Shadow River

by Ralph Cotton

  “As far as no-good sons a’ bitches go, you couldn’t find one better than Stanley,” he said. “If he said he sided with you, he meant it.”

  “I know,” Sam said. “I saw that in him.” He stepped away and sat on a rock for a moment, letting Burke clear his mind over Black.

  Deep in the hillside another tremor passed underfoot.

  Chapter 15

  A half hour had passed when Sam and Burke rode down along the trail toward the lower slope beneath the rocky hillside. Two of the sacks of gold lay across the dun’s rump, tied down to Sam’s saddlebags.

  The other sack lay atop Burke’s saddlebags, flattened as much as possible and tied down in the same manner. Burke led Black’s dark-legged chestnut bay beside him on a short lead rope.

  “Two men and four horses carrying three sacks of gold Mexican monedas—el oro acuña,” he added, appearing amazed at their good fortune. “Jesus, Jones . . .” He gave a short laugh. “Who the hell would have ever thought it?” He half turned in his saddle and slapped a hand on the lumpy sack of coins.

  Sam only nodded, riding on.

  “I’m going to buy me a first-class whorehouse saloon and close it to the general public,” Burke said. “I’m getting a bird from one of them islands and teaching it to cuss like a damn fool—teach it to drive nails with its pecker.” He cackled like a madman. “They do that, you know?”

  “You mean its beak,” Sam corrected him.

  “Maybe, I don’t know.” Burke shrugged. “The point is, I’ve got plans, big plans.”

  Sam nodded again, searching along the edges of cliffs and gullies.

  They rode in silence for a ways, the land beneath them having remained settled for a while.

  “Had it been anybody but Stanley, I might have buried him,” he said out of the blue.

  “Oh?” Sam said, watching the rail ahead of them closely.

  “Yeah, digging a grave, saying words over it, all that,” he said. “It would have embarrassed the Stanley Black I knew.”

  “I understand,” Sam said. “We wrapped him up good, covered him with rocks. That’s better than Bolado got.”

  “Yeah, the son of a bitch,” Burke growled under his breath. They rode on until Burke said, “I wasn’t going to cut out No Talk’s tongue either,” he said. “Just so you know.”

  “I hear you,” Sam said. “I’m glad you didn’t, even though he wound up dead all the same.”

  “Yeah, even though . . . ,” Burke said, pondering the matter. “Not that I’m squeamish about that sort of thing.”

  Sam had given everything some thought ever since the incident with No Talk and Marcos.

  “You’ve got some serious money there, Clyde,” he said. “Ever think of getting out of this business altogether?”

  “Fact is, I have thought of it,” Burke said. “Stanley and me even talked about buying us a plug spread somewhere and hanging up our guns. We were going to see if you were interested too—”

  “Hold it,” Sam said suddenly, stopping his dun and the white barb midtrail.

  On either side of the trail, one of Bolado’s soldiers stood up with a rifle pointed down at them from a distance of thirty yards. The other two soldiers who had fled from the gun battle appeared out of nowhere and stood on the trail in front of them. They also held rifles aimed and pointed at Burke and Sam.

  “You know why we are here, gringos,” said a tall, serious-looking man with a wide black mustache. “Throw down the gold. It is over for you.”

  “Oh,” said Burke. “So you went off and got your nerve up, and decided, who needs the sergeant? You can take this gold—”

  “Shut up,” the Mexican shouted. He was nervous, ready to fire, Sam could tell.

  “Take it easy,” Sam said. “Facil, eh?” He held his hands chest high. His rifle lay snapped to the saddle ring. His big Colt could handle these two, but the two higher up in the rocks were a different story. “Look,” he said, half turning slowly in his saddle. “You can have it.”

  “Like hell they can,” said Burke. “Let them go find their own gold somewhere.”

  “Let them take it, Clyde,” Sam whispered sidelong. “We’ll get it back.”

  But Burke would have none of it.

