Lawman from Nogales (9781101544747)
Page 1
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
PART 1
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
PART 2
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
PART 3
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
PART 4
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Teaser chapter
BROKENHEARTED
Just as the Fort Smith Kid’s thumbs went over each set of gun hammers respectively, the Ranger raised the big Colt he’d carried cocked and hanging down his thigh beside his empty holster.
Without a word to the Kid, Sam had taken quick but careful aim, making sure his shot had his full concentration. Then he’d squeezed the Colt’s trigger with finality.
“Holy God—!” the Kid started to shout, trying to swing the shotguns down at the Ranger in time. But he didn’t get the words out of his mouth. Nor did he get both shotguns cocked before the Ranger’s bullet sliced through his heart, blowing part of it out his back. It thumped onto the stone steps behind him. A smear of blood and fragments of dark muscle matter streaked upward, as if pointing toward the ornate bordello doors.
As the Kid fell, the single shotgun he’d managed to cock flew backward, hit the stones and exploded in a blue-orange streak. . . .
SIGNET
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First published by Signet, an imprint of New American Library,
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First Printing, October 2011
Copyright © Ralph Cotton, 2011
ISBN : 978-1-101-54474-7
All rights reserved
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are
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For Mary Lynn . . . of course
PART 1
Chapter 1
Sierra Madre Occidental, Mexico
Arizona Ranger Samuel Burrack rode toward Rosas Salvajes on a copper-colored black-point dun. He’d left Black Pot, his Appaloosa stallion, boarded at the Ranger badlands outpost near Nogales. Though he didn’t like leaving Black Pot behind, there was no denying that the stallion needed a rest. Besides, he reminded himself, the black-point dun had proven itself with distinction time and again in this dry desert furnace.
How long had he been down here? Two months . . . ? Longer . . . ?
He’d lost track of time since he’d crossed the border at Nogales to begin his search for Luis and Teto Torres and their Asesinos de Arma, or Gun Killers Gang. But it didn’t matter. It wouldn’t matter until the job was done.
He knew that time was the first civil element a lawman needed to shed once the Arizona Territory border fell out of sight. This was not his first trip into the wilds of Mexico in search of bad men, and he didn’t want it to be his last.
The dun turned quarterwise on the loose sandy hillside and shuffled down it in a stream of spilling gravel and a rise of dust. At the bottom of the hill, Sam patted the horse’s withers for a job well done and rode on toward Rosas Salvajes, or Wild Roses. In the near distance, adobe, plank and stone buildings rose out of the wavering sand flats stretching out before him.
The weathered buildings stared out at him from behind the half-circling remnants of an ancient fortress wall, which was left over from the Spanish, who had built and ruled the village with iron fists. Roofs of clay tile, tin and wood shingles stood glaring from within a bed of white sand and blinding sunlight. He looked away to protect his eyes.
Three of the Torres gang lay dead in his wake over the five-hundred-mile stretch from Sonora to Durango.
The first to fall had been an Arizona outlaw named Jake Furrows. Sam had left him dead on a side street out in front of a cantina on the outskirts of Sonora, a single bullet through his heart. The second Gun Killer member was a Mexican gunman known as El Lagarto.
The Lizard . . . , Sam thought, touching the heels of his boots to the dun’s sides.
He had killed the Lizard in the fishing village of Punta de Pescado on the sandy coast of the Gulf of California, lingering long enough to watch as a gathering crowd of fishermen’s wives picked through the dead man’s saddlebags and clothing before dragging him away beneath a flock of jabbering seagulls.
The third Gun Killer he’d crossed off his list had been an Arkansan named Lloyd Grelow, also known as the Fort Smith Kid. Sam had found the Kid waiting for him halfway up the long set of stone steps leading to the ancient and majestic Sueños Hermosos—Beautiful Dreams—Bordello in Durango. The Kid had stood above him on the stone steps, holding a pair of twin sawed-off shotguns in his hands. The young Ranger couldn’t imagine why the Kid had done that, chosen shotguns, when a perfectly good ivory-handled Colt stood in a holster on his hip. But that had been his call.
Sam shook his head thinking about it.
He also had no idea why Grelow chose such a place as the Beautiful Dreams Bordello for such a reckoning, though he supposed that didn’t matter either. Lit up high on ground cocaine and peyote, the Kid had not been in his right mind. Sam remembered the Kid’s wide eyes shining down at him like black, wet glass.
