Shadow River

by Ralph Cotton

  When the deep rumble jarred to a halt, he settled the horses and rubbed the barb’s muzzle as if saying good-bye to a friend. Then, rifle in hand, he took the dun’s reins and led the horse up onto a path across a narrow stone shelf and let the deep crevices and steep-cut walls of Rocky Mesa swallow them up.

  • • •

  Agua Fría, Mexican badland hills

  The Banco Nacional de Méjico, a sprawling whitewashed adobe, stone and timber building, stood at the end of Agua Fría’s main tiled street. At that point, the street divided into two lesser-width streets and went around the powerful bank. On a six-foot-high stone terrace out in front of the bank, two large field cannons sat staring out at the town as if in warning. A long stone ramp ran twenty feet wide from street level up the terrace, to the bank’s elaborately colored tile porch. Along the front of the wide porch stood thirty feet of iron hitch rail.

  “She is a fat pretty thing,” Montana said to Dan Crelo and Clyde Burke, standing beside Crelo outside a large open-front cantina two blocks from the bank. Burke leaned deep against a streetlamp pole, quiet and sullen, his thumbs hooked behind his gun belt.

  “Yeah,” said Dan Crelo. “She’s fat and pretty. . . .” He checked his watch quickly, snapped it shut and stuck it down into his vest pocket. “If fat and pretty is most generally your style, that is. But it ain’t mine.” He made sure the gold watch fob hung just right below his vest pocket.

  The Montana Kid looked at him curiously.

  “I’m just saying,” Crelo said. He looked back and forth uneasily beneath the brim of a straw skimmer hat. “I myself prefer a slim neat little place with piles of cash—no cannons staring up my backside on my way out of town. But that’s just me.”

  Burke mumbled something dark and inaudible under his breath, and looked back down the street at the bank. He and Montana wore the same dusty trail clothes they’d been wearing since leaving Sam at Fuego Pequeño.

  Dan Crelo wore a clean white linen suit and a black ribbon-style bow tie beneath a soiled white canvas riding duster. He wore black tooled Mexican riding boots that stood up to his knees, his trouser legs tucked inside the wells. He carried a folded Mexican newspaper up under his arm, for show, being barely able to read English, let alone Spanish.

  “Maybe I need to skin away from the two of yas, get on down the square,” he said to Burke and Montana. He clutched a lapel of his suit coat behind his duster. “It don’t make a lot of sense—an important-looking rooster like me, consorting with . . . Well, can I say men like yourselves?” He smiled. A gold-capped tooth glinted in the morning sunlight.

  “Go bite a dog turd, Crelo,” said Burke without looking around at the well-dressed gunman. “Last man I saw dressed like you tried to stick a hand in my blanket.”

  Crelo stiffened and bristled.

  “Why, you—!” he snarled, his teeth clenched, his hand instinctively jerking back the left side on his duster.

  “Whoa! Easy, now!” said Montana. He half stepped in between the two, Crelo ready to draw a big nickel-plated Smith & Wesson from a cross-draw holster. “Jesus, Dan,” he said to Crelo. “We’re all set to—” He cut himself short and looked all around the busy street. His voice dropped quiet. “You know, take care of some business here?”

  “Yeah, I know that,” said Crelo, cooling quickly. “But I don’t tolerate blackguarding from no son of a bitch.” He paused, then said to Burke, “Hear me, Clyde? Hear what I called you?”

  Without turning to face him, Burke continued to lean and watch the street as he waved Crelo away with a hand.

  “You still here?” he said gruffly to Crelo over his shoulder.

  Crelo flared again, tried to take a step forward; Montana stopped him with a stiff hand on his chest.

  “Come on, Dan! Let it go,” he said. “You know something, you’re right. You shouldn’t be standing here talking to the likes of us. You should be moving around some. Where’s your saddlebags anyway?”

  Crelo took a breath and settled again. He started to turn away, but first he directed a warning to Burke.

  “When this is over, Clyde, you and me are going to—”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know,” Burke said, cutting him off, still leaning, still not looking around at him, “you’re one malos hombre. We see that. Now, cut on out of here. You’re standing where I’m fixing to spit.”

