Crossing Fire River

by Ralph Cotton

  When the wagon slowed down as it approached him, Shaw stepped out onto the hard beaten path of wheel and hoofprints, his hands at his sides without his rifle. His gesture brought the wagon forward until it stopped less than thirty feet away.

  “Hello the trail,” the shotgun rider called in a husky, but unmistakably female voice. Shaw watched the lanky figure in a ragged tan riding duster stand up facing him, shotgun in hand. “Are you a damned road agent? If you are, you’re in for a rude awakening.” The woman’s gloved hand pushed a floppy hat brim up from her forehead. Her other hand held the cocked shotgun to her shoulder.

  Shaw didn’t answer as he stepped forward slowly.

  “That’s close enough,” the woman warned. The driver sat rigid on the seat beside her.

  “She asked you a question, Mister,” the driver said in a gravelly voice. “Are you a thief?”

  “If I was I wouldn’t be robbing an army supply wagon, would I?”

  “That’s a point to consider,” said the woman, the shotgun still raised and ready.

  “People rob most anything these days,” the driver said through a face covered with a thick white beard.

  “That’s true too,” the woman conceded, keeping a stony gaze on Shaw.

  “Why was you waiting here for us?” the driver asked bluntly.

  “Who else is back there?” the woman asked, gesturing toward the shade where the mule and horses stood.

  Shaw answered the woman first. “There’s nobody else. I wouldn’t be fool enough to walk this close to a scattergun if there was a dozen men backing me.”

  The woman seemed to consider the logic of it.

  To the driver Shaw said, “I needed to rest my animals. I saw no other shade between here and Banton.”

  It made sense. The driver almost nodded in agreement.

  But the woman wasn’t finished. “What happened to that one . . . ? You kill him?”

  “No,” said Shaw, “I found him dead, in a cave up in the hill country.” He gave a jerk of his head back toward Mexico. “He’s been dead quite a while, from his looks.”

  “You don’t say . . .” The driver craned his neck a little and gazed toward the blanket-wrapped body lying over the mule’s back. “Who is he?”

  “I don’t know,” said Shaw. “I’m hoping somebody in Banton can tell me. I’ve got a notion he’s from there.”

  “Why’s that?” the woman asked, lowering her shotgun an inch as she gazed inquiringly toward the body. “We get our share of drifters through here.”

  “He’s no drifter,” said Shaw. “Ride forward. I’ll show you what I found beside him.”

  The driver and the shotgun rider looked at each other as if for approval. Then the woman stepped down from the wagon and walked forward while the driver put the six mules forward at a slow walk. “You best have no evil in mind, Pilgrim,” the woman warned Shaw, looking him up and down, trying to discern any ill intent.

  “None,” Shaw said. Walking ahead of the woman and the wagon, he reached the speckled barb and took down the worn leather doctor’s bag from his saddle horn.

  “Watch your step, Mister,” the woman cautioned him until he turned with the bag clearly in his hands and held it out to her.

  “Oh my,” the driver said, recognizing the medicine bag right away. He stopped the walking mules, wrapped his traces around the brake handle and hopped down from the wooden seat.

  Chapter 6

  Shaw stepped back and watched the woman and the wagon driver. The expressions on their faces told him they both knew who the weather-beaten leather bag had belonged to. Her sense of caution gone, the woman walked past Shaw as if he weren’t there. Instead of taking the leather bag he offered her, she ignored it. She stood at the side of the mule and hesitated for a moment. Then she reached out a gloved hand and uncovered the decomposed face beneath a fold of dusty blanket.

  “Janie, is it him?” the driver asked as he walked over quickly and stood beside her.

  The woman made a face and said, “Hell, Ed, I can’t tell who it is, or even what it is.”

  The driver studied the face for moment before making up his mind. Finally he turned away, shaking his head sadly and said, “Hell yes, it’s got to be Doc Edelman.” He took the leather bag from Shaw and turned it back and forth in his big calloused hands.

  “Why’s that?” Shaw asked.

  Touching the bare spot along the top frame the driver said, “Right here it used to have a brass plate that read, J.E. MD. Something must’ve happened to it, I reckon.” Shaking his head sadly, he said, “You are the bearer of terrible news, Mister . . . ?” He paused for a reply.

