Gun Country

by Ralph Cotton

  Janie shook her head and held the towel loosely at her side. “For a gal who hates gossip, you sure are toting around a headful of it,” she said, standing naked at the edge of the tub.

  “Then it is not true, what I have heard about you?” Raidy asked.

  Jane stared at her for a moment, as if choosing her words carefully. “Whether it’s true or not, it was in the past, Raidy. There are things I’ve done in the past that I will never do again. I’m a drunkard—I have an excuse for every damned stupid thing I do. When I sober up I try not to do it again.”

  “Even if it is with someone you care for, and who cares for you?” the young woman asked, stepping closer to her again.

  “That is hard to answer. . . .” Jane felt herself calmed and soothed by the concoction Raidy had given her. “My nature has been as unpredictable as a desert wind. I can’t even speculate what I might or might not do, especially when it comes to affairs of the heart.”

  Raidy looked her up and down, then lowered her dark eyes and said, “I wish I had waited to kiss you. I think if I had, you would not have turned me away. Instead we would have become close, which is what I want more than anything. Do you think it would be so?”

  “Good friends . . .” Jane stood in silent contemplation for a moment, looking her up and down in return. “I can’t rule out that possibility,” she said at length. “Stranger things have happened.”

  “Then perhaps we could start over?” Raidy asked quietly.

  Jane gave the appearance of considering it before saying studiously, “Perhaps.” She held out the towel for Raidy to take from her. “I still need to sweat this whiskey out of me . . . and I still need myself a good hot bath.” She took Raidy’s hand for support and stepped back over the edge of the tub.

  Out in front of the sheriff’s office, town sheriff Oscar Watts looked closely at the three bodies while a small gathering of townsfolk stood nearby. “These are the Higgins brothers, you say?” he asked the two lawmen loudly.

  “Yes, that’s them, Sheriff,” said Dawson as he and Caldwell followed the ancient lawman back into his office and out of the harsh sunlight. “We have Jane Crowley coming to sign an affidavit, identifying them.”

  “Jane Crowley, hmmph . . . ,” he said loudly, compensating for his impaired hearing. Back inside the office, the old sheriff closed the door and walked to a pile of wanted posters on his battered oak desk. “She’s been blind drunk so long I wouldn’t expect she could recognize herself in a mirror.”

  “We’ve got her soaking and sobering right now, Sheriff,” said Dawson, using the same raised voice to make himself heard.

  “What about these men’s cousins you were telling me about?” Watts asked, as he picked up the wanted posters and began leafing through them. He cut a glance at the Winchester rifles in both the lawmen’s hands. “Are you expecting them?”

  “Yep,” said Dawson, glancing out the dusty window as he spoke, “Mose and Shorthand Higgins. They’ll be coming along most any time. They’ll be gunning for me and my deputy, but by the time they get here they’ll have their bark on toward anybody wearing a badge.”

  “Dang it all,” said Watts. “Where is Shaw when I need him? The one man who could help me is gone . . . with his head split open across the top like a ripe melon.”

  “We won’t leave you to face the Higginses alone, Sheriff,” said Dawson.

  “I hope not,” said Watts. “I’ve never seen any of them, but I’ve heard some ugly stories from as far away as Mexico City. It ain’t just them, it’s that whole gang of border trash they ride with.” He looked Dawson and Caldwell both up and down appraisingly. “But I expect I can’t tell you two anything you don’t already know about border trash, eh?”

  “We’ve run into our share, Sheriff, that’s a fact,” said Dawson.

  “You’re the two lawmen I’ve heard about, the ones sent to clean up on both sides of the border?” Watts asked in his loud voice.

  “That’s us,” said Caldwell. “What can you tell us about Lawrence Shaw getting shot in the head?”

  “Not much, I’m afraid,” said the old sheriff. “He was dumb as a stump about it. Either he never knew who shot him, or he didn’t want anybody else to know. He said he lay down to sleep—drunk, I’d wager. When he woke up his head was bandaged. He didn’t even know why until Dr. Wheeler told him he’d been shot.”

  Caldwell asked, “Where will I find this Dr. Wheeler this time of day?”

