Ride to Hell's Gate

by Ralph Cotton

  Dawson stood firm, even when Eddie leaned in almost nose to nose with him. ‘‘But we know you did it. We all saw it. Unless you are calling all of us liars.’’

  Dawson didn’t reply. He saw Eddie Barrows’ clenched white knuckles and knew the outlaw would jump at any opportunity to beat a defenseless man.

  Caldwell saw it too. Trying to draw Eddie away from Dawson he said, ‘‘I’m calling you a liar, Barrows.’’ He stood braced, ready for whatever Eddie Barrows might do.

  But Eddie saw what Caldwell was up to and he laughed as he stepped over in front of him. ‘‘Do you hear this one, hombres?’’ he said to his men. ‘‘He’s standing up for his boss!’’ Without warning he shot a knee up into Caldwell’s groin. Caldwell doubled over and fell gagging to the ground. Two men grabbed Dawson to keep him from throwing himself onto the outlaw in spite of his tied hands.

  Eddie Barrows turned away, as if dismissing the matter altogether. To Redlow and the others he said, ‘‘From here on, we leave two riflemen guarding our back trail all the way to where we’re going.’’ He looked at Andy Mack and Teddy Barksdale who stood nearby. ‘‘You two, go first,’’ he said. ‘‘Drop back a mile and keep us covered.’’

  ‘‘How many warning shots if we see somebody trailing you?’’ Mack asked.

  ‘‘Just one,’’ said Eddie. ‘‘If we don’t hear any more than one we’ll figure you was shooting at a lizard. We hear more shots, we’ll get the idea somebody was coming up on us. We’re not idiots, Andy,’’ he added with a hard stare.

  ‘‘Sorry, Eddie,’’ said Andy. He and Barksdale hurriedly walked away toward the horses, mounted and rode away. Dawson watched them leave as he reached down and helped Caldwell rise stiffly to his feet.

  Chapter 20

  Shaw and his new companion, Simon Guerra, had also ridden long and hard throughout the night. From a ledge overlooking the wide, steep hillside, Shaw had caught a glimpse of Dawson and Caldwell earlier as Fairday and the others led them out of sight around a turn in the high trail. The two lawmen were alive, sitting up and looking around. That’s good, Shaw told himself.

  An hour later, from a similar ledge higher up and cut deeper into the hillside, Shaw watched the two riflemen ride down quietly and take a thin, narrow path leading up toward the trail he and Simon were on. ‘‘Two riders are coming,’’ he said, turning to the ragged Mexican sitting in the dirt, his arms clasped around his knees. ‘‘Are you all right?’’ Shaw asked, already knowing what had the man looking haggard and sick.

  ‘‘Si, I am all right,’’ Simon said bravely. He stood up and turned to Shaw. ‘‘I am not giving in to wantinga drink, no matter how I feel . . . not until I know I can stand it no longer.’’

  ‘‘That’s the way to beat it,’’ Shaw said. The rye was still in his saddlebags, but so far Simon had resisted asking for it.

  ‘‘What about the two riders?’’ Simon asked, changing the subject.

  ‘‘They’re headed up this way,’’ said Shaw. ‘‘The Barrows sent them out as rear guards, I figure.’’ As he spoke he raised his Colt, checked it and dropped it back into his holster.

  ‘‘You are going to shoot them?’’ Simon asked timidly, looking at the Colt on Shaw’s hip.

  ‘‘No,’’ Shaw said, ‘‘gunshots would be a dead give-away we’re following them. I’ll have to slip in close, use a knife on them.’’

  ‘‘A knife?’’ Simon gasped, his hand almost clasped over his mouth.

  ‘‘That’s right, a knife,’’ Shaw snapped at him. ‘‘Have you got any better ideas?’’ He had to keep himself from becoming impatient with this timid drunkard. Simon had a lot to deal with all at one time, Shaw reminded himself. He noted the stunned look on Simon’s face and let out a breath. ‘‘Pay me no mind, Simon,’’ he said. ‘‘The fact is I must still be sweating out some months of heavy drinking. I still catch myself a little edgy. It still takes me a minute to think straight.’’

  Simon seemed less tense. ‘‘I understand. I know that you must do as you must to save your amigos. Forgive my fear and my ignorance of such things.’’

  Shaw nodded. As the two walked to the horses, he stooped enough to draw a big bone-handled knife from his boot well. Seeing it, Simon stepped a bit wide of him, an apprehensive look on his face. ‘‘Forgive me again for asking,’’ he said, ‘‘but after you kill these two men, will the Barrows not send others?’’

