Lawman from Nogales (9781101544747)

by Cotton, Ralph W.

  Sam allowed himself to relax, pushing up his sombrero and staring at the starry sky. The trails were treacherous enough. He wasn’t about to get too close behind her and cause her to hurt herself. Besides, he would have no trouble following her. With his boot knife, he’d scored a deep X on the tip of the horse’s front right shoe while she’d heated the jerked elk and hardtack.

  It had been nice having her with him, he had to admit, even though he had questioned her intentions from the very start. The gunshot signals had confirmed for him what he’d suspected all along. She was as much a part of the Gun Killers as her brother, Bram, had been. True, she had saved his life. But for good reason, he told himself—to protect herself from Matten Page, the gunman he’d killed in Wild Roses.

  The man he’d killed for her, as it turned out.

  He sat up on his blanket with a sigh and gazed out across the darkened land below. Now to give her a good start and follow her to the Gun Killers, he thought, with more than just a little regret.

  Chapter 12

  In the night, in a small plank and adobe hovel on the lower edge of a jagged hill line, a Gun Killer named Arthur “Big Chili” Hedden had stood up from his cot at the distinct sound of the big Starr revolver. He’d walked to the front doorway of the run-down shack and pulled aside a long, dirty canvas.

  “There it is,” he murmured to himself, gazing off into the darkness beneath the purple starry sky.

  He walked to the other cot in the small room and kicked its frame soundly. “Wake up, Horn,” he said.

  A stream of interrupted snoring arose above a smothering odor of dirty feet. Hedden turned his head, repulsed, the odor worsening as the snoring gunman struggled to maintain his sleeping state.

  “Good God, Horn,” Hedden rasped, kicking the cot frame again. “Wake up, you lousy, stinking son of a bitch.”

  Robert Horn sat up with a start and grabbed for the big Remington lying in the holster on a short stool beside his cot. His hand felt all around the top of an empty holster.

  “Here’s your gun, fool,” said Hedden, wagging the Remington toward the waking man.

  “What’s going on?” Horn mumbled, sounding like he had a mouthful of rocks.

  “I heard a Starr pistol out there in the hills,” said Hedden, gesturing in the direction of the black distant hill line.

  “I gotta shave,” mumbled the half-asleep gunman, rubbing his bristled jaw.

  “Damn it, wake up!” Hedden shouted, kicking the cot even harder. “We’ve got work to do.”

  Horn snapped awake and sat on the side of the cot in his underwear and sock feet.

  “The Starr . . . ?” he managed to ask, sounding more awake.

  “Yes, it was,” said Hedden. “There’s no mistaking the sound of that Starr.”

  “The right signal?” Horn asked in a sleepy voice.

  “Yep. I heard one shot, then two, then three in a row,” Hedden said. “Just like the Torres brothers said.”

  “You figure Page killed that Ranger for us?” he asked.

  “That’s what I’m hoping,” said Hedden. “If not, we’ll do it ourselves after we meet up with Page and the Donovans.”

  “I’m not counting on meeting Bram Donovan back there,” said Horn. “Did you see his foot before we left?” He stood up scratching and reached for his trousers lying on the stool beneath his holster.

  “I saw it,” said Hedden. “I figure Bram Donovan is feeding worms or buzzards by now. It’s the woman and Page signaling us.”

  “We’ll go see,” said Horn. He fumbled with his trousers and his holster belt, and nearly fell in his attempt to dress himself. “Damn mescal,” he growled. He kicked an empty straw-wrapped bottle across the dirt floor.

  Hedden shook his head and turned away.

  “I’ll go get our horses,” he said over his shoulder.

  When he returned from a plank lean-to behind the shack, he led both his dark bay and Horn’s dingy gray horse to the front doorway.

  Horn stepped out of the shack, his empty holster belt slung over his shoulder.

  “I wish we had some hot grub before heading out,” he said. “Some coffee anyway.”

  Hedden pitched his Remington to him. Horn caught the heavy gun as it thumped into his chest.

