Gun Country

by Ralph Cotton

  Outside the circle of torch and lantern light, Tuesday sat Shaw down on the rocky ground and helped him lean back against an ancient ironwood tree. “Damn it, Shaw, don’t break down on me now,” she said in a harsh whisper. She took off his tall stovepipe hat and examined his bandaged head as best she could in the pale moonlight, as if looking at it would reveal anything about his mental condition. “What comes over you, makes you act that way?”

  Shaw only stared blankly, knowing he’d drifted away, and knowing he’d been powerless to stop himself. He tried to speak, to answer the woman’s voice he’d heard, but he couldn’t get the words to form and move through his lips. He sat slumped for a moment, yet he saw himself lying on a bed. He saw a woman move toward him as if through a dark veil. He saw her hand reach out and slip his Colt from his holster; he heard the gun cock. Then he heard an explosion too loud and powerful to be real.

  Coming to with a start, Shaw clamped his hand tight around Tuesday’s throat. But then a fog seemed to lift; he caught himself and stopped.

  “Jesus, Fast Larry!” said Tuesday, jerking her head back from him as he turned her loose. Her hand had almost gone to the derringer in her dress. But she stopped and looked into Shaw’s eyes. “Hey, are you with me?”

  “Yes—I’m all right.” Shaw sat gasping breath after breath, like a man who had forgotten to breathe and now had to catch up.

  “Do you remember what happened back there?” Tuesday asked.

  “I remember,” Shaw said, though he was stretching the truth. “You mean Corio, the train, all that?”

  “Yes . . . all that,” Tuesday said dubiously, watching his eyes, gauging his senses. “You remember shooting Bert Jordan?”

  Shaw had to consider it for just a second before he realized what she was doing. “Stop it. I told you I’m all right.”

  “Okay.” Tuesday smiled and took a breath and laid his hat on the ground beside him. “I worry about you, is all. You sit here. I’m going to get a blanket and have you lie down and rest.”

  She started to turn away but Shaw said, “What about loading the wagons? Corio will think something’s wrong if I’m lying out here when I should be there with the wagons.”

  “No, he’s going to think we’re out here doing each other,” she said, “sort of celebrating the job. I left that impression. Don’t you remember me saying I wanted you to do something for me in private?” She watched his eyes in the darkness.

  “Yes, now I remember,” Shaw said, leaving her unable to tell whether or not he was lying.

  “Sit still,” she said, “I’ll be right back.”

  “I saw a woman just now,” Shaw said, recounting what had just gone on in his confused mind. “She took my gun out and shot me.”

  Tuesday stared at him for a moment, then said, “Well, it wasn’t me, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  “No,” Shaw said, “I know it wasn’t you. . . .” He slumped back against the ironwood tree, closed his eyes against the pain in his head, feeling it subside a little. He had an idea who the woman was, but he didn’t want to allow himself to consider it. He tried forcing himself to think more clearly, but he did so in vain. It would take time, he told himself. Meanwhile, Dawson and Caldwell would be depending on him. He couldn’t let them down. . . .

  From a ridge higher up, Crayton Dawson gazed down through a pair of binoculars at the stranded train sitting out on the trestle above Yellow Moon Canyon. In the early morning light, he saw two soldiers carrying grain bags into the stock car to horses trapped inside. Gazing back along the rails, he saw soldiers sitting strewn out along the rails. They stared off along the tracks as if expecting help most any time.

  Among the soldiers sitting on the rocky ground, a young officer stood erect and vigilant, his hands clasped behind his back—in charge, in spite of their helpless predicament. “Corio’s gang got the train,” Dawson said to Caldwell and Jane, who stood back holding the reins to their horses.

  “What do you mean, they got the train?” Jane asked, irritated. “You mean they robbed it, they stole it, they ate it, or what?”

  “Take your pick,” Dawson said in retaliation to her sarcasm. He stood and dusted his knees and chest. He walked back to Jane and handed her the battered binoculars. But as he spoke he turned to Caldwell. “They’ve stolen it.”

  “A nice fat arms shipment,” Caldwell muttered, gazing out with his naked eyes, seeing very little through the remnants of gray morning.