  “No, no, no,” he said, staring coldly at the two Mexicans in the middle of the trail. “Either pull them triggers or stick your rifles right up—”

  A rifle shot exploded somewhere far up the rocky hillside. Sam, Burke and the two Mexicans in the trail turned their heads quickly in the direction of the shot. As the shot echoed off along the hills, they saw the soldier on their right pitch forward limply, half of his head flying away in a spray of blood, brains and bone matter.

  “Holy Missouri!” Burke shouted, he and Sam turning at the same time, back to the two soldiers in front of them. As they turned, another rifle shot exploded high up. The soldier on the other side of the trail fell dead before he realized he’d better take cover.

  Sam and Burke fired; both soldiers fell dead in the trail, but not before one got off a wild shot that whizzed past Burke’s head and caused him to stare wide-eyed and fire again.

  Sam looked at him as the two leaped from their saddles and jerked the horses over to the cover of rock beside the trail.

  “Are you all right?” Sam asked.

  “Yeah, I’m all right,” said Burke. “But what if that had hit me?” He looked at the gold sacks. “I’m going to be more careful—”

  “Don’t shoot, down there,” a voice up high in the rocks said, cutting him off. “It’s me, Jarvis Finland—the Montana Kid.”

  “Jesus, the Montana Kid?” Burke said. He turned and called out up the hillside, “Show yourself, then, before we cut you to chunks up there.”

  “Ha, from there?” said the voice. “If you could do that, I wouldn’t have had to shoot these two for you.”

  “We were fixing to deal them dirt,” Burke said defensively. “Did you hear me say show yourself?”

  Montana stepped into sight high up in the rocks and spread his hands.

  “See? It’s me, sure enough,” he said. He started stepping down among the rocks. “You are the hardest bastards I ever seen to catch up with. I’ve been on you since the ruins. All I find is what you’ve left lying for the birds, much of it unfit to handle.”

  “You know us, Montana,” Burke called out. “We don’t stick long once the party’s over.” He turned to Sam as Montana worked his way down the hillside. “Watch him show up acting like he’s got a claim on this gold.”

  Sam gave him a curious look.

  “He was in for a part of it, Clyde,” he said. “He just kept two riflemen from getting down our shirts.”

  “So you’re saying cut him back in?” Burke said as if in disbelief.

  “That’s what I’m saying,” Sam replied.

  Burke sucked his teeth and shook his head.

  “I don’t get it,” he said. “But I guess I’ll go along, good-natured soul that I am. . . .”

  Sam raised a finger for the sake of seriousness.

  “Listen to me,” he said in a grave tone. “Don’t say it, then shoot him unexpected.”

  “Ah, hell, I won’t,” said Burke, brushing the matter away with a toss of his hand. “I said I’d go along with it . . . so I will. I just don’t understand what makes you think this way.”

  • • •

  At the bottom of the trail that led down onto the desert floor, Sam, Clyde Burke and Jarvis Finland sat in the shade of a boulder sipping water from their canteens. Overhead the afternoon sun bore down on the scorched desert hill country like an enemy of old with scores to settle. On a stovepipe cactus a buzzard sat in the heat watching the three, appearing hopeful that one or more of these earth-grounded bipeds might pitch forward dead on the spot.

  “I’ll tell you, had there been a way to stay
and fight, I’d’ve stayed and kept fighting,” said Montana. “I took a bullet graze”—he raised his hat, stuck a finger through a bullet hole in the crown and wiggled it—“got knocked senseless, rolled backward off a rock and landed at my horse’s hooves. I took landing there as a sign to get, so I got.”

  As Montana placed his hat back down on his head, Burke reached over and raised it again. He looked at the recent bullet scar along Montana’s scalp. Seeming satisfied, he nodded to himself and lowered the hat back into place.

  Montana stopped talking and stared at him. Sam watched and listened.

  “Where I come from, what you just did comes awful close to calling a man a liar,” said Montana.

  “I know how to call a man a liar,” Burke said. “If I thought you was lying, I wouldn’t have checked your head.”

  “Then why did you?” Montana said flatly.

  Burke gave a stiff but cordial enough grin.

  “Just call it my Missourian nature,” he said. “You needed to stop and take a breath anyway.”

