by Ralph Cotton
“I will,” said Loonie. “You can count on it. We both killed them. Far as I’m concerned, we’ll both take the credit for it.”
The ambushers fell silent as the unsuspecting riders moved their horses at a slow walk along the dark trail. As soon as Loonie saw their silhouettes directly beneath him, he raised his cocked rifle to his shoulder and slid his finger over the trigger.
“Fire!” he bellowed, and with a long war cry he sent round after round of deadly rifle fire down onto the trail below.
Beside him, the flash of heavy gunfire lit the cliff line, which was soon shrouded in a swirling veil of silver-gray smoke. From the trail below, the sound of return fire lasted only a second. Realizing the strength of their five rifles against only two unsuspecting adversaries, Loonie stopped firing and ordered the others to do the same.
“So long, law dogs,” he said, unable to hear himself because of the relentless ringing in his ears.
The rest of the men lay beside him in silence, listening for any sound from below, their ears also ringing as they took the time to reload their weapons.
Finally, Breck said with a short laugh, “I only saw a couple of muzzle flashes down there, Carlos. We’ve pounded the hell out of them.”
“Yeah, we sure did,” Loonie said. Fanning smoke with his hat, he stood up and continued staring down into the darkness. “But let’s not go getting too full of ourselves just yet, Ned.”
“What do you mean?” Breck asked, standing up beside him. “They’re both dead. We caught them with their guard down—that’s that.”
Loonie looked at him flatly and said, “Before I call it a kill, I need to see some hair and bone with blood on it.”
“If that’s all it takes, come on,” said Breck, getting more and more confident. He turned and started toward the horses standing hitched a few yards away. “We’ll get you some hair and bone right now.”
Cervo and the other three men stood as well, dusting themselves and looking to Loonie for orders. “How did me and my amigos do, Carlos?” Cervo asked with a proud smile.
“You and your amigos did just fine, cousin,” Loonie said. “I never doubted any of you for a minute.” He looked at the other three and said, “Come with me. Let’s make sure this ain’t a trap.”
They walked over to the horses. Breck had already separated his from the others and stepped up into his saddle. Looking up at Breck, Loonie said, “You better settle down, Ned, and watch your step. These two law dogs are known for being full of tricks.”
Breck held his horse back and gave a grin. “That may have been true,” he said, “but all they’re full of now is bullets.”
“You’re right,” Loonie said, not wanting to appear overly wary in front of his cousin and the three new men. “But it’s always best to see some blood first.” He stepped into his saddle and turned his horse alongside the restless gunman.
“And so we will,” said Breck, barely able to hold himself back.
Once the rest of the men were mounted, Loonie and Breck led them off the cliff overhang and down a path to the trail below. Even in the pale light of the quarter moon, they didn’t have to travel far before they could make out four objects lying motionless on the rocky switchback.
Stopping, Loonie and Breck stepped down from their saddles and led their horses forward on foot, their guns drawn from their holsters, cocked and ready. The other four gunmen dismounted and spread out on either side of the trail. They proceeded forward warily, coming to a hault when Loonie and Breck stopped.
Loonie heard the sound of labored breathing coming from one of the dark forms lying spread out beside a dead horse, and aimed his Colt. “Ned! Have you got matches?” he asked in a harsh whisper.
“Yeah,” Breck said. He hurriedly took out a long wooden match, struck it and held it out in front of him. The short circle of light illuminated two boots struggling to crawl away through a wide puddle of blood.
“Stop right there, law dog! Your string has just run out,” said Loonie, his gun out at arm’s length, ready to fire at a distance of five feet.
The crawling man stopped, turned up onto his side and looked back at them in the flicker of the match light. Blood was streaming from either corner of his mouth, but in a broken voice managed to say “Law . . . dog?”
“Oh, no! Damn it to hell!” said Loonie in horror, recognizing the bloody face of James Long. “We’ve shot the Fist!”
“What?” Breck said in disbelief, stepping closer, the long flickering match still in hand. The other men gathered close around the wounded gunman with stunned expressions, except for Buck Collins, who only spat and shook his head.
