by Ralph Cotton
Before the dying Mexican’s words left his lips, Shaw’s Colt bucked at his side. As Degas fell limp in the dirt, Shaw looked up and saw the woman walking toward him from the blanketed doorway of the cantina. “Do not shoot, Senor!” she called out to him, seeing him turn toward her, the smoking Colt in his hand. “I only come to see what you have done, and to make you welcome in Agua Mala.” She skidded to a halt a few feet away, one shoulder of her blouse lying seductively low on her shoulder.
“Do not trust that one, Senor,” said a gravelly voice from the corner of a low plank porch out front of a crumbling adobe. “She is a slippery little puta who will cut your throat in your sleep.”
Shaw’s eyes snapped toward a bent old man standing beneath a wide battered sombrero. He stood barefoot, wearing a loose black suit and leaning on a long walking stick.
“Pay the old fool no mind,” said the young woman with a smile. “You can call me Tetas Dulces, like everyone else does. I will be yours while you are here with us.”
Sweet Teats . . . Shaw translated the woman’s name in his mind. As he removed the empty brass shell from his Colt and replaced it with a new one from his belt, he ignored the woman and asked the old man, “How long have men like these held their boot on the neck of Agua Mala?”
“For much too long, my quick-triggered friend,” the old man said. He stepped down and shuffled forward. “Some ride away earlier with the americano . . . then you kill the rest of them.” He spit down on Degas’ bloody body, then looked back up at Shaw and gave a tired grin. “I think this is all of them.”
“Obliged for the information,” said Shaw, taking a searching glance along the alleyways and side paths leading off the dirt street. The wind from the coming storm grew more intense. The old man swayed sideways and caught himself on his walking stick.
“It is a good day for us,” he said. “By the saints, please tell us that you are not like them. There are still some of us who want to live in Agua Mala and turn it back into the peaceful place it once was.” He shook the walking stick toward the young woman. “Now that they are gone, the putas who follow them will leave as well.”
“How dare you call me whore, old man!” the woman shouted, taking a step toward the Mexican. Shaw caught her by her forearm and stopped her. Still she leaned and continued to the old man, “When Antonio and the others get back I will have them slit your throat and bleed you like pig!”
“Antonio is not coming back,” the old man said with confidence. “You and your puta friends must leave here if you value your lives.”
“What do you mean he is not coming back?” the young woman asked, still enraged, seeing a few more weathered old faces begin to appear like ghosts along the dusty street.
“None of them will be back,” said the old man, his voice stronger, “because this one wants them dead, and I believe when this one wants a man dead, so it will be.”
“You can go to hell, old man!” she shouted, pulling free of Shaw’s grip and taking a step backward toward the cantina. “You can all go to hell! That is what I have to say to you!”
From out of nowhere a rock sailed in and struck her on the leg. She looked stunned.
“I think it’s time for you to go, Tetas Dulces,” Shaw said. “These folks seem a little edgy right now.”
“And take the rest of the thieving putas with you!” a voice shouted from along the dirt street.
Looking out across the sandy, rolling land between Agua Mala and the line of low hills where he’d left Jane to watch over Heaton, Shaw saw the black storm cloud hovering lower and closer. “I need some food and supplies,” he said to the old man. “Can I get it here?”
“For you, anything you need, nuestro amigo,” the old man said with a sweep of his hand toward the long dirt street running through Agua Mala. “This humble town is at your service.”
A full hour after Shaw had ridden off into a swirling netherworld of dust and whipping wind, Roy Heaton stood staring out the window in deep thought. Beyond the adobe, the wind whistled and roared. Jane had stood leaning back against a wall, facing him from across the littered room. Once satisfied that the gunman wasn’t going to make a move against her, she stood away from the wall and dusted the seat of her trousers. “The wind’s turning cold . . . ,” she commented to herself.
Shaw’s rifle cradled to her breast, she kept an eye on Heaton as she gathered twigs, dry brush and scraps of wood into a pile beneath the half-missing ceiling and built a small fire.
“I still want to know what right he thinks he’s got holding me prisoner like this,” Heaton said over his shoulder.
