Lawman from Nogales (9781101544747)

by Cotton, Ralph W.

  He looked at the dead horse’s remains as his dun walked past it to the spot where Erin lay motionless on the hard ground. Shoving the Winchester back down in its boot, he lowered himself from his saddle, picked the dead wolf up by the scruff of its neck and pulled it off her.

  “Let’s get you up from there,” he said almost in a whisper.

  Stooping down, scooping her into his arms, he carried her a few feet away and sat her against a rock. The dun tagged along close behind him, made wary by the dead wolves lying strewn on the ground, and the strong scent of them looming in the morning air.

  Erin sipped the tepid water from the Ranger’s canteen as he held it to her lips. She leaned back against the rock without a word, lying in shock, neither conscious nor unconscious. She saw the Ranger as if from behind a gauzy veil.

  Sam had taken his bandanna from around his neck, wet it and wiped dried blood from her face. He had rolled the loose leg of her trousers up past her knee, and wiped and inspected the claw marks on her thigh. Then he’d examined the teeth marks on her ankles, most of the damage deflected by her high-topped leather shoes.

  “Feeling better?” he asked quietly. He’d reloaded the Starr revolver and shoved it down behind his gun belt.

  The world surrounding Erin was a shadowy dream, yet one that she knew would soon pass. For now, she only looked him up and down and nodded her head slightly in reply.

  Sam understood. He poured fresh water from his canteen onto the bloody bandanna, squeezed it and held it to her forehead.

  After a moment, when her mind had cleared some, she looked all around at the carnage in the silvery light of dawn, as if she were seeing it for the first time.

  Watching her fix her eyes onto the remains of the dead horse, Sam tipped her face away from the grisly scene and touched the tip of the wet bandanna to her chin under the pretence of removing more dried blood.

  “Turn it loose. It’s over and done,” he whispered. She stared at him, watched him up close as he touched the bandanna to her chin, to her cheek.

  “You . . . followed me,” she said, a questioning look on her face.

  Sam only nodded. He turned, capped his canteen and laid it aside. Of course he’d followed her, he thought. What else would he have done? When he turned back to face her, the questioning look was still there.

  “You left without saying good-bye,” he said, looking into her eyes.

  “I didn’t mean to hurt—”

  “You don’t owe me an explanation,” he said, cutting her off. “Riding with me was your free choice, ma’am. So was leaving, if that’s what suited you.”

  “But you saved my life,” she said.

  “And you saved mine,” Sam replied. “So I expect we’re about evened up.”

  “But I had a reason to do what I did in Wild Roses,” she said, a guilty look coming to her face.

  “We all have our reasons,” Sam said. He rolled her torn trouser leg down and stood up, as if dismissing the matter. Reaching a hand down to her, he asked, “Are you able to stand?”

  She took his hand and rose to her feet. She dusted the seat of her trousers and took a deep breath, trying to settle herself after the ordeal she’d gone through.

  “I—I want to clear the air, Sam,” she said. “I wasn’t riding to Port of Tampico in order to return to Ireland. I was using you to help me catch up to the Gun Killers.” She stared at him, awaiting his reaction.

  “I see,” Sam said quietly. He took a step back, and drew the big, reloaded Starr from his belt and pointed it up.

  Erin flinched as he fired one shot, waited a second, fired two more, then three. He stared into her eyes as he pulled the trigger.

  “You knew all along?” she asked.

  The Ranger didn’t reply right away. He stood in silence, smoke curling from the Starr.

  “We understand each other, ma’am,” he said finally, lowering the Starr, letting it hang down his thigh. “Let’s get going. You’re stuck with me until we can round you up a horse.”

  Chapter 14

  In the morning sunlight, Big Chili Hedden and Robert Horn looked west, watching the black-point dun bound up into sight across the flatlands, a bellowing swirl of dust rising in its wake. They watched until the horse drew close enough that they could see it carried two riders, the one in front a woman, her long red hair whipping sidelong on the desert breeze.

  “My, my,” said Hedden, “look what we’ve got coming here. It’s about time, after all the signaling we heard.” He sipped a mouthful of water from a gourd dipper and spit it out in a stream.

