Escape from Fire River

by Ralph Cotton

  “What about me?” Malina yelled, running along the dirt street, holding scraps of clothing to her naked breasts.

  “You too, darling,” said Burke. To Sergio he said, “Give her a ride until we get some extra horses.”

  Sergio nodded. He reached down and caught Malina by her arm and swung her up behind him.

  “Let’s ride!” Burke shouted. He sent his horse lunging forward, stirring dust behind him. The others followed, racing out of town single file, then spreading abreast onto the desert floor.

  Watching them ride away, the old German said, “May they all burn in hell.”

  In the glittering morning light the townsfolk watched Falina pull the shawl from around herself. She held it up and let it stream overhead behind her. She rode naked, staring back, laughing toward Suerte Buena until she disappeared into a rising swirl of dust.

  PART 2

  Chapter 9

  The Badlands Hills, Old Mexico

  Jedson Caldwell, aka the Undertaker, sat his horse atop a cliff, gazing out across the rolling desert below. With a brass-trimmed field lens to his eye, he watched a long line of dust move along behind a column of uniformed soldiers as they crossed the desert floor. Behind him the large freight wagon groaned to a halt, being driven by Juan Lupo, respectfully known along the Mexican side of the border as Juan Facil, or simply Easy John by his americano colleagues.

  No one knew exactly what Juan Lupo’s official title might be. Because he offered little on the subject of himself, most lawmen on both sides of the border considered him a spy, something Lupo himself neither confirmed nor denied. If pressed on the matter, he always gave the same short, crisp response, accompanied by a humble and courteous nod: “I serve at the behest of the emperor of Mexico under Generalissimo Manual Ortega.”

  Enough said . . . , thought U.S. Marshal Crayton Dawson,who rode alongside the big, heavily loaded wagon. Juan Lupo had proved himself, fighting his way across the border on the trail of robbers and killers, helping Dawson and Caldwell find the gold that had been stolen from the Mexican National Bank in Mexico City over a year earlier. Dawson had no fondness for either the Emperor of Mexico or Generalissimo Manual Ortega. But he had gained all the respect in the world for Juan Lupo, spy or no spy—with guarded circumstance, of course, he reminded himself.

  Dawson stopped his horse and stepped down from his saddle. Rifle in gloved hand, he led his horse forward the remaining few yards and stopped beside Caldwell’s mount.

  “Where is Shaw?” Caldwell asked, hearing Dawson walk up beside him.

  “That’s anybody’s guess,” Dawson replied.

  “You don’t suppose he’s gotten down drunk again, do you?” Caldwell squinted straight ahead into the harsh wavering sunlight, his hands crossed on the saddle horn. Beneath his shirt he still wore a bandage covering the bullet wound he’d taken at Fire River, where they’d wrenched the gold back from some of the men who’d stolen it and begun their escape. Beneath his patched trousers he wore another bandage, this one covering a bullet wound in his thigh.

  “Ordinarily, I wouldn’t rule it out,” Dawson said, he himself wearing a bandanna serving as a bandage around his left upper arm. “But Shaw knows what’s at stake here. He’s never let me down in a tight spot.”

  “I know,” said Caldwell. “Forget I said that. It must be the heat making me edgy.” His eyes searched back and forth across the empty desert floor. From here, with the position of the sun, he ran no risk of being sky-lighted. Yet he stopped scanning the desert and backed his horse a few steps—a man could never be too careful. He swung a leg over his saddle and stepped down. “There’s no man I’d rather have scouting my front trail than Lawrence Shaw.”

  Dawson and Caldwell had been scouting the day before when they’d spotted a small band of Apache moving northwest. To make sure the hostiles hadn’t spotted them, they had stashed Juan Lupo and the wagon in the rocks, rifle in hand, while they shadowed the men a full six hours until they decided the band wasn’t going to circle back on them.