“Who’s the Fist?” Buck Collins asked Cervo under his breath.
Cervo said, “My cousin told me he is James Long, one of Santana’s second in command.”
“Just my gawl-danged luck,” Buck growled. “First day on the job, I’ve shot the boss.”
“Damn, Long,” said Loonie, “you’ve got to believe me. This was a terrible accident!”
“Accident . . . your ass,” Long said. He coughed and wiped blood from his mouth. “One of you sonsabitches . . . get me some water,” he said brokenly.
Cervo looked at Russell Hogue and said, “Get him a canteen, pronto!”
Russell gave him a look, but then did as he was told.
“Jesus, Fist, what are you doing out here?” said Loonie, stooping down to cradle the wounded outlaw. “Who’s the other man?” he questioned, looking over at a lump lying in the darkness.
“That’s Tucker Cady,” Long said, shoving Loonie away from him. “We were . . . looking for you, you idiot.” He coughed again.
“Tucker Cady? Reilly Cady’s brother? My God! Hurry up with that water,” Loonie shouted at Hogue.
“Are you going to live, or what?” Buck asked out of the blue, stepping in closer, standing over Long and Carlos Loonie, who was still stooped beside him.
“You’re damn . . . right I’m going to live,” said Long, giving each of the men a cold, threatening stare. “When I tell Santana . . . you sonsabitches . . . are going to wish—”
His words stopped short when Buck raised the tip of his pistol barrel and sent a bullet ripping through his forehead.
“Good God Almighty!” Loonie shouted, Long’s blood splattering over his face and chest. “You’ve killed him! He might have been all right with a little doctoring!”
“Damn right I killed him,” said Buck. “You heard what he said. Did you want Santana climbing up our shirts over this?”
“He’s got a point, Loonie,” said Ned Breck. “Santana would have had us killed for sure. Reilly Cady would kill us, if nothing else.”
Russell walked back with the open canteen he’d brought for Long. Breck grabbed it from his hand. “Obliged,” he said. He took a deep swig of tepid water as the others looked on with puzzled expressions. When he lowered the canteen, he said with a threatening tone in his voice, “Loonie, you’re the one led us into this. You best keep your mouth shut about it.”
Loonie stared. “But you’re the one who killed him, not me,” he said.
Buck turned his smoking gun barrel toward Loonie and said, “You really want to talk that way?”
“No!” Loonie said, raising his hands chest high in submission. “I’m just shook-up by all this.”
“Get unshook,” Buck ordered, lowering his Colt to his side. “You led us into this mess. Now I’m leading us out of it. Any objections?” He looked all around at the gunmen, searching their faces for any sign of dissent, then stared back down at Loonie.
“No,” said Loonie, “no objections.”
Buck looked at Ned Breck.
“No objections,” Breck assured him.
“Good,” said Buck. He started to holster his Colt, but then stopped himself, looked down at Carlos Loonie once again and said firmly, “While it’s on my mind, you and I are trading horses.”
Loonie sat in hangdog silence. Buck nodded and said to the others, “All right, then, ho
mbres. Drag these two dead sonsabitches off the trail and let’s get away from here.”
When Dawson and Caldwell had heard the shooting, they’d hurried upward to the next level of the switchback trail. Using caution on the steep, rocky hillside, they arrived less than half an hour after the shooting had ended, the last of it being the single gunshot from Buck Collins’ big Colt. The lawmen rode the last hundred yards of winding trail, and came upon the two dead horses lying in wide pools of blood.
“Fire us a torch, Deputy,” Dawson said. “These men have hightailed it out of here.” They’d both already seen the long streaks of blood leading off the trail in the light of the quarter moon.
While Caldwell took a short torch handle from his saddlebags and wrapped it with a strip of cloth, Dawson followed the smears of blood over to a broken clump of brush. Caldwell soon arrived, a flickering glow of torchlight encircling him, and both men looked down at two bodies lying sprawled a few feet off the trail. Noting the enlarged hand on one of the corpses, Dawson took hold of the torch, walked down closer to the body and rolled it over with the toe of his boot.