  “That’s my guess,” said Dawson. “I figure the officer in charge sent some troops back to warn any oncoming train and get some help out here. These others stayed here to take care of the horses and keep an eye on things.”

  Looking down through the binoculars at the half of a train sitting out on the trestle, Jane said, “Pretty damn clever of Corio. Now he’s unloaded his booty and is hightailing it to Old Mex.”

  “Yep,” said Dawson, “and we’re right behind him.”

  “What about these boys?” Jane asked, gesturing toward the soldiers below.

  “They’ll be all right without us,” said Dawson. “By the time we ride down and see if we can help them, then ride back up here to circle Hueco Pass, Corio and his gang will be long gone.”

  “Do you suppose Shaw is on Corio’s trail,” Caldwell asked, “or riding with him and Lowe’s gang?”

  “Good question,” said Dawson. “I wish I knew the answer for you.”

  The three mounted up and rode off around the high rim of Hueco Pass. An hour later, they descended a trail and followed the rails until they saw Irish Tommie lying where the train had left him in the night. “Damn! It looks like this fool is alive,” Jane said, hearing the large man let out a groan.

  “Good, let’s see if we can keep him that way,” said Dawson, the three of them reining their horses down together. Taking his canteen from his saddle horn, he stepped down and hurried over to the downed man, seeing blood smeared and puddled all around him.

  Dawson stooped down and rolled the heavy man over onto his back. Opening his eyes, Irish Tommie said weakly, “I shouldn’t been . . . jumping.”

  “Easy, big fellow,” said Dawson. He raised the big man’s head onto his lap and held the canteen to his parched lips. “We’ll get you fixed up here. Have some water.” He poured a thin trickle onto his fingertips and touched them to Tommie’s lips. Then he carefully poured a bit into his mouth. From the looks of the man’s bashed and bloody head and his broken, twisted body, Dawson saw little hope for him.

  Swallowing and letting out a gasp, Tommie noted the badge on Dawson’s chest. “You are . . . the lawmen who’s dogging . . . everybody. . . .”

  “That’s me,” Dawson said. “Where’s Corio headed with this train?”

  “Don’t you want to know . . . where I’m headed?” Tommie said with a grim bloody chuckle.

  “You’re headed for hell, Irish Tommie,” Jane cut in, recognizing the big rotund outlaw. “So tell him what he wants to know. Maybe the devil will show a little mercy, not stick you in the ass with his pitchfork—”

  “That’s enough, Jane,” Dawson said, cutting her off.

  “Yell-Yellow Moon . . . ,” Tommie said, grasping Dawson by his shirtfront, unable to finish his words.

  “Yellow Moon Canyon?” Dawson asked. “They’re taking the train to Yellow Moon Canyon? They’ll unload it there?”

  Irish Tommie gave a bloody grin and tried to nod his head. “Got to . . . go now,” he gasped.

  “And good riddance to you, Tommie!” Jane shouted down at him, as if wanting hers to be the last words he would ever hear.

  “That’s uncalled for, Jane,” said Caldwell as Dawson eased Tommie’s head from his lap and let it down on the rocky ground between the two steel rails.

  “You can say that, because you don’t know this sonsabitch the way I do, Undertaker,” Jane grumbled.

  “Let’s drag him off the tracks and get going,” said Dawson, ignoring Jane and Caldwell’s bickering. “We’ll be tracking Corio into Me
xico by the time we catch up to him.”

  Chapter 18

  By the time the wagons were loaded, sunlight had begun to glow in a silver wreath along the eastern edge of the earth. Corio watched as Shaw and Tuesday walked back to the flatcars. To Jordan he said quietly, “Here comes our new partner now.”

  “Yeah,” said Jordan, “he’s no doubt bred, fed and ready to ride.”

  “Good for him, then,” said Corio. “Maybe the whore will keep him on top of his game, the way she seemed to do with Dangerous Dexter.”

  “Yeah, maybe,” Jordan said grudgingly. “As whores go, I’ve seen worse looking. She’s young, strapping and robust. I like that.”

  “As do I myself,” said Corio, watching the sway of Tuesday’s hips as she walked nearer. “Maybe we’ll save her for ourselves when we’ve finished this job. Have a celebration of our own.”

  “I’m going to hold you to that,” Jordan said.

