Gun Country

by Ralph Cotton

  Bullets began flying past him as the grenade arced downward. Before it hit the ground, Shaw ducked down onto the wagon bed and covered his head, tall hat and all, with both forearms. He felt the impact of the blast lift the wagon and drop it with a bone-jarring thump. Heat, dirt, iron fragments and chips of broken rock streaked past him. But no sooner had the blast resounded and debris peppered down on his back than he jumped over behind the Gatling gun and brought it into play.

  Watkins, Little and Stemms had all three dived to the ground when they saw the grenade sailing down amid them. But Ford had made a run for it and dived behind the cover of a water trough. As the other three gunmen staggered to their feet, coughing and fanning thick dust in order to get a shot at Shaw on the gun wagon, Ford sprang to his feet and ran around a corner to the livery barn.

  “Rush this son of a bitch!” shouted Watkins, not thinking clearly, owing to both the impact of the blast and the long night of cocaine use.

  “Kill . . . him,” Little called out, choking, coughing and squinting through the dust toward the gun wagon.

  Watkins started to yell something, but his words went unheard as the Gatling gun began its loud, deadly chatter.

  Shaw saw no clear targets, just dim images through the heavy dust as he swung the gun back and forth. As he made the first pass across the swirl of shouting voices and exploding gunshots, he felt the air around him fill with bullets. But on the backswing of the gun, the shouting turned to screams of pain. The gunfire turned silent as death set in and descended onto the dirt street.

  Shaw stood up and stared into the settling dust, his hand poised near the Colt on his hip, the Gatling gun staring straight ahead now, a stream of gray smoke curling up from its hot barrels. To his right and left, Cedrianno lay as quiet and deserted as a ghost town. But the quiet only lasted for a moment. Around a corner he heard the pounding of hooves and an old man crying out in a plea for mercy.

  As Shaw jumped down from the wagon bed and started walking through the settling dust, Matthew Ford came charging at him from around the corner atop a leggy roan he’d run in and stolen from the livery barn owner at gunpoint.

  “Senor! Please! My horse! Do not kill my horse!” the liveryman cried out to Shaw, running around the corner shortly behind Ford as the young gunman straightened the roan on the street and made a bold charge.

  “I’ll kill you, you son of a bitch!” Ford screamed in rage as he rode down on Shaw, his pistol blazing. Two bullets streaked past Shaw and thumped into the side of the gun wagon.

  “No, Senor, please! My horse!” the old liveryman shouted again at Shaw. But then he dove out of the way as Shaw raised his Colt at arm’s length.

  “No problem . . . ,” Shaw said. His Colt bucked once in his hand. The shot hit Matthew Ford in the center of his forehead and sent him flying backward from his saddle in a spray of blood, brain and bone matter. Shaw watched him hit the ground and noted that the pain he’d felt for so long in his head wound had not bothered him throughout the gun battle. The realization caused him to breathe a sigh of relief.

  Shaw lowered the Colt and watched the roan let down from a hard run into a trot, then circle and slow to a walk. Finally the horse came to stop when the old liveryman ran up to it tearfully, grabbed it reins and threw his arms around its neck. “Oh, Senor! Gracious, gracious, gracious,” he repeated over and over to Shaw. The horse only chuffed and scraped a hoof and shook out its mane.

  Shaw looked at the Colt in his hand and touched his fingertips to the dirty head bandage beneath the brim of the tall stovepipe hat. His mind was clear, his hand steady; his head not hurting. Good . . . , he thought to himself. Must be getting better. . . .

  Another elderly Mexican came venturing out ahead of a gathering of townsfolk. He swept a hand around at the dead on the street, and at the five-foot-wide crater the hand grenade had left in the dirt. “Senor, look at our beautiful Cedrianno. How will it ever look the same again?”

  Before the man could go any further, Shaw gestured a nod toward the dead in the street. “Go through their pockets. There’s enough gold to pay for the damages.”

  “Ah, that is good, Senor,” said the old man with a smile. “And their horses too, of course? To help pay for any damage we do not yet see?”

  Shaw looked over, a block away, where he had hitched their horses next to his own speckled barb that he’d led to town behind the gun wagon. “Their horses are yours too,” said Shaw, “except for the barb on the end. That one belongs to me.”