“Well, let me see . . . ,” Jane said. “Maybe the same right all you sonsabitches think you have, killing and robbing, then running across the border, figuring nobody can do anything about it. Now you’re whining because somebody finally comes along and puts a stop to it?”
“Two wrongs don’t make a right,” Heaton said in response. “Just because men like me break the laws, it doesn’t mean it’s all right for him to. He’s a lawman, damn it.”
“ ‘Two wrongs don’t make a right . . . ,’ ” Jane quoted in a mocking tone. “Heathen, that’s some powerful philosophizing.” Then she searched all around on her fringed buckskin clothes and added in a mocking tone of voice, “Damn it, I never have a pencil and paper handy when I need one.”
Heaton turned from the window facing her and said bluntly, “What’s he got on you, anyway?”
“He’s got nothing on me,” Jane replied. “I’m only doing the same as I’d do for any man I’m riding with.”
Reading something in her tone of voice, Heaton cocked his head curiously. “Are you telling me the two of you are man and woman . . . ?” He let his words trail. He took a short step forward.
“That’s none of your damned business, now, is it?” Jane said, her face reddening. She stood up beside the small flickering fire, rifle in both hands, her face carrying a silent warning for him to keep his distance.
He stopped in his tracks and lifted his hands chest high. “No offense, but I always heard you had no interest in men.”
“That’s a hell of a thing for you to say to me,” Jane spat back, his words having an effect on her. “What do you know about me anyway?”
“Hell,” said Heaton, “I’ve heard all the stories about Jane Crowly. You once posed as a man to work as a teamster.” He gave a thin, knowing grin. “You got drunk and got caught naked, taking a bath with the rest of the bunch.” He eyed her up and down with a distasteful look. “I also heard the story about you and a dance hall girl in Abilene—”
“You listen to too many stories, Heathen,” Jane said, cutting him off. “I once worked as a dance hall gal to feed my little brothers and sisters after my folks died. But I worked lots of jobs to feed them little ones, and I’d do it again if I had to. Now keep your mouth shut before I feed you a lead dinner.”
“I’m just repeating what I heard,” said Heaton.
Jane held the rifle pointed at him with both hands. He saw her knuckles whiten on the gun stock. “If I’m what you’re saying I am, I wouldn’t be living as man and woman with Lawrence Shaw . . . the man I just so happen to love,” she added, lying before she could stop herself. “Now, would I?”
A stunned look came upon Heaton’s face. He seemed to forget anything they had been talking about and asked in a wary, lowered voice, “Lawrence Shaw? The Lawrence Shaw . . . Fast Larry? The Fastest Gun Alive?”
“All of that, and then some, smart-ass,” Jane said with her chin jutted. “Don’t you feel stupid just now figuring it out? Haven’t you heard me calling him Lawrence all this time?”
“Yeah, but . . .” Heaton fell silent for a moment, then said, “Damn, no wonder he shot the hell out of everybody!” He looked away as if trying to get a grip on things. Then he asked, “So, you and him . . . ?” He slid a finger back and forth between two fingers of his other hand.
“That’s right, genius,” said Jane. “See how smart you are when you reall
y work at it?” She took a deep breath and extended her lie. “Now, would he and I be lovers if I was what you and some other pecker-heads think I am?”
Heaton didn’t reply right away. He stood in stunned silence for a moment. Finally he said, as if something else had just dawned on him, “Fast Larry Shaw is going to kill me dead, ain’t he?” A panicky look overtook his hardened beard-stubbled face. He took another step forward.
“No,” said Jane. “Because I’m going to kill you myself if you don’t settle down and keep your mouth shut.”
Heaton stood staring at her for a moment as if resolving a question in his mind. Finally he did settle down a little and said, “You won’t shoot me, Jane Crowly. I’ve figured you out. You’re all spit and bluster. You won’t kill a man.” He advanced a step, then another.
“You’re making a bad mistake, Heathen!” she warned, taking a step backward, but cocking the rifle hammer as she did so. “I’ve already killed once. The second time won’t bother me none.” She recalled shooting the Widow Edelman down in her own front yard when the woman was about to shoot Shaw from behind. All over that damned gold . . . , she recalled instantly, not liking the feeling that came over her as she’d watched Lori Edelman fall dead in the dirt.
