Gunmen of the Desert Sands

by Ralph Cotton

  Mr. Angel . . . ? Stooping down to her, Shaw said, "Whoa, little lady, my name is Mr. Shaw, not Mr. Angel.’’ He looked at her closely. "No, I’m not hurt, thanks to you.’’ He brushed a strand of hair from her cheek. "Gracias, usted niño bello.’’ For a fleeing instant he felt as if his life was worth saving, something he had not felt in a long time.

  Madsen appeared uncomfortable at the sight of Shaw and the young girl talking so easily. "You’re right, Francisca is a beautiful child,’’ he said, translating Shaw’s words. As he spoke he reached out a hand and drew the girl away from Shaw. "You run along now, sweetheart. Mr. Shaw and I are busy men.’’

  When the girl resisted, Madsen squeezed her shoulder a little tighter and pulled a little harder. "Go fill your basket and get home,’’ he said, keeping his voice from growing gruff with her. "Or maybe you’d like me to have Deacon Lucas come along to help you?’’

  Shaw saw the child’s eyes fill instantly with fear. "No,’’ she replied, giving in quickly and stepping away, "I will go! My Mamá is expecting me.’’ Even as she spoke her dark eyes stayed on Shaw’s.

  "Rodero,’’ Madsen said to the cantina owner, "take her out back to the cocina, send some food home with her.’’ As Madsen pulled her farther away he patted the girl’s shoulder, but Shaw saw that it was only for appearance’s sake. He also saw that the child was not accustomed to the gesture, and that she resented it. "I can’t have either of my girls going hungry, now, can I?’’ Madsen said with a false-looking smile toward the child.

  The girl’s eyes lingered on Shaw a moment longer until Rodero came behind the bar and ushered her along with him toward the rear door, the two of them having to veer around Tommy Layton’s body still lying where he’d fallen. What had he seen in her eyes? Shaw had to ask himself. Fear? Yes. Despair? Yes. Hopelessness? Yes, but it was hopelessness giving way to something. But what? Faith . . . ? Yes, he decided, he believed it was. But faith in what? In him . . . ? No, he told himself, that couldn’t be it.

  "Who is Mr. Angel?’’ he asked Madsen, as interested in studying the expression on the outlaw leader’s face as he was to hear his answer.

  Madsen shrugged. "Who knows, with this kid? Probably some make-believe friend of hers.’’ He stepped closer to the bar, picked up the bottle of tequila and poured some into Shaw’s wooden cup. At the same time he motioned for some of the men to get the two bodies up and out the door. "I don’t have much to do with the girl, to tell you the truth.’’ He gave a short sly grin. "It’s her mother I’m interested in.’’

  "I see,’’ Shaw said contemplatively, staring toward the rear door, unable to get the girl’s eyes out of his mind.

  Studying Shaw’s expression for a moment, Madsen read it completely wrong, and said in a lowered voice between the two of them, "She’s a little young, but not too young. She’s growing up every day. Just because I’m with the mother doesn’t mean you couldn’t—’’

  "Forget it,’’ Shaw said, cutting him off. Madsen’s words caused anger to well up in his chest. Anger was something he hadn’t felt for a long time, in spite of all the killing he’d been a party to.

  "No offense,’’ said Madsen, pushing the wooden cup closer to Shaw’s hand on the bar top. "That just goes to show what I’m willing to give, just to get you to ride with us.’’

  Shaw threw back the shot of tequila and set the cup down on the battered bar top. "Do you have to have an answer right now? If you do I have to tell you no.’’

  Madsen asked with a curious look, "Why would waiting for an answer make any difference?’’

  "Right now I’m tired and cross, and I’ve spent a lot of my time shooting your men,’’ Shaw said. "Maybe I’ll change my mind after I get a little rest, and get to know more about the men I’d be riding with.’’

  Madsen stuck a fresh cigar into his mouth, lit it and blew out a stream of smoke. He considered Shaw’s words carefully for a moment. Finally he said, "I’ll tell you what, Fast Larry, I’m still waiting for a few of my regular men—they’ve been off here and there, on small jobs across the border. You take a few days until they get here. Let Paco show you around. Enjoy yourself, get drunk, find a woman, do whatever you like. When I get ready to ride, you give me your answer . . . and let that answer be our final word on the matter. What do you say, have we got a deal?’’

