by Ralph Cotton
“Brother Witt, am I a damn fool, or does it appear that these Cut-Jaws are just daring somebody to come take the wagon?”
Witt Johnson stared long with his brother, studying the situation, looking along the roofline to see if anyone was there waiting to pull an ambush.
“It does seem like it will be awfully easy to take back, considering all the trouble they went through to steal it,” he said under his breath.
“Yes, it does,” Readling put in, sitting in his saddle with a rifle across his lap. He had no idea where the woman might be. But he knew how important the gold and the cash were to the Golden Circle. He also realized how little his life would be worth if he allowed them to be taken from him without making every attempt to get them back.
While Readling considered this, Elvis Johnson said quietly, “What sort of bonus is in the deal if me and brother Witt ride in there with you, take that wagon and roll away with it?”
“Five hundred dollars,” Readling said without hesitation. “But the two of you ride in alone and bring it out.”
Elvis and Witt stifled a laugh. “Hell, it’s worth five hundred dollars just to sit and watch you try to ride in there and get it by yourself.”
“That’s five hundred apiece,” Readling pointed out quickly.
“No, it’s not,” said Elvis. “It’s five thousand apiece, and you’re right here with us. Else you can ride away empty-handed and go explain to whoever’s running the Golden Circle how you let their bank get away.”
“You men are supposed to be working for me. This is robbery,” said Readling with anger and disgust.
“No,” said Witt, “that was robbery.” He nodded toward the lone wagon. “This is recuperation.”
“As far as working for you goes, we’ve both quit,” Elvis said.
“For all we know, there might be no one around guarding the wagon,” Readling said. “The sight of the approaching federales might have scared them away.”
“Yeah, right,” said Witt, “and if you thought that was the case, we wouldn’t be sitting here talking about it. You’d be in the wagon seat right now, yee-hiiing them horses on down the trail.”
“Damn it,” Readling said, looking all along the empty street.
“Whatever you decide, you best do it fast, Mr. Readling,” Elvis said. “Once us Johnsons lose interest in a thing, it’s hard to get us back on task.”
Readling looked down and checked his rifle. “All right, damn it. Let’s get the wagon.”
The three dismounted and slowly led their horses onto the dirt street toward the adobe church.
“Spread out,” Witt said as they walked past the cantina. They felt eyes on them from inside the open doorway, but they continued on toward the freight wagon, rifles in hand.
Arriving at the wagon without incident, the Johnson brothers stood a few feet away on either side, looking back and forth warily along the street. Readling hitched his horse to the rear of the wagon and climbed up among the small wooden crates stacked in its bed.
“Let’s go, Mr. Readling,” Witt called out in a hushed tone, seeing Readling rummage among the crates. “You can count it once we get out of here.”
“It’s gone!” Readling said.
“Gone?” Witt and Elvis looked up at him as he jerked a second crate lid open on its hinges. He slung the empty crate into the dirt street and stood fuming.
“All right, you sonsabitches!” Readling ranted toward the cantina, turning in a slow circle to take in every possible watching eye. “Where’s my damn gold? Where’s my money?”
“Okay, now,” Witt said. “We might want to back away from here, easylike.” He gestured toward five gunmen who filed out of the cantina and onto the street, slowly walking abreast toward them.
Twenty feet away, the door to the courtyard of the church opened with a creaking sound and Willis Dorphin stepped out.
“When did this become your gold and your money, Readling?” Dorphin asked, his hand poised beside the gun on his hip. He still carried Shaw’s big Colt stuck down into his belt.
“Willis . . .?” Readling looked at him, stunned.
“I thought the gold and the cash were property of the Golden Circle, Readling,” Dorphin said with a flat expression.
“It was—I mean, it is,” Readling said. Realizing that Dorphin was in on whatever treachery was at hand, he said quickly, “You and I have a wonderful opportunity here, Big T, if we play our cards right.”
“Yeah, us too,” Elvis Johnson put in, seeing the gunmen walking closer.
“Where is all the gold, the cash?” Readling asked quickly.