“I’m leaving. Give me that rifle,” Heaton demanded boldly, seeing something in her eyes that made him think he could get away with it. His advance on her quickened. She saw him making a move for the rifle,
“No, stop, please! Damn it all to hell,” said Jane, holding the rifle tight, cocked, aimed and ready, but not certain she could use it even though her finger lay tense on the trigger.
Her words showed her weakness. “Please?” Heaton said with a dark chuckle as he reached out and grabbed the rifle barrel in order to wrench it from her. “I said give me that rifle, you stinking she-man!” he growled.
“Get back, I’m warning you,” Jane said, her tough voice turning to a terrified sob.
“Warn me!” Heaton grasped the barrel with his good hand. With his other hand he backhanded her across her face and jerked the rifle at the same time.
Jane fell backward; her finger pulled the trigger before she landed on the littered dirt floor. She heard the blast and felt the rifle buck in her hands as she held tight to it. She saw Heaton turn the barrel loose. He jerked backward a step as the bullet went through him, then jackknifed as a red spray rose and trailed behind him to where the bullet struck the earthen adobe wall.
“You shot me!” he gasped in a strained, stunned voice. In disbelief he clasped both hands to the bullet hole in his belly, then raised one hand and stared at his own blood.
Jane shook like a person with an affliction. “Damn it, Heathen! Why’d you do that?” She managed to lever a fresh round into the rifle chamber and struggle up onto her knees.
Heaton backed away toward the door in a crouch, realizing she’d had no intention of pulling the trigger. “You . . . crazy bitch,” he said.
“Don’t try it, Heathen! I’ll shoot you again! I swear I will!”
But Heaton didn’t believe her. He turned and ran out through the rear door, still bowed at the waist. Jane fired the rifle wildly and saw the bullet strike high above the doorway. “Damn it!” she cursed. “What’s wrong with you, Janie?”
She shakily levered another round into the rifle chamber. But instead of going to the rear door for another shot at the wounded, fleeing gunman, she backed away to the open front window. Hugging the rifle against her like a child’s comforter, she peeped out and watched him grapple with his horse until he finally crawled up into the saddle.
Tears streamed down her face as she hugged back against the wall and heard him ride away. “What the living hell is wrong with you?” she said again, bellowing long and painfully against the hard roaring wind. Then she sank to the dirt floor, sobbing, clutching the rifle to her bosom, repeating the same question over and over under her breath.
Chapter 5
When Shaw returned, the black storm cloud lay low and growling overhead. Rain and hail began to beat down mercilessly as he stepped down from his saddle, noting that Heaton’s horse was missing from out front of the adobe. “Easy, boy,” he said soothingly to Jane’s horse, unwrapping its reins while the animal ducked its head and stomped a hoof against the stinging hail.
He led both horses to a partly collapsed lean-to alongside the adobe and left them beneath the shelter of a sagging roof. With a cloth sack full of trail supplies slung over his shoulder, he checked his Colt beneath his poncho and walked to the front door, listening intently.
Inside the adobe he found Jane lying in a ball on the floor, his rifle clutched to her chest. She appeared to be neither asleep nor awake, her red-rimmed, half-open eyes staring lost and aimlessly across the dirt floor. Shaw swung the cloth sack of supplies onto a battered table. “Janie, are you all right . . . ?” he asked barely above a whisper, not wanting to startle her. But in spite of his effort Jane let out a shriek and jerked the rifle around toward the sound of his voice.
“Whoa,” said Shaw, catching the rifle barrel with his hand. He held it down and pointed it away from him as a shot exploded from the barrel. “You best give me that,” he said, yanking the rifle quickly from her hands. “What’s gone on here?”
“Oh Lordy, Lordy, Lawrence,” said Jane, “thank God it’s you!” She scooted up onto her knees and rubbed her face with both hands. Shaw saw the whelp left across her cheek where Heaton had backhanded her.
