Crossing Fire River

by Ralph Cotton

  “The Undertaker . . .” Shaw gave a slight smile and relaxed a little.

  “I thought I best get over here and tell you,” she said. “I’ve been watching for you ever since Wheatis the barber said he saw you ride out.” She shook her head. “I hope I haven’t brought trouble down on you . . . although I know you’re a man who can handle it if I did.”

  Hearing a sound coming from the direction of the empty building, the two turned toward it. Shaw’s hand wrapped around the butt of his Colt. Anson jerked back away from the broken window and hugged flat against the wall. On the boardwalk, Jane and Shaw saw the barber’s cat, who stood staring at them with a wary look, as if remembering its last encounter with Shaw and his big Colt.

  “Dang cat nearly got itself shot,” Jane said. She looked back at Shaw. “Did I screw up something, the way I usually do?” She looked ashamed. “Ed says I’m a calamity walking around waiting to happen.”

  “It’s all right, Jane,” he said. “Obliged you came and told me though.” He nodded toward the livery barn. She walked alongside him.

  When Shaw and Jane stepped out of the dim light of an oil pot toward the livery barn, Anson looked back out and cursed under his breath. “Damn it, I should of shot him while I had him in my sights.”

  “Yeah,” said Wallick, “you sure should have.”

  “But you didn’t, now, did you?” Myra said sarcastically.

  Anson couldn’t face Myra, but he stared at Wallick coldly for a moment. “That’s all right. I know where they’re headed. Come on, Wilbur, both of yas, I’m still going to nail his shirt to his chest.”

  The three hurried out the rear door of the empty building and raced along the alley toward the livery barn. When they slowed to a walk and moved forward in a crouch, they stopped at a crack in the back wall and stood listening intently.

  At the front barn door, Shaw stepped inside and said quietly toward the hayloft overhead, “Dawson, Caldwell, it’s me, Shaw.”

  Shaw . . . ? Jane stared at him.

  Dawson stepped to the edge of the hayloft in the darkness and said, “How’d you know we’re here?”

  “Instincts,” Shaw said. Behind Dawson a lantern flared to life in Caldwell’s hand. A golden circle of dim flickering light filled the blackness.

  Looking down at Shaw from the loft and seeing the buckskin-dressed woman beside him, Dawson said quietly, “I see Jane Crowly managed to jump ahead of us and get to you first.”

  As if having to defend her action, Jane stepped forward and said, “So the hell what? I told you this man is a pal of mine. I didn’t know whether you was telling the truth or not. I wasn’t going to be responsible for him getting ambushed.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Dawson said, trying to put the matter aside. He climbed down a ladder to the straw-covered floor. Caldwell climbed down behind him, holding the lantern up for light.

  “Damn right it doesn’t,” said Jane, refusing to let it go. “Anyway, what the hell kind of friends are yas, sneaking around in the dark like you’re up to no good?”

  Shaw cut in before either Dawson or Caldwell could answer. “They wanted to see what was going on here before they made their presence known, Jane.” He looked at Dawson, then back at her. “That’s sort of how we work together.”

  “Work together?” Jane gave him a curious look. “Are you saying that you’re a lawman too?” She looked him up and down. As if he already concluded his answer, she said, “And here I thought you was just a good ole drifter and a drunk.”

  Shaw looked at Dawson, a little ashamed, and replied to Jane, “That was just my disguise. I’ve been gathering information about a gang of outlaws all the way across the desert.”

  Going along with Shaw’s explanation, Dawson nodded and said, “Well, I’m glad to see you’ve been able to drop the disguise.”

  Outside in the darkness, Anson and Wilbur looked at each other. Myra stood back with a hand on her hip, a look of disgust on her face.

  Without a word, Anson lowered the rifle he’d raised and aimed through a wide crack in the barn wall. The two backed away slowly, Myra right beside them, until they got out of hearing. Then the three broke into a run and didn’t stop until they reached the end of the alleyway. “Jesus, Wilbur, we’ve uncovered a swarm of lawdogs!”

  “I know, I know,” Wallick said with fear in his voice. “What are we going to do? I wish I’d never come along with you across the border. I should have stuck with Easy John and the Scotsman. What do you suppose they’re up to?”

