by Ralph Cotton
‘‘Killed by the same two lawmen who were tracking you, Leo,’’ Sweeney called out, ‘‘is what I figure.’’
‘‘You better keep all your damned figuring to yourself then,’’ Fairday warned, his hand instinctively clasping his gun butt. ‘‘Don’t go accusing me of anything. I didn’t ask to be dogged by the law!’’
‘‘That’s enough, Leo,’’ Redlow said. ‘‘We’ve all lost some pards to those sonsabitches . . . who have no right even being down here poking around in the first place.’’
Fairday took a breath and calmed himself down and said as if contemplating everything, ‘‘So Fast Larry killed Lawton and Gaddis before my pal Boland here stopped his clock. . . .’’
‘‘Yeah, and he sent a bullet whizzing right past my nose,’’ said Lying Earl Sunday. ‘‘I raised my rifle and took aim at him. I would have shot him dead too, had it not been for somebody bumping into me.’’
Fairday looked at Redlow and saw him shake his head slowly, discounting everything Lying Earl had said. Ignoring Lying Earl, Redlow said to Titus Boland, ‘‘I don’t mind telling you, Boland, a bold man like yourself is going to go far with this bunch.’’ He gestured him forward. ‘‘Come over here and ride beside me into Rock Station. Let’s talk some.’’ He gestured at the short ornate shotgun that had been Luna’s little angel. ‘‘I always wanted to take myself a look at that scattergun.’’
‘‘Careful, if you cock it,’’ Boland cautioned him as he rode forward, took the strap from his shoulder and handed the gun over to him. ‘‘It’s got a hair trigger.’’
‘‘Mr. Careful is who I am,’’ Redlow grinned, taking the gun in his hand and examining it closely. ‘‘I just want to carry it awhile. There’s satisfaction in holding a dead lawman’s gun.’’
Turning the six-horse string over to Drop the Dog Jones, Fairday said, ‘‘Careful with these hosses, Dog. I’ve grown attached to them.’’
Dog took the string without comment and led them behind him. Fairday, Tomes and McClinton settled in with the rest of the riders while Boland rode in front between the Barrows brothers. Eddie Barrows kept his horse a few feet ahead of Boland and Redlow and rode in sullen silence, while around them the wind had begun to whir and swirl with sand.
By the time they’d ridden past a weathered, hand-carved signpost that read ROCOSA ESTACIÓN, the wind had increased. Sand obscured the men’s view of much of the small village until they stopped in the middle of the dirt street and looked at a half-dozen horses standing huddled at an iron hitch rail out front of a dingy cantina.
‘‘I’ll be damned,’’ said Redlow, in disgust, staring at the animals with their worn-down Mexican- and Californian-style saddles and tack. ‘‘These lousy bummers have stuck their horses where we wanted to hitch ours.’’ He looked at Boland. ‘‘That’s rude, wouldn’t you say?’’
‘‘Damned rude,’’ Boland replied, getting into the same frame of mind as Redlow.
The owners of the horses had posted a guard out front of the cantina. Seeing the riders gather in the dirt street, the guard pushed up the lowered brim of his sombrero and stared with interest. He started to turn and step inside to warn his comrades of the new arrivals. But before he could, Redlow raised the scattergun he still held in his hand and asked Boland, ‘‘Do you mind?’’
‘‘Be my guest,’’ Boland replied, swinging down from his saddle, the others doing the same. Wind-whipped sand whistled around them.
Inside a dimly lit cantina, four Mexican bandits, who had traveled down from the high country, sat at a battered table playing cards with a German mine operator from Monterey. Two more of the bandit party stood at a bar drinking, one with his arm wrapped around the fleshy waist of Rock Station’s only prostitute.
With an aura of fire, blood and gore surrounding and trailing him, the guard burst through the front door, launched forward by a blast from the shotgun. Behind the slain guard, Redlow Barrows leaped inside with the smoking shotgun hanging from its strip around his neck. In his right hand a big horse pistol bucked up and down steadily with each blazing shot.
On Redlow’s right, Boland stood with his feet shoulder-width apart, firing into the men at the table as they scrambled to save themselves. Behind Boland the rest of the gang quickly crowded inside, each of them firing at the bar, the table and at the cantina owner as he ran screaming toward a rear door. On the ground outside the rear door a disheveled man wearing a ragged serape watched what was on, but only for a moment before scurrying away on all fours beneath the screaming wind.
