by Ralph Cotton
Chapter 12
At dark, after a meal prepared by Juanita in the stone and clay chimenea in the side yard, Shaw stood with a cup of coffee hooked onto his finger. He watched Raul lead his saddled desert barb toward him. Raul, seeing what he took to be a look of concern in Shaw’s eyes, said, “Do not worry about me, my friend. I always travel at night . . . and I know how to stay away from all the main trails in this border country.”
Shaw only nodded.
“Besides”—Raul swung up into his saddle and adjusted his ragged striped poncho around him—“it would be easier to catch a fox than it would be to catch me.”
“All the same, be careful,” Shaw told him.
“All the same, I will,” Raul said, a smile on his face in the light of a three-quarter moon. He touched his fingertips to his bare forehead and said, “Adios, mi amigo. It has been interesting meeting you. I will have much to tell my wife about this trip.” Then he turned his desert barb and heeled it toward the valley floor, a bag of food hanging from his saddle horn, his sombrero off and drooping on his shoulder from the end of a rawhide tie.
“Adios,” Shaw replied, returning Raul’s gesture with his right hand. He watched the Mexican’s desert barb move away at a walk.
Shaw kept a broad watch on the dark valley floor long after Raul had been swallowed up into the purple night. He did not look around when he heard the front open and close from across the yard. Nor did he turn when he heard Lori’s light footsteps move across the yard toward him. Instead he called out quietly, “Over here.”
“Oh, there you are,” she said after a moment, seeing Shaw standing beside the tall saguaro cactus like some lone stoic sentinel given care of the night. “Did you see Raul off?”
“Yep.” Shaw still didn’t turn as he heard her walk up beside him. He felt her slip her arm into his. He finished the last sip of coffee.
“Lawrence, is everything all right?” She had noted his quietness throughout dinner.
“Yes, I’m good,” he said, opening conversation. “What about you?”
“I’m good,” she said, sounding happier and more relaxed than he’d heard her sound since he’d arrived. “I don’t know about you, but I think everything went very well.”
Shaw knew she was pleased with the way both of them had handled themselves. Without facing her, he gave a thin half smile. “Yeah, everything went all right.” Then he asked quietly, “Did you get the sort of response you were hoping for from Bowden Hewes?”
“I—I don’t know what you mean,” she said with a puzzled tone. “I wanted him to see that I am not alone out here. I wanted him to understand that he has no hold on me. Did I do something wrong?”
Shaw only shook his head slowly. “No, you didn’t do anything wrong. But don’t get too excited. We haven’t seen the last of that man. He thinks he has a rightful claim on you. I believe he intends to have you one way or the other.”
“I know,” she said, “but having you here buys me some time. It gives me room to think while I figure out how to best handle the situation.”
“If that’s all you need, I’m happy it worked out for you,” he said.
“What about you, though?” she said, snuggling against his shoulder. “Weren’t you simply magnificent out there, the way you refused to take any bullying off on Ned Gunnison!”
“I am not a man easily buffaloed, Lori,” Shaw said, recalling the many times in his life he’d watched a gunman fall in the dirt street before him. It was nothing for him to get excited about. He hadn’t surprised himself.
“Well, I’m excited enough for both of us,” she said, her head on his shoulder. Then she turned her face nearer to his ear and in a lowered voice said, “Do you know what all of this excitement makes me want to do?”
Shaw gave a suggestive smile. “I hope it’s something involving us both.”
“Play your cards right and I’m sure it does,” she whispered playfully. She ended her words against his lips. They kissed long and deep. When it ended, she reached down, took him by his hand and led him toward the house with a sense of urgency. On the way they walked past her husband’s fresh grave. As if it’s not there, Shaw told himself.
At the first sound of hoof striking stone on the narrow trail coming toward them, the three riders stopped and froze in place, listening intently. Within a moment they began hearing the rise and fall of shoed hooves moving along at a walk. Ned Gunnison lowered the bottle from his lips and whispered sidelong to Pole and Mackey, “Easy boys. I ain’t never been this lucky in my life.”
The three nudged their horses silently off the narrow back trail and stepped down from their saddles.
