by Ralph Cotton
Burke’s lie caused Johnson to give him a bemused look.
But Burke went on, saying boldly, “We are killers and thieves, the lot of us.” He gestured a nod back toward the rest of the men. “In Good Luck, we killed a town guardia dead, and burned the church and cantina to the ground before we left, and I have to say”—he paused and gave LaPrey a hard, cold stare—“I liked all those folks better than I like you, so far.”
LaPrey swallowed a dry knot in his throat.
“Aw, now, look you’ve scared him,” said River Johnson with a laugh. He took LaPrey’s rouged cheeks between two fingers and squeezed them until the Frenchman’s lips formed a tight, twisted O. “Don’t worry, Clute—he’s only funning.” He paused, then added, “Maybe . . .”
“There’ll be soldiers coming after us before long, for what we did in Good Luck,” said Burke. “If you’re still alive, what will you be telling them about us?” He continued his hard stare, his hand raising his revolver an inch from its holster in expectation.
LaPrey touched a smeared rouged cheek when Johnson turned his face loose. He said haltingly, “What-whatever you want me to tell them, monsieur. Or may I call you Daddy too?”
“Damn right, good answer,” said Burke, letting his revolver fall back into place in his holster. “Yes, you can call me Daddy, but don’t let it go getting inside your head.” Burke tweaked his cheek roughly. “Now get your yellow-curly-ass busy—get us fed, bred and drunker than blind wild hogs.”
“Yii-hiii! Fiesta!” bellowed Rollo Barnes. He raised his Colt and fired shot after shot into the air. At the iron hitching rings the others followed suit, catcalling and firing wildly in every direction, sending the few pedestrians running and leaping for cover.
Turning to Sergio and Ernesto, Burke gestured toward Rollo Barnes and Jose Montoya and said quietly, “Let those two get all the piss and fore out of themselves, then send them out two miles to cover our back trail.”
“Si.” Sergio nodded, but said, “Two miles? Why so far back?”
Burke responded with only a glare.
“So we can hear the shots and have time to pull our britches up,” River Johnson cut in.
From the open window of a dusty adobe, an elderly town leader named Esta Uzanda looked out at the naked twins, hearing the gunshots, the cursing and yelling. Then he looked back at his aged wife in bewilderment.
“Now they come here naked,” she said, turning away. “They do not even bother putting their clothes on. This is what our village has become.” She crossed herself and walked away, shaking her head. She drew her shawl tighter around her shoulders. “Soon Mal Vuelve will change its name to Ciudad de Extraños Desnudos.”
Her husband took her words like a sharp slap on his face. “It will not be the City of Naked Strangers so long as I have any say in it.”
“Do you still have any say in it?” she snapped. “If not, perhaps we must all throw off our clothes and become animals, like the rest of this wicked world around us.”
“I am going to do something about this,” said her husband. “I will call together the men of Mal Vuelve to see what we must do. But I cannot fight these men alone. What good can I do us if I am dead?”
With two spare horses they’d purchased from the cantina owner, Shaw and Jane Crowly shortened the time it took to ride upward and along the hill trail from Suerte Buena to Mal Vuelve. Four miles from the small Mexican mining town they heard the distant rumble of gunfire while they stopped to switch their saddles to the fresh mounts.
Shaw noted the concerned look on Jane’s face as he drew his saddle cinch. “That’s drunken wild-fire.”
“Oh, I see, just a bunch of drunks shooting bullets all around,” said Jane with a note of sarcasm. “Nothing for the townsfolk to worry about, I suppose.”
“You know what I mean,” Shaw said. He started to say more, but a sound from around a turn in the trail caught his attention. He swung around toward a large rock blocking the view of the trail, Colt out and cocked.
“Don’t shoot!” an old man cried out, his bony arms stretched in the air, holding a long walking stick. His sombrero fell from his head and landed amid a gathering of goats crowed around him. “I have no money! No whiskey! No dope! Nothing that you want, only these stinking worthless goats that are not fit to—”
“Take it easy,” Jane called out, stopping him. “We’re not banditos.”
Shaw’s Colt uncocked and lowered into its holster as he looked around past the old man and farther along the empty trail.
