by Ralph Cotton
Behind Shaw, the three lawmen had moved in closer. Tunis slipped down from the back of Dawson’s horse and took the reins that Shaw held out to him. ’’Thank goodness," Tunis said, sliding Hewes’ rifle from its boot and looking it over. He reached down into the pasty blood, picked up Hewes’ Colt and shook dark, wet sand from it.
’’Let’s go," Shaw whispered, stepping back and picking up the reins to his buckskin. ’’This is no place to stay in one spot for long." He turned and swung up into his saddle.
They rode on.
An hour later, they come upon the bodies of two soldiers, one’s trousers down around his ankles, his throat cut from ear to ear. The other was lying in a ball, his hands grasping the handle of a dagger buried to its hilt in his bloody chest. To their far left rifle shots erupted suddenly. Someone screamed in a voice akin to a wounded panther. Another voice swore curses in English until a single bullet cut his voice short.
By the time they’d reached the black shadows of a hill line and started up a rock path, the first thin ray of sunlight was crawling along the eastern horizon. A half hour later, they stopped in a grainy silver light and looked back from the shelter of rock and brush. ’’Good Lord," said Tunis, looking out across the sand flats below. ’’I have never witnessed such a sight in my life." Hewes’ Colt had been cleaned with a bandanna and was resting in the tied-down holster on the lawman’s hip.
’’Me neither," Dawson whispered as if in awe. Silver and brown gun smoke hung in patches on the still morning air.
Beneath the wispy patches of smoke lay the bodies of soldiers and outlaws alike, horses wandering among the dead like sentinels keeping watch over some blood-anointed holy land. Soldiers still patrolled here and there on horseback. As the four lawmen watched, two soldiers flushed a wounded outlaw from the cover of a draw, chased him down and shot him as he tried to limp away on foot.
’’That’s what we just rode through," Tunis whispered, more to himself than anyone else.
’’It certainly looks different from here," Caldwell stated almost reverently. ’’I suppose when you’re in it you don’t notice, but looking down on it"—he shook his head slowly—’’it looks like hell."
Shaw listened to each of them, looking back and forth at each of their faces as they commented. He looked down and farther out across the flats to where an officer stood waving men toward him to form a rank. Then he looked up at the wide endless sky and said, ’’I expect the higher you go, the worse this looks, until you get so high you don’t see it."
The three turned facing him with curious looks on their dirty, dust-covered faces. Shaw spat and turned the buckskin back to the thin rocky trail. ’’They’ll be heading this way as soon as they get formed up and accounted for. We best keep moving."
On the trail, fresh hoofprints overlapped, all headed in the same direction.
Four miles into the hilled terrain, they came upon a dead horse. Two miles farther, they passed another horse, this one alive, but too exhausted to even move out of their way as they approached it. Blood dripped from its nostrils. Its saddle had slipped all the way down and hung under its belly. Shaw stopped long enough to step down and drop the saddle from the worn-out animal’s belly. Then he climbed back atop the buckskin, patted its damp neck reassuringly and rode on.
At midmorning, the four stopped at a lower clearing in the hill line where a stretch of land leveled for nearly a mile before jutting back up into the rocky hillside. Gazing at a short strip of weathered shacks and adobes, Shaw said, ’’There’s Saltilo. Watch your step. It’s the first water since Zarco for anybody traveling in a hurry."
The four spread wide as they rode down onto a dirt street filled with rock and sunken boulders. Halfway along the street before them, three sweat-streaked horses stood at an iron hitch rail. Nearby, on a wet spot of earth, an ancient donkey walked in a short circle turning the wooden spoke of a crude water wheel. Seeing the four men ride in, rifles in hand, an elderly woman grabbed the hand of a small boy and jerked him along into a darkened doorway.
’’They know we’re here," said Dawson, his thumb over his rifle hammer.
Almost before he’d gotten the words out of his mouth, a shot rang out from atop an adobe roof. Dawson and Caldwell veered their animals to one side of the street, Shaw to the other. Only as they hurried down from the horses’ backs to take cover did they see that Tunis lay on the ground, his hands clasped to his bleeding chest.
Caldwell tried to run out to the downed lawman, but two shots from atop an adobe sent him scurrying back to cover. Shaw cut a sharp glance to the rooftop and said to Caldwell, ’’Go on now, I’ve got them."
