by Ralph Cotton
There it was, he thought, his senses honing in on the sound of a horse’s nicker in the distance. It stopped abruptly, but too late. It was nearly inaudible, but he’d heard it. It came from down the hill line almost at the base. The Comancheros had left the wagon ablaze and headed across the land, perhaps following the tracks, perhaps just running on common knowledge that whoever had been at the wagon had no safe way to run except for the shelter of the hills. He stood up and dusted his trousers again, feeling the chill of night tighten around him. He shook himself off and walked in the direction where he’d heard Shaw and Della in the darkness.
“Shaw, wake up,” he whispered, reaching down and poking his rifle barrel gently into Shaw’s ribs, barely making out his dark outline in the blanket that wrapped around the pair.
Shaw awakened quickly, Dawson hearing the soft click of his Colt muffled by the blanket. “What is it?”
“They’re coming,” said Dawson. “I heard them below us.”
Shaw arose with the smell of whiskey about him. Della moaned and tugged at the blanket. “You heard them?” Shaw asked hoarsely. “How did you hear them this far up?”
“I was paying attention, listening real close,” said Dawson. “They’re coming, damn it! Take my word for it.”
“All right,” said Shaw, “I didn’t mean to doubt you…let me clear my head here.” He blew out a breath, and Dawson heard the canteen cap come loose. He heard Shaw swig down a drink of whiskey.
“Jesus, Shaw, you said you were going to stop drinking,” Dawson said.
“I am…as soon as this runs out. That’s what I said, remember?” He rummaged around on the ground, found his trousers, and pulled them on. With his gun belt hung on his shoulder he found his boots and stepped into them. “I meant it too,” Shaw said. “I never used to drink like this. It’s just been since Rosa’s death.” He stopped and let out a sigh, then said, “I know that’s no excuse. I’ve got to quit; that’s all there is to it.”
“Ain’t judging you, Shaw,” said Dawson. “I’ll go get the others and gather the horses while you pull yourself together.”
“Good idea,” Shaw said with much effort, rubbing his temples as if to get his brain working.
“With a good start, we ought to be able to outrun until we reach the outskirts of Eagle Pass.” That said, Cray Dawson turned to leave.
But Shaw stopped him, saying, “Whoa! Whoa! What are you talking about, outrunning them? We’re not running from these cutthroat cowards. How would that look to the folks at Eagle Pass, us coming in out of breath, looking back over our shoulder?” Shaw shook his head. “Huh-uh…I’ve been taking a stand too long to start making a run for it now.”
Dawson stared at him in the darkness. “Have you got any better ideas?”
“Any idea beats that one.” Shaw’s head seemed to have suddenly shaken itself free of the whiskey. He swung the gun belt from his shoulder and slung it around his waist and buckled it, all in one smooth motion. Dawson saw him bend slightly and tie his holster down. “We’re going to back these horses off into the rocks the first place we find that looks right. Then we’re going to build a fire and make ourselves some coffee. We’ll be sitting on a ridgeline when they get here. We’ll make sure we’re looking down on the trail, where we see a good ways, and keep them from sneaking in on us. How does that sound to you?”
Dawson considered it and said, “I hope there’s more to it.”
Shaw chuckled under his breath. “You always was one for details.” Then he said as he drew his Colt and checked and spun it back and forth in the darkness, “We’ll tell them who they’re up against and offer not to kill a bunch of them if they turn away and ride on.”
“Damn it,” said Dawson, “I was afraid you would say something like that. What are we going to do if they don’t believe we can kill a bunch of them?”
As they spoke Shaw had walked away a few feet from where Della slept on the blanket. He lifted his gun belt enough to open his trousers. “Then I expect we will kill a bunch of them…the rest of them will get the point and ride on.” He began to relieve himself.
Dawson shook his head, but reminded himself that this was the way Shaw had always done things—with bold deliberation. “I’ll get the others,” he said. “Think I ought to give Caldwell a gun?”
“Give him a gun,” said Shaw, “but keep an eye on him.”
“That goes without saying,” said Cray Dawson, sounding a bit irritated that Shaw thought he had to remind him of something so simple.
