Ride to Hell's Gate Read online

  Seeing what had likely happened, Shaw fired two quick shots. One shot hit a shovel blade with a loud twang and sent it flying out of a man’s hands. The other shot thumped into the donkey cart dangerously close to the edge where the two shots had come from. The seven men dropped to the ground for cover.

  Shaw quickly called out to them in part Spanish, part English: ‘‘Hombres. Don’t shoot, por favor! I am not one of the men who was here last night! I am an American lawman. I’m here tracking these same men!’’

  ‘‘Oh?’’ a voice called out. ‘‘Yet you come from the direction they rode away. How is that so?’’

  Shaw shook his head, and said in English, ‘‘That requires some explaining, I know. But I am tracking them. I just happened to stay on the trail toward Durango. They cut over to Rock Station to lay out the storm.’’

  A pause, then the same voice called out, ‘‘If you are a lawman americano, why are you here doing what is our government’s job?’’

  ‘‘That’s a good question,’’ Shaw said, having no short or reasonable answer at hand. ‘‘But that’s how it is. Your government and mine have me and a couple of others looking for the Barrows Brothers Gang—the ones who were doing all the shooting we heard last night, is my guess?’’

  There was another pause while the men discussed what he’d said. Then the same voice said, ‘‘If you are a lawman, where is your badge? We saw no badge when you came riding up to our town.’’

  Shaw let out a breath and shook his head again, realizing how weak his story sounded. ‘‘All right, that’s something else that requires explaining. I have a badge in my saddlebags, but I’m not allowed to show it. Neither your government nor mine will admit that I’m here with their approval.’’

  He knew it should take more than that, yet Shaw waited for a moment, and was surprised when the voice said, ‘‘Si, we understand. Stand up and keep you hands raised. We will talk more about this out of the noonday sun.’’

  ‘‘Good idea,’’ Shaw said to himself, holstering his Colt and standing slowly, his hands clearly in sight. Twenty-five yards away the seven townsmen stood up slowly, watching with wary eyes, weapons in hand. Around the corner of the donkey cart, a young man stepped into sight, holding an ancient-looking French rifle at port arms.

  ‘‘Wait!’’ said another of the seven men as Shaw walked closer, ‘‘I know of this hombre! He is a drunkard and a killer the people of Matamoros call Fast Larry!’’

  ‘‘Whoa,’’ said Shaw, seeing the man’s words cause a tenseness to set in. ‘‘I am Lawrence Shaw. But that’s nothing to get spooked over.’’ He raised his hands higher. Both horses tagged along behind him. ‘‘If any of you know Gerardo Luna, you’ll know that was his shotgun blast that I heard last night. The man carrying that gun killed Gerardo Luna. That’s partly why I’m out here, sober,’’ he emphasized, to the man who called him a drunkard and a killer.

  ‘‘You come to avenge your friend Luna?’’ the first man asked.

  ‘‘Yes, that’s part of it,’’ Shaw said, not wanting to get into what had happened to Anna Reyes Bengreen. ‘‘Luna was a friend of mine. If I wasn’t a killer I would have to be a damned fool, trailing these kind of men, now wouldn’t I?’’ He looked back and forth across the somber, distrusting faces. Less than a hundred yards behind them Rock Station stood behind a veil of wavering heat.

  After a silence, the man who had first spoken nodded and motioned for the others to lower their weapons. As they did so, he said to Shaw, ‘‘These men made a bad mistake last night. They killed Carlos Sepreano.’’

  ‘‘Carlos Sepreano . . .’’ Shaw stopped and let the name sink in. Now he realized why the Barrows had to get out of town during a sandstorm. ‘‘Some kin to Luis Sepreano, I take it?’’ he asked.

  ‘‘Si, his brother,’’ the man said. ‘‘They think no one saw them kill Carlos and his friends, but this man saw it.’’ He pointed to a thin, ragged man standing nearby.

  Shaw looked the man up and down, starting to realize that if Dawson and Caldwell were on the Barrows’ trail, there was no doubt the gang would blame the killing on the two americano lawmen to get themselves off the hook. ‘‘What is your name?’’ Shaw asked the vagrant, the man who had seen the massacre through the rear door of the cantina before crawling away.

  ‘‘I am—I am Simon,’’ the thin man said hesitantly, looking first to the others before answering. As soon as he’d answered, he stepped back as if wanting to disappear from sight.

