by Ralph Cotton
The two watched Luna stagger about and gasp for breath. ‘‘Pull it out and stick him again,’’ Fairday said, his eyes lit with the excitement of watching a man die in front of him.
‘‘Naw, this is good enough, for now,’’ Boland said. He looked over at the freshly cleaned and loaded shotgun lying on Luna’s desk. ‘‘Well, now, here’s the very gun he busted my teeth with,’’ he said, stepping over and picking it up. Luna backed against the bars of a cell and held on for support.
‘‘You—you killed me,’’ he gasped.
‘‘That’s right,’’ said Boland, ‘‘and I ain’t finished yet.’’ He turned the shotgun back and forth in his hands, looking it over. He checked it, cocked it and pointed it at Luna from twelve feet away. ‘‘Say good-bye to your little angel,’’ he said mockingly.
‘‘One moment is . . . all I ask,’’ Luna managed to say, blood welling up and foaming around the knife hilt at his chest. ‘‘Let me make peace . . . with God.’’
‘‘Naw, not today,’’ Boland said in a flip and callous manner. ‘‘Maybe some other time.’’ The eight gauge bucked and exploded in his hands.
‘‘Whoa, pal!’’ Fairday remarked, watching Luna’s head disappear into a spray of blood and gore all over the bars and the cell wall behind him. ‘‘You are a hard-nosed sumbitch, Boland,’’ he said with a dark chuckle. He rounded a finger in his ear to lessen the ringing left from the deafening shotgun blast. Seeing the look Boland gave him as he opened the shotgun and reloaded it, Fairday added in a hasty voice, ‘‘Of course I say sumbitch with nothing but respect and admiration.’’
‘‘Go get your knife out of him,’’ said Boland, his chin and broken teeth feeling better already. ‘‘Let’s get the hell out of here.’’ He turned and began walking toward the open door as voices shouted back and forth along the dusty street.
Dawson and Caldwell had not only followed the tracks of the Barrows Gang; they had also followed the distant flames throughout the night, every now and then hearing the report of a single gunshot echo through the black, empty silence. By sunup, when the flames had died, they followed two rising spirals of smoke the rest of the way to the stone wall surrounding the Bengreen yard.
Riding inside the open gates, they saw the well, and beyond it the doors of the hacienda standing wide-open in the early-morning light. A hundred yards to their left beyond the walls they saw a few standing remains of blackened timbers amid the burned rubble of the small house where Ernesto and his family had lived. Nearby the house they saw the remains of the barn lying in a smoldering heap beneath its own rise of smoke.
‘‘This was bad,’’ Dawson whispered sidelong to Caldwell. Having seen their tracks leading here, alreadyhe suspected that the Barrows Gang had something to do with it. The two carried their rifles propped up and ready.
‘‘Should I ride on over and see if anybody’s alive out there?’’ Caldwell asked, nodding toward the spot where Ernesto’s house had stood.
‘‘In a minute, Jedson,’’ said Dawson. ‘‘First let’s see what we’ve got here.’’
As the two lawmen eased their horses around the well, they spotted Shaw sitting in the dirt twenty yards away. Anna Reyes Bengreen lay dead in his lap. Shaw sat with his right arm out of the sling, his Colt cocked and hanging loosely in his hand.
‘‘Shaw,’’ Dawson called out as the two stopped at a cautious distance. When Shaw didn’t answer, he called out again. ‘‘Shaw, it’s Cray Dawson and Jedson Caldwell. Are you all right?’’
Shaw looked up from the dead woman’s face, but only stared blankly, still not answering. Dawson gestured Caldwell forward alongside him. The two stepped their horses closer and stopped a few feet from Shaw, close enough to see the empty sling hanging from his wounded right shoulder. In his right hand Shaw loosely held his big Colt, cocked and ready to fire. Dawson saw a pile of spent brass shells lying strewn in the dirt beside him. A few feet away the ground had been chewed up, from where Shaw had fired bullet after bullet into the upturned dirt.
‘‘We best walk easy, Jedson,’’ Dawson said under his breath.
‘‘You bet,’’ Caldwell replied in the same manner. He lowered his rifle across his lap.
At a respectable distance, the two stopped and stepped down from their saddles. Caldwell lifted a leather canteen strap from around his saddle horn and brought along a canteen of water as they walked forward. He carried his rifle at his side.
‘‘Shaw, I know you can hear me,’’ Dawson said quietly but firmly. ‘‘We’re coming over. Don’t raise that gun toward us. We’re your friends, remember?’’ He kept his rifle lowered also, just in case.
