Ride to Hell's Gate

by Ralph Cotton

  ‘‘Shut up, Red!’’ Sepreano shouted, slapping his palm down on the thick stone arm of the throne. Turning to Shaw, he said, ‘‘Were you there? Did you see who killed my brother, Carlos?’’

  Shaw considered it. He sensed the intense fear going on inside Simon standing beside him. He stared first at Redlow, then at Eddie. Then he made his decision, let out a breath and said, ‘‘No, General, I didn’t see them kill your brother.’’

  ‘‘There, you see?’’ said Redlow. ‘‘He didn’t see us do it because it didn’t happen.’’

  Sepreano raised a hand to shut him up. To Shaw he said, ‘‘Then why do you blame them?’’

  Shaw let it go. He wasn’t going to put Simon on the spot. ‘‘I just had a hunch, General, that’s all.’’ He stared at Redlow and Eddie with a look that let them know he could have gotten them killed if he’d chosen to.

  ‘‘You had a hunch?’’ Sepreano stared at him, looking him up and down, knowing that something was going on here, but uncertain what it could be. After a pause he said, ‘‘Did you really come here to ride for me, Shaw?’’

  ‘‘No,’’ Shaw replied, even though he knew honesty could cost him his life. ‘‘The truth is I came here to kill Titus Boland, the man lying dead in the street.’’ He looked at Sepreano. ‘‘He killed a woman I thought I loved at the time.’’

  ‘‘Oh, are you saying it turns out that you did not love her?’’ Sepreano asked, finding himself interested in the strange man who wielded such authority with a six gun.

  ‘‘I don’t know,’’ said Shaw, ‘‘but whether I loved her or not, she didn’t deserve to die.’’ He looked off through the open balcony doors. ‘‘Boland killed her thinking he was killing me.’’

  ‘‘Then he did not kill her with malice? He killed her by mistake?’’ Sepreano asked.

  ‘‘That’s one way of looking at it,’’ Shaw said, turning back to him.

  ‘‘What other way is there to look at it?’’ Sepreano asked. ‘‘There are only two kinds of vengeance. There is the vengeance of vengeance of the angels, and the vengeance of the devil. You are at Hell’s Gate. Which vengeance is yours?’’

  Beside the cushioned throne, Manko gave a flat, curious grin, as if he had no idea on what level Sepreano and Shaw were talking.

  ‘‘I’ve been at the gates of hell long before I got here,’’ said Shaw. ‘‘I suppose I wanted the vengeance of angels. But I took what I could get.’’ He thought about the badge, the one he held a claim to, but had never worn.

  Another silent pause engulfed the room. Outside, gunshots began to fill the air from the direction of the column of federales. But Sepreano seemed unconcerned. ‘‘You are a strange man, Fast Larry Shaw,’’ he said. Looking at Simon he said, ‘‘Who is this drunkard who is shaking too badly to show us his hands?’’

  ‘‘This is Simon,’’ said Shaw. ‘‘He’s on his way home.’’ He gave Simon a look, then said to Sepreano, ‘‘With your permission I hope?’’

  ‘‘We will see,’’ said Sepreano.

  Outside, a roar of cannon fire resounded, seeming to jar the earth. Sepreano didn’t flinch; neither did Shaw.

  ‘‘Perhaps it is time for us to leave, General,’’ Manko said.

  Sepreano nodded, but made no effort to stand up from his throne. ‘‘I have never seen any human being draw a gun and fire as rapidly or as accurately as you did today,’’ he said to Shaw. ‘‘Are you sure you won’t ride with me?’’

  ‘‘No, I expect that would be a bad idea, General,’’ said Shaw.

  ‘‘A pity,’’ Sepreano said with a shrug. Another round of cannon fire pealed through the air and landed with a heavy, jarring thud against the wall beside the gates. ‘‘May I see the gun that you shoot so well? May I hold it in my hand?’’

  ‘‘Ordinarily I trust no man enough to hand over my gun,’’ Shaw said. Yet he raised his Colt from his holster slowly, reversed it in his hand and stepped forward.

  ‘‘No!’’ said Manko, stepping in between him and Sepreano.

  ‘‘Easy, Manko,’’ the general said. Looking around the big Mexican he said to Shaw, ‘‘Give it to your shaky friend. He will bring it to me.’’

  Shaw kept his eyes fixed on Manko as he held the Colt sideways for Simon. ‘‘Keep your finger off the trigger. Don’t shoot yourself in the foot,’’ he cautioned.

