by Ralph Cotton
Shaw nodded, in contemplation. Maybe I will stay sober when we get to town. This is sounding more interesting all the time.’’ The three nudged their horses up into a trot and rode on in silence.
In Matamoros, a crowd had gathered along both sides of the street in front of the jail. Upon seeing the three Americans ride in off the trail that Boland and Fairday had taken out of town, townsmen pressed in around them in a close circle. ‘‘Show them your badge, Cray,’’ Shaw said in a teasing manner to Dawson, who rode beside him. ‘‘I bet that’ll settle them down.’’
But before Dawson could respond, six uniformed federales and two Americans in business suits stepped forward from the direction of the American consulate office a block away. The soldiers shoved their way through the townsmen and cleared a path for the two Americans. One of the Americans, a tall, lean man with a gray goatee and matching hair showing beneath the brim of his bowler hat, raised a hand and called out in Spanish to the crowd.
‘‘Listen to me! I’m Samuel Messenger, with the American Delegation.’’ He pointed a raised finger toward the American flag waving above the consulate building. ‘‘I vouch for these two men,’’ he said in their native tongue, motioning toward Dawson and Caldwell. ‘‘These two men are not with Sepreano and the Barrows Gang. You have my word.’’
‘‘Who are they, then?’’ a townsman shouted back in English. ‘‘What are they doing with three of Judge Bengreen’s horses?’’
The American replied in English as he pointed out Dawson, ‘‘He bought the horse he’s riding here the other day. Gerardo Luna introduced him to the horse dealer. He was Luna’s friend.’’ He looked up at Dawson and asked the same question under his breath, ‘‘What are you doing with these other three Bengreen horses?’’
But Dawson didn’t answer right away. Instead he asked, ‘‘What do you mean I was Luna’s friend?’’ He looked back and forth above the heads of the crowd. ‘‘Where is Luna? What’s going on here, Messenger?’’ Looking all around he dreaded the answer before it came.
‘‘Luna is dead. He was killed this morning before dawn by two of the Barrows Gang,’’ said Messenger. He intentionally spoke loud enough for the crowd to hear him answer Dawson.
Shaw slumped in his saddle and shook his head slowly.
Sam Messenger continued speaking in a raised voice for the crowd’s benefit. ‘‘I want all the good people of Matamoros to know that Gerardo Luna’s killers will not go unpunished! Speaking on behalf of the United States government, I want everyone to know that my government will cooperate in every way in tracking these killers down and bringing them to justice. I will be staying at the American consulate building and personally overseeing the capture of the Barrows, and everybody associated with them.’’
Shaw, Dawson and Caldwell gave one another a look of disgust. ‘‘Messenger, let’s go somewhere where we can talk in private,’’ Dawson said, before the American could say any more to the crowd on the matter. ‘‘This is no time to step on a soapbox.’’
Messenger held a hand up to the crowd and smiled, but said sideways to Dawson, ‘‘You’re wrong, Marshal Dawson. It’s always the right time to try and get a better foot up in the game.’’ Yet he lowered his hand and gestured toward Luna’s office across the street.
The crowd parted enough to allow Dawson, Shaw and Caldwell to follow Messenger on horseback to an iron hitch rail where they stepped down and hitched their horses. Caldwell tied the lead rope to the three Bengreen horses next to his own and hurried to the open door where Shaw stood waiting for him, keeping an eye on the confused and angry townsfolk.
Once inside the office, Dawson wasted no time. He turned to Messenger and said, ‘‘The Barrows Gang struck the Bengreen spread last night. They killed Bengreen’s widow and a family of Mexicans who still lived there. They rode away with the remaining horses she was waiting to sell.’’
‘‘Oh my,’’ said Messenger, contemplating things as Dawson spoke. ‘‘This is one more reason for the people to realize how important it is to stop Sepreano and his Army of Liberation. If he’s riding with outlaws like the Barrows, he’s no better than they are.’’
Dawson gave Shaw and Caldwell a glance, then let out a breath and said to Messenger, ‘‘Save all that for the crowd. We need to get after the Barrows.’’
‘‘Don’t take what I do so lightly, Marshal Dawson,’’ said Messenger. ‘‘It’s terrible what happened to Luna and to Bengreen’s widow. But my job is to convince these people that Sepreano is no good for their country. I can best do that by showing the kind of men he allies himself with. So, before you judge me a fool and—’’
‘‘I’m not judging you, Messenger,’’ Dawson said, cutting him off. ‘‘You do your job, I’ll do mine.’’ He gestured a gloved hand toward Shaw. ‘‘This is Lawrence Shaw. I’m sure you’ve heard of him.’’