  “Shoot yourself something along the way,” Hedden said, turning and stepping up into his saddle. “With any luck, we can catch up to Page and Donovan before noon.”

  Horn cursed under his breath and shoved the Remington into the holster hanging from his shoulder.

  “I don’t remember how long it’s been since I had a good full night’s sleep,” Horn lamented, stepping up into his saddle.

  “Must have been the day you last washed your socks,” Hedden said.

  “The hell does that mean?” said Horn, adjusting his hat atop his head.

  “Nothing,” Hedden said. The two turned their horses and rode off along the dark rocky trail.

  Erin had ridden hard the first two miles as she fled the camp. Yet, after stopping a couple of times, listening closely, and hearing no sound of the Ranger on the trail behind her, she had slowed the horse to a less dangerous pace.

  She had to admit she felt bad running out on the Ranger in the middle of the night. He had been nothing but kind to her in every regard. But he was a lawman, she reminded herself. Their worlds were too far apart. Both her father and her brother, Bram, had taught her everything she would ever need to know about lawmen.

  Lawmen might start out pretending to be your friend . . . , she could hear them both lecturing as one inside her head. Sooner or later he would’ve turned on her, she thought, completing the lesson for herself. She had learned early on to trust no one, and the practice had served her well.

  Near the bottom of the hill line, she stopped, raised the reloaded Starr and fired it: one shot . . . then two . . . then three. As her ears rang, she reloaded the smoking gun, knowing it had been heard, resounding through the night in every direction.

  She rode onto a trail weaving through a wall of boulders that had rumbled down the hillsides centuries past and spilled outward onto the flatter plane.

  Halfway through the deep maze of rock, she felt the horse stall and tense up beneath her. She had to strong-hand the reins in order to keep the animal under control. She heard the slightest brush of paw and nail across the tops of boulders lining the narrow trail, and caught glimpses of black, ominous figures streaking from rock to rock above her.

  My God! Wolves! she realized, a cold chill striking her and racing up her spine.

  The large pack of night hunters had picked out the horse’s scent on a wisp of air and followed it across the hillsides and saddlebacks until they found themselves loping along above it.

  Erin didn’t have to nail her heels to the horse’s sides—it was all she could to hold on as panic overtook the terrified animal and sent it racing forward in a frenzied run for its life. Seeing the horse bolt away, the wolves streaked down from atop the rocks like black lightning, snarling, snapping at both horse and rider.

  Erin felt a paw rip at her thigh as one of the ferocious hunters fell away to the ground. Even in her struggle to stay atop the horse, Erin grasped at the big Starr revolver at her waist. Yet, as soon as she felt the gun firmly in her hand, the earth seemed to collapse under her.

  Whinnying loudly, bucking as it ran, trying to shed Erin’s weight from its back, the horse stumbled on the hard rocky trail. Its forelegs folded back brokenly beneath it, the fleeing animal crashed to the ground, sliding and rolling in a spray of rock and dust as the predators launched themselves like spears from every direction.

  Erin flew forward over the horse’s neck. She hit the ground at a sliding angle and came to a tumbling halt at a pile of boulders heaped beneath the sloping hillside.

  A young wolf growled and snapped at her heel as she crawled wildly away into the rocks, gun in hand. But the animal didn’t pursue her. Instead, it turned and raced away, joining the fray of snarling wolves that had descende
d onto the downed and dying horse.

  Erin heard the pitiful whinnying of the animal in the swirl of dust behind her, but she didn’t stop—couldn’t stop. She crawled and clawed her way deeper into the spilled boulders, the big Starr gripped tightly.

  Her free hand frantically grappled the land-stuck boulders until she found a slim opening beneath two of them—just in time.

  Oh my God!

  She managed to wiggle her way down between the two boulders and pull her feet in behind herself. She heard a wolf growl; she felt its fangs tug powerfully at her shoe heel, but then release her and turned growling toward three more wolves that had bunched up around it.

  Above the terrible feast going on in the swirl of dust, and above the horse’s dying screams, Erin heard the wolf at her heels growling and scratching at the dirt, seeking entrance to what questionable refuge she’d found for herself.