“It’s somewhere safe, not too far off, Readling,” Dorphin said. “When the Golden Circle comes for it, Santana is going to make a deal . . . they get back the money they need to finance their cause, he gets their support in raising his own army.”
“Listen to me, Big T,” said Readling, starting to sweat, “it’s not too late for the two of us to get the money and claim it for ourselves. Just lead me to it.”
“You had no intention of ever putting all that money back into the hands of the Golden Circle, Readling, and I know it,” Dorphin said with a sly, tight grin. “That’s why I threw in with Santana. If it was going to get stolen anyways, I figured I needed to grab myself a piece of it before it all got away.”
“You’re being deceived!” Readlng said, growing more worried as the gunmen drew closer. “Take me to it, before it’s too late!”
“It already is,” said Dorphin.
Readling saw the look on his face, saw his hand go to the gun on his hip. He swung the rifle up toward Dorphin, but before he got it leveled, Dorphin’s gun streaked up from its holster and fired. Readling caught the bullet in his chest. He rocked up onto his toes and staggered backward with the impact of the shot. Then he sank to his knees and pitched forward onto his face.
Witt and Elvis Johnson spun back and forth, not knowing which way to direct their fight as the gunmen advanced on them. “You didn’t have to cut us out. You could have brought us in on this, Dorphin!” Witt shouted.
“No, I couldn’t,” said Dorphin.
“And why not?” Elvis demanded. He stood with his rifle already leveled, cocked and ready to fire.
“I’ve watched you two. You’ve both got a streak of good in you that can’t be trusted,” Dorphin said.
“A little good never hurt nobody,” Witt said.
“See what I’m talking about . . .?” Dorphin said to Elvis. “You’re both too stupid to live.”
Elvis let out a rebel yell as he pulled the trigger on his rifle. A few feet away, his brother, Witt, did the same thing.
But Dorphin was cool, confident, seeing the outcome in his mind before it even started.
From the church bell tower Morgan Thorpe looked down, standing beside the priest, his side wrapped and bandaged with fresh white gauze.
The two watched the barrage of bullets slice through the Johnson brothers so quickly that the wagon horses only spooked for a second. They jerked once against the wagon brake, then settled on the ground as a ringing silence set in beneath a drifting swirl of burned gun powder.
“I’m sorry to bring all this trouble here,” Thorpe said in a weak voice. “But I was shot and I knew I couldn’t make it very far—”
“Save your breath, por favor,” said the priest, cutting him off. “You say the money and the gold is safe. That is the main thing.”
“Yes, it’s safe,” said Thorpe, “right where we were planning to hide it all along. I even left three men to watch over it until we get there.”
The priest nodded in approval, then climbed down the ladder and walked along the hallway. Thorpe came down the ladder much slower, only catching up to the priest at the stairs leading to the stone-lined cellar.
When Thorpe heard muffled groaning from down in the cellar, he asked, “What is that?”
“That is Wayne Collins, formerly known as ‘Buck’ Collins. He is shackled to the cellar wall. He’s the man you le
ft lying by the fire because he was such a drunk and a fool and a bully.”
Thorpe eyed him and said, “I didn’t leave him here. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
The priest thought it out in the space of a second, and then said with a shrug, “Someone left him here.” He showed Thorpe his bruised and scuffed knuckles.
Thorpe gave a low whistle. “He must really be a hardhead.”
“Yes,” said the priest. “I have been beating him senseless every few hours, hoping to teach him things he needs to know about getting along with others. But so far, it has done little good.”
“Does he know who you are?” Thorpe asked.
“He knows that I am the mission priest here in la Ciudad de Hombres Malos.”
“But does he think you are Padre Timido,” Thorpe asked, “or does he realize you’re Mingus Santana, the man he rides for?”
The priest shot a glance all around out of habit, making sure no one could hear them. “No one but you and Reilly Cady know who I am.” He smiled. “To everyone else I am still the poor mission padre who does God’s work in a place where no one else wants to serve.”
“What about the Fist? He knows, doesn’t he?” Thorpe asked.
