Escape from Fire River

by Ralph Cotton

  “Yeah, it sounds like a real nice place,” Shaw said, unimpressed.

  “You’re wasting your breath, Heathen,” Jane said to Heaton. She stood up from filling her canteen and hooked its strap over her saddle horn. “I’ve already learned better than to try and tell him anything.” She took Shaw’s canteen down from his saddle horn, walked over to the water and bent down to fill it. “He’s got a stubborn streak.”

  Shaw didn’t respond to Jane’s comment. Instead he thought of the shooting in the cantina and looked out along the trail. “Bulletproof vests . . . ,” he said quietly to himself. “What’ll they think of next?” He gazed off in the direction of Agua Mala. Then he looked back in the opposite direction, judging how long it would be before the approaching black cloud would reach them.

  Twenty-seven miles farther down the trail, Red Burke looked back at the same wide black cloud. “That one’s a hell-raiser . . . ,” he commented to himself. He slowed his worn-out horse to a halt and stepped down from the saddle. Drawing his repeating rifle from its boot, he levered a round into the chamber and gazed ahead into the wavering heat at the empty street stretched out before him.

  “I can kill the first gun-toting sonsabitch who shows his face,” he called out loudly. He took quick aim at a faded sign out front of a weathered adobe building and fired a bullet into it. As soon as the sound of the shot fell away across the vast open land, he called out, “Or, I can ride in and offer German gold coins to any hombre who wants to earn it doing some hard killing.”

  After a moment of silence, when no answer came from the row of adobes and shacks lining both sides of the street, he called out, “Have I come to wrong place? I’m on the run. I’ve always heard that Agua Mala is the place a man comes to when he wants other men killed.”

  After another, shorter silence, a voice called out from a shadowed doorway, “Ah, you are on the run. Then you have come to the right place, hombre. Ride forward. Let us look at the man who tells me he pays in gold, for some killing he wants done.”

  Beside the Mexican bandit, another bandit whispered to him, “Do you want us to kill him and stick his head on a post, mi hermano?”

  “No, no, Ernesto,” the bandit said to his younger sibling. “If this man has German gold coins, we know where he got them. If he rides with the men who robbed the depository we must allow him in and make him welcome.” He gave his brother a sidelong wink. “Who knows, perhaps much of the stolen gold will rub off on us, eh?”

  Ernesto turned to the other gunmen spread out in the shadows along the hot, dusty street. “All of you, show your best manners,” he called out. “This man will be treated as one of us.” Looking back at his brother Sergio, he said with a grin, “Unless my brother and I decide to shoot him and take all of the gold he is carrying.”

  “Show restraint, Ernesto,” said Sergio. “It is time we better ourselves by getting to know these border gringos.” He spit as if saying such a thing brought a bitter taste to his mouth.

  “I cannot believe the words I hear, Sergio,” said Ernesto.

  “It is true,” Sergio replied. “Whether we like it or not, these gringos are the ones who made the biggest robbery in the history of our nation. We must put ourselves in good favor with them if we can.”

  When Burke stopped his horse in the middle of the dirt street, a hard wind had begun blowing in from the southwest, preceding the coming storm. A dust devil whipped about in the middle of the street a block away. Burke tossed a leather bag full of gold coins to the ground and looked back and forth in the darkened shadows of alleys and blanketed doorways.

  “Don’t be bashful, hombres,” he called out. “You all know there’s a hell of a lot more veinte-dólar, twenty-dollar, gold coins where these came from.” He gave a wicked grin. “All with the compliments of the German government.”

  Hearing the muffled jingle of gold coins in the bag, Sergio and Ernesto looked at each other. “You ask much of me, my brother,” Ernesto whispered, letting the hammer down on his big revolver.

  Burke watched the two men step forward into sight. Along the street other gunmen followed suit. “I knew that sound would wake you up from your siestas.” He chuckled under his breath.

  Sergio ignored his words, picked up the bag, loosened the top and looked into it. He fingered the twenty-dollar gold coins and said almost to himself, “Si, they are the stolen German coins. . . .” He eyed Burke closely, hefting the bag in his palm and asked, “Who is this lawdog you want us to kill for you, mi amigo?”