‘‘Yes, of course I’ve heard of Fast Larry Shaw, the fastest gun alive,’’ said Messenger, a look of distaste coming to his face. ‘‘In fact I’ve stepped over him a few times lying drunk on the street during my subsequent visits to Matamoros.’’ He stared at Shaw as he added, ‘‘Luna befriended him, much like one would befriend a stray cur. He allowed him to sleep here in the jail on occasion. That was about the extent of the friendship as I saw it.’’
Shaw just stared flatly at him.
‘‘Well, he’s not drunk now,’’ said Dawson, not wanting to discuss Shaw, ‘‘and I need help with the Barrows. I want you to swear him as a deputy.’’
‘‘You’ve been in the sun too long, Dawson,’’ said Messenger with a slight chuckle. He looked Shaw up and down critically, noting the sling on his right arm. ‘‘Look at him. Can he even pull a trigger, providing his hand isn’t shaking too much to draw a gun—?’’ His words stopped short.
Shaw’s left hand had streaked over to his Colt, which stood butt forward in a cross-hand draw, its slim-jim holster having been rigged to suit his needs. ‘‘That’s the draw part, Mister,’’ Shaw said, the Colt’s hammer cocked, the tip of the barrel no more than an inch from Messenger’s nose. ‘‘Want to see how I pull a trigger?’’
Messenger’s face turned pale, staring down the gun barrel.
‘‘Easy, Shaw,’’ said Dawson. Seeing in Shaw’s eyes that this was strictly for show and that he had no intention of shooting the ambassador, Dawson played along. ‘‘Ambassador Messenger, this is the kind of man Caldwell and I need out there. We could use a dozen like Shaw. He has no qualms about killing men like the Barrows, especially since they killed his friend Luna. Unless you know of somebody better you can get on short notice, I want him with us.’’
Messenger looked up from the gun barrel and into Shaw’s eyes as he said to Dawson, ‘‘There is help coming from Mexico City, or so the federales tell me. But they didn’t say when or how many.’’ He considered things and added, ‘‘Of course they say they will concentrate only on bringing down Sepreano. We must take care of the Barrows Gang on our own.’’
‘‘That figures,’’ Dawson replied in disgust. ‘‘Meanwhile I need any help I can get, right here right now. So what do you say?’’
After a moment of consideration, Messenger sighed and said, ‘‘Perhaps I’m the one who has been too long in the sun.’’ He looked Shaw up and down. ‘‘I’ll get you a deputy badge, but you are forbidden to wear it on this assignment.’’ Messenger raised a finger and added, ‘‘And if you get into trouble with any of the rurales—the local Mexican authorities— both the Mexican and U.S. government will deny any knowledge of you. Do you understand me, Mr. Shaw?’’
‘‘Sure,’’ Shaw said cynically. ‘‘This sounds like the kind of job I’ve always wanted.’’ He lowered his Colt, uncocked it and slipped it over into his holster. ‘‘Now, if you gentlemen will excuse me, I’ll be waiting for you at the cantina.’’
‘‘I shouldn’t be surprised,’’ Messenger said sarcastically.
Looking at Dawson, Shaw said, ‘‘I’m not going there to drink. I told yo
u I’ll stay sober for now.’’
‘‘I know what you said,’’ said Dawson. ‘‘You don’t have to explain yourself to me. Just be ready to ride when we come for you.’’
When Shaw had turned and walked out the door, Dawson gave Caldwell a nod. Without a word Caldwell turned and walked out the door himself.
Out front he looked all around the street for Shaw, but when he didn’t see him he heard his voice say behind him, ‘‘Looking for me, Undertaker?’’
Caldwell looked around at where Shaw stood leaning against the front of the building. With a slight shrug, he said, ‘‘Come on, Shaw, he just wants me to look out for you.’’
‘‘Come on then.’’ Shaw nodded toward the cantina two blocks away. ‘‘In case you’re wondering, I’m going there to ask Max Manko who I need to see around here to join up with the Barrows brothers.’’
Caldwell gave him a strange look, but then he understood and said, ‘‘That’s a good idea.’’
