by Ralph Cotton
Noting the sign, Burke and Montana cocked their heads sideways to read it.
“Ha,” Burke said. “Looks like Madson and his men have been here long enough to bring about some change.”
“That doesn’t surprise you, does it?” Montana asked as the three turned their horses back onto the trail.
“Nope,” said Burke. “I figured he wouldn’t waste any time taking this town over once he got settled in.”
“I expect if he buys himself enough politicos and federales, he can do whatever he wants,” said Montana. He grinned. “I’m eager to hear his position on free whores and whiskey.”
“I wouldn’t get my hopes up for anything being free,” Burke said. “Anything he gives free today, he’ll take back tomorrow, with interest.”
The three followed the winding trail down onto the streets of Little Hell—formerly Shadow River. Entering the town, they rode across a fifty-foot-long iron and wooden bridge spanning a swift river that spilled down from inside the steep hills behind them.
When they’d crossed the bridge and their horses started to step off it onto the dirt street, two riflemen appeared from inside a wooden shack and stood in front of them, stopping them. Two more gunmen appeared behind the riflemen and stood with a hand resting on the butt of their holstered pistols.
“Welcome to Little Hell. That’ll be a dollar a head for each horse crossing,” said one of the men standing behind the riflemen.
“A dollar!” said Burke, instantly outraged. “To cross one damn river?”
“You heard me right,” said the same gunman. Sam and Montana sat watching.
“Jesus!” said Burke. “The river must be full of gold.”
The gunman stared at Burke coolly with a smirk on his pockmarked face.
“If it was, we’d be squeezing it instead of you,” he said. His words drew a muffled chuff from the other three men.
Burke fumed. He stared at Sam, then at Montana, gauging their support. Neither gave him any encouragement. He fished grudgingly in his vest pocket as he spoke.
“You need a sign up, telling folks beforehand,” he grumbled.
“Say, now, that’s a good idea,” the gunman said to the other men who surrounded him. “Why didn’t one of you think of that?”
“I did,” said one with a jaw crammed full of tobacco. “I just forgot to write it down.” Flecks of brown spittle flew from his lips as he spoke. He turned his head sideways and let a stream of spit go to the ground.
Burke eyed the tobacco chewer closely. Sam and Montana paid their toll fees.
“Atzen Allison . . . ?” Burke said, pondering the tobacco chewer. But as the man raised his face a little more and looked at him, Burke nodded. “Hell yes, it is you,” he said. He flipped a Mexican silver coin to the gunman with the smirk and the pockmarked face. He faced the tobacco chewer and said, “I heard you got hung for burning out a sheeper in Tejas.”
“No Texan ever hung a man for burning sheepers out,” said Atzen Allison. He spat again. Recognizing Burke, he said, “Anyways, it was an accident, Clyde. I was trying to cook one of his sheep. The fire got out of hand.”
“Clyde, huh?” said the man with the pockmarked face.
“Yep, Clyde Burke,” said Burke. “I was riding for Madson and Raymond Segert when you was still learning to squat without soiling your shirttail.”
The man with the pockmarked face bristled. He clenched his gun butt. So did Burke, Sam and Montana. The two riflemen clenched their Winchesters. Allison saw the trouble coming and headed it off with a dark chuckle.
“Hell, Jaxton here still has a little trouble not soiling his shirttail,” he said jokingly. “Don’t you, Junior?”
“Hell no, I don’t. I never did,” said Jaxton Brooks, the pockmarked gunman. But he cooled down, following Allison’s unspoken advice.
“Who’re your pals?” Allison asked Burke, eyeing both Sam and the Montana Kid.
“This here is Jones,” said Burke, giving a jerk of his head toward Sam, “and this is Jarvis Finland—the Montana Kid. Montana has been with us awhile. You just haven’t been here long enough to meet him.”
“I’ve heard of him,” said Allison. He looked at Sam. “Heard of this one too,” he said. “Rumor is he killed Raymond Segert.”
“That’s no rumor,” Sam put in, wanting to be completely honest about the matter. He had nothing to hide. “It’s a plain fact; I killed him.” He stared at Allison.