  “His office is at the end of the street. He ought to be in right now if you’re wanting to talk to him. Lucky for Shaw that Doc Wheeler was here when it happened. Had he been off on some of his house calls, Shaw would have likely died.”

  From the doorway a voice interjected, “He might still die from it.”

  The old sheriff and the two lawmen turned toward a portly white-haired man wearing wire-rimmed spectacles. Watts said to Dawson and Caldwell, “Speaking of Doc Wheeler, here he is.” To the doctor he said, “Doc, these two lawmen are inquiring about Lawrence Shaw. I was sending them to your office.”

  “I saw the dead out front,” said Doc Wheeler. He looked the two lawmen up and down. “I came by just being nosy. I saw those fellows are beyond any help from my profession.” He gave the lawmen a flat stare. “What can I tell you about Lawrence Shaw, except that it’s a miracle he’s alive—that is, if he’s still alive.”

  “What do you mean if he’s still alive, Doctor?” Dawson asked. “He must’ve been well enough to mount up and ride out of here. Was he in no shape to leave when he did?”

  “He wasn’t even close,” said the doctor, “not with a head wound like that. He shouldn’t be out there traveling these desert lands alone. He took a terrible impact to his brain. He needed to let it have time to heal. He could be lying somewhere dead out there, or else paralyzed, or without enough sense to know who he is.”

  “Just how deep did this bullet go into his head, Doctor?” Caldwell asked.

  “It didn’t,” the doctor said gruffly. “That’s the miracle of it. The shot was so close to his skull that the powder burned his hair off. But instead of entering his skull, the bullet skipped upward, ran along across the top of his head—split his scalp like a hatchet and came out on the other side.” He reached inside his vest, produced a flattened .45-caliber lead slug and handed it to Caldwell.

  “Good Lord,” said Caldwell as he and Dawson examined the bullet.

  “Imagine the jolt that must’ve been to his poor brain,” said the doctor. “He can expect some aftereffects from this for a long time to come.”

  “Can I keep this, Doctor?” Dawson asked as Caldwell dumped the flattened slug from his palm into Dawson’s.

  “You’re going to be seeing Shaw, if he’s still among the living?” the doctor asked.

  “Yes, we are,” said Dawson. “When we catch up to him, I’ll see that he gets it.”

  “Then yes, you keep it,” said the doctor, “I have no use for it.”

  “Obliged,” said Dawson, closing his hand around the bullet. “What sort of aftereffects are we talking about him having?”

  “Oh, temporary blindness, paralysis, blackouts, loss of balance. Take your pick. Loss of memory, loss of time, loss of reasoning. Maybe all of these at some time or other until his brain is healed.”

  “How long before he’s safely over it?” Caldwell asked.

  “That’s hard to say. We don’t know enough about the human brain to say accurately everything it controls. But imagine how a massive bruise would affect your arm or leg, then think of what it can do to your brain.” He added in a lowered tone of voice, “I saw the U.S. deputy badge he carries in his pocket. I take it he works with you two?”

  “He has, some,” said Dawson, not wanting to reveal too much about their work.

  “Don’t let him,” the doctor said flatly, “at least not for the time being, not until you see that he’s back in command of all his faculties. The trouble will be convincing him there’s anything wrong. When the brain is not
functioning properly, its owner can often be the last one to notice.”

  The two lawmen exchanged a troubled glance. Dawson started to speak, but Watts called out in his raised voice from the dusty window he’d turned and looked out, “Uh-oh, Marshals. It looks like the Higgins cousins have arrived.”

  Caldwell stepped over beside him and looked. “Looks like the Higginses had more local kin than we counted on,” he said, watching five horses slide to a halt at the far end of the street.

  Chapter 7

  Atop their settling horses, Mose and Shorthand Higgins stared at the bodies of their cousins lying tied down across their saddles at the hitch rail in front of the sheriff’s office. Upon hearing the horses’ hooves and seeing the dust and commotion, a big yellow hound ran to the middle of the street. The excited animal bounced on its front paws, barking and baying furiously toward the five horsemen.

  “These rotten lawdog sonsabitches! Look how they’re treating our poor cousins!” Shorthand Higgins growled through clenched teeth. In the street the hound continued its insistent barking until a rifle bullet hit the ground near its front paw and spat dirt in its face.