  At first light Dawson and Shaw pulled their horses up at a turn in the trail looking down across a wide valley. A few feet in front of them, Jane sat atop her horse, Raidy Bowe seated on her horse beside her. Behind the four of them, Tuesday rode along, keeping her horse at a slower gait. Jane looked back, saw Tuesday and said to Dawson and Caldwell, “It looks like Shaw’s whore is having a hard time keeping up after all.”

  The two lawmen ignored her remark. Dawson said quietly to Caldwell, “You and I need to go on alone from here. Nozzito is only four miles farther, down across the valley. If Corio is still there, I don’t want him spooking on us, and get any farther away.”

  An hour earlier they’d heard an explosion and gunfire echoing in the distance, from the direction of Cedrianno. If they had heard it, they knew there was a good chance Corio had heard it too. “I got you,” said Caldwell, already drawing his rifle and laying it across his lap.

  Seeing what was going on, Jane stepped her horse closer to Dawson and said, “What? You’re going to trust me alone with Tuesday Bonhart?” She looked toward Tuesday with a dark scowl, then back at Dawson. “Ain’t you afraid I’ll tear her heart out and take a bite out of it, soon as you’re gone?”

  Tuesday heard her and drew her horse up a few yards back and said to Dawson, “Don’t worry about me, Marshal. I’ve managed to take care of myself in some of the toughest houses west of the Mississippi. Big talk doesn’t scare me any.” Inside the big wrinkled shirt Shaw had put on her, she’d hidden her derringer within easy reach. She sat calmly returning Jane’s harsh stare.

  “I don’t know how Shaw stands it,” Dawson said sidelong to Caldwell, “but I’m all for leaving this mess, letting him sort it out to suit himself.”

  “I’m with you,” said Caldwell. “But I don’t want to see a wounded woman get sat upon by Jane Crowley. She can get mean, especially if it’s over some gun-slinger she’s been moony-eyed over.”

  “What did I hear you say, Undertaker?” Jane asked. “Don’t be bashful. If you’ve something to say about me, say it to my face.”

  “Yep, it’s time to go,” said Dawson. He said to Jane and the other two women, “We’re riding into Nozzito. I’m hoping the three of you can stay away from one another until Shaw gets here.” He turned his horse and nudged it out along the trail, before any of the women offered any more comment.

  Jane and the other two women sat watching until the two lawmen had ridden out of sight. Jane grinned to herself and nudged her horse over closer to Tuesday Bonhart. “Now here we are, all alone,” she said.

  “Yes, we are,” said Tuesday, cool and confident, not giving an inch in spite of her wound.

  “Don’t fight her, Jane,” said Raidy, talking fast, hoping to stop a bloodletting from erupting between the two women. “Shaw is not worth fighting over. He didn’t deserve you anyway. He wasn’t faithful. I know because he went to bed with me! Tuesday didn’t take Shaw from you. He didn’t even know her then!”

  Jane stopped her horse a few feet from Tuesday with a jolt of realization on her face. Slowly, she turned in the saddle to look at Raidy. “What did you say?”

  “I said, Shaw didn’t even know her—”

  “No,” said Jane, “what did you say before that?” She turned her horse quarterwise away from Tuesday, toward Raidy Bowe. “Did you say you went to bed with Shaw? While him and I were still together? You slept with him . . . then you shot him . . . because you wanted me?”

  “Yes,” said Raidy, “I know it
was foolish. But I did it . . . and I’m sorry. Please forgive me. If I had not confessed to it, you would never have known.”

  “So, confessing it makes it all right?” Jane asked. She shook her head in contemplation.

  Listening, Tuesday let her gun hand relax in her lap, still close to the derringer but sensing no need for it now.

  Jane looked at Tuesday at length and said, “Don’t worry, I’m not going to beat the hell out of you.”

  “Do I look worried?” Tuesday said coolly.

  Jane ignored her words and continued, saying, “You’re lucky I don’t give a damn about Shaw anymore. Otherwise we’d be hooked together tooth and nail ’til one of us bit the dirt.” She slumped in her saddle. After a moment of thought she said, “But ah, hell, we’re all the same out here. We have to claw for every damn thing we got here.” She turned her horse to the trail. “Come on, Raidy, let’s get going. I don’t want to have to see his ugly face.”

