by Ralph Cotton
"Quinn,’’ Paco said over his shoulder, "Drop the Dog says he knows this hombre.’’
"Yeah?’’ said Madsen. "Who is he, Dog?’’
"He’s Fast Larry Shaw,’’ Dog said, keeping his voice low, lest Shaw hear him. "Me and Lying Earl run into him when we were riding with the Barrows brothers. He killed Titus Boland in the street, him with his right arm in a sling. Generalisimo Sepreano’s whole army stood looking on.’’
"Fast Larry Shaw, eh?’’ Quinn said with a short grin, staring out to where Shaw stood with both Phelps’ and Mann’s guns under his control, Mann’s gun belt hanging from his shoulder. "I’ve heard of him,’’ he added in contemplation, rubbing his chin. "I thought he was dead.’’
"Say the word, he will be,’’ said Turner. He stared out at Shaw with a scowl, his hand going around his gun butt.
"Naw, let’s not kill him just yet,’’ said Madsen. "Call him over here, Paco. Let’s hear what he’s got to say.’’
"Are you sure about this, Quinn?’’ Paco asked, checking to make certain.
"If I was you, I would never ask me something like that again,’’ Madsen said, a cool and dangerous tone coming to his voice.
Without hesitation, Paco called out toward the well, "Hey, you, hombre, come over here. My jefe wants to talk to you.’’
"Not today,’’ Shaw said, turning toward them with his Colt cocked and pointed. "Tell your boss I’m only passing through.’’
"Listen to this arrogant fool,’’ Madsen said to Turner, all the while managing to keep a thin smile on his face toward Shaw. "Stand where you are,’’ he called out. "I only want to talk to you. Don’t make us kill you.’’
Down the dirt street, from a crack in a weathered door, a young girl watched intently. When it looked as if the danger of a gunfight had passed, she turned and hurried to the bed where her mother lay holding a wet cloth to her battered, swollen face. "Madre, por favor, wake up, come quickly!’’ she said. She held her small hands out as if to shake her mother, but dared not, considering the woman’s condition.
"Stay away from the door, little one,’’ her mother moaned through her battered face.
"But, madre!’’ said the girl. "You must come see. It is a miracle! The angel we have prayed to the Holy Mother for has come to us!’’ She crossed herself quickly. "He stands in the street at this very moment!’’
Chapter 2
On the street, Shaw stopped at the buckskin’s side and stood watching as Madsen and his men walked forward from the cantina. A few feet away, Braden Mann and Bo Phelps stood seething with rage, both of them realizing how bad this made them look to the others. "Surely you’re not riding out of here with my gun!’’ Braden said, humiliated.
"No,’’ Shaw said. He unloaded Braden’s Colt, pocketed the bullets and pitched the empty gun to him. "Just your ammunition.’’
"Just my—!’’ Braden looked down at the gun lying in the dirt, then at his gun belt hanging over Shaw’s shoulder. But in his helplessness he only cursed under his breath.
"What about me?’’ Phelps growled. "Give me my gun and I’ll cut you in half—I swear to God I will!’’
Without reply Shaw opened the big revolver and let the bullets fall into his hand. He dropped the bullets into his trousers pocket, then pitched the gun into the dirt three feet in front of Phelps.
"It’s not loaded,’’ Phelps snarled, clenching and unclenching his gun hand near his empty holster.
"Load up,’’ Shaw said flatly. He seemed not to even notice the rest of the men walking toward them along the dirt street from the cantina.
Madsen and the others slowed to a halt, seeing what was going on. "Easy, men,’’ Madsen said, stopping them with a raised hand. "It looks like Phelps is still in this game.’’
"Then he’s a fool,’’ said Turner.
"He might be,’’ said Madsen, "but we’re going to let him play it out.’’
Phelps jerked bullets from his gun belt and hurriedly shoved them into the .45. "You just made a bad mistake, drifter,’’ he said, getting his confidence back now that he had his gun in hand. He might have let this man get the drop on him the first time, he told himself as he slapped shut the Colt’s cylinder and gave it a spin, but it wouldn’t happen a second time. He slipped the gun down into its holster.
Shaw, watching, waiting calmly, looked him up and down and said, "Are you ready?’’