  "I say that sounds like a good way to leave it for now,’’ Shaw replied, touching his hat brim on the matter. "Yes, we’ve got ourselves a deal.’’

  Madsen turned to the others, who had gone back to drinking even as they kept a cautious eye on Shaw and Madsen during their conversation. "All right, men, listen up,’’ said Madsen, raising his voice for everybody’s sake. "Until everybody gets here and we’re gathered up and ready to ride, consider Shaw here as my personal guest. Treat him like he’s one of us.’’ He raised his wooden cup as if in a toast. "I’m hoping that he will be soon enough.’’

  No sooner had Paco led Shaw out of the cantina to show him where he’d be bunking than Turner sidled up closer to Madsen. "I saw how fast he is, but do we really want a man like him riding with us? He’s never going to follow anybody’s orders.’’

  Madsen gave a crafty smile. "I know that. But you saw what a fighter he is. When the time comes that we need to leave a man behind between ourselves and the law, Shaw’s the man. He won’t do it if he thinks he’s following orders, but he’ll do it if he thinks it’s his own idea.’’

  "I don’t trust him,’’ Turner said.

  "Aw, hell, neither do I,’’ said Madsen. "He’s a belligerent, headstrong son of a bitch. But he didn’t get the name Fastest Gun Alive sitting home smoking a pipe. He’s a straight-up killer who doesn’t give a damn if he lives or dies.’’ He threw back a drink from his wooden cup and added, "I’m always looking for that kind of man.’’

  Turner nodded. "I admit he is one hell of a gunman. The fastest I’ve ever seen. If the time comes we need to leave a man behind to protect our backs, he’s got my vote. The problem is putting up with him until that time comes.’’

  Madsen poured more tequila for them both. "Don’t press me for details, but that time might come sooner than you think, Roscoe.’’ As he picked up his wooden cup he said, "Meanwhile, why don’t you get Bert Sibott to lean on Shaw a little? We know how good Shaw is with his Colt. Let’s find out how he is with his fists.’’

  "Against Sibott?’’ Turner gave a bemused look. "Are you sure about this, Quinn? Bert Sibott was the French bare-knuckle champ. He’d likely kill him if Shaw was stupid enough to fight him unarmed.’’

  Madsen gave Turner a cold stare. "Roscoe, if you think you’re going to question everything I say, you’re wrong. Now tell Bert you want him to get in Shaw’s face. The next thing I want to hear from you is how it turned out. Do you understand me?’’

  "Clear as a bell,’’ said Turner, seeing he’d gone too far on the matter. "I’ll get Sibott right on it.’’ He stepped back and walked toward the big Frenchman standing bowed over his drink at the far end of the bar. When he drew closer and the Frenchman took note of him, Turner motioned toward the rear door and said quietly, "Bert, come talk to me out back. I’ve got a job for you....’’

  Out in front of the cantina, Shaw and Paco had walked to the livery barn where Shaw checked on his horse and picked up his saddle, bedroll and saddlebags. Leaving the barn at Shaw’s side, Paco shook his head and said in a lowered, guarded tone, "Amigo, I have to tell you, I have never seen Quinn Madsen treat anybody so special, the way he is treating you.’’

  Shaw only gave him a sidelong glance and asked, "Do you trust it?’’ He listened closely for Paco’s answer, knowing that his words would reveal just how much he could trust the Mexican as well.

  With no hesitation, Paco said quietly, "No, I do not trust it. If I were you I would not be deceived by Madsen’s hospitality. But for now I would take advantage of it and rest my horse in his shade.’’ He grinned. "Your horse will thank you for it.’’ He shrugged. "Anyway, you are fa
st enough with your gun that you do not have to be in a hurry to please anyone.’’

  They walked on along the dusty street toward the small adobe where the men stayed. Shaw considered Paco’s words and decided the Mexican was being honest with him. "What’s the story on the girl and her mother?’’

  Paco gave him a serious look, seeing that there was more there than curiosity. "Please listen to me carefully, my friend. The girl Francisca and her mother belong to Madsen. There is nothing to be done for them. I must warn you not to think of them or get involved with them in any way.’’

  As they talked they had walked to the adobe and stepped inside. Shaw looked around at saddles lined along the floor with blankets rolled up lying beside them. In a small hearth a bed of embers still glowed beneath a blackened tin coffeepot. "All right, you’ve warned me,’’ Shaw said. "Now tell me about them.’’

