by Ralph Cotton
As the wagon rolled along, Rosa Reyes laughed playfully under her breath and said, “You certainly proved to Howard Readling that your wagon waits for no one.”
Shaw didn’t reply; he continued staring straight ahead. When the woman placed a hand on his forearm, he finally turned and faced her, and she noted the surprised, almost startled look on his face.
Realizing he had not been aware of what was going on around him for a moment, she asked him quietly, “Are you all right?”
Shaw looked down curiously at her hand on his arm. Then he looked back to the trail ahead.
“Yes, I am,” he said. Then he went back to the subject of his head wound, as if nothing else had been done or spoken in between. “Some believe it was a woman who shot me,” he said.
Rosa Reyes studied his face intently, and let her hand drift off his forearm. “Do you believe it was a woman?” she asked. As she spoke she appraised him more closely, her eyes going down to his tooled leather boots. A gunman with stallions fighting at his feet . . . , she remarked to herself.
“I believe if it was, I probably deserved it,” Shaw said, the trace of a wry smile on his face.
Rosa gave a short nod, trying to listen closely and gain whatever understanding his words were willing to reveal. As if to try and plumb the darkness she felt in him, she asked, “What kind of women are in the life of a gunman like yourself?”
In response, Shaw only turned his face to her and asked, “What kind of woman are you?”
“Forgive me,” she said. “I had no right to judge you.”
“Forgiven,” Shaw said. “Now, back to my question. What kind of woman are you?”
She smiled. “I am not in your life, Mr. Shaw, and I don’t intend to be.”
“Careful,” Shaw said with his wry smile. “Intentions make a cold breakfast.”
She returned his smile and said confidently, “I will not live to eat my words, you can believe that.” Then, after pausing for a moment, she asked, “Besides, who are you to speak this way to your employer’s woman?”
“You’re no more his woman than I’m his gunman,” Shaw said.
She tried to move away from the matter. “Oh? When the time comes, you would not take his money to protect him?”
“When the time comes?” Shaw quoted her. “Shouldn’t you say if the time comes?” He’d seen her try to skirt the subject of her being Readling’s woman, but he wasn’t going to let her.
“When, if.” She shrugged slightly. “What does it matter?” she said. “If you take his money, will you not protect him?”
“I’m not on his payroll yet,” Shaw said. “When I am, if I ever am, yes, I will protect him. But that still wouldn’t make me his gunman. I don’t belong to anyone—not for money anyway.” He turned and looked deep into her eyes. “What about you?”
“Money does not buy me either,” she said briskly.
“Then what are you doing here?” Shaw asked bluntly.
“It is complicated,” she said with dismissal in her voice. “But I am not a puta. I am not some woman of the shadows who sells herself to any man who—”
“I know you’re not that kind of woman,” Shaw said, cutting her off.
“Oh?” She looked surprised. “That is what the others think I am.”
“The others aren’t driving this wagon,” Shaw said.
She let that sink in. But something kept her from opening up any further to him. “As I said, it is complicated.”
“Then allow me to try and explain for you?” Shaw said, asking her permission.
“Please do, by all means, indulge yourself,” she said in a tone he could not quite discern.
But he proceeded anyway. He looked her up and down and said, “First of all, you’re not the daughter of some poor Mexican who sold you into service.”
“Oh?” Her interest piqued a bit. “Have I in any way presented myself to be?”
“No,” said Shaw. “That’s how I can tell. In fact, I’m going to venture that you’ve never seen Mexico, except from inside a coach, and even then only the larger cities.”
She sat quietly, listening.
“This is your first trip into the badlands. Your first time aboard a freight wagon too. No woman from this country would bathe in cold runoff water, not in the early morning.”
“You have learned all this from my bathing habits?” she asked with a trace of thinly veiled sarcasm.
“No, senora,” Shaw said. “I don’t know everything about you. But I know something about men like Readling. Between what I’ve learned about you and what I know about him, would you like me to take a stab at what this trip is all about?”
She didn’t answer; she didn’t have to. Her eyes said everything for her.