  “Oui, I’m coming,” Raidy said. She moved her horse in too close for comfort, and Jane stepped her mount away a foot. “Damn, give me room to ride, little darling,” Jane said. Over her shoulder she said to Tuesday, “You take good care of that gunslinging son of a bitch. . . . Somebody has to, I reckon.”

  Chapter 24

  In Nozzito, Madden Corio knew the first thing he had to do was face the Jordan brothers, Grayson and Tolan, and tell them their brother Bert was dead. He’d done so with his four gunmen drawn close around him, at a hitch rail out in front of the Perro Blanco Cantina. As he’d expected, their first response had been barely controlled rage. But after a few minutes the two calmed down a little.

  “Yes,” said Corio, “I’m riding Bert’s horse, sort of my way of keeping his memory alive.” He patted the sweaty horse’s head.

  “How’d Bert get it?” Grayson asked, studying Corio’s eyes closely. Corio stood with the reins to Bert Jordan’s horse still in hand. He’d been riding the dead gunman’s horse ever since he’d killed him, Tuesday Bonhart having stolen his bay and made her getaway on it. But that was something he didn’t want to mention here.

  Instead of answering, Corio turned to Max Skinner, with whom he’d already worked out a story. “You tell them what you saw, Max.”

  “It was Fast Larry Shaw who killed Bert,” Skinner said straight-faced. “I saw him do it. But I was too far away to get there and do anything about it. Luckily, some of Bocanero’s rebels made quick work of Shaw. I saw them blow the hell out of him with a French grenade.”

  But Shaw’s death brought the two little consolation. Grayson slammed his fist into his palm. “Damn it, I wish it was us who killed Shaw. I would have done it slow and painfully.”

  “Bert deserved better,” said Tolan, although he wasn’t sure what he meant by it. He narrowed his gaze and went on to ask Corio, “One question, Madden. What was Fast Larry Shaw doing riding with you and your men?”

  “It’s a long story,” said Corio. “He rode in with Lowe’s wagon drivers. Lowe took him in as a partner. Then Lowe and his young whore got in an argument and she killed Lowe, leaving Shaw in charge.” He shook his head and gave a look of regret. “I’ve got to take responsibility for it. I’m ashamed to say, if I hadn’t let Shaw in, poor Bert would still be alive.”

  Grayson and Tolan looked at each other as if coming to a decision whether or not to hold Corio to blame. Finally, Grayson said, “The way I look at it, Bert, you, me, all of us, we choose this life of ours. We know the risks. So long as Shaw is dead, I reckon we’ve got no axe to grind.”

  “Oh, he’s dead sure enough,” Corio said. “Max saw it happen. . . . I saw his mangled body afterwards. He barely looked human,” he said, throwing in a little more than he and Skinner had planned to.

  “Enough said,” Tolan declared. He motioned toward the cantina’s open door, giving Corio the lead. “Come on in. Let’s talk about what you’ve got lined up.”

  “The four of you keep an eye on the trails in and out of here,” Corio said to his men.

  “You got it, boss,” said Skinner, reaching out for the reins to Corio’s horse.

  Corio handed him the reins, gave him a look and said under his breath, “Have these three take turns attending to their horses, and getting themselves something to eat and drink.” He looked warily back along the street they’d ridden on; then he turned, stepped onto a low boardwalk and walked into the cantina.

  Skinner saw the way Hooks had turned a curious glance toward Corio. He waited until Corio was out of sight, then said, “Don’t let it bother you, Hooks. He gets a little overly cautious after a big job.”

  “Yeah?” said Hooks. “We’re not supposed to eat or drink, until it comes our turn? Hell, if I wanted to be treated like this, I’d have joined the army.”

  “Do like you’re told, Hooks,” said Skinner. “It’s my job to see to it things get done the way he wants them done. Don’t give me a hard time.”

  Hooks gave him a harsh stare but let the matter drop. He hitched his horse to the hitch rail beside Brule Kaggan’s and Harvey Lemate’s.

  “You’ll get used to it, Hooks,” said Kaggan. He and Lemate gave a short chuckle and walked to the side of the cantina and stood beneath a ragged canvas overhang out of the sun. Skinner walked inside, joining Corio and the Jordans.

