Ride to Hell's Gate

by Ralph Cotton

  ‘‘I’ve got to buy one, and a good one at that,’’ said Dawson. ‘‘Who do I need to see?’’

  ‘‘There are a few horses left at the stables that came from the late Judge Bengreen’s Cedros Altos spread,’’ said Luna without mentioning that was the place where he’d sent Shaw. ‘‘They are not from the judge’s private stable, but they will be good, hard-boned Spanish Barbs from his working string.’’

  ‘‘Gracias,’’ said Dawson. ‘‘A good cattle horse will suit me fine. While Jedson waters his horse, what say you walk over to the stables with me and introduce me to your local horse dealer?’’ As he turned with Luna to walk away toward the stables, he said to Caldwell over his shoulder, ‘‘As soon as I get back, we’ll go round up some supplies and have ourselves a meal.’’

  ‘‘I’ll be waiting,’’ said Caldwell, watching the two walk away.

  When Dawson and Luna turned the corner of an adobe building and started toward the open doorway of the town livery stables, Luna asked, ‘‘Do you want to know where I sent our friend Shaw?’’

  ‘‘If you want to tell me,’’ Dawson replied, gazing straight ahead.

  ‘‘Yes, I want to tell you,’’ said Luna. ‘‘I sent him to work for a woman who looks enough like Rosa she could have been her sister.’’

  ‘‘Why would you do a thing like that?’’ Dawson asked, giving him a look. ‘‘He has a hard enough time keeping Rosa off his mind as it is.’’ Dawson winced a bit, realizing that he himself still had difficulty keeping his memory of Rosa Shaw from overshadowing his thoughts.

  ‘‘This woman is the widow of the judge whose horses we will be seeing in the corral.’’ He gestured a nod toward a corral beside the livery stables. ‘‘I sent Shaw to work for her hoping that it would at least sober him up . . . perhaps even give him something he feels is worth living for.’’

  ‘‘Good luck,’’ said Dawson, turning his gaze back to the livery stable, toward the corral. He had lived with Rosa’s sister, Carmelita, after Rosa’s death, but it hadn’t helped. Carmelita had seen through him. In the end it had only made both him and Carmelita miserable.

  ‘‘The widow has had trouble with sneak thieves,’’ said Luna. ‘‘Shaw can keep them scared away while his wound heals. If he stayed here with a wounded shoulder, the word would soon get out. Every gunman along the border would be upon him like wolves.’’

  ‘‘You’re a regular matchmaker, Mr. Moon,’’ Dawson said as they walked to the side of the stables where three sturdy Spanish Barb horses stood under a thatched overhang, out of the hot sunlight.

  Catching a slight bitterness in Dawson’s tone, Luna stopped and shrugged. ‘‘Did I do something wrong, my friend? If I did, you must tell me what it is.’’

  Dawson stood looking at the three horses for a moment as if appraising them. Finally he let out a tight breath. Realizing he’d been a bit testy with his longtime friend, he turned to him and said quietly, ‘‘Pay me no mind, Luna. You did the right thing. I would have likely done the same, given the situation, the circumstances.’’ Dawson rubbed his neck irritably. ‘‘I’ve just been too long on the trail. It’s making me cross for no reason.’’

  ‘‘Si, I understand,’’ said Luna, studying Dawson’s expression, seeing the same cloud of sadness he’d detected earlier upon mentioning Rosa Shaw’s name. Dismissing the matter he stepped closer to the corral rails and gestured toward the three horses. ‘‘Here are the last three of the judge’s Spanish Barbs. These fellows are handsome animals, eh?’’

  ‘‘Yes, they are,’’ said Dawson, opening the corral gate and stepping inside, Luna right beside him. ‘‘How many were here to start with?’’ He ran a gloved hand along the flank of a cream-colored roan with black stockings. The big Barb gelding tossed his strong head and puffed at Dawson.

  ‘‘There were many, perhaps a hundred or more,’’ Luna estimated. ‘‘Most were taken across the border and purchased by the army. But the army does not accept branded animals if they can keep from doing so. A few branded ones were culled and left behind, sold to the dealer here in Matamoros at a cheap price. Since he bought them cheaply, perhaps you will be able to do the same, from him.’’

  ‘‘Yes, that would be good,’’ said Dawson, beginning to understand that these horses were not the lesser of the lot. They were all fine animals. ‘‘Who bought the rest that were left behind?’’

  ‘‘A Mexican rancher from over near Reynosa bought five or six.’’ He shrugged. ‘‘There are still many branded horses waiting at the Cedros Altos ranchero to be sold.’’