“Thank the Virgin Mother,” said the old man, crossing himself quickly. He reached down and retrieved his sombrero from where it had landed squarely atop a spotted goat’s head. The goat shook its ears and bleated under its breath. “I have had enough gunfire and violence to fill this old belly forever.”
“You’re coming from Mal Vuelve?” Shaw asked in his easy border Spanish.
But the old man gave his reply in smooth accented English. “Si, and none too quickly, I must tell you.” He cocked his head and squinted slightly, not sure of who he was talking to. “Are these people your amigos? If they are, I have nothing bad to say of them.”
“Speak freely, Senor,” said Shaw. To shorten matters, he flipped the edge of his poncho up over his shoulder and revealed the badge still pinned to his chest. “We’ve been trailing these men up from the desert.”
“Ah, an americano lawman,” said the old goat herder with a wizened look. “It is about time we have americano law here. The Germans, the French, the americanos, all have come here in my lifetime to make this country like their own. Only now that they have all given up do we get the law, eh?”
Shaw let him spill it out, then said, “I don’t know about all that, Senor, I’m just trailing the men who are shooting up your town.”
“My town! There, you see?” said the old man, wagging a bony finger. “Before the Europeans and americanos came, these hills were filled with villages. In order to be more like our Inglés neighbors, we built villages to look like places in Tejas . . . and we started calling them towns. Now the mines are closing. . . . Soon we will call our towns villages once again.”
“Things change, that’s a fact,” said Shaw, wanting the old man to finish and move along.
“Si, ‘things change, that is a fact,’ ” the old man said with a shrug of resignation. He raised his sombrero and placed it back atop his head. “The closer my people move to the border, the more quickly things change, and that too is a fact.”
Hearing enough, Jane blurted out, “Is this your way of telling us you don’t want us here, old man? Because, as I recall, it was your leader who invited the Germans, the French, us americanos. Don’t blame us for the prosperity not making it down to yas.”
“Prosperity?” said the old man in a humble tone, shaking his lowered head. “What does an old man like me care for prosperity? What good does it bring to my goats?” He walked forward on the trail, leading his small herd around him. “Go with God,” he said sidelong to Shaw and Jane as he passed. “Suerte Buena in Mal Vuelve.”
“Gracias, Senor,” Shaw said respectfully.
“Same to you, goat herder,” Jane called out a little testily, Shaw thought. Walking away, one of the goats bleated back long and loudly over its shoulder as if replying to her. “Yeah yeah, you little sonsabitch,” Jane grumbled. “I’d like to see you turning over an open flame with onions stuffed in your belly.”
Shaw looked at her. “What got you so upset?”
“Didn’t you hear him?” said Jane. “Suerte Buena in Mal Veulve.” She gave Shaw a look. “Meaning, good luck in Wrong Turn.”
“Yeah, I heard him. So what?” said Shaw. “He didn’t mean anything.”
“Oh, I beg to differ with you, Lawrence,” Jane said ardently. “I think he knew full damned well what he was saying.”
“Let’s go,” Shaw said, not wanting to discuss it with her. “Maybe we’ll get lucky and catch Red Burke and his pals and end this in the streets of Mal Vue
lve.”
“Maybe,” said Jane, swinging up onto the newly saddled horse, the reins to the other in hand.
“We’re veering off the trail up ahead,” said Shaw, also swinging up into his saddle. “We’re riding the high ridges up there the rest of the way to Mal Vuelve, in case Burke left some trail guards lying in wait for us.”
“Both of us, huh . . . ?” Jane looked him up and down closely.
“Yeah, both of us,” said Shaw. “Why? What’s the look for?”
“It’s the look I always give a man who thinks he wants to protect me from harm . . . like I’m some delicate flower unable to take care of myself.”
Shaw gave a sigh. “I never thought that, Janie. I just figured we’d both ride up there and save ourselves any trouble.”
“Even though it would best if one of us stayed down here on the trail to draw out any ambushers?” she asked critically.
“No,” Shaw replied. “I figured if we could slip around, avoid any gun play, we’d keep Burke from hearing it and know that we’re coming.”
Jane gave a forgiving little grin, realizing she might have been wrong. “All right, I see your point,” she said.
