by Ralph Cotton
‘‘Don’t worry,’’ said Rhineholt, nudging his horse forward, signaling the men to follow him, ‘‘you won’t be seeing Sepreano tonight.’’
‘‘Why is that?’’ Shaw asked.
‘‘He conducts no business after dark,’’ said Rhineholt. ‘‘The general believes in allowing his men to let off a little steam at night.’’
‘‘I can live with that kind of attitude,’’ Shaw said, looking all around at the dark, vast terrain. ‘‘Can’t you?’’
In the rocks to their left a coyote let out a long, sharp howl. ‘‘I can, if that’s the way it is.’’ Rhineholt shrugged. ‘‘He says it makes the men more eager to make it through another day. That’s the Mexican way of looking at things, I suppose.’’ He passed Shaw a look.
Shaw only nodded, not knowing Rhineholt’s opinion on the matter, and not wanting to cross views with him.
‘‘I don’t mind telling you, Shaw,’’ Rhineholt said, lowering his tone of voice a little, ‘‘it’s good to talk to someone like myself for a change.’’
‘‘Like yourself?’’ Shaw asked.
‘‘Nothing against the Mexicans,’’ said Rhineholt, ‘‘but I’m convinced I could raise a better grade of soldiers from among the aborigines, if you get my meaning.’’
Shaw got his meaning. He wasn’t going to tell the man that he had lived much of his life among the people of Mexican hill country. He wouldn’t mention his friend Gerardo Luna, his deceased wife, Rosa, the widow Anna Reyes Bengreen. . . . The list went on in his mind. But this was no time to discuss such matters. Instead he passed the subject aside, saying, ‘‘I expect it would be hard to have a Mexican revolution without Mexicans.’’
‘‘That’s true,’’ Rhineholt said wistfully, ‘‘but it would sure make things go a lot smoother.’’
They rode on.
By the time they rode through an ever-narrowing corridor through the rocks, Simon sat slumped and limp in his saddle, the bottle of rye dangling loosely and almost empty in his hand. Sidling close to him, Shaw eased the bottle out of his fingers without disturbinghim. He looked at the amber liquid, swirled it and considered taking a drink. Yet, thinking about Dawson and Caldwell, knowing he needed to keep his wits sharp for their sakes, he reached back, slid the bottle into his saddlebag and rode on.
Chapter 24
The jagged hills surrounding the valley served as a natural wall against the outside world. Entering the valley through a narrow corridor of stone, Shaw could see nothing but darkness on either side of him. He heard only the clacking of their horses’ hooves resounding off stone. Looking up into the darkness, he saw where the walls seemed to end against a purple moonlit sky.
Riding beside him, Rhineholt said, ‘‘A damned impressive place, eh, Mr. Shaw?’’
‘‘Yes, most impressive,’’ Shaw replied. He wanted to ask if there was another way out, but he decided this was not the time to do so.
Rhineholt continued, saying, ‘‘This valley was once the lair of a Spanish warlord. His private army kept the peace among local tribes. They put down any rebellion and protected Spanish gold-mining interests from marauding Apache. Wait until you see the place.’’
‘‘A private army,’’ Shaw said. ‘‘It sounds like mercenaries have had a stake in the game here for a long time. Looks like your profession is secure.’’
‘‘You mean our profession,’’ Rhineholt said. ‘‘Yes, as long as there’s money and power changing hands, there’s going to be work for men like you and me protecting it. That should make you happy, knowing there’s always a high price for a fast gun.’’
Shaw didn’t answer.
A hundred yards farther into the valley, a series of torchlights rose up on the horizon as riders came forward to meet them. At the same time riders began to rise up as if from the darkness and flank them on either side as the corridor of stone grew wider and opened up onto a stretch of flatlands. ‘‘Sit tight, Shaw,’’ Rhineholt said. ‘‘Everybody has to go through this. Our general is a most cautious man. He doesn’t want to be caught off guard in the middle of the night with his face buried between some senorita’s breasts.’’
‘‘Heaven forbid,’’ Shaw said wryly.
As the torch carriers rode in closer, their light fell across the riders already on either side of Rhineholt’s column. Shaw saw the same mixed clothing of peasant trousers, French uniform tunics and range clothes that Rhineholt’s men wore. He heard voices murmur back and forth in a mesh of bad English and border Spanish, all of it about his and Simon’s new faces among the men.