  A silent pause set in while Montana examined the implication of Burke’s words.

  “Anyhow . . . ,” he said finally. “I got on your trail as soon as I could. Thought it would be hard trailing you at first, but then I started following gunfire and buzzards.” He gestured toward a buzzard perched on the cactus. “I picked this one up at the federale campsite. Gives me the willies, but he’s struck right with me.” He shook his head.

  Burke listened with a sullen begrudging expression.

  “I thought sure the soldiers would hang you,” said Montana. “But the rebels showed up and there you went. Couple of times I thought about firing a few shots in the air, see what I drew in. I even wondered how I could get close without you shooting me.”

  “You found us the best way,” Sam said, nodding up the trail where the four soldiers lay dead. “And we are obliged. Right, Clyde?” he added, reminding Burke that Montana was still in on the gold.

  “Yeah, obliged,” Burke said halfheartedly.

  “Think nothing of it,” said Montana. “That’s what pards do for each other.” He gave a thin smile and looked back and forth between the two of them. “So . . . how much do you figure we’re splitting up there?” He gestured toward the sacks of gold tied down atop Sam’s and Burke’s horses.

  Sam gave Burke a warning look. He turned to answer Montana, but Burke cut in.

  “A bunch,” Burke said begrudgingly. He sat staring at Montana, a smoldering look in his eyes.

  Montana gazed admiringly at the sacks of gold.

  “It sure looks like a bunch,” he said. “How much do you figure? Enough to buy myself a—”

  “All right, that’s enough! Damn it to hell!” Burke shouted, springing to his feet. Montana shot up too. Burke clenched his fist around the butt of his Colt standing holstered on his hip. The Montana Kid followed suit.

  Sam rose to his feet slowly, his hand close to the butt of his bone-handled Colt, not on it.

  “Easy, now, both of you,” he said coolly. “We’ve all three come through a lot to get here. Now that we’ve got what we came for, let’s not go splattering each other all over the place.”

  “Damn it, Jones!” Burke said. “It ain’t right, him getting a share. He never got captured, bound up like a hog for slaughter!”

  “He did the same as any man would do, Clyde,” said Sam. “Except for being captured, he’s taken every step we’ve taken. He shot two Mexican soldiers that had the drop on both of us.”

  “Damn right, I did,” Montana threw in. Both gunmen were ready to draw and fire. “Had I known getting a bullet graze threw me out of the game, I would have turned back that night—”

  Burke cut him off.

  “How do we know the federales grazed your head? For all we know you might’ve—”

  “Stop, Clyde,” Sam demanded. He backed away a step and laid his hand on his gun butt. “If I hadn’t taken us to the gold, we wouldn’t be arguing over it right now.”

  The two turned their eyes to Sam, seeing him entering their dangerous standoff.

  “Wait a minute, Jones,” said Burke, his voice already losing some of its heat and venom. “Nobody’s arguing that you’ve got the bigger stake in this. Right, Montana?”

  “Yeah, right,” Montana agreed. He watched warily as Sam spread his feet a little. “All I did was ask how much we’ve got here. I didn’t call down all this thunder.”

  Sam didn’t appear to hear them. As they stared at him, he slowly raised his Colt from its holster, lowered it down his side and cocked it.

  “One man takes all,” he said. “Ready when you are.” He looked back and forth between the two, his eyes cold, his Colt poised and ready in his hand.

  “Whoa,” said Burke. “You’re already drawn and cocked. You took the drop on us.”

  “It seemed like a smart thing to do,” Sam said flatly. “Want me to count to three?”

  “Hell, this is crazy. I want no part of it,” Montana said. He dropped his hand slowly from his gun butt. “You two settle it.” He backed away a step. “I’m out.”

  Sam turned his cold gaze back to Burke.

  “One,” he said flatly.

  “Don’t start counting until you holster that shooting iron, Jones,” he said. “It ain’t fair! And I don’t want to kill you anyway.”

  “Two,” said Sam, the same cold, resolved look on his face.

