Red Moon

by Ralph Cotton

  “Sure you can,” said Sam. “He knows I’m coming.”

  As he spoke, he pulled the cocked Colt’s barrel back an inch from the Mexican’s belly and pulled the trigger. All three men braced, their eyes widened—especially Pesado’s. But the Ranger caught the gun hammer with his thumb in a split second and eased it down. Pesado let out a deep sigh and cursed the Ranger under his breath.

  “You dirty, rotten gringo . . .” He let his words trail.

  The Ranger, his Colt hanging in his hand, slipped the Mexican’s revolver from its holster, pitched it down beside the rifles and stepped away from Pesado toward the door.

  “I already said we can’t let you do that,” McCloud said in a stronger tone, his and Fitts’ gun hands dropping down so they were poised beside their holstered revolvers.

  The Ranger’s thumb cocked the big Colt again. He stopped and raised the barrel calmly, smoothly, before either man made their move.

  Damn it! McCloud raged silently. Again this stranger had the drop on them. Damn it to hell!

  The British woman shook her lowered head. She let out a stream of smoke, dropped the thin cigar and crushed it out under her foot.

  “By my stars,” she said, “aren’t the three of you just the berries—”

  Her words fell away as a tall man in a black sweat-stained suit coat stepped into the doorway and looked back and forth. He held a sleek long-barreled Remington Army revolver in his right hand. He raised his free hand and removed a long, thick cigar from his mouth.

  “Well, well, Ranger Samuel Burrack,” he said. “Here you are, just as I’d hoped.”

  “I said I’d be here, Hardaway,” the Ranger replied.

  “So you did,” said Hardaway. “And you’ve strolled through my bodyguards without so much as a shot fired, I see.” He gave each of his three gunmen a scorching look. “I can’t tell you how pleased that makes me, as much as I’m paying these gun monkeys.”

  Ranger? McCloud, Fitts and Pesado looked at one another as if dumbstruck. McCloud stepped forward, embarrassed, and gestured toward Sam.

  “Boss, it’s lucky for him you showed up just now,” he said. “We came very near to killing this fool, not knowing you was expecting him, that is.”

  “Yes, lucky him,” said Hardaway with a searing stare at Ross McCloud. “All of you bodyguards best pick your guns up before someone carries them off.”

  The British woman gave a short playful chuckle; Hardaway shot her a hard glance, too. Seeing her pert round breasts, he took a deep, patient breath.

  “Edy, put those away before somebody walks into a post and knocks his damn teeth out,” he said seriously.

  “I certainly wouldn’t want that, now, would I?” she said, loosely closing her blouse front, but not attempting to retie the strings.

  “There you are, Ranger,” said Hardaway. “See why I want to go back to Texas without getting hanged? Life gets awfully trying around this bunch.”

  “I’ll bet,” Sam said. “You need to remember that the next time before you shoot a man and burn his saloon with him inside it.”

  “I realize that I may have acted a little rash and hastily, both in killing him and in burning his saloon down,” said Hardaway. “But what has become of forgiveness these days?”

  Sam just stared at him.

  “At any rate”—Hardaway looked the Ranger up and down, then motioned him inside out of the sun—“welcome to the Bad Cats Cantina,” he said.

  The Ranger stepped inside and looked around the cantina’s dingy dark interior. “This is your place?” he asked Hardaway.

  “Let’s just say I’ve acquired a substantial interest in it,” he said, guiding the Ranger across the dirt floor toward tables standing beneath rings of circling flies. “I do hope you’ve got some good news for me.”