City of Bad Men Read online

  “We hope it’s not going to be that way, Father,” said Dawson.

  “And this one, Larry Rápido . . . you said that he is with you?” asked the priest, gesturing at Shaw.

  Dawson stalled for a second, not wanting to give away too much about Shaw in front of strangers. “He’s not with the Cut-Jaws,” he said, sidestepping the question. “We found him along the trail like this.”

  “I see,” said the priest. “I will ask nothing more about it.” He sounded as if he understood the situation with the lawmen and Shaw. “Only by God’s grace did you come along and find this one.” He crossed himself quickly with bloody fingers.

  “What do you think, Padre?” Caldwell asked. “Is he going to be all right?”

  “Sí, he will be all right,” said the priest. “I think it is a miracle we are witnessing here. He has no broken bones. He shows no bleeding inside. I have not seen a man injured so badly, yet still in such good condition . . . even with the rocks breaking his fall,” he added, casting Caldwell a critical glance.

  Caldwell looked away, a little red-faced.

  Turning back to Shaw, the priest closely studied his face. “It troubles me that he is not yet conscious. He only barely awakened as I sewed his chin.” As he spoke he brushed his fingers along the old bullet wound across Shaw’s head.

  “He was shot there, Padre,” Dawson offered. “It hasn’t been that long. I don’t think he acts right yet because of it.”

  “I see,” the priest said wryly. “I was afraid it was where he had horns removed.”

  Caldwell gave him a look.

  But the priest gave a slight smile. “Forgive me, mis hijos ,” he said. “I should keep such dark jokes to myself—as should we all.”

  “I know this man is a gunman, Padre,” Dawson said on Shaw’s behalf, “but I’ve known him for a long time. He’s a good man.”

  The priest sighed as he stood from the side of the small bed and walked to a modest wooden cabinet. He took out a large bottle of wine and three wooden cups. “Sí, of course he is a good man,” he said a bit wryly. “Why else would he be here in this, the City of Bad Men?”

  “Not all men who come here are bad, Padre,” Dawson said.

  “No, they are not. Forgive me again.” The priest sighed. He poured red wine into the wooden cups. “It has been a long and bloody day. Too much time has passed since my last cup of wine.”

  Dawson and Caldwell reached for the wooden cups that the priest handed them. He refilled the cantina owner’s cup as well. The four raised their cups slightly in a toast and took a drink.

  “Gracias, Padre,” Dawson said for both himself and his deputy. He nodded toward Shaw. “What now?” he asked.

  “Now we must let him rest,” the priest said, “but only for a while. If he does not awaken soon, I will wake him. Perhaps with a few days’ rest he will get over his old wound as well as his many new ones.”

  “Gracias again, Padre.” This time it was Caldwell who spoke.

  Dawson nodded his thanks. “About the City of Bad Men,” he said, “how did this place ever get such a name?”

  The priest looked back and forth between the two lawmen and said, “It is not as one might think—that this was a place where bad men once came to consort. Nor was it ever a place of refuge for the kind of bad men it has come to attract these days.” He gave a thin smile. “On the contrary. Bad men had to be brought here in chains, they dreaded this place so badly.”

  “So it was once a prison?” Caldwell inferred.

  “No, Senor Undertaker,” said the priest. “It was not a prison. It was a place much worse. The conquistadors brought bad men here, not to be shown the error of their ways and be rehabilitated. They brought them here only to be tortured and killed.”

  Dawson and Caldwell nodded and sipped their wine.

  “It was a terrible place, la Ciudad de Hombres Malos,” the priest said.

  The cantina owner looked at the lawmen, then at the priest.

  “What was so terrible about that?” he asked. “Do these men not deserve to die? They kill, they rob, they destroy. They are no better than wolves, I tell you.”

  The priest considered the man’s words; then he looked at the lawmen and said, “So, tell me, what did you mean when you said you would like to put these men out of business? Do you plan to take them to jail?”

  “No, Padre,” Dawson said. “Men like these fight to the death once we get them cornered.”

  “I see,” said the priest. “But you offer them the opportunity to go to jail, instead of dying?”

