by Ralph Cotton
A tense dead silence gripped the narrow valley for a moment as each of the wagon divers looked back and forth along the rock walls and ridges surrounding them. But the silence was suddenly broken by the rustle of the tarpaulin being slung off the Gatling gun. The next sound they heard was the clank of an ammunition stack slamming into place atop the gun as it swung around toward them.
“A trap!” shouted Bell Mason. But before the words left his mouth, a rifle shot from the hillside above them nailed him in the chest and sent him flying backward, a ribbon of blood curling in his wake.
“Oh, hell! Look out!” shouted Sonny Lloyd Sheer.
As if the rifle shot that killed Mason had been a signal, the Gatling gun began its wild, deadly chatter. Huddled beside the fourth wagon, splattered with Bell Mason’s blood, Tuesday screamed, “Shaw!” But her words were engulfed by the exploding gunfire. As bullets whistled past her, she dove under the wagon and hugged the ground.
A half mile ahead on a higher trail, Shaw did not hear Tuesday’s scream, but he did hear the endless firing of the Gatling gun and the cacophony of rifle fire from the rocky canyon walls. Turning the speckled barb quickly, he raced back along the trail toward the sound of raging battle. But before he’d gone a quarter of a mile, he caught a glimpse of one of the rebels in a dirty white peasant shirt looped with a bandoleer of bullets.
The man rose quickly from the rocks alongside the trail. He heaved a lit grenade toward Shaw, then flung himself out of sight before the iron sphere hit the middle of the trail and rolled and bounced closer. With no time to turn the barb and ride out of the grenade’s blast, Shaw did the only thing he could; he jerked the reins hard to the side, veered the barb sharply and sent both horse and himself plunging headlong off the edge of the trail.
Even before the steep hillside rushed up and met them, Shaw felt the bone-crushing blast of the grenade lift dirt and rock from the middle of the trail and launch it like buckshot in every direction. He felt it pepper him and the barb in that split second before the two of them dropped out of sight.
The sound of the grenade blast was quickly taken over by the barb’s long whinny as horse and rider separated in midair. The two of them rolled and bounced, thrashed, slammed and slid, finally coming to a stop in a spray of dust, broken juniper branches and loose rock, on a ledge over a hundred feet below.
Shaw landed on his chest and felt the air explode out of his lungs. Twenty feet away the barb’s long terrified whinny turned to a low guttural chuffing and spluttering as the battered animal tried to catch its breath and struggle up onto its hooves.
On the edge of the trail, two of Sepio Bocanero’s rebels, both wearing dirty white shirts and bandoleers of ammunition, stood looking down the hillside through a dusty haze. “I think he must be dead, this gringo,” one said to the other. He took off his straw sombrero and fanned it in front of him, stirring a cloud of thick dust.
“I will make sure,” said the man beside him. He took another grenade from inside his loose dirty shirt and hefted it in his hand, grinning. “God bless the wonderful French, eh, Migio?” he said to his cousin in his native tongue.
“What are you doing, Paco?” the first one called out loudly. He saw the man strike the fuse on the grenade and light it. It was too late to stop his comrade from heaving the sizzling grenade, but his shouting had distracted the man enough that his throw went awry. The grenade fell short and far to the right of the ledge where Shaw and the barb had landed.
“Yii-hiii,” shouted the one who’d thrown the powerful hand bomb. Down the rocky hillside a spindly fifteen-foot pine took the brunt of the blast at its trunk base. It lifted straight up over a foot, toppled down and slid a feet few before it lodged against another tree.
“We can’t be wasting these, Paco!” said Migio. “We have been ordered to use only what we must.”
“And that is what we did.” Paco shrugged. “We had to make sure he was dead, sí?”
“Sí, and he is dead—that much is certain,” said Paco, turning and putting his sombrero back on. “Come—we must help with the wagons.” The two walked away toward the place on the hillside where their horses stood hitched to a creosote bush.
PART 4
Chapter 19
Madden Corio, Bert Jordan and three Mexicans sat atop a cliff overlooking the canyon floor. On the trail below lay the bodies of men and horses strewn about as though dropped from some high summit. The five wagons moved forward now, their dead and wounded horses replaced by mules the rebel forces had brought along, knowing that the fresh animals would be needed.
