by Ralph Cotton
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
PART 1
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
PART 2
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
PART 3
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
PART 4
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Teaser chapter
SNIFFING OUT A KILLER
Shaw’s left hand lay on the bar top, his fingertips near the wad of cloth, which was rolled and ready to stick into his ear, should this talk turn into a shoot-out. His right elbow lay propped on the bar edge, but his right hand hung loosely down toward his holstered Colt as if drawn there by instinct or predestination. “About your men . . . ,” Shaw reminded him.
“Yeah,” said Lowe, “I just want to hear it from you, make sure you or my man here ain’t either one jerking my reins. He says you fired first.”
“I never fired a shot,” Shaw said in a quiet, restrained voice. “Did you check his gun?”
“Sure did,” Earl Hardine cut in. “It was empty, still smoking. I even smelled it for good measure.”
This was the opening Shaw wanted. His right hand streaked upward, his Colt leveled at Lowe’s heart. The move came so fast, no one had caught it until it was too late. Then Shaw cocked his gun with a flick of his thumb and flipped it around sideways in his hand, the barrel pointing away from Lowe.
“Want to smell mine?” he said.
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First Printing, March 2010
Copyright © Ralph Cotton, 2010
eISBN : 978-1-101-18552-0
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To Mary Lynn . . . of course.
And to James Earl Coots,
in appreciation of the Old West,
of rocky trails and a time gone by. . . .
Prologue
Three men—Madden Corio, his right-hand man, Bert Jordan, and a younger gunman named Willard Dance—sat atop their horses, gazing out across the Rio Grande. In the grainy dawn light a low wisp of fog skimmed the river’s low, rocky banks. A tall heron stood, one thin leg raised beneath itself, seemingly as translucent as a ghost in the silver-gray swirl.
“This low water will be just about perfect for us,” Corio remarked, noting the shallow river as it drifted along lazily in its bed. Behind them, the rest of the men stood saddling their horses, checking their shooting gear. A few men still lingered near a low, glowing fire. They finished their coffee and tossed back whatever whiskey and mescal they had leftover from the night before.
On the other side of the river, less than fifty yards away, a young boy watched them as his donkey stood in the water, drinking and swishing its ragged tail. The three horsemen stared back at the boy until he ducked his face, jerked on the lead rope and pulled the donkey back from the water’s edge.
“Easy crossing for us is easy crossing for anybody on our trail,” said Jordan.
“You mean the two border lawmen,” Corio said bluntly.
“Yeah, that’s who I mean,” said Jordan, watching the boy turn the donkey and poke its rump with a short stick to get it moving.
“They’ve got lots of hombres like us spooked along both sides of the border,” Dance commented.
“Not hombres like us, Willard,” said Corio. “Hombres like us don’t spook.” He turned a stiff gaze toward the young gunman.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” Dance offered in a less confident tone.
“He knows how you meant it, Willard,” Jordan cut in, sounding a little impatient with him. “Why don’t you go help everybody get ready to move out?”
“Sure thing, Mr. Jordan,” said Dance. He pulled his reins around quickly and rode away.
Jordan caught a gaze from Corio and said on Dance’s behalf, “He’s a good man, Madden. I just need to set a fire under his ass now and then—keeps him on his best game.”
Corio gazed back out across the river, putting the matter aside. Now that they were alone, he said in a lowered voice, “I figured how we best deal with the soldiers once we cut the train away from them.”
Jordan grinned. “I knew you would.”
Corio said, “I’ve also solved the problem of moving all that hardware across the hill country without losing it back to the Union cavalry, or the federales.”
“The hill country?” said Jordan. “So we’re not even crossing the river near here?”
“No,” Corio said under his breath, “that was all said for Dance’s benefit. He doesn’t need to hear my real plan—not yet anyway. But you do. We’re crossing the badlands, through the hill country and across the desert flats.”
Jordan gave a thin smile. “If Easy John Lupo can move a wagon of gold across the hills and desert the way he did, I suppose we’re up to moving stolen guns the same way,”
he said.
“Don’t forget, Easy John had the American lawmen helping him,” offered Corio. “I expect once they hear we’ve taken all those guns and ammunition, they’ll be all over us. But we’re not going that deep into Old Mex. We won’t have to. We’ve got something Bocanero wants so bad he’ll come to us to get it.”
“Yeah? What’s that?” Jordan asked.
