by Ralph Cotton
‘‘One minute . . .’’ Shaw finished chewing the slice of lime, swallowed it and rubbed his fingertips on his shirt, his right hand lying limp in the sling. ‘‘What about these two monkeys?’’ he asked, without looking away from Roland.
‘‘What about them?’’ Roland replied.
‘‘While I kill you, are they going to be shooting holes in my friend here?’’ Shaw asked matter-of-factly.
‘‘They go their own way,’’ said Roland. He managed a tight shrug. ‘‘If they kill him while I’m killing you,’’ he corrected Shaw, ‘‘I expect it’s just his bad luck for backing the wrong man.’’
‘‘Hear that, Undertaker?’’ Shaw asked Caldwell. ‘‘Killer Pete says you’re backing the wrong man.’’
‘‘I heard him,’’ said Caldwell. He had taken a slow step back and half turned, giving himself the benefit of seeing the other two men, both of whom had bristled at Shaw calling them monkeys.
‘‘What do you think?’’ Shaw asked him. Maybe there’s time for you to change sides. You could back Killer Pete here, my arm being injured and all?’’
‘‘I’ll stay with what I’m dealt,’’ Caldwell said, his dark eyes moving from one of the gunmen to the next.
‘‘Stop wasting time, Shaw,’’ said Roland.
But Shaw ignored him and asked the other two, ‘‘What about you hombres? You’ve got no qualms about your amigo here coming to gun down a man whose shooting arm is in a sling?’’
‘‘So much the better, far as I’m concerned,’’ said one of the men. ‘‘Your wounded shoulder is his big gain, the way I look at it.’’
‘‘Who are you, Mister?’’ Shaw asked the other gunman, not looking around at him.
‘‘I’m Clifford Noonan,’’ the gunman said flatly, staring hard at Caldwell.
‘‘Undertaker,’’ Shaw said to Caldwell, ‘‘don’t you kill Clifford. I want him, soon as I finish Killer Pete. Do you hear me?’’
‘‘I hear you,’’ said Caldwell, in the same flat, calm voice. He turned his cold stare away from Clifford Noonan and toward the other gunman.
‘‘I said stop wasting my time and let’s get this done, Fast Larry!’’ Roland shouted, his nerves starting to become frayed from Shaw’s slow, stalling manner. ‘‘I come here to kill you! I didn’t come here to be put off, listening to a whole bunch of—’’
Two shots exploded from Shaw’s Colt. The first bullet ripped through Killer Pete’s chest and sent a spray of blood and heart fragments streaking along the tile bar top. Even as Shaw fired the first shot, he’d spun toward Noonan. The second shot slammed Noonan backward before his hand closed around his gun butt to draw.
Caldwell froze, seeing the third man throw his empty hands in the air. ‘‘Don’t shoot! Please don’t shoot!’’
Shaw stood calmly, his Colt smoking in his hand. ‘‘Go for your gun,’’ he said quietly. ‘‘You came here for a fight—a fight is what you get. Now fill your hand.’’
Caldwell stood watching, stunned, aware that although he himself was considered to be a top gun hand, his barrel had made it only halfway up from his holster before Shaw’s second shot killed Noonan.
‘‘This was a mistake. I didn’t want to come here, Mister, I swear I didn’t!’’ the man pleaded. ‘‘I told Pete to stay home. But no! He swore he could take the Fastest Gun Alive!’’
‘‘Draw your gun, you coward.’’ Shaw insisted. ‘‘I’m not leaving you alive to come throwing down on me some dark night. You’re leaving here on a plank.’’
Seeing the look in Shaw’s eyes, Caldwell said, ‘‘Easy, Shaw. He doesn’t want to fight. Don’t kill him. Don’t let him turn you into a murderer.’’
‘‘Turn me into a murderer?’’ Shaw gave him a dark, strange look. ‘‘If I’m not a murderer now, what the hell do you think I am?’’ He turned the smoking Colt toward the young gunman and cocked the trigger. ‘‘Die with that smoker in your hand or in your holster. It’s the only choices you get today.’’
‘‘I’m not drawing! Everybody look!’’ the young man shouted. ‘‘I’m not making a reach for my gun! All I want to do is get out the door and across the Río! I swear that’s all!’’
‘‘Don’t kill him, Shaw,’’ said Caldwell. ‘‘Call it a personal favor to me. I’ll be obliged if you let him live.’’
