by Ralph Cotton
Sax took a swallow of whiskey and licked his lips. “Damn shame this gunman was here, though. Hadn’t been for him, we could have shot the whore and you could have taken everything over clean and simple. These boys would have been begging you to do it.”
“I ain’t complaining,” said Sheer, taking the bottle back from him as he stared out across the fire at the darker form of Shaw and Tuesday on the ground outside the circle of waning firelight. “This is no time to fool with things. This big job is all set to happen. Let Fast Larry Shaw lead the show for now. Once it’s over we’ll take it all and jerk the ground out from under him.”
“Yeah, if this really is Fast Larry Shaw,” said Sax, introducing a thread of doubt.
“Even if it is,” said Sheer, “I can’t understand why Lowe never mentioned taking on a partner to me.”
“Neither can I,” said Sax, “unless he was out to undermine you, which you said a time or two that you thought he might be.”
“I had a bad feeling not to trust the sonsabitch, that’s for sure,” said Sheer. He spat and corked the bottle and put it away. “Now I guess I’m understanding why.”
“So, you believe he did bring Shaw in as a partner?” Sax probed.
“I don’t know what I believe right now,” said Sheer. “But we’ll go along with things ’til it suits us both to do otherwise.” He continued to stare out across the fire toward the couple wrapped in each other’s arms beneath Shaw’s blanket. “I do know one thing. He’s bedded down with that fleshy warm whore. We’re sitting here having to wonder what he’s up to next.”
“Yeah, it’s hard to take,” Sax said quietly, also staring out across the glowing fire. . . .
Moments later, beneath the blanket, Shaw turned over onto his side and gazed up at the stars strewn across the purple night sky. Tuesday sighed, shoved her hair from her face and adjusted her head onto his chest. “Now, wasn’t that worth waking up for?” she whispered.
“Are you going to start talking now?” Shaw asked quietly.
“No,” she said. But then she corrected herself and said, “Well, a little maybe. You have to admit this is an unusual situation we’re in together, us two running the Dexter Lowe Gang.”
Shaw cut his eyes down to her. “How do you figure us two are running the gang?”
“I’m forever grateful to you sticking up for me. But I already had a stake in all this with Dex before you even got here, Fast Larry,” Tuesday said.
“Right,” said Shaw, “but putting a bullet in his eye had a way of dampening the spirit of any relationship you two might have had.”
“But don’t forget I’m the one who made it sound real, the part about you and Dex being partners. I put you right on top of his gang, ahead of men like Sonny Lloyd Sheer, who’s been with Dex for more than two years now.”
He couldn’t tell her that there was no future for her here. As soon as Dawson and Caldwell caught up with them, the Lowe Gang was gone for good, the Corio Gang too with any luck. “All right, I’ll give you that,” Shaw said. “You put me on top. But I don’t want to stay on top. I’m only running this big job on out so I can get paid. I only stood up when I did so they wouldn’t shoot you dead before Dexter Lowe was even in the ground.”
“Okay, what’s your point?” she asked, raising herself enough to turn and lean on his chest, looking him in the face.
“The point is that I’m the only one running the show here, not us,” said Shaw, his tone serious. “When this job is over I want you to get away from here, as far away as possible.”
“I will, I promise,” said Tuesday, but her tone told him she wasn’t taking him seriously. “Dex was going to take me to Paris. We were going to kick up our heels. Couldn’t you and me do the same thing?”
“We could,” Shaw said, realizing that warning her too much might cause her to suspicion why he was here. “Let me think about it.”
“All right, then,” said Tuesday, moving against him again, her hands going down his stomach. “While you think about it, I’ll see what I can do to convince you it’s a good idea.”
PART 3
Chapter 13
Badlands Territory
When the single rider appeared and stopped between the high rock walls of the narrow canyon, Bert Jordan turned to Harvey Lemate beside him. “Fan those two away some,” he said. “I don’t recognize this jake.”
Lemate turned in his saddle and waved a hand at two gunmen, Max Skinner and Dade Watkins, who sidestepped their horses away a few feet away from each other and sat watching intently. Each of them held a rifle propped on his thigh, and each held a ready finger on the trigger, thumb across the hammer.
