Gunmen of the Desert Sands

by Ralph Cotton

  Wild Dick had barely the strength to open his eyes slightly and study her eyes as if through a veil. ’’My gun . . . ," he rasped, his hands too weak to reach for the weapon.

  ’’I have it," she whispered with reassurance. She pulled back from his ear and examined the wounds on his chest again while she used both hands to cock the gun hammer. ’’Do you want it now?"

  ’’Yes, give it . . . ," he managed to say brokenly, but with resolve.

  With the barrel resting in her left hand, she raised the gun and held the tip of the barrel to the open wound at the center of his chest. Wild Dick felt the cool metal against his fevered wounded flesh. ’’No . . . Whore," he whispered, as if giving her instructions.

  She moved the barrel two inches to her right, where his heart lay struggling to find its next beat. ’’Yeah . . . ," Wild Dick said in a weak tone, a look of peace coming to his tortured face as she found the right spot. Holding her head back to one side, the woman squinted her eyes and pulled the trigger. Wild Dick’s body bucked and stiffened with the impact, then slumped limply onto the pallet.

  On the street, at the sound of the single gunshot Dawson and the others stopped their horses instinctively and stepped down from their saddles, weapons in hand. They found cover quickly and centered their aim on the adobe. But after a silent pause when it appeared no other shot was coming, Dawson raised a cautious hand, keeping the others from firing on the small adobe.

  ’’What are we waiting for, Marshal?" Carr asked, sounding impatient. ’’We know we have him outnumbered. Let’s roust him out of there."

  ’’Keep quiet, Grady," Tunis said to Carr. ’’We’ve seen what your haste causes us." To Dawson he said, ’’Say the word, Marshal, and I’ll go around and secure any means of escape from the rear."

  But before Dawson could give a reply to either of them, they saw the woman running out of the open doorway toward them, her arms outspread, her face covered with the back-spray of Wild Dick’s blood. ’’He is dead! He is dead!" she cried out. ’’It is over! I have killed him!"

  Dawson caught her at a full run as she leaped into his arms, sobbing and clinging to him. Holding her to one side, he kept an eye on the adobe and motioned Caldwell forward. ’’Easy, ma’am, you’re going to be all right," he said, trying to settle her.

  ’’I’ll go look things over," Caldwell said, checking his gun as he moved forward.

  ’’Wait," said Dawson, ’’I’m going with you." To the woman he said as he watched her eyes for any sign of deception, ’’Is there anyone else in there besides Dick Bernie? Are there any others waiting to surprise us?"

  ’’No, the others are gone," she said, shaking her head, gasping for breath. ’’There is only him, and he is dead." She began sobbing, looking greatly relieved. ’’At last I am free of them."

  Tunis and Carr had ventured forward, seeing the gun smoke from the single shot find its way out of the open window and rise in a slow gray curl. ’’So, you nailed him, eh?" Carr said, turning to the trembling woman with a look of admiration.

  ’’Sí, I—I had to," she offered, stepping away from Dawson, wiping her eyes with her palms. ’’It was the thing I could do in order to save myself. He told me if I did not take care of him he would kill me."

  Dawson gave her a dubious look.

  Replying to his questioning gaze, she said, ’’I saw the four of you men riding in, and knew it was then that I had to do something. He would have killed each of you from the window. He told me so."

  Dawson only stared at her.

  ’’Do you not believe me?" she asked, with a hurt, wide-eyed expression. ’’Do you think I—"

  ’’Now, now, little lady," said Carr, cutting her off with a paternal grin. ’’You did good for yourself—real good." Seeing Caldwell and Tunis approaching the adobe with caution, he said to Dawson, ’’Go with them if you want to. I’ll stay back and look after her."

  Dawson looked them both up and down. Leaning in close to Carr, he said privately, ’’Don’t turn your back on her until we get a chance to talk some more."

  ’’Don’t worry, Marshal, I believe I know how to handle a frightened woman," Carr replied under his breath with a trace of sarcasm.

  As the marshal turned and hurried forward to catch up with Caldwell and Tunis, the woman said to Carr with a hurt look on her face, ’’Does he think I was with these murderers by my own choice? Does he not know that they forced me to come with them?"