  “It’s her, sure enough, Big Chili,” said Horn. “Is that her brother riding behind her?”

  “Naw,” said Hedden. “I told you Bram Donovan is deader than hell.”

  Hedden lowered the water gourd from his mouth and wiped a hand across his wet lips. He laid the gourd on the low stone wall surrounding the well where they had stopped to water themselves and their horses. The animals stood hitched to an iron ring, water dripping from their mouths.

  “Who do your think, then? Matten Page?” Horn asked.

  “Most likely Page,” said Hedden. “Whoever it is, they damn sure wanted us to know they were coming.”

  Horn grinned. “Yeah, it was that little Irish sugarplum signaling,” he said. His voice took on a lewd tone. “She got homesick . . . missing what she’d been getting, if you know what I mean.”

  “I don’t recognize that horse,” Hedden said warily, staring out, disregarding what Horn had said. “Who rides a black-point dun?”

  “Tom Custer rode one, I heard,” said Horn.

  “Tom Custer? General George’s brother?” Hedden said without taking his eyes off the horse and its riders.

  “Yep,” said Horn, “that’s who I’m talking about.”

  “That is not Tom Custer, Horn,” said Hedden, still staring intently.

  “Well, hell, of course it ain’t really Tom Custer,” said Horn. “How could it be—”

  “I’m thinking it’s that damned Ranger,” said Hedden, cutting him off. “The lawman from Nogales.”

  “The Ranger?” Horn questioned.

  “Yeah, the Ranger,” said Hedden.

  “Damn,” said Horn, more serious, paying more attention now. “That means Matten Page didn’t kill him, Big Chili.”

  “Yep,” said Hedden, “and that puts Matten Page’s name on a long list of men who didn’t kill him.”

  “Three of ours that I know of,” Horn said.

  Hedden paused for a moment in contemplation, then said, “If we keep getting whittled down by this lawman, the Torreses are going to get rich splitting our money.”

  “That’s something to think about,” said Horn. As he spoke, he lifted his Colt, checked it, spun it on his trigger finger and slipped in back into his holster. “Except they won’t make nothing off me.”

  “Me neither,” said Hedden. “Let’s spread out. If that’s the lawman, we’re going to kill the sumbitch soon as he rides in.”

  Across the flatlands, riding behind Erin, the Ranger stared ahead at a place where two trails intersected on the rolling desert floor. He saw the two men moving away from each other in front of the public well. Behind the gunmen, timbers, sun-bleached planks and chiseled stone lay in rubble where a row of shacks and adobes had fallen to the ground.

  “Sam . . . ?” Erin said over her shoulder.

  “I see them,” Sam replied. “Who are they?” As he spoke, he pulled his Winchester up from the saddle boot and laid it across his lap. The big Swiss rifle was still in its box, tucked under the bedroll between him and the saddle. It wasn’t yet time to bring the rifle into play—better to keep quiet until the conditions were right.

  “It’s Art Hedden and Robert Horn,” Erin said. “They’re both top gunmen.”

  “Big Chili Hedden?” the Ranger asked.

  “Yes,” Erin said, staring forward, watching the two gunmen spread out in front of the well, taking position.

  “That’s who you we
re signaling?” Sam asked.

  Erin didn’t answer.

  When they drew closer to the well and the two gunmen flanking it, Sam slowed the dun to a walk.

  “Trade me places,” he said quietly. Before Erin could respond, he lifted her from the saddle, shifted her around effortlessly and sat her behind him.

  “Yep, the lawman from Nogales . . . ,” Hedden murmured to himself, getting a better look at the gunman now that he sat in front of Erin. He began opening and closing his gun hand, loosening his fingers. “Get ready, as soon as he’s in range, Horn,” he called out. “We’re not going to give him a chance to get the drop—”

  A shot from the Ranger’s Winchester cut Hedden short. He saw the shot lift Horn an inch off the ground and fling him backward.

  “Je-sus!” Hedden cried out, turning and running toward the horses as the Ranger levered another round into his rifle chamber.

