Escape from Fire River

by Ralph Cotton

  PART 3

  Chapter 18

  Mal Vuelve, Mexico

  Jane Crowly had regained her strength, although her chest still felt as if she’d been struck by a ball-peen hammer. That was all right; pain was something she knew how to overlook. Pain didn’t bother her, be that pain physical or emotional, she told herself, blowing smoke toward the dirty ceiling. So, what the hell . . . ? Pain was just a natural part of her life. It always had been. Ignore it . . . , she told herself.

  Anyway, she’d been down too long. She missed Lawrence Shaw. She missed having his hands on her, feeling his hard body next to hers . . . and all the rest of it, she thought, blowing more smoke upward, watching it swirl in the darkness. She’d always been drawn to gunmen; she didn’t know why. Even though she and Shaw had made love only that one time, and she had to admit neither of them had acted very lovey-dovey afterward, she missed whatever it was that Shaw brought out of her.

  She thought of their affair—if that’s what she could call it. In spite of it being only that one time, in an abandoned adobe in the desert, amid a storm, gunmen everywhere wanting to kill them, she liked to think it was something special—something wild and beautiful. She smiled to herself recalling that night, and blew another thin stream of smoke upward into the looming gray swirl. The patch of dried red blood on the bandage circling her chest had grown smaller with each changing. Get up . . . , she told herself.

  In her room in LaPrey’s Cantina and Brothel, she had spent much of the night listening to creaking beds and the voices and drunken laughter of federales in the rooms on both sides of her. The Mexicans had not seen her, nor were they looking for her. But she had rested enough to be able to ride, and ride she would. There was too much going on for her to keep Shaw, Dawson and the others waiting on her.

  Jeez . . . She shook her head.

  All right, they weren’t waiting on her, she admitted to herself, letting the thin black cigar hang from her lips as she pushed up and sat on the side of the bed. Hell, they probably didn’t wonder if she was dead or alive. But she was a trail scout, the same as Shaw. She knew Shaw relied on her, and she took her work seriously, the same as he did. She stood up in the darkness and reached over for her clothes hanging over a chair back.

  Dressing herself, she picked up the Colt from the nightstand beside the bed and shoved it down securely into her waist. Then she picked up her hat and boots from beside the bed, eased over to a wooden-shuttered window, opened it and climbed out. “You randy devils . . . ,” she murmured, hearing a bouncing bed and the sounds of impassioned voices from the room next to hers.

  Looking all around, she leaned against the adobe wall and pulled on her big miner’s boots, then slipped along to the last window and rapped on the shutter quietly until LaPrey stuck his head out and said, “Who is there?”

  “It’s me, Janie,” she said quietly. “I’m leaving.”

  “You are leaving?” said LaPrey. “But you cannot leave. You still need to rest. Lawrence Shaw will skin me alive.”

  “No, he won’t,” said Jane. “Listen to me. If he comes back here looking for me, tell him I’m headed down to the sand hills, but I’m going back the way we came, through Suerte Buena. He can find me along the trail.”

  Seeing she had her mind made up, LaPrey shrugged and said, “I do not like this, but I will tell him.” He gave her a toss of his hand. “Adios, dear Janie.”

  Jane touched her hat brim toward him and slipped away toward the livery stables in the grainy hour before dawn.

  In moments she had slipped her horse from the stables without being seen or heard. She walked the animal out of town onto the trail, stepped up into the saddle and rode away, taking the trail back toward Suerte Buena instead of riding the same road the larger column of Southern Mexican soldiers had taken toward the swinging bridge the day before. There were starting to be too many federales riding the high trails to suit her. Besides, she thought, if the gold wagon was making any kind of time at all, by now they would be crossing the desert farther west on the rolling sand hills below Suerte Buena.

  She rode steadily until midmorning when, as she rounded a turn in the trail, she stopped suddenly and found herself staring into the faces of Bale Harmon and Roy Heaton.

  Sitting slumped with a pained expression on his face, Heaton said, “It’s Jane Crowly, the low-down bitch who did this to me.”