  ‘‘You have to come with me, Simon,’’ Shaw said bluntly, as if there was no room for any further discussion of the matter.

  The thin, ragged man gave the other man a worried look and said, ‘‘I cannot go with him, Pedro! I am not able to travel! I must stay here in Rocosa Estación! Tell him I cannot go!’’

  But Pedro seemed to consider the matter as he asked Shaw, ‘‘The Barrows Gang will cause the death of more innocent men? Men like Gerardo Luna unless our new friend Simon tells Luis Sepreano what happened to his brother, Carlos?’’

  ‘‘If Redlow and Eddie Barrows can get to Luis Sepreanoand make him believe that it was us three lawmen who killed his brother, Carlos, here last night, you can bet Sepreano will have our heads on a stick for it.’’

  Pedro thought about it for a few more seconds, then said, ‘‘Yes, it is so. Luis Sepreano will kill whoever killed his brother, Carlos.’’ He turned to Simon. ‘‘That is why it is important that you ride with this man. You must seek out Luis Sepreano and tell him what happened to his brother. Sepreano will kill the men who killed not only his brother but also the men who killed Gerardo Luna. This is how things must work themselves out.’’

  ‘‘But what am I to do?’’ Simon pleaded. ‘‘I have no horse, no food, no supplies.’’

  ‘‘No mescal,’’ a voice from among the men said, causing a ripple of laughter.

  ‘‘I know how it feels to need a drink,’’ Shaw said. He gave the other men a stern look that caused them to stop laughing under their breath. ‘‘My horses need water—so do I.’’ He nodded toward Rock Station behind the men and said, ‘‘I’ll buy you some mescal if that’s what it takes to get you leveled out.’’

  ‘‘You will?’’ said Simon. He took on a different, more positive appearance. His voice even strengthened. ‘‘A whole bottle, senor?’’

  ‘‘Two whole bottles,’’ Shaw said. ‘‘More than that if you still want it after we get to where we’re going.’’

  ‘‘And just where are we going?’’ Simon asked, uncertain of what he was letting himself in for.

  ‘‘All the way to Puerta del Infierno, if we have to,’’ said Shaw.

  ‘‘To the gates of hell?’’ Simon looked apprehensive. But it appeared that Shaw’s promise of two bottles of mescal outweighed his apprehension as he rubbed his dirty hand on his trouser leg.

  ‘‘Yes, to Hell’s Gate,’’ Shaw said in all earnestness, ‘‘or until we reach Sepreano and tell him what happened here last night.’’

  Simon summoned up his courage. ‘‘If it is to the gates of hell that I must take myself, then it is to the gates of hell I will go.’’ He nodded as he looked all around at the others.

  While Simon and the others turned and walked back toward the Main Street of Rock Station, Pedro stepped forward, took the spare horse by its lead rope and walked alongside Shaw. ‘‘You will be doing this man a favor if you do not let him drink any more than it takes to keep his hand from shaking and his forehead from sweating cold sweat. For the week he has been here, he is always with a bottle in his hands. I think he is greatly troubled, this pitiful vagrant.’’

  ‘‘I understand,’’ Shaw replied, feeling his face redden a bit in reflection. ‘‘I’ve been through all that myself.’’

  PART 3

  Chapter 18

  Dawson and Caldwell approached the small village of Agua Cubo with caution, knowing the Barrows Gang had to have stopped there to water their horses less than five hours before. On a sandy ridg
e a thousand yards away, Caldwell lay prone on the hot ground and scanned back and forth along the narrow dusty street with a long, brass-clad telescope.

  ‘‘Any sign of them?’’ Dawson asked. He sat stooped on his boot heels behind Caldwell, the reins and lead rope to the horses in hand.

  ‘‘Only the tracks they left riding in,’’ Caldwell said without taking his eye from the lens. Out front of the village cantina, a hefty man sat with a bloody bandanna pressed to his forehead. The door of the cantina lay broken in the street. Discarded food, empty bottles and remnants of broken furniture lay strewn everywhere. ‘‘It looks like they helped themselves and moved on.’’

  Dawson looked back impatiently along the trail and said, ‘‘Shaw should be catching up to us by now. We need to make a move on this bunch before they align with Sepreano’s men.’’

  Caldwell scanned his lens past the village and along the trail headed west. The fresh tracks wound out of sight across the sand, upward into an endless stretch of hills. ‘‘They’re gone. I see no need for us roasting out here waiting for Shaw when we could be cooling ourselves and resting these horses in some shade.’’