  “I’m nobody,” Shaw said, not feeling any need to introduce himself. “I’m just a rider passing through, seeing to it this fellow makes it home to his family.” He reached out and took the dusty bag from the driver’s hands. “I’ll turn him over to the sheriff in Banton, if there is one,” he said.

  “There’s not,” said the shotgun rider as the driver handed the bag back to Shaw. “There was, but he drank himself to death six months ago.” She gave Shaw a critical look up and down and added, “There’s a lot of that going around, I hear.”

  Shaw felt her accusing gaze.

  “Complications from drinking too much is what killed him,” the driver corrected her. “At least that’s what the doctor said.”

  “The doctor?” Shaw asked, glancing at the bag back in his hands. “You have another doctor in Banton?”

  “No,” said the driver, “but once we saw Doc Edelman wasn’t likely to be coming back, his wife commenced taking over, seeing to it his patients didn’t go neglected. She’s more or less filled his shoes.”

  “The poor woman is going to take this hard,” said the shotgun rider.

  “Where should I take the body?” Shaw asked, already realizing that without a sheriff the next likely place would be the town doctor.

  “The Edelmans have a place off the trail south of Banton,” said the shotgun rider, giving a nod south. Then, with a look toward the mummified face beneath the blanket, she added, “It’s Widow Edelman now, I reckon.” She studied Shaw up and down skeptically. Then she looked at the driver. “One of us ought to take leave here and ride over with him. It would help Lori Edelman, seeing a familiar face.”

  “Do you feel safe enough, riding with this stranger?” the driver asked in a lowered tone that Shaw could still hear.

  “Are you being funny, Ed?” the shotgun rider shot back at him gruffly, with no attempt at keeping her husky voice down. “If you are, then by God we’ll both go. Save you any undue fretting over my safety.”

  The driver considered it for only a second, then replied, “No, you go ahead on, Janie. Catch up to me along the trail. These staples need to get to Fort Carrick as soon as possible.” To Shaw, he said, “Mister, I’ll warn you not to give this woman a hard time.”

  “You needn’t warn me,” said Shaw. “Like I said, I’m here to take this fellow home; then I’m gone.”

  “Figures,” the woman murmured under her breath.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Shaw stared at her.

  “Not a damn thing,” the woman said in her husky voice, sounding irritated with him for no reason that Shaw could fathom. “Come on, Mr. Nobody. Let’s you and me get this sad business done.”

  Shaw didn’t move. He stared at her, then at the driver. “All right, just call me Lawrence. I didn’t mean to be rude.”

  “We understand, Mr. Nobody,” the woman said with an edge of sarcasm. She gave him another critical once-over and said, “Any fool can see you’re coming off a hangover bigger than the state of Missouri. I’m surprised you can remember any name at all.”

  Shaw offered no argument. He knew he looked like a down-and-out drunk, his dusty, battered top hat, his ragged poncho.

  “Don’t be so hard on him, Janie,” the driver cut in. To Shaw he touched his battered hat brim and said, “Mr. Lawrence, I’m Ed Baggs.” He swept a hand toward the woman and a
dded, “This ornery creature riding shotgun is Janie. I expect we ought to know one another’s names, since you’re riding together to the Edelman place.”

  “The Widow Edelman’s place,” Jane corrected him, still giving Shaw a hard stare. “Thanks to Mr. Lawrence’s terrible discovery.”

  Shaw ignored her and turned to his horses. “The quicker we get started, the quicker we’ll get this done,” he said.

  Over the next hour Shaw and the woman looked back from time to time, watching the freight wagon turn back into a black dot as they rode away from the trail. Finally the wagon topped a low rise on the desert floor and disappeared from view, leaving only its wake of dust in the air. Riding one of Shaw’s spare horses, the woman turned to him and said, “So, Mr. Nobody, is Lawrence your first, last or only name?”

  Shaw didn’t answer. Instead he stared straight ahead and asked in retaliation, “Is Janie your first, last or only name?”

  “Fair enough.” The woman nodded. “Janie is my only name. Leastwise it’s the only name I give answer to.” She paused, then added, “Although some of my good friends call me JC.”

  “JC . . .” Shaw pondered it.

