Gun Country

by Ralph Cotton

  Having left Cedrianno, riding along the high trail in the gun wagon, Shaw heard the gunfire coming from the direction of Nozzito, on the valley floor. By the time he’d reached a spot where he could look out over the valley, the firing had stopped, and three riders had raced across the flatlands and up onto the high trail leading toward him. All that remained was a drifting rise of trail dust.

  As Shaw turned away from looking down onto the valley, he saw Tuesday Bonhart riding toward him all alone, her horse at a slow walk. “Fast Larry, are you all right?” she called out to him. She nudged her horse forward with a pained look on her face.

  “I’m all right,” Shaw called out in reply. “Wait right there for me.” He hurried the wagon horses forward with a jiggle of the traces in his hand, and stopped only a few feet from where Tuesday sat slumped in her saddle, her head slightly bowed. “The question is, are you doing all right?” he asked.

  “Yes, I’m all right,” Tuesday said, “just a little tired is all. This saddle is killing my back.”

  “Here,” said Shaw, “this will help some.” He stood up, reached out to her and helped her over into the wagon seat beside him. “Where’s Jane and Raidy?” he asked. He took her horse’s reins, stepped over the wagon seat and walked back and hitched the animal beside his speckled barb.

  “They left . . . together,” Tuesday said in a tired voice, giving Shaw a look as he came back and sat down beside her in the wagon seat.

  “You mean . . . ?” He let his words trail.

  “I don’t mean anything,” she said. “Who am I to judge Jane Crowley or anybody else?” She gave a tired smile. “I’m a whore, remember? I used to be anyway,” she added.

  “Maybe it’s time you quit calling yourself that,” Shaw said, “since you say you’re not going to do it anymore.” He put the wagon horses forward on the trail.

  “Yeah,” she said, “maybe it is time I stopped calling myself a whore.” She paused, then weighed her words and asked, “If I could tell you who shot you in the head, would you want to know?”

  Shaw considered it. Finally he said, “No, not if it was somebody close to me.”

  Tuesday knew he meant if it was Jane Crowley, he didn’t want to know. “Why is that?” she asked.

  “Because if it was somebody close to me, I don’t want to go around reminding myself of it all the time,” he said.

  “I suppose I understand,” said Tuesday.

  “Besides,” said Shaw, deflecting away any thought of who might have shot him, “I could have shot myself for all I know.” He shook his head slowly. “That’s how wild-eyed drunk I was at the time.”

  “You could have shot yourself . . . ?” Tuesday asked in a dubious tone. “You don’t think about doing something like that, do you?”

  “No,” Shaw said, “not anymore. But I admit I used to think about it some . . . a few years back.” He took a deep breath and let it out. “But I’m past all that now.”

  “Good,” Tuesday said, sounding relieved. She ran her arm through his and snuggled against him. “I’m glad to hear that.”

  They rode on.

  At a spot where the trail turned sharply downward toward the valley and on toward Nozzito, Shaw listened to the sound of horses’ hooves drawing closer toward them. He stopped the wagon, untwined his arm from Tuesday’s and said in a calm voice, “I want you to do me a favor.”

  “Sure, Fast Larry,” Tuesday said, seeing his demeanor take a solemn turn.

  “I want you to take both horses and walk them over off the trail, get them and yourself out of sight, just in case,” Shaw said.

  “Just in case . . . ?” She stepped down and stood on the trail looking at him, hearing the hooves herself, now that they’d gotten closer. “Are you going to be all right? Should I stay and maybe help?”

  Shaw shook his head. “No, Tuesday. Please just do like I asked you. . . .”

  Chapter 25

  Madden Corio and the Jordan brothers, Grayson and Tolan, raced upward along the rocky trail, looking back over their shoulders toward Nozzito. When they came upon the gun wagon sitting sidelong, blocking the narrow trail in front of them, the three had to slide their horses to a halt in order to stop before running into it. “Shaw! You lawdog!” Corio shouted in surprise, being the first to see the single figure step around from behind the wagon.

  “Hello, Corio.” Shaw stood with his feet planted shoulder-width apart. “Surprised to see me?” He wore his battered stovepipe hat at a jaunty angle atop his head, revealing the side of his dirty head bandage. He had pulled back the right lapel of his swallow-tailed coat and hooked it behind the holster of his big Colt.