‘‘It’s a mistake, Undertaker,’’ Shaw said, reluctantly lowering his Colt and easing the hammer down. ‘‘I know it’s a mistake.’’ He shook his head and held the Colt loosely in his hand. ‘‘What’s your name, Mister?’’ he asked the gunman, who let out a tense breath.
‘‘Bob Jones,’’ the man said quickly, waiting, watching to see the gun slip into the holster.
‘‘Yeah, I bet,’’ said Shaw. He eyed the man. ‘‘Bob Jones, if you ever come at me again, don’t have plans made for the next day.’’
‘‘I—I understand,’’ the man said, backing away toward the door as he spoke, seeing Shaw drop the Colt to his side.
As the man disappeared out the door, Shaw looked at Caldwell and said, ‘‘There, are you satisfied?’’
But before Caldwell could answer, a series of shots rang out from the open doorway where the young man stood fanning his Colt toward the bar. Shaw raised his Colt deftly, before Caldwell could reach for his. One shot hammered the gunman in his chest and sent him flying backward, dead in the street.
Outside on the street, horses nickered loudly. A woman screamed at the sight of the dead man flying out of the cantina doorway in a spray of blood. ‘‘I told you it was a mistake,’’ Shaw said with a bitter snap in his voice. He dropped three empty cartridges out of his Colt, replaced them and slipped the gun into its holster. ‘‘Next time listen to me.’’
The two had turned to the bar when Dawson walked into the cantina, his Colt out, prepared for anything. Seeing Shaw and Caldwell both eating a slice of lime, he let out a breath and slipped his Colt into its holster. ‘‘All right, what happened?’’ he asked, stepping over to them. He looked to see if any bottles or shot glasses stood in front of Shaw.
‘‘Don’t worry, I’m sober,’’ Shaw said. On the other side of the bar, Max nodded in agreement when Dawson gave him a questioning look.
Caldwell cut in, ‘‘We came looking for a couple of fellows who can tell us where the Barrows hole up.’’ He nodded at the bodies on the floor. ‘‘This one called Shaw down for a fight.’’ He shook his head. ‘‘I suppose you can see the rest of it.’’
‘‘Yes,’’ said Dawson, ‘‘I can see.’’ He turned to Shaw and said, ‘‘It never stops with you, does it?’’
‘‘It hasn’t yet,’’ Shaw said.
‘‘Messenger won’t like this,’’ said Dawson. ‘‘He’s a government man. He won’t understand that there’s always men trying to kill you.’’
‘‘Oh?’’ said Shaw. ‘‘Then tell him something a government man will understand.’’ He worked his left hand open and closed. ‘‘Tell him I killed them because I needed the practice.’’
Dawson let the remark go. ‘‘Who are the men you came looking for?’’
‘‘A murderer and horse thief named Charlie Pepper, and his cousin, Rady laVease,’’ said Shaw. ‘‘Max told me where to find them. I say we go pay them a visit. It could save us searching all over the desert if we lose the Barrows’ trail.’’
‘‘All right,’’ Dawson nodded. He looked all around at the bodies on the floor and outside at the onlookers gathering in the street. ‘‘Let’s drag these two out of here and get moving.’’
‘‘Go,’’ said Max with a wave of his hand. ‘‘Don’t worry about these two. I can have them moved for a shot of tequila.’’
‘‘Gracias, for all your help,’’ said Dawson, reaching out and placing a gold coin on the bar. ‘‘Please let it be heard that this was self-defense.’’
Max grinned and nodded toward Shaw. ‘‘The people of Matamoros know that with this one, it is always self-defense.’’
Chapter 14
The three lawmen left Matamoros and traveled north toward Reynosa, to a long-abandoned and crumbling stone fortress the French had built for settlers along the banks of the Río Grande. Caldwell led the string of three of Bengreen’s Cedros Altos horses with them for spares in case a horse were to bruise a tendon in the rocky terrain. One of the spare horses carried a small load of trail supplies.
When they’d stepped down from their saddles to water the horses at the river’s edge, Shaw had walked his horse a few yards away to a stretch of bracken, cane grass and cottonwood saplings. There he stared out across the swirling river current while his horse lowered its muzzle and drank its fill.
While Shaw was out of hearing distance, Caldwell turned to Dawson and said in a guarded yet eager voice, ‘‘I have never seen anything like it in my life! It looked impossible, what he did.’’