  “I talk better with my hand wrapped around a bottle for some reason,” said Burke, stepping down from his saddle. “I could be talked into bouncing some young senorita on my lap a time or two.” He held his reins out toward Ernesto as he spoke. “Take my horse, boy,” he added in a tone of authority.

  Ernesto gritted his teeth and stared at his brother.

  Sergio saw the fury in Ernesto’s eyes, but he gave him a nod and said, “Take his horse, por favor.” Turning to Burke he said, “How do you know we will not take your money, kill you and hang your head on a pole?”

  “Ouch,” Burke said, with no show of fear. He gave his same grin. “I figure I can take that chance. If you killed me you have this bag of gold. But if you listen to me and play your cards like I tell you, that bag of gold will turn into a whole wagonload.”

  Ernesto had taken the reins to Burke’s horse. But upon hearing his words he stopped as if frozen and stared at Sergio for some clarity. “Oh,” said Sergio. “That would be a lot of gold, Senor.” Along the street, other gunmen had heard his words. They gathered closer to hear more on the matter. “Tell us where this gold may be seen,” Sergio coaxed.

  “Not so fast,” said Burke. “I want to make sure you boys are worth riding with. Take care of this lawdog and you’ll see it, sure enough. It’ll be yours—enough German gold to keep all of you in peppers and beans for a hundred years.” He let out a laugh and looked around at the solemn faces surrounding him.

  Ernesto had to grit his teeth to keep from shooting Burke down where he stood. “Be patient, my brother,” Sergio warned him under his breath. Then he turned back to Burke with a sweep of his hand toward a dingy adobe cantina down the street. “Let us get you that bottle and the young senorita you thirst for. Then we will talk about gold and how much of it we will soon have in our hands.”

  By the time Jane and Shaw had stopped at an abandoned adobe three miles outside of Agua Mala, the storm had moved in closer and lay black and menacing almost directly overhead. While Jane stepped down from her saddle and walked over to a stone-walled well, Heaton pulled his hat down tight against a hard gust of sand-filled wind and looked all around. “We’ve got a bad one coming,” he said sidelong to Shaw. He looked first at the black cloud, then toward the town of Agua Mala, as if weighing his situation. “By rights, you got no authority to hold me against my will, do you?”

  “By what rights?” Shaw asked him with a blank stare.

  Heaton started to say more on the matter, but the look on Shaw’s face made him think better of it. He gave a submissive shrug. “I’m not making nothing of it,” he said in a meek tone, “just conversing, is all.”

  “Don’t converse,” Shaw said. At the well he saw Jane spit out a mouthful of water she’d drank from a gourd dipper that hung by a strip of rawhide on a pole beside the crumbling stone wall.

  “Hell’s fire and brimstone!” she said, making a sour face. “I can see how Bad Water came to get its name. This water taste like it’s been through a sick horse.”

  Shaw lifted the canteen from his saddle horn and pitched it to her. She wiped a hand across her mouth, uncapped the canteen and took a swig of tepid water. “Can you keep a rifle in his ribs while I ride into Bad Water and take a look around?” he asked.

  She wiped her hand across her mouth again and said with sarcasm, “Well, hell no. What made you even think I could do something that requires that much sense?”

  Shaw just stared at her blankly.

  She step
ped over and handed him the canteen. “All right, I expect you wasn’t meaning to accuse me of being an out-and-out babbling idiot.”

  “No, I wasn’t,” Shaw said with the same flat expression. “Can you do that for me?” he asked with persistence.

  “Yes, I will do that, if that’s what you want,” Jane replied, taking it more serious. “But ain’t you taking a mighty big risk riding in there alone?” she asked.

  “No, I’m not,” Shaw said.

  Jane shook her head. “I swear, Lawrence. Sometimes I don’t know if you’re almighty brave, or if you just don’t give a damn if you live or die.”

  Shaw didn’t answer. Instead he said to Heaton, “How much weight does Burke carry with Garris Cantro or the other Border Dogs leaders?”

  “Quite a damned bit, to hear him tell it,” said Heaton, without stalling.

  “How much gold did he have in his saddlebags?” Shaw asked, gazing off in contemplation toward Agua Mala as he spoke.