  Jane jerked her horse’s reins, trying to spin the animal and ride away. But from either side of the trail behind her, Corey Trent, Elvis Pond and Elijah Chase sprang out of hiding, grabbed her horse by it bridle and held it in place. “Sonsabitches!” Jane shouted, kicking at the men and reaching for the Colt.

  Elvis Pond leaped up, grabbed her around her waist and threw her to the hard ground before she could draw the gun. As she tried to scramble to her feet, Pond’s boot toe dealt a swift kick to her lower belly and doubled her over into a ball.

  “Pull her up,” Harmon said to Pond and the others, still seated atop his horse. Beside him, Heaton said in a strained voice, “Let me get my hands on her throat.” He started to step down from his saddle, but Harmon stopped him, saying in a commanding voice, “As you were, Heaton. Stroud left me in charge. I’ll say who puts their hand on her and who doesn’t.”

  Pond and Chase jerked Jane roughly up from the ground and stood her up straight in spite of the pain in her chest and lower stomach. “You trail turds . . . are making a big mistake, messing . . . with me,” Jane said haltingly. “I ain’t telling you . . . nothing, I don’t care what—”

  Upon getting a nod from Harmon, Pond stepped forward, spun around and punched Jane in the face. She crumbled backward. But Chase held her up and shook her back and forth like a rag doll. “She’s got a tough ugly mouth, but she can’t take a hit worth a damn.”

  “Damn it, Elvis, what’s wrong with you?” said Harmon with a slight chuckle. “I didn’t mean for you to knock her head off. I meant for you to slap her, or something. That’s not the way to hit a woman.”

  Heaton cut in, saying, “Who ever accused Jane Crowly of really being a woman?”

  Elvis Pond stared blankly at Harmon. “Want me to hit her easier?”

  “No,” Trent cut in before Harmon could answer, “she’s had enough.” He gave Harmon a glare as he snatched the Colt from Jane’s waist and pitched it to Elijah Chase. “There’s no cause for hurting this woman just because you don’t like her or her ways.”

  “Her ways ought to be changed,” said Heaton, still bitter over the gunshot wound he blamed her for, even though privately he knew he’d caused it by jerking the rifle barrel while she held it cocked and ready to fire.

  Bale Harmon looked Jane up and down and chuckled again. “You might have a point there, Roy,” he said to Heaton. “Some women need saving from themselves.”

  Pond’s right cross had knocked Jane out, but she had already begun coming to. She shook her head slowly, trying to collect her senses. She mumbled profanities at her captors in a dazed and incoherent voice. Raising his voice for Jane to hear, Harmon said, “Keep your filthy mouth shut or I’ll have Elvis hit you again.”

  Pond stepped forward and drew back his fist in anticipation. “No, Elvis! Not now,” said Harmon. “If you want to do something, reach down her britches and tell us what you find.”

  Pond stuck his hand roughly down Jane’s waist. “This ain’t right,” said Trent. Stepping away from Jane and Chase he gave Pond a shove. Pond backed off, giving him a cold, hard stare.

  “Easy, Trent,” Harmon chuckled. “Elvis is only following orders. I told him to do a little bush scouting, so he did.”

  “Stroud isn’t going to like this,” said Trent, “neither is Cantro.”

  “I say they don’t have to know it ever happened,” said Harmon. “What say you?” His hand rested on a rifle across his lap.

  “I didn’t feel nothing down there,” Pond said to Harmon. Wanting no more to do with this, Chase turned Jane loose and stepped away from her. But Pond grabbed her and h
eld her back against his chest.

  “Nothing at all? You’re sure?” Harmon asked Pond, his eyes and face taking on a strange, flushed look. “She really is a natural woman?”

  Pond just stared at him, holding Jane’s arms pinned behind her.

  “Never mind,” said Harmon. “I expect I’ll have to check for myself.” He swung down from his saddle and stepped over in front of Jane Crowly.

  Trent and Chase looked at each other. “I don’t like where this is heading,” Chase said quietly.

  “Nor do I,” said Trent, under his breath.

  Coming to, Jane recoiled at the feel of Harmon’s hand down her trousers. Jerking back away from him, her eyes snapped open. “You rotten sonsabitch!” she shouted. “Keep your slimy paws off me!”