  ‘‘I see,’’ said Dawson, running his hand across the Cedros Altos brand, the letter C with a tall A standing inside it. ‘‘If they bear the brand, they must’ve been part of the judge’s personal riding stock.’’

  ‘‘Si, this is what I think,’’ said Luna. He stood back, watching Dawson walk around the cream Barb, inspecting it before lifting each of its hooves in turn. ‘‘They are the best horses we have seen in my town for a long time.’’ He grinned. ‘‘But we must not let the horse dealer know that we think so when you see him, eh?’’

  ‘‘Right.’’ Dawson set the Barb’s forehoof down and dusted his hands together. ‘‘Where will we find the dealer?’’

  ‘‘At the cantina, where else?’’ said Luna.

  Dawson looked at the three horses again as he stepped back toward the corral gate. ‘‘The late Judge Bengreen had good taste in horseflesh,’’ he said. ‘‘I take it he left his widow well provided for?’’

  ‘‘Beautiful women always find themselves provided for. It is the way of the world,’’ he pointed out. ‘‘She is very wealthy, this one,’’ he added, shaking his fingers as if money had stuck to them.

  ‘‘That figures,’’ Dawson said with a tired smile. ‘‘Shaw is the only man I know who can get blind drunk, pass out in a gunfight, get himself shot and wind up working for a beautiful wealthy widow . . . protecting her.’’

  ‘‘It is true,’’ Luna laughed, not having thought of it that way before. ‘‘Always it is the way things happenfor Lawrence Shaw! Always he is like a cat. He lands on his feet!’’

  ‘‘Well, good for Shaw,’’ Dawson said, meaning it. Luna noted the sadness in his eyes go away as he latched the corral gate and turned in the direction of the cantina. ‘‘I hope it all works out for him. I guess I’ll have to just settle for a good dependable horse.’’

  Chapter 7

  After riding all night around rocky hillsides, through sandy draws filled with brush and prickly cactus beds, Leo Fairday led the other three riders down a shadowy canyon trail where they stopped at first light to water the horses. In a thin stream that pooled beneath a natural abutment wall of earth and stone, the men stepped down and stretched as the horses drew water. Above the earth and stone standing before them stood another wall, this one made of weathered stone, chiseled, shaped and erected by ancient hands, a monument to some vanished civilization.

  ‘‘This is as far as I can take you fellows,’’ Leo said, ‘‘until I hear Eddie or Redlow Barrows tell me otherwise.’’

  Boland stood beside his horse, having dipped the bloody mouth cloth into the cool water, rinsed it and wrung it out. ‘‘But Redlow knows me, Leo,’’ he said. ‘‘He won’t mind if you bring us all the way in. I need some whiskey to ease my pain.’’

  ‘‘Whether you know Redlow or not, I’ve got orders about how to do things,’’ said Leo. ‘‘I ain’t letting you get me killed over a mouth of rotgut whiskey.’’

  ‘‘Go on, then,’’ Boland grumbled, and looked away, the cloth back against his lips. ‘‘Get to the Barrows and bring us in. My chin is killing me.’’

  Leo finished watering his horse and the spare left by Patterson’s death. Then he stepped into his saddle, the reins to Patterson’s horse in hand, and started to give his horse a tap of his spurs. But before doing so, he stopped at the sight of a band of riders moving toward them at a fast pace across the sandy terrain. ‘‘Well, I expect I won
’t be leaving you here after all. Here come the Barrows now. They’re riding like hell’s on their heels.’’ He stepped back down from his saddle and stood beside the two horses.

  ‘‘Good,’’ said Boland, staring out at the swirling sand and galloping horses coming toward them in a fiery morning light. ‘‘Don’t forget, it was the two lawmen who killed Patterson.’’

  ‘‘I ain’t forgot,’’ said Fairday. ‘‘You just remember that you three found us pinned down in an ambush and just couldn’t get there in time to save ole Black Jake’s life. But you saw them kill him.’’

  They stood in silence, watching the horsemen gallop toward them. When the horses slowed and half circled and came in closer, Fairday took off his hat and waved it back and forth. ‘‘Hola, Redlow and Eddie,’’ he called out. ‘‘It’s Leo.’’

  The Barrows brothers stopped their horses twelve feet away. Redlow looked back, searching to see if anyone had followed the four men. Then he said to Leo, ‘‘I seen it was you. Put your hat on unless you come to court one of us.’’