"Am I ready?’’ said Phelps. "You’re mighty damn right I’m ready.’’ He half crouched, his gun hand poised near the butt of the .45. "You best ask the devil’s blessings, drifter. I’m sending you straight to—’’
Shaw’s shot hit him solidly between the eyes, picked him up and hurled him backward in a spray of blood, bone and brain matter, before Phelps’ hand even touched his gun.
"Good Lord!’’ Madsen said, having still seen only a blur as Shaw’s Colt streaked up and fired.
Braden Mann stood stunned, staring down at Phelps’ body.
"Well?’’ Shaw said to him.
"Huh?’’ Mann looked at him.
"Do you need to load up?’’ Shaw asked in the same flat, smooth voice.
Mann held his hands chest high, looking to Madsen for some sort of help. "Quinn?’’ he said.
Near Madsen and Turner, a gunman named Dick "the Hatchet’’ Shuller said, "We’ve got to kill him for this.’’
"Everybody stand down,’’ Madsen said, ignoring Shuller. He said to Shaw, "I’ve got a man here who tells me you’re Fast Larry Shaw. Are you?’’
Shaw shook his head no. He spun his Colt backward into his holster almost as fast and slick as he’d drawn it. "Fast Larry is dead.’’
"He’s lying,’’ said Drop the Dog, keeping his voice down behind Madsen.
"What is your name, then?’’ Madsen asked.
"I don’t use one,’’ Shaw said. He looked at the buckskin, who had continued drinking thirstily through the sound of the gunshot. The big horse, having drunk its fill, stood looking at him now with water running from its muzzle. "Are you through?’’ Shaw asked the big sweat-streaked animal. The buckskin nickered under its breath and stood watching as if it understood.
Madsen tried again. "Mister, you just killed one of the fastest guns I’ve ever known.’’
"So?’’ Shaw said.
"So I think I’ve got a right to know your name,’’ Madsen insisted.
"I told you, I don’t use one,’’ Shaw repeated, his voice letting Madsen know there was no point in asking again.
Madsen let it go. "All right, No Name,’’ he said. "I don’t know you, but I believe you know who we are. I’m Quinn Madsen. These are my compañeros. One word from me and they’d chop you to pieces right there beside Phelps.’’
Shaw looked down at Phelps’ body, then looked back to Madsen. "Oh . . . ?’’ he said, sounding as though he either didn’t believe it or didn’t care one way or the other.
Madsen shrugged a shoulder. "What do you expect? You cost me a good man.’’
"If he was good he’d be alive,’’ Shaw said.
"Yeah, well, anyway,’’ Madsen went on, "now I’m left a man short. Killing you would be a terrible waste of talent.’’ He pointed a finger at Shaw for emphasis. "Bad for business, far as I’m concerned.’’
Shaw only nodded and looked back and forth from one stone-hardened gunman’s face to the next. The only man he recognized was Drop the Dog Jones. He had seen him at a gunfight he’d had less than a year ago at a place called Hell’s Gate, the hideout for a band of killers known as the Barrows Gang. "And?’’ Shaw said.
"And I always need men who are good with a gun,’’ Madsen said pointedly, "men who don’t mind taking what they want and to hell with anybody who tries to stop them.’’ He gave a nod of his head toward the gun belt hanging from Shaw’s shoulder. "Sort of like you just did here.’’
Braden Mann’s face reddened. "I still want my damn gun belt back.’’
"Hear that?’’ Madsen chuckled. "He wants his gun belt back.
’’ His smile vanished as he turned on his heel, drew a Colt from his belly holster and shot Braden Mann in the chest.
The men all flinched in stunned surprise. But Shaw only cast a glance at Braden lying in the dirt clutching his shattered chest with both hands. "Now you’re two men short,’’ he said quietly.
At the crack in the weathered door, the bruised and battered woman had joined her daughter. The two had been watching when Shaw shot Bo Phelps. The woman winced at the sight, and made the sign of the cross on her bosom. Backing away from the door a step, she said, "No, little one, this is not the angel we have prayed for the Holy Madre to send to us. This is a bad man, just like the rest of these murderers. The Holy Madre would not send such a terrible angel as this to do what must be done here—God forbid.’’