  ‘‘Yep, I’d count on it,’’ Shaw said. ‘‘Once these two don’t come back, I’ll have to be prepared to kill the next two, maybe more after that.’’

  Simon looked troubled. ‘‘But if you kill these men, however quietly, will the Barrows not realize something is wrong when they do not return? Will they not be alerted that someone is back here following them?’’

  Shaw didn’t answer. Of course they would, but what else could he do about it? It wasn’t as if he had any choice in the matter. Wait a minute. . . .

  ‘‘You’re right, Simon,’’ Shaw said, as an idea came to him.

  ‘‘I’m right?’’ Simon shrugged his thin shoulders, looking even more confused.

  ‘‘I’m not going to kill these men, gun, knife or otherwise,’’ said Shaw. He slid the knife back into his boot well. ‘‘The best way for them not to know we’re back here is to not be back here.’’

  ‘‘Oh . . .’’ Simon looked even more confused.

  ‘‘Yes,’’ said Shaw, ‘‘in this kind of terrain, we can get in front of them and still stick with them wherever they’re going.’’

  ‘‘I see,’’ Simon said, but he still didn’t look too clear on what Shaw had said. As he sorted through Shaw’s words, he used his fingertips, as if counting. ‘‘We will get around in front of them, and we will anticipate where they are going—’’

  ‘‘Never mind. Just stick with me,’’ Shaw said. He could see that the man’s thinking was still veiled by a fog of alcohol. He swung up into his saddle; Simon did the same.

  ‘‘I must apologize again for being too stupid to understand,’’ Simon said as they turned their horses toward a thinner, more concealed trail. ‘‘I have not always been this way.’’

  ‘‘Think no more about it,’’ Shaw said. ‘‘Truth is, you gave me the idea.’’

  ‘‘I did?’’ Simon sat upright.

  ‘‘You stopped me long enough to make me think things over,’’ said Shaw. ‘‘That was a great help.’’

  ‘‘Then I am honored,’’ said Simon. He cut a glance toward Shaw’s saddlebags. Shaw saw the look and realized how badly the man must be wanting a drink right then. He wasn’t going to make the offer; yet, if Simon asked, he certainly wasn’t going to refuse him. But Simon seemed to force himself to look away from the saddlebags and heel his horse forward. ‘‘Onward then,’’ he said. ‘‘I am grateful that you have allowed me to do my part. It makes me feel the way a real man is supposed to feel. I am sick of feeling like a drunkard and a derelict.’’

  Shaw just looked at him. He understood.

  They rode on, gaining ground by following one thin, treacherous path after another. The two pushed the horses as much as they dared, but it paid off. By late afternoon they had swung around the Barrows, and stood a mile ahead of them in the shelter of afternoon shadows. Looking back and down, they could see the gang’s glowing campfire on the hillside.

  ‘‘Now we simply stay ahead of them and move as they do?’’ Simon asked, not seeming quite as puzzled now.

  ‘‘Something like that,’’ Shaw replied. He wasn’t sure just yet how he would pull it off, but ever since they had circled and gotten in front of the Barrows, he’d been thinking about making a move on the Barrows and taking Dawson and Caldwell back before the gang met up with Sepreano. He had no doubt that Sepreano would kill them once the Barrows told him they killed his brother.

  ‘‘Now we are going to spend the night up here, above them, si?’’ Simon asked.

  ‘‘No,’’ Shaw said. ‘‘We’re going to put some distance between them a
nd us tonight. They’re going to have to come down and cross some lower hills tomorrow. If I catch them off guard, I can take down enough of them to allow my friends to make a run for it.’’

  Simon blinked and swallowed hard. ‘‘A gun battle? Against such odds as this? I—I am afraid I can be of no help to you. I have no experience with firearms.’’

  ‘‘Don’t worry, I do,’’ Shaw said. ‘‘I can catch them in a tight place with no cover. I can do a lot of damage in very little time.’’

  ‘‘But how will your friends know it is time for them to make a run for it?’’ he asked.

  ‘‘They’ll know,’’ said Shaw. ‘‘That’s the only part of this that I feel certain about. When they see men falling, they’ll know it’s me making my move. They’ll hightail it while I keep the gang busy ducking for cover.’’

  Simon shook his head. ‘‘May God be with you, senor,’’ he said. ‘‘I only wish I could help.’’