“This way, Ned,” Carl Pole whispered, gesturing toward a thin game path leading up into the rocky hillside above the trail.
They led their horses quietly to a flat spot on the hillside. Sliding their rifles from their saddle boots, they left their mounts standing and continued upward on foot. They looked down and saw the single rider in the purple moonlight. “What was it you said about lucky?” Mackey whispered to Gunnison with a whiskey-lit grin.
“Damn, it’s the drifter sure enough,” said Pole almost in disbelief, making out the silhouette of the poncho on the bare-headed rider below them.
Gunnison had put the bottle away, but now he jerked it out of his shirt, yanked the cork and took a long swig. Letting out a whiskey hiss, he handed the bottle to Pole and said, “Boys, the first shot’s mine. Then you can both make buzzard bait out of what’s left.” He raised the rifle butt to his shoulder and took careful aim, almost straight down on the top of the rider’s head.
“He ain’t going to know what hit him,” Mackey whispered, the whiskey bottle in hand.
Pole and Mackey both watched and waited. After a moment, they looked at each other. “What are you waiting for?” Pole asked Gunnison. “Shoot this sucker. Let’s get on home.”
“Damn it, I can’t,” said Gunnison, letting the rifle slump.
“What the—?” Mackey stared at Gunnison as if he’d lost his mind.
“By God, I can,” Pole said, cutting Mackey off. Without wasting another second, he jerked his rifle up to his shoulder and cocked it. “I ain’t squeamish.”
“Damn it, no!” Gunnison whispered harshly. He knocked Pole’s rifle barrel down. “Didn’t you hear Bo say to mess him up real good?”
“I damn near forgot,” said Mackey.
“So did I,” said Gunnison, “but I caught myself.” He glared at Pole. “Squeamish . . . ?”
Pole looked frightened. “I wasn’t thinking real clear,” he said.
“You ever call me squeamish again, you’ll be in hell before you get it said.”
Mackey said, “Bo also wanted us to leave him lying dead in the dirt, in the Edelman yard.” He looked back and forth between them. “What are we supposed to do, kill him and drag him all the way back there?”
“That’s damn well what we’re supposed to do,” said Gunnison, already rising into a crouch and heading for the horses. “Come on, let’s go do what we said we would.”
On the trail, Raul rode along quietly. Moments earlier he had heard a muffled sound high up in the rocks above him; yet after listening closely and hearing nothing more, he soon dismissed the matter. It was only when he’d reached a point where the trail made a blind turn that he realized he’d made a mistake.
“Well, well, drifter,” said Gunnison, him and Pole sitting atop their horses in the center of the narrow trail, their rifle butts propped on their thighs. “Looks like you picked yourself a bad night for sightseeing.”
Raul stopped his horse quickly and half turned it, ready to give it his boot heels and bolt away. But he saw the third dark figure behind him, on foot, standing center trail. “You ain’t going nowhere,” said Devlin Mackey, his rifle at port arms. He’d waited silently in the rocks along the side of the trail until the lone rider had passed.
“For a man who wasn’t in a hurry to leave today, you sure seem ready to cut on out of
here right now,” said Gunnison. He raised his rifle and took aim.
“Wait, Ned! Por favor!” Raul shouted loudly, seeing the mistake the three were about to make. “It is I, Raul Hernandez!”
“Jesus! Hold your fire, Ned,” said Mackey, recognizing Raul’s voice and seeing the Mexican more clearly from his angle. “This ain’t the drifter. This is that Mex, the one Bo hires on to break horses for him!”
“Raul?” said Gunnison. He lowered his rifle an inch.
Raul said hurriedly, “You can damn well believe it is me! What are you doing out here? You almost shot me!”
“Aw, hell, we didn’t even come close,” Gunnison chuckled. “Ain’t you ever heard, ‘A miss is as good as a mile’?”
“Si, I have heard it,” said Raul, realizing what they were up to out here in the dark, but not letting on. “Only I don’t think you would have missed me, not from this close.”
“No harm done, anyway,” said Gunnison. “I say we forget this ever happened.” He’d laid his rifle across his lap. “We’re out here hunting a skunk for Bo Hewes, if you must know,” he said, finally answering Raul’s earlier question. “What are you doing out here?”