  ’’You pay the marshal no mind, little lady, you’re safe now. That’s the main thing." Carr reached out to her; she willingly placed herself in his arms. ’’The marshal sometimes takes himself a little too seriously."

  Standing in Carr’s arms, the woman looked back across his broad shoulder at the four horses standing in the street where the lawmen had left them. ’’You are kind," she said. As she spoke she slipped her hand in between them and eased the knife she had taken from Wild Dick’s boot from inside her dress.

  Inside the adobe, Dawson and the other two lowered their weapons as they looked around the empty room. Gun smoke still loomed in the air. The big Colt lay on the floor where it had fallen. Wild Dick’s dead eyes lay half open, staring blankly at them like a man dozing in the morning heat.

  But upon seeing the body lying stretched on the pallet, Dawson commented, ’’Uh-oh, she said he was at the window getting ready to ambush us when she shot him."

  ’’So?" Tunis asked with a curious expression, ’’What difference does that make? She killed him. She got away from him."

  ’’Big difference," said Caldwell, he and Dawson both hurrying out the door.

  Carr stood in the street where Dawson had left him, but the woman wasn’t there. Dawson caught a glimpse of her bare thigh and her long hair whipping back behind her as she raced out of sight around the corner of a building, on Tunis’ horse, the other three horses’ reins in her hands.

  ’’She’s getting away!" he shouted, running toward Carr.

  But Carr stood with his back to him, rocking back and forth as if dumbfounded, his hands spread at his sides. ’’Damn it, man!" shouted Tunis, running out behind Caldwell. ’’She’s stealing our horses!"

  Only yards away, villagers stood looking on in horror as Carr turned around slowly, facing the other three as they drew closer. ’’Oh, no," said Tunis, slowing to a halt, seeing the shower of blood spewing from the long gaping wound across Carr’s throat.

  ’’Help him!" Dawson shouted over his shoulder to Tunis and Caldwell as he ran past Carr and stopped at a place where he could see the woman and the horses racing away in a cloud of dust. He threw the rifle butt to his shoulder quickly. But then he slowed himself down, took a deep breath and steadied himself. He took careful aim out through the thickening dust, knowing he would get only one shot before the dust hid his target completely.

  Not allowing his sight to be distracted by the rise and fall of the horses running behind her, Dawson squeezed off the shot and managed to see the woman jerk sideways in the saddle as the bullet struck her. Then the dust closed in like a thick curtain, blocking out everything. Got her, he told himself flatly, not at all pleased with the prospect of shooting a woman in the back. He levered another round into his rifle chamber and walked forward, his eyes searching the billowing dust, waiting for it to settle.

  Out on the flats ahead of the rising dust, the woman lay low, struggling with one hand to keep from flying from her saddle. Dawson’s shot had struck her high in her right shoulder, the impact of it rendering her right arm limp and useless. The reins to the other three horses had flown from her hand, but she’d managed to right herself enough to keep riding.

  As the powdery trail dust settled, Dawson breathed a sigh of relief at the sight of his horse slowly galloping down in his direction. Caldwell’s and Carr’s horses were doing the same a few yards away. A second later he saw the woman crest a low rise and disappear out of sight.

  ’’Did you get her?" Caldwell asked, hurrying up to him, a streak of Carr�
�s spewing blood on his hand and shirtsleeve.

  ’’Yeah," said Dawson, ’’I wounded her." He gestured toward the swirling dust lifting above the flats. ’’We’ve got our horses back." As he spoke, he looked back toward Carr, who lay on the ground in a wide pool of blood. Tunis sat in the dirt close by, hatless, his gun dangling from one hand. On the ground beside Tunis’ hat lay his brown leather-backed journal, its small pages turning back and forth in the hot breeze.

  ’’Yeah, Carr’s dead," Caldwell said, anticipating Dawson’s next words before he spoke them.

  ’’The poor fool," Dawson said. ’’She must’ve cut his throat before he knew what hit him."

  ’’Yep, I’d say she had it all planned down pretty good," said Caldwell. He looked at Dawson’s grim expression.

  ’’Carr’s holster is empty. So if she’s lying wounded out there, she’s armed."