  But as Simon started forward, Manko stopped him too, with a hand held out for the gun. ‘‘The bullets,’’ he said bluntly.

  ‘‘Oh, of course,’’ said Simon, giving Shaw a frightened look for approval.

  ‘‘It’s a good idea, as bad as you’re shaking,’’ Shaw said.

  Gunfire grew more intense outside the window, back and forth from both sides of the wall. Simon opened the Colt and let the bullets fall into Manko’s big hand.

  ‘‘All right, go ahead,’’ Manko said, stepping aside and staring back at Shaw as Simon walked past him to the throne and handed Sepreano the Colt, butt first.

  Sepreano looked at the gun closely, turning it back and forth in his hands. ‘‘Giving me his gun tells me that your friend does not care if he lives or dies.’’ He looked at Simon and said, ‘‘Even a drunkard like you must see that. If I ordered these men to kill him right now, what would stop them?’’

  ‘‘Noth—nothing?’’ Simon said, hesitantly.

  ‘‘Si, that is right, nothing,’’ said Sepreano. He tapped a finger to his forehead. ‘‘Even though you are a drunkard and a vagrant, I tell you this. A man who does not protect his power and his life is a man soon to die.’’ He handed the gun, butt first, back to Simon. But as Simon took it, Sepreano held on to it for a second longer and said, ‘‘Do you believe what I said?’’

  ‘‘Will knowing this inspire you? Will it do you some good someday?’’ He gave Simon a condescending grin that said he knew better. He turned loose of the gun butt.

  ‘‘Oh, si, General, it will indeed,’’ Simon said quietly, his voice no longer weak and timid, his hand no longer trembling as it came from under the ragged serape. ‘‘It already has.’’

  Shaw stared in disbelief as a tall knife appeared from under Simon’s serape and drew a straight, deep line across Sepreano’s throat. ‘‘Damn it, Simon!’’ he shouted, not knowing what else to say.

  ‘‘Oh no, General!’’ Manko bellowed, turning and seeing the long curtain of blood fall from beneath Sepreano’s chin and spread down his chest.

  Knowing what was about to happen to Simon, Shaw leaped forward, seeing the big Mexican draw his gun as Simon moved around the wall toward the door, the bloody knife in hand. Jerking Redlow around backward, Shaw reached around him, grabbed Luna’s shotgun and aimed it at Manko as he cocked the ornate hammer. When the hammer fell, Manko caught only a glimpse of the fire as the scrap-iron shot exploded from the short barrel.

  The eight-gauge blast hit the big Mexican all over, turning him into a block of chopped red meat. The brunt of the shot took out most of his midsection as it slung chunks of him across the room and all over the wall.

  Eddie turned and drew his gun, seeing Shaw shove his brother away as he snatched Redlow’s gun from his holster and shot him.

  ‘‘You son of—’’ Eddie’s words stopped as two bullets from his brother’s gun nailed him in the chest.

  As Eddie hit the floor, Shaw looked around in time to see the two bodyguards running through the door. But Simon, as quick as a snake, tripped the first one and snatched his rifle from his hands as he fell. As the second one tried to keep from falling over the first, Simon knocked him cold with a quick swipe of the rifle barrel. Before the one on the floor could get his legs under him, Simon drove the rifle butt down solidly on the back of his head, then stepped back and looked toward Shaw.

  ‘‘I’m the help the Mexican government sent,’’ he said in a confident, no-nonsense tone.

  ‘‘I can’t wait to tell Dawson and Caldwell about this,’’ Shaw said, stepping over to where his Colt lay on the stone floor. He picked it up, re
loaded it with bullets from his belt and, eyeing it closely, spun it on his finger. ‘‘I watched you throw back an awful lot of whiskey,’’ he said. ‘‘Where was you putting it?’’ Outside, the battle raged, growing more intense.

  Simon shrugged and picked up the knife from where he’d dropped it in order to snatch the guard’s rifle. ‘‘I drank a lot of it, but not as much as I led everybody to believe.’’ He wiped the knife blade across the belly of one of the knocked-out guards. ‘‘You see, I knew it would be a waste of time tracking Sepreano down unless I could get close enough to kill him. I had hoped to get in with Carlos and slip in here. When the Barrows killed him, there went that idea. But then you came along, and I decided it was my best shot. So, here we are.’’ He smiled.

  Shaw noted the difference in him: His voice, his demeanor, even his eyes were more clear, now that he kept them open a bit wider. ‘‘I have to admit, I fell for it. You fooled me, Simon, if that’s even your name?’’