Hearing the murmurs, Rhineholt held a hand up and said to the men, ‘‘It’s all right. I’m bringing these two men in. They’re going to be riding with us.’’ He gestured toward Shaw as they continued riding. ‘‘This one you have heard most of. His name is Lawrence Shaw. He’s also known as the Fastest Gun Alive.’’
Shaw touched his hat brim but stared ahead, used to the sort of mixed and edgy reaction his presence always conjured from a band of gunmen like these. Of course they’d heard of him; he knew it. Every saddle tramp, bummer, murderer, no-account on the frontier had heard of him, he reminded himself. Wasn’t it his name and reputation alone that had gotten him and Simon here to Hell’s Gate?
‘‘He is going to ride with us?’’ a voice asked Rhineholt.
‘‘That’s right, as soon as we ride in and I get the general’s approval,’’ Rhineholt said. Looking at Shaw he added, ‘‘Which I see no problem doing, once General Sepreano hears who you are.’’
‘‘Obliged,’’ Shaw said, without looking at him. Instead he kept his eyes straight ahead, seeing a wide glow of light grow more clear on the turn of the horizon, beginning to reveal the outlining stone-walled ruins of an ancient Spanish castle.
‘‘What about this one?’’ a voice asked, referring to Simon. ‘‘Who is he?’’
‘‘He’s with me,’’ Shaw said with finality on the subject.
Another twenty minutes passed before the column of men reached a pair of iron and timber gates. With a wave of Rhineholt’s hand the gates began opening with a creaking and groaning of rope, winches and chain. Looking at Shaw in the torchlight, Rhineholt said with a short grin, ‘‘As if this land itself wasn’t protection enough, the gentleman warlord decided he needed these monsters.’’ He gestured toward the huge gates.
‘‘Maybe they’re meant to keep people in, as well as out,’’ Shaw remarked, sizing everything up.
‘‘Yes, maybe so,’’ said Rhineholt. ‘‘Perhaps that’s why this place is called Hell’s Gate.’’
The opened gates came to a shuddering halt. Shaw nudged his horse forward, riding beside Rhineholt through a stone wall that he estimated to be eight-foot thick. They crossed a courtyard where soldiers, bottles of whiskey and tin cups of coffee in hand, stood around a large fire watching them.
At an iron hitch rail out front of a small room attached to the main structure, Rhineholt waved the rest of the column toward a long lean-to livery barn and stepped down from his saddle. As Shaw stepped down beside him, he had to take Simon’s horse by its bridle in order to stop it. Rhineholt shook his head and gestured toward the small, dark room. ‘‘You can leave him in there for the night,’’ Rhineholt said, pointing to an open doorway. ‘‘I have to go report to the general.’’
‘‘Obliged,’’ said Shaw.
As Rhineholt left to report to Sepreano and tell him whom he had brought back with him, Shaw looped Simon’s arm over his shoulder and walked him inside the small, empty room facing the courtyard. ‘‘All right, my friend,’’ Shaw said, realizing that Simon was too drunk to hear him, ‘‘you stay here and sleep it off while I take a look around.’’
‘‘Si, I will . . . ,’’ Simon murmured incoherently in a thick voice, his head bobbing loosely on his chest.
Shaw lowered him onto a cot covered with a faded Mayan blanket and turned and walked out onto the stone-paved street. He followed some of the men he’d ridden in with toward a dimly lit b
uilding where laughter and music spilled out of the open doorway and windows. Out front of the building, Sergeant Manko and a few men stood puffing on black cigars. They stared hard as Shaw walked past them and into the crowded storage building the soldiers had turned into a cantina.
In the darkness on a stone balcony overlooking the street, General Sepreano stood watching, his hands resting on the stone rail. A few feet behind, spread around him in a protective half circle, stood four personal bodyguards. Standing behind the bodyguards was Rhineholt, his holster empty, his Smith & Wesson revolver lying on a table where one of the guards had laid it before allowing him into the room.
‘‘How good is Fast Larry Shaw? Or, should I ask how good was he?’’ Sepreano asked Rhineholt in stiff English.
‘‘When I saw him shoot three men in Hyde City, he was damned good,’’ said Rhineholt. ‘‘In fact, I have to say he was the best I’d ever seen, then or since.’’
