Crossing Fire River

by Ralph Cotton

  Inside, Shaw stood with his Colt in hand. Gray smoke curled from the gun barrel and upward, as if caressing the back of his hand for a job well done. He stared in surprise as the third man flew back into the cantina, striped blanket and all, and landed flat on his back on the dirt floor.

  “Is it safe to come in there, Lawrence?” Jane asked, her voice distorted by the lump of candy in her jaw.

  Shaw stared at the third gunman lying knocked-out cold, his head half wrapped in the dusty blanket. “It’s safe, Jane.”

  Jane poked her head in first and looked back and forth, first at the two bodies lying dead in the dirt, then at the man she had nailed with the shotgun butt. “Lordy!” she said. “This one won’t be coming to before Christmas.” She noted a bloody bullet hole in the man’s right forearm and inquired of Shaw, “Are you feeling poorly today?”

  “I only meant to wound him,” Shaw said. “I’d like to know how far word has spread about that gold coming across the desert.” As he spoke he lowered his voice and looked all around the empty cantina, making certain no one had overheard him.