“You’ll see when we get there,” said Corio. “But it’s the latest in military armament.”
“You amaze the hell out of me, the way you come up with jobs like this,” Jordan said. “Are we still meeting my brothers in Nozzito after this gun deal?”
“Absolutely,” said Corio. “This gun deal just gives us the money we need to set up some bigger jobs. Both your brothers are in as far as I’m concerned. We need fast guns like you Jordan brothers.” He paused and added thoughtfully, “Provided you can keep them under control, that is.”
Jordan gave a proud smile. “Between the two of them, Grayson and Tolan have killed more men than small-pox. But they’re as loyal to me as hounds. Nobody messes with the Jordans.”
“Good enough for me,” said Corio. “Now form the men up and move them out. We’ll rendezvous in a week up at Hueco Pass. I’m riding on into Old Mex to make sure our buyer is ready and eager to take delivery.”
As Corio turned his horse, Jordan asked, “I expect you don’t want to say why we’re hitting the army train all the way up in the badlands?”
“You’ll see why when the time comes,” Corio said with a tight-lipped smile. “I think you’ll like seeing how it’s going to happen.” He finished turning his horse and rode south along the shallow river’s edge.
As soon as Corio had ridden out of sight, Jordan smiled to himself. He turned his horse and rode back a few yards to where Willard Dance stood putting out the smoldering campfire with his boot. The rest of the men stood beside their readied horses. They looked on expectantly as Jordan reined his horse down.
“I never seen a bunch of men run out of whiskey as quick as this,” a red-faced Kansas gunman named Irish Tommie Wade said under his breath. He wore a battered derby hat and fingerless black jersey gloves. “I hope I haven’t mistakenly taken up with a consortium of drunkards and malingerers.” He gave a slight tip of his hat.
“It’s likely you may have . . . but I’m speaking only for myself,” a former James-Younger Gang member named Robert Hooks replied in the same lowered voice. He gave a tip of his battered hat in return. Muffled laughter rippled across the men, then settled.
“All right, everybody listen up,” said Jordan, settling the men even more. “We’re riding up to Hueco Pass. That’s where we’ll make our play. I hope you enjoyed your drinking. There’ll be no more of it until we’ve completed our job.”
“Mind telling us why we’re riding all the way to Hueco Pass?” Tommie Wade asked.
“You’ll see why when the time comes,” said Jordan, repeating Corio’s words. “From here on, none of yas separate yourselves from this group any longer than it takes to relieve yourself. If you do you’ve broken our oath of secrecy. It’ll be the responsibility of everybody here to shoot you dead.” He looked solemnly at each of the twelve men, then added, “Is that clearly understood?”
Tommie Wade leveled his battered derby hat and asked bluntly, “Do you and Corio treat all your regular men this way, or is this just aimed at us newcomers?”
Jordan turned a glance toward a gunman named Harvey Lemate. “Harve . . . ?” he said.
Lemate took a step away from his horse, his reins still in hand, and said loud enough for all the men to hear him, “I’ve been riding with Corio’s Black River Guerrillas since right after the war, when he got started. It’s always been this way before a big job.”
“I’m only making sure I get the gist of things, laddie,” Irish Tommie said with a curt nod. “There’s no offense intended.”
“Nor has any offense been taken . . . yet,” Jordan said in a cool, even voice.
Tommie Wade touched a fingerless jersey-gloved hand to his frayed hat brim.
Jordan’s eyes stayed riveted on Irish Tommie Wade a moment longer, then moved across the rest of the men. “All of you came into this knowing it’s not going to be a quick cash-in-hand job. When this job is over you’re going to have enough money to keep yourselves flush for a long time. But until it’s over, you do as you’re told, stick close together and account for your time. We’ve got lawmen riding both sides of the border now, hunting down men like us. We play our cards close to our vests.”
Willard Dance stepped into his saddle. He turned his horse and nudged it closer to Jordan. Lemate did the same. The rest of the men followed suit. “All right,” said Robert Hooks, repeating a line he always said to himself before riding off to commit a robbery, “go make yourself rich. . . .”
As Hooks stepped into his saddle and turned his horse toward the forming column of men, Tommie Wade sidled his horse closer to him and said in a quiet voice, “What about these lawmen he’s talking about? Do you know who they are?”
Hooks eyed him skeptically. “Where have you been lately?”
