by Ralph Cotton
“Damn, Big T!” Doc said to Dorphin, wincing as he heard the terrible sound of gun steel against Shaw’s already injured skull.
“What?” Dorphin said. “The only reason this fool is still alive is that Mr. Readling said so. Otherwise I’d stake him down and skin him, Apache-style.”
He’d snatched Shaw’s big, empty Colt from his hand as he fell. “Here’s a nice keepsake for me,” he said, sticking the Colt down behind his gun belt. With a tight grin he looked down at Shaw, who lay groveling in the dirt, his mind desperately clinging to what ragged shreds of consciousness he had left.
“I’ll—I’ll take—” Shaw tried to speak, defiant even in his battered state. But though he could hear Dorphin through a dark wall of pain, he could not form the words to speak.
“Don’t worry, Fast Larry,” Dorphin taunted him. “If you ever want this big Colt back, look me up. I’ll be sleeping with it under my pillow.” As he spoke he cocked back his boot and dealt Shaw a hard kick to the stomach. Shaw rolled into a ball in the dirt.
“That’s enough, Big T,” said Readling, feeling the woman’s nails bite into his skin as she clenched his forearm. “I told her I wouldn’t kill him,” he said.
“I don’t think you should let him live, Mr. Readling, sir,” Dorphin replied, “if I might say so. This fool will get right back on our trail, crazy as he is.”
Readling stared at Shaw sprawled out on the ground, then back at Dorphin with a look they both understood. Over his shoulder, he said to the federale leader, “Captain, leave a couple of men here. Have them see to it Shaw doesn’t get back on our trail.”
“Sí, but of course,” said the captain. He summoned his sergeant over to him. As the sergeant arrived, sliding his horse to a halt, the captain lowered his voice and said, “Leave two men here. Have them kill this man after we are gone, but make sure they do it quietly. I do not want to hear any gunfire, comprende?” He studied the sergeant’s face intently. “He must never be seen or heard from again.”
“Sí, as you wish, Capitan,” said the sergeant. He spun his horse and rode away toward two trail scouts who sat a little apart from the others. All of the soldiers sat watching Shaw scrape his boots in the dirt, still struggling to catch his breath after Dorphin’s powerful kick.
As the sergeant approached the two scouts, he addressed them in a low, guarded tone, “You two stay behind with this man. After we are gone, cut his throat and roll his body off of the cliff, never to be found.”
“Sí, Sergeant,” said the older of the two men.
“Then continue scouting the trail ahead and join us at the mines,” the sergeant instructed. “Do you understand?”
“Sí, Sergeant, we understand,” the older of the two repeated, both of them nodding their heads in reply.
Dorphin stared down at Shaw, who lay curled up in a ball, his breath coming back in short painful gulps. For the sake of duping the woman, Dorphin said, “If this was my call, Shaw, I’d kill you. But Mr. Readling gave the order to let you live. So that’s what I’m gonna do.”
Shaw looked up at Dorphin, but was still unable to speak.
“Save your strength, Shaw. Don’t try to talk,” Dorphin said in a false display of mercy. He started to turn and walk away, but in afterthought he spun back around, sneering at Shaw. “Oh, and if I ever see you coming around bothering Mr. Readling again, you half-minded son of a bitch—” He drew back his boot and released another merciless kick at Shaw’s ribs. “Guess who I’m going to kill?” he threatened, mimicking the very words Shaw had thrown at him the night before.
Shaw doubled up in pain again and struggled to catch his breath as the group gathered their horses, mounted and rode away, leaving the two young soldiers standing over him in the dirt. The older scout had picked up Shaw’s repeating rifle and stuck it inside his bedroll across the back of his saddle.
“I have never killed a man in this manner,” the younger of the two scouts whispered, staring down at the helpless gunman. “In fact, I have never seen the face of any man I killed in battle.”
“Don’t worry. Killing a man face-to-face is easier than you would think,” the older scout said, reaching out a toe of his scuffed cavalry boot and nudging Shaw, as if he were some injured animal. “We only need to be careful not to get his blood all over us.” He glanced appraisingly at the gap in the rock wall, and at the cliff edge beyond it.