“I am afraid James Long—the Fist—is dead,” the priest said, not wanting to tell Thorpe that Collins had confessed everything to him, hoping to make the beatings stop. Any time he wanted to end Collins’ life, he only had to tell Reilly Cady who killed his brother, Tucker. But for now, he might yet be able to save Collins—with enough beatings—and turn him into a follower. He’d wait and see, he thought.
“Should Cady and I be worried, Padre, knowing who you are?” Thorpe asked, only half joking. “None of the new men have any idea you’re actually Padre Mingus Santana.”
The priest deliberately ignored his question, preferring to keep Thorpe a little cautious around him.
“Who I am has been a secret for three years,” the priest said. “But soon, with the Golden Circle’s riches and support, we will win over more and more followers until I can let the people know who I am . . . and what I will do for them.”
“Can we ever count on the Golden Circle’s support, Padre?” Thorpe asked. “They’re a tightly closed bunch, have been since back before the war. Their goal is to make Mexico and the Caribbean slave ports—a source of cheap labor for their future expansion.”
“I will have their support, now that I possess the main source of their wealth,” said the priest. “As for slaves, only the future will decide who is to become slaves and who is to become masters.”
Thorpe didn’t comment; he decided to let the matter pass. Instead he said, “What about the woman, Rosa Reyes? I’m surprised you’re not more upset that she’s missing.”
“These things always have a way of working themselves out,” the priest said. “Rosa will always do what needs to be done, and she always knows what needs to be done. That is why she is with me.” He smiled and continued walking toward the rear of the church. “Now you must go and get some rest. It will not be long before we have to—”
He stopped and turned midsentence as he heard a door slam and saw Silver Bones come running down the hallway toward them.
“Thorpe, we’ve got more riders coming,” Bones said, his mouth still stiff, swollen and sore from Shaw’s blow. “It looks like one of them is Larry Shaw.”
“Shaw? I don’t think so,” said Thorpe. “Willis Dorphin had two soldiers kill him.”
“They failed to kill him,” the priest cut in. “Shaw was here. I cared for him, sewed up his chin where the soldiers tried to cut his throat.”
“Damn,” Thorpe said. “Having a man like Shaw around is never good, unless he’s on our side.”
“He won’t be around long,” said Silver Bones. “I’m going to kill the rotten son of a bitch as soon as he gets here.” Just as he finished speaking, he caught himself and said, “Begging your pardon for the coarse language, Padre.”
The priest and Thorpe looked at each other. “Come with me, Bones,” Thorpe said. “Let’s not bother the good padre with our worldy problems.”
Chapter 24
Dawson and Caldwell had stopped on the trail at the sound of gunfire coming from the City of Bad Men. Behind them, Doc Penton and Shaw nudged their horses until the four men sat abreast, staring toward the town. Not another sound was heard save for a low rush of wind from the surrounding hills.
“That didn’t take long,” Shaw said, noting that the shooting had lasted only a few seconds.
“I figure that was Readling and the Johnsons,” Doc Penton remarked. He shook his head and said, “I can say this for Elvis and Witt, they stick ’til the end.”
The other three made no reply.
Dawson heeled his horse forward slowly toward the beginning of the wide, dirt street, his rifle up, the butt of it resting on his thigh. The other three rode right beside him, spreading out as they went.
When the Cut-Jaws had spotted them only moments earlier, the outlaws had scattered, taking position in alleyways and up along the rooflines.
“Looks like we’ll have to hunt them down from one spot to the next,” Caldwell said.
“Maybe not . . . ,” Shaw murmured to himself.
As Dawson, Caldwell and Doc Penton nudged their horses over to the iron hitch rail out in front of the cantina, Shaw stopped his bay in the street and sat staring straight ahead like a man in a trance. He held a Winchester rifle propped up in his right hand. The butt of one big Russian Smith & Wesson stuck up from his holster; the other was shoved behind his belt.
Not a living person could be seen on the street ahead of him, only the bodies of Readling and the Johnson brothers lying bloody on the ground out in front of the adobe church.