  Myra stared at them, shaking her head. “The same thing every lawman I’ve screwed lately has been up to, you idiots—the stolen Mexican gold.”

  Anson and Wallick looked at each other. “I want out of here!” Wallick said suddenly, unable to keep his fear in check. “What are we going to do?” He paced back and forth, his hand on either side of his big head. “What are we going to—”

  “Get ahold of yourself, Wilbur!” said Anson, grabbing him and shaking him soundly. “I’ll tell you what we’re going to do. We’re going to go get the hell out of here.” He gave the frightened gunman a shove in the direction of the saloon, where their horses stood at the hitch rail. “The gold, huh?” he said sidelong to Myra, who ran along with them.

  “Hell yes, the gold,” she said. She grabbed the reins to a horse standing a few feet away, seeing a rifle butt sticking up from its saddle boot. “You should’ve had enough sense to know that.”

  “Maybe I did know it,” said Anson. “Maybe I wanted to know if you knew it too.”

  “Yeah, right,” Myra said skeptically. She jerked the horse away from the rail, helping herself to the animal without hesitation. “Don’t mind if I do . . . ,” she murmured, swinging up into the saddle as Anson and Wallick did the same. In moments the three were mounted and beating a fast path out of town.

  In the barn, Jane and the three lawmen looked toward the sound of horses’ hooves fading north along the dirt street. “Drunken cowhands, no doubt,” Jane speculated. As soon as the sound diminished a bit, she looked at Dawson and Caldwell, then at Shaw. She asked him, “What did you call yourself a while ago?”

  “Shaw. It’s my name,” Shaw said.

  “Oh?” Jane gave him a perturbed frown. “Then who the blazes is Lawrence?”

  “That’s my name, too,” Shaw said. “My name is Lawrence Shaw.” He watched her coolly, waiting for recognition to sink in. When it did, Jane corkscrewed her face and said almost to herself, “I’ll be damned, Fast Larry Shaw! The fastest gun alive! How the hell did I miss seeing it? I must be the dumbest—”

  “I don’t go by Fast Larry anymore,” Shaw cut in. “I go by Lawrence.” He turned to Dawson. “I’m glad you two showed up. There’s a lot getting ready to happen around here.”

  The three stood looking at Jane expectantly until she took the hint and said, “If you fellows will excuse me, why don’t I just go see how Ed’s making out getting us up another load to Fort Carrick?”

  The three nodded and watched her head for the barn door.

  “Anything to do with the gold or Jake Goshen and his gang?” Dawson asked as Jane reached out to shove the door open.

  “Yep,” said Shaw, “I’ve found out plenty.” He looked from one to the other. “Both the Jake Goshen Gang and the gold are on the way to a place near here, tonight. They’re bringing the gold with them. They’re going to melt it down to keep it from being identified. The man who’s got the equipment to melt it down is Bowden Hewes. He’s on his way here tonight.”

  “Hewes, that crooked sumbitch,” Jane remarked, stopping at the door.

  Shaw turned his words to Jane. “Him and the widow are in it together. Hewes is coming here to kill me.”

  Jane looked stunned, but she recovered quickly and said, “I hope you know I had no idea any of this was afoot, else I’d have never—”

  “I know that,” Shaw said, cutting her off. “Nobody is blaming you.” He turned back to Dawson. Seeing the confused look on his and Caldwell’
s face, Shaw said, “I’m going to fill you in on everything before Hewes and his men get here.” The three turned once more toward Jane, who stood staring at them.

  “All right,” she said, “I’m going.” She turned and walked out the door grumbling under her breath.

  Stan Booker jumped down from the horse with the shotgun in his hand and let the spent animal he was riding stagger away into a sandy draw. Beside him the other horse stood frothed and winded. Both horses had run long and hard without water. The second animal tried to shy away when he stepped up in the stirrup. But Booker would have none of it. He shot a nervous glance back along his trail.

  “Hold still, you flea-bit cayuse!” he shouted, managing to throw himself over into the saddle and jerk back hard on the reins. “I’ll say when we rest and when we run.” He nailed his spurs to the horse’s sides. The animal let out a painful whinny and shot forward.