  “I never got a real good look at it,” said Heaton. “But I’d guess him to have five, maybe six hundred dollars stashed there. I understand Cantro was passing out gold coins awfully freely to his better gunmen—keeping his fastest guns happy, so to speak.”

  “I understand,” Shaw said quietly. He gave a nod and said, “Get down off the horse.” To Jane he said, “If he makes a move you don’t like, shoot him.” A gust of cooling wind rushed through the abandoned yard, carrying a harsh blast of sand.

  “I hear you.” Jane gave the gunman a cold stare, tapping her fingers on the Colt stuck down in her waistband. Then she looked up at Shaw, seeing him pondering something to himself. “Do you care to cut me in on what you’re thinking?” she asked.

  “Maybe later,” he replied. He drew his rifle from the saddle boot and pitched it down to her.

  Jane caught the rifle, but looked at it almost in disbelief as Shaw turned his speckled barb away from the adobe. “Wait a damned minute, Lawrence!” she said. “You can’t go riding in there without your rifle. Even you ain’t that all-fired cocky.”

  Without reply, Shaw turned his barb and nudged it forward at a walk, the horse bowing its head against the stinging wind. Heaton, down from his saddle, stood beside his mount, the reins hanging from his hand. “What now?” he asked Jane.

  “What now?” she said, repeating him, giving him an angry glare. “What the hell do you think you’re doing, accompanying me to a town dance?”

  “I didn’t mean nothing,” Heaton said quickly, his hands going chest high in submission.

  “Go hitch the horses at the rail, Heathen,” Jane said angrily. She poked the rifle barrel toward an iron hitch rail. “Then get your sorry ass inside the house before this wind blows us both away.” She growled under her breath like a bitch cur as the nervous gunman hurried both of their horses to the hitch rail. “I hope you make a false move,” she said. “There’s nothing I’d like better than shooting you from a bull to a steer.”

  As Heaton walked ahead of her toward the open door of the empty adobe, she gave a quick, frightened look over her shoulder toward Shaw as he rode away into a swirl of sand. “Lordy, Lordy,” she whispered softly to herself. “What’ll I do if you don’t come back . . . ?”

  Chapter 4

  The gusts of wind had grown stronger, more violent, as Shaw stepped his speckled barb onto the swirling street. He guided the animal toward a low-standing cantina where a young woman stood smoking a black cigar, a ragged serape draped around her shoulders. Seeing Shaw arrive, the woman spoke quietly over her shoulder without taking her eyes off him.

  “Degas, the lawman is here,” she said into the sound of accordion music and men and women’s laughter.

  The music and laughter stopped. A burly man with a black leather patch over one eye eased up behind her and looked out over her shoulder. “Ah, you have done good, Tetas Dulces,” he whispered near her ear. His thick hand squeezed her buttocks for a moment. Then he loosened his grip and patted her firm hip. “You will share my bed with me this night, and I will feed you well.”

  “But what about mi Antonio?” she asked, still watching Shaw approach, his duster tails standing sideways on the rushing wind.

  “Forget about your Antonio. He is nothing but an alcahuete,” said the big Mexican, Degas Gutierrez. His hot breath caressed the side of her neck. “A woman like you does not need an alcahuete. You need a real man, a man like me who can take care of you.”

  “If Antonio heard you call him a pimp he would kill you, Degas,” the young woman whispered in reply, not sounding angry or offended by his words, only challenging him.

  “He would try,” said Degas, “but I would slap him like the woman that he is. Besides, where is this Antonio of yours? He rides away with the gringo, with Sergio and his idiot brother Ernesto and the others. They all want to hang from the gringo’s teats like suckling piglets. But I stay here, because I am the one capable of putting this gringo lawdog in the ground for good.”

  “You do not impress me with your big talk,” the woman said. “We will see what we will see.” She jutted her chin and added, “Mi Antonio rides to bring me back gold. What do you have for me?”

  “For what I do here, I too will have much gold for you when Sergio returns,” said Degas, “perhaps even more than your Antonio.” His hand came up around her from behind and cupped her firm breast. “Watch what I do to this one for us,” he said, gesturing a half nod toward Shaw, who had slowed the barb to a halt and sat calmly looking back and forth. “It is something your pimp Antonio would never be able to do. His cajones would be too small and delicate for such a task.”