  “Holy Joseph!” the Montana Kid said to Burke as Dan Crelo turned in a black huff and stomped off along the tiled sidewalk. “Are you crazy, talking to Dan Crelo like that, at a time like this?”

  “You asking my opinion? No, I’m not crazy,” Burke said, still leaning, not looking at Montana. “You heard the poltroon—cutting us down, talking ill of how we’re dressed—”

  “Damn it, Clyde,” said Montana. “He’s got the jitters, like he gets every time before robbing something.” He paused, then said, “Wait a minute. Are you still drunk from last night?”

  Burke stared straight ahead at the horseback, donkey-cart, wagon and buggy traffic on the street.

  “I’ve been drunk near forty of my forty-eight years, so drunk’s no mark against me,” he said. He shook his head slowly and let out a breath, still not facing Montana. “I’ve got lots on my mind, Kid,” he said with remorse. “I mean, lots on my mind. . . .”

  Montana looked all around. He sniffed the air toward Burke and almost reeled.

  “Yep, you’re drunk,” he said with certainty. Then he said quietly to Burke, “I don’t know what’s on your mind, Clyde, but I do know that talking about your troubles never helped nobody, especially when you’re getting ready to—” He looked all around again.

  “I know that,” Burke said. He straightened up from the pole and hiked his gun belt and turned to Montana. “Anyway, I just stood there and made up my mind.” He took a deep breath and let it out slow and gave a weak grin. “There’re some things you’ve got to draw up your belly and do. This is a hard life we’re in. If I can’t stand toe-to-toe with it, I best get out.”

  “That’s the spirit . . . and just in time,” said Montana. He gestured a nod toward the far side of the street where Bell Madson, Jon Ho and Madson’s top four gunmen led their horses out of an alley and split up onto either side of the street, the four of them drifting along toward the Banco Nacional.

  “Damn, how many men are we cutting up this gold with?” Burke asked quietly. “There’re six right there, counting Madson and Jon Ho.”

  “Yeah . . . ,” said Montana, contemplating the matter. “There’s Crelo and another one already inside, and there’s us two. That makes ten.” The two looked up the street toward the bank at two more of Madson’s gunmen standing along the stone sidewalk. “Jenkins and Adams, that’s a dozen,” he summed up. “Jones only brought seven relay horses.”

  “I’ve seen Madson do this before,” Burke said. “He’s going to split off with Jon Ho and four men and take a different direction. He’s got more relay horses waiting somewhere.”

  “Damn it,” said Montana. “I don’t like all these changes and surprises at the last minute. He acts like he doesn’t even trust his own men.”

  “So? Would you?” Burke said.

  Montana considered it.

  “Naw, I reckon not,” he said. “Bell Madson has never seen the inside of a jail. He must be doing right.”

  Burke’s mood darkened again, as he thought about what Madson was requiring of him.

  “He’s an evil, rotten, low-dog son of a bitch,” he snarled under his breath, his hand on his gun butt as he stared across the street at Madson and the gunmen. “I could cut his throat and bleed him upside down like a hog,” he added.

  Montana looked at him and gave a dark chuckle.

  “There’s nothing like keeping a good attitude toward the boss,” he said.

  Burke continued to stare off at Bell Madson, Jon Ho and the other gunmen.

  “
I’m dead serious, Montana,” he said. “I could shoot him so full of holes he couldn’t cast a shadow—take what’s left and hand-feed it to stray dogs.”

  Montana chuffed and shook his head. He hiked up his gun belt and felt the broad bandana around his neck, making sure it was in place for him to jerk it up over his face when the time came.

  “All right,” he said. “Keeping all that in mind, what say we get on out there and help him rob this bank?”

  “Yeah, let’s go,” said Burke, keeping his eyes riveted tight on Madson’s back.

  Chapter 20

  Inside the Banco Nacional, armed federale soldiers stood on either side of the wide-open doorway, their rifles rigidly at port arms. Across the tiled floor an ornate wooden counter ran the width of the building. Atop the counter a row of ornate iron bars of a Spanish design caged the young men busily at work behind the counter. Against the wall behind the counter stood a large German-made safe with its thick door ajar. Another armed soldier stood beside the safe door as if at attention.