  ‘‘Yeah,’’ Dawson said, standing, squinting down at the wavering heat surrounding Agua Cubo, ‘‘let’s ride down. I’m giving Shaw a little longer, and then we’re getting back onto their trail. I don’t want to risk another windstorm wiping out their tracks. We were lucky yesterday. But sooner or later luck can turn on you.’’

  ‘‘I hope it hasn’t turned on Shaw,’’ Caldwell said. He collapsed the telescope between his gloved palms, stood up and dusted himself off with his hat.

  Dawson handed Caldwell his reins, but kept the lead rope to the two spare horses. Caldwell slipped the telescope into a long leather case and shoved the case down onto his saddlebags. Stepping up into his saddle, he followed Dawson and the spare horses down a long, steep hillside of loosely spilling sand.

  Across a stretch of flatlands dotted with cactus, tarbush and mesquite, they followed the Barrows’ tracks onto the narrow street and headed toward a stone well out front of the ransacked cantina. When the owner of the cantina had stopped the two riders and the spare horses coming into Agua Cubo, he’d put away his blood-spotted bandanna, run inside and returned with a long club in hand.

  ‘‘I have had all I can stand of you gringos ladrones y criminales! By thunder, this time I will pound you into the dirt!’’

  ‘‘Hold it right there,’’ Dawson said in a strong tone, holding up a hand to stop the man before he stepped toward them. ‘‘We’re not thieves and criminals, Mister. We’re tracking the men who did all this.’’ He swept a hand along the littered street. A skinny dog lifted its muzzle, licked cornmeal from its nose and stared curiously at the two lawmen.

  ‘‘All of you gringos are the same!’’ the man raged, waving the club above his head. Yet he made no move forward. ‘‘You take whatever suits you. You pay nothing to the man who works to earn his keep!’’

  As the cantina owner spoke, townsfolk ventured into sight as if from out of nowhere. They gathered close, yet at a safe distance from the armed Americans. One of the men stepped out from the others and said to the cantina owner, ‘‘Be quiet, Phillipi. These men are not the ones who treated you badly.’’

  ‘‘They are gringos. They are all the same,’’ the man repeated insistently, dismissing the matter.

  ‘‘No,’’ said the townsman shaking his head, ‘‘if they were those kind of men, they would have shot you down and already taken what they want from you.’’ He looked up at Dawson and Caldwell and said, ‘‘Pay no attention to him. He has suffered much abuse at the hands of those men.’’ He gestured a hand out along the tracks leading across the sand flats to the distant hills.

  ‘‘I understand,’’ said Dawson, he and Caldwell keeping an eye on the angry cantina owner. ‘‘We came here only for water, for us and our animals.’’ As he spoke he reached into his vest and pulled up two gold coins. ‘‘We pay for our food and drink.’’ He gazed toward the cantina owner and rubbed the coins together. ‘‘We don’t take anything without paying for it, comprende?’’

  The cantina owner hesitated, running a hand back over his bruised and cut forehead and through his thinning hair. Finally he nodded stiffly. ‘‘Si, comprendo,’’ he said. ‘‘I must ask you to overlook my lack of hospitality. It has been a trying day—’’

  ‘‘We understand,’’ Dawson said cutting his apology short. ‘‘The quicker we can water our horses and get some food and water in our bellies, the quicker we can get after the men who did this to you.’’

  ‘‘Step down, and welcome to you, mi amigos,’’ said the cantina owner, his eyes going back to the gold coins in Dawson’s hand. ‘‘If I were a younger man, I would ride with you myself. I would take my revenge on these sons of pigs for what they did to my beautiful Cantina de Flores.’’

  Dawson and Caldwell stepped down from their saddles and led all four horses to the town well. Dawson looked his cream-colored Barb over well while the big horse snorted, shook sand from its black mane and stuck its muzzle into a horse trough beside the well’s surrounding stone wall.

  While the horses took water, Dawson and Caldwell drank from a gourd lying atop the stone wall and filled their canteens for the trail ahead. When the animals had drunk their fill, the two lawmen fed each one with a handful of grain from a small bag among the supplies. Then the two walked into the cantina and stood at the bar, where the owner had set a bottle of rye whiskey and two glasses.

  ‘‘To cut the desert dust from your throats, eh?’’ the cantina owner said with a grin.

