by Ralph Cotton
As Shaw spoke he took note of the approaching column, the distance between them growing shorter and shorter as they hurried up their pace. He saw there was no way for him and Simon to get away, not across this loose, sandy flatlands.
The big Mexican heard the tone in Shaw’s voice and saw his thumb lying over the hammer on his rifle. He gave his men a quick look, preparing them for the coming gunplay. Then he said to Shaw, ‘‘I asked him what I now ask you, gringo,’’ he said in stiff English. ‘‘What are you doing in my desert?’’
Shaw’s thumb slid down the small of the rifle stock, cocking the hammer easily. ‘‘Funny,’’ he said, ‘‘I’m under the impression this is my desert.’’
The big Mexican gave a dark chuckle. The three soldiers stepped sidelong, putting some room between themselves. All they needed now was to see the big Mexican make his move and get the killing started. ‘‘You gringos make me laugh,’’ the man said, his hand easing up toward the handle of a big Remington holstered on the center of his chest where two bandoleers of ammunition draped on his shoulders crossed in an X. ‘‘You think every piece of ground you step on is yours, eh?’’
‘‘It is a shortcoming we all share,’’ Shaw replied calmly. ‘‘Now touch that pistol, I’ll save you ever having to take another bath.’’ Beneath Shaw his horse seemed to freeze in place.
‘‘Hold it, Manko!’’ a voice shouted from the head of the column, seeing what was about to happen from twenty yards away. Shaw sat like a statue, his left hand poised, his eyes fixed straight into the big Mexican’s, as if the other men were not even there.
The big Mexican relented. He eased his hand down from the gun butt and let out a breath. The three men eased down too. Shaw remained as still as stone.
‘‘It is lucky for you, gringo,’’ the big Mexican growled, ‘‘lucky for both of you, that my capitán does not want me to kill you just yet.’’ On the ground Simon stood with his hands clasped tightly together in front of him, his eyes squeezed shut.
Shaw still didn’t respond. He continued staring coldly until at length the column stopped a few feet from the big Mexican and a man wearing a dusty military tunic said in a New Zealand accent, ‘‘As you were, Sergeant Manko.’’ He looked at Simon and the three men on the ground. Then he looked at Shaw curiously and said, ‘‘What are you doing out here? Don’t you know there is a war going on?’’ He finished speaking and gave Shaw a bemused look.
‘‘Yes, I know there’s a war going on,’’ Shaw said, speaking for the first time since he’d taken his stand. He paused long enough to nudge his horse the rest of the way down off the hillside. ‘‘I came out here looking for Luis Sepreano and his army.’’ He paused, uncocked the rifle and lowered it across his lap. ‘‘It looks like I must’ve found him.’’
‘‘No, you haven’t found General Sepreano, only the Army of Liberation,’’ the New Zealander corrected.
‘‘That’s close enough to suit me,’’ Shaw replied, pushing up his hat brim.
‘‘He lies,’’ the big Mexican cut in. He gestured toward Simon. ‘‘This one already told me they were headed for Durango.’’
‘‘Yes,’’ said Simon, wanting to help, ‘‘in our search for Sepreano. I heard we would find him in Durango.’’
The big Mexican said, staring harshly, ‘‘I would have gotten the truth out of them if you had not come when you did.’’
Shaw returned the harsh stare, but he kept silent.
‘‘Who are you, Mister?’’ the captain asked, giving Shaw a curious, scrutinizing once-over. ‘‘You look very familiar to me.’’
‘‘My name is Shaw . . . Lawrence Shaw.’’ As he spoke, Shaw gave the big Mexican the same harsh stare. ‘‘My friends call me Fast Larry.’’ He dreaded even saying the name. But if this was the kind of tight spot being the Fastest Gun Alive would get him out of, then so be it, he told himself.
‘‘Lawrence Shaw!’’ The captain looked taken aback for a moment. ‘‘My God, man, it is you!’’
Shaw turned his eyes away from the big Mexican and gazed at the New Zealander. Simon watched in silence, seeing a change come over the captain.
‘‘I saw you in a shoot-out in Hyde City.’’ He paused, then said, ‘‘But wait, I heard you were dead, killed up in the Montana mining country.’’
‘‘A false report,’’ Shaw said flatly. ‘‘You know how easily rumors get started.’’
‘‘Yes, I do,’’ the New Zealander said. He stepped his horse closer. ‘‘I may have also heard that you were alive, drunk and on the boards in Matamoros.’’