  “Jane Crowly has done her share of trail scouting too,” said Dawson. “I figure the two of them laid up somewhere out of the storm. I figure they’re onto something now though. The difference between Shaw and a good tracking hound is that he doesn’t bark when he’s got something treed.” His eyes continued to scan the desert as he spoke. “They figured we laid up too. They know we’re all up and moving now. Everything is going about as well as it can. So far he’s kept a clear trail ahead for us. That’s what their absence is telling us.”

  “That could change anytime,” said Caldwell. “It might have changed already. Maybe that’s the message Shaw’s sending us, hanging away this long.”

  “I don’t think so,” said Dawson, “but we’ll find out soon enough I expect.” He looked up as Juan Lupo approached from the wagon. Lupo wore a long faded black riding duster and black wide-brimmed hat. For a big man, he moved with the ease and poised agility of a mountain cat.

  “Where are Shaw and Jane Crowly?” he asked quietly, almost to himself as he stopped and looked out across the desert, barely seeing the column of federales with his naked eye.

  “We just asked ourselves that same question,” said Caldwell, handing him the long telescope. Lupo raised it to his eye and looked back and forth along the dust-covered federales.

  “The red plum of the capitán’s hat tells me they are from the southern command—a long way from home,” Lupo offered. He lowered the lens. “What else were you talking about?”

  Dawson realized that Lupo might have assumed they’d excluded him from their conversation. He didn’t need that kind of thinking to set in. It was shaky enough, three men traveling with a freight wagon loaded heavily with gold coins. “We decided Shaw and Jane will show up while we’re crossing to the hills unless there’s something wrong. In that case they’ll pull up and stay away from us, protect our flanks. We might not know what good they’ve done us until after it’s done.”

  “Si, I understand,” said Lupo.

  Dawson noted the grave expression on the Mexican’s face. “It’s not too late to lay low right here. One of us can ride to these federales and tell them we need their help. They’re probably combing the towns and villages for this gold anyway.”

  “No federales, not yet anyway,” Easy John said quickly. “There is too much gold involved. We are too far from Mexico City to trust the federales. Until I can get word to Generalissimo Ortega that the gold is in my possession, we can trust no one.”

  “It’s your call,” said Dawson, although he found such thinking questionable. He wasn’t going to mention the fact that Lupo was trusting two American lawmen more than he trusted his own countrymen. But he knew that the thought had just gone across Lupo’s mind.

  “If I could not trust you two, I would have known it by now,” he said, almost as if the matter had been spoken aloud. He managed a grin. “We would have already been killing one another. With these southern federales, I include yet another unknown element into this situation.”

  “Our trust is mutual,” Dawson acknowledged. Changing the subject, he gestured in the direction of the column of federales who had ridden out of view over the crest of a sand hill. “Are we going to be able to keep out of their sight? I expect they’re just as hot after the gold as every outlaw gang on both sides of the border.”

  “So long as we slip unnoticed across the desert and back onto the hill trails we can avoid them,” said Lupo. “I have traveled in this hill country for weeks on end without seeing anyone.” He collapsed the telescope and handed it back to Caldwell.

  “Yes,” said Caldwell, “but was half the gold of Mexico’s depository out here, everybody and their brother knowing about it?”

  “No,” said Lupo, “and the gold is what makes the difference. When a man has a little gold, everybody around him is his friend. But when a man has this much gold, the whole world is his enemy.”

  Dawson and Caldwell both nodded. “What lays beyond the hill line?” Daw
son asked, trying to get an idea of what to expect once they crossed the desert floor.

  “Small villages, towns that grew with the French and German mining business. They have been trying to hang on since the silver and copper mining companies pulled stakes and left.”

  “If I know Shaw, him and Jane will have those towns checked out good before we start across,” said Dawson.

  “Perhaps that is what has kept him from riding back to us yet,” said Lupo. Without waiting for a reply, he turned and walked back toward the wagon. “We will do well to cross at night while the eyes of the world are closed.”

  Dawson and Caldwell looked at each other. “What have Shaw and Jane Crowly run into out there?” Caldwell asked.

  “I don’t know,” Dawson said, “but whatever it is, they’re right in the middle of it.” He gazed off across the desert toward the hill line.

  “Since we’re talking about Jane Crowly anyway, what’s going on between those two?”