“Then why did you ask?” said Shaw.
“Never mind,” said Dawson, realizing this wasn’t worth explaining and discussing right then. He turned and hurried back to where Caldwell and Frome lay snoring with the blanket pulled tight across themselves.
When he had awakened them and told them what was going on, the two hurriedly arose and began gathering the horses and mules.
“I thought you said they would be satisfied with the wagon and wouldn’t come after us,” said Caldwell, as if Dawson had somehow let him down.
“I was wrong, Caldwell,” Dawson said. “Do you want to stop and talk about it, or get ready to defend ourselves when they get up here?”
“Defend ourselves?” Caldwell said, both he and Dillard Frome stopping cold and looking at Dawson. “Aren’t we going to make a run for it? Like we did last night?”
“Last night was different,” said Dawson, finding himself defending Shaw’s idea of making a stand. “We had no cover. Now that we’ve got some rocks for protection and have taken some higher ground, we don’t want to let these Comancheros chase us into Eagle Pass with our tails between our legs, do we?” Dawson was surprised to hear himself talking a lot like Shaw.
“Well, yeah,” said Dillard Frome, scratching his bald head in the darkness. “I don’t care what the folks at Eagle Pass think of me. Far as I’m concerned, a good run beats a bad stand every time around the track.”
“But we’re not going to make a bad stand,” Dawson heard himself say. “Now let’s get these animals gathered and get going.”
Shortly after dawn the first Comanchero scout rode slowly up the winding trail and had to visor a hand above his eyes to look up into the sun at the rise of smoke from the campfire. Perched atop a ridgeline twenty feet above him, Lawrence Shaw and Cray Dawson sat at the edge of the ridge with their rifles across their laps. Shaw sipped from a tin cup of steaming coffee in his left hand. Catching sight of Shaw and Dawson, the Comanchero started to back his horse and take cover, but before he could make a move, Shaw called out in a hearty voice, “Buenos días.” As the unsuspecting rider stopped cold in his tracks, Shaw called out, “What’s your hurry? You just got here.”
Turning his small paint horse slowly, the scout looked at Shaw and replied with his hand on his short-barreled rifle, “My hurry? I am in no hurry…not because of you, you foolish gringos.” He offered a smirk and said, “There are fifty of us just around the turn in the trail. You should have run while you had the chance.”
Beside Shaw, Dawson whispered, “Fifty? Jesus, Shaw!”
“Huh-uh,” Shaw said sidelong to Dawson. “He’s scared and lying. Divide what he said by at least ten. There’s no more than a dozen, if that.” He called down to the Comanchero, “There are five of us…that’s all it’s going to take. Where’s your honcho? I only talk terms with the man in charge.”
“Terms?” said the scout, looking amazed by Shaw’s brassy attitude. “What do you mean, terms? We are the ones with the terms! You must pay to cross our land! I will wear your scalp on my saddle horn before the morning is over.”
“Your land?” Shaw spit in contempt. “I’m through talking to a flunky,” he said, setting the tin cup down beside him, standing up slowly, and handing Cray Dawson his rifle.
“Hold it, you,” said another voice. Shaw and Dawson watched as another rider, then another and another came slowly into view around a tall rock beside the trail. The three spread out abreast beside the scout. Each of them wore s
ome article of Della’s clothing taken from the wagon before they had burned it. The one speaking was a white man with a thick crop of dirty red hair bushing out from under the brim of one of Della’s fancy lady’s hats. A crepe veil hung in front of his face. His ragged sombrero hung from his saddle horn. His red beard was a tangle of braids, feathers, and beads, with a tiny round bell plaited into the tip of it below his chin.
“What kind of fools are you that you sit here and wait for us to come kill you?” he asked, his pistol already out, cocked, and lying across his lap. He gazed up at Shaw but had to squint against the dazzling sunlight.
Shaw and Dawson heard the sound of unseen riders dismount and spread out into the surrounding brush back off the trail. Dawson tossed a glance over his shoulder at Dillard Frome and Jedson Caldwell. “We hear them,” said Frome, reassuring Dawson before he said a word.