Chapter 12
As the wagon had rolled away, the woman looked back over her shoulder, Dorphin beside her, handling the team of horses. Readling rode along ahead of the wagon on horseback, talking to the federale captain. The two scouts watched the empty trail for a few extra minutes after the others had ridden out of sight.
“Now we will kill you, Senor Fast Larry,” the older of the two said down to Shaw, again nudging Shaw with the toe of his boot.
Shaw could hear the men, but he could only lay there, defenseless. He felt their hands grab him by his shoulders and drag him upward and away toward the cliff overhang. Unable to move, speak or make the slightest effort to save himself, Shaw hung limply between the two soldiers, his boot toes leaving long marks across the loose dirt and rocks.
At the edge of the cliff, the two soldiers pulled Shaw to his feet and held him upright from behind. The older scout pulled a knife from his belt and held its blade against Shaw’s throat.
“When I slit his throat, give him a shove, and remember to watch out for the blood,” he ordered.
The younger scout nodded. He held the limp gunman by the hair, an arm wrapped around his chest.
“Do it quickly,” he said, struggling with Shaw’s weight, “before I drop him.”
The other man jerked the knife across the helpless gunman’s throat, and the younger scout immediately turned Shaw loose. Blood flew as the blade swung away.
“It is done,” said the older soldier, watching as his younger companion shoved Shaw into the crisp, thin air. He stepped back and ran the bloody knife blade across his palm, then stooped to rub his palm in the dirt.
“Holy Mother!” the younger soldier gasped, watching Shaw bounce, roll, slide and tumble end over end down the steep, rocky hillside. A steam of dust rose behind the limp, flailing gunman until he finally slid to a halt, spread eagle on the last few yards of loose, slippery gravel.
“He did not feel a thing,” said the older scout with an air of sympathy. “When I go, I hope it’s the same way.”
“Really?” The younger scout gave him a strange look. “You would like to die, beaten senseless, your throat slashed, your body thrown off of a cliff?”
“That is not how I mean it,” the older soldier said, staring down at Shaw, his body lying beneath the drifting rise of dust.
The young soldier looked back at Shaw’s horse standing near the extinguished campfire. “We should take the horse.”
“Take it, what do I care?” the older scout said with a shrug as they walked back toward their own horses. But when the younger soldier walked toward Shaw’s horse, the big bay lowered its arched head, chuffed and snorted and scraped its hoof.
“He is as loco as his owner, this one,” the older soldier said with a short laugh.
As the younger scout ventured closer, the bay reared and pawed at the air.
“To hell with you, then, you loco caballa,” the soldier said. “I will let the wolves and coyotes do with you as they please.”
The two soldiers mounted their own horses and rode away on a thin path leading to the trail toward la Ciudad de Hombres Malos. As they galloped out of sight, Shaw’s horse walked past the campsite, over through the gap in the rock wall and stood at the edge of the cliff, looking down at the still form lying sprawled on the hillside.
The animal shook its head back and forth vigorously, as if not accepting the sight lying below. Stepping back and forth on the edge of the cliff, the horse raised its head high and whinnied loud and long into the morning air.
“What was that?” Deputy Jedson Caldwell said, looking upward along th
e high ridges as he and Marshal Dawson rode on the lower switchback.
“It sounds like a wildcat must have a mustang trapped up there, getting ready for breakfast,” Dawson said, tipping his broad hat brim for a better look along the higher ledges. The horse’s long cry rolled and resounded, echoing out across the jagged hill lines.
“Still,” Dawson said, “we best take a look.”
The two lawmen nudged their horses, upping their pace in the direction of the whinnying animal. Less than a thousand yards up the trail, they spotted the horse standing on the cliff above them. When they rounded a turn in the trail, Caldwell caught sight of a body lying limp and bloody on the steep hillside.
“My God, it’s Shaw,” he said, recognizing Shaw in spite of all the blood and dirt covering him. He jerked his horse to a halt and nudged it sidelong off the trail. Dawson stayed right beside him.