‘‘Yes, I thought so too,’’ said Shaw. ‘‘I’d like to think that all those weeks of drinking were worth something.’’ He offered a wry grin. ‘‘At least we’ll see if it’s kept me in touch with all the wrong element.’’
Chapter 13
When Shaw and Caldwell walked into the Gato Perdido Cantina, they stepped around a couple dancing slowly to the music of an accordion and a guitar. The American wore a dusty black sombrero hanging down behind his shoulders by a thin hat cord. Metal studs ran the length of his buckskin trouser legs from his gun belt to his tall Spanish boots. He wore a single-action Colt like the one in Shaw’s holster.
Without having to say a word to Caldwell, Shaw saw him take a step away and position himself sidelong at the bar in a manner that kept an eye not only on the American dancing, but also on the other two Americans in black sombreros at the end of the bar. The only other customer was a long-bearded elderly Mexican who sat sipping mescal from a clay cup at a table in the corner.
Shaw took note of the three Americans as he and Caldwell walked to the tiled bar. The American on the dance floor stared at Shaw until his raven-haired dance partner lowered the top of her white peasant dress and drew his attention to her naked breasts.
Upon seeing Shaw walk in, a gray-haired Mexican behind the bar immediately laid down a paring knife and a lime he’d been slicing and hurriedly wiped his hands on a ragged white apron. ‘‘Welcome, Senor Reed,’’ he said, knowing that was a name Shaw had been going by when any strangers were within hearing distance. It was also a way of letting Shaw know that the men at the bar had been asking about him.
Shaw caught the warning. ‘‘Hola, Max, mi amigo,’’ he said without looking any closer at the three Americans.
‘‘How is my favorite abogado today?’’ Max asked as he reached down and pulled up a fresh bottle of mescal from under the bar top. From the wall behind him he also took down a full bottle of whiskey and stood it beside the mescal. Then he reached down the bar and snagged two clean clay cups and stood them side by side. He started to uncork the whiskey, but Shaw stopped him.
‘‘Your favorite attorney is fine, Max, but I’m not drinking today.’’
‘‘Oh?’’ Max gave him a concerned look. ‘‘I hope you have been well. I have not seen you for a few days.’’ He looked at Shaw’s right arm in the sling and said in a secretive voice, ‘‘The last time I see you is when you were shot. I watch Sheriff Luna drag you out of the street.’’ Upon mentioning Luna’s name he quickly crossed himself. ‘‘I hope you have come to reap vengeance on his killers.’’
‘‘That’s why I’m here. As long as they’re alive, they’ll be in my gun sights, Max,’’ said Shaw in the same lowered voice. ‘‘You can count on that.’’ Without looking along the bar, he asked, ‘‘Now, what about these men?’’
‘‘Si, they rode in yesterday morning,’’ said Max, even more secretively. ‘‘Always they are asking, ‘Where is this Fast Larry? When will he be here?’ ’’ He slid the two men at the end of the bar a glance from beneath his lowered brow. ‘‘I told them Fast Larry is dead, but they say they know better. They say they heard in Brownsville that you were shot down in the street here. You must watch out for these men, eh?’’
‘‘Gracias, Max, I will,’’ Shaw said. ‘‘Forewarned is forearmed.’’
Beside him, Caldwell let his jacket lapel lie open, putting his Colt in easy reach. He looked along the bar, seeing the two Americans staring back at him, drinking, talking quietly between themselves. As the musicians ended their song, the third American and the cantina girl left the dance floor, his left arm around her waist. They joined the other two, one of them handing him a clay cup of whiskey.
As Caldwell kept an eye on the three men, Shaw said to Max, ‘‘I’ll try to take it outside if they force a gunfight on me.’’
‘‘You must do what you must do,’’ Max replied. He shrugged. ‘‘I will not have you risk your life to keep my walls from getting shot up.’’
Shaw nodded his thanks, then said, ‘‘I’m looking for Charlie Pepper or his cousin Rady LaVease. Have you seen either of them around in the past couple of days?’’
Giving Caldwell a look, the bartender hesitated before answering.
‘‘Don’t worry, this is my friend, Jed. Anything you can say to me, you can say to him.’’
‘‘Si, I understand,’’ said Max. He slid a glance back and forth along the bar, then said, ‘‘Pepper, his cousin Rady and some of their friends are hiding out at the old French fort settlement along the river. I am not supposed to tell anyone where they are, but I know you are not the law looking for them, eh? So it is all right.’’
