by Shorty Gunn
‘You remember how things were when we left, don’t you? The blue coats were looking for us, half the country was on fire, the family scattered to who knows where. I think for right now we’d better stay right here. Maybe at some point we might be able to change that, but not now. It’s a little late for either you or me to start getting homesick. Let’s take it easy while we can and live a little for once. We still have plenty of money, and I’ve been looking at how Azuar makes a living raising cattle. Maybe we could think about doing something like that.’
‘I don’t know much about cattle, but being that you brought up money, I sure haven’t forgotten about how much we left in the bank back in Whiskeytown. How are we going to get that back and when?’
‘I haven’t either. At least it’s not going anyplace. The bank is still the safest place for it. We’ll get it back one way or the other. Don’t you worry yourself about that. Try to relax a little and enjoy what we’ve got right here. Azuar saved our necks. Let’s enjoy it while we can.’
Chapter Thirteen
‘Alcalda, come quick,’ a young boy ran into Azuar’s office, eyes wide with excitement. ‘Two gringos are riding into town, and one wears a silver badge from Estados Unidos!’
The mayor came to his feet instantly knowing whoever the two Americanos were, they were somehow connected to the Keller brothers he’d invited to stay out at his ranchero. The sudden appearance of four Americanos in as many weeks could not be coincidence. He followed the excited youngster outside where he pointed up the dirt street toward Nate Whitman and Little Hawk slowly riding closer. Even before they reined to a halt, Azuar could see the big man’s sunburnt face was a mask of grim determination, his clothes soaked dark with dust and sweat. Beside him his dark-skinned amigo wore a wide brimmed hat pulled so low across his eyes, it hid any features of his face. Coming to a halt in front of the big, stone building, the mayor held up a hand of greeting. Before he could speak, Whitman did.
‘Water . . . we need water.’ He rubbed his stubbled face with both hands trying to beat back exhaustion. ‘You speak any English?’
‘Sí, I do señor. You and your amigo look like you should both get down and rest a while.’ He turned to the youngster next to him ordering him to run inside his office to retrieve the pitcher of water he kept on his desk. ‘Even your caballos look worn out as you do. You must have come across the desierto, no?’
The marshal didn’t answer, painfully easing himself down, grabbing the saddle horn steadying himself on shaky legs. The boy returned with the water, handing it to Whitman who gulped it down straight from the pitcher ignoring the cup. As he drank the life saving liquid, Azuar noticed his Crow sidekick uttered not one word staring straight ahead with dark eyes ignoring his own burning thirst waiting patiently for the big man to quench his thirst first. Whitman drank the entire pitcher, handing it back to the mayor who ordered the lad to run back inside to refill it.
‘I’ve come . . . here looking for two men,’ the marshal tried to catch his breath, wiping his mouth with his shirt sleeve. ‘They’re called the Keller brothers. The leader is named Cort. The other one is his brother, Red. We tracked them across the desert to here. You or someone around here must have seen them come through – I’ve got warrants on both of them – or not?’
Azuar didn’t answer for several moments. He knew anything he said could lead these two to his new friends at his ranchero. Instead, he came back with a question of his own biding his time.
‘What did these Americanos you called Kellers, do to bring you so far here to Palomas?’
‘They’re murderers, robbers and Johnny Rebs, who think the Civil War is still being fought. They’re wild animals, and I mean to put an end to both of them either across the border back home, or here in Mexico. Have you seen them or not?’
‘No, I know of no one like you describe. All I can do is ask others if they do.’ The mayor stalled for more time. ‘I will let you know if someone else did.’
‘I’ll only stay here long enough to get some answers. If they’re still on the run, I’ll leave and continue after them. I don’t care how far into Mexico they go.’
‘I must ask you something,’ Azuar delicately phrased his next question.
‘What is it?’ Whitman got to his feet while Little Hawk took his turn drinking from the pitcher.
‘You wear a silver badge from your country, no?’
‘I do. What about it?’
‘But you are no longer in your country. Now you are here in Mexico. Your badge means little here.’
‘I don’t worry about that in some town like this. I still mean to run those two down and finish them off.’ He reached down pulling up his six-gun. ‘This is all the badge I need wherever I go.’
Azuar saw the smoldering hate in the marshal’s eyes before trying to change the subject. ‘I will ask if anyone knows of the men you seek. Where will you stay if I have an answer?’
‘I don’t imagine a place this small has a hotel, do you?’
‘No, we do not. But my friend named Manuel Gonzales sometimes rents a small shack behind his house. You could try there.’
Whitman nodded with another order. ‘You find out real quick. I don’t want to stay here any longer than I have to. Now how do I get to this friend of yours?’
After giving directions, the marshal and Little Hawk saddled up riding slowly down the street following directions the mayor had given them. The moment they went out of sight turning off at the first corner, Azuar called out to the water boy.