Caldwell, stepping down beside him, stopped and said quietly, “James Long, also known as the Fist, Santana’s number two.”
“Killed by his own men,” Dawson added. “No wonder they cleared out of here so fast.” He stepped over to the other body and rolled it faceup to him.
“One of the Cady boys?” Caldwell asked, studying the blank, dead eyes on the bullet-chewed face and body.
“Tucker Cady, the younger one,” said Dawson.
“Something sure got them stirred up against each other,” Caldwell mused.
“Nope,” said Dawson, “I believe this trap was meant for us. The Fist and Tucker Cady just happened to stumble into it.”
“Talk about rotten luck,” Caldwell reflected.
“Indeed,” said Dawson, well aware that it could have been the two of them lying there in the brush.
“What about the bullet hole in Long’s forehead?” said Caldwell, remembering the single shot they’d heard a few minutes after the rest of the heavy firing had stopped. “If it was a mistake . . .”
“He was still alive,” said Dawson.
The two stood in silent contemplation for a moment.
“Would you want to leave James Long alive after ambushing him, even if it was an accident?” Dawson asked.
Caldwell only chuffed at the thought. “When Carlos Loonie gets his story straightened out, it’ll be us who killed these two.”
“That’d be my guess,” said Dawson. “One thing we can tell from this for sure—Mingus Santana is gettin’ ready to make a strike somewhere.”
“Why do you say so?” Caldwell asked.
“Because he sent one of his top men out to gather the gang together,” said Dawson.
“Yeah,” Caldwell said, staring at the bodies lying in the brush and loose rock of the hillside. “Maybe we’ll get lucky, catch them when they’re all together.”
Dawson said, “I’d feel better about that opportunity if we could find Shaw first.”
“Since when do we need Shaw to do our jobs?” Caldwell asked.
“We don’t,” said Dawson. “I’m just thinking . . . if everything starts to come to a head with Santana’s Cut-Jaws Gang, and Shaw finds himself right in the midst of it, his head still not working just right . . .”
“Yeah, I see what you mean,” Caldwell said. “Sorry. I meant no harm.”
“I know you didn’t,” Dawson assured him. He turned and walked back to the horses. Caldwell followed, the torchlight flickering in his hand.
Chapter 9
Riding alongside the wagon on the trail to la Ciudad de Hombres Malos, Shaw watched from his saddle as Senora Rosa Reyes turned to Readling and whispered something in his ear. Readling was in the wagon seat next to the senora. Willis Dorphin sat on the other side of the senora, driving the wagon. When she had finished whispering in Readling’s ear, he turned and stared out at Shaw for a moment. Then he motioned for Shaw to come closer.
As Shaw sidled over to the wagon, the eyes of Doc Penton and the Johnson brothers on him, he watched Readling turn and speak to Dorphin. Before he reached the passenger side, the wagon came to a halt.
Readling said in a clipped tone, “I know how you are with a gun, Shaw. How are you with a team of horses?”
Shaw gave the senora a glance, knowing this was her request, not Readling’s.
“I’m all right,” Shaw said, recognizing the pointlessness of the question. Readling only wanted to appear to be in charge.
“Good, then,” Readling said. “I know you’re only riding with me, not for me, but would you mind taking over the reins for a while? I’m sure Big T could use a break.”
“I’m not tired, sir,” Dorphin offered, just between himself and Readling. But Readling only gave him a cold stare.
The senora took the opportunity to flash Shaw a guarded smile. Despite the dull pain inside his head, Shaw managed to return the smile. The pain had found him during the night and stayed with him through midmorning. Usually with the throbbing came a detached numbness to the world around him. But not today.
Was it the woman that kept his senses from straying . . . ? Her nearness? Her familiarity? The sense of comfort he felt with her?
Readling turned from Dorphin and watched Shaw step down from his saddle and loop his reins loosely around the saddle horn. As he walked to the wagon, Readling called out, “You can hitch your horse to the tailgate.”
“No need,” Shaw replied. “He knows where I want him.”