  ‘‘When the shooting starts, you stay down out of the way. That will be helpful.’’ Shaw didn’t want to mention it yet, but as far as he was concerned, once he saw that he’d gotten Dawson and Caldwell away from the Barrows, Simon would be free to ride away.

  ‘‘Oh, Senor Shaw,’’ Simon said. ‘‘You will not see me once the first shot is fired. I will be hiding under a rock.’’

  ‘‘Good,’’ said Shaw, ‘‘I’m glad we understand each other.’’

  The two rode on through the encroaching darkness.

  At daylight, Shaw had found a spot on a hillside facing the trail the Barrows Gang would have to ride down. They would have to cross a low valley and a rolling stretch of flatlands. This was the spot, he told himself. He checked his rifle, taking all of his ammunition out of his saddlebags and counting it.

  He could do it from here, he decided, gazing down. He saw where the high trail spilled down onto the wide-open flatlands. From here he could fight an army, he told himself. Unrolling a canvas bandoleer and shoving his ammunition into each slot until it was full, he slipped the bandoleer over his shoulder and walked over to where Simon lay sleeping in his ragged serape.

  ‘‘Simon,’’ he said quietly, ‘‘time to wake up.’’

  The thin Mexican rolled quickly to his feet and whispered in a near panic, ‘‘What is it? What is happening?’’

  ‘‘Nothing yet,’’ said Shaw. ‘‘But the Barrows will be coming down that trail any time. I think it best if you cut out now.’’

  ‘‘Cut out?’’ Simon shrugged, looking uncertain of Shaw’s meaning.

  ‘‘It’s time for you to leave. Get on the horse and go home,’’ said Shaw.

  ‘‘But your friends,’’ said Simon. ‘‘What will become of them? Who will tell Sepreano what really happened to his brother, Carlos?’’

  ‘‘If what I’m getting ready to do here works, my friends will be all right. I’ll wipe out the biggest part of the Barrows Gang right here. The rest of them will scatter. It’ll be over, as far as I’m concerned.’’ He’d thought it out. The Barrows Gang would be finished if his plan went his way. Once the Barrows and Titus Boland were dead, and Dawson and Caldwell were freed, it was over. Sepreano wouldn’t even know about his brother’s death until news reached him from other sources.

  ‘‘Si, I understand,’’ said Simon, ‘‘but what if it does not go as you plan? What happens to you and your friends then?’’

  ‘‘I expect we’ll be dead and it won’t matter,’’ Shaw said. Then he gave Simon a pointed look and said, ‘‘What’s wrong with you, Simon? Don’t you want to leave? This hillside is going to become a hard killing ground any minute now.’’

  ‘‘Oh, senor,’’ Simon said, hurrying, grabbing his horse’s reins, ‘‘believe me I am ready to leave, provided this is what you want me to do. But if you wish for me to stay, you only have to say—’’

  ‘‘Go, Simon,’’ Shaw said. But as he looked at the thin Mexican, past him he saw a long column of armed men ride into sight on the lower rolling flatlands. ‘‘Hold it!’’ he said. ‘‘Get down. Riders coming.’’

  Looking closer at the riders from his crouched position beside Simon, Shaw saw the assortment of both Mexican cavalry caps, as well as sombreros and tied-back bandannas. Men in mixed uniforms rode side by side with men in peasant trousers and range clothes. ‘‘The Army of Liberación!’’ Simon whispered. ‘‘It is too late. Sepreano’s army is here!’’

  Shaw considered quickly, deciding how far away the riders were. Looking in the other direction, still high up on the hill trail, he saw Barrows’ men riding down, taking their time, in no hurry, expecting nothing. ‘‘No, you can make it, Simon,’’ Shaw said. ‘‘Leave now and stay high up on the hillside. They won’t see you for the chimney rocks and trees.’’

  ‘‘But you, your plan?’’ said Simon.

  ‘‘Get going,’’ Shaw said. ‘‘You’ve done all I can ask of you. I’m obliged.’’

  Shaw watched him slip up onto the horse bareback and ride out of sight along the edge of the long hillside. He turned facing the other direction and watched the trail for a moment, estimating that the Barrows would be moving into sight within a half hour.