They rode on until they reached a high, narrow game path winding up into the rocky hillside. They climbed the path until they stopped a few yards short of the crest, lest they skylight themselves to anyone lurking in the rocks below. Then they rode on quietly toward Mal Vuelve, keeping a close watch down the steep sloping hillside.
Chapter 12
Perched on a partially hidden cliff, invisible from the lower trails, Rollo Barnes said aloud to Jose Montoya, “Does it cross your mind that the ones Daddy Burke is worried about dogging us have already turned tail and gone home?”
“Keep your voice down,” cautioned Jose. “And if I were you, I would not call Burke Daddy. I think he might cut your tongue out if he heard you.”
“Why?” said Rollo, indignantly. “LaPrey and the twins call him Daddy; he seems to like it.”
Jose shook his head, gazing down at the trail with his rifle in hand. “If you do not see the difference, I would be wasting my breath explaining it to you.”
Rollo spit and sat silent and restless for a moment. Finally, he said, “Aw, hell, I can’t stand sitting up here like some damned trail vulture, everybody else getting their skins pulled back and living it up back there.” He gestured a thumb toward Mal Vuelve.
“I feel the same, but I keep it to myself,” said Montoya. “That is what hombres fuertes must do, in order to be respected by all around them.”
“Are you saying I’m not a strong man, a hombre fuertes?”
“Take it as you will,” Montoya answered with a shrug, keeping his gaze on the trail below. “I am sent to do a job. I will do the job without complaining.”
“Shi-iiit,” Rollo grumbled under his breath. He absently picked up a small stone and tossed it off onto the rock hillside, not expecting it to go bouncing noisily downward until it stopped with a clunk against a half-sunken boulder. “Whoa!” Rollo said in surprise.
“Are you loco?” said Montoya, shooting him a critical stare.
“Sorry, Hose,” said Rollo. “Damn, I can’t stand sitting here all this time. . . .”
Above the two ambushers, Shaw jerked his horse to halt when he heard the crack of the falling rock, then the sound of Rollo’s voice below and ahead of them. He held up a hand to Jane, and they slid down from their saddles as one. They stood in silence beside their horses, Jane’s spare horse standing right behind her.
Without a word, Shaw pointed in the direction of the sounds and slid his rifle from the saddle boot. Jane nodded, and removed her own rifle from her saddle boot. As one they eased over to their left, to the wall of rocky hillside flanking them and tied their horses’ reins to some dry stubs of creosote bush. Following Shaw in a crouch, the two moved along the rocky path until they saw the two half-hidden gunmen on the cliff below.
Shaw gave a sign with his gloved hand for her to prepare herself to fire. She nodded and eased her thumb over the rifle hammer and pulled it back slowly and quietly. “Ready when you are,” she whispered, stepping over to the edge of the rocky path.
Shaw raised his cocked rifle and took close aim at Rollo Barnes just as the gunman stood and turned and looked up at him. “Holy Je—,” Rollo managed to say before Shaw’s shot nailed him in his chest and sent him flying off the cliff.
Jane took quick aim on Montoya as the Mexican gunman turned. Before he could raise and fire his cocked rifle, Jane’s shot hit him high in the shoulder. Although the shot itself didn’t kill him, it spun him backward off the cliff and sent him screaming into thin air. His rifle flew from his hand, hit the ground and fired wildly.
Shaw stood in the ringing silence, his rifle still up, scanning back and forth for any other gunmen. “Good shot, Janie,” he said over his shoulder.
“Yeah . . . you too,” Jane replied in a strange voice.
Something about her tone caught Shaw’s attention, and he turned to face her. Jane’s pale face wore a stunned expression. A wide circle of blood was forming on her fringed buckskin shirt, just beneath her left breast. “Janie—!” he managed to say.
“Don’t start on me, Lawrence,” Jane said, stopping him short. “I know I’ve been shot. I’m not a fool.” She slumped sidelong against the steep wall of rock. “Don’t go making . . . nothing of it.”