  ’’Obliged," said Dawson. He studied Tunis for a moment, then said to Caldwell, ’’Let him wait here while we go get the horses."

  PART 3

  Chapter 13

  Shaw watched the small twisted Spaniard swing the heavy iron door open and gesture for him to step inside. ’’You first," Shaw said firmly, not about to turn his back on the man, lest the iron door swing shut and lock behind him.

  ’’Ah, you are the cautious one," the twisted man said with a sneaky grin, looking up at Shaw as he limped forward, the candle held high into the black darkness. To a shadowy corner of the room he said, ’’Gomez, get up, you sick, broken-lung bastardo. You’re leaving."

  A lethal-sounding cough erupted in the dark corner, followed by a rattling gasp for air. ’’Leaving?" said a weak and broken voice.

  ’’Yes, leaving, salir, poner ausente," said the man. ’’Mr. Madsen has sent this man for you. Although I don’t know why. You are more dead than alive. Perhaps he wants to kill you himself." As he spoke he gave a distrustful glance up at Shaw and added, ’’This piece of sick putrid flesh is no good for anything."

  ’’It’s none of your business why Madsen wants him," said Shaw. ’’He told me to come get him, and here I am. If you want to ride back to Zarco with me, you can question Madsen’s reason in person. I’ll escort you there."

  ’’No," the twisted Spaniard said quickly, catching the threat in Shaw’s words, ’’I would never question Mr. Madsen’s reason! Who am I to wonder why about anything? I am just a stupid old cripple, eh?"

  Shaw ignored him and said to a muffled cough in the darkness, ’’Come on, Gomez, I brought you a horse, let’s get riding."

  ’’Did he . . . ?" A rattling cough erupted, then settled in the darkness.

  ’’Did he what?" Shaw asked. He took the candle from the Spaniard and gave him a slight shove forward, keeping him in front of him.

  ’’Send you . . . to kill me?" Gomez said, choking and gasping with every word.

  ’’If he wanted me to kill you’d already be dead," said Shaw, careful of what he said here. There would be time to explain things to the man once they were out of this place and on their way to Zarco. ’’Now get up, let’s go." Shaw took a step forward and looked down in the flicker of candlelight at the emaciated face, streaked with countless days of grime, eyes blurred by searing pain from too many days without sunlight.

  ’’I—I need help," Gomez said, struggling weakly to swing himself up from a pile of ragged blankets on the dirt floor.

  ’’Help him up. Take him outside," Shaw commanded the Spaniard. ’’How long since you’ve fed him anything?"

  The man shrugged. ’’I don’t remember. I used to have to keep him chained of a night. But I stopped feeding him so much, to keep him from gaining his strength and trying to escape." He gave a sly, ugly grin. ’’To tell you the truth I thought he was dead. He does nothing but cough and choke on his own bloody spit, this sick, lazy fool."

  Helping Gomez to his feet, the Spaniard led him out to the main mine shaft and into the bright light of day, where Shaw took over, looped the man’s thin, limp arm over his shoulder and led him to the waiting horses. Gomez squinted his eyes shut in pain. ’’God . . . help me," he managed to say between coughing. ’’I thought I’d never—"

  ’’Shut up," Shaw demanded in a harsh whisper, watching the Spaniard hobble off toward the dusty mine shack. ’’We’ll talk once we’re away from here." Above the mine shack stood a rifleman who stared down at Shaw as Shaw shoved the thin, brittle man up into a saddle.

  But Gomez persisted, saying through his cough, ’’You did . . . come to kill me."

  ’’No," said Shaw, ’’I didn’t."

  Holding the reins to Gomez’s horse, Shaw mounted his own horse and led the frail, sickly man away. Once outside the perimeter of the Luzzo mining compound and on their way down the trail that would take them back to Zarco, Shaw handed the weak man a canteen of tepid water and said, ’’Here, sip some of this. We’ll stop farther down the trail, long enough to get some food in your belly."

  ’’Gracias, mister," Gomez said, his cough settling a little in the warmer air. ’’If you are not here . . . to kill me, what is it . . . that Madsen wants from me?"

  ’’Madsen didn’t send me, Nito," said Shaw, sidling his horse close to him. ’’Your daughter, Francisca, sent me."