  A half hour later, outside town, Dawson and Caldwell had ridden at a quick, steady pace down off the high trail and across the valley floor. When they’d reached the far edge of town, they swung around off the wide trail and slipped the rest of the way in on a narrow winding path that ran behind the buildings along the main street. At the corner of an alleyway, they stepped down from their saddles and carefully looked across the street at the five horses standing out in front of the cantina.

  “There they are, all five horses,” Caldwell said quietly.

  “Yep,” said Dawson, his Colt held up, his thumb resting over its hammer. “And there’s three of the riders standing out front,” he added. “Corio must be inside taking it easy, while these men watch his back trail.” He glanced both directions along the dirt street, making sure he saw no other gunmen standing around.

  “What do you say, Marshal?” Caldwell asked, sliding his rifle from its scabbard and levering a round into its chamber. He stared expectantly at Dawson.

  “Let’s take them,” Dawson replied.

  Across the street, Max Skinner walked out of the cantina carrying a tin plate piled high with goat meat and beans. In the same hand as his fork he carried a bottle of mescal. Chewing a mouthful of the greasy meat, he said to the others, “All right, now one of you go get yourself some grub and liquor.” He grinned with bulging jaws. “This ain’t working out so bad, is it?”

  Hooks straightened from against the adobe wall and flipped a cigarette butt away. He looked at Kaggan and Lamate, neither of whom made a move toward the cantina door. “I don’t have to be asked twice,” he said. But as he started to walk to the cantina door, a shot from Caldwell’s rifle lifted him off his feet and slammed him back against the wall where he’d been leaning.

  “Look out!” shouted Max Skinner, his plate of food flying from his hand, the bottle of mescal falling to the dirt.

  Another rifle shot exploded, clipping Lemate as he made a long dive for the cover of a water trough five yards away.

  Skinner got his Colt up and began returning fire as he ran for the front door of the cantina. But two shots from Dawson’s Colt hit him, spun him on the spot and sent him stumbling backward through the front door. A third shot pounded into his chest. He flew farther backward inside the cantina. His pistol exploded wildly into the ceiling.

  “Damn it to hell!” said Corio, seeing his right-hand man spread-eagle, dead on the floor. He ventured a look out and saw Dawson and Caldwell just as they moved forward and took new cover. “It’s them damn lawmen who’s been breaking up everything down here! They’ve got us trapped like rats here!”

  “No, they don’t,” said Grayson, above the sound of rapid gunfire out on the street
. “We hitched our horses out back just in case we needed them there.”

  “We even brought along a fresh horse for Bert,” said Tolan. “Looks like you’ll be needing it, though, instead of him.”

  “Hell then, what are we waiting for?” said Corio, running along with the two brothers in a crouch toward the rear door, his gun drawn and cocked.

  Out front, Lemate fired until his Colt was empty. In the dirt a few feet away, Kaggan had fallen dead. “Damn it,” Lemate cursed to himself, looking back at Kaggan’s bloody body. From the cover of the water trough, he’d heard the pounding of hooves behind the cantina and knew there would be no help coming his way from Corio or the Jordan brothers.

  “Skinner? Are you up?” he called out during a lull in the gunfire from the lawmen. But he heard no reply. He searched his gun belt for more bullets but found the belt empty. He let out a sigh of resignation. “To hell with this.”

  Dawson and Caldwell advanced on the cantina, guns smoking, looking all around for their next target. “Watch the water trough,” Dawson said under his breath as the two spread farther apart on the empty dirt street.

  No sooner had Dawson said the words than Lemate sprang up, his Colt at arm’s length, and let out a loud rebel yell. But as soon as his empty gun leveled toward them, both lawmen fired as one. Their shots lifted him and drove him backward against the adobe building beside the body of Robert Hooks. Lemate slid down, leaving a wide smear of blood behind him. His unloaded Colt fell from his fingertips. He lay staring straight ahead, his eyes wide-open, a dumb, bemused smile frozen forever on his face.

  “Curio’s getting away,” said Dawson to Caldwell, both of them seeing the rise of dust stretching out from the rear of the cantina. The two turned and ran for their horses.