“Ever think you’d die on your way up to a whorehouse, Ranger?” he’d called down to Sam. White cottony spittle clung to either corner of his lips.
Sam hadn’t answered. How could he have replied to such a question as that? He’d been more concerned with those two double barrels on the steps above him than he was in making conversation. The Kid held the shotguns propped upward on either hip, poised and ready. Well . . . almost ready, Sam reflected.
The first thing Sam had noticed was that the big shotgun hammers weren’t cocked, and that was all he needed to see. Just as the Fort Smith Kid’s thumbs went over each set of gun hammers respectively, the Ranger raised the big Colt he’d carried cocked and hanging down his thigh beside his empty holster.
Without a word to the Kid, Sam had taken quick but careful aim, making sure his shot had his full concentration. Then he’d squeezed the Colt’s trigger with finality.
“Holy God—!” the Kid started to shout, trying to swing the shotguns down at the Ranger in time. But he didn’t get the words out of his mouth. Nor did he get both shotguns cocked before the Ranger’s bullet sliced through his heart, blowing part of it out his back. It thumped onto the stone steps behind him. A smear of blood and fragments of dark muscle matter streaked upward, as if pointing toward the ornate bordello doors.
As the Kid fell, the single shotgun he’d managed to cock flew backward, hit the stones and exploded in a blue-orange streak, peppering two iron-trimmed oak doors that marked the entrance of Beautiful Dreams. Splinters flew from the doors.
Atop the steps, a young prostitute who had been watching felt the sting of splinters nip at her bare shoulder. She had screamed, dropped the black cigar she’d been smoking and vanished inside behind one of the partially open doors.
From that day to this, Sam had followed the gang’s tracks along stretches of sandy beach, through forests of cedar and pine, across wavering desert flats and down rocky hillsides.
And now to Wild Roses . . . , he told himself. Beneath him, the copper dun kept a brisk pace in spite of the fiery heat rising with the beat of its hooves on the burning sand.
From the hayloft above a plank-and-adobe livery barn, a young, red-haired Scots-Irish woman named Erin Donovan gazed out at the approaching Ranger atop the copper-colored dun. The dun’s black stockings and matching mane and tail took on a sheen of silvery sand as dust rose and drifted behind it.
“It is him,” she murmured quietly, knowing that her brother, Bram, lay unconscious on a blanketed pallet of straw in a corner behind her. Her brother had spent another bad night shivering and rambling out of his head. Throughout the heat of the day, he had remained unconscious, sweating heavily, which the doctor had said was the best thing for him. That, and plenty of clean, cool water, she reminded herself, to help wash the venom from his system.
She continued to gaze out at the lone rider on the coppery, black-point dun, watching him stop more than a hundred yards from town, draw a rifle from his saddle boot, check it and lay it across his lap. All the while he stared toward Wild Roses as if he could see her—as if he was looking into her eyes deep enough to see the edges of her soul.
Nonsense. Stop it, she scolded herself. Her life had neither the time nor the space for such farm girl romanticism. Still, her gaze lingered on the Ranger, staring as she might under different circumstances, as if he were some dusty cavalier, some king’s knight in armor come to save her.
Yet these were not different circumstances, she thought, taking a quick glance over her shoulder as her brother moaned under his shallow breath and lay drenched in sweat. There was no changing her situation, and there were no knights, no dashing horsemen riding in her direction. There was only her and her brother, Bram. Both were wanted by the law in Texas—and here came a lawman. One who would do them dirt? she wondered.
Had Bram not stumbled upon a large desert rattlesnake a week ago, they would have vanished with the Torres brothers and lived under the protection of the Gun Killers’ fierce reputation until Texas had forgotten them both.
Unfortunately, that was not to be the case. The snakebite in Bram’s ankle had changed everything. Instead of taking shelter with the Gun Killers, poor Bram lay locked in a life-and-death struggle, snake venom coursing through his veins, and after only one robbery.
The Torres brothers had left them here—all of them apart from the wild-eyed gunman Matten Page. Page had stayed behind to kill the Ranger when he arrived. At least that was what the Torres brothers had ordered him to do. It appeared to Erin that his greatest interest was trying to catch her alone with no way out of a room except past him.