‘‘I was down and out in Matamoros,’’ Shaw said. ‘‘But I got off the boardwalks, sobered up and now I’m looking for work—gun work, the thing I do best.’’
The big Mexican cut in again, saying to Shaw, ‘‘How much gun work are you capable of, with your gun hand in a sling? We’re going to need to see some proof of what you have to offer.’’
‘‘You had your chance to see some proof,’’ Shaw said. ‘‘You turned it down.’’ As he spoke, his left hand moved idly to the small of his rifle stock and rested there.
‘‘That’ll be enough, Sergeant Manko,’’ said the New Zealander. You and your men get back into formation.’’
When the big Mexican and the other three men had ridden over and into the column, the captain said to Shaw as if in private, ‘‘It appears you and Manko have gotten off on the wrong foot. He’s not the sort of man you want to anger.’’
‘‘If I had a dollar for every man like him I’ve killed, I wouldn’t be looking for a job killing more,’’ Shaw replied.
‘‘I see,’’ the New Zealander said, offering a trace of a smile. ‘‘I’m Captain Rhineholt. I’ll ask you to ride back with us and meet General Sepreano himself. It’s not everyday a man with a reputation such as yours comes to join our cause.’’
‘‘Your cause . . . ?’’ Shaw questioned. ‘‘I figured you to be a mercenary, like me.’’
‘‘That’s true,’’ said Rhineholt, lowering his voice a little more. ‘‘But I am an officer of the ranks. If I don’t support the cause of liberación, what business do I have here?’’ His eyes went to Simon as he spoke. ‘‘What about you there?’’ he asked, taking in Simon’s ragged, derelict condition. ‘‘Are you also a gunman looking for work?’’
Simon looked stunned that the captain would even ask such a question.
‘‘He’s my guide,’’ Shaw said. ‘‘I’m not familiar with this part of the country,’’ he lied. ‘‘I hired him to help me find Sepreano’s army.’’ He offered a thin smile. ‘‘I didn’t think he’d find it by falling into your laps.’’
‘‘I think you hired him because you felt sorry for him,’’ the captain said in an even quieter voice. ‘‘I’ve heard it said that sympathy is a virtue a man in our position can’t afford to have.’’
‘‘Maybe.’’ Shaw shook his head and added, ‘‘At any rate, I hired him. But now that I’m here, I won’t be needing his services any longer.’’ He raised his voice toward the ragged Mexican and said, ‘‘Hear that, Simon? You can turn around, ride on back the way we came.’’
Rhineholt called out to Simon in a much stronger tone, letting Shaw know he was not to be manipulated. ‘‘No, you’re riding on in with us.’’ He turned to Shaw. ‘‘If the general wants him to ride away, so be it.’’
Simon, looking shaken by everything that had happened, asked Shaw in a nervous voice, ‘‘Now that we have found the Army of Liberación, perhaps I may ask you for some of my pay?’’
Shaw understood what Simon wanted. ‘‘Sure, why not, if you think you really need it now.’’ He paused as if to give Simon a chance to change his mind.
‘‘Oh, yes, please, I need it very badly,’’ Simon said, almost in desperation.
Shaw gave the captain a look as he reached back, pulled one of the bottles of rye from his saddlebags and pitched it down to Simon.
‘‘I understand what sort of guide you hired for yourself,’’
Rhineholt said between the two of them. ‘‘But what I fail to understand is why?’’
‘‘He said he knew this country,’’ Shaw lied again. ‘‘That was good enough for me.’’ He nodded at the bottle of rye in Simon’s dirty hand. ‘‘He was sure willing to work cheap enough.’’
‘‘Yes,’’ said Rhineholt, ‘‘sort of a mercenary of a lower caliber, wouldn’t you say?’’
Shaw didn’t answer. He and Simon had both done enough to keep themselves out of trouble. He needed to get to Sepreano now and convince him that Dawson and Caldwell had nothing to do with his brother’s death.
Simon nervously stepped farther away as he pulled the cork from the bottle of rye and took a long swig. To Shaw’s relief, instead of taking another drink, he corked the bottle. But then, like any other drunkard would do, he shoved the bottle up under his serape without offering the captain a drink.
Shaw gave the captain a look that showed sympathy for the ragged Mexican and at the same time disapproval for his rudeness. ‘‘I hope you’ll forgive Simon’s lack of manners, Captain Rhineholt,’’ he said quietly. ‘‘It’s been a long, dry ride for him.’’ He spoke low enough for the captain to hear, but not Simon.