‘Diego, bring my burro around back of the building and hurry. I must leave town for a little while.’
Cort and Red were sitting in the bunkhouse at the ranchero, counting money they emptied out of saddle-bags, when Azuar suddenly pushed through the door, his face glistening with sweat from the hurried ride. The brothers quickly noticed the concern on his face as he came across the room.
‘Amigos, I am afraid I have some bad news for you both.’
‘We’re used to it,’ Cort half kidded. ‘What is it, Angelo?’
‘Two Americanos came from out of the desietero, as you did. One wears a silver badge. The other is Indian, but not of Mexico. He must come from el norte, too. The big man says he comes to find you and your brother. He has the cold steel eyes of an hombre who means to kill you.’
Cort looked at Red, both men instantly understanding what would come next, and what they had to do. ‘Is he staying in town,’ Cort questioned, ‘or only riding through?’
‘I think he will stay only a little while before he rides further into Mexico, if he does not find you here.’
‘No, he won’t have to do that. Red and I will end this right here. We’re done running. Whitman’s badge means nothing on this side of the border, and he knows it. Now it’s just him against us. We’ll settle this once and for all. Are you willing to ride back to town and tell him my brother and I will be coming in tomorrow morning?’
‘Sí, if you wish me to.’
‘I do. And tell everyone you know in town to stay off the street tomorrow. This is between him and us. I don’t want anyone else hurt because of it.’
Azuar nodded half heartedly, with another idea. ‘I can also tell him you are no longer here and have already left? Maybe he will leave, if I do so?’
‘No, don’t. You tell him exactly what I said. We’ll be in early in the morning.’
The alcalde walked up to both men putting a hand on each one’s shoulder. ‘I knew you came here to Palomas to leave some kind of trouble behind. Now I know what it was. I don’t think this Americano who wears a badge is worthy of it. He seems only someone with revenge in his heart. I will pray God shields both of you tomorrow.’
‘That might help Angelo, but I’ll still use what I’m best at.’ Cort’s hand dropped down to his gun belt, gripping the handle of his six-gun.
In the dark before dawn the Kellers were up and dressed, sipping a cup of hot, strong Mexican coffee, while cleaning and checking their six-guns, eac
h cylinder loaded with deadly, grey tipped bullets. Several vaqueros sat on the edge of their bunks watching the brothers, without saying a word. Sliding the wheel guns back in holsters, the brothers came to their feet strapping on gun belts.
‘What about our money?’ Red questioned, pointing at the saddle-bags.
‘We’ll leave it here. We’ll both be back for it,’ Cort predicted. ‘It’s starting to get light. Time for us to go.’
They started for the door when one of the vaqueros finally spoke up. ‘Vaya con Dios, amigos.’ His face flashed a thin smile. Red understood it was not only a heartfelt goodbye, but a wish for success too.
‘Gracias.’ He nodded before exiting the room closing the door behind him.
The long ride into town saw the sky begin to brighten, the chill of desert night still crisp in the air before the fiery disk of a new sun rose to begin another day of blistering heat. Neither man uttered a word, each with his own thoughts about what was to come. After all the months, miles and hardships they’d endured riding south, it would all end in a face to face showdown lasting only seconds. Fate had predicted it from the start. It could end no other way.
Reaching Palomas, the pair reined to a halt in front of the alcalde’s office, easing out of the saddle. The single dirt street stood empty, low adobe buildings lining it dark and shuttered, as Cort had asked Azuar to do. Red adjusted his gun belt.
‘You ready?’ he asked.
‘Yeah, I am. I’ve been ready for this a long time. Let’s finish it here and now.’
They walked out into the middle of the street starting slowly toward the center of town. Reaching the first store fronts, the figures of two other men turned a corner a block away coming into view. Nate Whitman was on the left, Little Hawk next to him as they began closing the distance, before Red whispered to his brother.
‘I’ll take the Indian. He’ll make the first move to try and give Whitman an edge.’
‘Got it,’ Cort answered. ‘Step away from me a little further so we’re not one target.’
The four men closed until barely twenty yards separated them before Whitman stopped, calling out. ‘You two murderers can throw down those guns and come back across the border with me in cuffs, to face trail, or I’ll kill you right where you stand. Makes no damn difference to me. Either way you’re dead men!’
‘We’re not going anywhere,’ Cort challenged. ‘You and your bloody badge have come a long ways for the last time. You’re all used for excuses to murder people hiding behind that tin star.’
Little Hawk instantly went for his pistol as Red predicted. In the next five seconds four bucking six-guns spit smoke, fire and lead thunder, filling the morning air with blue clouds of gun smoke. Red and Little Hawk sank to the ground, both hit by each other. Whitman tried to stand but slowly crumpled to the ground still gripping his pistols firing another wild shot into the air, before rolling over face down in the dirt. Cort, hit in the shoulder and hip, went down on one knee struggling to reach Red lying on his back gasping for air. Dark red blossoms spreading on his shirt made it clear Little Hawk had not missed either. Cort pulled himself over the top of him as Red reached up with one hand.