"But, Mama,’’ the little girl said, "this must be the angel the Holy Mother sent to get rid of these men.’’ She nodded toward the street beyond the closed door. "Two of them are gone already.’’
On the street, Madsen gestured for Drop the Dog and a Colorado gunman, Filo Hewes, to drag Braden Mann to the side, out of the street. "Either choke him to death and finish him off, or stick a rag on his chest, give him some water or something,’’ Madsen said. He tossed the incident aside, then turned back to Shaw with a cold, narrowed stare, not liking his attitude.
"Being two men short is bad right now,’’ he said. "I’ve got gun work waiting to be done. I’ve gone along with you shooting Phelps because I saw him come looking for it. But now let’s get down to some business, talk about what we can do for each other.’’ He nodded over his shoulder toward the cantina. "I could use a drink, myself. What about you?’’
"Yeah, why not?’’ said Shaw. He looked to the side of the street where Filo Hewes put away a coin he’d just flipped, then bent down over Braden Mann and clamped his fingers around his throat.
"All right, get your horse and follow me,’’ Madsen said, turning back toward the cantina. "Paco, you and Jones stick with him, see that he finds his way.’’
Drop the Dog Jones shied back a few feet, but Paco stepped forward and said to Shaw as Madsen and the others walked back across the dusty street, "All right, Anónimo, you heard him, get your horse, let’s go.’’
"Anónimo, hell,’’ said Drop the Dog. "He’s no more nameless than I am. You can ask Lying Earl Sunday when he sobers up. He’ll tell you—this is Fast Larry Shaw.’’
Paco said to him, "Was it not you who told me to believe nothing Lying Earl says?’’
"Yes,’’ Jones replied, "but if he tells you this is Fast Larry, you can believe him.’’
"I will call this man nameless until he asks me to do otherwise,’’ said Paco. As he spoke he stepped over to Phelps’ body, stooped down and fished the coins from his vest pocket. Looking up at Shaw, he gave a half smile and said, "I had a wager with this man. He lost.’’
As Paco stood up and stepped away, Shaw bent down, loosened Phelps’ ammunition belt, pulled it from the dead man’s waist and slung it up over his other shoulder.
"Hey, you can’t do that,’’ Jones said, getting bolder, testing Shaw a little. "Who says you can take the man’s bullets?’’
"Who says I can’t?’’ Shaw responded.
"Nobody says you can’t,’’ Drop the Dog said, backing off from the matter. "But it don’t seem right. You killed him, now you’re taking his ammunition?’’ He looked to the Mexican for support.
Paco shrugged and said, "Bo Phelps has ammunition he no longer needs, eh? What do I care who takes it?’’
"If nobody else cares, neither do I,’’ said Jones. He looked back and forth sourly between the two. Grumbling under his breath, he turned and walked away toward the others as the men filed into the cantina.
With two belts full of bullets over his shoulder, Shaw turned and picked up the buckskin’s dangling reins. Water, ammunition . . . He took stock of himself. All he needed now was food and some coffee and he’d be on his way, having done what he rode in to do.
As if hearing Shaw’s thoughts, Paco said, "You have done well for yourself, eh, Anónimo? For one who has only just arrived here.’’ He took two thin black cigars from his shirt pocket and held one out to Shaw. "Take it, por favor,’’ he said with a thin smile.
Shaw took the cigar, sniffed it and stuck it into his shirt pocket. "Gracias,’’ he said. "But why so generous?’’
Paco shrugged. "I saw how quickly you killed Bo Phelps. I can afford to be generous to one so deadly with a gun. If you ever draw your gun on me, I hope you will remember it was I who befriended you. Perhaps it will throw off your aim.’’
"I respect a man who knows the value of a good cigar,’’ Shaw said.
Paco chuckled under his breath. "So, what do you say? Will we be riding together, you and me, for Quinn Madsen and his border raiders?’’
"I wouldn’t count on it,’’ Shaw said. "I have business waiting on me in Durango.’’
"Business in Durango?’’ Paco looked him up and down, his ragged poncho, his battered and frayed sombrero, his run-down boots.
Hearing the doubt in the Mexican’s voice, Shaw gazed straight ahead, saying, "Like I told him, I’m just passing through.’’