  ‘‘Good,’’ he said aloud, looking the other way and seeing Sepreano’s men riding across the flatlands from the other direction, still a long distance away. He could do it. It would be cutting things close, but he could get it done. He visualized it. When the Barrows rode into sight he would start dropping them. Dawson and Caldwell would make their getaway. He would join them. All this before Sepreano’s soldiers could get here? All right, it’s risky. . . . But this was what the situation called for.

  Suddenly he heard a loud, fearful cry from the trail Simon had taken around the hillside. Looking out along the hill, he saw Simon, the spare horse and all, sliding and tumbling down the long, sandy hillside. Twenty yards down, the horse found footing, stopped, stood up and shook itself off. But Simon continued rolling and sliding, screaming at the top of his voice.

  ‘‘Oh no, please shut up!’’ Shaw growled under his breath. He watched the Mexican flail his arms as he slid, kicked, tumbled and screamed, raising a cloud of dust that could be seen all across the hills and flatlands.

  When Simon finally did come to a stop, he stood no more than thirty yards up the long hillside, loose sand pouring down around his ankles. From three hundred yards away, four of the soldiers raced forward toward him. The rest of the column swung in his direction like some long, curious serpent.

  ‘‘Don’t try to run,’’ Shaw advised under his breath, as if Simon could somehow hear him. ‘‘That’s it, stand still, keep your hands in sight. Take it easy. . . .’’ He watched the soldiers arrive at the bottom of the hill, the one in front raising a pistol toward Simon.

  Even at such a distance, Shaw thought he could see the look of anguish and fear on the ragged Mexican’s face as Simon turned a glance in his direction, then slowly started walking down to the soldiers. Behind him, the horse had begun a careful descent, picking its footing and half walking, half sliding until it and Simon reached the bottom at about the same time.

  Shaw glanced toward the hill trail the Barrows would ride down. Then he looked back down at Simon and let out a breath. He couldn’t leave him in Sepreano’s hands, especially not after he killed the Barrows. Rifle in hand, he turned and walked toward his horse, knowing his plan had been ruined. Now it was his turn to cut a glance toward his saddlebags. He could use a drink, he thought. But he quickly put the thought aside. Dawson’s and Caldwell’s lives depended on him. He shoved his rifle into its boot and stepped into his saddle. When a plan goes bad, it’s time to get another plan. . . . He turned his horse and booted it out along the same path Simon had taken around the hillside.

  Chapter 21

  On the flatlands, Simon stood in a cloud of dust that he and his horse had created. His horse had trotted over and stopped beside him. Three of the riders had gathered around him. The fourth, a large barrelchested man, wearing a thick, tangled beard wi
th panther teeth and the skull of a small bird, a reptile and a rodent braided into it, looked down at Simon from atop his horse. As he curled his lip in a sneer, his front tooth revealed a gold cap with a half-moon carved in it. When he spoke, his voice sounded as if it came from deep within a dark cave.

  ‘‘What are you doing in my desert?’’ he demanded of Simon, speaking in low-border Spanish.

  Simon replied, his Spanish more polished and properly refined. ‘‘Your desert?’’ he said meekly, exhibiting an ignorance of this kind of man and what his words were meant to convey.

  The big man gave the three soldiers a nod. One of them reached out with his pistol and cracked Simon on the side of his head. As Simon crumbled to the ground the other two caught him, stood him up and shook him like a rag doll. Less then two hundred yards away the rest of the column proceeded toward them at an unhurried pace.

  ‘‘What are you doing in my desert?’’ the big man repeated, this time in a little stronger tone.

  ‘‘I—That is, we—’’ Simon stammered, clearing his head. ‘‘My friend and I are traveling to Durango.’’

  ‘‘What friend?’’ the man asked, looking all around until at the top of the long hillside, he saw Shaw stepping his horse down carefully toward them. Shaw carried his rifle left-handed, sticking up from his thigh, his right arm still in the sling.

  Seeing the look on the big man’s face, Simon said quickly, ‘‘There is my friend now.’’ He looked up at Shaw and shrugged his thin shoulders. Shaw only stared flatly. Singling out the soldier who’d hit Simon with his gun barrel, he focused on him coldly until the soldier actually took a step back.

  Damn it, Simon. . . . The long hillside wasn’t presenting any problem. Shaw kept his weight back on his saddle and held his reins up and back firmly, helping the horse negotiate the loose sandy soil without incident. Nearing the bottom he stopped his horse fifteen feet up and said down to the big Mexican, ‘‘Why is your soldier hitting my friend?’’ The way he asked indicated that he held the big Mexican personally responsible.