Four of the wagons were now driven by rebels. The fifth wagon still held the mounted Gatling gun, Lindsey and Boxer Shagin still in control of it.
“Well, General Bocanero,” said Corio to the tallest of the three Mexicans sitting atop horses beside him, “that’s how to take an arms shipment, the quick and easy way.”
Sepio Bocanero gave a hand gesture, and one of the other two Mexicans stepped his horse forward and hefted a heavy saddlebag off his shoulder and into Jordan’s waiting hands. When Jordan had spread the saddlebags over his cantle and flipped open each flap and looked at the gold coins, he gave Corio a nod of approval.
The third Mexican nudged his horse forward and hefted a saddlebag to Jordan, who smiled and checked it in the same manner as the first.
Looking at Corio, Sepio Bocanero said in good border English, “I must admit, you have surprised me, Corio. I hope we will do much business together in the future.”
“I see nothing stopping us,” said Corio. “We are both serious men with the same purpose in mind.”
“Purpose . . . ?” Bocanero gave a slight grin and said in a mock rehearsed voice, “My purpose is to rule my beautiful Mejico with a fair hand, so all of her people will know justice and freedom.”
Corio returned the grin. “Yeah, that’s exactly what I meant,” he replied knowingly. He gestured a nod toward Jordan, who had lifted a handful of gold coins from the second saddlebag and let them spill from his fingertips.
Both the Mexicans and the outlaws gave a laugh. Then Bocanero turned serious and asked Corio bluntly, “When will we get the other big gun, and the French hand bombs?”
“Tonight,” said Corio, staring levelly at the Mexican rebel leader. “I’m leaving the brothers here to guard our back trail. Anybody comes trailing us before sun-down is going to have to get through Lindsey and Boxer Shagin. Sometime after dark, they’re going to just up and slip away, leave the wagon, the Gatling and the grenades for your men to take over. Sound fair enough?”
“Fair enough.” Bocanero nodded. “I will personally ride back with a detachment myself after dark.” He looked closely at Corio. “Soon we will know one another better and such caution can be put aside, eh?”
“I’m certain of it, General,” said Corio, knowing full well that he would never trust this man, not after a hundred years of dealing with him.
Bocanero nodded over toward Tuesday Bonhart, who lay half conscious, her hands tied in front of her, blood running from a welt on her forehead. “What about this one?” he asked. “My men would like nothing better than a fine young woman at the end of this hard day’s work.”
“She’s not part of the deal, General,” said Corio. He grinned. “She’s already been spoken for.” He jerked a thumb toward Jordan. “My segundo here has a sweet tooth for her. Besides, she’s not looking any too spry. I’m not sure the girl will make it through a night of hard celebration.”
Bocanero eyed the woman closely. Tuesday’s blouse had been ripped half off her, revealing most of her large firm breasts. “It is a pity,” said Bocanero. “Perhaps next time you will bring along a young puta for my men as well.”
“I’ll ask if she’s got a sister.” Corio touched his hat brim and backed his horse. “Watch out for those damn border lawmen, mi amigo,” he warned. “They’re getting more brazen all the time.”
“Always, we watch for them,” said Bocanero. “But we watch, hoping we will m
eet up with them, so we can make them bleed.” He and his men turned their horses and rode away on a narrow trail, keeping a watchful eye on the wagons rolling along below.
As soon as they were gone, Corio let out a breath, stepped down from his saddle and walked over to Tuesday lying on the rocky ground. “Wake up, little darling,” he said in a cutting tone. He reached down, grabbed her roughly by the short rope tied between her wrists and pulled her to her feet. She stood, wobbly and weak. “It looks like you’ve got a hard ride coming tonight.”
“In more ways than one,” said Jordan, who sat staring at the exposed white flesh with a dark gleam in his eyes.
Corio lifted the helpless woman like a sack of grain and tossed her up behind his saddle. “You are one lucky whore,” he said to her, not knowing whether or not she could even hear him speaking. “Everybody died down there but you.”
