by Ralph Cotton
"Ride away,’’ the same voice called out, trying to sound strong, but not doing a good job of it.
The outlaws sat in silence for a moment; then Hatch called out, "We’ve killed all of yas, ain’t we?’’
"No,’’ the voice said, "there’s still some of us left.’’
"If there is, they’re wounded all to hell,’’ Engles said quietly. "Let’s ride back and finish them off. This is too good to let go of.’’
Hatch spat and considered it. "What about Wild Dick? Did you see him anywhere back there?’’
"Naw, I didn’t see him,’’ said Engles. "I think he was too shot up to make the run with us. I think he probably rode on. He was in bad shape, last I saw him.’’
Back along the street, the two heard Wild Dick let out a rebel yell. "That’s him now!’’ said Engles, the two staring stunned at streaks of gunfire zipping off right and left while they heard hooves pounding along the middle of the street.
Engles laughed and shouted loudly, "Give ’em hell, Wild Dick!’’ Only a few return shots resounded from along the edge of the street. As soon as Wild Dick rode past wobbling in his saddle, the street fell silent behind him.
"Easy,’’ said Hatch as the hoofbeats drew closer. "The shape he’s in, he might start shooting at us.’’
"Not a chance,’’ said Engles. He called out, "Over here, Wild Dick.’’
A gunshot exploded; the bullet whistled through the narrow space between the two outlaws. Hatch jerked his horse to the side. "I told you,’’ he said to Engles.
"Damn it, Wild Dick, it’s us!’’
The hoofbeats slowed to a quick walk; the horse circled into sight in the grainy darkness. "Pards, I’m sorry,’’ said Wild Dick, "I can’t see shit for all this blood.’’ He wiped a bloody hand over his bloody eyes.
"Aw, man,’’ said Engles, looking at Dick Bernie, who sat covered with blood, "he’s ruined.’’
"I’m not ruined,’’ Wild Dick said, his voice sounding pained and weakened from loss of blood.
"Yep, we’ve got to get him patched up before he bleeds out on us,’’ said Hatch.
"Ah, hell, listen to you,’’ said Dick, batting his bloody eyes, looking back and forth, trying to locate Hatch from the sound of his voice. "All I need is some mescal and a little rest. I’m a West Texas bear-cat, pards. We don’t topple over easily.’’
"There he goes,’’ said Engles, watching the wobbling gunman pitch out of his saddle and land facedown in the dirt.
"Ah, hell, see if his heart’s beating,’’ said Hatch, seeing Engles step down and hurry over to the downed gunman. He stared back toward the dark street and said over his shoulder to Engles, "Well, is he alive?’’
"Yeah, but he’s sliding off. We’ve got to slow down this bleeding.’’
"Yeah, I see that,’’ said Hatch. Then he called out to the dark, silent street, "Listen to me, posse man. You want to live, you get your ass out of town now!’’ He paused, listened, then followed up. "Do you hear me? Clear out, else we’ll shoot you out!’’
"Give us five minutes! We’ve got wounded,’’ said the same voice that had been speaking all along.
"You’ve got three minutes,’’ said Hatch, "and I ain’t carrying a watch.’’
"We’re going,’’ said the voice. "But there’s two wounded men here that can’t be moved. They need tending. I won’t leave them unless I know they’ll get tended to. I need to hear somebody’s word on it.’’
"All right,’’ said Hatch, "you’ve got our word on it. They’ll get tended to. Now get going, before we change our minds and make another charge.’’ As he said the word "charge,’’ he looked over at Sonny Engles with a grin of satisfaction.
On the dark street, the posse man, Randall Wynn, who’d been talking to Hatch stepped inside an adobe building where a candle glowed on its wooden stand. Looking down at two wounded men who lay on the floor against a wall with a bloody body staring up blankly between them, Wynn tried putting on a cheerful face and said, "Fellows, I’ve got good news.’’
"Are you . . . being funny?’’ a former railroad detective named John Willis asked grimly, blood running from the corner of his lips.
"No, not at all,’’ Wynn said, getting rid of his cheerful expression. "But listen to this. They gave me their word. They’ll get you both tended to just as soon as I ride out of here.’’
Willis coughed wetly and said through the bubbling blood on his lips, "Ride ... out? You’re going to . . . run off, leave us?’’