  “Oh?” Harmon’s hand came up out of her trousers. He quickly backhanded her across her already-injured face. Blood flew from her lips. “What’s makes you so damned particular, after all I’ve heard about you?”

  Jane’s head rocked sideways; but when she righted it she spit blood and saliva into his face. “Go on, hit me again, you sonsabitch. Have your fun! My man is going to kill you!”

  “Your man?” Harmon gave a dark laugh, wiping his shirtsleeve across his face. “What kind of man would have the likes of you?”

  “Lawrence Shaw, that’s what man,” Jane said defiantly. She spit again.

  “Lawrence Shaw—yeah right, you and the Fastest Gun Alive,” Harmon said. His hand rolled into a large, tight fist this time. He punched her hard. She fell back and slumped against Elvis Pond. “Hold her steady, Elvis!” Harmon bellowed. He punched her again; again she spit blood at him.

  “Leave her alone, Harmon!” said Trent. His Colt came up cocked and aimed. So did Chase’s. “We’re taking her back to Stroud and Cantro,” Trent added. “She’s no good to us dead!”

  “I expect you’re right,” Harmon. But he hit her again twice before stepping back and wiping his bloody fist on his shirt. “The lousy bitch is too knocked out to feel it now anyway.” He looked at Pond, still holding the unconscious woman and said, “Take charge, Elvis. Get her back into her saddle and keep her beside you. If she gives you any trouble on the way back, punch her again.”

  “Can I do anything else?” Pond asked.

  “I don’t give a damn what else you do to her,” said Harmon. “Just keep her alive so Stroud and Cantro can talk to her.”

  Riding into Mal Vuelve, Shaw saw a spotted pig running across the dusty street squealing loudly. Two young soldiers pursued the fleeing animal while a stout sergeant with a drooping mustache barked orders at the men. The sergeant stood out front of LaPrey’s Cantina and Brothel, his hands on his hips, watching the chase. But his eyes turned to Shaw and measured him carefully as Shaw rode at a walk toward the cantina, leading his spare horses behind him. “What do we have here?” the sergeant said to the corporal standing beside him.

  “More americanos, my sergeant,” the corporal replied, watching Shaw warily.

  “Si,” the sergeant said quietly, “but this one wears a badge. Go bring him to me . . . in a way that will show him who is in charge here.”

  Even though Shaw was already riding toward the cantina, the corporal knew what the sergeant was asking of him. “Si, mi sargento,” he said with a sly grin. He stepped forward and gave a hand signal to four riflemen who stood guard at the front of the cantina. “Follow me,” he commanded the young soldiers.

  Overhearing the sergeant, LaPrey stepped through the open doorway. “Uh, Sergeant, this man is not one to approach in such a manner.”

  “Oh, and why is that so?” the sergeant asked without turning to LaPrey.

  In the street, before Shaw could reach the cantina, the corporal and the four armed soldiers ran out and surrounded him, forcing him to stop his horse and the two spare animals behind him. “Halt, americano !” the corporal called out, walking forward with an official bearing. “Where do you think you are going?”

  Shaw sat at ease in his saddle, his hand on his thigh close to his Colt. “To LaPrey’s,” Shaw said in an even voice, not the least rattled by the rifles pointed at his chest. He nodded toward the cantina where LaPrey and the sergeant stood. Both were watching with rapt attention.

  Noting the badge on Shaw’s chest, the corporal took on a stiff, authoritarian tone of voice. “Ah, you are an americano lawman, I see.”

  “Yep,” Shaw said, offering no more on the matter until he saw the corporal’s attitude.

  “You are here in my country to hunt down the border outlaws, I take it?” the corporal asked. Shaw looked past the corporal and saw the sergeant and LaPrey talking. As LaPrey spoke close to the sergeant’s ear, the big sergeant took on a startled look.

  “That’s right,” Shaw said. “I do so with the blessings and the written authorization from Generalissimo Manual Ortega.”

  “Do you have this written authority in your possession?” he asked haughtily.

  “No,” said Shaw, seeing what was at work here. He relaxed and let his hand fall from his thigh, closer to his Colt.