“I’ll say one thing though; you knew how to get the sun at your back,” said the Comancheros’ leader.
“You’re not the first Comanchero roaches I’ve had to step on,” said Shaw. “I’m going to give all of you one chance, and one chance only, to turn around right now and ride away. If not, I’m going to shoot all of you where you stand and get on back to my coffee while it’s still hot.”
The Comanchero leader offered a dark laugh, and pointed his finger up at Shaw, saying, “You are one funny son of a bitch, you are. But we don’t leave without the woman, the horses, and all your whiskey! You give us these things, we go. If not, we kill all of you!”
“Whiskey, huh?” said Shaw. Over his shoulder he said to Caldwell, “Undertaker, hand me my canteen.”
Caldwell hurried to Shaw’s horse, took the canteen from the saddle horn, and returned, pitching it to Shaw. Shaw called out as he threw it down from the edge of the ridge, “If it’s whiskey you’re craving…I’ll oblige you.”
“Ha!” said the leader, gesturing for one of his men to go get the canteen. A wiry young man with a face full of tattoos and beadwork jumped from his horse, ran over, and picked up the canteen. He uncapped it and sniffed the contents. Then he grinned and nodded at the leader.
“Hey, that’s a pretty damn good thing you did. Now give us the woman and the horses, maybe we let you live.”
“The whiskey’s on the house,” said Shaw. “Now turn and go if you want to live to enjoy it.”
The leader laughed again. “I think I like you.” As he spoke, the other two sat poised, their hands firm around the rifles in their laps. The third man ran back to his horse with the canteen, climbed into the saddle, and handed the whiskey to the leader. The leader sniffed the canteen, capped it, and shook it with a broad smile. “Who are you, anyway? How come I have never seen you crossing my land before?”
Shaw whispered sidelong to Cray Dawson, “Tell him who I am…impress the hell out of him.”
Dawson called out to the leader, “This is Lawrence Shaw. Does that name ring a bell?”
“Lawrence Shaw?” said the leader, his horse suddenly stepping back and forth nervously. “You don’t mean—”
“Yep, Fast Larry Shaw,” said Cray Dawson, already seeing the worried look come onto the men’s faces as they looked back and forth among themselves. “Now, ain’t you glad you came?”
The leader recovered quickly, but Shaw still saw the look of doubt in his eyes. Rather than look bad in front of his men, he jerked his reins to settle his horse, then said, “Fast Larry Shaw means nothing out here! No matter how fast you are, you cannot escape what we will do to you. Neither can the rest of you!” He made a play to raise his pistol, calling out to his men, “Shoot him! Shoot them all!”
Without hesitation, Cray Dawson raised his rifle and drew a bead on the leader’s chest. But just as he pulled the trigger a loud string of shots erupted from Shaw’s big Colt and the leader was already falling back out of his saddle as Dawson’s shot hit him. Before Dawson could lever another round into his rifle chamber, the other three Comancheros were also on the ground. Lawrence Shaw’s blinding speed left Dawson shaken, but only for a second. He, Shaw, and the others turned their weapons toward the sound of men rustling hurriedly through the brush along the trail. They began firing as one into the brush and rocks, hearing screams and curses. But there was no return fire.
“Hold your fire!” shouted Lawrence Shaw. Beneath a gray rise of burned powder the four men and Della Starks stood listening intently to the sound of horse hooves beating a retreat down the trail toward the flatlands. Dillard Frome and Jedson Caldwell gave each other a look of amazement. Della let out a squeal of delight and ran to the ridge where Shaw stood reloading his Colt.
“Stay back, Della,” said Shaw, but it was too late. She stopped abruptly at the sight of the four twisted, bloody bodies lying on the trail below.
Her hands covered her mouth. “Oh, my God,” she whispered through her fingers. She swayed weakly, but Shaw managed to catch her with his free arm and hold her in an embrace as he clicked his Colt shut and stood holding it pointed upward, studying the trail, the brush, and the surrounding rocks just in case. “You needn’t look at them,” Shaw whispered close to her ear. He raised a hand to her cheek and turned her face away from the carnage. Then he turned to Dawson and the others and said, “Get the horses; let’s get going, before the rest of them get their courage up.”