‘‘Friends . . . ?’’ Shaw stared, but he slowly lowered the Colt to the ground beside him and cradled the dead woman in his arms. ‘‘I don’t have friends,’’ he said, lowering his face, gazing down at Anna’s closed eyes. ‘‘Get back on your horses and ride away.’’
Dawson and Caldwell gave one another a cautionary glance and proceeded closer. ‘‘I’m afraid we can’t do that, Shaw,’’ said Dawson. ‘‘We’re still your friends whether you like it or not.’’
‘‘I don’t like it,’’ Shaw growled without lifting his eyes from the dead woman’s face.
‘‘Here, have some water, Shaw?’’ Caldwell urged cautiously, uncapping the canteen and holding it out to him.
Shaw looked at the canteen, considering it. But upon seeing that he would have to loosen his hold on the woman in order to take a drink, he turned his face away from Caldwell and said, ‘‘Why don’t both of you leave. I’ve got things under control here.’’
‘‘No, you don’t, Shaw,’’ Dawson said bluntly. ‘‘There’s dead needing to be buried.’’
‘‘I know how to bury the dead,’’ Shaw said in a bitter tone of voice. ‘‘I’ve had plenty of practice everywhere I’ve been. I don’t need your help.’’
‘‘Yes you do,’’ Dawson insisted, ‘‘so we best get to it. Caldwell and I are dogging some of the Barrows Gang. Their tracks led us here. They’re the ones who did this. We’ll help you do the burying, but then we need to get after them before they manage to strike again.’’ He stared down at Shaw. ‘‘Do you understand me?’’
‘‘I understood you the first time,’’ Shaw said, looking up at him, hollow-eyed. ‘‘Now get out of here. I don’t want your help—I don’t need your help. I’m taking care of her. . . . It’s what she hired me to do.’’
‘‘She’s dead, Shaw,’’ Dawson said, still blunt and straight to the point. ‘‘If you want to do something to help her, let’s get her into the ground.’’
After a silent pause, Shaw said, ‘‘Dawson, Caldwell, you two are awfully hard to get rid of. What are you doing down here anyway? I heard somewhere that you became a U.S. federal marshal.’’
‘‘I did,’’ said Dawson. ‘‘Stand up. Help us get something done here.’’
Shaw looked at Caldwell. ‘‘What about you, Jedson? Are you working for the law too?’’
‘‘Yes, I am,’’ said Caldwell. ‘‘I’m a federal deputy marshal. Now come on, Shaw. Help us out here.’’
‘‘Help you out?’’ Shaw said. ‘‘I just want to be alone with her for a little while longer. Get away, go find some shade and sit in it.’’
Again, Dawson ignored his comment. ‘‘Go with us after the ones who killed her if you want to do something more for her. But let’s get the dead into the ground. There’s no time for grieving. There’s no time for you to feel sorry for yourself.’’
Caldwell gave Dawson a harsh stare. ‘‘Take it easy, Cray,’’ he said. ‘‘We’ve got time to give him a few minutes alone—’’
‘‘No, we don’t,’’ Dawson said with a snap, cutting him off. ‘‘Give him enough time alone, he’ll end up with that gun barrel between his teeth.’’ He looked back at Shaw. ‘‘That’s what all the bullet holes in the ground is about, right, Shaw? All night you’ve been practicing killing yourself. You just haven’t managed to keep the barrel poi
nted in the right direction yet.’’
‘‘Shut up, Dawson, and stay out of my business,’’ Shaw said, loosening his hold on the dead woman only a little as he stared up. ‘‘Whether I shoot myself or not is no concern of yours.’’
‘‘Suit yourself,’’ Dawson said. ‘‘We’re after the ones who killed this poor woman. You can stay here and figure out how to die, if that best suits you.’’ He glanced at Caldwell and said, ‘‘Let’s go, Jedson. Save your water for the desert trail.’’ He turned and started to walk away. Jedson stood up from where he’d kneeled beside Shaw, dusted off his trouser leg and started to follow Dawson back to the horses.
‘‘I know who did this,’’ Shaw called out. ‘‘It was a murdering snake named Titus Boland. Him and I had trouble in Matamoros. He shot me in the shoulder.’’
Dawson and Caldwell stopped and turned, facing him without walking back. ‘‘I heard all about the shooting from Luna,’’ Dawson said. ‘‘He told me you passed out in a gunfight.’’ He gave Shaw a look of disgust.