Hearing his skeptical tone, Wynn said, "Fellows, I don’t want to go, but I’ve got to go. I have to find Dawson and his deputy and get us some help here.’’
"We’re dead, soon as you give us over to them,’’ Willis said with resolve, staring at Wynn.
"No, no, no, I don’t think so,’’ Wynn insisted, patting the wounded man on his forearm. "There’s no reason for them to lie about it. We put some bullets in them as well. All they want to do now is get patched up and get going. You’ll be okay, I’m certain of it.’’
"Believe what ... you need to believe,’’ said Willis.
"Hot damn ... you’ve ... killed us, Wynn,’’ said the other man, Ray Studdard, who lay with the muscle of his upper arm shot out and dangling bloodily onto his bare forearm. Two gaping holes in his bloody bare chest had been stuffed with the twisted corners of a bandanna.
"Ray, don’t judge me for doing this,’’ said Wynn, blood running down his left arm. "I’m hurt too . . . and I’m all that’s left standing.’’ He rubbed his forehead anxiously. "I—I never seen anything like them in my life, and I fought against the heathen Sioux!’’
"Don’t credit them for . . . more than they’re worth,’’ said Willis, coughing as he spoke. "Like as not we all killed one another . . . out in the dark . . . cross-firing on each other.’’ He managed to shake his head in disgust. "Most awful . . . mess I ever seen.’’
Wynn shook his head too. "Anyway, I’m sorry, I just can’t do us any good here.’’ He looked at the body lying between the two men, the gaping head wound, brain matter bulging, the dead blank eyes, a startled look on the dead man’s face. "I’m only human.’’ He swallowed the urge to vomit, and looked away, tears filling his frightened eyes.
Willis coughed up more blood and said, "Then get . . . your human ass . . . out of here. We know how . . . to die. Right, Ray?’’
Ray Studdard spoke as if hearing them from some distant place. "I’ll be in Illinois . . . near the creek . . . there at Pa’s old place.’’
"What’d he say?’’ Wynn asked.
"He said to get the hell going.’’ Willis coughed and rasped, growing weaker. "This is the most awful . . . mess I’ve ever gotten into,’’ he repeated. "How’d they beat us, Wynn? How the hell . . . did they do this to me?’’
"I—I don’t know,’’ said Randall Wynn, standing, backing away toward the door, no longer able to bear the sound of the wounded men’s voices, the terrible sight of them.
As the sound of hooves faded away at the far end of town, Morgan Hatch and Sonny Engles put their horses forward at a cautious walk, Engles leading Wild Dick’s horse by its reins. Wild Dick lay draped across his saddle like a dead man, sand caked on his bloody face from when he’d fallen to the ground. "That sounded like only one horse to me,’’ Engles said, staring ahead into the distant darkness.
"I expect it was only one horse,’’ Hatch replied. "If there was any number of them left, they wouldn’t have given up.’’ He chuckled under his breath, still amazed at the outcome of the gun battle.
Engles also chuckled. "I swear, I never heard of a posse trying to surrender. Have you?’’
"No,’’ Hatch said, his eyes scanning warily back and forth, his hand on his Winchester rifle, ready to raise it and fire if he had to, "but that doesn’t mean it ain’t happened.’’ He paused, then added solemnly, "And we could still be riding into an ambush.’’
"I hear you,’’ said Engles, growing serious again, the humor leaving his
expression. his hand rested on the butt of the Colt in his holster. On the distant horizon, the first thin line of sunlight mantled a jagged hill line. He looked around at the bodies strewn on the ground.
In the grainy fading darkness they stepped their horses past bodies lying dead in the street. "Damn, we smoked them good,’’ Engles said quietly.
"We couldn’t have done all this,’’ said Hatch. "These idiots must’ve shot the living hell out of one another.’’
"Far as I’m concerned we must’ve done all this,’’ said Engles. "Maybe they splattered one another with a couple of stray shots, but damn, look at this.’’ He gestured a hand around at the gory, bullet-riddled corpses. Turning in his saddle, he called out to Wild Dick, who looked more dead than alive, "What say you, Wild Dick? Did we burn a few down, or what?’’
Wild Dick managed to squeeze out a deep mournful groan in reply.