  “What are you doing here alive, Shaw?” said Corio. “I thought Sepio Bocanero’s men blew you up.”

  “It wasn’t because they didn’t try,” Shaw said. “But I got through it.” He motioned toward the Gatling gun. “As you can see, I even came out with a souvenir.”

  “So that was you doing the shooting we heard earlier over at Cedrianno?” Corio said, already trying to think of how to get his hands on the Gatling gun and be ready for the lawmen when they arrived.

  “That was me,” said Shaw.

  “So I guess I shouldn’t plan on meeting my men any time soon?”

  “That all depends on where you look, Corio,” Shaw said.

  Catching Shaw’s threat, Corio said, “You should have been smarter than to try riding in and taking over Lowe’s gang. What was your plan anyway, to take the stolen gun wagons to your lawdog friends?”

  “To tell you the truth, Corio,” Shaw said, “my head bothered me so bad, I must not have been thinking straight. I should have realized you’d double-cross anybody who got near you.” He let his glance cut across the Jordan brothers, then back to Corio. “Is that what got Bert Jordan killed?”

  From atop their horses, the Jordan brothers sat watching, listening. “What did you say?” Grayson said to Shaw with a hard stare. “Bert Jordan was our kid brother. Corio said you killed him.”

  “I recognized both of you,” Shaw said, “that’s why I said it. The truth is, Corio killed your brother. He killed him because he needed a horse, after his bay got stolen out from under him, by Lowe’s woman.”

  “He’s a damn liar!” said Corio. “Lowe’s young whore didn’t steel my bay. No damn whore ever could!”

  “Then where is your bay?” Tolan asked.

  “I told you,” said Corio, “I’m riding Bert’s horse, just to keep Bert in my memor—”

  “Yeah, we heard all that,” said Tolan, cutting him off. “But where’s your bay? I’ve never seen you without that bay horse somewhere close by.”

  “Yeah,” said Grayson, “so where is it?”

  “Here it is,” said Tuesday, stepping out onto the trail, the bay right beside her.

  Shaw shook his head; he should’ve known she couldn’t stay out of it.

  “Remember? I rode off on it before you could feed me to your gunmen?” She posed her words as questions, as if to jog his memory. “You shot me in the back when I made my getaway?” She turned to Grayson Jordan and said, “Hello, Grayson.”

  “Howdy, Tuesday,” said the big gunman. “I had no idea you were Dexter Lowe’s gal.”

  “I wasn’t for long,” she said. “I had no idea you were Bert Jordan’s brother.” She nodded at Corio. “I saw his body when we rode back past him on the trail. He was shot in the back, left lying on the ground. His horse was gone.” Pointing a finger toward the horse Corio sat upon, she added, “That horse.” She let the thought of Bert dying in the dirt fester in the Jordan brothers’ minds.

  “She’s a dirty lying whore!” said Corio.

  “I know Tuesday,” said Grayson. “She might be a whore, but she’s no liar.”

  Tolan put in, “When we finish killing this lawdog, we’re going to cut your heart out and show it to you.” He turned a burning stare to Shaw. “All right, gunman, fill your hand—”

  Before his words even left his mouth, Shaw’s Colt str
eaked up in a blur of glinting gunmetal. Tolan fell dead from his saddle as Shaw’s first shot exploded. Almost as one, the second shot streaked in a blaze of blue-white fire, and Grayson flipped backward over his horse’s rump and landed close to his brother.

  As the two shots resounded out across the hillsides, Shaw stalled for a moment, his Colt poised and cocked, waiting to see what Tuesday was going to do. He didn’t have to wait long.

  Corio had swung his gun toward the woman. But Tuesday didn’t flinch. The derringer came up, arm’s length, as if from out of nowhere.

  From twenty feet away the shot made a sharp pop as it fired, and Corio appeared to melt in his saddle. He had managed to draw his gun, but now it dropped, and so did his shoulders. He slumped in his saddle and wobbled back and forth, a strange babbling sound coming from his lips. His horse turned enough for Shaw to see the red gaping hole where his right eye had been. He saw a wide trickle of blood run down Corio’s cheek like some sort of terrible teardrop.

  Shaw found himself staring, impressed, as Tuesday walked forward, looked up at Corio, then stepped aside as he toppled from his saddle and landed in the dirt at her feet. “Good shot,” was all Shaw could think of to say.