“Here goes,” Shaw said. “You’re not Mexican, not by birth anyway. You’re from Spain—north-central Spain would be my guess.”
She stared at him, trying to mask her stunned surprise.
Shaw said, “Both your English and your Spanish are too good for you to be from here. You didn’t learn either language from some mission school.”
“You have not heard me speak Spanish,” she countered.
Shaw shrugged. “It doesn’t matter, I hear your Spanish through your English. You’ve been educated properly—it’s in your voice.”
“Go on,” she said.
“You’re not Readling’s woman, you’re a form of collateral to him,” Shaw said. “Are you part of this mine deal he made with the French government?”
“Yes, the mine deal . . . .” She let out a tense breath and said, “I may have started out as his collateral, but I have become his prisoner.”
“Tell me all of it,” Shaw coaxed.
“No,” she said in a defiant tone. “I have told you too much already. How do I know you aren’t going to him with what I tell you?”
“You don’t know,” Shaw said. He waited. A silence set in.
“All right,” Rosa Reyes said at length. “My family owned the mining venture jointly with the French. With the help of the Mexican government, the French forced my father and my brother to sell it to Howard Readling.”
“Since Readling bought the mining operation sight unseen,” Shaw said, continuing for her, “he demanded that you accompany him here to make sure he got what he paid for.”
“You are almost correct,” Rosa Reyes said. “My father would never have stood for such an arrangement. Readling’s associates are holding my father and my brother hostage in Mexico City. Both the French and the Mexican government are aware of it. They turned their heads.”
“With no one on your side, you have to do exactly as he says, even when it comes to sleeping with him,” Shaw said.
Her face tightened with anger and shame. “To service him,” she said. “Not only must I service him, I must act as if it pleases me to do so—as if I am his woman.” She took in a breath as if to keep from exploding. “If I do not play this role to his satisfaction, his men will kill my father and my brother.”
“It’s an old game among business tycoons, Senora Reyes,” Shaw said. He didn’t want to tell her that in all likelihood her brother and father were already dead. He’d wait on that until he knew it with all certainty.
She paused, then said with resolve, “But it is a game I must play, as convincingly as possible, for the sake of my loved ones.”
“I understand,” Shaw said. He stared at the trail ahead, but he heard the sound of horses’ hooves moving closer up the side of the wagon. “We’ll talk more at another time.”
The woman nodded, also hearing the hooves. She lowered her voice. “You mentioned that you have heard my voice before . . .?”
“Yes. It was a woman like you. She even had the same name as you . . . Rosa,” he said, his voice turning softer just by saying the name out loud. “Her family lived in Mexico, but they were from Spain.” He took a breath and said, “We met under similar circumstances, you could say.”
She studied his face from the side, readin
g the tragedy from both the cut of his jaw and the furrowed slant of his brow. “This woman, Rosa, she was your wife . . . ,” she said. It was not a question.
Shaw only nodded, staring ahead. He didn’t wonder how she knew this, for it came as no great surprise to him. They both seemed to know a lot about each other. More than two people should, he thought, given that they had never met.
“And she is dead, this woman you speak of . . . ,” the senora said softly.
“She is dead,” Shaw replied in a low, mournful voice.
Chapter 10
On a dark hillside beneath a silver quarter moon, Bobby Flukes looked away from the racing sparks and licking flames swirling above their campfire. Overhead, a deep purple sky lay wrapped around countless stars stretching higher into an endless universe.
“Nobody ever found anybody by tracking their campfire,” Flukes said. “That’s pure hearsay, an old wives’ tale.”
Rady Kale looked first at Dub Banks, then back at Flukes. “Bobby, I can’t even begin to tell you how stupid that is. I ain’t even going to try.”
“Yep, old wives’ tales,” Flukes repeated in affirmation. “Only fools and poltroons believe such nonsense. I don’t believe a word of it.” He spat and ran his hand across his lips.
As Flukes spoke, Kale began rolling up his shirt-sleeves. “I used to believe a man could not kick the living shit out of another,” he said. “But then one night I saw it happen with my own eyes, in an alley off of Canal Street, in New Orleans.”