  ’’Francisca sent you?" Gomez looked frightened. ’’No, please . . . take me back to the mines! Madsen will . . . kill my family when he hears what you have done." His words ended in a violent fit of coughing. Shaw had to reach over and keep the man from falling from the saddle.

  ’’No, he won’t," Shaw said. ’’You have to trust me, he’s not going to harm your family, not if you’ll do like I tell you." Even as he spoke, Shaw questioned whether or not this man would have the strength to flee Zarco, to take his wife and child and disappear into the hill country until Madsen was gone from their lives.

  Gomez seemed to summon up strength from inside himself and said in a ragged but stronger voice, ’’I—I will do . . . whatever you tell me to do, mister. Only, please . . . let my family come to no harm."

  ’’You have my word on it," Shaw said to him; then to himself in an almost taunting inner voice he added, The word of a desert angel . . .

  Two miles farther down the rocky hill trail, Shaw veered his horse over into the thin shade of some scrub cedar and stopped. Beside him, Nito Gomez gave him a questioning look, but stopped and stepped down beside him. Shaw had to catch the man by his bony elbow to keep him from falling. Helping him over to a large rock, Shaw seated him and said, ’’Wait right here, I’ve got some food in my saddlebags."

  When Shaw returned, he gave Gomez a handful of jerked meat and some dried pan del maíz, a thin flat corn bread he’d carried for a long time.

  While the man ate, Shaw told him his name, and how he had come to know his daughter. He told him it was Francisca who had sent him to bring her father back to her. He didn’t tell him that the girl had asked him to kill Quinn Madsen. Some things were better left unsaid, he reasoned.

  ’’I don’t know . . . how I will ever repay . . . what you have done for me, Senor Shaw," Gomez said, still watery eyed from adapting to the sunlight. He paused for a moment, then said with a bit of apprehension, ’’And, forgive me, but I ... do not understand why you do it."

  Shaw stared at him, wishing the man had not asked him that question. ’’Because it needed doing," he said finally.

  ’’But I have no ... money with which to—" Gomez’s words stopped short beneath a renewed round of coughing.

  ’’It’s not for money," Shaw said. To change the subject he gestured in the direction of Zarco. ’’If we ride till dark, rest a couple of hours and ride all night, you’ll be home by morning. Are you up to that?"

  ’’I am up to ... whatever it takes, Mr. Shaw," Gomez said through a mouthful of food.

  ’’Good," said Shaw, reaching out and patting his bony shoulder. ’’Eat as much as you can stand. Get your strength up as fast as you can. You’ll need it once we get you and your family back toge
ther." As he saw another round of coughing swelling up in Gomez’s thin chest, he wondered if help had come too late for Nito Gomez. Had he ridden here to save a man whose life was long past saving? God, he hoped not.

  Francisca stood in the window of the small room that faced out onto the desert floor. Before he had slipped out of Zarco, Shaw had managed to come to her window and tell her of his plans. He had sworn her to secrecy. Not even her mother should know, he had told her, not until he brought her father home and the three of them were safely under way. She would keep her word to him, she told herself.

  In the heat of the afternoon, her mother came into the room, her eyes still bruised but healing from the beating Madsen had given her. ’’All day you have been at the window, child," her mother said. ’’What is it you are expecting?" She stood beside her daughter and looked out herself, squinting against the glare of afternoon sunlight.

  ’’Nothing, Mamá," Francisca replied quickly. ’’I am only watching the sun go down." She knew Shaw hadn’t been gone long enough to ride to the mines and back. It would be morning before he arrived. But she could not keep herself from going to the window and watching in anticipation.

  ’’Yes," her mother said, ’’and this morning you were at the same spot when the sun came up. Now go away from the window. Looking into the sun is not good for you."

  Francisca sighed; she grudgingly stepped back from the window and turned toward the door to the other room. But as she stepped through the doorway, Madsen appeared as if out of nowhere and placed a hand on her chest, stopping her. ’’Hold up, nit," he said. Looking past her to her mother, he said, ’’I have something to say to both of yas."

  Protectively, the woman hurried forward and put an arm around Francisca. ’’What has this foolish girl done this time? I promise whatever it is, I will correct her for it—"