  “Damn it! Stop counting, I’m not going to do this,” Burke said. “I don’t want to fight you, Jones.” His hands came up chest high. He backed away beside Montana. “As much as we’ve been through, we ought to be sided with one another, not against.”

  That had been his point a moment earlier, Sam reminded himself, but it had taken all this to go full circle and come back to it. He relaxed a little, keeping the Colt in his hand. Burke and Montana watched closely for his next move.

  “Here’s how it’s going to be,” Sam said coolly. “The three of us are taking an even share of gold, no ifs or buts about it. For safety’s sake, we’re sticking together until we reach Madson and his men. After that, everybody’s free to go their own way.” He looked back and forth. “Everybody got that?”

  The two nodded. Their hands were away from their guns now. Their thumbs hung hooked over their gun belts.

  Sam lowered his Colt back into his holster and nodded toward the horses.

  “Let’s ride,” he said. “The sooner we reach Bell Madson, the better. I don’t need to tell you that he’d better never learn about this gold coming from Segert’s gun deal, or your next gunfight will be with him.”

  Burke and Montana both eased down, seeing Sam’s Colt standing uncocked back in the holster.

  “What good’s having gold that you can’t show around a little?” Burke said.

  “You can show it around,” Sam said. “Just don’t tell him where it come from.”

  Burke grinned.

  “Tell him we robbed a Mexican bank south of Durango.” He added proudly, “It was the first Mexican bank I ever robbed—Germans ran it at the time. It’s still there, though—gets robbed so often I’m surprised they lock their doors.”

  “That’s our story, then,” Sam said.

  The three dusted their trouser seats, picked up their canteens, capped them and walked to their horses. Atop the cactus, the big buzzard rose with a powerful batting of wings, swooped up and circled wide overhead. When they’d swung up onto their saddles, Montana gazed up at the soaring scavenger.

  “He sticks much longer, I suppose I ought to name him,” he said.

  Burke chuffed.

  “Don’t name him after me,” he said, the three of them backing their horses, turning them down toward the desert floor.

  PART 3

  Chapter 16

  Shadow River Valley, Mexican badlands

  Three
weeks had passed when Clyde Burke, Jarvis Finland—the Montana Kid—and the Ranger, impersonating a gunman simply known as Jones, sat their horses abreast on a trail atop a wide limestone ridge cliff. They looked down on a small Mexican town where only moments earlier three gunshots had split the midmorning quietness. A man sat bleeding in the middle of the street below, his hand limp on the ground beside him, yet still holding a gun. Guitar and accordion music spilled from the open doors of a cantina.

  “It’s a mite early for killing or celebrating either one, wouldn’t you say?” the Montana Kid commented.

  “Depends on who you’re killing and why you’re celebrating,” Burke replied matter-of-factly. “If I was down there, I’d likely be celebrating something myself. Music cordial-izes me something fierce when I’m drunk.” He jiggled a bottle of tequila he held resting atop his saddle horn. He’d opened the bottle at the crack of dawn. He and Montana had been nipping steadily at the fiery liquid since then.

  Sam looked at the two of them.

  “You mean it affable-izes you,” Montana said.

  “Either one,” said Burke. “Maybe both.” He paused, then said, “I know what we can celebrate. We can drink to us hiding our cuts of the gold without being seen—or without any of us killing each other.” He grinned and held the bottle of tequila over to Montana, who took it and threw back a swallow. The Kid held the bottle toward Sam, but Sam turned it down.

  Burke shook his head as Montana passed the half-full bottle back to him.

  “It worries me how little you drink, Jones,” he said. “I fear it’s a sign of oncoming ill health.”

  Sam didn’t reply. He looked down where, along the edge of the street below, four gunmen stood watching as if to see how long the man would sit bleeding in the dirt before he fell over dead. He looked up from the town below and at a wooden sign standing beside them on the edge of the trail. The sign read in English WELCOME TO LITTLE HELL. In the dirt a faded discarded sign—this one splintered and bullet-riddled—read BIENVENIDO AL ENSOMBREZA EL RÍO.

  Welcome to Shadow River, Sam interpreted to himself.