Gunmen of the Desert Sands

by Ralph Cotton

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  PART 1

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  PART 2

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  PART 3

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  PART 4

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Praise for the Novels of Ralph Cotton

  "The sort of story we all hope to find within us: the bloodstained, gun-smoked, grease-stained yarn that yanks a reader right out of today.’’—Terry Johnston

  "Disarming realism . . . solidly crafted.’’

  —Publishers Weekly

  "Evokes a sense of outlawry . . . distinctive.’’

  —Lexington Herald-Leader

  "Cotton writes with the authentic ring of a silver dollar, a storyteller in the best tradition of the Old West.’’—Matt Braun

  "Cotton’s blend of history and imagination works because authentic Old West detail and dialogue fill his books.’’—Wild West Magazine

  SIGNET

  Published by New American Library, a division of

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street,

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  First published by Signet, an imprint of New American Library,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  First Printing, November 2008

  eISBN : 978-0-451-22544-3

  Copyright © Ralph Cotton, 2008

  All rights reserved

  REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

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  For Mary Lynn . . . of course

  PART 1

  Chapter 1

  Zarco, the Chihuahuan Desert, Mexico

  Four gunmen stood in the shade of a flapping canvas overhang out in front of the Perro Negro Cantina. They stared silently into a wavering plane of heat, sand and glaring sunlight. They watched a thin black line twist and turn and finally squeeze its way out of some fiery netherworld and give birth to itself on the desert floor. At three hundred yards the thin black line began to evolve, taking on the shape of some strange, thin centaur. A wide rack of horns mantled the man-beast’s head. Short billowing wings batted slowly at its sides.

  Yet the four gunmen stared stony eyed, not the least surprised, each seeming to have seen his share of such creatures rise up from the hot swirling sand. Their eyes revealed a surly confidence—these men who knew of nothing the desert could conjure that couldn’t be stopped short by the blast of lead or the slash of sharpened steel. Between them and the distant rider a hot wind howled and moaned, as if in grave anticipation.

  Above the wind a Mexican gunman, Paco Ruiz, took it upon himself to say, "Rider coming,’’ to his three companions, as if these americanos hadn’t concluded as much on their own.

  "We see him,’’ a voice replied. Above them the wind caused the canvas to flap wildly in its frame. A dust devil spun its way down the middle of the empty street. The man-beast rode steadily closer, then stopped at a hundred yards and bowed its head slightly toward the ground; its short wings dropped and hung loosely at its sides.

  "Ah, you look down and see the prints of our many horses riding into Agua Fresca, eh?’’ Paco said quietly to the distant figure. "And now you are asking yourself the question: Do you ride into Agua Fresca, here where the water is sweet and pure, but where you know there may be those who would kill you for your horse? Or do you ride on, to a place where the water is less cool and sweet, but where life is safer for you?’’ He smiled thinly to himself. "Are you bold of spirit, mi amigo, or will you prove to be faint of heart?’’

  "A gold buck says he rides on,’’ said Bo Phelps, standing beside Ruiz, hearing Paco’s quiet musings.

  "Why do you think so?’’ Paco asked.

  Phelps spat with contempt toward the distant man-beast and added, "He sees the odds on the ground at his feet. Water or no water, he’ll ride on, ’less he’s an idiot.’’

  "I accept your wager,’’ Paco said quietly, without facing Phelps. An idiot . . . ? He didn’t think so. He saw something in the bearing of the distant rider—this man-beast—something he could not explain, yet something he understood. Perhaps it was the way in which this creature of the desert straightened and stared toward them across the burning sand in spite of the many hoofprints on the ground beneath him. In his youth, Paco had seen wolves, big cats, other predatory creatures of the Mexican hill country carry themselves in such a manner. Usually they did so when prey had suddenly caught their attention, he reminded himself. A faint smile came to his lips.

  "I say this one rides in,’’ he said. He watched the man-beast scrape a restless hoof; then it straightened its horns and rode forward, as if on cue.

  "Damn it,’’ Phelps grumbled. "How’d you know that?’’

  Paco only shrugged without a reply.

  Watching the rider approach, Phelps said, "Hell, for a gold buck, I’ll kill the sumbitch before he gets here.’’ He took a step forward, drawing a big .45 revolver from its holster.

  "No,’’ said Paco,
"if you kill him now, you must still pay me.’’

  "Like hell I must,’’ said Phelps, a bit mockingly. "Where’d you get such a notion as that?’’ Yet, even as he questioned the Mexican, he lowered the .45 back into its leather.

  "You tell him, Braden,’’ Paco said to one of the other Americans, still without looking around at the three of them.