Caldwell dropped from his saddle and ran over to Shaw. Dawson moved a little slower behind him, taking time to check along the ridgeline and make sure this wasn’t some sort of trap.
Caldwell stooped down over Shaw and rolled him over onto his back. “Shaw! Can you hear me?” Caldwell said frantically, wincing at the sight of Shaw’s bloody, battered face. He saw the crusted deep gash running from Shaw’s throat upward and across his chin, laying the meat open to the bone. “Jesus,” he said.
“Is he alive, Deputy?” Dawson asked, still lagging back a little to keep an eye on the higher trail. Shaw’s horse stood silent now that the two lawmen had arrived. The animal stared down at them with its big head lowered.
After a quick check, Caldwell stood up and called over to Dawson, “No, Marshal, he’s gone.”
“No . . .” The deputy’s words caused a hard, tight knot to form in Dawson’s stomach. He stepped down from his saddle and began leading his horse closer. Caldwell walked away from Shaw, toward Dawson through brush and rock.
“It looks like somebody tried to cut his throat and missed,” Caldwell said in a sorrowful tone. He’d taken off his battered, black derby hat and gripped it tightly in his hand.
“Missed . . . ?” Dawson looked skeptical.
Caldwell said, “It seems that somebody tried to cut his throat, and Shaw might’ve ducked his head at just the right second.”
Dawson stood staring past Caldwell as the deputy walked toward his horse. “He’s not dead, Deputy,” Dawson said as if refusing to accept the fact.
“Make no mistake, Marshal—he’s dead,” Caldwell said grimly. “The fall alone would have been enough to kill him.”
“Maybe it would have been,” said Dawson, “but Shaw ain’t dead.” He gestured for Caldwell to look behind him. When the deputy turned around, he saw Shaw reach a bloody hand up over a knee-high rock and try to pull himself up.
Dropping from his saddle and grabbing his canteen, Dawson hurried in among the rocks and stooped down over Shaw as Caldwell cradled him in his arm. Even in his battered condition, Shaw awakened enough to claw at his empty holster with a bloody hand.
“It’s all right, Shaw. It’s us,” Dawson said, watching him resist Caldwell’s aid. Shaw managed to look up at Dawson, but the confused expression on his face showed that he was still uncertain who was standing over him.
“Us . . . ,” Shaw murmured.
Caldwell said, “It’s Crayton Dawson, and me, Jedson Caldwell.”
“Undertaker . . . ,” Shaw rasped, a faint trace of a smile coming to his cracked and bloody lips.
“Yes, that’s me,” Caldwell said. He looked Shaw up and down as Dawson held out the open canteen toward Shaw’s mouth.
“Shaw, does anything feel broken?” Dawson asked. He let water trickle from the canteen onto Shaw’s dry lips.
“Everything . . . feels . . . broken . . . ,” Shaw said. “Where’s my . . . horse?”
“He’s up there, Shaw,” Dawson said. “Don’t worry. I’ll go get him.”
Shaw looked at Caldwell’s hand, recognizing the familiar fingerless black leather gloves as the deputy opened his shirt and looked at his bruised and battered ribs.
“What happened, Shaw?” Dawson asked.
“A woman . . . ,” Shaw managed to say, his eyes struggling to stay open, then giving in and closing.
“I might have guessed as much,” Dawson said, taking the canteen back from the unconscious gunman’s mouth.
“Help me get him into some shade somewhere,” said Caldwell. “He’s banged up something awful.”
“How bad?” Dawson asked.
“As an undertaker, I’ve seen worse,” Caldwell said, the two of them gathering Shaw between them. He looked down at Shaw, then back at Dawson and said, “But not much worse, come to think of it.”
At the edge of the hill town, a wooden sign nailed to a post alongside the trail read BIENVENIDOS A LA CIUDAD DE HOMBRES MALOS.
“Welcome to the City of Bad Men,” cousin Cervo translated out loud, the six riders sitting atop their horses in the morning light.
As Cervo spoke, Buck Collins eased his revolver up out of its holster. Almost before the words left Cervo’s mouth, Buck fanned four quick shots into the brittle sun-bleached sign. Cervo and the others flinched as the four explosions resounded as one, catching them by surprise from less than four feet away.