As bullets riddled the German’s chest and sent him flying backward from the table, one of the bandits snatched up a long French pistol from his waist sash and fired at the gunmen as he leaped from his chair. Landing on the tile and dirt floor, he scrambled behind the end of the bar, bullets biting and slicing into him.
The two men at the bar had managed to return fire, one of them holding the fleshy woman in front of him as a shield. She screamed in pain and terror as bullets hit her. Behind her the bandit felt her blood splatter on his face as he emptied a big German pistol toward the gunmen inside the doorway. Beside him, his drinking comrade fired four shots before bullets from Drop the Dog Jones and Giles Sweeney felled him.
Only seconds from the time it had started, the gun battle had ended. The bandits lay dead or dying on the blood-strewn floor; powder smoke hung in a dark cloud. Outside, the wind whistled and roared.
‘‘Hot damn! What a row!’’ Redlow shouted as the firing slacked off. On the floor in front of the bar, the fleshy whore lay sprawled faceup atop one of the bandits, her bloody mouth and eyes open wide toward the low thatched ceiling. ‘‘Finish them off, men,’’ he said. Looking over at the dead guard who lay almost in two pieces on the floor, he said to Boland, ‘‘I see why Luna called this his little angel.’’ He patted the smoking shotgun hanging from around his neck. ‘‘What say I hang on to her for just a little while longer?’’ He grinned widely. ‘‘I’m enjoying the hell out of it.’’ He reached a gloved hand out to Boland for a reload.
Boland handed him the thick shotgun load without answering. Redlow reloaded the eight gauge as they stepped forward. Boland lowered his gun barrel toward the bloody, grimacing face of one of the men from the table. The dying man said in a strained and halting voice, ‘‘You make . . . a bad mistake . . . gringo. Do you know who . . . I am?’’
Redlow gave him a curious look and said, ‘‘No, I suppose we don’t. Who were you?’’
‘‘I am . . . Carlos Sepreano. . . . My brother is . . . Luis Sepreano.’’
‘‘Ooops!’’ Redlow gave a little laugh and glanced at Boland.
‘‘We are going to . . . join him,’’ the dying man gasped.
‘‘Not anymore, you’re not.’’ Redlow shrugged, appearing unconcerned with whom they’d shot. ‘‘I’ll tell him you should have hitched your horse somewhere else.’’
‘‘Hitched my horse . . . ?’’ The man looked disturbed and confused.
‘‘Yep, you heard me,’’ Redlow said. He lowered the shotgun inches from the man’s puzzled, trembling face and pulled the trigger.
Boland stepped back, spitting the dead man’s blood from his lips and wiping flecks of meat and bone from his face.
‘‘Damn, Redlow!’’ said Eddie Barrows. ‘‘Let somebodyknow when you’re going to do something like that!’’ From six feet away he’d caught some of the blood spatter. ‘‘Look at me, damn it!’’ He spread his arms to show the mess on his riding duster.
‘‘Look at you?’’ Redlow laughed. ‘‘Hell, look at me! Look at Titus here. We’ll be wearing this man’s face for the next month if we don’t find some bathing water.’’
‘‘You heard who he was,’’ said Eddie. ‘‘How are you going to square that with Sepreano when we meet up with him?’’
‘‘Simple.’’ Redlow’s grin widened. ‘‘It’s just more of them damned lawmen’s handiwork—the rotten, murdering sonsabitches!’’ He looked over at the dead cantina owne
r lying near the rear door. Then he waved the smoking shotgun around over his head. ‘‘Looks like drinks are on the house, amigos.’’
The men rushed to the bar, over it and around it. They hastily grabbed down bottles of tequila, rye and mescal from shelves on the wall. Boland looked over at Giles Sweeney who, bowed at the waist, stood against the front wall. ‘‘Redlow, take a look at this,’’ he said in a quiet tone.
Redlow turned, looked at Sweeney and said, ‘‘Giles, what’s ailing you? You look like you caught a bullet in your guts.’’
Sweeney tried to give a smile, but it looked stiff and pained. ‘‘Hell, that’s because I did catch a bullet in the guts,’’ he replied in a rasping voice. Beads of sweat stood on his dusty forehead. ‘‘But I’ll be all right,’’ he added, holding a hand out as if to stop them from going to any bother on his account. ‘‘I just need to catch my breath and get a swig or two down my gullet.’’
‘‘Come on now,’’ Redlow said, ‘‘we all know better than that. A gut shot ain’t something you push aside and go on with.’’