“What about these men?” Caldwell asked, gesturing down at the four bodies.
“What about them?” said Shaw.
“Shouldn’t we bury them or something?” Caldwell asked.
“You can if you want to,” Shaw said in an offhand manner. “We’re heading to Eagle Pass. If you want to do something kind, gather those three horses down there. Either strip them and turn them loose or bring them with us for spares.”
“Bring them as spares,” said Dillard Frome, getting tired of riding one of the barebacked mules. He climbed down with Caldwell to gather the horses.
“Get Shaw’s canteen for him,” said Dawson, looking down where it lay on the trail.
“No, leave it,” said Shaw, contradicting Dawson. He gave him a look. “I told you I was quitting,” he said. He turned with one arm around Della and walked away from the edge.
Chapter 5
They rode nonstop until the noon sun beat down on them without mercy. When they did stop, it was at a water station where an old man and his German wife operated a waterwheel with the aid of a button-backed donkey. After watering the horses and the four mules, the party took shade beneath a large cottonwood tree at the edge of a low adobe-and-stone wall. As the others rested with their hat brims ducked low on their foreheads, Della sat down on a spread blanket beside Shaw and said, “Lawrence, that was the first time I’ve ever seen a man draw a gun and kill someone. I’ve heard of gunfights…but I’ve never seen one. When you three rode in on us at the wagon and I held the pistol on you? I was only bluffing. I don’t know what I would have done if you were men out to do us harm. I like to pretend I’m fast and loose. But when it gets right down to it…I’m not.”
Shaw looked at her, his green eyes much clearer now that he had sweated out the whiskey. “You would have done whatever it took to stay alive, is what I’m betting,” he said.
Della shrugged. “Perhaps…at least I like to think so. But to be honest, after seeing those dead men today…” Her words trailed off.
Shaw tried to help her, saying, “You haven’t settled it in your mind yet, have you? You haven’t gotten rid of the picture of it.”
“No, I haven’t,” said Della. “Seeing them, the way they lay there, their faces, all the blood. I don’t think I’ll ever get rid of it completely.”
“Gunfights are not a pretty sight,” Shaw said, looking almost ashamed.
“No, they certainly are not,” said Della. But the picture she was having the most problem getting rid of was that of Lawrence Shaw drawing a gun so fast she saw only the blur of it. She kept seeing the deliberate brutality of him as he acted without the slightest hesitation in the killing of four human beings.
This was the same man she had just spent the night with, wrapped in a blanket, their bodies naked and pressed together in the midst of a wide, dark night. He had been gentle with her, warm and loving, so much so that to awaken the next morning and witness firsthand the sort of terrible deeds that had brought him such notoriety had left her shaken. She feared this man. Yet, even as she feared him, she wanted him, perhaps even more than ever, if that were possible.
After a pause Della said, “Lawrence…what you told me last night about losing your wife…and how you’re hunting her killers. Where will you go when that’s done?”
Shaw nodded slightly, knowing there was an offer coming. “I haven’t really thought about it, Della…I haven’t had the time.”
“Come back to Eagle Pass, Lawrence,” she said. “You’ve lost your wife; I’ve lost my husband. Maybe we could take care of each other.”
“We’ll see,” said Shaw. “I don’t want to make promises that I don’t know if I can keep.”
They fell silent, Della snuggling against his chest for a few moments until Shaw leaned down and said in a quiet tone, “Get up now, Della…time to go.”
Cray Dawson had looked over in time to see Della sit up and touch her fingers to her hair, straightening it. His eyes met Shaw’s for a second and Shaw offered a tired, patient smile. Dawson shook his head and stood up, dusting his trousers, then walked to where the horses stood resting in the shade. The old man who ran the well and waterwheel said in a crackling voice, “Not to be meddling, but that feller looks familiar …. Who is he, anyway?”
Cray Dawson said in a flat, expressionless voice, as if he’d committed the line to memory, “That’s Lawrence Shaw…known by some as Fast Larry…the fastest gun alive.”