  Over his shoulder, Mose Higgins said to the three gunmen behind him as the yellow hound yelped and fled, “All right, hombres, get all set to make ’em bleed.” He jerked a big Dance Brothers pistol from his belly holster and cocked it briskly. To Sandefur Reid he said, “Sandy, get over to that mercantile store and gather up what we’ll need.”

  “You got it, Mose,” said the rough-faced gunman. He leaped from his saddle, hurried away across the dirt street and shoved the mercantile door open as the owners inside tried to close and lock it. A woman’s voice shrieked above the sound of Sandefur rummaging merchandise and breaking glass.

  Out in front of the sheriff’s office, the gathered bystanders had already read trouble in the way the riders had raced into town. The rifle shot sent them running, disappearing into doorways and storefronts; the hound vanished into an alleyway.

  From the dusty window of the sheriff’s office, Dawson jacked a round into his Winchester and said to Caldwell beside him, “Look who’s riding with them.”

  Caldwell had studied the gunmen closely as the dust around them settled. “Albert Colon, Dent Parker and Sandefur Reid. Where do you suppose the Higginses ran into them?”

  “They were riding with them all the time. They were close by, we just didn’t see them all,” said Dawson. “We might be closer to Madden Corio and his gang than we thought.”

  “Too bad we’re not full-time bounty hunters,” said Caldwell, checking his rifle. “This bunch would’ve been a bonanza for us.”

  Across the office, the sheriff took a long double-barreled shotgun down from a gun rack and hurriedly loaded it. “Doc,” he said in his loud voice, “it’s best you skin on out the back door before these killers get situated and try pinning us in here.”

  “Nonsense, Sheriff,” said Dr. Wheeler, grabbing a rifle from the rack and checking it. “Just because I’m sworn to save another man’s life doesn’t mean I’m not allowed to defend my own.” He levered a round into the rifle chamber. “When I was a boy I kept our Pennsylvania farmhouse provided with rabbit and squirrel.”

  “These are not squirrels we’re shooting, Doc,” Sheriff Watts warned him.

  “Right you are indeed, Sheriff,” said the determined doctor. “Nor am I any longer a boy.” He stepped over to a back window and opened it. “These saddle bums are in for a big surprise.”

  At the window hearing the conversation between the doctor and the sheriff, Caldwell and Dawson gave each other a knowing look. With no more thought on the matter, Dawson called out to the gunmen as they advanced on the small building, “Mose, Shorthand, my deputy and I are coming out, just the two of us. We’ll settle this with you in the street.”

  “That’s mighty obliging of you, Marshal,” Shorthand called out in reply. “But we don’t want you out here. We’ve already made other plans.”

  Sandefur came running from the mercantile with a tin of kerosene in hand and a bolt of cloth and a half dozen axe handles under his arm. “Yee-hiii!” he shouted. “Let the fun start!” He dumped the handles and cloth to the ground at Mose’s and Shorthand’s feet.

  “They’re going to try to burn us up,” Caldwell said. Watching through the window, he saw Shorthand hurry to a freight wagon parked along the street.

  “Oh my,” muttered the doctor, never having thought of the gunmen trying anything so dastardly.

  Caldwell and Dawson watched Shorthand jump aboard the wagon, drive it halfway across the street, stop it and set the brake, providing themselves perfect cover.

  “Don’t you worry, Doc,” Watts called out in his loud voice. “There’ll be armed townsmen rallying to us as soon as they get over their surprise. We’re going to shoot these snakes before they do such a thing—”

  “Sheriff Watts, you two stay here until the townsmen show up,” said Dawson, cutting the old lawman off. “Let’s go, Deputy, before they finish getting their torches made up.”

  While Jane Crowley was soaking in the tub, she heard a rifle shot that made her eyes snap open. “Well, hell, it sounds like Mose and Shorthand have arrived just when this was getting interesting.” She stood up in the tub even as the young woman’s wet hands tried to stop her.

  “No, no, lie back down,” said Raidy Bowe. “This is their stupid man’s play! Let them handle it themselves. Stay here with me. Please! Do not get yourself shot for them!”