Flukes saw what Kale was about to do. His right hand slipped into his boot well and wrapped around the handle of his skinning knife.
Across the racing fire, Silver lowered the wet bandana from his black swollen lips and said with much effort, “Damn it! Shut up, all of yas.” His voice sounded wet and airy through the empty spaces where he’d lost front teeth to Shaw’s rifle butt.
Kale heard Bones’ words, but he paid them no attention until he heard them followed by the metal click of a gun hammer.
“You think I’m playing?” Bones said, pain filling his mouth with every word. “I swear to God . . .”
“Easy, Silver,” said Kale, sidling away from the fire, and Flukes’ and Bones’ cocked revolvers pointed at him, glittering in the firelight. “I’m just trying to look out for all of us.”
Flukes’ hand eased up from his knife handle. He said to Kale, “Besides, don’t you think it helps Bones’ face, getting some heat on it? Hell, look at what an awful shape the poor sumbitch is in.”
Kale and Banks looked at Bones’ battered mouth from across the fire. Banks shook his head in pity and looked down into the crackling fire bed.
“Can I say something?” he asked. Then without waiting for anyone’s permission, he said, “Anybody with enough sense to pull on a boot knows that a firelight burning in the dark of night has led wild Indians to kill many a white settler.”
“Ha! There are no wild Indians around here,” Flukes threw in quickly. “If there were, so what? Are we afraid of wild Indians? Hell, no! Not me anyways.”
Kale and Dub Banks looked at each other.
Before Kale could speak, Silver Bones lowered the wet bandana from his mouth again and in his pained, distorted voice, said, “Let it rest, Kale. The man has strong opinions.”
From the outer darkness beyond the wide circle of firelight, a voice called out, “Everybody freeze up! We’ve got guns on you!”
Startled, still standing, Kale almost made a grab for his holstered Colt. But he caught himself before going too far.
“Watch it!” the voice called out again. “We’ll kill you where you stand.”
Silver Bones half rose, his gun still cocked, in hand, from pointing it at Kale. Squinting, barely making out the black silhouettes moving forward from the purple darkness, he said, “Who the hell are you, sneaking up like this, on honest pilgrims?”
“Drop it, you sumbitch, or fall with it,” the voice called out. “We want Fast Larry Shaw! We’re going to kill him! Send him out to us and the rest of you can keep on living.”
“Shaw . . .?” Rady Kale gave the others a bewildered look. “They want us to give Shaw over to them,” he said in a bemused tone. “Says they want to kill him.”
“These stupid sumbitches!” Bones growled through his pain. Lowering his gun to his side, he struggled to his feet and said, “Who the hell is out there?”
Recognizing Bones in the firelight with his bandana lowered from his mouth, another man called out, “Silver Bones? Is that you?”
“Hell, yes, it’s me,” Bones said, his pain keeping him irate. He squinted at the darkness. “Is that you, Charlie Ruiz?”
“Yes, it’s me,” Ruiz said with a sense of relief. To the dark figures near him, he said, “Aldo, don’t shoot. This is Silver Bones. He’s one of us.”
“Holy cake and candles,” said Kale, also sounding relieved. “Charlie, what are you doing roaming around in the dark, stirring up trouble?”
“Looking for Fast Larry Shaw, just like the man here said,” Ruiz called out as he, Ollie Wilcox and Aldo Barry walked forward, leading their horses. Barry still held his gun cocked and leveled toward Silver Bones.
As the three drew closer, Wilcox looked at Bones and exclaimed, “Good Lord, man, what happened to your mouth?”
“This is what Shaw did to me,” Silver Bones said in his strained, distorted voice. “No matter how bad you fellows want to kill him, I want to kill him worse.”
“Huh. Look at my damn nose,” Aldo chuffed, as if Bones’ battered face meant nothing.
“Who is your pard, Charlie?” Bones asked testily, staring at Barry and his broken purple nose. “And why is his gun still pointed at me?”
“This is Aldo Barry,” said Ruiz. “And that’s what Shaw did to him.” He gestured a hand toward Aldo and added, “Knocked him cockeyed with his own gun.”