‘‘He’s fast,’’ said Dawson. ‘‘You get no argument from me in that regard.’’
‘‘Fast?’’ Caldwell shook his head. ‘‘No, I‘m fast. You’re fast. But this . . . this was eerie,’’ said Caldwell, ‘‘almost unnatural.’’
‘‘He was in the right, though,’’ Dawson said, also gazing off across the river. ‘‘That’s the thing about Lawrence Shaw—I’ve never seen him come out wrong.’’
‘‘Yes, he was most certainly in the right,’’ said Caldwell. ‘‘But he was so fast it appeared that those two never stood a chance against him—and it seemed like he knew they didn’t have a chance from the start.’’
‘‘I know,’’ said Dawson. ‘‘Afterward you almost wonder if it really was fair, even though they came forcing the fight on him.’’
‘‘Yeah,’’ said Caldwell, considering it, picturing it over again in his mind. ‘‘Then what he said afterward, about killing them because he needed the practice?’’
‘‘I know he’s hard to take sometimes,’’ Dawson said. ‘‘But I always remind myself that he’s stood in front of an awful lot of gun barrels. He knows that no matter how fast he is, there’s a great reckoning coming, a time when somebody faster will be standing in front of him. Whatever he says about his life, or the men he’s killed, I figure he’s earned the right to say it.’’
Caldwell grimly contemplated Shaw’s predicament, then said, ‘‘Fast or not, right or not, I wouldn’t want to be in his boots. Half the time he’s wanting to end his own life. The other half, he’s shooting down anybody who comes along to face him.’’ He shook his head. ‘‘It makes no sense to me.’’
‘‘It probably makes even less sense to him when he thinks about it,’’ Dawson replied. He looked off to where Shaw came walking back, leading his horse behind him. ‘‘I’m glad he’s riding with us, not against us.’’
When the rest of the horses had finished taking water, the three mounted and rode north along the river until the evening shadows spread long across the rugged terrain. At dark they saw torch fires burning and followed the flickering light until they came to what were once the main gates of the French settlement. At a length in the wall where the stone had fallen and lay strewn about on the ground, they stepped the horses along carefully.
At a shorter wall inside the old fortress, a voice called out in Texan English from among a pile of fallen stones, ‘‘Stop right there. That’s close enough, you hombres. Who the blazing hell are you? What the blazing hell are you doing here?’’
Shaw spoke up. ‘‘It’s Lawrence Shaw, Rady,’’ he said. ‘‘You told me if I ever wanted to join the Barrows Gang, come look you up.’’
‘‘Yeah, so?’’ the voice said.
‘‘So, I’m looking for them. I want to join the gang,’’ Shaw said.
‘‘Keep looking,’’ the gunman said. His rifle lever clicked back and forth. ‘‘You can go join the Mexican navy for all I care. You’re not welcome here, and that goes for the two jakes riding with you. We’re declaring this place Robber’s Roost from now on.’’
‘‘Hold on, Rady,’’ said Shaw. ‘‘This old fort has always been a place where anybody on the run could come cool their heels. You can’t just ride in and take it over.’’
‘‘Can, have and will,’’ said Rady, feeling more confident as he talked. ‘‘Anybody comes here unwelcome, dies here, unless we say otherwise. Now get going! I’m starting to get cross just talking to you.’’
Shaw lowered his head and said to Dawson and Caldwell, ‘‘He wouldn’t be talking this bold if he didn’t have rifles covering us.’’
‘‘Yep, I hear you,’’ said Dawson, neither he or Caldwell looking around at the shadowy rocks and trees surrounding them. ‘‘Think we ought to back away?’’
‘‘Not without an argument,’’ said Shaw. ‘‘If we back off too easily, they’ll figure we’re coming back on them later.’’
‘‘You know these men. Play it your way,’’ Dawson said.
‘‘What the blazing hell are you two talking about down there, Shaw?’’ Rady asked gruffly. ‘‘Don’t think you’re going to shoot your way through us. This is our world you’ve stepped into. We run it. We call all the shots.’’
‘‘We’re talking about how I brought my friends all the way out here, thinking you’d make us welcome,’’ said Shaw. ‘‘Now we’re this far out without a place to stay. What’s gotten down your shirt anyway?’’
‘‘I’m done talking, Shaw,’’ said Rady. ‘‘Back out of here right now. Unless the Fastest Gun Alive is fast enough to duck a bullet, this is one fight you’re going to lose—’’
‘‘Whoa now, Rady!’’ said another voice. ‘‘Take it easy. That’s no way to treat pals.’’