  ‘‘Yes, it is my name,’’ he replied. ‘‘I hope there’s no hard feelings. After all, we were all after the same thing.’’ He gestured a hand toward the bodies of the Barrows and Sepreano. ‘‘We got the job done.’’

  Shaw looked all around, then shook his head and stepped over toward the door, the cannon and Gatling gunfire having lessened. He picked up a white linen cloth from a table and carried it with him. ‘‘Yep,’’ he said, ‘‘I can’t wait to tell them. . . .’’

  Outside the walls, Dawson and Caldwell had first seen Fairday and the other three riders go racing off across the flatlands as one of the broken gates fell to the ground after a direct hit from the cannon. Anticipating their run for the hills to the west, the two lawmen cut away from Captain Agosto’s column and rode hard. Circling out of sight, they waited until two of the four rode up over a rise; then they opened fire without warning.

  Dawson fired three times, each bullet hitting Vincent Tomes in the chest, flipping him backward out of his saddle before Tomes could get off a shot. A few feet away, Caldwell brought McClinton down with one shot, but the outlaw scrambled across the ground, clawing with one hand while his other hand clutched his chest. In a few yards his strength ran down slowly as the blood trail behind him widened. Caldwell stood watching with a detached expression as he dropped the spent cartridge and replaced it. Walking forward to where McClinton stopped and rolled over his back, he looked down at him and said, ‘‘Where are the other two?’’

  ‘‘They got . . . the hell away . . . I hope,’’ the dying outlaw said.

  ‘‘Who are they?’’ Caldwell asked.

  Instead of answering, McClinton said, ‘‘Why don’t you take . . . that smoking gun . . . and stick—’’

  Caldwell watched his words stop in his throat. His eyes stared straight up. Stepping back, Caldwell said to Dawson, ‘‘Want to take our rifles and get after them?’’

  Dawson looked all around. ‘‘If they slipped around us, they’re in the hills now. I saw them close enough to know it wasn’t Eddie or Redlow Barrows. We’ve done our jobs here.’’

  The two looked over toward the castle ruins, seeing the federales swing around it and go after a band of fleeing riders who had left through a hidden gate on the far side of the wall. ‘‘Looks like Sepreano’s army didn’t put up near the fight we expected,’’ said Caldwell, slipping his gun into his holster. ‘‘What do you suppose went on inside there?’’

  ‘‘I can’t wait to hear,’’ said Dawson, reloading his gun now, glad that the job was over, glad to see things winding down.

  ‘‘Look at this,’’ said Caldwell. ‘‘Somebody’s trying to surrender.’’

  Above the thick wall they saw an arm slowly waving a white cloth back and forth. ‘‘They couldn’t have picked a better time,’’ Dawson said, looking at the busted gate and the black smoke rising above the battered stone walls. A body, its bloody arms hanging lifeless, lay stretched over the wall.

  Seeing that all the action had ceased along the wall and upon the flatlands, Caldwell watched the white cloth wave for a moment. ‘‘It wouldn’t surprise me if that’s Shaw waving surrender.’’

  Dawson stared alongside him for a moment in quiet contemplation. Then he said, ‘‘It would surprise me if it’s not.’’

  The two lawmen stepped up into their saddles and turned their horses toward the ruins at an easy gallop. Atop the wall, Shaw stood up with the white cloth hanging from his hand. He watched the two ride closer until he recognized both their faces. ‘‘Mi amigos . . . ,’’ he murmured. Then he let the cloth fall from his hand and flutter away on a warm desert breeze.

  Read on for a special preview of Ralph Cotton’s next novel,

  SHOWDOWN AT HOLE-IN-THE-WALL

  Coming from Signet in March 2009

  Utah Territory

  Time to go . . .

  Arizona Ranger Sam Burrack stood at the window of his second-floor room. He had wintered as long as he could afford to in the river valley south of Cedar Ridge. Most of the damage from the gunshot wound in his lower back had healed. He wasn’t as good as new, but he’d been off his feet long enough.

  With his gun belt draped over his shoulder, he lowered the hammer on his freshly cleaned Colt and slipped it loosely into its slim-jim holster. He gazed out the window. The rocky passes in the distance had shed their thick blankets of snow, and the trail had begun to reveal itself. It snaked upward into the mountains toward Wyoming Territory. That’s where he’d been headed before a dry gulcher’s bullet had stopped him short.