"See?’’ Engles grinned. "Wild Dick agrees with me.’’
"I bet he does,’’ said Hatch, veering his horse toward an open doorway, led there by two long smears of blood. He stepped down from his saddle and gestured toward the blood trails.
"I see them,’’ Sonny Engles said quietly, also stepping down. He hitched his horse and wrapped the reins to Wild Dick’s horse around his saddle horn.
The two drew their colts and stepped inside warily, hearing a labored cough through the open doorway where flies had begun to gather. "Don’t ... shoot, Mr. Hatch,’’ John Willis murmured to Hatch in a weak and faltering voice. "We’ve neither one . . . got any fight left in us.’’
Hatch looked from Willis to Ray Studdard, his eyes going across the face of the dead man lying between them, seeing a fly walk across its blue lips. "How many are left in the posse?’’ he asked Willis. Studdard rolled his dazed eyes up at the sound of Hatch’s voice. A string of red saliva bobbed from his chin.
"One,’’ Willis said with a tone of regret and disgust.
"One?’’ Engles gave a bemused laugh. "Damn! What did I tell you, Hatch?’’
Willis stared up into Hatch’s eyes. "He said . . . you’d get us tended to?’’
"Tended to? Sure enough,’’ Hatch said dryly, "if that’s what you want.’’
"You gave . . . your word,’’ Willis rasped.
Hatch gave Engles a look. "Tend to them while I go get somebody to take care of Wild Dick.’’
"All right,’’ said Engles. He cocked his Colt and stepped in closer to Willis as Hatch turned and walked out the door.
From out front Hatch heard Willis say to Engles, "You gave . . . your word.’’
"Oh, that,’’ said Engles. "I think he was only funning.’’
Hatch heard the shot, then a short pause, then another shot as he stepped over and dragged Wild Dick down from across his saddle. "What’s that?’’ Wild Dick asked in a pained voice, flinching at the sound of the gunshots.
"Just Sonny, making room for you,’’ Hatch replied, looping the wounded outlaw’s arm around his shoulder.
At the doorway, Hatch stepped to the side to allow Engles to drag the body of John Willis out into the street. "One coming in, more coming out,’’ Engles said.
"Go around the chozas,’’ said Hatch. "Find us a woman, one that knows how to clean and dress these wounds. We’re not sticking around here. There’s more law coming.’’
"I’m on my way,’’ said Engles, ducking in past Hatch and Wild Dick, grabbing the body of Ray Studdard and dragging it out into the street. "I’ll find the whore I grabbed earlier. She’s quit shaking by now.’’
PART 2
Chapter 8
U.S. Marshal Crayton Dawson looked down from the low hills east of Julimez. The village rooftops, glittering in early sunlight, had already begun to waver in the desert heat. "Whatever the shooting was, it’s all over now,’’ he said to his deputy, former undertaker Jedson Caldwell.
Deputy Caldwell stepped his horse over beside him and looked out and down onto the small gathering of adobes, huts, houses and outbuildings on an otherwise barren wasteland of sand, rock, brush and cactus. In the distance beyond Julimez a line of hills and mountains stretched as far as the eye could see, shrouded by rising heat and a silver-gray pall. "Maybe the posse fared better than we expected them to,’’ he said. He pushed up his dusty, battered derby hat and crossed his hands on his saddle horn. The fingers of his black leather gloves had been cut at the knuckles, protecting only his palms.
"You really think so?’’ Dawson asked, looking him up and down, noting how the deputy’s town clothes had gone to seed in these harsh Mexican desert badlands.
Caldwell sighed. "No, I’m just being optimistic. ’’We should have stayed together." As he spoke he glanced back at the three men in dark suits riding up to them. ’’The quicker these gentlemen are gone, the sooner we can go about doing things the right way, as far as I’m concerned." At the center of the riders sat Samuel Messenger, American consulate to the Mexican government. Flanking him were two members of his border command, Ripley Tunis and Grady Carr, both former Pinkerton detectives.
’’Yeah," said Dawson, also glancing around at the approaching riders. ’’I’ve learned that government works better when government stays home. But I’ve got a feeling they’re not going to leaving any time soon."