  The woman cut him off quickly, saying, “But you’re not one of my good friends, Mr. Nobody. It’s Jane to you . . . or Miss Jane, whichever you prefer.” She looked him up and down. “Now, what about you? Is Lawrence your first, last or only name?”

  Shaw didn’t want his name to be recognized. “It’s my last name,” he said.

  “Oh? Then what’s your first?” she asked. But before Shaw could respond, she cut in and said, “No, wait, don’t tell me. I like Nobody.” She looked him up and down with her critical gaze and added, “It just suits you. Mr. Nobody Lawrence.” She gave a flat smile of satisfaction with herself.

  Good enough . . . Shaw let it go at that. He didn’t care what this woman called him. He had no desire to be around her, or the town of Banton, any longer than necessary. Changing the subject, he asked, “How long has the doctor been missing?”

  “Hell, it’s been near a year, I calculate,” the woman replied after a moment of thought on the matter. “He went to visit some sick Mexican children this side of the border and never made it home. His horse and buggy came back without him. Right off, we figured Mexican bandits got him. But his wife held out hope he’d be back someday, even as the rest knew better.” She paused and said, “You’ve shot that hope all to hell for her now, I reckon.” She looked Shaw in the eye and gave him a dry smile. He was beginning to realize that this woman meant no harm. She was just abrasive and cynical. She couldn’t help herself, he decided.

  “I doubt it was Mexican bandits,” Shaw offered, paying no attention to her unpleasant manner.

  “Oh, and why is that, Mr. Nobody?” she asked, her bad attitude still holding strong. “Are you some kind of expert on Mexican bandits . . . ? ’Cause if you are, you ought to go report to the army. They’re looking for bold men who can—”

  “Bandits would have kept the horse and buggy,” Shaw said, cutting her off.

  “You sound awful cocksure of yourself,” she said, not giving up, yet sounding as if she believed what he’d said made sense. “Come to think of it, the horse was no worse for wear after a long ride like that. I remember thinking it looked to be in pretty good shape.” She studied Shaw’s face. “Anything else you’d like to enlighten me on? I’m all ears here.”

  “I found his body in a cave,” Shaw said. “Why would bandits bother dragging him there?”

  “Maybe they didn’t drag him there, Mr. Know-it-all,” she said. “Maybe he was wounded and managed to get there himself before he died.”

  “Could be,” said Shaw. “But there was set of boot prints. It looked like somebody dragged him there and left him.” He looked at her, seeing that she had settled down and started taking an interest in what he had to say.

  “I can’t imagine who would want to harm poor Doc Edelman,” she said. “All he ever did was try to cure everybody that needed curing. What kind of world is it when a man like that gets himself killed and dragged away to rot in some godforsaken cave?”

  Shaw offered no commentary on the condition of the world around them. He rode on in silence until they topped a rocky rise where the sand had given way to a stretch of rocky soil and sparse patches of spindly wild grass. Beside him, the woman rose a bit in the stirrups and gazed down into rocky valley split by a narrow winding creek.

  Seeing only a small buckboard sitting at a hitch rail out front of a large clapboard and adobe house, she said, “It looks like there’s only one patient there right now. That’ll make things a little easier.” She nudged the horse forward. Shaw followed, leading the mule with the body over its back.

  Halfway down the long hillside, the two watched an elderly couple walk a child from the porch of the house to the buckboard out front. The man helped both the woman and the child into the wagon; then he climbed up and took the traces. As the buckboard rolled away, Jane gave a look out along the winding valley trail below. Upon sighting four riders along the trail she said, “Uh-oh, looks like we ain’t as lucky as I thought we were.”

  “Who’s this?” Shaw asked, the two of them riding down toward the valley floor.

  “This is some ne’er-do-wells who work for the late doctor’s stepbrother, Bowden Hewes. Everything good the doctor was, Bowden ain’t,” she said, with an almost-worried look on her face. “And these men of his are worse then he is, if that’s possible.” She paused, then said, “Ah hell, they’ve seen us.”

  On the valley trail the four horsemen had slowed almost to a halt and stared up at them. Then, with a thunder of hooves, they raced forward toward the place where the two trails would intersect. “Get prepared for a razzing of some sort,” Jane said sidelong to Shaw. “Whatever you do, keep your head and don’t let them see you make a move for your gun.”