  Watching over Sam’s shoulder, Erin saw the fleeing gunman dive for cover behind the well’s stone wall.

  “He’s—he’s getting away,” she said, seeing the gunman crawl up his horse’s side, back the animal away and turn it to the trail lying low in his saddle.

  “I know,” Sam said, keeping the dun walking forward at a leisurely pace.

  “You’re just letting him go?” Erin asked, surprised.

  “Yep,” said Sam.

  “But he’ll ride straight from here to the Gun Killers,” Erin said. “He’ll tell them you’re coming.”

  “I know,” Sam said. “I figure it’ll save your bullets.”

  Erin let the remark pass and said, “You want them to know you’re coming?”

  “They already know I’m coming,” Sam said. “I’m just letting them know how far back I am . . . and who’s with me,” he added.

  Moments later, when Sam stopped his dun at the well, Art Hedden and his horse were only a small dot in a sheet of dust on the horizon.

  “There’s your new mount, ma’am,” Sam said, reaching around and helping Erin down from behind him. Looking down at her, he said, “You’re free to do as you please.”

  Horn’s horse looked at them from the iron hitch ring. Erin unhitched the animal and turned to the Ranger as he swung down from his saddle.

  “As I please?” she said. “Then, I can ride on with you, if that suits me?”

  Sam only nodded, turning the dun to the well, where one of the gunmen had left a bucket sitting half-full of water.

  As the dun drank, Sam walked over to where Horn lay dead in the dirt. He stooped down and looked the gunman over. When he stood up, he saw a thin little man walk from out of the rubble toward the well, a long, tin bathing tub hooded over his bowed back.

  The Ranger walked back to the well as the man rolled the bathing tub from his back and set it upright in the dirt. Horn’s horse and the dun shied back a step.

  “Hola,” Sam said quietly. “What can we do for you?”

  “Hola, señor,” the man replied. He wagged a thin finger and said, “It is not what you can do for me. It is what I can do for you.” He gestured a trembling hand toward the galvanized tin tub, then toward Erin, her torn trousers, her dirty bloodstained shirt. “For the señora . . . Bañese?”

  Sam said to Erin, “He asked if you want to take a bath.”

  Erin looked at the Ranger. “Do we have time?”

  “We’ll take the time,” Sam said, noting her condition. He looked all around, then turned to the little man and said, “Where will she take the bath?”

  “Right here,” the man said. “I fill the tub, no?”

  Sam and Erin looked at each other.

  “I could do with a bath,” she said with a shrug.

  “I understand,” said Sam. He reached down inside his trouser pocket and pulled out a coin. To the little man he said, “Sí, por favor, fill the tub.”

  It was late afternoon when Hector Pasada, Sonora Charlie Ring and Clyde Jilson followed the dun’s hoofprints across the rolling flatlands to the ghost town’s public well. They had ridden past the sparse remnants of Erin’s horse and the bloated bodies of the dead wolves strewn about, roasting in the harsh desert sun.

  At the well, the three stepped down and looked at the dried blood and the drag marks of Horn’s bootheels in the dirt. The marks led off into the rubble where the little man had taken the body, stripped it and covered it with stones and loose broken planks. At the well, the tin tub leaned against the low stone wall, having been cleaned after Erin had used it. A small puddle of water lay in its lower end.

  “A washing tub, out here?” Clyde said, thumping his finger on the tin as if to make sure the tub was real.

  “Yes,” said Hector, “I have seen this bathing tub before, and the man who hauls it around with him.”

  “You mean that man?” Sonora Charlie said, nodding toward the little man who stepped into sight wearing the dead gunman’s loose-fitting clothes and oversized boots. He shuffled toward them from the stone and timber rubble.

  Seeing the little man clutching Horn’s ill-fitting gun belt, keeping a big Colt from falling down around his ankles, Clyde shook his head and chuckled under his breath.

  “Think I ought to shoot him before something bad happens to him?” he said.

  Sonora Charlie laughed. But then he turned to the little man as he watched him stop and stand beside the tin tub, as if protecting it.

  “We trailed a man and woman here,” Sonora said flatly. “How long ago did they leave?”