When Messenger brought his horse to a halt, he sat for a moment gazing out in the direction the gunfire had come from during the night. Finally he said, ’’Marshal Dawson, I’ll be taking my leave this morning. Agents Tunis and Carr have agreed to stay down here with you for a time, to lend you both a hand. I hope you’ll take advantage of having this top-notch additional manpower."
Dawson kept his voice as courteous as he could. ’’We’re most obliged, sir," he said, ’’but there’s no need in keeping them from going on carrying out their ordinary duties on our account."
The silver-haired Washington diplomat saw right through his attempted civility. Almost before Dawson had finished speaking, Messenger countered sharply, ’’All I heard both before and after the gunfight at Hell’s Gate is how badly you need help out here." He gestured a hand toward the two agents. ’’Well, here they are."
’’Yeah," Dawson said guardedly, looking the two men up and down, ’’here we are."
’’You’re damned well right, here we are," Carr said with finality. He glared hard at Dawson.
’’They know nothing about how things are down here," Dawson said bluntly, ignoring Carr.
’’What we don’t know, you’ll find we learn in a hurry, Marshal," Tunis said with a haughty confidence.
’’People die learning out here," Dawson said, not giving in on the matter.
’’Enough." Messenger raised a hand to cease any further discussion. ’’I vouch for both of these men. They are two of the nation’s finest." He paused for a moment in reflection, then said, ’’Of course I realize they are both sober, willing and able to carry out orders, unlike your other deputy. I hope that won’t put them at a disadvantage in your estimation. I recall how greatly you welcomed the services of Quick Lawrence Shaw."
’’He goes by Fast Larry Shaw, not Quick Larry," Dawson said, correcting him.
’’Whatever," said Messenger. ’’Tunis and Carr will be riding with you for a time, and that’s final. I need reliable reports on the situation down here."
Caldwell cut in. ’’Are you suggesting the reports we’ve been giving you haven’t been reliable, sir?"
’’I hope I didn’t give that impression," Messenger said dryly, giving the two agents a knowing glance. ’’But I do have to say it will be refreshing to get a report in writing for a change."
Changing the subject quickly away from written reports, Dawson said, ’’Shaw was sober the whole time he rode with us. We never would have come out of that gun battle alive had he not gotten to Hell’s Gate ahead of us and done what he did."
’’Yes, yes, of course," said Messenger in the same dry skeptical tone, dismissing the matter with the toss of a gloved hand. ’’Shaw
was a virtual one-man army."
’’You’re damn right he was," Dawson said, getting more and more irritated at Messenger’s smug reserved manner. ’’I wish he was riding with us right now." His eyes went across the two agents. ’’He’s all the help we would have needed. We would have Lucas Leeman and these border raiders down over their saddles this morning instead of riding down there to see how many dead they left behind."
’’Shaw is a drunken joke," said Grady Carr, a look of defiance on his red moonlike face. ’’I’m sick of hearing what a top gunman he is. All that talk about being the fastest gun alive sounds like something he dreamed up on his own, to keep him in drinking money."
’’He is a top gunman," Dawson shot back at him. ’’Only a coward and a braggart shoots his mouth off about a man who’s not standing in front of him."
’’Which are you calling me, Marshal?" the big red-faced lawman asked, stepping his horse closer to Dawson.
’’Take your pick," Dawson said in a harsh tone, not backing an inch.
The two glared hard at each other, but Messenger cut his horse in between them before the argument could build any further. ’’Gentlemen, there’ll be plenty of fighting to go around when you catch up to Deacon Lucas. Save it for the raiders," he said with authority.
’’Yes, sir," Dawson said grudgingly, without turning his eyes from Carr right away.
’’As far as Shaw goes," Messenger continued, ’’I don’t give a damn if he’s the fastest gun alive, or the drunkest gun alive. I’ve seen him fit both images. Either way, he disappeared on us. So forget him."
’’He’s out there somewhere," Caldwell said. ’’Don’t write him off just yet."
’’Right," Messenger said with sarcasm. ’’Shaw only joined us long enough to satisfy his personal vendetta against Titus Boland. Otherwise, he couldn’t have cared less whether or not we took down Sepreano and the Barrows Gang."
Caldwell continued. ’’I still say, had he known there was more fighting to be done he wouldn’t have left us—"