  Three of Madson’s gunmen who’d been posted along the street had already entered the bank as Madson, Jon Ho and the other four gunmen approached the front door. One of the first three stood only a few feet from one of the door guards. He held what appeared to be a small bag of coins as he checked a list of figures in his hand. A thick hickory walking cane lay hooked over his forearm.

  At a short floor counter near the other guard, Dan Crelo stood with a pair of new and stylish saddlebags draped over his shoulder. He’d taken the saddlebags from his horse after stomping away from Burke and the Montana Kid. He wrote on a piece of paper with a pen he kept dipping in an inkwell. In each saddlebag compartment, he carried a two-pound adobe brick.

  Out front, Clyde Burke and the Montana Kid had taken position among the robbers’ horses lined along the iron hitch rail. The two drew their Winchesters from their saddle boots.

  As Bell Madson brought his five accomplices through the bank’s open front doors, he stopped and looked around. Jon Ho walked on past him and the others to the long barred counter. Madson’s top gunmen, Atzen Allison, Jaxton Brooks, Manning Wilbert and Clarence Rhodes, spread out casually but remained abreast of their leader.

  With a slight nod Madson set the robbery in motion.

  At Madson’s signal, Dan Crelo hefted the brick-loaded saddlebags from his shoulder. Drawing the bags back, he took three fast sidelong steps toward the unsuspecting soldier nearest him. With merciless force, Crelo swung the saddlebags in a long circle and flattened the hapless soldier to the floor. The other door guard saw the soldier hit the floor and instinctively tried to run to him. But before he could take a step, the gunman, Joe Sheff, standing near him, moved in quick and jammed the tip of a hickory cane into his stomach.

  When the soldier jackknifed at the waist with a grunt, Joe Sheff swung a long-barreled Colt from behind his suit coat and brought it down hard on the back of the soldier’s head. The young soldier crumpled, his rifle clacking loudly as it hit the tile floor. Sheff looked around and jerked a bandana up over the bridge of his nose. He saw other gunmen doing the same.

  Just as the two door guards hit the floor, Jon Ho hurried forward and pulled up his bandana. He raised a Colt from under his duster and leveled it through the ornate iron bars lining the counter. The soldier beside the safe had seen the commotion with the door guards. He tried to raise his rifle and run forward to the barred counter. But one shot from Jon Ho’s Colt nailed him in his forehead. The bullet hurled him backward and sent him sliding down the wall, leaving a long smear of blood behind him.

  Hearing the shot from out front, Burke uncradled his rifle from his arm and swung it up and stepped sidelong in between the horses at the hitch rail.

  “Here we go, Kid,” he said to Montana. The two hurriedly jerked dusty bandanas over their noses.

  The Montana Kid moved right along with him. The two quickly gathered the reins to all the horses. To save time, Burke held all the horses, ready to accommodate the gunmen when they ran out of the bank. As townsfolk turned and gazed, and began venturing toward the sound of the gunshot, the other two gunmen on the street, Dale Jenkins and Porter Adams, took position at the far end of the hitch rail and gave them a look.

  “Ready them up, boys,” Burke called out to them. He gestured down the street toward two soldiers trotting in the direction of the bank, their pistols out of the flapped black military holsters. One of them had run out of a brothel where he’d spent the night, his shirttails billowed loosely around him. The one in front of him held his officer’s cap on as he ran.

  “I can take the first one from here,” Montana said, leveling his rifle at the soldiers. Farther back along the street more men in uniforms began appearing from doorways and on balconies, all of them staring toward the bank.

  “Take him, then, Kid,” Burke said, all business now, his drunkenness suddenly gone. “I’ve got the one behind him. It’ll slow the rest of them down some.” He gathered the horses’ reins in his left hand, supporting his rifle barrel atop the wad of leather.

  Montana steadied his leveled Winchester. He took close aim on the running soldier, drew a normal breath, held it and squeezed the trigger. The rifle bucked against his shoulder. Silver-gray smoke rose around the tip of the barrel following the loud blue-orange explosion. The running soldier turned limp and awkward and melted down onto the street.