Shaw only nodded, not mentioning his new appointment as U.S. federal deputy marshal. ‘‘I’m only looking for them for an introduction,’’ Shaw said.
‘‘An introducción?’’ Max asked, picking up the bottle of whiskey and putting it back on the shelf.
‘‘That’s right,’’ said Shaw. ‘‘I once heard Pepper and LaVease say that if I ever wanted to ride for the Barrows brothers, they could tell me where to find them.’’
‘‘Oh, mi amigo,’’ said Max, with a sour expression. ‘‘You do not want to ride for the Barrows. Think about this long and hard before you align yourselves with those outlaws.’’
‘‘I’m not interested in riding with the Barrows, Max,’’ Shaw explained. ‘‘I think the man who killed Luna is riding with them.’’
‘‘I see,’’ said the barkeeper. Before he could say another word on the matter, a voice from the end of the bar called out, ‘‘Shaw! Fast Larry Shaw!’’
Shaw had learned not to turn right away at the sound of someone calling his name unless he felt the next thing he would hear would be a gunshot. He continued looking at Max, and said in confirmation, ‘‘The old French fort settlement along the Río Grande?’’
‘‘Si,’’ Max whispered. He cut a nervous glance toward the end of the bar, then whispered as if Shaw might not have heard, ‘‘I think this one is talking to you.’’
‘‘I know,’’ Shaw said.
‘‘Hey usted, hombre!’’ the man with the studded buckskins called out in bad Spanish. ‘‘Answer to your name! Míreme, hombre!’’ he demanded.
‘‘Speak English before you hurt yourself,’’ Shaw intervened. With no regard to the strategic position the three men had taken around them at the bar, he pointed at a slice of the lime Max had just sliced and asked, ‘‘Puede I, por favor?’’
‘‘Si, of course, have some,’’ Max replied.
Shaw picked up the slice of lime, twisted it and held it to his lips. ‘‘Gracias,’’ he said.
‘‘Here we go,’’ Caldwell whispered, seeing the three Americans move along the bar toward them, the cantina girl slipping quickly away. At the corner table the elderly Mexican drained his mescal with one tall bob of his Adam’s apple and managed to disappear like smoke. The two musicians did the same.
‘‘I said, ‘Hey you, look at me,’ ’’ the American in the st
udded buckskins said, stopping a few feet away and spreading his feet a shoulder-width apart.
‘‘I heard you the first time,’’ Shaw said. He pulled the juicy meat of the lime away from the rind with his teeth and chewed it as he looked the American up and down.
One of the others had spread out and now stood almost behind Caldwell. The third moved all the way around the bar, encircling them. The one facing Shaw gave up his bad Spanish and said in English, ‘‘I heard him call you abogado. An attorney, right?’’
‘‘His favorite attorney,’’ Shaw said, correcting him.
‘‘I heard this barkeeper call you Reed,’’ the gunman said, ‘‘like you’re Chever Reed, the attorney from Brownsville?’’
‘‘That is what you heard him call me,’’ Shaw said, already realizing this man wasn’t having any of it.
‘‘Right, I did,’’ the man said, shoving it aside, ‘‘only I know for a fact that you’re not Reed, that you’re Fast Larry Shaw. Reed is dead and in the ground.’’ He poised, ready to do battle. ‘‘So, what have you got to say about that?’’
Shaw picked up another slice of lime, pulled the meat off the rind with his teeth and chewed it slowly. Half turning his back on the man, he said bluntly, ‘‘Who am I talking to, and why?’’
‘‘Who? I’ll tell you who,’’ the man said, stiffening at the offhanded way Shaw treated him, as if he were no one Shaw should show respect to, let alone fear. ‘‘Down here I might be nobody.’’ He nodded toward the east. ‘‘In Texas you’ve heard of me—I’m Killer Pete Roland.’’ He stopped long enough to let the name sink in, watching Shaw search his memory as he chewed the slice of lime and swallowed it.
‘‘Killer Pete Roland . . . ,’’ Shaw said, gazing off at the ceiling in an effort to remember. ‘‘No,’’ he lied with finality, ‘‘I can’t say that the name Killer Pete easily comes to mind.’’
Seeing that Shaw was taunting him, making him look bad in front of his friends, Roland said, ‘‘That don’t matter, Mister. I know you’re Fast Larry, and you know why I’m here?’’ He paused. Then he added grimly, ‘‘Let’s get it done.’’