‘‘Luna has a mouth bigger than his face.’’ Shaw reached out a hand and motioned it toward Caldwell’s canteen. Caldwell looked to Dawson. Getting a nod of approval he walked back and held the canteen down to Shaw.
‘‘Gracias, Undertaker,’’ Shaw said. He adjusted the dead woman in his lap and took a swig from the uncapped canteen. He swished the water around in his mouth, spit a stream and wiped his hand across his lips. Looking back at Dawson he said, ‘‘It may be that Titus Boland has thrown in with the Barrows . . . but he’s the one who did this. I know it down deep in my guts.’’ As he spoke, he eased the woman off his lap and stood up.
‘‘Are you going after him?’’ Dawson asked, seeing Shaw start to snap out of his dark suicidal state.
Shaw held the canteen up and poured water down over his head and face and swung his hair back and forth before answering. He looked all around, at the rising smoke, the carnage and ruin. Then he looked at Dawson and said flatly, ‘‘What do you think?’’
Chapter 12
With the woman and Ernesto’s son buried and wooden markers stuck into the ground to mark their graves, Dawson, Caldwell and Shaw rode in silence from the Bengreen spread onto the trail leading to Matamoros. Caldwell led three of the Bengreen horses on a rope—stragglers that the Barrows men had overlooked in their haste. He’d found the horses grazing on sparse clumps of wild grass beyond the burned barn.
When they had reached a distance of a thousand yards from the Bengreen spread, Caldwell brought Dawson’s attention to Shaw who had stopped his horse for a moment and sat gazing back at the walled hacienda.
‘‘Want me to lag back and stay close to him?’’ Caldwell asked.
‘‘No, leave him be, Jedson,’’ Dawson said quietly, the two of them staring back at Shaw. ‘‘He’ll have to work it out for himself. We’ve done all we can do.’’
‘‘Yeah, I suppose so,’’ Caldwell said. ‘‘He’ll be all right,’’ he added as if to convince himself. ‘‘Shaw’s as tough as they come.’’
‘‘Right,’’ said Dawson. He turned and nudged his horse forward with no more to say on the matter.
Caldwell caught up to him and asked, ‘‘Is there a problem between you and Shaw that I don’t know about?’’
‘‘A problem?’’ Dawson said, tossing him a sidelong glance.
‘‘Yes,’’ said Caldwell, ‘‘ever since we rode up to him you’ve acted half cross and put out about something. Is it something I ought to know about?’’
‘‘Naw,’’ said Dawson, staring ahead, ‘‘I’ve got no problem with him, at least no more than any man would have when he finds his friend working up the courage to kill himself.’’
‘‘I can understand that,’’ Caldwell agreed. ‘‘I expect that a man like Shaw has the courage. If he really wanted to die there would be no stopping him.’’
‘‘Then what stopped him back there?’’ Dawson asked.
‘‘It’s complicated,’’ said Caldwell, considering it for a second. ‘‘A man who thinks about pulling the trigger is still thinking there might be hope for something better. A man who goes ahead and pulls the trigger is a man who’s saying he doesn’t care enough about living to even stick around and see if his circumstances might change for the better.’’
‘‘I can see what you mean by complicated,’’ said Dawson with a thin smile. ‘‘A man has to be alive to see if life got better for him. I expect that means if he’s dead he didn’t really want it to?’’
‘‘That’s interesting,’’ said Caldwell, contemplating the matter.
‘‘Yeah,’’ said Dawson. ‘‘But to keep it simple, I happen to think that Shaw still has too much wolf in his belly to pull that trigger. He might think about doing it, but when it comes down to getting it done, his instincts won’t turn him loose and let him do it.’’
‘‘The wolf in his belly . . . ?’’ Caldwell worked on Dawson’s explanation in his mind. ‘‘You’re saying the same animal nature that brought him through every gunfight is the same nature that won’t allow him to destroy himself?’’
‘‘Something like that,’’ Dawson replied. ‘‘There’s enough of the wild left in us to make us want to keep living. Someday maybe the wild will be gone . . . but for now we’ve still got it.’’
‘‘You’re saying we came from animals?’’ Caldwell asked pointedly.
‘‘I’m not smart enough to speculate where we came from,’’ said Dawson, ‘‘but wherever we come from, it was no gentle place. We slashed and ripped and hacked our way here from somewhere. It was no easy road and it’s still not. We didn’t learn to give up easy. I expect that nature or spirit or whatever you want to call it is still in us . . . so far anyway.’’