  Paco sighed and again shook his head. "I will tell you, but only because I try to be your friend, and I know if I do not, you will find out some other way. So what I tell you must be in secret between us, comprende?’’

  "Understood,’’ said Shaw. He dropped his saddle beneath a window ledge and looked at Paco expectantly.

  Paco looked all around as if to make sure no one was listening. "The woman stays with Madsen because he holds her husband prisoner. He will kill her husband if she does not go along with whatever he demands of her.’’ Paco shrugged. "What can she do? Madsen knows that she cannot go to the federales for help. Even if they cared enough to help her, she knows her husband would be dead before the federales could find him and set him free.’’

  "And the girl knows this?’’ Shaw asked.

  "Sí, I think she does,’’ said Paco. "She knows her father is gone. She knows her mother lives with Madsen. What more does a child see?’’

  Shaw considered it for a moment, starting to understand the look in the girl’s eyes. "Mr. Angel...,’’ he murmured under his breath.

  "Sí, Mr. Angel,’’ said Paco. "When I first came here, she called me Mr. Angel. But she stopped when she realized that I am only another of Madsen’s outlaws.’’

  "The best hope for these people is for Madsen to tire of the woman, release her husband and ride away,’’ Shaw said. "But there’s lots of other ways things like this can go . . . none of them good.’’

  "And now you see why I have done nothing,’’ said Paco. "Any move I would have made would only have gotten the child’s father killed, eh?’’

  "You don’t have to explain yourself to me,’’ said Shaw.

  Paco fell silent for a moment, then said, "I am not a good man. I am a bandito and a gunman. I left this life of rags and hunger. I owe these people nothing. Her husband chose to be a sheep instead of a real man who stood up for his wife and child. What am I to do?’’

  Even as he spoke, Shaw could see that he was talking harshly in order to hide his shame. "Like I said, you don’t have to explain yourself—’’

  Shaw’s words were cut short by the booming voice of Bert Sibott, whose huge frame filled the doorway. "Well, well,’’ he said, with only a trace of a French accent. "It’s a good thing I got here when I did. You just threw your saddle down in my spot, Shaw. I can’t have that, now, can I?’’ He stepped inside, his sleeves already rolled up, his gun belt missing from around his waist.

  Shaw looked at Paco, then down at the saddle on the floor beneath the window ledge. "You must believe that I knew nothing of this, my friend,’’ Paco said in a lowered voice. "This is Madsen’s doings.’’

  "I understand,’’ Shaw said, watching Drop the Dog Jones and Lying Earl lurking outside the front door. To the big Frenchman he said, "Suppose you pick up my saddle and move it out of your way?’’

  "I came here to bust your head, gunman,’’ said Sibott with a wide, cruel grin, "not to carry your lousy saddle for you.’’ He cracked his big round knuckles, raised his fists into a fighter’s guard and stalked forward.

  "I didn’t think so,’’ Shaw said. "Let’s get this over with.’’ He took off his gun belt, let it fall atop his saddle on the floor, then took off his sombrero and dropped it atop his gun. He moved cautiously sideways until he stopped and stood a few feet in front of the hearth, casting a quick glance toward the iron poker leaning against the wall on the other side.

  "I see what you’re thinking, gunman,’’ said Sibott. "Make a move for that poker and I’ll just have to beat you that much harder.’’

  Shaw stopped dead still in front of the hearth, as if the big man had read his mind. "There’s no fooling you,’’ he said.

  "Not when it comes to this, gunman,’’ said Sibott. "I’ve been in too many fighting rings . . . this is my game.’’

  Chapter 5

  Outside the small adobe, Drop the Dog Jones and Lying Earl watched in rapt fascination as Sibott moved in a wide circle, drawing ever closer to Shaw. "The big Frenchy is going to kill him for us, Earl,’’ Jones whispered.

  "Thank goodness,’’ said Earl. "I was afraid we’d never get rid of him. Did I ever tell you about when I was in Kansas? There was this big fellow—’’

  "Stop lying, Earl,’’ Jones said, cutting him off. "Shut up and watch the fight.’’