The horse stayed at Shaw’s heels as he crossed in front of the wagon and stopped on the driver ’s side. Dorphin stepped down from the wooden seat and started back to where his horse stood hitched to the rear of the wagon.
As Dorphin stepped into his saddle, Doc Penton moved his horse up closer and said quietly, “How long you figure it’ll take Shaw before he has Readling tagging along at his heels?”
Dorphin didn’t answer. Instead, he jerked his horse around by its reins and moved it away from Penton to the other side of the wagon. The Johnson brothers sat watching, their wrists crossed on their saddle horns as Shaw slapped the traces to the horses’ backs and the wagon rolled forward again.
In the narrow wooden seat, Shaw could feel the warm aura of the woman beside him. As surely as he felt Rosa’s relaxed warmth, he felt the cool brittleness of Readling sitting on her other side. But Shaw didn’t care about Readling. Being near this woman was all he cared about—this woman, who shared a name with his own precious Rosa . . . .
He was not a religious or otherwise superstitious man. Yet, being near this woman summoned up something unexplainable inside him. It was as if his Rosa had come back to him somehow. He wasn’t sure how that sort of thing would work, even if that sort of thing was real. He pictured the hands of the old bruja as she reached up and set her sparrows loose to dance on the breeze above the racing sparks and licking flames. There was something here, he told himself. Something . . .
In the day’s heat, Shaw lifted his sombrero enough to let it fall back behind his shoulders on its leather drawstring. With it went the damp bandana that covered his head beneath the sombrero. They rolled on a hundred yards before the senora looked sidelong at the terrible scar just above his hat line. His hair had grown back, covering it for the most part, but it was still visible, and the sight of it caused the woman to wince.
Without turning toward her, Shaw sensed her questioning eyes on him. Ascertaining that the bandana had fallen inside his sombrero, he reached back and pulled it from within the crown and held it in his hand.
“A gunshot,” he said sidelong to her. “I try to keep it hidden. It still has some healing to do.”
“It is not so noticeable,” said the senora. She reached up and carefully fluffed his damp hair with her fingertips to better hide the scar. “There, now it is covered.”
Rather than sit there brooding while his woman brushed her fingers along
the side of Shaw’s head, Readling cut in and asked, “Who did that, Shaw? Some gun-slick out to build himself a reputation, no doubt?”
“To be honest, I don’t know who did it,” Shaw said, staring straight ahead.
“Uh-oh,” said Readling with a smug grin. “It’s my experience that a man who leads with the statement ‘to be honest’ usually isn’t telling the truth—not all of it anyway.”
Shaw gave a short, sidelong glance past Rosa Reyes to Readling. “I don’t lie,” he said flatly, keeping his tone as even and cordial as he could, realizing that it still had a bit of a sharp edge to it.
“No, of course not,” said Readling, his tone turning more serious, the smugness gone. “I simply meant there must be more to the story than you’re willing to share with us.”
Shaw stared straight ahead, the silence clearly making Readling uncomfortable. Rosa sat gazing ahead with a demure half smile on her face, as if enjoying the tension Readling had brought upon himself.
Finally, Readling broke the quiet, saying, “Well, if you two will excuse me, I think I’ll ride my horse far aways.” He looked at Rosa and said, “It appears Mr. Shaw has the wagon well in hand.”
The senora only looked away.
Without a word, Shaw drew back the traces and slowed the horses to a near standstill. The riders gazed on curiously as Readling jumped down from the seat and turned to speak.
“Carry on, then,” he said, assuming an authority that he knew he didn’t really have, not over Shaw, that is. “We’ll stop and rest the horses before the last stretch into—”
The sound of the wagon lurching forward cut him off. He hurriedly made his way back to the tailgate and unhitched his horse before Shaw left him standing alone in the trail.
“Boy, oh, boy,” Elvis Johnson whispered to his brother, Witt. “Talk about letting a fox into a henhouse.”
“Quiet, brother,” said Witt. “If I was Readling, I wouldn’t be in the mood for hearing any remarks.”
Elvis grinned, but fell silent, watching Readling scramble atop his horse and nudge it forward, trying to hide his concern over what Shaw had done.