Without hesitation Caldwell ran out to Tunis, grabbed him by his shoulders and dragged him out of the street. From a rooftop a gunman poked his head up to take another shot, but a bullet from Shaw’s rifle nailed him between the eyes.
Dawson had seen a rifleman duck back out of sight. He gave Shaw a hand signal, asking for cover, then moved forward crouched until the gunman showed his face again. Dawson dropped him with a shot to the stomach. The gunman went backward and down with a deep grunt. He landed sitting down against the wall of an adobe, his boots spread wide, his hands clutching his lower belly. A string of saliva swung and bobbed from his parted lips.
’’Fast Larry!" a voice called out from another adobe farther up the street. ’’This is Clell Butterfield, you son of a bitch! Who’s that with you?"
’’Just some cousins of mine," Shaw replied.
’’Cousins my ass," Butterfield shouted. ’’You and your cousins are all dead if you don’t turn around and walk away from here. We need them horses."
Shaw levered a fresh round into his rifle chamber. ’’Better come take them, Butterfield. The longer you wait, the less you’re going to be needing them."
After a silence, Butterfield called out, ’’You know he jackpotted all of us, didn’t he . . . him and his two hounds?"
’’Yep, he did," Shaw replied, knowing that he meant Leeman, Bone and Waite.
’’So, it turns out, Hatch was right, Leeman jackpotted him too, back in Julimez," Butterfield said. ’’You can’t trust no son of a bitch anymore, can you?"
’’That’s my belief," Shaw replied, his eyes scanning the street for any more gunmen, knowing Butterfield was keeping him talking while whoever was with him took position. ’’Who’s with you here, Butterfield?" he asked.
Before Butterfield could answer, another voice called out from across the street, ’’We’re just some cousins of his, Fast Larry."
Shaw recognized the gravelly voice of Andy Mertz. That most likely meant Wallace Pearl was with them, hidden somewhere nearby.
’’What about these horses?" Shaw asked. ’’Are you coming for them, or what?"
’’Oh, we’re coming," said Butterfield. As he replied he stepped out from the cover of a darkened doorway, firing a rifle from his hip. ’’I never was much impressed with you, big-time gunman!"
Shaw’s shot hit him in the chest, knocking him backward. At the same time a shot from Dawson helped slam him to the ground.
Shaw swung toward Andy Mertz, who charged at them down the middle of the street. But before Shaw fired, a shot from Dawson stopped Mertz cold. From beyond the well, the sound of running boots resounded along a hard rocky path between two adobes. Shaw waited, watched, his rifle against his shoulder. When Pearl appeared back in sight from behind the adobe, headed for the cover of rock and brush, Shaw’s shot nailed him.
’’Think there’s more?" Dawson asked as the two backed along the street to where Caldwell had leaned Tunis against a barrel sitting in the shade of a canvas overhang.
’’No, but I wouldn’t swear to it," Shaw said. He kept a wary eye on the street and rooftops while Dawson bent down over Tunis and looked at the wound in his chest.
’’I’m sorry," said Tunis. ’’It seems that . . . once again I haven’t made a good showing."
’’Don’t talk," said Dawson. He leaned him forward and
looked down his back for an exit wound. Seeing it, he leaned Tunis back carefully and looked at Caldwell.
’’It missed his lungs," Caldwell said. ’’He’s not bleeding too fast."
’’He still can’t ride," said Dawson. ’’Riding will kill him."
’’So will the army . . . when they find me here," Tunis said in a pained voice. ’’If I’m dying let me pick my spot." He gripped Dawson’s forearm. ’’I won’t hold us up."
Dawson considered it. Looking along the street, he said to Caldwell, ’’Get him patched up best you can. I’ll go see about buying a cart."
’’A cart." Shaw shook his head as he gathered the reins to the horses to lead them to the well. ’’If you ride from here to Metagore in a mule cart you’ll wish that shot had killed you."
’’That’s encouraging, Shaw," Tunis said. ’’I’m . . . certainly looking forward to it." He managed a pained wry grin.