‘‘Maybe—maybe there’s a doctor here,’’ Sweeney said, his knees clamped together like a man badly needing to relieve himself. His right hand gripped his belly tightly.
‘‘You know better than that, Giles,’’ said Redlow. ‘‘If there was a doctor in this pig rut, I doubt you’d want his fingers poking around in your guts.’’
‘‘I’m . . . just saying that I ain’t done for, Redlow,’’ Sweeney said.
‘‘Oh yeah, you’re done for,’’ said Eddie Barrows. He and the rest of the men had seen what was going on. They stopped what they were doing and stepped forward from the bar, liquor in hand, watching with interest as they twisted corks from bottles and drank. ‘‘You know how the thing works. Same for you, same for any of us.’’ He stepped forward, raising his Colt from its holster.
‘‘Damn it, Red! After all we’ve been through,’’ said Sweeney, turning an appeal to Redlow. ‘‘Can’t I at least get a drink or two? Tell everybody adios?’’
‘‘Somebody give him a bottle,’’ said Redlow. ‘‘This is our old pal Sweeney.’’
Drop the Dog Jones stepped over quickly and put a bottle of rye in Sweeney’s bloody trembling hand. ‘‘So long, Giles, ole pard,’’ he said. Then he stepped back out of the way.
Sweeney turned the bottle up, took a long swig and swallowed it. The fiery whiskey came back up in a bloody spray. ‘‘Oh my sweet aching hell!’’ Sweeney wailed in pain, dropping the bottle, both hands going to his belly, squeezing his burning intestines.
Redlow watched the bottle roll on the tile-and-dirt floor, whiskey splashing from it. ‘‘See what I mean?’’ he said to Sweeney. He turned and nodded at Eddie. ‘‘Close him down, Brother.’’
Eddie fanned three shots, each hitting Sweeney in the center of the chest in a tight three-inch pattern.
‘‘Damn it all,’’ said Drop the Dog as Sweeney slammed back against the wall, then sank to the floor. ‘‘There just ain’t nothing fair in life. Not one damned thing.’’
‘‘All right, everybody,’’ said Redlow, seeing the grim look on Drop the Dog’s face, ‘‘we’ll liquor up till this wind dies down some, but we’re waiting for it to stop altogether. We’re circling back around to the main trail.’’ He grinned again and gave his brother a wink. ‘‘I need to hurry and tell Sepreano what happened to his poor brother, Carlos.’’
Eddie shook his head as he dropped his Colt back into his holster. ‘‘And I’m the one they call crazy.’’ But he knew his brother was right. After they had killed Luis Sepreano’s brother, Rock Station was no place to be, storm or no storm. Leaving before the wind died would get them out of town and get their tracks covered. Seeing the knowing look in his eyes, he called out, ‘‘You heard my brother. Get to drinking. We ain’t got all night.’’
Chapter 17
Before daylight, while the last vestiges of wind whirred in the distance, Shaw stood up from beneath a layer of sand like a man rising from a grave. He pulled his bandanna down from across the bridge of his nose. He shook himself off, drew his Colt from its holster, shook it, blew on it and checked the action. He looked toward the sound of his horse as it also rose up, shaking itself. The animal stood spread-legged in an indention left from where it had lain huddled down on all fours, sheltered beneath a low cut-bank edged with rock and brush.
Along the low cut-bank the other horses stood and shook and snorted until once again the air thickened with billowing dust. Shaw coughed and spit and lifted his canteen strap from around his neck. He uncapped the dusty canteen, took a small sip, swished it and spit it out. Then he took another sip and swallowed it. He coughed again.
Nearby, Dawson and Caldwell stood up, dusted themselves off and pulled down their bandannas. ‘‘I heard shooting,’’ Dawson said, gazing off in the direction of Rock Station as he uncapped his canteen, rinsed his mouth and spit. ‘‘It sounded like Luna’s little angel a couple of times.’’
‘‘I heard it too,’’ said Caldwell, following suit. With the dusty lead rope coiled over his shoulder and canteen in hand, he walked toward the horses. ‘‘It sounded like hell broke loose for about two or three seconds. Then it got quiet. . . . Then some more shots followed.’’ He looked back and forth between Dawson and Shaw as if welcoming their take on the matter.