  “That’s more like it!” Booker shouted, leaning forward low on the horse’s neck as the courageous animal gained speed. He slapped the ends of his reins back and forth wildly. “Yiiihiiii!” But before the worn-out animal had gone a hundred yards, it veered sidelong off the trail, careened sharply down a steep hillside of sand and rock and jerked to a sudden halt.

  With a loud scream, Booker shot forward over the horse’s head in a high spray of sand. He turned a half flip and slammed upside down, backward into a thick, stiff saguaro cactus. He slid down onto his head and fell flat forward onto his face with a loud grunt, knocked cold, his back pierced with large cactus needles. The tired horse walked the rest of the way down the hillside to the cactus. It sniffed dryly at Booker’s back, then walked away toward the faint smell of water in the night air.

  A full twenty minutes passed before Booker moaned in a broken voice, “Good God almighty . . .” He pushed himself to his feet, his neck throbbing in pain. He staggered in place for a moment, until he righted the world beneath his feet. With cactus needles stabbing him at every move, he struggled forward two steps. Then he stopped with the tip of a rifle barrel poked into his stomach.

  “What are you doing out here, you stupid son of a bitch?” Jake Goshen asked, standing behind the rifle. Goshen gave the barrel an extra poke. “I told you and those other jackasses to stay south of the border, keep the money showing up down there.”

  “That is what we did, Jake,” said Booker, pain racking him from every direction. “But we got singled out by some damn lawmen. They killed the others, far as I know. I got away by the skin of my neck.”

  “How many lawmen?” Jake asked in an angry voice.

  “Two,” said Booker, plucking a long, thick cactus needle from the back of his arm.

  “Two . . . ,” Goshen said flatly. He lowered the rifle at his side, then let out a breath, drew a long Colt, held it out at arm’s length toward Booker’s head and cocked it.

  “Jake, please!” Booker pleaded. “They’ll hear the shot!”

  Before pulling the trigger, Goshen looked back along the dark trail Booker had ridden and stopped himself. He let the hammer down and lowered the Colt. “Those two lawmen just saved your worthless life,” he said.

  “Jake,” Booker said, trying to regain some favorable standing with the enraged outlaw leader, “I rode all this way just to warn you about them. I knew you’d be in the hideout up in the hills.”

  “You rode all this way to get them off of your back and onto mine, Booker,” Goshen growled. “Now, find your horse and get on it. We’re headed for Hewes’ place across the river.”

  Booker looked at the wagon bed filled with wooden crates, covered with a tied-down black tarpaulin. “Is that what I think it is?” he asked meekly.

  “Get your horse, Booker, before I change my mind and cut your throat,” said Goshen. “If those lawmen cause us any trouble with this gold, you’re going to be the first to die.”

  Chapter 20

  Shaw filled the other two lawmen in on everything that had happened while Jane went to the saloon to find Ed Baggs. Instead of asking Baggs about any freight load he might have lined up for them, she warned him of the trouble coming to Banton. “I don’t have to be told twice,” Baggs said, tossing back his whiskey in one gulp. “I’m out of here. What about you?”

  “I’m going for coffee,” Jane said, giving him a look as she turned and walked back out of the nearly empty saloon. When she returned to the barn she carried a pot of hot coffee she’d picked up at a restaurant, along with four clean coffee mugs.

  “Come and get it, fellows,” Jane said. “There’s nothing like a good mug of coffee before having to shoot a sumbitch or two.”

  Shaw stood inspecting his shooting gear when she came through the door. Ignoring her remark, he slipped his Colt back into its holster and took one of the mugs. “Obliged, Jane,” he said as she poured the mug full.

  “I figure it’s the least I can do, to make up for introducing you to Lori Edelman,” Jane replied. “I swear, I think Ed is right about me. I screw up everything I touch.” She looked back and forth at the men checking their guns. “I had my shotgun stole from me, but if one of yas will lend me a gun, I’ll be glad to pitch in and fight these outlaws with you.”

  Shaw didn’t answer. He sipped his coffee, then set the mug down atop a feed bin and continued checking his rifle and his Colt.

  “Well, don’t everybody offer at once,” Jane said with a sour expression.

  “It’s law work now, Jane,” said Shaw. “You’ve been a big help. But it’s best you sit the rest of it out.”