  “Ah . . . then that is too bad,” said the corporal. “Perhaps you have la General’s permission, perhaps you do not. Without such written authorization,” he added, “it becomes my duty to ask your business in Buena Suerte and decide whether or not to make you welcome—”

  Hurrying forward from the cantina, LaPrey at his side, the stout sergeant cut the corporal off, saying, “That will be all, Corporal! Take your men back to their posts. I will speak to this man myself.”

  Shaw sat and watched the corporal order the riflemen back to where they had been standing. As soon as they had left, the big sergeant looked up at him and said, “You must forgive the corporal, Senor Shaw. I’m afraid that searching for the stolen depository gold has made us all a little edgy and cross.”

  “I understand,” said Shaw.

  “Por favor, step down and join us inside, out of the sun. I will have my soldiers take your horses, and water them.”

  “Gracias,” said Shaw. He stepped down from his saddle and handed the sets of reins over to a young soldier that the sergeant had summoned. “But I won’t be in town long. I came here searching for a friend of mine.” He looked at LaPrey.

  “Your friend left town this morning early,” LaPrey said. “I’m afraid I couldn’t say anything to make her change her mind.”

  “Ah, the friend you search for is a woman . . . ,” the sergeant said with sympathy. He shook his head with a sigh. “These women, what are we to do with them?”

  “Beats me,” Shaw said, going along with whatever picture the Mexican had drawn for himself. The three walked toward the cantina.

  “I am Sergeant Vitarez,” the big sergeant said. “Tell me, Senor—aside from searching for the woman, are you also searching for the stolen gold, like everyone else?”

  “No,” Shaw said, remembering Juan Lupo’s warning to trust no federales regarding the gold until they had gotten the valuable cargo moved closer to Mexico City. “I’m chasing outlaws all along the border. This woman happens to travel with me.”

  “I see, she travels with you,” said the sergeant, dismissing the subject of the woman. “But surely you have heard of the stolen gold?”

  “I’ve heard it,” said Shaw. “I’m just not searching for it. That’s the job for you and your army.”

  “It is good to hear someone say that, Senor,” said the sergeant. His gaze tightened on Shaw. “Provided that it is the truth, of course.”

  Chapter 19

  At the bar, Shaw sipped from a water gourd as the sergeant and LaPrey drank rye whiskey from wooden cups. Shaw kept his words guarded and didn’t even mention Jane Crowly again until the sergeant heard the squeals of the fleeing pig return, and he hurried out front to bark orders at the soldiers chasing it. As soon as the big sergeant was out of sight, Shaw said flatly to LaPrey, “Where is she?”

  “She left before sunup this morning,” LaPrey said, sounding worried. “But I swear I made her comfo
rtable and welcome, just the way I knew you would want me—”

  “Which way?” Shaw asked, cutting him off. “Nobody’s mad at you.”

  LaPrey breathed easier. “I am so glad to hear that. I have been afraid that you would blame—”

  “Stay with me on this, Clute,” Shaw said, again cutting him off. “Which way did she go?”

  “She said to tell you that she is riding back to the desert floor through Suerte Buena on the same trail the two of you rode,” said LaPrey, trying hard to say it just the way Jane had told him to. “I believe these soldiers arriving here made her nervous.” He gestured toward the riflemen standing out front as another column of men began to pass. “They left the sergeant, his corporal and four guards here to meet another column while their own column rides on to the search the trails for the men who burned the cantina and church in Suerte Buena.”

  “There’s already one column here and another one is coming?” Shaw asked for his own reference, knowing Dawson, Caldwell and Juan Lupo would want to hear about it.

  “Yes, it is so,” said LaPrey. “I knew it was important for you know this,” he said in a lowered voice. “I did good, oui?”

  “Yes, you did good, Clute,” Shaw said, understanding what Jane intended to do. She had turned back in order to avoid the federales who’d suddenly shown up along the high trails. He fished a ten-dollar gold coin from his pocket and slipped it into the Frenchman’s hand.

  “Thank you for understanding,” said LaPrey, grasping the coin. He watched Shaw turn up the water gourd and finish it. “And now you are leaving Mal Vuelve?” he asked, in surprise.