“Nowhere near here,” said Tommie. “I’ve been laid up at the Red Wall the past year, keeping my neck away from a noose. Haven’t kept much track of what’s gone on along the border.” The two rode on at the end of the column of riders.
“Up at Hole-in-the-wall, eh?” said Hooks, still eying him. “How’s ole Denver Hale getting along? It’s been over two years since I last saw him.”
“Two years—no kidding?” said Tommie. “Bet he didn’t have much to say two years ago, did he?”
“Why’s that?” Hooks said coolly.
“Because he’s been dead almost three years,” said Tommie.
Hooks gave a sly grin. “Can’t blame a man for being too careful these days, can you?”
“I expect not,” said Tommie. The two relaxed a little as they rode on. “Now, what about the two lawmen everybody’s so damn worried about? Should my soul quake with trepidation?”
“You’ll have to decide that,” said Hooks. He looked him up and down and added as they rode along, “The Mexican government and the U.S. have lawmen working together, trying to put some of us folks out of business.”
“Mexican lawmen don’t bother me much, unless they’re standing upwind,” Tommie said with a wry grin.
“There’s a U.S. marshal by the name of Dawson . . . Crayton Dawson,” said Hooks. “He’s comes out of Texas. Ever heard of him?”
“Texas, huh . . . ? I believe I may have,” Tommie said, considering the name. “But notice that I’m still not quaking.”
“Duly noted.” Hooks went on. “Dawson rides with a deputy named Jedson Caldwell. They call Caldwell the Undertaker.” His grin widened a bit. “Frightened now?”
“I’m holding out fairly well,” said Tommie.
“I believe Caldwell really was an undertaker before he started walking behind a badge,” said Hooks. “So don’t make more of it than that.”
“Good advice,” said Tommie. “I won’t let it concern me.” As he spoke, he reached his fingerless jersey gloves inside his coat and eased out a small battered whiskey flask. After looking around warily, he passed the flask over to Hooks, unseen. “Here, you look like a man who enjoys a little eye-opener.”
“I hope you’re not about to get us both a harsh scolding,” Hooks said in a mock tone. He held his hat down to conceal his hand and face as he drank from the flask.
“I allow we’ve both lived through harsh scolding before,” Tommie offered. He took back the flask. “Here’s to us,” he said guardedly. He took a sip, capped it and buried it back inside his coat. “Now then, is that the whole of it, this marshal and this undertaker?”
“No, there’s a third one,” said Hooks. “He rides with them only now and then.”
“Oh dear,” Tommie said in a mock tone, “yet another one to keep me all upset? And who might this third tough hombre be?”
Hooks replie
d quietly, staring straight ahead, “Third one’s name is Shaw . . . Lawrence Shaw.”
Tommie almost stopped his horse before catching himself. “Fast Larry Shaw . . . ?” he said, keeping himself from sounding too stricken by the name. “The fastest gun alive . . . ?”
“Yep,” Hooks said, hearing the difference in Tommie’s voice. “I figured you’d heard of that one.”
“Jesus . . .” Tommie fell silent.
After a moment Hooks asked him sidelong, “What’s wrong, Irish Tommie? Cat got your tongue?”
“Damn . . . ,” Tommie said under his breath.
PART 1
Chapter 1
Badlands, New Mexico
In the cold, wind-stirred desert night, his senses had abandoned him for a time; it was as if he’d vanished into the swirling emptiness around him. He might have fallen asleep in his saddle for all he knew. During the missing time the pain inside his head had disappeared into a warm, furry blackness. But with the first dark silvery streak of dawn, his senses had returned, and with them the insistent pain.
He rode on, his aching head bowed and turned against a moaning wind.
He knew who he was, he reminded himself. He knew his name, his age, flashes of details and particulars of his life. Oh yes, he knew. . . . But he’d had to grapple with it for a time in order to get the information back clearly into his mind. For a time when his memory had come and gone, he’d almost hoped he might lose it altogether. But that was not to be the case, he told himself.
At daylight Lawrence Shaw, aka Fast Larry, aka the Fastest Gun Alive, rode upward into Colinas Secas from the southwest, off the dusty badlands floor. He wore a battered stovepipe hat and a long, ragged swallow-tailed coat. A broad, faded red bandanna mantled the bridge of his nose and had shielded most of his face against the sharp wind-driven sand. Behind him the cold desert breeze still moaned in the grainy light like a field of lost souls.