"Ah, but if I were you I would think about his offer most seriously,’’ Paco said, the two of them speaking back and forth from beneath the shade of their broad sombreros. "Now, while his offer is friendly and generous, you should take it as graciously as you took the cigar I gave you.’’
"Or else?’’ Shaw said, knowing there was an or else waiting in the conversation.
Paco gazed also ahead toward the cantina. "Quinn Madsen will not give up until he finds what it takes to make you ride with him—to do his bidding,’’ he said, his expression turning grim. "He will first offer you much money.’’ Paco shrugged. "But if that does not work, he will find another way. Do not think that just because you are so fast with a gun he will not try to kill you.’’
"Haven’t thought it,’’ Shaw said, taking in the Mexican’s words for consideration.
Paco looked him up and down, recounting what he’d just seen happen to Bo Phelps. "I am not saying he can kill you, mi amigo, only that he will do his best to kill you.’’
"You have to admire a man who does his best,’’ Shaw said flatly.
Paco stared at him, Shaw’s dry humor and lack of concern taking him a moment to understand. Finally a thin smile came to his lips. "Ah, Anónimo, my nameless friend, I think I like your style. I think you and I would ride well together, eh, amigo?’’
Shaw didn’t answer. They walked on.
As soon as the two men had walked out of sight into the cantina, the young girl stepped back from watching them through the crack in the door and turned to where her mother had seated herself stiffly at a wooden table. The woman sat with her bruised and battered face bowed, a wet cloth pressed to her swollen eyes. "You are hungry, Mamá,’’ the child said. "I must go to the cantina and bring you some food.’’
"No,’’ the mother said, casting a sore glance at her from beneath a shroud of glistening black hair. "You stay away from the cantina, and keep a safe distance from those men. I will go find food for us.’’
"But, Mamá,’’ the child insisted, "he has warned you, you must stay inside until your face is healed. You cannot leave here!’’ She turned to leave quickly before her dazed mother could continue her objection. But her mother managed to catch her by her arm and stop her long enough to say, "Listen to me, little one. Do not think that because you are a child these men will not do to you what Quinn Madsen does to me! These men are animals, do you hear me? Animales!’’ She shook the girl a bit as if for emphasis.
"I—I know, Mamá,’’ the child replied, pulling away gently as she spoke. "But you must eat if you are to regain your strength so we can run from here, sí?’’ She dared not tell her mother that one of these men had already tried to do those things to her. But she had managed to slip free from his drunken grip while he’d held her down with one h
and and fumbled with his trousers with his other.
"If anything were to happen to you, little one . . .’’ Her mother let her words trail as she reached out a hand and brushed a silken strand of hair from her young daughter’s face.
"Don’t worry, Mamá,’’ the child said, "I run faster than the hare . . . un liebre.’’ She managed a slight smile.
"I know this,’’ said her mother, "but even the fastest hare can be caught. Take no chances with these men. Do not go to the cantina for food. Go instead to the old woman’s choza and tell her what we need.’’ She raised a finger and wagged it to make her point. "Only to her hut, and nowhere else.’’
"But, Mamá. Now that the angel from the desert is here, he will not allow anyone to—’’
"Do you understand me?’’ Her mother cut her off. "Only to the old woman . . . no one else. She will do whatever she can for us. There is no angel coming to help from the desert. There never will be. Get such notions from your mind, little one.’’
"But, Mamá,’’ the girl said in a broken tone, "why have we been praying so hard for an angel if there is none?’’
Her mother felt her swollen eyes begin to well under the weight of her despair. "We pray because it is the only thing we can do for ourselves.’’
"But don’t you see, Mama?’’ said the child, a look of hope in her innocent young eyes. "We prayed for the angel and he is here. What good is it for us to pray if we cannot see when our prayer has been answered?’’
"Go, little one,’’ the woman said, too exhausted, too hurt and broken to discuss the matter. "Bring us some food. When I am able, we will escape from this monster and his evil men. Until that time, let us not waste time talking about such foolishness. There are no angels coming . . . at least none to help us.’’
"You are wrong, Mamá. You must believe with me that our angel is here,’’ the child whispered under her breath, backing away. Turning and leaving through the small door at the rear of the shack, she absently crossed herself. "We must believe in those things we pray for.’’
Chapter 3