  “I’m sorry I butted in on things, Fast Larry,” Tuesday said. “But this pig shot me. I couldn’t let somebody else kill him for me.” She reached out with her foot and rolled Corio’s face back and forth to make sure he was dead. “I hope you’re not angry with me.” The derringer seemed to disappear out of sight almost as quickly as she had pulled it.

  Shaw shook his head. “No, I’m not,” he said. He paused, then said, “So you knew Grayson Jordan too?”

  Tuesday thought she caught a tone in Shaw’s voice. “I know lots of men, Fast Larry. Is that going to cause us trouble?”

  “No,” Shaw said, “we both know what trails brought us here.” He gave her a thin smile. “You’ve had your pick of men. . . . I’m honored that you’d have me, Tuesday.”

  Tuesday returned his smile. Her eyes took on a surprised look of excitement. “Does this mean we’re together, Fast Larry?” Before he could even answer, she rushed into his arms in spite of her back wound, and she hugged him tight around his neck, in spite of his head wound.

  Dawson and Caldwell, already in hot pursuit of Corio and the Jordans, had heard the sound of gunfire and raced ahead, their guns drawn and ready. But instead of finding trouble awaiting them, they topped a rise in the trail and saw Shaw and Tuesday Bonhart standing in an embrace amid the three bodies on the ground.

  “Well . . . isn’t this sweet?” Caldwell said to Dawson in a flat tone, slipping his Colt back down into its holster.

  Dawson holstered his Colt as well and replied, “One thing you can say about riding with Shaw, there’s a surprise around every turn.”

  Seeing the lawmen approach, Shaw and Tuesday turned, facing them on the trail, each with an arm around the other. When Dawson and Caldwell halted their horses, Shaw said, “I heard the shooting in Nozzito and figured you might stir something my way.” He gestured toward the bloody bodies of the Jordan brothers and Madden Corio lying in the dirt.

  “Obliged,” said Dawson with a touch of his fingers to his hat brim. “How’d it go in Cedrianno?”

  “They’re all dead.” Shaw gave a shrug and nodded toward the Gatling gun. “If I was going to stay in this business, I’d have to get myself one of those. This is perfect country for a gun like that.”

  “What do you mean if you were going to stay in this business?” Dawson asked. “Don’t tell me you’re thinking about quitting?”

  Shaw gave a tired grin. “Not anymore, I’m not,” he said. “I’m all through thinking about it. Now I’ve done it.”

  “What are you going to do?” Caldwell asked. He and Dawson watched Shaw walk to the wagon, reach over, lift the Gatling gun from the bed and drop it to the ground. Tuesday walked over, led both their horses back to the wagon and hitched them to the tailgate.

  “Whatever we want to do,” Tuesday said, smiling at the two lawmen as Shaw helped her up onto the wagon seat and climbed up beside her.

  “Is that what you say, Shaw?” Dawson asked.

  “Yep, it is,” Shaw replied. He took a battered badge from his pocket and held it up toward Dawson. “Here, you might need this when you find a replacement.”

  “There’s nobody can replace you, Shaw,” said Dawson, shaking his head. “I’m not accepting your badge.”

  “Either take it or I’ll throw it in the dirt,” Shaw replied.

  “Suit yourself,” said Dawson. “I’m not taking it back.” He folded his wrists stubbornly across his saddle horn. “You might change your mind someday. What else are you going to do?”

  “I told you, Marshal,” Tuesday cut in, “whatever we want to do . . . the first thing we think of every day when we open our eyes.” She hugged closer to Shaw. “Isn’t that right, Fast Larry?”

  “That’s right,” Shaw said, with a slight tip of his tall battered stovepipe hat. “I couldn’t have said it better myself.”

  “I think you might still be a little out of your head, Shaw,” Dawson said, sincerely.

  “I might be. . . . I probably am,” Shaw said, seeming to consider it. “But this feels right.” He patted Tuesday’s hand lying on his knee. “Sometimes, feeling right is all you get.”

  Dawson nodded; suddenly he understood.

  Shaw smiled down at him as he put the wagon forward. “Adios, mi amigos.”

  It was the first genuine pleasant smile Dawson had seen on his friend Lawrence Shaw’s face for a long time—too long to remember, he told himself.