“Where’s Heaton?” Shaw asked, checking the rifle as he spoke. He glanced all around as if expecting to see Heaton waiting to surprise him.
“He’s—he’s gone, Lawrence,” Jane said with a worried look. “I failed you. I let that heathen bastard get away.”
Shaw noted the large spots of blood leading to the rear door. “But you’re not wounded, are you?”
“No, that’s not my blood; it’s his,” said Jane. She settled down and took on a bolder attitude. “He bolted on me. I managed to put a bullet in the sonsabitch before he got away,” she said, her voice sounding stronger as she talked about it. “I would’ve shot him again, but he’d busted me a good one in the jaw and I felt myself slipping fast. By the time I got aimed and ready, he was in the saddle and gone into the dust.” She spit with disgust. “The low poltroon bucket of scum.”
Shaw helped her to her feet and seated her on a rickety wooden stool. “You shot him, then he hit you?” he asked, not getting a clear picture of what had happened. He examined her bruised cheek and the dried blood on her lower lip.
She pulled her face away from his gloved hand. “Don’t fret over me none. I’m okay,” she said, avoiding the question. “How’d things go for you in Bad Water?”
“Not too bad,” said Shaw. “Red Burke was already gone. He’s got some local cutthroats riding with him. He left a few behind, but now they’re gone too.”
“Meaning you shot them,” Jane said flatly.
“Yep,” Shaw said.
She shook her head in awe. “You never cease to amaze me, Lawrence.”
Shaw freed his bandanna from around his neck. He touched the edge of it to his mouth, wet it, and dabbed at the dried blood on her chin and cheek. “The town is most grateful to be shed of them.” He gestured toward the sack of supplies. “I’ve brought back some food—some peppers and beans, and coffee. We’re welcome in Agua Mala as soon as this storm blows over.”
“Are we going there?” she asked, “now that Heathen has got away?”
“No,” said Shaw. “We’re not going there. We’re going to stick here for a while and let everything and everybody settled down some.”
“It’s my piss-poor luck that brought this on,” Jane said, as if offering an apology. “The weather never carries on like this except when I’m here.”
“If you’re not here, how do you know?” Shaw offered in her defense.
“Anyway . . . ,” she said, having no comeback. “I expect I should have warned you about riding with me.”
Shaw i
gnored her words and looked down at the waning fire she’d built earlier. “I’ll stoke the fire up and boil us some coffee if you’re all right now,” he said.
“Ah, hell, Lawrence, I told you I’m all right,” Jane said, sounding a bit put out by him attending too closely to her. “I’ll rustle up some wood for the fire.” She stopped as if his words had just registered to her, and said, “What do you mean ‘let everybody settle down some?’ ” She gave him a questioning look.
“It came to me riding back here,” said Shaw. “This storm is going to wash out the tracks of Red Burke and his bandit pals. Everybody gets a fresh start. I’m betting Red Burke is not hurrying back to Garris Cantro and the Border Dogs.”
“You figure with his new bandito amigos he’ll go searching after the gold himself?” Jane asked.
“For all we know that’s what him, Sid Nutt and Heaton were all up to in the first place—going after the gold for themselves,” said Shaw.
“Well, if they were, you shot that idea plumb to hell for them,” Jane said.
“I busted them up and slowed them down. I didn’t stop them,” said Shaw.
“I don’t know.” Jane shook her head dubiously. “Going after all that gold without Cantro and the Border Dogs is mighty ambitious of them.”
“Gold makes men ambitious,” said Shaw. “Dawson, Caldwell and John Lupo will be waiting out this storm too. When it’s over they’ll also get a new start. They know we’re ahead of them, keeping watch on the trail. We’ll give Red Burke time to stick his head up. Then we’ll chop it off. Same goes for Roy Heaton if he makes it to Garris Cantro and tells him what’s going on.” He paused in reflection, then added, “That is, if Cantro doesn’t already know.”
“Lordy,” said Jane. “It sounds like you’re itching for a fight with somebody, and you don’t much care who.”
“I agreed to work the law with Marshal Dawson and Deputy Caldwell,” Shaw replied. “We’re here to clean up along the border. I don’t care how it gets done.”