  “Damn you to bloody hell!” she raged, wiggling around until she could point the Starr down her thigh and cock it toward the snarling predator at her heels. “Get away! Eat the horse!”

  She pulled the trigger, heard the explosion and felt the burn of powder down the side of her calf. At her heels, the wolf let out a loud yelp as the bullet scraped the ground past it and showered its flews with a blast of fiery powder and sharp particles of rock and dirt.

  No sooner had she heard the sound of paws running away from behind her than she heard insistent whining and scratching in front of her, just above her face. She felt loose dirt fall down on her from between the boulders. She saw a probing paw break through the dirt and dig feverishly toward her face. She pulled back as far as she could from it without backing out and exposing her heels to the many fangs waiting behind her.

  My God! Was she to be eaten alive, dragged from this lair like some varmint and torn innards from skin all over the bloody ground? She muttered a silent and mindless prayer.

  She wiggled the Starr around from her side until she could point it up at the probing paw only inches from her face. She cocked the gun just as the wolf pulled its paw away. She waited until the paw was replaced by a sniffing nose. Hot saliva swung down into her face. When she pulled the trigger she closed her eyes to keep from blinding herself—the gun being so close to her face.

  A back-spray of warm blood and meat tissue splattered into her face, back onto her shoulders as the shot exploded blue-orange into the wolf’s drooling mouth.

  Now what?

  She dropped her face to the dirt and listened to the sound of feasting wolves on the trail behind her. The horse had fallen silent. Now the only sounds were that of ripping, slashing, chewing. An occasional threat resounded from one animal to another as they ravaged and fed.

  Moments later, as the sounds of feeding waned, she heard more and more padded paws moving restlessly back and forth on the ground behind her. Above her blood-smeared face, she heard paws digging relentlessly only inches away. She even heard the whine of younger wolves, those only reaching hunting age. She was their meal for the night, she thought.

  With a tight breath, she opened the revolver in front of her face and looked at the four remaining bullets in a sliver of moonlight.

  All right, four shots left . . .

  She cleared her head and tried to think rationally. She removed one of the four bullets and held it in her hand, lest she use it on one of the animals instead of herself when the time came to do so. She clasped her fist tight around the single bullet, closed the Starr and held it poised.

  Outside, both in front and behind her, she heard the pawing, the digging, the whining grow more intense.

  After a moment, she sighed and murmured to herself. “No, you may not. . . .”

  She opened the Starr again, placed the bullet back inside and shut it with finality. She thought about the tiny helpless baby growing in her belly as she laid her face back down into the dirt. What manner of God brings life to something only to have it eaten from its mother’s womb?

  She lay silent and still, as if awaiting her turn—hers and her child’s—to sate the hungry wolves.

  Chapter 13

  The Ranger had given Erin almost an hour’s head start before he’d saddled the dun, ridden out onto the dark trail and started following her. Even in places where moonlight spilled onto the trail, it was still too dark to follow the X on her horse’s hooves, unless he wanted to stop, step down and examine the dirt every few minutes.

  No need, he’d told himself. There was no other way for her to go but down this trail until she reached the flatlands in the wide basin below.

  He’d followed at a steady but checked pace, not wanting to get close enough for her to hear him behind her. Come daylight, he would find the marked horse’s shoe helpful. Tonight, he told himself, he would lag back, take his time—

  He stopped short, hearing the big Starr’s distant twanging sound rise from the base of the hillsides. Listening closely, he made out the faintest sound of a woman’s scream.

  How far down? Three miles, five . . . ?

  Faintly, he identified the baying and barking of wolves. Without hesitation, he booted the dun and put it forward back onto the trail. He rode on, listening as best he could above the clack of iron shoe on the hard rocky ground.

  He’d gone over a mile when he reached a place in the trail that rounded to his right and gave an open view of the flatlands below. He stopped for only a moment, just long enough to look down and see the tiny black figures darting back and forth in the purple moonlight.