“He snuck up on me, caught me unawares,” Aldo offered in his own defense.
“Damn,” said Bones, “he smacked me in the mouth with a rifle butt.” He settled a little as Aldo lowered and uncocked his gun.
“He’s dead the minute I lay eyes on him,” Aldo said in a menacing tone. He spun his revolver backward on his finger, bringing it to a halt inside its holster.
“What’s got into Shaw?” Bones asked. “He’s supposed to be the fastest gun alive. Don’t he shoot anybody anymore?”
“Well, fastest gun or not, he’s dead the minute I find him,” said Aldo.
“They heard you, Aldo,” Wilcox said. “Howdy, fellows,” he called out to Banks and Kale. “Looks like you’re all headed where we are.”
“Oh? Where’s that?” Kale asked, fishing for information before giving any up.
“La Ciudad de Hombres Malos,” Ruiz cut in with a crafty grin. “I’m not bashful about my destination—or about my intentions once I arrive there.”
“City of Bad Men,” Kale translated.
“That’s where we’re headed too,” said Banks, gesturing the three men to join them around the campfire. “Coffee’s hot, and strong enough to float a pistol. Help yourselves.”
“Just out of curiosity,” said Kale, as the three men gathered around the fire, “how’d you find us here, in the dark?” He glared at Flukes as he asked.
“Are you kidding?” Wilcox grinned, warming his hands out above the flames. “You could see this fire plumb to the desert floor.”
To change the subject, Flukes asked, “Any of you heard from Santana yet?”
“No, but he’s sending the rest of the bunch to the City of Bad Men,” said Wilcox. He grinned and added slyly, “Or so I’ve heard.”
“He’s most likely sent the Fist on ahead by now. We ought to be seeing him anytime,” Ruiz said.
“Your mouth is a mess, Silver. Why’d Shaw rifle-butt you anyway?” Wilcox asked.
“It was over a woman we was running off with,” Bones said, not really feeling like talking. “He caught me by surprise.”
“Caught us all by surprise, t
o tell the truth on the matter,” said Kale. “Before we could rally behind Silver, Shaw had knocked him cold, and had us covered.”
“The same way the sumbitch done me,” Aldo said, still brooding over the incident.
“Not exactly the same, Aldo,” said Ruiz, getting a little bolder with the young gunman now that more Cut-Jaws were around him. “He just walked up, grabbed your gun and coldcocked you, as I recall.”
Aldo had enough savvy to realize he was greatly outnumbered now, and Ruiz and Wilcox were growing fed up with him. “I’ll kill him,” he offered in a more tame response than he’d given. “That’s all I’ve got to say on it.”
Ruiz turned to Silver Bones. “Fact is, last we talked to Shaw he mighta been considering riding with us.” He shrugged. “Santana sent us to find good men.”
Bones spat and grumbled a bit under his breath. “I’m not making any idle threats. When I get him, I’ll do something instead of just talking about it.”
Aldo looked away as Bones’ eyes and the eyes of the others sought him out.
“Umm-umm . . .” Banks shook his big head slowly and said under his breath, “Took the man’s own gun and dog-smacked him with it.”
Silver Bones chuckled a little in spite of his pain and said with much effort, “I suppose you fellows will stay the night with us—ride on into Bad Men City come morning.”
“Yeah, we’ll ride in with yas,” said Ruiz, a dark grin spreading across his face, “and if it ain’t the City of Bad Men when we get there, it will be by the time we leave.”
Lawrence Shaw sat beyond a wall of rock at the edge of a wide cliff overhang, staring down in the night at a distant glow of firelight. He’d taken a faded, striped poncho-style serape from his saddlebags and pulled it down over his shoulders. His head was bare, his sombrero resting at his feet. His rifle lay across his lap. Behind him, on the other side of the rocks, the camp slept—Readling and Rosa together inside their own tent.
Doc Penton and Witt Johnson both lay snoring in their blankets near the low, flickering campfire. Elvis Johnson, who’d just stood watch, was now lying down, a blanket wrapped around his body. Willis Dorphin came walking up behind Shaw carrying a cup of coffee.