  "You can’t do something to tip the bet, Phelps, else the bet’s off,’’ Braden Mann said, sounding put out with having to explain something so elementary. "You ought to know that without being told.’’

  "Maybe I did know it,’’ Bo Phelps replied in a gruff, surly manner. "Maybe I just wanted to kill the sumbitch, him costing me a gold buck.’’ He stared out through the wavering heat, watching the coming man-beast change yet again as it grew closer to Agua Fresca.

  "Kill him . . . ?’’ Paco Ruiz considered the coming rider for a moment with solemn speculation, then said to Phelps, "You owe me a gold buck. Do you want to make it double or nothing?’’

  Beside Phelps, Braden Mann chuckled. "Sounds like Paco don’t think you can kill this hombre.’’

  "Maybe Paco would like to know how it feels to get my boot toe jammed up his—’’ His words stopped short as Paco’s dark eyes cut around toward him.

  "Careful, my friend,’’ Paco cautioned.

  Phelps took it no further. He hadn’t been riding with Quinn Madsen and his gang long, but he’d already learned that Paco Ruiz was a serious man, not one to tolerate threats, even ones made in a half-joking manner.

  Looking away from him again, Paco reached a hand out to his side and said, "Give me my money.’’

  Phelps fished through some loose change in his vest pocket, came out with a small thin gold coin and grudgingly laid it in Paco’s palm.

  "Gracias,’’ Paco said, slipping the coin into his trousers pocket without looking at it. "Now, what about double or nothing?’’ he asked.

  But Phelps didn’t reply. Instead, he watched the approaching rider and said, "I best go tell Quinn we’ve got company coming.’’

  The voice of Roscoe Turner, Quinn Madsen’s righthand man, said from the open doorway behind them, "Stay where you are, Bo, I’ll tell him.’’ He stood with his soiled rawhide shirt open at the chest, a bandolier of ammunition draped over one shoulder. With a hard gaze out across the wavering sand flats he said to the four, "Get rid of this jake.’’ Letting out a puff of smoke from a cigar, he stepped back inside the cool darkness of the cantina walls.

  "Can we have some fun with him first?’’ Phelps called out to the blue waft of smoke in the doorway.

  But Turner didn’t answer. He’d already returned to the bar, where he’d stood drinking with Quinn and five more hardened gunmen, all from along the Texas border.

  "What have they got out there?’’ Quinn Madsen asked, swirling his wooden cup of tequila in his fist.

  "A rider,’’ said Turner. "Some flea-bitten drifter like as not.’’ He picked up his own wooden cup of tequila and took a deep drink from it. "I told the new man, Phelps, to get rid of him. We don’t need punk-wood drifters hanging around, stinking up the place.’’

  Madsen nodded. "Unless you meant for Phelps to kill him, you should’ve made it clear.’’ He shrugged. "Bo Phelps is a good man. But he’s fast as lightning and he likes showing it.’’ He grinned mirthlessly. "He’s got a taste for blood. Hell, that’s why I hired him.’’

  "Want me to say something to him?’’ Turner asked.

  "Naw,’’ said Quinn, "let it go. It’ll give you a chance to see him in action for yourself.’’

  Lawrence Shaw had stopped the big buckskin only for a moment, looking down at the upturned sand. Beneath the ragged rim of his sombrero, his eyes had followed the horses’ tracks, seeing them meander in and out of sight across the rise and fall of the desert floor. He knew who’d made those tracks. There were two kinds of men who traveled in numbers on the badlands floor, federales and banditos, he told himself. He hadn’t seen any federales on the badlands in months.

  Squinting ahead through the white glare of sunlight, he’d nudged the buckskin forward onto the path. These were gunmen, banditos, desperados, he told himself idly, gazing ahead, the buckskin moving at a restless bounce, knowing water lay waiting ahead. But it didn’t matter to Shaw who they were or what they were. He and the buckskin needed water. He needed other things too—ammunition, food, coffee. But first things first; he and the horse needed water.

  Beneath the ragged blanket that he’d cut a hole in and now wore draped over his shoulders as a poncho, Shaw’s right hand rested on his lap, only a nerve twitch away from the butt of the big Colt standing hidden beneath the poncho in a tied-down holster.

  Upon seeing the dusty, ragged figure ride onto the windblown street and then to the well, Bo Phelps said to Paco in a confident tone as he stepped past him, "Yeah, what say we do make it double or nothing?’’

  "You’re on,’’ Paco replied. He didn’t move; he only watched as Bo Phelps and Braden Mann stepped out from under the flapping canvas.

  "Get my money ready,’’ Phelps said. He and Mann walked toward the stone well where Shaw had stepped down from his saddle and let the thirsty buckskin have at the cool water. Beside Paco, the fourth gunman, a hard-bitten badlands outlaw named Drop the Dog Jones, studied Shaw’s face closely for a moment until recognition set in. Then he whispered, "Oh, hell, boys,’’ and backed away.