‘‘I heard it too.’’ Shaw fished his fingers beneath a mound of sand and found his saddle horn. ‘‘Maybe everybody got drunk and killed one another,’’ he offered sourly. He hefted the saddle, sand pouring from it, and walked it over to his horse. ‘‘But I doubt it,’’ he added. ‘‘Most likely they tipped horns with some of the local desperados. There’s plenty of them around here.’’
‘‘Whatever it was, I plan on being up trail from them when they come back from Rock Station,’’ Dawson offered in a hoarse, dust-stricken voice. ‘‘Maybe we can surprise them and get this over with.’’ He picked up his saddle, shook it out and carried it to his horse while Caldwell strung the lead rope on the Bengreen horses and prepared them for the trail.
When they had watered the horses with a few precious drops poured into their hats, they saddled, mounted and rode on until the sun stood fiery and bright in the eastern sky. The fresh sand lay loose beneath the horses’ hooves. Any signs of hoofprints from the day before had been swept away, so when they came upon fresh tracks coming from the direction of Rock Station, the three slowed their horses to a halt and stared after the tracks lying ahead of them.
‘‘Missed them,’’ Dawson said bitterly. ‘‘They rode on through the night.’’
‘‘After cutting all the way over to Rock Station they didn’t even wait out the storm?’’ Caldwell asked with a curious look.
‘‘So it appears,’’ said Shaw, looking back through the swirling heat along the trail from Rock Station. ‘‘Makes a fellow wonder just what happened in Rock Station, the shooting and all.’’
Dawson stared along the trail with him. Finally he said, ‘‘Think one of us ought to ride back and see?’’
Shaw considered it. ‘‘Somebody must’ve died in Rock Station. Whoever it was, it scared the Barrows enough to send them off into the storm. . . .’’
‘‘So, it might be good to know what happened,’’ Dawson said as if finishing a thought for him.
‘‘That’s what I’m thinking,’’ said Shaw. He nodded toward Rock Station. ‘‘Figure three hours there, three back. I can take one of the spare horses, cut straight across land to you two if you stick to the trail.’’ Shaw looked at him, then nodded toward the fresh tracks leading away from them. ‘‘There’s water three hours ahead at Agua Cubo. I’ll try to catch up to you there. If I don’t, you won’t be too hard to follow. Lag back if you can. Try not to get into a gunfight with them until I get back.’’
‘‘We’ll try,’’ said Dawson. He nodded at the spare horses. ‘‘Pick one and get going. We’ll look for you back by dark tonight.’’
As Dawson spoke, Caldwel
l freed one of the spare horses from the string and had it ready for Shaw when he nudged his horse over to it. Shaw turned the spare horse by its mane, pointed it back along the fresh tracks leading from Rock Station and gave it a slap on the rump with his gloved hand. The horse took off at a trot. ‘‘Don’t step on any rattle-snakes,’’ Shaw said to Dawson. Then he booted his horse out behind the spare horse, following it at an easy pace.
Before Shaw and the spare horse had turned into two streams of swirling dust, Caldwell asked Dawson, ‘‘He seems to be doing all right, doesn’t he?’’
‘‘Yes, I believe he does,’’ Dawson said staring after the streams of dust. ‘‘There’s something about having men wanting to kill him that always seems to make him want to stay alive.’’
Caldwell shook his head and turned his horse back to the trail. ‘‘It does appear that way,’’ he said, looking back over his shoulder as the two rode on.
Shaw followed the hoofprints back to Rock Station in less time than he thought it would take. An hour along the trail he spotted the tin thatched roofs of the town rising up amid the wavering heat. Stopping only for a few seconds, he stepped down and brushed his palm back and forth beneath a thin strip of shade under a stand of saltbush. There he found a small, smooth pebble, which he ran under his hat brim through his damp hair to cool; then he stuck it in his mouth. He switched saddles to the spare horse, mounted it and rode on.
At noon, in the blazing sun, he felt relieved to see the weathered hand-carved sign reading ROCOSA ESTACIÓN. Atop the sign a black buzzard leaped upward and flew away in a great batting of wings. ‘‘Thank God,’’ Shaw murmured. He spit out the pebble and rode on. But as he approached an abandoned donkey cart that sat half buried over months of shifting sands and desert winds, a rifle shot rang out.
Feeling the bullet slice past his head, Shaw dived from the saddle, his Colt out and cocked toward the weathered cart. Another shot came from around the edge of the buried cart. The sound of the shots brought a group of seven men up from the cover of sand and running forward toward him, some with guns, others with poles, hand-sized stones and pitch-forks.