  Drawing his rifle from its saddle boot, he gave the dun another tap on its sides, this time with urgency, as he heard another gunshot resound in the night

  Burrowed in tight stone and earthwork, Erin could do nothing now but space out her remaining shots as far as possible and hope that when death came upon her, she would die quickly—she and her child.

  Very quickly, she told herself, hearing the wolves snap and growl and fight among themselves over her.

  She could hear the animals still pulling and tearing at the horse’s carcass, yet the sounds had fallen from that of a feeding frenzy to a calmer, more selective picking-over of the bloody remains.

  In front of her, a younger, smaller wolf stuck its head into the dug-away opening beneath the boulder and stared at her, panting, its face so close that she could smell its putrid breath. But as she raised the Starr and pointed it, the animal jerked its head back out of sight.

  Her shot exploded from beneath the boulder and sent a half dozen wolves scrambling away. A moment later, though, and they were back, a gathering of probing, digging paws that moved all about in front of her in the first pale glow of dawn.

  Three shots left, she reminded herself, smelling the strong odor of burnt gunpowder in the tight area she’d enclosed herself in. Her cheeks and forehead were drawn and stiff, covered by a layer of dried blood. Her back and legs cramped. Her stomach ached deep inside. She wondered if the baby had even survived the spill from the saddle. If she thought for a minute that it hadn’t, she might yet turn the Starr around in her hand, put the barrel to her head—

  Stop it! she demanded, cutting herself off. She wasn’t going to do that—she wouldn’t allow herself to even think about it.

  At her heels, she felt a paw rake at her. She tried to pull her foot farther inside the rock shelter, but this time the persistent animal managed to get a firm grip with both paws and pin her foot down until its jaws clamped onto her ankle and began dragging her backward.

  Erin screamed, but as she did, she clawed at the ground and the rock in front of her with one hand and leveled the Starr down her side with the other. The gun was already cocked, ready to fire.

  She pulled the trigger and heard the wolf jump back with a loud yelp. But the bullet had missed, done no damage, and the wolves were quickly losing their fear of the loud gunshots. In front of her, younger, smaller paws scratched at her hand as she clung to the bottom edge of the boulder to keep from being dragged out and eaten.

  Two shots left. . . .


  She hurriedly turned the Starr to the front of her, cocked it and fired. Fresh blood splattered Erin’s face, but the wolves had grown more insistent with the coming of dawn. The pack had grown restless, impatient, bolder, more daring.

  One shot left!

  Behind her, the pair of larger paws returned with renewed vigor, digging at her heels, getting a grip on her left foot and pulling hard. This time she knew she couldn’t stop them. Her hand, bloody from killing the young wolf, slipped away from the boulder.

  As she cocked the Starr for her last shot, the wolves dragged her out from beneath the rocks. She felt more paws scraping at her, more fangs dragging her by her clothes, by her skin. She screamed and fired the last shot into the large mass of fur and fangs. A wolf flew away with a death yelp. But that wasn’t going to save her. It was over now.

  With a snarl, the big wolf slung her out onto the ground in the pale, morning light. As she caught herself in the dirt and drew the Starr back for a swing, she saw the wolves quickly back away from her and form a small, tight circle—too many of them to count.

  The pack leader, the larger wolf that had dragged her from her stone sanctuary, stood a few feet back, crouched, ready to spring forward. The rest of the wolves waited, also crouched, poised, but giving the kill to their leader.

  “You damned devil!” Erin screamed at the alpha wolf. She swung the empty Starr just as the big wolf pounced forward.

  In midleap, she saw the leader’s bared fangs, the open jaws thrust forward almost atop her. But then she heard the blast of a rifle shot and saw the animal crumple in midair and fall brokenly away.

  Erin froze in the dirt as the pack of wolves scrambled away wildly—all but one. The remaining animal charged at her, but another rifle shot lifted the animal into the air, half spun him around and sent him tumbling across Erin. The wolf’s warm, dead body flattened her to the ground.

  Twenty yards away, the Ranger levered a fresh round into his rifle chamber, smoke curling from the big Winchester’s barrel. He tapped the dun forward as the last of the wolves vanished into the gray swirl of morning.