They both looked back at Shaw in time to see him turn his horse and ride to catch up to them. ‘‘You said Luna told you he passed out in the gunfight? You figure he got himself drunk enough to turn loose, get himself killed and get it over with?’’
‘‘Yeah,’’ said Dawson, ‘‘but since that didn’t work, maybe nothing else we just said amounts to a hill of beans.’’ He allowed a thin, wry smile. ‘‘Maybe it’s just luck and nothing else.’’
‘‘What about God’s will?’’ Caldwell asked, seeing Shaw draw nearer.
‘‘ ‘God’s will is what a sinner calls luck,’ ’’ said Dawson. ‘‘That’s something I once heard a preacher say.’’
The two stopped talking as Shaw rode up close and drew his horse down to a walk. As they rode forward abreast, Caldwell leading the Cedros Altos horses, Shaw said in a steadier voice, ‘‘I should have said this earlier. Much obliged to both of you, coming along when you did. You’re both friends—good friends—no matter what I said back there.’’
Without a word, Dawson and Caldwell touched their hat brims in reply. ‘‘Are you up to talking about a few things before we get to Matamoros?’’ Dawson asked, gazing ahead along wagon and buggy ruts on the widening, more traveled trail.
‘‘That depends. What sort of things do you want to talk about?’’ Shaw asked in reply.
Dawson smiled to himself; he could tell Shaw was coming around. ‘‘I’ve been wanting more help out here, chasing the Barrows Gang. After what happened at Cedros Altos, I’m going back to the American consulate, ask one more time. I think I might get it now.’’
‘‘Good luck,’’ Shaw said with resolve.
Dawson looked at him. ‘‘This is a big gang, Shaw. It’ll get bigger as soon as Redlow and Eddie hook up with Sepreano and his Army of Liberation. You’d be a fool trying to take them all on by yourself.’’
‘‘I only want the Barrows,’’ said Shaw. ‘‘I have no fight with Luis Sepreano. If Sepreano keeps his soldiers out of my way, I won’t kill them.’’
‘‘Are you drinking?’’ Dawson looked him up and down and sniffed the air between them.
‘‘Not a drop,’’ said Shaw, ‘‘but I will be when we get to town.’’
Seeing he was serious
, Dawson said, ‘‘I wish you’d stay sober. I need a good gunman. I believe I can get the consulate to grant you a marshal’s commission.’’
‘‘Oh, wear a badge?’’ Shaw said. ‘‘Obliged, but no thanks.’’
‘‘What’s wrong with wearing a marshal’s badge?’’ Dawson asked.
‘‘You tell me,’’ Shaw replied bluntly. ‘‘Neither one of you is wearing one.’’
Dawson’s face reddened a little. ‘‘You know why we’re not wearing ours,’’ he said. ‘‘We’ve got no jurisdiction down here.’’
‘‘Oh,’’ said Shaw, looking back and forth between the two lawmen, ‘‘then what are you doing down here?’’
‘‘We’re on a manhunt that’s been agreed to between our government and the Mexicans. Neither side acknowledges us being here. We’ve got a free hand to deal with the Barrows, to keep them and Sepreano from getting too powerful.’’
‘‘Let me see if I understand,’’ said Shaw. ‘‘You think you might be able to get me a badge that I can’t wear because I’ll be doing a job that nobody on either side of the border wants to admit I’ll be doing?’’
Dawson frowned and stared straight ahead. ‘‘Wearing badges might make some folks think the U.S. government is taking sides in a people’s rebellion.’’
‘‘Oh? Isn’t that the case?’’ Shaw said.
‘‘It would be,’’ said Dawson, ‘‘except we both know that Sepreano is a thief, not a leader of the people. He has to be stopped.’’
‘‘Since when did being a thief keep anybody from leading the people?’’ Shaw asked.
Dawson let it go and shook his head. ‘‘I didn’t know you had something against lawmen.’’
‘‘I don’t,’’ said Shaw. ‘‘I just never pictured being one.’’
‘‘Try picturing it,’’ said Dawson, ‘‘at least until we bring down the Barrows.
‘‘You’re saying bring down the Barrows Gang,’’ said Shaw, ‘‘not take them in for trial?’’
‘‘You heard me right,’’ said Dawson. ‘‘We’re taking them down. . . . It’s one more good reason not to be wearing a badge.’’