  “Much earlier,” said the little man, “before the sun was straight up. The señora bathed. The man watered his horse—and he killed a man.” He gestured a hand down the front of him. “I received these new clothes and boots.”

  “The woman bathed in this tub?” Clyde asked, staring at the tub with renewed interest.

  “Sí, and they paid me for filling it,” the little man said. He rubbed his finger and thumb together.

  Clyde looked at Sonora Charlie and said in an urgent tone, “I want a bath in it too.”

  Sonora gazed off across the rolling flatlands, following the two sets of hoofprints leading along the trail.

  “It’ll soon be dark,” he said, judging the amount of time left before the sun slid down the western horizon. “I expect this is as good a place as any to make camp.”

  “Shall I fill the tub for you, señor?” the little man asked, his left hand still clutching the heavy gun belt at his waist.

  “Damn right you can, little fellow,” said Clyde, sliding down from his saddle, “and hurry it up.” He looked around at Hector and said, “Help him, Pancho . I want in that tub, pronto, while it’s still wet.”

  This bastardo. Hector looked at Sonora as he swung down from his saddle.

  “You heard him, Pancho,” said Sonora. “Help get that tub filled. I might even want to wash myself a little.”

  Hector stood seething, his jaw clamped tightly. But after a moment he realized that he had no choice but to do as he was told. He stepped over, leaned his shotgun against the stone wall, let out a tense breath and hitched his horse to an iron ring. Then he helped the little man turn the tub over and set it on the ground.

  Chapter 15

  Evening shadows had fallen long across the darkening land while the little well tender walked in a slow circle, turning a large pole connected to a well wheel. Pot after pot of water rose from under the ground and emptied into the stone reservoir.

  “Hurry the hell up, little fellow,” said Clyde, standing naked and filthy beside the tin tub that was still only half-full. His clothes lay in a heap in the dirt, his Colt lying atop them. “Why don’t you have a donkey to turn the wheel?”

  “I ask myself that same question all the time, señor,” the little man said, pushing the long pole steadily in a circle. “Perhaps in another life, I myself was a donkey—”

  “Don’t start some religious craziness,” Clyde said, cutting him off. “This bath is taking too damn long as it is.” He picked a crawling bug from the hair atop his shoulder and flicke
d it away. Hector turned his head in disgust.

  A few yards from the tub, Sonora Charlie had built a small fire and set a pot of coffee on it to boil.

  “It’s going to be half the night the way this is going,” he said. “I’m getting some shut-eye.” He said to Hector, “Pancho, wake me up when it’s my turn.”

  Before Hector could even reply, Clyde turned to him, scratching his naked hairy crotch.

  “Go to my saddlebags, Pancho,” he said. “There’s a rag down in there. Bring it to me.”

  Keeping his rage contained, Hector stomped over to the saddlebags lying in the dirt, stooped down and flipped back the leather flap. Reaching inside, he felt a leather bag filled with coins, but quickly pulled his hand away, as if he was worried Clyde might realize what he was doing. In the bottom of the saddlebags, he found a wadded-up cotton rag. He pulled the rag out, shook it loose and carried it to the naked gun man.

  Clyde took the rag and stood grinning at him, still scratching his hairy crotch.

  “Gracias, mi amigo muy especial,” he chuckled in a lewd, joking tone.

  His special friend? What kind of man was this, to say such a thing to him with his scrotum in hand? Hector turned away, his face burning, his jaw clamped tight to keep himself from grabbing the gun at his waist. More importantly, how little did this man think of him to dare make such a remark—to treat him in such a manner?

  As Hector stomped away, Clyde stepped into the half-full tub of water.

  “I ain’t waiting any longer,” he said to the little well tender. He sat down in the water and picked up a chunk of soap the well tender had laid on a rock beside the tub. “Keep bringing water over here,” he said to the little man.

  “Sí, I will,” the little man replied. He stopped turning the wheel, hurried over with two buckets of water and poured them into the tub.

  “Pancho, get over here,” Clyde said. As he spoke, he looked over at Sonora Charlie, grinned and gave him a wink.