  “No, Padre, I can’t say that we do,” Dawson said.

  “We have taken prisoners—” Caldwell offered in their defense.

  “But hardly ever,” Dawson interceded, cutting him short. He didn’t feel the need to justify what they did in order to please the priest.

  “Most times, we kill them,” Caldwell said flatly. He gave Dawson a look that said the marshal hadn’t allowed him to finish what he’d intended to say.

  Father Timido gave a faint smile and said, “I like lawmen who speak the truth however brutal it may be.” He raised his cup toward them as if in a toast and sipped his wine.

  “Good,” said Dawson. “I feel safe leaving our friend in your hands.”

  “I will watch over him until he is better able to ride,” he said. “The two of you can stay here also and watch for Mingus Santana. I have a feeling he is not far from here.”

  Late in the night when the shooting, music and laughter had ceased, Loonie, Ned Breck and Matt Stewart remained awake, sitting at a table in the darkened cantina. On the floor surrounding them, all the gunmen except for Buck Collins lay sleeping, some with blankets, some without. The two young whores had gone from half naked to entirely naked. They lay sleeping in a corner, along with the dwarf and the accordion player, one ragged striped blanket pulled over all four of them.

  “I don’t trust him,” Breck said. “I don’t think he’s got the sense to keep his mouth shut for long about what happened to the Fist and Tucker Cady.”

  The three studied each other’s eyes in the dim light of a thin burning candle. “Buck Collins has got to go,” Stewart whispered.

  “And go tonight,” Breck added, “for all our good.”

  “I say let’s do it right now, while he’s passed-out drunk by the fire,” said Stewart. “We’re never going to get a better chance.” As he spoke he looked through the open front door toward the flickering campfire still burning in the street.

  “Damn it,” Loonie said, “all this over an accidental shooting.”

  “Accident don’t cut nothing, Carlos,” Breck said. “You know that as well as we do.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Loonie said. With resolve he drew in a breath and said, “I’ll do the cutting.” He reached down, took a knife inside his boot well, tested its blade with his thumb and slid it back down.

  Ned Breck picked up a bottle of mescal, uncorked it and filled Loonie’s wooden cup. “Good man, Carlos,” he said quietly. “We’re all counting on you.”

  After a moment, Breck and Stewart looked at Loonie, who still sat studying the cup of mescal in his hand. Finally, Breck said, “Well . . .?”

  “Don’t rush me,” said Loonie, “I’m going. Let me finish my mescal and go relieve myself first.” He raised his cup and downed his drink in a gulp. Then he stood up and walked to the back door. The other two watched.

  “He’s going the wrong way,” Stewart whispered.

  “He said he had to use the jake first,” Breck whispered in reply.

  Out back, on a long alleyway coming into town across a stretch of barren dirt and broken rock, two riders silently guided their horses through the dim moonlight toward the cantina. They saw Loonie’s silhouette cross a well-worn path behind the cantina; they heard the creak of a privy door open and close. Careful not to be heard, they eased down from their saddles and crept forward, leading their horses.

  Inside the outhouse, Carlos Loonie finished his business
, buttoned his fly and slung his gun belt over his shoulder. But as he stepped out through the open door, the tip of a rifle barrel stuck into his ribs. He froze. What little affect the strong mescal had on him suddenly left.

  “Easy there,” he managed to say, before getting a look at the two faces in the purple night. “I don’t know who you think I am, but—”

  “You best be glad it’s only us, Carlos,” said a familiar gruff voice. The rifle barrel pulled away from his ribs.

  Loonie let out a tense breath.

  Another gruff voice said, “I hate it when he does that, don’t you?”

  Loonie looked back and forth beneath both men’s low hat brims, finally recognizing the two shadowed faces. “I—I can’t say it’s real pleasant,” he said to Thorpe.

  “But I got you, didn’t I?” Killer Cady said, his rifle still in hand.

  “You got me sure enough,” Loonie said under his breath.

  “Is everybody here and ready to ride?” Morgan Thorpe asked.

  Here was his chance to mention James Long, the Fist, without drawing suspicion, Loonie thought. “Everybody except for the Fist,” he said. “I figured we’d see him before we heard from you or Santana.”