Metagore, Mexico
Deacon Lucas Leeman, Charlie Bone and Blackie Waite stood inside the small cantina, staring out through an open window toward a small adobe farther down the opposite side of the street. Earlier they’d watched Morgan Hatch and Engles go inside the adobe, Hatch shoving Engles ahead of him. ’’What the hell do you suppose happened to him?" Waite asked, seeing a bloody bandanna tied around Sonny’s head, keeping his all but severed ear in place.
’’Beats me," said Leeman. ’’I’m glad we tied our horses out back. They don’t know we’re here. We could get the drop on them, kill them right now if we had a mind to." He seemed to think it over for a moment, then said, ’’But maybe it’s time we called a truce with them instead."
’’What for?" Bone asked, staring hard at the evicted couple who had walked only a few yards away and sat in the dirt staring back toward their home.
’’What for?" Leeman gave a dark grin and said, ’’You know, for something to feed to the army when they get here? Something to keep them busy while we put some more distance between us and their damned cannons."
Bone shook his head. ’’Huh-uh. It won’t work. Sonny might be stupid enough to get jackpotted a third time, but not Hatch," he said. ’’We’ll need to fight and get on up and out of here before we’ve got soldiers down our backs."
’’Don’t tell me it won’t work," Leeman said, his temper flaring a bit.
’’No offense," said Bone, seeing he’d stepped out of line with Deacon Leeman. ’’I guess I just can’t see it happening again."
’’Want to make a wager?" Leeman asked. ’’Say, a hundred dollars?"
Just to settle Leman’s cross attitude, Bone said, ’’Sure, why not?"
’’Hold on, Deacon," said Waite. ’’You’re going to walk out in the street and call them out and tell them you want to make a truce, after us doing what we did to them?"
’’That’s right," Leeman said bravely. ’’Of course I want the two of yas covering my back, just in case I’m wrong."
Waite shook his head and said, ’’All right, Deacon, whatever you say." He slipped his Colt from its holster. Bone did the same.
In the adobe across the street, Hatch had seated Sonny at a wooden table and lowered the bloody bandanna from the side of his head, Sonny’s ear clinging to the sticky cloth.
’’Did it come off?" Sonny asked loudly, unable to gauge his voice without being able to hear it.
’’No, it’s still hanging on, and it’s turning black and looking worse," said Hatch, before he realized Sonny couldn’t hear him. ’’Damn it," he said to himself. He put the bandanna back in place and stepped around in front of the deaf gunman.
’’How is it?" Sonny asked loudly.
’’It’s much better," said Hatch. Knowing Sonny couldn’t hear him, he gave him a wink and a high sign, assuring him everything was just fine.
’’Morgan Hatch," Deacon Leeman shouted from the middle of the street.
Hatch froze for a second; a dark gleam came into his eyes. ’’There’s that rotten son of a bitch," he said quietly to himself.
Seeing the look on Hatch’s face, Sonny said loudly, ’’What is it, Morgan?"
Hatch took him by his shoulders, pulled him up from the chair, laid his gun hand on the butt of his Colt and nudged him along toward the front door. ’’I expect a picture truly is worth a thousand words."
Chapter 26
Topping a rise, Shaw stopped sharply and pulled the buckskin back out of sight.
Dawson, who rode right behind him, stopped rather than plow into him. ’’What is it?" he asked, knowing Shaw had come upon something.
’’It’s Leeman, Hatch and Engles, all three standing in the street." He settled his horse and said, ’’Maybe if we give them a minute or two they’ll kill one another."
Behind Dawson, Caldwell brought the cart to a stop, Tunis’ horse pulling the crude rig, Caldwell’s horse hitched and tagging along behind it.
’’But we’re not going to count on it," Dawson said, checking his rifle.
’’No," Shaw said somberly, ’’it’s time we wash our hands of them."
On the street, Hatch had stepped in front of Sonny and stopped him with a raised hand when he saw Leeman holding his hands chest high, a white handkerchief dangling from his fingertips in a call for a truce. In the open window, Hatch could see the two gunmen watching every move they made. ’’A truce, huh?" he said with a tight, angry smile. ’’You’ve got to be joshing me." To his right side, three feet back, Sonny stood staring blankly, his hand closed tight around his gun butt.
’’No, I’m not joshing," said Leeman with a serious look on his face.
’’And what are those two for?" said Hatch, nodding toward Waite and Bone. ’’I suppose they’re here in case I turn down your offer, sort of like a peace meeting between the cavalry and the Indians?"