“Here, Janie, sit down!” said Shaw, moving in quickly, grabbing her before she slid to the ground. Once he’d seated her, Shaw pulled her shirt open. He unclasped the binder around her breasts and pulled it off. He looked at the bullet hole as it bled slowly and steadily. Grateful that the wild shot had missed her heart, Shaw stretched her down onto the ground and stuffed his hat and hers beneath her head. “Lay still. I’ll be right back.”
“It’s not a bad wound, is it?” Jane asked. “I mean how damned bad can it be? I’m still able to talk and cuss. . . .” Her voice trailed as she struggled to retain consciousness. “Of all the rotten damned luck. This damned fool drops his gun . . . shoots me all to hell. . . .”
Shaw returned and stooped down to her, a canteen in one hand, his saddlebags in the other. “Here, I brought you some water.” He raised her a little, scooted her around and leaned her back against the wall of rock. But she had drifted into unconsciousness. “All right, maybe it’s best if you’re asleep,” he said, laying the canteen aside.
Taking off his trail gloves, Shaw reached a hand behind her back and felt the warm bloody spot where the bullet had exited. Incredibly, the exit wound was a full eight inches below the entrance wound in her chest. “You must be one hard-boned gal,” he said quietly, realizing that the bullet must have hit an upper rib and been diverted down away from her heart. He flipped open his saddlebags and took out a roll of cotton dressing and pulled her against him enough to wrap it around her and slow the bleeding.
“Don’t be . . . feeling my teats, Lawrence,” she said in a groggy, half-conscious voice.
“I won’t—I promise,” Shaw replied, working fast. He knew he had to get her to town and get her properly attended to before she lost too much blood.
“No . . . it’s okay,” she murmured faintly. She raised a weak hand, placed it on his bloody fingers and pressed them to her pale bosom. She gave him a tired smile, her eyes closed, her face white and drawn. “You beat all . . . I’ve ever seen.”
“Stop fooling around,” Shaw said. He finished wrapping her in the cotton dressing and lifted her, saddlebags, canteen and all, and hurriedly walked over to the horses.
In Mal Vuelve, Red Burke had just stood up from a pallet in one of the brothel rooms and started taking a long swig from a bottle of mescal when he’d heard the rifle shots in the distance. On the pallet, the twins lay naked, sweaty and giggling, picking at each other playfully. “Shut the hell up!” Burke demanded. He listened intently for more gun shots. But upon hearing none, he slung his gun belt over his shoulder, shoved aside a wooden-beaded curtain and wal
ked back out into the cantina.
“I heard it,” said River Johnson, standing at the bar, a bottle of mescal before him. “Do you want to hightail it or stick and kill them right here?” Next to him a young whore stood with her hand inside his shirt.
“It could be more than just the lawman from Agua Mala,” said Burke, not liking either the question or Johnson’s way of asking it. “It could damn well be the federales catching up to things.”
“Three shots?” Johnson asked in disbelief. “Naw, I don’t think so. If it was federales they’d keep firing ’til they ran out of bullets—then they’d send for a wagonload and start over.” He turned his gaze to the whore and gave her a wink. “I like what you’re doing there, sweetheart,” he said, nodding at her hand on his chest.
Across the room, Sergio and Ernesto came out of separate rooms, each shoving their shirttails into their trousers. Antonio walked in from another room. A young dark-skinned Indian girl looked out of the doorway behind him. Clute LaPrey hurried from a small room at the rear of the cantina, his makeup fixed and his curly wig back in place.
“I hope you will not allow them to shoot up the cantina, Daddy,” he said to Red Burke.
“You’re on your own, Frenchy. We’re leaving,” said Burke, tweaking the man’s cheek roughly between his thumb and finger, smearing his thick rouge all over again. “All right, men, let’s ride,” he said to the others, snatching up the rifle he’d leaned against the bar.
“What if I lag behind long enough to kill this lawdog for you?” Johnson asked, still standing quietly at the bar while the others began to hurry toward the door.
Burke grabbed his shirt from where he’d laid it on the bar earlier. As he pulled it over his head he said to Johnson, “I don’t know that you’re up to it with this man, River. I’d be dead right now myself had I not been wearing a Korean bullet-stopping vest.”
“I’m up to it,” said Johnson, “without wearing a whatever-it-was you said you wore.” He gave a slight grin and sipped mescal from the bottle.