  “You should have,” said Thorpe, sounding a little concerned. “Him and Tucker was already supposed to be out here, rounding everybody up and getting ready.”

  “You mean you haven’t seen my brother Tucker either?” Killer Cady asked.

  “No, we haven’t,” said Loonie.

  “Something ain’t right,” said Thorpe.

  “It damn sure ain’t,” said Cady. He eyed Loonie closely.

  “All I can tell you is what I know—” Loonie said with a shrug.

  Thorpe cut him short. “We’ll have to talk about it on the trail. We’ve come to gather everybody and slip out of here in the night without being noticed.”

  “Who all is here?” Cady asked, a hint of suspicion in his voice, as if he thought Loonie was hiding something from him.

  “Did you find us any new, good men?” Thorpe asked before Loonie could answer Cady’s question.

  Loonie thought about Buck Collins lying out front, passed-out drunk, and he realized he’d lost the chance to kill him in his sleep.

  “Yes, Bones and Ruiz brought along some new blood,” said Loonie. All three men began walking toward the cantina’s rear door. “I brought my cousin Cervo—he’s itching to ride with us.”

  “Good,” said Thorpe. “Where’s your horses?”

  “We tied them in an alley off the street,” said Loonie.

  “To keep them from burning?” Thorpe asked.

  “Burning . . .?” Loonie asked, confused.

  “We saw the fire in the street from all the way up the trail,” said Thorpe. “What the hell’s the deal on that?”

  Stopping at the rear door, Loonie said, “That’s our cook fire from last night. I’ll get it put out straightaway.”

  “No, leave it burning,” said Cady. “It’ll make it look like everybody’s still here.” He gave Thorpe a short, sly grin.

  “Yeah, it’s there anyway. Leave it burn,” said Thorpe, he and Cady still leading their horses. “Get in there, get everybody up and out here without any noise or lantern light.”

  “I’m on my way,” Loonie said, reaching for the door.

  “It looks like we’ve got lots to talk about once we get on the trail,” said Cady.

  Loonie ignored the veiled suspicion in Cady’s voice and walked inside the dark cantina.

  Stewart and Breck stood at the table, just about ready to come looking for Loonie.

  “Damn,” said Stewart, “we started to think you must’ve dropped your pocket watch—”

  Loonie cut him off in a whisper. “Thorpe and Killer Cady are here, right out back.”

  “Jesus, now what?” Breck asked.

  “They’re waiting for us to all slip out and ride off with them without being seen.”

  “What about this idiot?” asked Stewart, thumbing toward the fire out front where Collins lay in a drunken comma.

  “Leave the sumbitch,” said Loonie. “Nobody is going to miss him. Send everybody out the back door as you wake them up. I’ll keep them from going out front—be sure to tell them it’s how Thorpe wants it.”

  “I’d feel better if Collins was dead,” Stewart whispered.

  “So would I,” said Loonie, “but this is how it is. So let’s get going.” He thought about how Buck had forced him to trade horses earlier. He smiled to himself.

  It’s time we trade back, you lousy bastard . . . , he said to himself.

  PART 3

  Chapter 15

  In the night, Caldwell stood watch from the church’s short bell tower. He only had a partial view of the street out in front of the cantina, but it was enough to keep an eye on the fire. He also kept an eye on the edge of the alley beside the cantina, for in the shadowy darkness, he saw what he thought to be the first in a line of horses hitched along the alleyway.

  But as dawn drew upward over the horizon, a sinking feeling came to him. He watched the sleeping man by the fire continue to lie with his mouth wide-open to the silver-gray sky. He quickly climbed down a ladder from the tower and shook the blanket Dawson slept under on the stone floor.

  “Wake up, Marshal,” he said. “I think we’ve been duped.”

  As Dawson rose beneath the blanket, the cantina owner’s eyes snapped open. He still sat slumped at the wooden table where he’d fallen asleep.

  “Duped?” Dawson said sleepily.

  “There’s only one down there,” said Caldwell. “And I believe he’s dead.”