  When Shaw got closer, Corio said down to him from atop the flatcar, “As soon as we get across the border, we’re going straight across the desert to the hill country. Once the wagons make it there without the federales spotting them, it’ll be easier traveling until we have to come back down.”

  Shaw looked up at him. “Where are we headed once we come back down?”

  “It’s not time for you to know that,” Corio said.

  “It is time for me know which way for these wagons to run if my drivers get hit by an ambush crossing the hill trails.”

  “No matter where the wagons are,” said Corio, “my men and I will be a level above them. They will be in our gun sights at all times. If they get ambushed, we’ll cover them and pull them through it. You have my word on it. Don’t forget what this cargo is worth to me . . . to all of us.” He stepped onto the iron rung of the flatcar ladder and climbed down the four rungs to the ground.

  “Or, don’t you trust Madden’s word, partner?” Jordan asked, staring down at Shaw.

  “I have no reason not to trust his word,” said Shaw. “I’ll be riding up there myself, making sure my drivers are covered.”

  “Your men are covered, Shaw,” said Corio, gesturing a hand toward the line of five loaded wagons. “See for yourself.”

  Sheer and Sax had climbed up into the first wagon, one driving and one riding shotgun. In the second wagon sat Jimmy Bardell and Earl Hardine. Behind them in the third wagon sat New York Joe Toledo and Able Hatcher. In the driver seat of the fourth wagon, Bell Mason sat alone, a shotgun propped against his leg. The fifth wagon carried two of Corio’s men, the Shagin brothers, Lindsey and Boxer.

  “Show us something, Boxer,” Jordan called out. Before the words were out of his mouth, Boxer Shagin scrambled over the seat into the wagon bed and threw a green tarpaulin off a mounted Gatling gun and crouched behind it, ready to fire.

  “Feel better, partner?” Jordan asked, stepping down from the flatcar himself and dismissing Boxer Shagin with a short wave of a hand.

  Shaw didn’t reply. Instead he looked at the faces of the men on the wagons, making sure they were satisfied with the setup. Seeing them give him a short nod, he looked toward Tuesday Bonhart, who came running from where she’d watched over him on the blanket until his pain had subsided and his dull stupor had worn off.

  “Wait for me!” she called out, adjusting her clothes as if she’d just thrown them back on. Giggling, she gave Shaw a suggestive look and wiggled up hurriedly into the wagon seat beside Bell Mason. “My goodness, Fast Larry, give a gal time to catch her breath!” She picked up the short-barreled shotgun from against Mason’s leg and ran her hand back and forth along its barrel with a glowing secretive smile.

  Shaw looked at Corio and said, “All right, ready when you are.” He walked to where Bardell had formed all of the wagon drivers’ horses into a string in a column of twos. He took up the lead rope, gathered the reins to his speckled barb and climbed up into the saddle. The pain in his head was gone. His mind felt clear and focused. He gigged the barb forward and rode along beside the wagon where Tuesday sat with the shotgun lying across her lap.

  While Corio and his men mounted and headed up into the hillsides surrounding them, Shaw looked down at Tuesday and said, “Obliged, I needed that.”

  Knowing Bell Mason could hear them, Tuesday giggled and replied, “No more than I did, Fast Larry.” She rose from the wooden seat, reached over to him and said with a laugh, “Lift me onto your lap. I want to see if I left anything behind.”

  Mason gave an excited sidelong glance as Shaw drew her from the wagon onto his lap. She threw her arms around his neck and nuzzled her face close to his ear. “The arms are going to Sepio Bocanero.”

  “Bocanero, the rebel leader?” Shaw pulled her away from his neck and looked into her eyes, amazed. “How did you find that out?”

  She giggled coyly. “How do you think?” She pressed her large warm breasts against him and rolled her shoulders slowly back and forth.

  Shaw stared at her. “But you couldn’t have. There hasn’t been time.”

  “It doesn’t take a gal long, not with these randy gunmen,” she said. “It’s all right isn’t it, I mean you don’t mind me doing that?” she asked, moving back close to his ear.

  “Tuesday, I’m not your boss,” Shaw said, riding along with her pressed against him. “I won’t tell you what you can or can’t do.”