‘‘I see,’’ said Sepreano. ‘‘And all of the drinking you said he did?’’ Sepreano asked without looking around at him. ‘‘What has that done to him?’’
‘‘That I can’t say,’’ Rhineholt replied. ‘‘But he’s looking for work, like all the others we’ve hired. We find out pretty quick if they’re good enough for the job.’’ He shrugged. ‘‘They’re either good enough, or they’re soon dead.’’
‘‘Yes, but that is so with all the others,’’ said Sepreano. ‘‘But this is the Fastest Gun Alive, eh? We deserve to see him at work.’’ He turned a tight grin back over his shoulder, then returned his gaze to the street below. ‘‘Tell Manko to push him, see what he does.’’
‘‘With all respect, General,’’ Rhineholt said cautiously, ‘‘Manko is one of my top men. I would hate to lose him.’’
‘‘Si, and I would hate to lose you, New Zealander,’’ Sepreano said in a threatening tone. ‘‘Would you prefer I have Jessa here go tell him?’’
‘‘No, sir, General,’’ Rhineholt said quickly. ‘‘I will see it right away.’’ He turned on his heel military style and walked away. The guard followed him to the door, picked up Rhineholt’s gun by its barrel and handed it to him, butt first.
Inside the cantina, Shaw had ordered a cigar and two bottles of whiskey. He stood puffing the cigar as the bartender stood a shot glass in front of him. When the bartender started to pull the cork on one of the bottles, Shaw said, ‘‘Let it sit.’’
The bartender nodded, stepped back and walked away down the bar toward his other customers. Shaw heard the buzz among the drinkers as he puffed his cigar, but he didn’t turn toward them until finally one of them ventured down the bar and stood beside him. ‘‘The men you rode in with say you are Lawrence Shaw, the Fastest Gun Alive? It is so, si?’’
‘‘Yes, it’s so,’’ Shaw replied flatly, having learned long ago not to answer that any other way. He gave the man a cold stare, enough to cause the man to raise his hands slightly in a show of peace.
‘‘No, Senor Shaw,’’ the man said, ‘‘I do not come looking for trouble. My name is Raoul. We heard that you are joining us. I only wish to invite you to have a drink with us.’’ He gestured a hand along the bar toward the other drinkers, who nodded with respect and tipped their clay cups and glasses toward him.
‘‘Gracias, all of you,’’ Shaw said, touching his hat brim toward the drinkers. Then to Raoul he said, ‘‘But I’m not drinking tonight. I’m not in a drinking mood.’’
Raoul looked at the two bottles of whiskey standing on the bar. ‘‘But these are for you, si?’’
Shaw only looked at him, not feeling like explaining himself. Taking three gold coins from his vest pocket, he pitched them down on the bar and called out to the bartender, ‘‘This is for my whiskey and smoke . . . and another bottle, for Raoul and the bar.’’
The drinkers nodded again and thanked him with another tip of their cups and glasses. Raoul said, ‘‘Gracias, I hope you will soon be in a drinking mood.’’
‘‘You and me both,’’ Shaw said. He puffed the cigar up to a glowing red coil and tucked one bottle into the sling along his right forearm. Carrying the other bottle in his left hand, he turned and walked out the open doorway.
As he started along the stone tiles, he caught a glimpse of Rhineholt ducking into the same doorway he’d gone into earlier to report to Sepreano. Glancing up at the dark balcony, he saw only the darker outline of men looking down toward him. All right, Shaw told himself, the general wanted to see what he was buying. . . .
Out of the darkness along the stone walkway, Manko and two other men stepped out facing him. ‘‘Stop right there, Fastest Gun Alive,’’ Manko demanded, his big hand poised near his gun butt. The other two men stepped sidelong, spreading out, each with their gun hands poised in the same manner.
But Shaw didn’t stop. He took a few more steps, his head down slightly as if he didn’t see them. ‘‘You! I told you to stop!’’ Manko bellowed without backing an inch as Shaw drew closer.
Shaw stopped abruptly, as if seeing the three for the first time. ‘‘What do you want?’’ Shaw asked, looking back and forth across the three, standing only three feet from the big, powerfully built Mexican.
‘‘What do we want?’’ asked one of the men in a Texas accent. ‘‘Son, how’d you manage to live this long? You can’t tell when three men have come to kill you?’’