  Without another word, Dawson stood up, slung on his gun belt and climbed the ladder to the bell tower. As the two looked down over an edge toward the cantina, they saw a woman and a child emerge from an alley with bundles of supplies and belongings under their arms. They stood in the street a few feet from where Buck Collins lay sprawled in the dirt.

  “Yep, they’ve managed to slip past us,” Dawson concluded, turning back to the ladder. “Folks are already returning from the hills. They must’ve heard their horses leave in the night.”

  The two lawmen left the church and walked warily up the alley behind the cantina. With their rifles in hand, they stepped around into the side alley and saw only one horse standing hitched in the first position by the dirt street.

  Dawson slumped against a crumbling adobe wall in disappointment.

  “I’m sorry, Marshal,” said Caldwell.

  “Forget it, Deputy,” said Dawson. “I knew there was a back door. I should have been watching it.”

  They walked, still with caution, to the front of the alley. When they stepped onto the street and looked over at Buck Collins lying beside the fire, they saw the woman and her child shy back away from them. The woman gasped and crossed herself. The boy drew closer to her.

  Father Timido called out to the woman and boy as he came along the middle of the dirt street, the cantina owner beside him.

  “It is all right, these are lawmen,” he said, walking toward them, his arms spread as if to embrace the two frightened members of his flock.

  The two lawmen approached Buck Collins and looked down. Caldwell poked his rifle barrel against the outlaw’s leg.

  “He’s not dead,” he said, noticing the slightest movement of Collins’ scuffed boot.

  “He’s going to wish he was,” Dawson said, noticing that the outlaw’s left eyebrow and eyelash were missing, singed away, his face a deep glowing red from the prolonged exposure to the flames.

  “Do you recognize him?” Caldwell asked.

  “I believe it’s Wayne Collins,” said Dawson. “He’s from near Somos Santos, where I grew up. They used to call him ‘Wee-Wayne’ as I recollect.” He studied the singed face and shook his head. “He never had any sense—always rode the worst horse.”

  The two looked at the mousy misshapen horse standing at the edge of the alley. “Looks like he still does,” said Caldwell.


  The deputy stooped and pulled Collins’ six-shooter from its holster, checked it and held it in his left hand. With his rifle barrel, he poked the outlaw in the belly.

  “Wake up, Wee-Wayne Collins!” he said in a strong voice, loud enough to stir even the heaviest sleeper.

  But Collins only grunted.

  Caldwell poked him again, harder this time. Nothing.

  “Wake up, you filthy pig!” Father Timido shouted, stepping and throwing half a bucket of water on the sleeping outlaw.

  Collins spluttered and coughed; his eyes flew open wide. His hands went to his face; then he let out a loud tortured scream as he writhed and rolled back and forth in the dirt.

  “There . . . now he is awake,” the priest said with a thin, tight smile of satisfaction.

  “Holy God, my face! My face!” Collins screamed. “I’m roasted alive!” Shouting only worsened his condition, stretching his scorched face, causing him to roll harder, scream louder.

  The deputy started to reach down and hold the gyrating outlaw in place on the ground, but Dawson stopped him, saying quietly, “Give him a second, Deputy. He’s lit up something fierce.”

  “He is,” said the priest with a sigh, standing beside Dawson, the half empty bucket in hand. “And that is too bad. I wanted so badly to beat his face into the ground with my bare hands.” He clenched his fists tight just thinking about it.

  When the gunman’s screaming settled down into a terrible moan, Caldwell helped him to his feet and walked him inside the cantina. Seating the gunman at a table, the priest dipped a bar cloth into the remaining water in his wooden bucket. He handed the outlaw the wet cloth and guided it to his glowing red cheek.

  “Whe-where is everybody?” Collins asked as the cool water soothed his throbbing face.

  “They left you behind, Wee-Wayne,” Caldwell said, wanting the outlaw to know that both lawmen knew his name.

  “Wee-Wayne . . .?” Collins looked at the two, not recognizing Dawson from his childhood. “I’ve killed men for calling me less than that. My name is Buck . . . Buck Collins.” He glared at Caldwell and continued. “And nobody left me behind. They know I’d kill them if they did.”