‘‘Think nothing of it, Mr. Shaw. I make it a practice never to drink when I’m on duty,’’ the captain said matter-of-factly.
They both watched Simon turn and climb up atop his horse. Suddenly, from the column, Sergeant Manko came riding up quickly and slid his horse to a halt in a rise of sandy dust. ‘‘Capitán, to our west,’’ he said, handing the captain an American-made telescope. ‘‘There are many federales coming! We must be gone from here before they see us.’’
Rhineholt took the telescope and scanned the distant hilly horizon until he came upon the long column of soldiers. He took on a concerned look and said as he stared through the telescope, ‘‘They have a Gatling gun, and a small field cannon. What nice presents those would make for the general.’’
‘‘There are many of them,’’ Manko said in a warning tone of voice.
‘‘Yes, Sergeant, too many, for a scouting group our size,’’ Rhineholt said, lowering the lens and collapsing it between his palms. ‘‘I’m afraid we’ll have to avoid them, if we’re lucky enough to do so. We came searching for the Barrows, but we’re not going any farther north. Turn the column around, Sergeant. We’re heading back. The Barrows know where we will be.’’
Shaw wasn’t about to mention that the Barrows were a half hour or less on the other side of the hill. Until he could see a way to get Dawson and Caldwell safely out of their hands, he was going to have to play things by ear. He looked at Simon to see if he understood. But he couldn’t read anything in the blank look that had come upon the ragged Mexican’s face.
Chapter 22
Leo Fairday and Lying Earl Sunday had been scouting the trail thirty yards ahead of the others when they spotted the column of federales riding toward the steep hills. ‘‘Uh-oh, I think they saw us!’’ said Leo, jerking his horse to a halt and spinning it around on the trail. Beside him Lying Earl did the same. As soon as they had ducked back behind the cover of overhanging brush and scrub-tree limbs, Leo asked, ‘‘Do you think they saw us, Earl?’’
‘‘One of them looked me right in the eye,’’ Lying Earl said. ‘‘I saw him pull a gun from his holster. Another second, I believe he would have started shooting.’’
‘‘You saw all that, from more than three hundred yards away?’’ Fairday gave him a bemused look, realizing that Lying Earl would always live up to his nickname no matter what the situation.
‘‘Damned right, I saw all that,’’ said Lying Earl. ‘‘I’ll tell you something else I saw—’’
‘‘Never mind,’’ Fairday interrupted, shaking his head. He peeped out and down on the distant flatlands through the brush for a second, getting a better look. ‘‘Maybe you’d best let me do all the talking when we get back to Redlow and Eddie,’’ he said, stepping his horse back and nudging his boots to its sides.
‘‘Suits the hell out of me,’’ Lying Earl said indignantly, hurrying his horse along behind him as Fairday rode away.
But moments later when they’d ridden up to Eddie and Redlow on the trail, Earl hurried his horse forward ahead of Fairday and started speaking rapidly to the Barrows brothers. ‘‘There’s federales coming— must be near a thousand of them!’’
Redlow and Eddie looked past Lying Earl and watched Fairday shake his head, discounting Earl’s words.
‘‘How many are there, Leo?’’ Eddie asked.
‘‘I wasn’t lying,’’ Earl grumbled under his breath. Then he backed his horse away and fell into a sullen silence.
‘‘It’s a large column, Eddie,’’ said Leo, ‘‘maybe a hundred, give or take. We saw them only for a couple seconds. But I saw they’re pulling a small cannon and a Gatling gun on a flatbed.’’
‘‘All right,’’ said Redlow, already making plans to avoid the soldiers, ‘‘let’s get pulled back and into some cover until they pass below.’’
‘‘Whoa, Brother!’’ said Eddie. ‘‘Didn’t you hear Leo? They’ve got a cannon and a Gatling gun.’’
‘‘That’s right, and we don’t,’’ said Redlow. He started to back his horse up a step in order to turn and tell the men to take cover.
Eddie grabbed his horse by its bridle. ‘‘But we will have,’’ he said, ‘‘as soon as we ambush them and take theirs away from them.’’
Redlow jerked his reins, pulling the bridle from his brother’s hand. ‘‘Don’t talk crazy, Eddie! We’ve got all these stolen horses to deliver, and two prisoners to worry about keeping quiet if we plan on pulling an ambush. Which we don’t,’’ he added with stern emphasis.