Shaw said with a flat, blank stare, ‘‘What three men?’’
On the balcony, Sepreano saw the two men step in closer to Manko. He saw Manko reach out to give Shaw a shove back, giving them both more fighting distance. He heard the big Mexican say, ‘‘Draw!’’
But instead of seeing Shaw go for his gun, he saw the whiskey bottle in his left hand swing upward in a long half circle and crash against Manko’s thick chin in a spray of blood, broken glass and whiskey.
‘‘Kill him, Chico!’’ the Texan shouted, as Manko staggered backward and rocked to a shaky halt. Sepreano watched Shaw pull a cross draw as the other two men made their play. But instead of reaching for his gun, Shaw’s left hand grabbed the other bottle by its neck, jerked it from the sling and brought it crashing in a roundhouse swing against the Texan’s jaw, a second before the man could get his gun up from its holster.
The third man managed to clear leather, but he dropped his gun and screamed when Shaw brought the jagged broken bottle neck back around across his face.
Shaw kicked the gun away, stepped in and buried his right-boot toe in the man’s crotch. ‘‘I told you, he’s good,’’ Rhineholt said to Sepreano atop the balcony. He sounded a bit smug now that he’d seen Shaw in action again, this time without firing a shot.
Sepreano didn’t seem to hear him. He stood watching with rapt attention as Shaw walked forward calmly, took the stunned and staggering Manko by his thick forearm, and started guiding him, quicker and quicker with each step until he launched him face-first into an upright iron post supporting a long overhang.
Along the balcony rail, the bodyguards looked at one another, bemused, as the overhang shuddered and Manko fell backward, full-length onto the stone tiles. Without looking up, Shaw turned and walked away in the darkness. Sepreano stood staring at the three men lying knocked out on the street below as men from inside the cantina ran out to see why the building had trembled. ‘‘Well, General, what do you think?’’ Rhineholt asked. ‘‘Does Fast Larry ride with us, or not?’’
Without looking around at Rhineholt, the stoic general said over his shoulder, ‘‘I have not yet seen how fast he draws his gun.’’
Chapter 25
Throughout the night Shaw sat on a straight-backed chair and stared out across the darkness in anticipation of the Barrows Gang’s arrival. In the center of a stone courtyard flames licked upward from a large fire where some of the men lay nearby on blankets, having drunk until they fell backward in an alcoholic stupor. But not him, Shaw reminded himself. He’d stayed awake, kept vigilant by strong, tepid coffee he’d boiled earlier at that same licking fire and poured i
nto his canteen. While he’d waited for his coffee to boil, he’d watched some of the drinkers from the cantina haul the three men out of the street and out of sight. If there had been hard feelings over what he’d done, no one had made it known to him.
Simon lay motionless on the bare cot in the corner behind him, for all purposes a dead man, the sound of low, deep snoring his only proof of life. But Shaw managed to ignore the snoring and dozed lightly now and then until dawn peeped rosy and bright above the eastern edge of the earth.
With first light the sound of the large front gates creaking open piqued Shaw’s attention. Standing, he walked to the open doorway for a better look as seven riders goaded their tired horses inside, onto the stone-tiled courtyard. They dropped from their saddles. Searching the haggard faces in the thin morning light, Shaw recognized Titus Boland among them, yet he saw no sign of Dawson or Caldwell as the gates began creaking shut.
Now what . . . ?
Standing, he took off his gun belt, turned the holster around for a right-handed draw and strapped the belt, slung low the way he always wore it, back around his waist. He tied the holster down to his thigh with the strip of dangling rawhide.
Now he would go ahead and do what he’d vowed to himself to do, he told himself, answering his own question. Had Dawson and Caldwell ridden in, prisoners of the Barrows, he would have freed them. But since that hadn’t been the case, all he had to do was kill Titus Boland. Maybe his two friends had gotten away on their own. He hoped they had, as he clenched and unclenched his right hand.
But maybe they were dead, he also had to consider. Either way, it made no difference now. He looked down at his right hand as he continued clenching and unclenching his fist in the sling. This was what had to be done now. Nothing else mattered.
As the Barrows men gathered around a well and drank cool water from gourd dippers, Shaw stepped forward from the doorway and moved closer, staying in the shadows, out of sight, listening closely, his focus locked on Titus Boland.