Allison grinned.
“Don’t be so bashful about it,” he said jokingly. “Once everybody knew he was dead, turns out nobody much liked him anyway.” He turned his head sideways and spat. “Right, Junior?” he said to Brooks.
“I never cared much for him,” Brooks admitted grudgingly.
“Then I expect I should feel welcome here,” Sam said.
“I expect so,” said Brooks, still wearing a severe expression.
Sam touched his boots to the dun’s sides and put both horses forward at a walk. Burke and Montana rode flanking him on either side across the dirt street toward the cantina. Atop the cantina a young Mexican dove stood on a wooden platform beside a tall well-dressed American. She held a parasol over his head while he smoked a black cigar and stared at the three of them.
“There’s Bell Madson,” Burke said without looking directly up at the man.
They rode on and then recognized the man they’d seen earlier lying wounded in the dirt. Now he lay flat, his eyes staring up blankly at the burning Mexican sun. The gunmen who had been watching were now back inside the cantina. An old man stood tying the end of a rope around the dead man’s foot, the other end tied to a donkey’s pack frame, ready to pull the body away.
Stopping out in front of a recently whitewashed adobe building, Sam and the other two stepped down from the saddles and hitched their horses to an iron rail. A red-and-green sign on the front of the building read LITTLE HELL CANTINA. Below it hung a smaller sign that read the same words in Spanish: INFIERNO PEQUEÑO CANTINA.
Burke grinned as he stepped onto the boardwalk and walked through the front door.
“Welcome to Little Hell,” Burke said under his breath to Sam and Montana. “I feel at home already.” As they walked to the bar, he added, “Let’s just get some whiskey and relax a spell. I give Madson about five minutes before he sends down for us.”
• • •
On a newly built platform atop the roof of the Little Hell Cantina, Bell Madson sat behind a wide desk in a tall Spanish padrón armchair. Providing shade for the platform, an overhead canvas flapped lazily on a hot wind. Three of Madson’s gunmen sat in folding chairs off to one side. A Chinese-Mexican gunman, Jon Ho, stood to Madson’s right. A distinguished-looking Mexican in a white linen business suit sat across Madson’s desk with a petite glass of wine in his thick hand. The Mexican looked around nervously and attended his sweat-beaded forehead often with a clean white handkerchief.
“What I must make you understand, Señor Madson, is that we are overdue to carry out our plan,” he said in well-spoken English. “It is imperative that we strike right away.”
Bell Madson relaxed back in his chair and sipped from a glass of bourbon.
“Overdue depends on whose calendar you look at,” he said. “If I rush in and rob Banco Nacional shorthanded, it won’t matter if we’re overdue or not. Are your men in Mexico City sure all the big money is there, ready and waiting?”
“They are,” said the Mexican, Roberto Deonte. “But they cannot wait much longer. It will look suspicious. These are government officials—they grow nervous.”
“They won’t be waiting much longer,” said Madson. “I just saw some of my men ride in. We’ll be in Agua Fría next week. Tell any of your government pals if they don’t want to get shot, don’t be in the Banco Nacional with money sticking out of their pockets. Does that ease your troubled mind?”
&nb
sp; “Ah, Señor Madson, you cannot realize how much it does,” he said, sitting back in relief. He blotted his forehead and started to sip his wine. But Madson gave a nod to Jon Ho. The Chinese-Mexican gunman stepped around the desk and expertly removed the glass of wine from Deonte’s hand, stood it on the corner of the desk and stared down at him expectantly.
Deonte wilted quickly under the dark flat gaze. He stood up, catching his straw hat before it fell from his knee.
“Yes, then, we are through here, I take it?” he said.
“We’re through,” said Madson. “Jon Ho is going to escort you down the back stairs to your coach. Will your federale escort be able to get you to Agua Fría without the devil Apache eating your brains?”
Deonte’s eyes widened.
“Sí, I must hope so,” he said. He stopped his hand from making the sign of the cross.
“Good, then I won’t need to send any of my men tagging alongside you,” Madson said. He nodded toward the new wooden stairs leading down the back of the cantina. “Jon Ho, show him out,” he said to the Chinese-Mexican gunman.