  ‘‘Gracias,’’ said Dawson. He lifted the glass to his lips and tossed back the shot.

  Caldwell raised his glass and did the same. But as he swallowed, he noted a slight bitterness and caught a faint, unpleasant scent arising from the shot glass. ‘‘Oh no,’’ he said, turning to Dawson who stood with the same stunned look on his face. ‘‘We’ve been poisoned!’’

  They both turned in time to see the cantina owner disappear out the back door, leaving it batting back and forth on its hinges. Caldwell drew his Colt and tried running toward the door. But Dawson only stood clutching the bar edge, watching him as if the whole thing had begun turning into a dream.

  Caldwell’s legs fell limply out from under him as each step crumpled him toward the floor. ‘‘Wait up, Jed,’’ Dawson tried to call out to him. Yet his own voice sounded strange and distant to him. He swung his head back and forth, hoping to clear it. He turned backward to the bar, bracing himself with both hands along the edge, his feet spread to try to balance himself in the swaying cantina.

  Looking toward the front door as he felt his consciousness being drawn farther and farther down a swirling black hole, Dawson saw the cantina owner, who had run out the back door, suddenly step inside, followed by Leo Fairday, Drop the Dog Jones, Billy Elkins and a famed Texas assassin named Deacon Kay.

  ‘‘Well, well,’’ Fairday said with a cruel grin, the four men spreading out, their guns still in their holsters, ‘‘you did a damned fine job for us, Phillipi. I expect we won’t have to kill your esposa after all.’’

  ‘‘Por favor, let her go now,’’ the cantina owner pleaded, casting a remorseful look at Dawson and at Caldwell. ‘‘May God forgive me for what I have done.’’

  ‘‘God don’t forgive nobody for nothing, you horse’s ass,’’ Leo said bitterly. ‘‘You’re wife is in the stone building out back. Better take a knife—we had to hog tie her. She wasn’t a lot of fun.’’

  Phillipi hurried across the floor again, and once again out the back door. On the dirt floor, Caldwell, his eyes out of focus, tried to raise himself up onto his knees. His gun wobbled back and forth until it fell from his hand. At the bar Dawson sank to his knees, one hand still clinging to the bar edge, his right hand reaching limply for his gun butt.

  ‘‘Come on, Dawson boy! Draw that smoker! I know you can do it!’’ Fairday teased.

  Drop the
Dog Jones drew his big LeMat pistol and pointed it at Dawson just in case. ‘‘Don’t go goading him into shooting us,’’ he said to Fairday.

  ‘‘Put that gun away, Dog,’’ Fairday laughed. ‘‘He’s done for.’’ He stepped over to where Dawson, clinging to the bar with one hand, kneeled. ‘‘Hear that, Dawson? You’re done for,’’ said Fairday. He reached a boot out and kicked Dawson’s hand away from his Colt. ‘‘Just so’s you know, it was me who killed you both. I had Phillipi put enough poison in that rye to kill a full-grown bull elk. How’s dying treating you?’’ he asked in a devilish voice, wearing the same cruel grin.

  Dawson struggled, feeling himself sink farther and farther away. ‘‘Leo Fairday . . . You son—you son of—son of a—’’

  ‘‘So long, Dawson. I sure loved watching you die,’’ said Fairday.

  Drop the Dog, who had slipped his gun back in its holster, grinned at Leo as Dawson fell the rest of the way to the floor. ‘‘You sure don’t let up on a fellow, do you, Leo?’’ he said.

  ‘‘Hell no,’’ said Leo, ‘‘not this one especially. He’s caused me more trouble than any one man ought to go through. This son of a bitch!’’ He gave Dawson a kick and spit down on him. ‘‘Throw them both over their saddles. Let’s go show Redlow and Eddie how smooth this went.’’ He looked back down at Dawson again with a grin and said, ‘‘Big tough lawmen, Cray Dawson and his deputy. I took them both to the ground without so much as a whimper.’’

  With the two horses watered and the canteens refilled, Shaw and Simon Campeon left Rock Station and cut across a line of low rocky hills to Agua Cubo. By the time they had arrived, the afternoon sun had begun to simmer low and red on the western horizon. Looking the town over well from a distance, they rode onto the street of the small, dusty village. As Shaw thought about the bottle of rye in his saddlebags, he turned to the thin, pale man riding beside him and asked, ‘‘How are you holding up, Simon?’’