  “Hmmm . . . ,” Shaw murmured, gazing at the riders with detached interest, his rifle already lying across his lap.

  She gave him a look. “I ain’t kidding, Mr. Nobody,” she said. “You best take these men serious if you value your life. Let me do all the talking.”

  Value your life. . . . Shaw almost smiled. “The talking is all yours,” he said calmly.

  As the four horsemen made a slight turn upward onto their trail, Shaw reined in. When he did, the woman stopped beside him. Seeing the first man lead the others toward them from fifty feet away, Janie whispered to Shaw, “This one is Jesse Burkett. He’s the worst of the bunch. Remember, don’t let them see you—”

  “I heard you the first time,” Shaw whispered, cutting her off.

  “Well, now, boys, lookie here,” said the tough-looking Burkett to the men riding a step behind him, fanning their slow walking horses out into a half circle around Jane and Shaw. “It’s JC herself, the loveliest dove west of St. Louis.” Shaw noted the mocking insincerity in the man’s voice, and his insulting manner.

  Jane sat still, her shotgun across her lap, but neither of her hands on it. She was used to this kind of treatment from this sort of man, Shaw decided. “We don’t want no trouble, Jesse,” she said, trying to keep her voice calm, but failing at it, Shaw noted.

  “Ah, ‘we don’t want no trouble,’ ” said another man sitting his horse back a few steps, “the magic words of the true coward.”

  The other two men chuckled darkly.

  Shaw stared flatly at the second man.

  “We come here on a sad piece of business,” Janie said, ignoring the remark. “This concerns Bowden Hewes too. He’ll want to hear about this right away.” She nodded back toward the body lying across the mule’s back.

  Behind Burkett, the other three men looked over at the blanket-wrapped corpse and gave one another a guarded but knowing glance. Shaw saw it and put it way for later contemplation.

  “I’ll decide who needs to hear what out here,” said Burkett. “That’s what Bo Hewes pays me to do.” He jumped his horse forward and stopped just short of plowing between her and
Shaw.

  The woman jerked back in her saddle but managed to keep her horse in place. Shaw sat staring quietly without so much as a flinch at the man’s gesture. Burkett noted Shaw’s lack of concern and said to Janie, “Who is this stupid looking jake?”

  “This is Nobody, Jesse,” said Janie. “Just some drifter who found Doc Edelman’s body and brought it here. That’s why we’re headed down to the Edelmans’ place.”

  “Oh? Nobody, huh?” Burkett turned from Janie to Shaw, his horse’s sides against Shaw’s horse, deliberately crowding him. “I don’t like nobodies.” He stared at Shaw, searching for any sign of fear he might have conjured up in him. He saw none. But he continued. “If that’s the doctor’s body, how do we know you didn’t kill him? Maybe you brought him here hoping for a little reward money, some token of appreciation from the family?”

  Shaw sat silent, staring right back with a blank expression.

  “You can tell Doc has been dead a long time, Jesse,” said Janie. “Nobody here just come upon the body and brought it to Banton—”

  “Shut up, woman, or whatever you are,” said Burkett, cutting Janie off. He stared at Shaw. “I want to hear the words come from his own mouth.”

  “I—I told him not to talk,” Janie said.

  “You told him not to talk?” Burkett chuckled, then stuck out a gloved hand to Shaw. “Maybe you’d best give me that Winchester, Nobody, before you end up hurting yourself.”

  Shaw stared at him blankly and wrapped his hand around his rifle stock as if prepared to raise it.

  “Uh-uh,” said Burkett, stopping him. “I meant give it to me butt first.”

  No one saw the weapon come up from Shaw’s lap; they only heard the sudden sickening thump of a rifle butt against flesh and bone. “Jesus!” Janie exclaimed in shock as Burkett flew sidelong from his saddle and across her lap on his way to the ground. His blood and broken front teeth splattered her cheek.

  “Whoa!” she shouted, sitting back hard on her reins to keep her startled horse from bolting away. As Burkett tumbled over her, he’d knocked her shotgun from her lap. It landed beside him on the rocky ground. Beside her, Shaw hadn’t missed a beat. After force-feeding Burkett his rifle butt, he’d swung the rifle around, cocked, pointed and ready, aimed at the chest of the nearest man in front of him. He still hadn’t said a word.