As soon as Jon Ho and Roberto Deonte disappeared down the rear stairs of the building, Madson turned and spoke to Manning Wilbert, one of the gunmen who sat waiting to do his bidding.
“Manning, go fetch Burke and Finland up here,” he said.
“What about that drifter with them?” Manning asked.
“Yeah, bring him too. We need more gunmen—but don’t tell them I said that,” he added, catching himself. He took the last drink of bourbon and set the empty glass on his desk.
“You got it, boss,” said Wilbert, already turning, hurrying down through a newly built stairway to the cantina below.
As Wilbert left, a gunman named Fritz Downes stood up from his folding chair, stepped over to the desk and filled Madson’s empty bourbon glass.
“Just so you know, boss,” he said quietly, “the third man is the one who killed Raymond Segert.”
“I know that,” Madson said, eyeing him sharply. “But it’s good to see that you’re awake.” He picked up his fresh glass of bourbon and swirled it in his hand.
The third seated gunman, Clarence Rhodes, took a deep breath and let it out slowly.
“Boss, I’ll ride with whoever you say to ride with,” he said. “But I thought highly of Segert. When the time comes, it will make me happy to kill this Jones fellow for you.”
“I’ll keep that in mind, Rhodes,” said Madson. “Since my main reason for being here is to make you happy.”
“Boss,” Rhodes said quickly, “I didn’t mean to—”
“Shut up, Rhodes,” said Madson. “I don’t care if you kill him. But nobody kills nobody until we get the bank robbed. Understand?” He glared at the belittled gunman.
“Got it, boss,” Rhodes said.
The three of them looked over as the sound of boots came up the stairs and onto the roof. They watched Manning Wilbert lead Sam, Burke and Montana over to Madson’s desk.
“Clyde Burke and the Montana Kid,” said Madson, leaning back in his chair. “I was beginning to think you two were dead. Where’ve you been?” he asked pointedly.
“Oh, doing a little robbing,” said Burke. “Enough to hold us over till we heard from you.”
“You can’t hear from me if you’re not here,” Madson said.
“That’s true,” Burke said. “But we’re here now, ready to back any play you make.” He gestured a nod toward Sam. “This is Jones. He’s a damn good man if you need another one.”
“Oh . . . ?” Madson stared at Sam appraisingly. “I’m full up with gunmen right now—maybe some other time.” He paused for a second, then said to Burke as he stared at Sam, “I know he’s good with a gun. He shot and killed my partner. Crazy Ray was as good as they come, gunwise.”
“That’s right, I killed Raymond Segert,” Sam said. “I’d kill any man who had me beaten and dragged on the end of a rope.” He stood returning Madson’s hard stare. Madson was the first to look away.
After appearing to consider matters, Madson said, “I might need another gunman after all. Jones, why don’t you go down and have yourself a drink on me?”
“I didn’t come for a free drink, I come for a job,” Sam replied firmly.
Madson let out a breath.
“See . . . that was just me being polite, Jones,” he said. “What I meant was, haul your ass out of here so we can confab about you behind your back.”
Sam looked at Burke.
“Go get you a drink,” Burke said quietly. “We’ll be on down shortly.”
Sam gave Madson a respectful nod, excusing himself, and turned and walked away.
“He’s good, boss,” Burke said, as soon as Sam left the roof platform. “We robbed a bank over in Durango—” He chuffed and shook his head. “I can’t begin to tell you what all we went through coming back.” He looked at Montana.
“It’s true, boss,” said Montana. “Jones saved our hides a couple of times.”
“A brave pistolero, huh?” said Madson.
“And then some,” said Burke. “I believe the man would goose a bull rattlesnake if one got in his way.”
Madson rolled his cigar in his mouth and glanced at Clarence Rhodes.
“Rhodes has a mad-on over Jones killing Segert. Says he thought highly of Crazy Raymond.” Madson added, “Says for two cents he’d shoot Jones down like a dog.”