  Burke’s rifle resounded as the next running soldier veered over to see about his fallen comrade. The rifle bullet sliced through his chest from the side. The soldier buckled down and clutched at his ribs like a man stricken by an angry hornet. He twisted and swayed painfully in place before collapsing over onto his back, his arms outstretched. The horses, spooked by the rifle shot, tugged at their reins in Burke’s hand.

  “Got him,” Burke said, relevering a round into his rifle chamber and settling the nervous horses.

  Yet even as the two soldiers lay dead or dying, other soldiers were gathering up, running along the street toward them, rifles and pistols in hand. One officer carried a long saber raised high over his head.

  “We ought to both shoot him,” Montana said, already taking aim on the shouting running man.

  But Burke looked over at Jenkins and Adams, who stood watching the soldiers advance, running along the street. They had not yet covered their faces.

  “Hey!” Burke called out. “Feel like shooting somebody today?” he asked in a bemused tone.

  “Go to hell, Clyde,” Jenkins shouted in reply, the two giving him a hard look. They turned quickly and began firing at the oncoming soldiers.

  Burke jerked his head around toward the bank doors at the sound of two more pistol shots. A woman screamed; a man shouted loudly. Then a third gunshot resounded. Burke saw gray gun smoke begin to waft out through the open door.

  “Come on, Madson, damn it to hell,” he said under his breath. “Get the gold and let’s cut! These cayuses are ready to leave without us.”

  Return fire began slicing through the air from the soldiers, some of them still running, some close enough to drop down on one knee and fight back.

  “Whoooieee! We’ve got us a whing-dinger going now!” Montana shouted, firing four rapid shots in a row.

  As bullets tore past the horses, Burke pulled the scared animals around the edge of the hitch rail.

  “Fall back, take cover with us, Kid,” he shouted at Montana. He pulled the bunched horses up the stone steps onto the big porch and ducked behind a large stone column. Bullets pounded against the wide columns and whistled past on either side. Burke gave a dark laugh, seeing Montana duck for cover behind the next column fifteen feet away. “What did you say to make them so damn mad, Kid?” he called out.

  Montana began unsnapping bullets from a bandolier across his chest and reloading his Winchester.

  “Looks like Jones might have got the best job here, setting up relay horses,” he sho
uted above advancing gunfire. Two columns away, Dale Jenkins had dragged Porter Adams out of the gunfire. He stooped beside him and examined a blood-gushing hole in the wounded gunman’s chest. Burke looked over and saw Jenkins look up from Adams and shake his head.

  “Damn it, Madson, come on,” Burke said beneath the heavy gunfire.

  As if in answer to him, Burke and Montana heard Bell Madson’s voice from the open doors.

  “Get the horses inside here. We’ll cover you,” Madson shouted through his bandana mask.

  “I don’t mind if we do,” Burke said aloud to himself.

  “I’ll come over there, Clyde, and take half the horses,” Montana called out.

  “Huh-uh,” said Burke. He saw Montana getting ready to bolt over and join him. But he stopped him with a raised hand. “Stay over there! Fall in behind me, keep these horses covered!” he shouted over the gunfire and the sound of bullets breaking chunks of stone off the columns and kicking up sprays of adobe dirt from the front of the building.

  “Get ready!” Madson shouted from inside the bank. He turned toward Jenkins. “Drag Adams in here. We need both your guns!”

  “You heard him, Porter,” Jenkins said to Adams. “Are you able to run if I get you on your feet?” He stuffed a wadded-up bandana onto the bleeding wound and pressed Adams’ hand on it.

  “Get me up . . . I’ll go,” Adams managed to say in a wheezing wet voice.

  “That’s what I thought,” said Jenkins, lifting the wounded man to his feet and leaning him back against the column, awaiting Madson’s signal.

  • • •

  Burke stood holding the horses, hugged against the column, looking over at Montana, who stood watching the front door, waiting to hear from Madson. The federale gunfire seemed invincible. Yet in a split second the battle turned. A heavy barrage of rifle and pistol fire erupted from the windows, upper-level balcony and roofline of the bank. The only opening that had no fire flashing from inside it was the wide-open front doors. Suddenly Madson appeared there and waved them in before disappearing from sight.