by Ralph Cotton
Shaw ignored him.
’’Careful, Deacon," Bone cautioned in a whisper, ’’you don’t know this devil."
’’Oh, hell, I know this kind of fool," Leeman said, unimpressed, loud enough for Shaw to hear every word. ’’Fast guns! Quick Draw Artist! Professional Shootist! That’s all hot air and malarkey."
’’Easy, Leeman," said Hatch.
But Leeman ignored him. He called out to Shaw, ’’What can we do for you, Fast Larry? What brings a big gun like you up into this poor village? Are you here to scare crows off their corn? If you are they’ll starve to death." He laughed a little too loud at his own joke.
’’What is wrong with you, Deacon? Bone’s right," Waite said under his breath, ’’you don’t want this man throwing down on you! He truly is the fastest gun alive! That’s not some kind of made-up thing."
’’Say fastest gun alive to me again and I’ll back-hand you, Waite," Deacon said, his mood turning ugly all of a sudden.
’’You heard him, Shaw," said Hatch, seeing this was no laughing matter. ’’What do you want here? You’re not riding with us. I wouldn’t trust you after what happened between us in Zarco."
’’I’m not here to ride with you, Hatch," Shaw said, stopping in the street. ’’I’m here to kill you," he added flatly.
Leeman stared at him; so did the others, spreading out a little, putting some distance between them. Shaw reached over with his left hand and flipped his ragged poncho up over his shoulder.
’’What?" Sonny blurted out loudly again, looking back and forth in confusion, his hand wrapped around his gun butt.
’’All of yas take it easy," said Leeman. ’’Let me take him, I’ll show you just how fast he—"
Shaw’s hand came up too fast to see. His shot bored through Leeman’s forehead and sent a spray of blood, brain and bone matter spilling along the middle of the street. Ten yards away, the couple Hatch had dragged out of their adobe shot across the street and back inside their home. A door slammed; a bolt slid quickly into place.
Dawson stepped onto the street, his Colt out and firing.
Shaw’s second shot hit Charlie Bone, slamming him backward out of one boot. Bone did a wild broken flip and landed facedown. Shaw’s third shot hit Waite squarely in the heart and sent him flying backward, both feet off the ground. He hit the ground and didn’t make another move.
Dawson’s first shot had hit Morgan Hatch, killing him instantly. Then he swung his gun toward Sonny Engles, who had come up with his gun toward Shaw. But before Dawson could fire, Caldwell stepped out with a shotgun from beside an adobe where he’d been positioned to keep any of them from running away. He fired both barrels. Sonny blew apart in every direction, without hearing a sound.
’’Everybody all right?" Shaw asked, looking around, dropping his spent bullets and replacing them with fresh rounds from his gun belt.
Dawson, always amazed at Shaw’s speed and accuracy, shook his head and said, ’’You almost didn’t need us."
’’Almost is not a hand to bet on," Shaw replied.
In the open back gate of the mule cart where they had left him, Agent Ripley Tunis struggled and raised himself up onto his elbows, hearing the breaking of dried brush as someone ran toward the trail. The running footsteps had begun during the shooting and continued after it had stopped. An animal . . . ? It could be, but he didn’t think so. Get ready, he told himself, none of them having had any idea how many raiders might be waiting in Metagore.
Raising the Colt that lay beside him, he held it out at arm’s length and cocked the hammer. But what if it’s only some villager, even a child . . . ?
’’Stop. Who’s there? Detenga, quién está allí?" he repeated quickly in Spanish, in case it was some innocent party fleeing the gunfire.
’’Por favor, don’t shoot!" a frightened voice called out as the running footsteps came to a halt near the edge of the trail, some twenty feet from him.
’’Oh my God!" he said. His gun slumped, his gun hand trembling as he saw the nun in her black glowing robes step onto the trail, her head bowed to him as if in servitude. She stepped closer, her hands raised. ’’Sister, lower your hands, and forgive me please. I’m afraid I’m awfully edgy today."
’’I understand," she said, her face still bowed toward him. She stopped not more than fifteen feet away.
’’You have nothing to fear, ma’am—I mean, Sister," Tunis said, correcting himself. ’’I’m with the American government. We’re here to—" His words stopped short as she raised her face enough for him to recognize her. ’’You!" he said.