  “I know, and that’s what I like about you,” she cooed in his ear. “Dex was a stupid jealous prick. I’m glad he’s dead.”

  “What about Sepio Bocanero?” Shaw asked, changing the subject from the late Dexter Lowe. “Did you happen to hear where we’re supposed to meet him?”

  “No,” she said. “But I figure with the federales hunting for him and his men, he won’t stick his head up for long. I thought you’d want to know. Did I do good?”

  “You did real good, Tuesday,” Shaw said, sidling back to the wagon. “Now get back over there.”

  “How about you? Are you sure you’re feeling all right?” she asked as Shaw started to lift her back over to the wagon seat.

  “I’m sure I am, thanks to you,” Shaw said in almost a whisper. “You keep your eyes open and your head down. Be ready for anything. I expect the worst out of Madden Corio.” He left her on the wagon seat and nudged his barb forward behind Corio and Jordan. He followed a good distance behind them.

  On his way past the engine, he saw the body of the engineer and the fireman lying sprawled in the dirt beside the tracks. The engine sat with its headlight black, silent in the gray morning light, except for the metallic click and thump of the cooling iron boiler.

  By midmorning the wagons had ridden down into a stretch of lower-lying hills and crossed the border. Once across the border, Shaw stayed up inside the cover of scrub juniper and cholla cactus, keeping a watch on the five slow-moving wagons below as they ambled along on narrow switchback trails.

  At noon the wagons had made good time and stopped to rest and water the horses at a thin runoff stream. Shaw looked all around and watched Corio’s men scout upward and ride away into the rocky hillsides. Looking down at the wagons, he gave Tuesday and the wagon drivers a signaling wave. When both Sonny Sheer’s and Tuesday Bonhart’s return wave told him everything was all right, he turned his barb and rode away, taking the opportunity to scout farther along the high trail and the sand flats that lay ahead.

  From across the ridge, Bert Jordan and Madden Curio watched Shaw ride forward. “There goes our partner ,” said Jordan. “What do you say?”

  Corio said nothing. But he gave a short nod of his head.

  “Adios,” said Jordan with a wicked grin. “It’s about time.” He jerked his horse around and batted his boots to its sides.

  Corio waited a full ten minutes longer before he took out a palm-sized piece of a broken shaving mirror and expertly cocked it at an angle against the noonday sun. A moment passed as the flash of white light glistened out three hundred yards across the jagged ridges. Then, with no show of surprise, Corio watched as t
hree of Sepio Bocanero’s rebels eased forward from the cover of juniper and dry bracken and looked down on the wagons below.

  Corio waited until he was certain Bocanero’s rebels had seen him. He gestured a hand toward the wagons below, letting them know to tell their leader that the arms were here, that he was ready for Bocanero to take possession of the shipment. He said as if the Mexicans could hear him from two hundred yards across the canyon, “Tell him his guns have arrived, gentlemen, as promised.”

  Corio lowered the angle of the mirror away from the rebels as they turned and vanished back into the rocky hillside. He cocked the mirror in a different angle and sent the white light flashing down onto the trail below where Boxer and Lindsey Shagin sat in the wooden seat sharing a canteen of tepid water. “Time to get it done, men,” he said quietly to himself.

  Lying stretched out in the dirt and leaning back against the wheel of his wagon, Dan Sax saw the beam of mirrored sunlight streak across the toe of his scuffed boot and said to Sonny Lloyd Sheer lying bedside him, “What the hell was that?”

  “I don’t know, but I saw it too,” said Sheer, scrambling to his feet as he capped the canteen he’d been drinking from.

  At the next wagon, Jimmy Bardell and Earl Hardine saw Sheer and Sax stand up quickly, and they did the same. Behind them Toledo and Hatcher followed suit, Toledo with his shotgun in his hands. “What’s going on?” Tuesday asked Bell Mason as she hurried to her feet, grabbing the shotgun on her way.

  “Injuns!” said Mason, his eyes bulging with fear. He reached over into the wagon and snatched a rifle he’d kept lying beneath the wooden seat.

  “Indians? You’re crazy, Bell!” said Tuesday. “That’s not Indians!” Yet even as she spoke she crouched near the wagon wheel and looked all around on the ridges lining both hillsides above them.