She looked back out at the rider and the drift of dust he and his black-point dun had left trailing them. Speaking of Page, it was time for her to go to the cantina and tell him the Ranger was here. After all, that was her job—that was what she’d promised to do.
She stood up to leave the loft, but instead of turning away and climbing down the ladder, she lingered at the open door, staring out at the Ranger as he and the dun drew closer to the edge of Wild Roses.
“What do you see out there, little darling?” the voice of Matten Page said behind her.
She spun around with a start and saw him step up off the ladder and walk toward her.
“Oh!” she said, collecting herself quickly. “I was just on my way to find you!”
“It didn’t look that way to me,” Page said, a harsh expression on his bearded face. He stopped close to her, stooped a little and gazed out toward the lone rider nearing the edge of town.
“I—I think this might be him,” she said quietly.
“I think you just might be right, little darling,” Page replied, studying the rider closely.
Erin stared in silence.
Page straightened, turned to her and looked her up and down, as he did at every opportunity. He always stood too close to her, and his eyes always watched her in a manner that made her feel uncomfortable.
Sidling almost against her, Page said, “I hate thinking what would have happened had he walked in on me with the repeating rifle and caught me unawares.”
Erin only gazed out, avoiding Page’s eyes. The outlaw reached over with a dark chuckle and pushed a strand of long red hair from her cheek with his fingertip.
“You weren’t going to leave me in a lurch, were you, little darling?” he asked. “After all I’ve done for you and your snakebit brother?”
“No, Mr. Page,” she said, “I wasn’t going to do that. I was on my way to tell you—”
“Shhh, of course you were,” Page said, cutting her off with a flat grin. “How many times do I have to tell you? Call me Matten.” He reached a hand out behind her and let it rest at the small of her back. Her skin crawled at his touch.
To detract his attention from her, she nodded out at the approaching Ranger.
“What are you going to do if that is him?” she asked.
Page grinned and gave a quick glance out the loft door and back to her.
“Oh, I’ll just walk down there, put a bullet or two in him before he even knows I’m there.” He leaned close and breathed against her ear, “Then I’ll get myself right back up here . . . to you.” His hand tightened a little above the curve of her hips. “How does that sound?”
Erin couldn’t answer, for a hard knot had suddenly risen in her throat. Her silence caused the outlaw to chuckle knowingly.
“You stay right here for me,” he said. “I’ll be back shortly, to take up where we left off.” He gave a squeeze on the small of her back before turning her loose.
My goodness, she thought. How would she ever shed herself of such dire circumstances?
Cha
pter 2
The Ranger wore a faded black bandanna tied back over his head, the tails knotted and hanging on the back of his neck, beneath a battered brown vaquero-style sombrero. He wore a faded dark-striped poncho that flapped low and steadily in the hot dry wind. As he rode forward, he eyed the few horses standing at the iron hitch rails of the Perros Malos Cantina.
Two doves from the cantina had stepped out onto the boardwalk to greet the Ranger when he rode up the center of the street. The older of the two, an American from Chicago named Glory Embers, fluffed her hair with her fingertips and wet her painted red lips.
“This one is mine first, Tereze,” the older dove said.
The younger dove, a raven-haired French-Mexican beauty, Sidel Tereze, only stared with a smile, a hand planted confidently on her rounded hip.
When they saw the Ranger turn the black-point dun to the opposite side of the street before stopping and stepping down, though, both women recognized trouble. He raised his Colt from his holster, checked it and held it down his side.
“Damn it, never mind, Tereze,” Glory whispered to the younger dove beside her. “You’d best go tell the Frenchman that a gunman has come to Wild Roses.”
The younger prostitute only turned and stared at her with uncertainty.
“Go and tell him now!” the older woman insisted in a stronger tone. “Henri will know what to do.”
Sam watched as the younger woman turned and hurried back inside the cantina from across the dusty stone-tiled street.
Sam knew the reputation of the Perros Malos—Bad Dogs—Cantina and its French owner, Henri “Three-Hand” Defoe. He unhurriedly laid the horse’s reins over the hitch rail and examined the animal a little, making sure the young woman had plenty of time to tell Defoe he was here. Then he peeled off his fingerless right leather glove, stuffed it down behind his gun belt, turned and walked across the empty street.