rosa Shaw, or how many nights they had spent together those times while her husband, Lawrence Shaw, was off somewhere building his reputation with a gun.

  ‘‘She was a beautiful woman, Rosa Shaw,’’ said Luna, seeing the sadness move into Dawson’s eyes but not being able to fathom the depth of it. ‘‘We grew up near here, she and I. Sometimes I think that being here makes Lawrence feel closer to her spirit.’’

  ‘‘Yeah, I see how it could,’’ Dawson said. Not wanting to bring up her memory at a time like this, he did not want to talk about anything to do with Rosa Shaw. Changing the subject he asked, ‘‘What kind of horse can I expect to buy here for forty dollars?’’

  ‘‘A dead one, perhaps,’’ Luna said earnestly.

  Dawson stared at him. ‘‘How much more for one that’s breathing?’’

  ‘‘A hundred will buy one that is not only breathing, but perhaps even able to carry a rider,’’ said Luna, his smile widening. ‘‘Horses have become gold here.’’ He pointed toward the American consulate. ‘‘Your wealthy políticos americanos buy the best of them for themselves, their children and their mistresses. The federales buy them up for the soldiers in Mexico City. A rurale lawman like myself rides a mule if he can afford one, or a donkey if he cannot.’’