  “Sit it out? Why? Because I’m a woman?” Jane asked, offended by Shaw’s remark. “You might be the fastest gun alive, but this place is my home.” She thumbed herself on her flat chest. “I got a right to help defend it.”

  “Have you ever killed a man, Miss Jane?” Dawson asked, picking up a Colt from atop the feed bin where weapons and ammunition lay.

  “No,” Jane replied, her face taking on a grave, earnest expression, “but I’ve always known I could if circumstances ever called upon me to do so.”

  Dawson decided not to pursue the matter any further. He handed Jane the Colt and watched her check it and shove it down into her waist. “Here’s how it’s going to go,” he said. “We’ve got nothing on Hewes. We’ll have to wait until him and his men make the first move. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  “Oh,” Jane said in a mocking voice, “you mean we’re not going to just start shooting as soon as we hear their horses riding in?”

  “I just want to make sure you understand everything,” Dawson said with no appreciation for her remark.

  “I understand everything,” Jane said solemnly. “I’ll make no move until a move is made against us.”

  “That’s right,” said Dawson. “Before the smoke clears here, we’re going to be on our way to get settled up with Jake Goshen and his men. Once this whole thing starts there’ll be no backing out of it.”

  “Watch your language,” Jane said. “I never crawfished away from trouble in my life. I ain’t likely to start doing it now.” She jaunted her chin proudly.

  Outside, on the trail leading north away from Banton toward a distant line of hills, Anson, Wallick and Mean Myra finally slowed their horses to a walk and looked back toward town in the grainy starlit darkness. “Well, then, smart boy,” Myra said to Anson, who sat nearest her. “What else do you have in mind for us?”

  “Well . . .” Anson stalled for a moment. “I figure we’ll ride on down to Texas. Wilbur and I can always stir us up something to do in Texas, to make us a few dollars.” He tried a devil-may-care grin, but it didn’t work well.

  “Oh, a few dollars?” Myra looked unimpressed. “Tell me something,” Myra said, “do you boys leave town that fast every time a lawman shows up?”

  Anson said, “We both just got out of a Mexican prison. Excuse us if lawmen make us a little edgy. Like all desperadoes and long riders, we have to stay ready to make a getaway.”

  “Long riders . . .” She shook her head. “It’s a
miracle you two ain’t starved to death.”

  “We are long riders.” Anson stared at her. “You’re welcome to come along with us and see for yourself. We’ll even make you a partner.”

  “No, thank you,” said Myra. “I make good money with my ass and ankles. I would’ve made seven or eight dollars already tonight if I hadn’t wanted to see a man get shot down—which I didn’t even get to see, as it turns out.” She gave him a stiff, accusing glare.

  “Stick with us, and you’ll see me shoot a man sooner or later,” said Anson, “I can promise you that.”

  Myra stared off as if in contemplation for a moment. Then she said, “I’ve been whoring two years and I’ve not yet seen a man shot. Most I saw was one get stabbed in his lungs.” She shrugged. “It wasn’t much.” She put the stolen horse forward at a walk.

  “Stay with us, Myra,” Anson said. “Hell, I’ll even see to it you get to shoot somebody yourself, if that’s what it’ll take to make you happy.”

  “Don’t go making promises if you don’t mean to keep them,” Myra tossed over her shoulder to him.

  “I mean it, Myra,” said Anson, keeping his horse right alongside her. “I swear I do. If not the man back in Banton, then some other man, and it’ll be damned soon.”

  “We’ll see,” Myra said, riding on a walk.

  A mile farther along the trail, they stopped again, this time atop a sand crest, when they saw and heard the dark line of riders winding toward them. “Whoa, who’s this?” said Anson, easing his horse off the trail, Myra and Wallick right behind him.

  Behind the shelter of rocks alongside the trail, the three stepped down and watched the riders draw closer and file past them toward town. Recognizing Bowden Hewes as he passed less than fifteen feet away, Mean Myra stood up and dusted the seat of her coat. “I’ve got a feeling there’s something coming to a head between Hewes and the lawmen.” She looked at Anson and said, “Take me back to town. Maybe I will get to see a sumbitch shot tonight after all.” Her eyes lit with excitement at the prospect. “I might see more than one!”