“I don’t like this,” Lemate said, righting himself forward in his saddle.
“Nor do I,” said Jordan, keeping his eyes on the single rider in the battered stovepipe as the man nudged his horse forward at a walk.
The two sat watching in silence until the rider drew within thirty feet; then Jordan called out, “That’s close enough, stranger.”
Shaw stopped and sat perfectly still, eying the two riders farther back and the line of five freight wagons sitting beyond them, a man sitting aboard the one in front.
“Who the hell are you?” Jordan called out after checking the empty narrow trail behind Shaw.
“I’m the man sent to pick up the haul-away wagons,” Shaw called out in reply.
“You, by yourself? Where’s Lowe?” Jordan asked, sounding agitated.
“I brought drivers.” Shaw raised a hand and as if by magic conjured up riflemen on either side of the rocky canyon walls.
“This son of a bitch,” Jordan whispered sidelong to Lemate. “This ain’t the way it was supposed to be.” To Shaw he called out in a stronger tone of voice, “I asked you, where’s Lowe?”
“Lowe’s not coming,” Shaw called out. “He made a change of plans. He sent me instead.”
“A change of plans,” Jordan whispered. “Leave it to a punk like Dangerous Dexter Lowe to start making changes right when everything is set to go.”
“What are we going to do now?” Lemate asked.
“Damn,” said Jordan, “what can we do? We’ve got to have the wagons on the job. Madden is already on his way to meet that train.”
“Say the word,” said Lemate. “We’ll kill this jake and the ones above us and drive the wagons ourselves. To hell with Lowe.”
Jordan considered it for a moment, his eyes moving along the canyon walls, taking in the riflemen above him. After a tense moment he let out a breath. “No. We let them take the wagons. I don’t know why Lowe is doing this. But it’ll be his ass on the line, not ours.”
“Madden will kill him for this once we get this job finished,” said Lemate, turning and motioning for the men to relinquish the wagons to Lowe’s men.
“I hope to hell he does,” said Jordan. He raised his voice and called out to Shaw, “Ride on in. Let me get a look at you.”
Shaw gave a hand signal to his riflemen, then nudged his speckled barb forward.
“Keep me covered,” Jordan said to Lemate, nudging his horse forward to meet Shaw.
When the two drew within a few feet of each other and stopped, Shaw turned his barb sideways on the trail to indicate he was coming no closer.
Eying Shaw closely, Jordan said, “Who did you say you are?”
“I didn’t,” Shaw replied. “Lowe sent me to gather the wagons, not to socialize.”
“Yeah?” said Jordan, knowing he was on a spot, knowing the wagons had to be on time, ready to go. “You can tell Dangerous Dexter that he’s going to answer for this. I don’t like last-minute changes.” Jordan looked him up and down and added, “Madden will like it even less.”
“I’m following orders,” Shaw offered. On either side of the canyon the riflemen came down and started walking to meet the line of wagons that Skinner and Watkins had begun helping to bring forward. “Once this is over, I don’t care what Dexter and Madden Corio have to say to each other about it, do you?”
Jordan noted how confidently the stranger’s hand lay on his thigh, near the butt of the holstered Colt. “No,” he said, “not if all goes well. I’m in it for the money, same as you.”
“Then we’re in agreement,” said Shaw.
The two sat in silence as the men with Shaw climbed aboard the wagons. “Here’s another change in plans,” Jordan said to Shaw as Lemate rode up closer. He turned to Lemate and said, “Tell Skinner and Watkins they’re riding alongside these wagons, to make sure Dangerous Dexter knows the trail to Yellow Moon Canyon.” He stared back at Shaw. “Any objections with that?”
“None,” said Shaw. “If Lowe doesn’t like it, he can take it up with Madden Corio himself. Like you said, we’re in this for the money.” He touched the brim of his stovepipe hat in respect.
From a high ledge at the far end of the canyon, Tuesday lay with a pair of binoculars to her eyes, watching as the wagons moved forward, Joe Toledo, Jimmy Bardell and Bell Mason in the drivers’ seats. Mason’s wagon drove along with a tag line leading the fourth wagon behind him. Behind the wagons rode the two men Jordan had sent to keep an eye on things.