With Tuesday sitting limply in the saddle, Corio laid the reins up onto the saddle horn with his hand and started to step up into the saddle. But suddenly as if driven by a bolt of lightning, Tuesday let out a bloodcurdling scream and kicked Corio sharply in his chin.
“Jesus!” shouted Jordan, his lap bogged down by the dual sets of heavily laden saddlebags. It took him two tries to grab the gun on his hip and raise it from the holster without losing his hold on the gold. By the time he’d brought the gun up, Tuesday was hightailing it out along a thin game path into the rocky hillside.
“She’s stolen my horse. Kill her!” shouted Corio, coming up onto his knees, blood running from the deep cut on his chin. He raised his Colt and fired. Tuesday stiffened in the saddle just as she rounded a turn out of sight.
“Damn,” said Jordan, “she’s getting away.”
“I got her,” said Corio. “I saw it hit her.” Rubbing his bloody chin, he barked at Jordan angrily, “Why didn’t you shoot her while you had the chance?”
“I tried to, Madden!” said Jordan. “Look at me, I’m covered with saddlebags! By the time I got my gun up to fire, she was gone.” He wagged the Colt in his hand. “I couldn’t just turn loose of all this gold, now, could I?”
Corio settled down and let out a tight breath. “No, I suppose you couldn’t.” He looked along the trail, then said, “Throw the saddlebags down here and go get her.”
“Huh?” Jordan looked down at him as if wondering whether or not he meant it.
“Damn it, go on,” said Corio, “before those Mexican’s grab her up.” He stepped backward behind Jordan, giving him a clear trail. “A little bullet hole won’t slow down our party much, ’less she dies underneath us.”
Jordan grinned. “I hear you.” He hurriedly hefted the saddlebags off his saddle and let them drop to the dirt with a heavy thud. He started to nail his boots to his horse’s sides, but before he could, a bullet from Corio’s Colt sliced through him from behind and exploded out of his chest in a gout of blood. Jordan looked down at his shattered chest in wide-eyed disbelief, then melted down his horse’s side like a man made of soft candle-wax.
“I saw what you did, you sonsabitch,” Corio said down to Jordan, who lay gasping on the ground. He cocked the Colt again and pointed it down at Jordan’s head. “Choose a piece of hot-tail over me? Now look at you.”
“Madden, please . . . we’re friends,” Jordan rasped, staring up into the Colt’s open bore, a sliver of gray smoke still curling from it.
“Adios, then, friend . . . ,” said Corio. The Colt bucked in his hand; a blast of fire exploded from the barrel. Bert Jordan sank to the dirt, silent as stone.
Higher up along the narrow meandering trail, Tuesday shook her head as if to clear it and tried to ignore the pain and the nausea that tried to overtake her. She had felt the bullet slam into her back moments ago, but she hadn’t slowed down. She had stiffened for a second from the impact of the slug, but then she’d lain forward and ridden on, reckless and fast, along the twisting rock trail.
Her life was ending too soon, she thought, feeling the stream of blood run down the center of her back. For a moment it had looked as if she would make it to Paris with gold to spare. Now, within an amazingly short time, it had all ended. She would die soon, and the most she had managed to do in life was to become a two-dollar line whore in a frontier saloon.
Who said she was dying . . . ?
She shook off the numbness and forced herself upright in the saddle and fought against the sensation of falling down some deep dark hole. She had no idea where she was heading or what she would do next. But she wasn’t giving up, not yet. There was something holding her here, she was convinced of it.
As the horse rounded a turn in the trail, instead of straightening out, the animal veered far right to avoid the upturned earth and rock left by the grenade explosion. To keep from falling from the saddle, Tuesday jerked back on the reins and shouted, “Whoa, horse!” until the animal slid to a stop and reared slightly.
As the horse settled with a jolt that Tuesday felt deep in her wounded back, she heard Shaw’s voice call out from down the steep hillside, “Tuesday? Is that you up there?”
“Fast Larry?” she said, recognizing his voice even with an echo surrounding it. “Where are you?”
Shaw had pulled himself upward along the downed pine tree that the second grenade had lifted from its roots. As he’d climbed he’d pulled the barb along by its reins until he and the animal had reached a sharp drop thirty feet below the trail’s edge. “Down here, Tuesday, me and my barb. Can you give us a hand?”