  “Sorry, little darling, much as I hate to, I’ve got to go,” said Jane. She stepped out of the tub again, hurriedly snatched up her fringed doeskins from across a chair and began throwing them on. As she dressed, her eyes searched the room. “I don’t suppose there’s a gun lying around anywhere?”

  In the street, Dent Parker and Albert Colon had spread out, Colon taking a position behind a stack of wooden farm implement crates straight across the street from the sheriff’s office. Parker had run around to cover the rear door in case anyone tried to escape once they had successfully started their fire.

  “Hurry up, Sandy!” Shorthand growled as the gunman finished making a torch, poured kerosene onto its cloth head and handed it to Mose.

  Mose and Shorthand had kept a close watch on the front door of the sheriff’s office from the cover of the freight wagon. Still, they were almost caught off guard by the fierceness of the lawmen when the front door seemed to explode open and the two came out firing.

  “It’s commenced for certain, Doc!” Watts called out loudly, stepping forward long enough to swing the front door shut. At the rear door, the doctor peeped out and saw Dent Parker running toward him in a crouch.

  “Here’s one!” said the excited doctor, throwing the rifle to his shoulder just as Parker fired. He took quick aim and pulled the trigger just as he felt Parker’s shot hit him in his soft round stomach. He grunted, but only leaned sidelong against the door frame and watched Parker spin in a circle and fall limp onto the ground. “By gads, sir, I—I got him!” Dr. Wheeler said over his shoulder, sounding surprised at his gun prowess.

  “Doc, are you okay?” shouted Watts, hurrying to the wounded man’s side as he slumped down the door frame.

  “I’m . . . all right, Sheriff,” said the doctor. But Watts knew better. He’d seen as many of these kinds of wounds as the doctor himself had seen.

  “Doggone it, Doc,” Watts said with regret.

  In the street, Caldwell and Dawson split up a few feet and rushed forward as bullets whistled around them. “Kill the sonsabitches!” Mose shouted, firing from around the rear corner of the freight wagon.

  Shorthand shouted as he fired from the other corner of the wagon, “Forget the torches, Sandy, they’ve busted loose on us!”

  But Sandefur Reid wasn’t about to let all of his work go for nothing. He quickly set fire to two of the torches and ran from behind the cover of the wagon, waving the flaming axe handles with a rebel yell. Dawson and Caldwell, who had just found cover, one be
hind a water trough, one amid the clutter of a busted shipping crate, both turned their fire onto Sandefur.

  As the outlaw hurled one torch high and let out another yell as it arched down atop the roof of the town barbershop, a shot from Caldwell’s rifle hit him squarely in his chest and caused him to stagger in place. Sandefur managed to hurl the other torch blindly and scream out in rage, “You no-account lawdog sonsabit—”

  A shot from Dawson cut his words short as the second torch he’d thrown came down onto the boardwalk out in front of the Southwestern Stage Lines. The torch buried itself amid a pile of luggage, packages and mail pouches. Flames immediately began licking upward along the front of the weathered clapboard plank building.

  From his well-covered position Albert Colon fired at Caldwell, forcing the lawman to dive facedown in the dirt before shots from Dawson’s rifle provided him cover and sent Colon backing away from a spray of splinters and dust from the implement crates.

  “To hell with this,” said Shorthand, reloading while Mose fired steadily at the two lawmen. “Remember our cousins, and follow me!” He gestured toward the bodies lying across the nervous horses out in front of the sheriff’s office.

  “Here they come,” Dawson called out to Caldwell. The two half stood from behind their cover, rifles in hand. But when they saw that Mose and Shorthand were coming out, walking forward down to the middle of the street to meet them face-to-face, Dawson reached over and leaned his rifle against a post.

  Seeing the lawmen step out to meet them, Shorthand called out to Albert Colon, “Show yourself, Albert. These sonsabitches want a reckoning . . . so do we. Let’s finish it up like the bold men we are.”

  “Yeah,” said Mose with a look of pure hatred. He lowered and uncocked his Dance Brothers pistol, preparing himself for a face-to-face showdown. “Our poor cousins deserve no less.”