  “Can you at least tell us where you’re headed?” Dawson called out as the wagon rolled away.

  Shaw looked back over his shoulder; Tuesday turned with him, her head resting over onto his shoulder. “For starters we’re headed to France,” Shaw said. “We’re going to Paris, to visit the Roman Coliseum . . . to walk along the Great Wall.”

  Dawson chuckled under his breath. He nodded, and called out, “Good luck.”

  “What do you think of that?” said Caldwell, watching the wagon roll away.

  “I think it’s good,” said Dawson. “He needs a rest after taking a bad wound like that.”

  “A rest, yes,” said Caldwell, “but you heard him. He’s quit us.”

  “Quit us? No, I don’t think so,” Dawson said. “Notice he didn’t throw his badge away?”

  “Yes, sure, I noticed, but I don’t think it meant anything,” said Caldwell. “Do you suppose his head is still foggy? Maybe it’s like you said, he’s not thinking straight just yet?”

  “Yep,” said Dawson. “It’s hard for him or us, either one, to detect, but you heard the doctor. A head wound like this can affect a man’s thinking for the rest of his life.”

  “So . . .” Caldwell considered it for a moment. “You think he’ll be back?”

  “He’ll be back,” Dawson said confidently, gazing off toward the wagon as it rolled over the rise in the trail and sank out of sight.

  “What makes you say so?” Caldwell asked.

  Dawson looked down at the Gatling gun lying in the dirt. He looked all around at the rough, rugged terrain of the Mexican badlands, then back down at the big gun. Sunlight glinted along its dark iron barrels. “He’ll be back. This is his kind of country. He can’t stay away from it.”

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  FIGHTING MEN

  Coming from Signet in May 2010

  Arizona Territory

  Sherman Dahl looked down from atop the high trail at the small cabin standing perched on a rocky turn twenty yards above the braided waters of Panther Creek. He’d observed the cabin and its occupants for the past few minutes, hearing the harsh talk and laughter of drinking men, and a woman’s worried voice rising from within the midst of it.

  Dahl had already slipped his rifle from its saddle boot and laid it across his
lap. But when he heard the woman’s voice turn into a plea, followed by a short scream that ended with a resounding slap, he cocked the rifle’s hammer and nudged his big chestnut bay forward on a downward winding path through a tangle of bracken and scrub cedar.

  “You dirty sons of bitches!” Dahl heard the woman cry out as the cabin door burst open. “I hope you all rot in hell!”

  Dahl stopped his horse again and sat still as stone, watching the woman run staggering from the rickety front porch down to the creek’s edge, naked, holding a flimsy wadded-up blouse to the middle of her chest. From the open door, he watched Arliss Sattler step out onto the porch, bare chested, a bottle of rye hanging from his fingertips.

  “That’s right, whore—you wash yourself up some and get back in here,” Sattler called out to the woman. “The night ain’t even started yet.” He laughed heartily; a gold Mexican half-moon ear ornament jiggled on his earlobe.

  Dahl stepped the big chestnut bay sideways enough to conceal both the animal and himself from clear view. Yet, even as he did so, quietly, he saw Sattler’s face turn up toward him and move back and forth slowly along the shadowy evening trail.

  From inside the cabin a drunken gunman named Pete Duvall called out, “Don’t let her get away, Arliss. I ain’t had my turn at her.”

  “Don’t worry, Pete. She can’t get away from here until we let her go,” said Sattler as he continued to scan the trail in the grainy evening light.

  “What are you looking at up there, Arliss?” asked a gunman named Lou Jecker.

  “Nothing to concern you, Lou,” said Sattler. “I’m just looking, is all.” He spat, ran his hand across his mouth and finally turned his eyes away from the trail where Dahl sat watching, having eased his Winchester stock up against his shoulder in case Sattler spotted him.

  “Hell,” said Duvall to Jecker, “pay Arliss no mind. He’s been edgy as a damn cat ever since we turned Birksdale on its ear and that rancher’s little gal got shot.” He eyed Sattler as the bare-chested gunman turned away from them to watch the woman splash cold water all over her and dry herself on the wadded-up blouse. “I think Curly Joe needs to come up with some jobs that require less killing. I’m of a notation that Arliss here doesn’t like dirtying his hands with it.”