With a war cry, the woman hurled herself onto him like some wild bloodthirsty raven, a big knife cocked above her head. She had stunned Tunis, caught him off guard. He tried to raise the gun again after having lowered it with such abandon. But the gun didn’t come up quick enough. She landed astraddle his wounded chest, knocking him backward. She stabbed the knife down at his chest with all her strength. Tunis caught her arm at the wrist and held on tight, his sore wounded chest taking the impact, the pain of it.
In the street, the three lawmen turned at the sound of the woman’s catlike scream. They looked at one another. A silent second passed; then a shot exploded from the direction of the mule cart, followed by another, another and another. ’’Tunis!" Caldwell shouted before the four shots had finished.
Cutting straight through brush and rocks toward the cart instead of taking the street back to the trail, the lawmen slowed a bit, with their guns drawn, when they heard Tunis whisper in a hoarse muffled voice, ’’Help me. . . ."
Caldwell was the first onto the trail. He stopped and stared at the woman’s bare legs astraddle Tunis, the wounded agent lying beneath her with his Colt raised and smoking in his right hand.
’’What the . . . ?" Dawson and Shaw spread out a little as they drew closer.
’’Help me," Tunis cried out again.
Caldwell saw the four exit wounds in the woman’s back as he grabbed her and rolled her off the wounded lawman. Then he saw the big knife fall from her dead hand and clatter on the floor of the cart.
’’It’s the woman who killed Carr," Caldwell said, seeing her blank eyes staring up at the wide Mexican sky.
’’Oh my, thank you, Caldwell!" Tunis gulped air in relief, the weight of the dead woman finally off his wounded chest. ’’She—She—" His breath kept giving out on him.
’’Don’t talk, Tunis, just take it easy," said Dawson, ’’we get the picture."
Shaw looked at the woman’s face, then back along the winding rocky trail. ’’No telling who died in order for her to get herself outfitted that way."
’’Well, her killing is over now," said Caldwell, finally slipping his Colt back into his holster.
’’So is theirs," Dawson said, gesturing back toward the village. ’’The best thing we can do is get out of here before the army shows up."
’’Yep, that’s us all right," Shaw said. ’’Four americanos , who rode in, killed four men and a nun. Then rode out again."
’’It’s not as bad as it sounds," Dawson said. ’’We could line their bodies all up along the street if you think that would make it look any better."
Shaw seemed to consider it. ’’No, I think we best just leave, let them make of it what they will until the army gets here and sorts it all out."
They gathered their horses. ’’We’ll still have to dodge soldiers for a while," said Caldwell.
’’We can live with it," said Dawson. ’’The main thing is we got the job done."
’’For a little while," said Shaw. ’’As long as there’s a border, there’ll be outlaws taking advantage of it." He looked at Tunis. ’’Put that in your report to Messenger. Tell him I said it."
’’It’ll be a while before I write any sort of report on all of this," said Tunis as Caldwell crawled into the driver’s seat and took up the cart reins. ’’I’ve got to find the best way to tell him how I managed to kill a woman . . . who I thought was a nun." He
managed a dark chuckle in spite of the pain in his chest. ’’Shot her four times, while she was sitting atop me, with her knees spread."
’’See why I find reports so hard to write?" said Dawson, swinging up into his saddle.
’’I know," Tunis replied. ’’That’s why I threw my paper and pencil away. I decided if I lived through this, I could always sit down when I get home and make it up to suit myself—the parts that are too hard to explain, that is. The main thing is we did it, right?"
’’You’re going to go far in government work, Tunis," said Shaw, swinging into his saddle beside Dawson.
’’Obliged, Shaw. Nice of you to say so," Tunis said.
’’My pleasure," Shaw said, touching the brim of his dusty black sombrero. He tapped his boots to the buckskin’s sides and nudged it forward at a walk.
’’What about you, Shaw?" the wounded lawman asked as Shaw rode in front of the cart, out of his sight.
’’What about me?" Shaw asked without looking back.
’’Can I tell Messenger that you’re going to keep the badge? That you’ll be riding for us now?"
’’Tell him I’m going to keep the badge," Shaw replied, nudging the buckskin into a quicker pace.
’’And that you’ll be riding for us down here?" Tunis persisted.
Shaw didn’t answer; Tunis started to call out and ask him again. But Dawson cut in and said, loud enough for Shaw to hear him clearly, ’’Leave it alone, Tunis. I know Shaw. He’s not going to tell us anything."
Shaw rode on ahead of them onto a stretch of level, sandy ground, then into the wavering heat, man and animal appearing as one against the desert sky.