Raul answered honestly. “I brought my wife’s mother to the Edelmans’ hacienda. She was visiting with my family while my wife had a child.”
“Another little beaner, eh?” said Pole. “How many does that make, forty or fifty?” He laughed.
“Don’t pay this fool any mind, Raul,” said Gunnison. “I congratulate you.”
Raul overlooked Pole’s remarks. “Gracious,” he said to Gunnison.
Mackey stepped over to where he’d left his horse standing out of sight. He led the horse back and said to Raul, “If you brought your mother-in-law to the Edelmans’, you must’ve been there when we near had a run-in at Doc’s funeral service.”
“Si, I was there,” said Raul, knowing it was not a good idea to lie. He wasn’t going to mention that he’d been inside the house holding a shotgun, prepared to let go a blast of buckshot if it had become necessary. “I saw everyone out in the yard.”
“Why wasn’t you out there?” asked Pole.
“My mother-in-law felt ill. I had to take her inside.” He paused, then added, “To tell you the truth, I thought there was going to be trouble.” He gave a sheepish grin. “I do not go around sticking my nose where it does not belong.”
“In other words, you was scared,” Pole said bluntly with a nasty grin.
Raul gave a slight shrug. “If you want to know, si, a little scared. I have worked for Bowden Hewes. I know how he can get. I thought there was going to be some shooting.”
“There was going to be,” said Mackey, “if Bo hadn’t stopped us.”
“There still is going to be,” said Pole. “We’re on our way back right now. We’re going to shoot some holes in the drifter’s belly, maybe tie some barbwire around him, drag him around in the dirt . . . see how tough he is then.”
“You talk too damned much, Pole,” Gunnison said.
“So what? Raul here ain’t going to repeat nothing, are you, Raul?” Pole said. “Who’s going to listen to a Mexican?”
Raul just stared at him. After a moment he said calmly, “I’ve got to go.”
“Hold up, Raul,” said Gunnison, feeling the whiskey cloud his thinking a little. He let his rifle barrel lower until it pointed toward the Mexican. “I think you best stick with us awhile.”
“I must get home,” Raul said. “I have much to do there.” He started to turn his horse away. But Mackey grabbed the bridle and stopped the animal.
“The only thing you must do is what we damned well tell you to do,” Mackey said.
Raul looked from Mackey to Gunnison and Pole, who sat staring, both of their rifles pointed at him. “We like you, Raul,” Gunnison said in a warning tone. “Don’t make us get stout on you.” He stepped his horse forward. “I want you in on this. Call it my way of keeping you quiet about us killing this bummer.”
Raul had already made up his mind. Once away from these three, he would circle around and ride a fast pace back to the Edelmans’. Raul a gave tug on his reins, hoping to get Mackey’s hand off the horse’s bridle. “I told you I have many things to do.”
Pole gigged his horse forward, beside Gunnison. “You can’t do none of it if you’re dead, can you?”
Raul fell silent, seeing he was in a bad spot. He could smell the whiskey on them from ten feet away. “I want no part of this. The man has done nothing to me.”
“Maybe he hasn’t, Ra-ul, but we will,” said Pole with a mocking grin. “Now lift that poncho; let’s make sure you’re not packing iron.”
Raul raised his poncho slowly, the handle of the flintlock pistol showing above his waistband. He gave a short, guarded gaze in the direction of the Edelman house, as if judging the distance.
“Whoa now, look here,” Pole said to the other two. “It’s a good thing we checked. What if Raul here decided to ambush us all three on our way—”
He stopped talking as Raul jerked the big clumsy gun up and cocked it toward his face. “All of you back away!” Raul demanded. As he spoke he felt Mackey turn loose of his horse’s bridle and take a cautious step sideways.
“Take it easy, Raul,” Gunnison warned. “Don’t do something you’re going be sorry for.”
“I am riding away from here. Do not try to stop me if you value your lives,” Raul said.
“Hey, you’ve only got one shot,” said Pole, his rifle still aimed loosely at Raul from ten feet away.
“And by the saints, I will put it in your head,” Raul said, “if you try to stop me.”