Tuesday shook off the dizziness caused by a loss of blood. “Yes, what do you need?”
“I need a rope . . . some way to help me and the barb up over these rocks.”
Tuesday looked at the coiled rope hanging from Corio’s saddle. “I’ve got one,” she called out. Then she had to stop for a moment until a wave of dizziness went away. “What—what do you want me to do?” She slid down from the saddle, coil of rope in hand, and staggered to the edge of the trail.
Shaw peered up at her, the barb standing beside him on steep treacherous ground. “Tie the end of it to your saddle horn and pitch the rest of it down to me,” he said. He saw her sway and almost fall. “Are you all right? I heard shooting back there.”
“I’m . . . all right—just a little back wound,” Tuesday forced herself to say. She turned and tied the end of the rope around the saddle horn.
A little back wound . . . ? Shaw listened and waited, hoping she was able to do what he needed her to do. If not he would have to shoot the barb rather than leave it down here to die; he would have to take his chances on climbing the rest of the way up without losing his grip and tumbling back down the hillside.
When Tuesday came back, further weakened by loss of blood, she staggered again before she pitched the rope out and watched it fall almost into Shaw’s gloved hand.
“Good throw, Tuesday,” Shaw said. He hurriedly looped the end of the rope around the barb’s neck and tied it, knowing the wounded woman might lose consciousness any moment. “All right, get in the saddle and ride your horse away real slow and steady. Help me to get this scared horse moving up with me.”
Tuesday didn’t answer; she needed to save her strength. She struggled up into the saddle and nudged the horse forward, but not as slow and steady as Shaw would have liked. Instead, she let the horse beneath her move away at its normal walk, tugging hard against the weight on the other end of the taught rope.
“Good Lord, Tuesday, wait,” said Shaw, both him and the barb having to scramble up over the edge of the deep drop-off back onto the steep hillside. But Tuesday had slumped forward onto the horse’s neck. The horse trudged on relentlessly.
“Come on, boy, or else she’s going to hang you!” Shaw shouted at the barb, slapping its rump hard with the barrel of his Colt until it finally dug its way up over the edge of the trail and shook itself as it continued walking along behind the other horse.
Shaw hurried ahead of the barb, grabbed the horse’s reins from Tuesday’s hand and stopped the animal in its tracks. P
ulling Tuesday down from the saddle, he carried her over to a flat spot alongside the trail. In the commotion she awakened some and looked dreamily at him.
“You made it, Fast Larry . . . ,” she managed to say weakly.
“Only because of you, Tuesday,” Shaw said. He pulled off the torn remnants of her blood-soaked blouse and tore two long strips from it. He wadded the rest of the cloth and held it ready as he examined the bullet hole near the center of her back. Blood ran freely out and over his hand as he pressed his fingers down on the flesh surrounding the wound to see if the pressure slowed the bleeding. It did, but only a little. Yet feeling the hard knot of the bullet lying wedged in between her ribs made him breathe easier. The bullet itself wasn’t life-threatening.
“How . . . is your horse?” Tuesday said sleepily.
“He’s good,” said Shaw, pushing the wadded-up cloth down onto the wound and holding it in place. “Keep talking to me, Tuesday,” he said, patting her firmly on her cold cheek. “I want you to stay awake.”
“I—I don’t think I can . . . ,” she said in her weakening voice.
“Come on, you’ve got to,” said Shaw. “Stay alive,” he demanded. “Be the toughest little whore you know how to be.”
Tuesday turned her head and smiled up at him weakly. “You say the . . . nicest things, Fast Larry . . . ,” she whispered.
“I know,” said Shaw, “it’s my nature.” He quickly looped the torn strips of cloth around her and tied them tight into place across the wadded-up blouse. “Don’t die on me, Tuesday. I’ve got all this gold I managed to steal from Corio . . . you’ve got to stay alive and help me spend it,” he said, lying to her to keep her attention.
Her eyes opened as she considered his words. Even in her weakened state, she managed to say, “Fast Larry . . . I love you . . . so much.”
Chapter 20