Leeman chuckled and replied, ’’Yeah, I guess you could say that." He nodded at Sonny. ’’What’s wrong with him? He looks like he doesn’t know where he’s at."
Seeing Leeman talking, nodding at him, Sonny bristled and took a step forward. But Hatch stopped him, putting a hand on his chest. ’’Shaw spurred him in both ears," he said. ’’Damn near ripped one off."
’’Spurred him in both ears?" Leeman asked with a bemused look, as if having a hard time picturing it.
’’Nailed Sonny between his spike spurs and shook his head like a cat shaking a ball of twine," Hatch said. ’’Poor Sonny is ruined—couldn’t hear a freight train if it ran right over him."
’’What?" Sonny asked loudly.
’’Nothing, Sonny." Hatch settled him with a slight wave of his hand.
’’Damn," said Leeman, looking at the blank expression on Sonny’s face, the dried black blood down the lobe of his uncovered ear. After a pause he said, ’’See? That’s a good reason why we need to settle our differences and pull together. We’ve got soldados on our trail, not to mention those lawmen from before. If there was ever five men who need one another, it’s all of us."
’’I trust you like I’d trust a rattlesnake, Leeman," Hatch said.
But Leeman realized that since Hatch hadn’t hit the street shooting, it was a good possibility he could pull this truce off with him.
’’You don’t have to trust me, Morgan," he said. ’’Hell, you’d be a stone idiot to, after what I’ve done to you. But let’s get real serious about staying alive. I’ve still got that gold station waiting for us in Durango. Now that our ranks have been thinned, I’ll be needing some good riders. I always said you and Sonny there are the best." He paused and looked around the empty street. ’’Say, what happened to the woman, the one Sonny called Whore?"
’’I don’t know. Dead, I guess," said Hatch. ’’She just wandered off on the flats amid all the fighting."
’’Too bad," said Leeman. ’’It might have been good to have a full-time woman around, a whore at that."
’’Back to us, Leeman," said Hatch. ’’If we made a truce it would only be until after that Durango job. After that I might just have to
go ahead and kill you—me or Sonny." He gestured toward Engles.
’’I understand," said Leeman. ’’If you feel so moved to kill me, you’ll be welcome to try."
’’What you say?" Sonny asked, his voice twice as loud as it needed to be.
’’Nothing, Sonny," Hatch said again, his own voice growing louder even though it made no difference whether he screamed or whispered. Seeing the added confusion in Sonny’s eyes, he gave him another hand signal, settling him down.
’’Then we’ve got a truce?" Leeman smiled. He’d won, he’d talked Hatch into a truce. He almost couldn’t believe it himself. Maybe Morgan Hatch was not as smart as he’d thought him to be. Maybe that was why he and Sonny and Wild Dick always rode together. They could all three have been idiots seeking other idiots for company, he thought.
’’Yeah," said Hatch, grudgingly. ’’Call your hounds on out here. We’ve got a truce."
Not a minute too soon, Shaw said to himself, standing around the corner of an adobe he’d crept up to, using a footpath that ran behind the small village. Looking across the street, he saw Dawson crouched beside a long-abandoned freight wagon. Giving Dawson a nod, Shaw stepped into the street without his rifle, and started walking calmly toward the five outlaws, Boone and Waite having stepped out of the adobe and walked up beside Leeman.
’’Deacon, look who’s coming here," said Bone, turning slowly toward Shaw.
’’Well, I’ll be, if it’s not Fast Larry himself," Leeman said, finding something amusing about Shaw walking up, his broad sombrero darkening out his face, the ragged poncho hanging down hiding his gun belt.
Upon seeing Shaw, Sonny screamed in rage and tried to reach for his gun. But Hatch grabbed his hand, stopping him, and motioned for him to stand down. Holding on to Sonny’s forearm, Hatch said to Shaw, ’’You’re a brazen bastard, I’ll give you that, coming here, after what you did to Sonny."
’’That was only a start," Shaw said. He kept walking closer.
’’Yeah, he’s brazen, this one," Leeman said jokingly, with no apparent fear or even concern, Shaw stalking toward him like a mountain cat. ’’But why shouldn’t he be? He is the fastest gun alive, after all." Leeman’s eyes widened, in mock astonishment. ’’Whoooa!"