“Give him room, boys,” said Pole, seeing the Mexican meant it.
“All right, Raul, you win,” Gunnison said, backing his horse but keeping his rifle cocked and his thumb over the hammer. “Ride away. Let’s act like none of this never happened.”
Raul backed his horse, the flintlock still out at arm’s length and cocked. But as he started to turn his horse, Gunnison shouted, “Drop him,” and all three rifles exploded in rapid succession.
Two shots lifted Raul and flung him from his saddle; the flintlock pistol flew from his hand. “I got him!” Pole said proudly. “So did you, Ned!” He stepped forward where Raul lay writhing in the dirt. “You missed him, Mackey, sure as hell.”
“I didn’t miss him,” Mackey said, “you did.”
Gunnison and Pole slipped down from their saddles and led their horses toward the downed Mexican as they levered fresh rounds into their rifle chambers. Raul managed to pull up onto his side and tried to drag himself farther away, blood running from two holes in his chest. His paint horse had spooked and raced away along the dark trail.
“Like hell I missed,” said Pole.
Gunnison stooped and picked up the flintlock and turned it in his hand. “Damn, this gun wouldn’t have fired if he’d wanted it to.” He stood over Raul and put a boot down on his back to make him stop crawling. “What the hell was you thinking, pulling a fool stunt like this?” he asked. “We wasn’t going to do anything to you, just make sure you kept quiet.”
“I . . . warned . . . him,” Raul gasped, blood running freely from his lips. “Now . . . he knows . . . you are . . . coming. . . .”
“What did he say?” Mackey asked, still stinging from missing his shot.
“Said he warned him—talking about the drifter, I guess,” Gunnison said with a shrug.
“Oh yeah?” Mackey said down to Raul. “Take this, then.” He fired a round into Raul’s head from only inches away. The Mexican’s blood sprayed upward on all three of the riflemen. Mackey levered a fresh round into his rifle chamber and turned to Pole with a fierce stare. “There, did I miss that time?”
Pole gave a dark chuckle, wiping a drop of Raul’s blood from the back of his hand. “Naw, but look how much closer you were.”
“Mindless sonsabitches . . . ,” Gunnison growled at them under his breath. He gazed off in the direction of the Edelman house, kn
owing that anyone listening was bound to have heard the shots. “The Mex screwed any chance of surprising that drifter into the ground, boys.”
Stepping over beside Gunnison and gazing out alongside him, Pole asked, “So, what are we going to do now?”
“We told Bo we’d kill this fellow for him,” said Gunnison. “Do you want to ride in and tell him we failed him?”
“No thanks,” Pole said without hesitation.
“Then I expect we best go on with the plan,” said Gunnison. He turned to his horse and swung up into his saddle. “You two throw Raul over his horse. We’ll take him back to the Edelmans’.”
“How are we going to explain him being dead?” Mackey asked.
“We found him dead out here.” Gunnison gave a wry grin. “We can always say some Apache killed him.”
Chapter 13
Shaw awoke with a start and swung up onto the side of the bed. Instinctively he’d grabbed the big Colt standing in its holster at the corner of the headboard. Beside him, Lori Edelman stirred and turned, looking up at him from her pillow. “What is it, Lawrence?” she asked, though she too had heard the distant sound of gunshots.
“Rifle fire,” said Shaw. Naked, he stood up and walked to the open window, peering out across the purple-shadowed hills. “Didn’t you hear it?” He scanned back and forth in the distance as if he might somehow see beyond the dark shadowed hill lines.
“I thought I did. But I wasn’t sure if I heard it or if I was only dreaming,” the widow said, rising naked and throwing a sheet around herself. She hastily lit the oil lamp on the nightstand. Then she walked over and stood beside him.
Gazing out in the direction the shots had come from, Shaw considered Raul and said with resolve, “I’m riding out there.”
“Why?” Lori said. “We don’t know if those shots had anything to do with Raul. For all we know, it might simply have been some drunken cowhands blowing off steam on their way back from Banton.” She stared out with him. The purple night lay still and endless beneath a canopy of stars and a half-moon that appeared to rest on its side.