  “Again, that’s anybody’s guess,” said Dawson.

  “I shouldn’t have asked,” said Caldwell, “but you’ve heard the same rumors I have about her.”

  “Yep,” said Dawson, “and rumors is just how I counted them, nothing more.”

  “I’m not passing along gossip,” said Caldwell. “It’s just you and me talking here.”

  “I understand,” said Dawson. “But it’s still just rumors until I see something to tell me otherwise. Far as I’m concerned, she’s just a rough-edged gal who’s playing the hand that’s been dealt her, same as the rest of us on this earth.”

  “I know,” said Caldwell, “but her and Shaw? It can’t get less likely than that, can it?”

  “She’s known for being soft on gunmen,” Dawson said. “Shaw is the Fastest Gun Alive.”

  “He also has his pick of the womenfolk,” replied Caldwell. He avoided mentioning that Jane Crowly wasn’t the kind of woman to turn heads, at least not for her poise and beauty.

  “It’s true, he does have his pick,” said Dawson, “and maybe Jane Crowly is it.”

  Caldwell kneaded the bandage on his wounded thigh and looked out across the desert. “I can’t argue that,” he said quietly.

  Lawrence Shaw and Jane Crowly had seen the smoke rising from the two fires in Suerte Buena just before first light, yet it would be close to midday before they rode onto the dirt street and saw the burned-out hull of the adobe church and the roof-less, half-collapsed walls of the black-charred cantina.

  From his saddle, Shaw studied the sweat-smudged faces of the elderly townsfolk who eyed the two strangers with suspicion. “Stick close,” he warned Jane. “It looks like Red Burke hasn’t done much to boost their attitude toward us gringos.”

  “Don’t you have a badge or something?” Jane asked under her breath.

  “It’s in my hand,” Shaw said, having already anticipated such a situation.

  “Well, would it disturb you awfully to pin it on your shirt?” she asked. “I know this is Old Mex, but damn, let’s take what we can get.” She cleared her throat and added, “Meanwhile, I suppose I best sweet-talk them some.”

  “Yes, you do that,” said Shaw. He reached up under his ragged poncho and pinned on his deputy marshal’s badge as they saw a few of the elderly townsfolk gather out front of the burned Suerte Buena Cantina. Using a long walking stick, the old German hobbled out in front of the others and stopped as if to bar them from coming any closer to the cantina.

  He said to Shaw, “If you hombres come to drink and raise hades, our cantina is not open right now . . . as you can see.” He swept his free hand toward the cantina. “We have had our fill of strangers for a while.”

  Shaw and Jane stopped their already slow-walking horses and looked down at the old German. Before Shaw could speak, another elderly man, this one an American, stepped forward and barked, “In plainer words, ride the hell on. We don’t want you here.”

  Ignoring the warnings, Shaw flipped his poncho up over his shoulder and said to the German, “I’m looking for an americano who has a red beard. He’s riding with Sergio and Ernesto Alevario and some of their men.”

  The badge on Shaw’s chest changed everything. The old German let out a sigh and said, “They are the ones who did all of this.”

  The American wasn’t through yet in spite of Shaw’s badge. “You should have been a day sooner, lawman.”

  “That would’ve meant they were chasing us, instead of us chasing them, you old fool.” Jane cut in.

  The old American’s eyes flared and he took a step toward her horse, his crooked finger raised accusingly. “Let me tell you something, Mister,” he said to Jane. “That deputy marshal badge your partner is wearing don’t cut any fat down here. This is the Mexican badlands. The Alevario brothers and their men will chew yas both up and spit yas both out—”

  As he’d spoken Jane had reached up, pulled off her hat and shook out her hair. “Call me hombre again, see if I don’t box your damned jaws for you.”

  Shaw gave her an incredulous look. “Sweet-talk . . . ?” he said under his breath.

  Seeing her hair fall to her shoulders, noting her features without the low, floppy hat brim partially hiding her face, the old American said, taken aback, “Jane? Jane Crowly . . . ?” He staggered back a step in his stunned surprise. “Begging your pardon, ma’am,” he said, his attitude suddenly changing.