  But he was healed now, and it was time to load the pack mule, saddle the brown and white paint horse awaiting him at the livery barn and ride on. ‘‘And that’s that,’’ he said as he pondered the street below.

  ‘‘And you are quite certain I can’t talk you out of leaving us, Ranger Burrack?’’ the Englishwoman, Beatrice Prine, asked quietly. She stood beside him, a tall stately woman dressed in a clean-smelling, plaid gingham dress.

  She’d watched him check the big Colt and put it away. She shook her head slightly and gazed with him across the wide basin, where only patches of snow still clung along the edges of rock and dry grassland. Tops of cedar and pine swayed in the raw morning wind.

  ‘‘I’m certain,’’ the ranger replied after a long moment of silence. ‘‘I won’t feel right until I get up to Hole-in-the-wall and get my stallion back.’’

  She sighed. ‘‘You’re fresh over a gunshot wound in the back, yet you insist on riding through a country filled with outlaws just for a horse?’’

  Sam gave a thin, wry smile. ‘‘Not just any horse I wouldn’t,’’ he replied. ‘‘But for my stallion, you bet I will.’’ He paused, then added quietly, ‘‘I should have been there long before now. Like I told you, the animal was banged up bad in a dynamite blast.’’

  ‘‘Yes, so you said . . .’’ Beatrice Prine considered what she knew of the ranger’s situation. He had told her his story over the long winter nights he’d spent with her. ‘‘You told me you entrusted Memphis Warren Beck to take care of the stallion for you until you can make your way to Hole-in-the-wall and reclaim the animal. I expect the rest of the gang had a hard time understanding that one.’’

  ‘‘Like I told you, I had no other choice,’’ Sam said, noting the doubtful tone to her voice. ‘‘Beck gave me his word. I never thought I’d say this about a man like Memphis Beck, but he’s proven himself to be good for his word.’’

  ‘‘I could have told you that about Memphis Beck,’’ said Beatrice Prine. ‘‘I dare say I’ve known him a good while longer than you have. His word has always stood well with me.’’

  ‘‘He’s still an outlaw, but I have to say he’s a cut above the rest,’’ Sam said grudgingly, recalling how Memphis Beck had saved his life in Mexico when a madman and his cult of murderers had tried to kill him. Shadow Valley . . . , Sam thought to himself, recalling the incident all too clearly.

  ‘‘That being the case, what is your hurry?’’ Beatrice Prine asked. ‘‘A few more d
ays of rest would be good for you.’’

  ‘‘It’s been all winter since I saw the stallion, and I’m still not there,’’ Sam said. ‘‘I won’t feel right until I’ve got Black Pot’s reins in my hands.’’

  Knowing the futility of trying to talk him out of riding into the outlaw stronghold, Beatrice Prine patted his arm and said with a sigh, ‘‘Well, the girls and I are all going to miss you.’’

  ‘‘That’s most kind of you to say so, Mrs. Prine. I’ll miss you and the girls as well,’’ Sam replied. He could feel her free hand on his foreram.

  ‘‘We’re alone. You may call me Miss Beatrice,’’ she said softly, gesturing with a nod, indicating their privacy.

  Sam knew that Beatrice Prine did not easily share her first name with guests. ‘‘Much obliged, Miss Beatrice ,’’ Sam said quietly. ‘‘In turn, I’d be honored if you’d call me Sam.’’

  The Englishwoman smiled to herself. ‘‘Sam, then,’’ she said without taking her eyes from the endless rugged terrain beyond the window.

  The two stood in silence for a moment, and then the ranger patted her hand, which still rested on his forearm. ‘‘I must look a sight better than I did riding in. I have you and your doves to thank for that, Miss Beatrice.’’

  ‘‘Go on with you, now,’’ she said softly in her British accent. ‘‘It was our pleasure having you here.’’ She smiled and said quietly, ‘‘How many of us can say we actually wintered with the Ranger?’’

  Sam felt himself blush. It wasn’t his way to speak loosely of such things, even if only in a light, suggestive manner. ‘‘Not many,’’ he said. Then to hurriedly change the subject, he said, ‘‘Your hospitality has not only healed my back wound, I believe my hearing has cleared up some, after that dynamite blast.’’

  ‘‘Wonderful,’’ said the Englishwoman. ‘‘In that case I do hope you’ll keep an ear perked for those two along your trail.’’ She nodded at the rough-looking man and woman who had appeared out of a ragged tent saloon on the street below and walked toward their horses, which were tied to hitch rail.