  "Do you know this man, Dog?’’ Paco asked, glancing over his shoulder as Drop the Dog shied farther back into the shade.

  "No, I don’t what you call ’know’ him, but I sure as hell know who he is,’’ said Jones.

  "Oh?’’ Paco turned his gaze back to Shaw. "Did I make a foolish bet?’’

  "No,’’ said Drop the Dog, "but you might have a hard time collecting.’’

  At the well, Shaw had seen the two coming, walking with a few feet between them. But he ignored them as he picked up a water gourd from the stone wall, dipped it into a clay urn filled with water and sipped from it. When he heard a voice call out, "Hey you, hombre,’’ he paid no attention. Instead, he continued drinking as he turned slowly, taking in the small town of Agua Fresca.

  "Look at this,’’ Phelps said to Braden Mann, as if in disbelief. "This jake must be deaf or something.’’ Then he shouted at Shaw from only a few feet away, "Hey, you! What’s wrong with you anyway?’’

  Shaw finally turned to them, lowered the drinking gourd slightly and looked himself up and down. "Nothing, why?’’ he replied dryly. As he spoke he slung a few remaining drops of water from the gourd and laid it back on the stone wall.

  " ’Why,’ he asks,’’ Phelps said to Mann with contempt, both of them stopping a few feet away.

  "Because that’s our water you’re drinking, you ignorant saddle tramp,’’ said Mann.

  "You should’ve spoken sooner,’’ Shaw said flatly, wiping a hand across his lips.

  "You’ve got some gall, hombre,’’ Phelps said to Shaw. "You ride in here and drink our water, you and your buzzard bait cayouse.’’ He gestured toward the buckskin. "Now we’re going to have to make an example of both of you, right, Braden?’’

  "Sounds right to me,’’ Mann said, his hand poised near his gun butt. He looked the unsuspecting buckskin up and down as if deciding how best to punish the animal.

  Shaw only stared, knowing this game by heart.

  Phelps gave a dark chuckle. "I hope you’re wearing a gun, hombre,’’ he said. "A man shouldn’t go around, him and his horse swilling other men’s water, ’less he’s packing some iron. You packing iron, drifter?’’

  At the open doorway of the cantina, Quinn Madsen, Roscoe Turner and the rest of the men stood watching. "All right, watch this,’’ Madsen said to Turner, standing beside him. "This is going to be good.’’

  At the well, Phelps and Mann both looked surprised when Shaw flipped the corner of his poncho back and revealed the big, clean, shiny Colt standing in its holster. "Whoa,’’ said Phelps, giving a smu
g grin. "Where’d you manage to steal a gun like that, hombre?’’

  At the doorway, Madsen said to Turner, "Here we go, keep your eye on Phelps’ hand. He’s fast.’’

  But suddenly, Shaw’s Colt was out, up, cocked and pointed at Phelps, who stood with his mouth agape, his hand not even making it to his gun butt.

  "Damn Phelps’ hand!’’ said Turner. "The drifter has him cold. I never saw anything that fast!’’

  Stepping in close to Phelps, the bore of the big Colt staring him in the eyes, Shaw said calmly but with no trace of doubt, "Your next move will get you buried.’’ He didn’t seem at all concerned with Braden Mann, who stood frozen in place, his hands having managed to go chest high in reflex and stop there in a show of submission.

  "Pull that trigger, they’ll all kill you,’’ Phelps managed to say, gesturing a nod toward the cantina. His face turned ashen as Shaw reached down, lifted Phelps’ .45 revolver from its holster, cocked it and backed away a few feet.

  "We’ll see,’’ Shaw said, keeping Phelps covered now with his own gun. "You,’’ he said to Mann, pointing Phelps’ cocked .45 at him, "loosen your gun belt and pitch it over here.’’

  Mann gritted his teeth in rage and humiliation, but did as he was told. When the gun belt landed at Shaw’s feet, Shaw stooped down, popped six bullets out of the belt and began sticking them into the cylinder of his Colt, careful to keep the .45 pointed and ready.

  "Say!’’ said Phelps, watching Shaw load the Colt. "Your gun wasn’t even loaded!’’

  "It is now,’’ Shaw said, clicking the Colt shut and cocking it alongside the .45.

  From the cantina doorway, Turner said to Madsen. "Did you see that?’’

  "I saw it, but I don’t believe it,’’ said Madsen. To the men gathered around him, he said, "All of yas spread out. When I say so, kill this fool. Nobody is going to blow into town and ride roughshod over my men.’’