  To Shaw, Jane said under her breath, “Sweet talk is as sweet talk does, I reckon.” She gave a demure little grin and added, “It’s good to hear that I’m also known here ’bouts.”

  “Please forgive us,” said the old German, stepping closer. “Wherever your badge is from, it is welcome here in Suerte Buena until our federales arrive to help us. If you are hunting these men, you are our friends. What can we do to assist you?”

  “Gracious,” said Shaw. He and Jane both swung down from their saddles. “We won’t be here any longer than it takes to water and rest our mounts. Did they mention anything we might need to know?”

  “No,” said the old German. He swept a hand toward the damage the men had left in their wake. “Like most men of their kind, they drank, ate dope and played with some putas who came here on word that a column of soldiers will be arriving from the south.”

  “Oh?” Shaw said, interested in knowing the whereabouts of any federale troops. “When might that be?”

  The old German shrugged. “We only know what we heard from the whores when they arrived here last week,” he said.

  The bald cantina owner stepped forward from the gathered townsfolk. “But now two of the putas— beautiful raven-haired twins all the way from Tampico—have gone off with Red Burke. He has them calling him Daddy.” He spit in disgust and disappointment. “I hope you kill all of them, including River Johnson.”

  “River Johnson?” said Shaw.

  “Si,” answered the cantina owner. “He is a man who rode away with them. We believe he started these fires in order to keep us from hanging Red Burke.” He looked at Shaw. “Do you know this man?”

  “By name only,” Shaw said. “If there’s a fire involved, you can bet he started it. He’s an arsonist. He’s also a paid killer for the mines and railroads . . . used to be anyway.”

  “And now he rides with border trash,” said the cantina owner, “so I hope you kill him too.”

  “That’s a possibility,” said Shaw.

  “But you will have to hurry in order to do so,” said the old German, cutting back in. “Red Burke was acting on orders of Garris Cantro. Once Burke and the Alevarios meet with the rest of the Border Dogs, they will become much harder to kill.”

  Shaw considered things for a moment. “Red Burke told you he’s acting on Garris Cantro’s orders?”

  “Yes,” said the German, “although I do not see why Garris Cantro would bother with such a place as our dying little town.”

  Shaw gave Jane a look. “Neither do I,” he said. Turning to Jane as the two led their horses to the iron hitch rail, he said, “Just like I
speculated. Burke wants to set the federales after Cantro’s Border Dogs while he and the Alevario brothers find the gold wagon and make a move on it for themselves.”

  “Sounds like Burke’s got it all figured out,” said Jane. “There’s a hill trail the other side of Mal Vuelve. If they figure they lost us to the gunmen in Agua Mala, my guess is they’ll take that trail down onto the desert and search for the wagon tracks.”

  “Then so will we,” said Shaw with finality. He asked the old German, “Are there any good spare horses we can buy here?”

  While Herzoff considered the request, the cantina owner cut in and said, “I have some fast horses that I used to race in Esperanza. You are welcome to pick two of them for yourselves. Anything to help you catch this ‘Daddy’ Red Burke,” he added. Again, he spit in disgust.

  “When the federales arrive,” Shaw said, “tell them we are after the same men they are. Tell them we chase Red Burke with the approval of Juan Lupo himself.”

  “You work with Juan Facil? Lupo?” the cantina owner asked, impressed at the mention of the name.

  “Yes, we work with Easy John,” said Shaw. “Be sure and tell the soldiers, so they won’t be shooting at us.” He gave Jane a look and said, “We’ll try to leave the federales a little better message than Red Burke left them.”

  Chapter 10

  Roy Heaton had no idea how far he’d traveled with the bullet hole through his belly. He knew only that he’d managed to get away from Lawrence Shaw and Jane Crowly before one of the two killed him. He’d made it off the desert floor and into the base of the hill country where he’d taken shelter in a wide arroyo. On the rocky banks of a shallow stream, he lay dipping water with his cupped hand and letting it trickle down onto the blood-crusted wound in his belly.