  “Hello the cantina,” Shaw called out, sitting comfortably in his saddle, his poncho down, covering his big Colt. He realized that if Red Burke were still in town he would have already started shooting.

  “Hola, señor,” said Degas Gutierrez, taking a slow, casual step out of the cantina into the windy street. As he walked toward Shaw, three serious-looking gunmen, two Mexican and one Texan, stepped out and followed him. They stopped a few feet back and spread out as Degas drew closer. With no attempt at pretense, he looked up and said to Shaw, “You are a man who cares little for living, knowing that the hombre you are chasing has gold with which to buy himself many amigos here in Agua Mala, eh?”

  “Where is he?” Shaw asked flatly without bothering to answer him.

  “It does not matter where he is,” said Degas with a shrug. He pointed a finger up at Shaw as if taking aim with it. “It is where you are that should concern you greatly.”

  “Not if I’m a man who cares little for living,” Shaw replied. As he spoke he slowly lifted his leg over his saddle and slid down the barb’s side. He stood close to Degas, too close. But the big Mexican would not allow himself to back away for fear of losing face among his men. That was what Shaw had counted on.

  “You must be a foo—” Degas’ words stopped short.

  Too quickly for anyone to react, Shaw’s Colt had streaked out of its holster, cocked and leveled against the big man’s forehead. Degas knew he’d been had. He stood with his hands spread, helpless. Shaw reached out with his free hand and grabbed Degas by the front of his shirt, making sure the man could not get away. “As soon as I pull this trigger all of you go ahead and open fire on me,” Shaw called out, staring deep into Degas’ eyes. Then to Degas he said quietly, “Isn’t that what you’d like for them to do?”

  “Si—I mean wait! Everybody!” Degas called out in a rattled voice. “Let us all calm down and act like civilized men!”

  “If he kills you he is dead, Degas!” a young man called Perro Risueño called out.

  “Shut up, Perro! I know he will be dead, you idiot!” Degas shouted. “But so will I. He has a gun to my head, and he is loco out of his mind.”

  “Two questions, one chance to answer,” Shaw said, ignoring the other three men, pressing the tip of the gun barrel a little tighter against Degas’ sweaty forehead for affect. “Where’s he going and how many men are with him?”<
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  “They go that way!” said Degas, pointing toward a side trail leading out of Agua Mala. “There are five men riding with him. They go to find a wagonload of gold that is headed across the desert.” He paused, collected his courage and said, “Now you must turn me loose, and you must face me man-to-man, with no tricks.” His eyes took on a dark gleam. “For now I must kill you, Senor.”

  “One-on-one? No tricks?” Shaw asked, letting go of the wad of shirt in his hand. “You’re not going to have your pals all try to shoot me down?” As he spoke he lowered his Colt and eased down the hammer.

  Degas watched him almost in disbelief, seeing him lower the Colt back into its holster. A cocky half smile formed as he said, “They go their own way, Senor. I can promise you nothing.”

  “I understand,” said Shaw, watching Degas start to back away and prepare to draw. He sidestepped quickly and spun around, snatching Degas’ gun from its slim-jim holster just as the big Mexican made a grab for it. Degas’ hand slapped his empty holster. Shaw spun again just as the three men made a grab for their guns. This time, his arm around Degas’ neck, he turned him to face the gunmen, using him as a shield as he shot the first man down.

  “Don’t shoot!” Degas bellowed. But it didn’t help. Shaw put his second shot into the next gunman as two bullets slammed into Degas’ big broad chest. Feeling the impact of the shots, Shaw staggered back a step. Steadying himself, he shot the last man standing, turned Degas loose and let him fall. A terrified cur had sped from beneath a broken cooperage barrel and run away, leaving a long yelp resounding behind him.

  Degas looked up at Shaw with blood flowing from his lips. “Por favor . . . not with my own . . . gun,” he said in a halting voice.

  Shaw pitched the Mexican’s gun aside and re-drew his Colt. “I can stop it here,” he said, the Colt hanging loosely in his hand.

  Cutting a short glance toward the cantina, Degas shook his head and said to Shaw, “No . . . finish it. I deserve to die.”