  The five riders who had spread out behind the Barrows gave a short laugh at Redlow’s joke. Beside Redlow, Eddie Barrows only sat staring at Fairday with his wrists crossed on his saddle. ‘‘If he come looking to court me,’’ he said, ‘‘there better be a long string of horses standing over the rise somewhere.’’ He eyed Patterson’s horse standing beside Fairday. ‘‘Where’s Black Jake?’’ he asked.

  Pretending not to hear him, Fairday dropped his hat back onto his head and stood in a tense silence for a moment until Redlow asked, ‘‘Well, Leo, what say you? Did you bring my brother, Eddie, a string of horses, like you was supposed to?’’

  ‘‘I said, ‘Where is Black Jake?’’’ Eddie asked in a stronger tone.

  Still not answering him, Leo shook his head and said to Redlow Barrows, ‘‘Red, things went awfully wrong for us this trip—’’

  ‘‘Wait a minute,’’ said Redlow, cutting him off. He rose in his saddle. Looking all around behind Fairday and the other three he asked, ‘‘Where is Black Jake?’’

  ‘‘That’s what I’ve been asking,’’ said Eddie, giving Fairday a harsh look.

  ‘‘And where’re Roy, Little Dick and Shala?’’ Redlow added.

  ‘‘Dead, every last one of them,’’ said Leo, knowing he could put it off no longer.

  ‘‘Dead?’’ said Redlow. ‘‘There better be a damned good reason—’’ He eyed Patterson’s horse up and down.

  ‘‘Who is this bloody-mouthed sonsabitch? These other two bummers?’’ Eddie cut in, staring coldly at Boland.

  ‘‘Shut up, Eddie,’’ said Redlow, turning his eyes away from the spare horse. ‘‘I know this man. He’s Titus Boland. His brother, Ned, and I sweated out a year in a California prison braiding hemp lines for naval vessels.’’

  ‘‘So?’’ said Eddie, staring hard at Boland.

  ‘‘So, shut your mouth for a minute and show some manners,’’ said Redlow. ‘‘I want to hear what Leo’s got to say.’’ He turned his attention back to Leo.

  ‘‘We got ambushed by lawmen in Poco Río,’’ Leo said, widening his eyes as if reliving a horrible event. ‘‘We had to leave Roy Owens, Little Dick Johnson and Bud Shala lying dead in the street!’’ He shook his head. ‘‘It was awful.’’ Adding something heroic for himself he said, ‘‘I saved Patterson’s life. He was hit, but I went back for him, bullets flaying, dragged him into his saddle and we made a run for it.’’

  ‘‘That was damned bold of you, Leo,’’ said Redlow. He and Eddie slipped one another a dubious glance and continued listening.

  ‘‘Well, that’s just what good pards do for one another,’’ said Leo, bowing his head humbly for just a second. ‘‘I only wished it helped. The lawmen dogged us all the way into the hills past Azúcar flats.’’ He paused and touched his gloved fingers to his bowed forehead. ‘‘It was there that they killed him.’’

  ‘‘Um-umm,’’ Eddie said skeptically, ‘‘just how many lawmen are we talking about here, Leo, a dozen, two dozen, three?’’

  The question stung Fairday, but he snapped back, saying with raised fingers, ‘‘Two.’’

  ‘‘Oh, two dozen,’’ Eddie nodded. ‘‘No wonder it went so bad for yas.’’ Redlow watched Fairday closely, seeing a bead of sweat break on his forehead and run down the beard stubble on his cheek.

  Fairday’s face reddened. ‘‘No, not two dozen. There were two lawmen.’’ He continued, his two raised fingers becoming a raised palm as if to hold back any oncoming criticism. ‘‘Fellows, I know that doesn’t sound like a lot, especially against men like us. But this is Crayton Dawson we’re talking about . . . and a deputy that’s just as cold-blooded as he is. A couple of hardened murderers, if you’ve seen any.’’

  ‘‘Federal Marshal Crayton Dawson . . . ,’’ Redlow said in a lowered tone. Letting out a breath, he said, ‘‘What the hell is he doing down here? Can’t he find enough trouble in Texas to keep him busy?’’

  ‘‘I’m not the one to ask about that,’’ Fairday replied. ‘‘I can only tell you what he did to us. Trapped us, butchered us like animals—even killed a young whore for trying to help me and Black Jake get away. They’re animals, these two. Straight out wild animals!’’