“They’re coming!” Tuesday said over her shoulder to Sheer, Sax and the others who stood out of sight behind the cover of rocks. “Shaw’s got the wagons for us without Lowe even being there!”
Dan Sax and Sonny Lloyd Sheer gave each other a guarded look. “Good for Shaw,” said Sheer. Turning to where the horses stood on a stretch ten feet below them, he said to the others, “All right, everybody mount up, let’s ride down and meet them. We’ve got an all-night ride if we’re going to get those wagons over to Yellow Moon Canyon.”
“That’s right, let’s get to Yellow Moon,” said Tuesday, excitedly standing and brushing herself. “That’s where we make our fortunes.”
On the flatlands, beyond the canyon walls, Dade Watkins and Max Skinner both tensed at the sight of the riders appearing up ahead of them. “What the hell is this?” Skinner asked Shaw, riding near him, his hand poised on the rifle across his lap.
“It’s exactly what it looks like,” Shaw replied in a calm tone. “It’s the rest of the Lowe Gang coming to join us.” He gave the man a bemused look. “You didn’t think we were riding onto this job unguarded, did you?”
The two looked at each other. “Lowe sending you instead of coming himself has got us strung a little tight, Mister,” said Watkins. “It’s to be expected when you change the plans like this at the last minute.”
“I understand,” Shaw said. “But you best get used to Sheer, Sax and me showing up from now on. Dexter is going to be lying low, staying out of sight.”
“Yeah?” Skinner asked, looking suspicious. “For how long?”
“From now on, would be safe to say,” Shaw replied.
“What makes him think he can drop out of sight and still do business with men like us?” said Watkins. “The Corio Gang ain’t a bunch of small-time sneak thieves he can treat any way that pleases him.”
“Neither are we, not anymore,” said Sonny Lloyd Sheer, riding up in time to hear what Dade Watkins said to Shaw. He swung his horse to stop, facing Watkins and Skinner. He stared coldly into Watkins’ eyes.
Skinner cut in, saying, “You can’t blame Dade for being riled over this, Sonny. I’m riled too. What the hell is going on anyway? Lowe decides to send this man instead of showing up himself?”
“You better unrile, fellows,” Sheer warned. He gave a nod toward Shaw. “This man speaks for Dex and all the rest of us.”
Shaw relaxed a little, knowing that these men’s seeing Sonny Lloyd with him gave credibility to the matter. Sheer was known as Lowe’s right-hand man.
“It’s good to see you here, Sonny,” Skinner said, settling a little.
“But what was we supposed to think?” said Watkins, settling, but more slowly than Skinner.
“I don’t give a damn what you think, Dade,” said Sheer. “Neither does Dangerous Dexter.” He gave them a short unrelenting grin, something in it letting them know it was all right. “But whatever you think, you best do it while we ride. I better not miss my payday because you two don’t like the way we run our part of the show.”
“All right, forget it, Sonny,” said Skinner, jerking the reins on his horse, turning it toward the passing wagons. Beside him, Watkins did the same.
As the two rode away alongside the empty stolen wagons, Sheer looked at Shaw and said, “We’ve all put ourselves on the line to make this job work for us. You better be as straight-up as you say you are.”
Shaw didn’t answer, nor did he touch his hat brim or give any other form of acknowledgment. Instead he sat staring as Sheer and Sax also turned their horses and rode away. Sheer looked back over his shoulder at Shaw, then said to Sax, “The son of a bitch only speaks when it damn well suits him.”
As soon as the riders were a few yards away, Tuesday rode and stopped her horse beside Shaw and said, “That went pretty well, don’t you think?”
Shaw didn’t answer.
Tuesday tried again. “I said, don’t you think that all went well?”
This time when Shaw didn’t answer, she reached over, took his forearm and shook it, saying, “Hey, Fast Larry. Are you all right? Do you hear me?”
Shaw jerked his eyes toward her in surprise, like a man who had just snapped out of a trance. “Huh, what?” he said, his eyes looking lost and confused.
Tuesday gazed at him for a moment. “I said, that went well, didn’t it?”