‘Did . . . I . . . get him?’
‘You did. And I finished off Whitman too. Lay still while I try to get you some help.’ He started to rise.
‘No . . . don’t leave me alone. I’m shot up bad. Help isn’t going to do me . . . any good. I want to ask you something . . . while I still can.’
‘There’s no time for that now.’
Red’s grip tightened on his arm. ‘I want to know . . . if there’s any way . . . I can tell the difference between . . . heaven and hell?’
Tears welled up in Cort’s eyes. He gently lifted Red cradling him in his arms. He choked back an answer fighting to control himself. ‘I – guess there is. You and me have lived through a lot of hell for a long time. Heaven is all that’s left for both of us.’
‘I never thought . . . I’d die in . . . Mexico.’ Red’s hand loosened, slowly falling to his side, his eyes fading to a blank stare that saw nothing more.
Cort cried out loud unashamed, holding his brother close as misery descended on him in the lonely dirt street of Palomas. A few men hidden behind locked doors, slowly stepped outside looking wide-eyed up the street at the carnage. No one spoke. They only stared, the cloud of death hanging in the air like pungent gun smoke.
Two weeks after the savage gun fight, Cort sat alone on the front porch of the bunkhouse, staring into space. His left arm was wrapped in a sling, his hip heavily bandaged by Angelo Azuar’s wife, Consuela. He was alone now without Red, unsure what to do next. The Keller gang was no more. Coy, Wic, Fan and Red all met violent deaths at the hands of Nate Whitman. The rogue lawman would no longer be able to hide behind his badge for the personal vendetta he’d carried out against them and others for so long. One question had continually haunted Cort since the street fight. Had all the killing really been worth it? Had losing his friends and even his brother, evened the score? He could not come to an answer. The one thing he was sure of was he could no longer cross the border back into the United States. He would always be a wanted man there with a price on his head, hunted by both those in and out of the law willing to risk the chance to collect a big reward money.
Over the following weeks Cort slowly recuperated from the bullet wounds, while enquiries went out up north across the southwest asking the whereabouts of a US Marshal and his Blackfoot partner. They always came back unanswered. Captain Milford Darwin Longstreet was the last man to see Whitman alive before he insisted on crossing the desert border into Mexico. He carefully noted that in his reports to superiors back at Fort Jackson. Beyond that nothing was known or heard of the two men. Eventually even those questions fell silent.
Outside of Palomas, in the rock and cactus strewn cemetery three mounds of gravelly dirt marked the recent graves of three gringos. Only one had a rough chiseled stone cross with a single inscription written across it. It read, ‘Rest easy, my brother. You’ve earned your trip to eternity. We’ll meet again in Glory.’ The other two graves were unmarked and unkempt.
A full year after the shoot-out in town, a strange event occurred far to the north in Whiskeytown, at the Mesalands Bank and Trust. A lone gunman described as walking with a slight limp, robbed the bank one morning soon after it opened. The robber wore a wide Mexican sombrero pulled low with a colorful serape over his shoulders, the features of his darkly tanned face hidden behind a red bandana. Even more puzzling was what he didn’t take from the open vault. Instead of cleaning out all the trays of gold and silver coins, he took only an odd amount of money. After the robbery the bank manager poured over records that showed the stolen money added up exactly to the penny of three accounts long dormant. The names on those three accounts were John Morgan, Joe Brown and Dade Wilson. A quickly gathered posse sent out to capture the ‘Mexican’ bandit straggled back to town empty handed two days later saying they lost the tracks in wild country that headed due south.
Several years after the perplexing robbery, a vague word would sometimes filter back across the border about an unnamed gringo living many miles south of Palomas. It was said he was growing a large herd of long-horned cattle while building a beautiful ranchero. He’d married a young Mexican woman and she was carrying their first child. Each year, always at the same time, the Americano would suddenly leave the ranchero to disappear for two weeks. He told no one where he went, not even his wife. But the people living in Palomas began to notice a fresh bouquet of bright red flowers in a colorful clay vase adorning the stone cross during that same week each year. Cort Keller was honoring a pledge he’d made to himself and his brother. It was a ritual he would follow throughout his lifetime. Only one other man alive did know who the mysterious flower man must be. Ageing Angleo Azuar, long since retired as alcalde of Palomas, would keep that secret all his lifetime too. Only desert winds and silver winged vultures circling high in the hot Mexican sky, saw the lone r
ider place the flowers before vanishing again to ride south into obscurity and the only safety he would ever know. Señor Keller was done with the gun fights, vengeance and bloodshed he’d lived so long with. He’d begun a completely new life, in a new land, hoping what was left of his life could be lived in peace.