“You thought highly of Crazy Ray?” said Burke, he and Montana turning to face Rhodes. “All this time I figured that like everybody else, you couldn’t wait to see somebody kill the no-good son of a bitch. Guess I was wrong.” He gave a thin, sharp grin. “I’ll up your two cents, Rhodes, and throw in an extra dollar to see you take Jones on man-to-man.”
Rhodes didn’t reply. He just stared sourly at Burke.
“So, you’re standing good for Jones?” Madson said.
“That’s right, boss,” said Burke.
“So am I,” said Montana.
Madson drank his bourbon.
“All right,” he said finally. “Tell him he’s in. We’re getting ready to make a big strike next week. If he shows me something, I’ll have more work for him after that.” He raised a thick finger for emphasis. “But if he messes up . . .” He let his warning trail.
“He won’t mess up, boss,” said Burke. “We’ll be ready to ride when you are.”
“Good, see that you are,” said Madson. He looked at Montana and nodded toward the door. Now you go get a drink, let me and Burke talk some. Rhodes, you and Wilbert go with him.”
When the three had turned and left, Madson looked at Burke and motioned him to the chair where Deonte had sat.
Burke sat down.
Madson shoved a glass and the bourbon bottle across the top of his desk to him. “Tell me everything you know about your pal Jones,” he said.
Chapter 17
Clyde Burke raised a glass of bourbon, took a long swig and let out a satisfying hiss. He held the glass in his hand and swished the remaining liquid around as he glanced at the half-full bottle standing atop the desk. Seeing the look in his eyes, Madson reached over and pulled the bottle to his side of the desk. Burke gave a dark chuckle.
“Crazy Raymond had Jones beaten and dragged around the Twisted Hills,” he said. “But I suppose you knew all about that.”
Madson tossed a hand, relaxed in his tall Spanish armchair.
“Yeah, I knew, more or less,” he said with a shrug. “Segert had a mad-on over Jones coming into Agua Fría, taming all the rowdies at the Fair Deal Cantina. Jones came looking for work with us, but he ended up a bouncer for the Fair Deal. He was a little overambitious for my taste, Segert’s too.” His gaze leveled expectantly.
“That’s where the bad blood started between him and Segert,” said Burke, trying to stay away from anything about the gun deal Se
gert had set up with Marcos’ rebels. He wasn’t sure Madson knew about the rifles, or the gold involved. “Segert had everybody down on Jones. Was down on him myself. But after riding with him awhile, I have to say, he’s a man who fears nothing. We had Apache on our tail, federales capturing us for no reason at all. Through it all, Jones stayed tough, helped Montana and me get through it. I’d trust him with anything I’ve got. He won’t run out if things get hot.”
“I wanted to hear the kind of outlaw he is, Clyde,” said Madson. He gave a slight laugh. “I wasn’t looking to send him to Texas and run him for office.”
“I know,” said Burke. “But you asked me, so I told you. I trust him as much as any man you’ve got swinging a saddle—so does Montana.”
“But you haven’t mentioned a word about where he’s from or who he’s ridden with,” said Madson.
Burke drank his bourbon and reflected on the matter.
“No, I sure enough haven’t,” he said. “Jones never says anything about who he rode with. Hasn’t said where home is either.” He eyed Madson. “But aren’t you always saying you want men who know how to keep their mouths shut?”
Madson let out a breath.
“You got me there,” he said. Seeing Burke’s glass go empty in an upturned gulp, he slid the bottle back across the desk to him.
“Obliged,” said Burke, filling his glass and setting the bottle down. He stared at Madson as he took another sip. “If you wanted to hear dirt on the man, I expect you asked the wrong two. Montana and I both vouched for him. What more do you want? I’ve never vouched for anybody before, have I?”
Madson considered it for a moment.
“No,” he said finally, “you haven’t. Neither has Montana. Jones killed Raymond Segert, but that worked out well for me. Raymond needed killing. I caught wind of him having his hand in the pot on all kinds of deals.” His eyes leveled tight onto Burke’s. “I even heard he had a gunrunning business with the peddler woman in Agua Fría.”
“You’re joking?” said Burke, looking unaware of any such thing going on.
“Yeah, I always joke a lot about somebody beating me out of money,” he said with sarcasm.