‘‘Listen to me, Brother,’’ said Eddie, keeping his horse alongside him. ‘‘We’re on a winning streak here. Can’t you see it?’’
‘‘Yes indeed, I see it,’’ said Redlow. ‘‘We’ve got the horses for Sepreano. We’ve got the two law dogs to feed to him for his brother’s death. That’s our winning streak. Let’s not go doing something to mess it up.’’
‘‘Think about this, Red,’’ Eddie said in a dead-serious tone, reaching out and once again grabbing his horse’s bridle. This time he saw that Redlow had already started to bring the horse to a halt as he considered Eddie’s words. ‘‘Sure, we bring him the two men who killed his brother. That’s a good thing, but it doesn’t carry much weight.’’ He waved a gloved hand toward the strings of horses some of the men were leading. ‘‘These are damned fine horses. Sepreano is going to be most happy with them. But what kind of men bring horses?’’ He stared intently at Redlow for an answer.
‘‘Horse thieves,’’ Redlow said, starting to get his brother’s point.
‘‘Right you are, horse thieves,’’ said Eddie, leaning in closer from his saddle. ‘‘But what kind of men attack a well-armed column of soldiers and bring in cannons and Gatling guns?’’
With a trace of a smile, Redlow made and said in a tone mimicking Luis Sepreano, ‘‘Hombres duros en negrilla, eh?’’
‘‘That’s right, ‘Bold hard men,’ ’’ Eddie repeated in English, returning Redlow’s thin smile.
Redlow called out to Lucky Dennis Caddy, ‘‘Lucky, you and Drop the Dog take the horses and the lawdogs off the trail into the brush. Tie those two good and tight and stuff their bandannas into their mouths. Then you catch up to us, Dog. Caddy, you stay here with the horses and the prisoners. Keep them quiet.’’
‘‘Want me to stab them both in the heart?’’ Caddy asked, looking Dawson and Caldwell up and down. ‘‘That’d keep them quiet.’’
‘‘Did I say stab them in the hearts?’’ Redlow asked, his voice turning testy and sharp.
Caddy looked disappointed. ‘‘No, you didn’t. Sorry, Red.’’
‘‘Only if they try giving you any trouble, Caddy,’’ Eddie cut in, giving the two lawmen a look, letting them know what to expect if they tried anything. ‘‘In that case you can stab t
hem in the heart as many times as you feel like it. Only don’t use any guns or make any loud noise. Got it?’’
‘‘Got it,’’ said Caddy. He and Drop the Dog both nodded. Taking the lead ropes from the hands of the other men, they gestured for Dawson and Caldwell to follow the horses off the trail and onto the brushy, rock-strewn hillside. Without saying a word, Dawson gave Caldwell a look that said, Here’s our chance, as the two stepped their horses along, their tied hands holding their reins and their saddle horns.
Along the base of the steep hillside, Redlow, Eddie and their men split up. Seven of them hurried across a thirty-yard stretch of sandy soil and took cover in a bed of half-sunken boulders overlooking the trail. The remaining six spread out a few feet up the hillside and waited behind cover as the column of Mexican regulars approached their position unexpectedly. ‘‘If a dozen of us can take their fieldpiece and Gatling gun, they deserve to lose it,’’ Redlow whispered, getting into the spirit of battle.
Eddie grinned beside him and whispered in reply, ‘‘Hope you don’t go getting superstitious on us, but there’s thirteen of us, not a dozen.’’
A grim look of apprehension started to come over Redlow’s face, but he shook it off. ‘‘Superstitious or not, once they ride into this cross fire and Elkins and Boland close around behind them with their rifles, it’s going to look like a hog killing in there.’’ He nodded at the narrow trail. ‘‘We catch them off guard, keep firing, they won’t have time to ready their fieldpiece or man their big gun.’’
‘‘Now you’re talking, Brother Redlow,’’ Eddie said. He gave his brother a slap on the back of his sweat-darkened shirt.
High above them, in the brush on the hillside, Lucky Dennis Caddy crouched down, staring through a tangle of brush toward the approaching column of soldiers. Twenty feet behind him the two lawmen stood with their backs to the scrub juniper he’d tied them to. A knife stood stuck in the ground a few feet from the juniper. Caddy had stuck it there in case Dawson or Caldwell managed to remove their mouth gags and tried to warn the soldiers.