From inside the cantina, Rafael the dwarf walked out wearing a new white linen suit, already soiled and stained from the day’s events. His left eye was black, an injury he’d received while reconciling matters with the cantina owner—the former owner now. A large cigar rode between his short fingers.
“Good day, gentlemen,” he said in English to Dawson, Caldwell and Penton as the three swung down from their saddles. “I’m Rafael, the owner here.” He spread a hand proudly toward the crumbling adobe walls and the darkened interior of his newly acquired enterprise.
“You know why we’re here,” Dawson said, not feeling like mincing words.
“I do,” said Rafael, “and I’m instructed to tell you that if you’ll ride on, no harm will come to you.” He gestured up the street with his cigar. “You may even take the wagon if you like.”
Knowing that only meant that the wagon was empty, Dawson gave the man a look. “We didn’t come here for empty wagons,” he said.
The dwarf shot a quick glance back and forth along the street. “They will kill you, senors,” he said in a guarded tone. “These men are not to be taken lightly.”
“Obliged for the advice,” Dawson said.
From the window of a closed-down saddle shop, Aldo Barry stood seething, staring out at Shaw.
“Look at the son of a bitch,” he said to Hogue, who was standing with him, his nasal twang still ringing. “Thorpe is asking a lot, not letting me kill Shaw, after what he did to me.”
“Maybe you was lucky he only mashed your snout. He’s the fastest gun alive. He could have killed you,” Hogue said to the young surly gunman.
“No, he couldn’t, not straight up,” Barry said. “If it wasn’t for Thorpe telling me not to, I’d kill Shaw right there where he’s sitting.”
Hogue said, “If I had that hard of a grudge boiling, I wouldn’t let anything Thorpe said stop me.”
Barry looked at him. “Are you saying I’m scared? Of him?”
Hogue didn’t reply. Instead he nodded toward Shaw and said, “There he is . . . Here you are. I can’t see you ever getting a better chance to make good on all your talk.”
Across the street, Silver Bones stood behind a pile of firewood alongside an abandoned blacksmith forge.
He rubbed his pained and swollen lips, feeling the gap where his front teeth had been before Shaw knocked them out with his rifle butt. He stared at Shaw and cursed under his breath.
Hearing his anger, Willis Dorphin looked at Bones and said, “I’d like to kill him myself. I know he’ll never forget what I done to him. I’ll have to watch over my shoulder the rest of my life, so long as the sumbitch is alive.”
At the hitch rail out in front of the cantina, Dawson had just started to say something to the dwarf owner when a loud thud caused Caldwell, Doc and him to spin around toward the street.
“Christ, he fell off his damn horse!” said Doc Penton, staring at Shaw, who lay in the dirt at the big bay’s hooves.
“Oh, man!” said Caldwell.
“Jesus! Not now, Shaw, of all times . . . ,” Dawson murmured to himself.
Dawson and Caldwell both hurried to Shaw, who was now pushing himself up with both palms. Doc Penton stayed at the hitch rail, his gun drawn, watching the street in both directions, knowing that something like this was all it took to spark a simmering gunfight into full flame.
“I’m all right,” Shaw said, struggling up as the two lawmen arrived at his side. He swiped them away with his dust-covered hand, turned and leaned against the bay’s side.
“You’re not all right,” said Caldwell. “You just fell off your horse.”
“With every Cut-Jaw in town watching,” Dawson added, looking all around. “These men are like wolves. If they smell blood or see a weak spot . . .”
“Back away from me,” Shaw said. “I won’t be a weak spot.”
“That’s not how I meant it,” Dawson said. He and Caldwell stepped back and gave Shaw room.
Without raising his lowered face, Shaw looked along the street, his eyes darting from one adobe storefront to the next.
At the saddle shop window, Aldo Barry watched Shaw struggling to stand upright, a hand on the bay’s side to steady himself.
“Maybe you’re right,” he said. “I might never get a better chance. He looked toward the church bell tower, where he knew Thorpe was watching. What could Thorpe really say to him, after he’d just killed the fastest gun alive? Not much . . . , he thought, smiling to himself.