  Inside, Sibott spoke to Shaw as he readied himself to charge forward. "Do me a favor, gunman,’’ he said. "If you’re still able to talk, tell me when you’ve had enough, so I don’t have to wear myself out beating on you all day.’’ He gave a wide, mirthless grin. "I hate getting my fists all bloody because some jake is too proud to admit he’s done in.’’

  "I’ll tell you when,’’ Shaw said flatly. "You be sure and do me the same favor.’’

  "Ha,’’ the big man scoffed, towering above Shaw by a full ten inches. "You’ve got a strange sense of humor going for you, gunman.’’ The brawler had tried to keep him talking as he set up a fast attack.

  But Shaw stood his ground in front of the open hearth, well prepared for the big fighter to make his move.

  Suddenly Sibott shouted, "Take that!’’ He lunged forward hard and fast, feeling confident, knowing the fight would be over once his powerful swing connected.

  But Shaw knew better. As the big man made a long roundhouse swing, going for his one-punch knockout, Shaw ducked to one side and stuck out his foot into Sibott’s path, tripping him.

  "Oh, no!’’ Jones said from outside the doorway as the big Frenchman hurled headlong into the open hearth where Shaw had deliberately positioned himself. Shaw didn’t have to lay a hand on him. Instead he dropped his guard and watched the bare-knuckle brawler rumble past him like a derailed freight car.

  Sibott bellowed fearfully as he saw himself flying into the open hearth. But there was nothing he could do to stop it. Paco winced at the sight of the big man’s head smashing the pot of hot coffee and ripping down the iron frame supporting it. With a loud painful grunt the Frenchman slammed into the rear of the stone hearth before landing in a puff of smoke, sparks and hot ashes.

  "Holy Mother ...’’ Paco whispered to himself, feeling the small adobe tremble from Sibott’s impact.

  As hot coffee and bits of charred wood reined down about the adobe, Shaw stepped over to a table, picked up a gourd full of drinking water and walked to where Sibott lay struggling, his broad shoulders wedged into the open hearth, his right arm having jammed deep up the chimney. "Have you had enough?’’ Shaw asked flatly.

  "You son of a—Yiiiiii!’’ Sibott had started to curse him, but his profanity turned into a shriek of pain and fear as the embers already burning his chest suddenly caused his shirt to burst into flames. "Get me out! Get me out!’’ he screamed and sobbed, flames spreading all over his large torso.

  Shaw reached in with the large gourd and poured the water down over him, turning smoke, flames and glowing embers into a dark sizzling cloud. "Are you sure you’ve had enough?’’ Shaw asked again, stepping back from the rising billowing cloud of steam.

  Sibott coughed and gurgled and sobbed. "I’m—I’m stuck!’’ he gasped, struggling
with his shoulders and right arm.

  Shaw nodded for Paco to help and the two of them took the downed Frenchman by his boots and pulled and jerked until his right arm dropped down from the chimney and his shoulders came unstuck from the hearth. When they dragged him free of the steaming embers, Paco picked up a canteen lying next to a saddle on the floor, opened it and poured the contents over the Frenchman’s singed and smoking head. A smell of burned hair loomed.

  "Oh, God . . . thanks . . . Paco!’’ Sibott managed to say in a raspy voice between coughing and gasping for breath. "I—I thought I was . . . going to be . . . roasted alive!’’

  "You would have been, you fool,’’ Paco said. "But don’t thank me, Bert, it was Fast Larry here who poured water on you and put out the flames.’’

  "He—he did?’’ Sibott looked puzzled by such an act of mercy coming from an opponent. He looked at Shaw, who had walked over, picked up his gun belt, buckled it around his waist and tied the rawhide string around his thigh. Through watering red-streaked eyes the Frenchman rasped, "Shaw ... much obliged. I—I don’t know . . . what to say.’’

  Shaw picked up his sombrero and looked at drops of coffee on its brim—coffee that had sprayed all the way from the mashed pot in the hearth. He brushed the drops off with his hand and set the sombrero loosely atop his head. Without replying he walked over, reached a hand down to the big Frenchman and helped him rise wobbly to his feet. As soon as Sibott turned loose of Shaw’s hand he wiped a hand down his wet, scorched face and staggered a few feet to the table and slumped down onto a straight-backed chair.

  "I never should have agreed to do this. It didn’t feel right, me, a professional fighter taking advantage of a man much smaller than myself.’’ He shook his big disheveled head in shame and added, "I’m sorry, Shaw.’’