“These people need to learn English for their own good,” Buck said as a cloud of burned powder rose around him.
“Damn it!” shouted Matt Stewart, a serious-minded ex-railroad detective turned outlaw from Kansas. He had to settle his spooked horse.
Buck looked around at the others. “You best all get used to surprises when you ride with Ol’ Buck,” he said with a dark chuckle. “I’m plumb full of them.”
“So much for going unnoticed. Everybody damn sure knows we’re here now,” said Russell Hogue in a critical tone.
“Good for them.” Buck laughed, clicking his spent cartridges out onto the ground. “I say let them know right off, the bad men have arrived.” He grinned and began reloading his revolver. “Hell, you could say we’re the ones this pigsty town was named after.”
Son of a bitch . . . Carlos Loonie turned away from Buck and looked at Ned Breck, who gave a slight shake of his head.
“Now, let’s go make ourselves welcome—show these people what kind of bad men we are,” Buck said. He jerked his horse around by its reins and heeled it onto the dirt street ahead. The five riders looked at each other.
“Santana ain’t going to stand for this kinda behavior,” Loonie said under his breath. They backed their horses, turned them and nudged them forward.
The riders drew closer to an iron hitch rail out in front of a sagging adobe cantina. The owner had heard the gunfire and seen the men coming. He’d hurriedly run from behind the bar, searching frantically for either his bartender or the six-inch-thick oak timber he used to cross-bolt the door from the inside. He saw neither, but finally, his dwarf bartender walked in through the rear door carrying a sloop bucket he’d just emptied.
“Rafael!” the cantina owner said to the dwarf. “We have trouble coming. Fetch the timber quickly!”
The dwarf had also heard the gunfire. Without hesitation, he dropped the bucket and hurried to a stock-room behind the bar.
“Sante Madre! Hurry!” the owner called out as the short man struggled back across the dirt floor, half carrying, half dragging the heavy oak timber.
Out front, Buck Collins slid down from his saddle and spun his reins around the hitch rail. Only a second behind, the others arrived and did the same.
“Looks like the place ain’t open yet,” said Matt Stewart, staring at the front of the ancient building.
“That’s no problem.” Collins grinned. He had seen the front doors swing shut from inside as they’d approached. “We know how to open a place, don’t we?”
“Yeah, I expect we do,” said Hogue. After many days and nights on the trail, none of the men had any reservations about kicking a door in and helping themselves until someone came running to tend the bar.
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nbsp; Inside the cantina, the owner and Rafael had managed to raise the oak timber and drop it into steel slots, one on either side of the wide door frame. With the timber in place, the owner breathed a sigh of relief. When he heard the pounding commence from the outside, he looked at the dwarf with satisfaction.
But the relief melted from his face as the pounding grew stronger and a gruff voice shouted, “Open this gawd-damn door! We saw you in there.”
“We are closed, senors,” the owner called out. “Please come back when we are open.”
“Open the door! We’ll burn this damn place to the ground!” another gruff voice called out.
The cantina owner leaned into the dwarf and whispered, “They always say this.” He gave a tight, nervous grin.
Before the owner could stop him, Rafael pounded back on the door and shouted, “Get away from this door, you dirty sonsabitches! Or I’ll—”
“No, no!” The owner grabbed the dwarf from behind and pressed a hand over his mouth, silencing him. “He didn’t mean that,” the owner called out through a barrage of curses and threats. The pounding grew more fierce. The owner let go of the dwarf and started running toward the back door. The dwarf saw the owner stop abruptly as Buck Collins stepped inside from the rear door, leaving it hanging open behind him.
“Who do I complain to about the service here?” Buck Collins said with a dark grin, his six-shooter out and cocked. “So far it leaves lots to be desired.”
Chapter 13
By midmorning two armed townsmen lay dead in the dirt street. The few remaining residents of the ancient hill town had gathered enough food and supplies to last them a few days. They slipped away deeper into the shelter of the hillsides, the same way their ancestors had done in centuries past.