  Eddie was having none of it. ‘‘Let me make sure I understand this,’’ he said, pushing his hat up in contemplation. ‘‘Two lawmen from over the border, trapped five of yas . . . killed three, and scattered all the horses you’d gathered all over the desert floor?’’

  ‘‘Hold on, Eddie,’’ Leo said, catching Eddie’s attempt at putting words in his mouth. ‘‘I never said anything about Dawson scattering any horses.’’ He’d meant to mention a string of horses getting scattered, but he’d forgotten to. Now he hoped that simple omission hadn’t been a mistake. It had.

  ‘‘I know that,’’ said Eddie, ‘‘but you should have.’’ As he spoke he calmly drew a big Walker Colt from the holster slung around his saddle cantle. Before Leo realized what was at hand, the gun lay cocked on Eddie’s thigh. ‘‘You boys were gone more than a week. You didn’t round up any horses, not a single one in all that time?’’

  Leo sweated, seeing the horse pistol lying there, ready to be raised and fired by a man known for his explosive nature. ‘‘All right, I admit we hadn’t stolen any horses yet. But it wasn’t my fault. I tried to get them to leave Poco Río. But, as much as I admired every one of them men like brothers, you have to know they were a stubborn bunch when it come to—’’

  ‘‘You’re lying, Leo,’’ Eddie said, cutting him short.

  ‘‘Lying . . . ?’’ Leo spread his hands and shrugged innocently. ‘‘Lying about what?’’

  ‘‘Probably everything,’’ said Eddie, staring coldly at him. ‘‘But to start with, here’s what I see happened. The five of yas went straight to Poco Río and started drinking and bouncing on whores instead of doing what you was told to.’’

  Fairday stood silent, his hands still spread, listening to Eddie call things exactly the way they had happened, up to a point.

  ‘‘I figure when the lawmen rode in, all of yas was drunk on bad liquor and dope. One little schoolboy with a good slingshot could’ve overpowered yas. Am I right so far?’’

  Behind Eddie, the rest of the men didn’t laugh at his remark. They sat silent as stone; this was no laughing matter. Leo didn’t dare reply. Eddie was too unpredictable for him to know how to respond.

  After a moment of tense silence, Eddie took Fairday’s lack of a reply to be an admission of guilt. ‘‘That’s what I thought,’’ he said quietly. Raising his big horse pistol at arm’s length, he took aim and said, ‘‘So long, Leo.’’

  Leo wasn’t going to go down without a fight. He had started to make a move for his Colt when Redlow called out to his brother, ‘‘Wait! Damn it, Eddie!’’

  ‘‘For what?’’ Eddie answered, ready to fire. ‘‘I never liked him much anyway.’’

  ‘‘You can’t go around killing eve
rybody just because you don’t like them!’’ said Redlow.

  ‘‘Oh? Why not?’’ Eddie stared at his brother for a satisfactory explanation.

  ‘‘Because you just can’t,’’ Redlow said in a stronger tone. ‘‘For one thing I’m not finished talking to him. Don’t you want to know how your pal Black Jake Patterson got slain?’’

  ‘‘He killed him,’’ Eddie said matter-of-factly, still aiming the big horse pistol, and feeling it grow heavier in his hand, ‘‘by not lifting a finger to help him.’’

  ‘‘Eddie, don’t make me barrel-smack you,’’ Redlow said in a low, even tone. ‘‘Lower that cannon before your arm clamps up and locks on you.’’

  Eddie lowered the big gun reluctantly, but only an inch, enough to relieve the weight of it for a moment. Seeing the gun lowered, Fairday eased down and let out a tense breath. To Redlow he said, ‘‘I’m ashamed to say it, but maybe he’s right. Maybe I could’ve done more, and failed to. If that’s true, I’ll have to live with the burden of it from now on.’’

  He gestured a gloved hand toward Boland who had been watching tensely, wondering if he could trust Fairday to not break down and tell them who had really killed Black Jake. ‘‘These fellows saw it, the tail end of it anyway. You could say they come along in time to save my hide.’’ He threw the saved-hide part in to make certain Boland gave a good account of him.

  Redlow and Eddie both turned their gaze toward Boland and the other two. ‘‘What happened, Titus?’’

  This was going to work out all right, Boland thought, lowering the wet cloth from his lips. ‘‘What I saw was Leo here and Patterson fighting off the lawmen. They was both doing their part. Then Patterson went down.’’ He gave Leo a look and went on to say, ‘‘By the time we hightailed it in there and chased the lawdogs away, Patterson’s eyes were rolled up. He was dead, sure enough.’’