“Yeah, it went well,” Shaw said in a strange tone of voice. He sounded like a man who’d just returned from a trip afar.
Wondering still if he’d heard a word she’d said, Tuesday called out in a louder voice, “Fast Larry? Larry Shaw? Are you all right?”
Again Shaw failed to answer. Tuesday could only watch him with concern as he nudged his speckled barb forward and rode off alongside the wagons.
Outside the town of Colinas Secas, Jane stood in her stirrups and looked back at a thin rise of dust that had been closing on their back trail all morning. “Whoever it is, they’re still there,” she said to Dawson and Caldwell, who rode their horses at a walk beside her.
“Shaw, do you suppose?” Caldwell asked.
“I don’t see how,” said Jane, gesturing toward the hoofprints on the ground beneath them, “since it’s Shaw’s trail we’ve been following for two days.” She glared at Caldwell and added, “Unless you’re implying that I don’t know bobwhite shit about tracking.”
“I’m not saying it,” Caldwell said, a bit tight-lipped on the matter. “But you have led us in a string of circles from the minute we left Wooten.”
“Excuse the hell out of me, Undertaker,” Jane said acidly. “If you’ll recall, we’re tracking a man who is head-shot and doesn’t know his ass from a shotgun butt. Every circle we’ve made, he made before us.” She looked back and forth from Caldwell to Dawson, then said, “Or maybe you’d both feel better if you didn’t have a drunken saddle bum like me tracking this—”
“That’s enough, Jane,” Dawson said sharply, cutting her off. He gestured toward a low stand of rocks less than thirty yards to the right of the trail. “Get over there and cover up. We’re going to see who this is.”
Turning to Caldwell, Jane said with sarcasm, “Would you like to lead us over there, or am I still the woman for the job?”
“After you, Janie,” Caldwell said, not letting her abrasiveness anger him. He knew that part of her surly attitude was the whiskey still working its way out of her system.
The three left an easy-to-follow set of tracks from the trail to the stand of rocks. Once inside the rocks, a few feet above the flatlands, Jane crawled forward on her stomach, stretched out a battered telescope and held it to her eye. The two lawmen stood back and watched in silence until finally she said without turning to them, “Damn it, it’s that young Creole gal from the hotel bathhouse.”
“The one called Raidy?” Caldwell asked.
“Yep, Raidy Bowe,” said Jane, sco
oting back and standing, holding the telescope out for Caldwell to take from her. Then she stepped forward and leaned against a tall rock, her arms crossed, staring back along the dusty trail.
“What does this girl want?” Caldwell asked no one in particular. Then he asked Dawson, “You and she didn’t have any time to—”
Standing beside him, Dawson gave him a light gig in his ribs, enough to get his attention. Dawson gestured toward Jane. Caldwell got it and shut up.
After moment of silence, Jane said, “All right, gentlemen, it’s me she’s following. But damn it to hell, I had nothing to do with her . . . nothing to be ashamed of, that is.” She sighed and shook her head. “I’ve never known why, but for some reason I draw that kind of person right out of the woods.”
Dawson and Caldwell looked at each other. “When she gets here, get rid of her,” Dawson said. He and Caldwell turned and walked to their horses.
Fifteen minutes later, Jane walked over and took the reins to her horse. “You say get rid of her, I’ll get rid of her,” she said. Turning, she led her horse away, out onto the flatlands with a look of determination on her face.
A few minutes later the lawmen heard raised voices, followed by a shrill scream and the resounding crack of a pistol shot. “Oh no!” Caldwell said in stunned disbelief. “Jane’s shot her!”
They ran out onto the flatlands and saw the two women standing twelve feet apart. On the sandy ground their footprints had met, then backed away. Jane stood with her big revolver drawn, held drooping toward Raidy Bowe, smoke curling from its barrel. In the sand a foot in front of the young woman, Jane’s bullet had upturned a dark hole in the ground. Raidy stood staring down at the bullet hole with her hands covering her mouth in terror.
“Jane, take it easy,” Dawson said, approaching her with caution, knowing that her latest whiskey binge had left her shaken and unstable.
“She won’t go,” Jane said stiffly without turning to face Dawson as he approached her. “I can’t make her.”