Shaw cut a guarded glance at Dawson and said quietly, ‘‘That’s his cousin. He must’ve decided he likes the horses.’’
‘‘Shaw, it’s me, Charlie Pepper,’’ the voice called out. ‘‘Pay no mind to Rady. He’s been chewing cactus all day.’’
‘‘Charlie,’’ said Shaw, ‘‘I rode out here to talk to you. Can we ride in there without Rady shooting at us?’’
‘‘Hell yes, you can,’’ said Charlie Pepper. ‘‘Ride right on. We’ll drink ourselves some good rye whiskey . . . if you’ve got any, that is.’’
Shaw called out, ‘‘Gracias, Charlie. Of course I do.’’ But as he nudged his horse forward he said under his breath to Caldwell and Dawson, ‘‘Watch yourselves. It looks like this could turn bloody before the night’s over.’’
‘‘I thought you know these two,’’ Dawson said, nudging his horse forward.
‘‘Knowing them doesn’t make them my friends, Cray,’’ Shaw replied.
‘‘Great,’’ Dawson said under his breath. ‘‘Are they going to tell us anything?’’
‘‘You can count on that,’’ Shaw said, nudging his horse along beside him. Caldwell followed, the Bengreen horses in tow, his right hand resting near his gun butt.
Once inside the shelter of the old fort walls, Rady LaVease, Charlie Pepper and three other men stepped out of the shadows, rifles in hand. The three other men drew in close around Caldwell and the three spare horses. Seeing the Cedros Altos brand on the animals, one of the men, a half Cheyenne outlaw known as Red Panther, ran a hand along a horse’s side across the brand.
‘‘It is a dangerous thing, to lead such fine horseflesh through such wild country,’’ he said, with little effort to conceal the threat in his voice.
‘‘I wouldn’t have it any other way,’’ Caldwell said, not backing an inch. He jerked the lead rope slightly, causing the horses to step away from the Indian, and the other two men gathered around him.
Shaw gave Dawson a look, letting him know to keep an eye on Caldwell as he turned in his saddle and asked Panther, ‘‘Tell me something, Indian. Are you still carrying that big bowie knife you took off the dead teamster over at Hyde City?’’
Panther stared at him with a stiff, mirthless grin and patted the knife’s bone handle beneath his shirt. ‘‘The knife follows me everywhere.’’
‘‘Careful it don’t get itself stuck in my
friend’s ribs, else it’ll be following you to hell,’’ Shaw said bluntly, making no attempt at offering any more courtesy than he felt they’d been shown.
Hearing Shaw, Caldwell heeded his warning and stepped his horse another foot away, leading the string, and stared down at Red Panther.
‘‘Hot damn, Red,’’ a lean Montana outlaw named Tyler Wilson chuckled. ‘‘It sounds like Fast Larry knows you pretty well.’’
‘‘I know him better than I care to,’’ said Shaw as he reached around and took a tall bottle of whiskey from his saddlebags. Pitching the bottle down to Charlie Pepper, he said, ‘‘Cut the dust, Charlie. I need you to tell me where the Barrows hole up this side of the border.’’
Pepper grinned, looking at the bottle of rye in his hands. ‘‘I’ll say one thing, Fast Larry. You sure as hell know how to come calling.’’ He pulled the cork with his teeth and blew it away, as if it was no longer needed. ‘‘Tell me, how do you manage to stay alive with that right arm out of business?’’
‘‘I do the best I can,’’ Shaw said, he and Dawson watching Pepper take a long swig and rub his shirtsleeve across his lips.
Passing the bottle on to LaVease, Pepper grinned slyly and said to Shaw, ‘‘But I doubt there’s enough whiskey in the world to make me tell where the Barrows hide out.’’ He looked around with his sly grin. ‘‘What would these fellows think of me?’’
Shaw looked disappointed. ‘‘All this time I thought we were friends.’’
Rady pointed a finger and said, ‘‘I know you’re a hard case and a killer, no different from us. But I look at these two and I see badges in their eyes, clear as day.’’ Reaching around, he gestured a hand for the bottle as Rady lowered it from his mouth. Grinning, he hurriedly took another long swig. ‘‘Looks like you wasted good whiskey on us gringo desperados for nothing, Fast Larry.’’