City of Bad Men Page 3

  Wilcox said, “We mean, that is, if you think we’d all get along, not crowd one another or otherwise I—I—I—I!” His words turned into a shriek as Shaw’s big Colt staked up toward him and fired.

  “Lord God!” Ruiz shouted, falling back against the bar, Wilcox right beside him. The lone barman who’d left the cantina earlier had rushed back in through the open door, his rifle raised to his shoulder.

  Shaw’s shot picked the rifleman up and slammed him backward beside the door. He sank down the rough adobe wall, leaving a wide bloody trail behind him.

  Again Shaw’s Colt leveled toward Ruiz, smoke curling up from the barrel. “Friend of yours?” he asked in a soft but menacing tone.

  “No! No, he’s not,” said Ruiz, his eyes growing wide again. “I swear he’s not with us. We don’t know him! We had nothing to do with this.”

  Shaw said, “I’d hate to think that you two were setting me up, ensuring that he’d catch me off guard.”

  “No, sir!” Wilcox cut in. “Like Ruiz said, we had nothing to do with—”

  “They’re telling you the truth,” said one of the well-dressed men, who’d stood up from the rear corner table and begun walking forward. “I believe this man intended to kill me. It was his misfortune to run into you first.”

  “Oh?” Shaw looked at him, letting the barrel of his Colt tip upward. “And who might you be?” he asked, seeing the other man had also stood up and walked toward him. Both men stopped and stood facing him, and Shaw looked them up and down.

  “I’m Howard D. Readling, sir,” the first man said, “of Readling Mining and Excavation Enterprises, among other things.”

  Readling grinned with perfect white teeth, taking off a new-looking black bowler hat and holding it at his chest. In spite of his finely polished demeanor, Shaw detected a hardness to the man, a trait not uncommon among the wealthy elite. He noted a bone-handled nickel-plated Remington sitting in a shoulder rig at Readling’s left arm under his opened black suit coat.

  “I couldn’t help hearing this fellow call you Fast Larry Shaw?” he said, turning his statement into a question.

  Shaw only nodded. He looked at the second man, who now stood off to one side, as was the custom of most hired bodyguards he’d known.

  Noticing the questioning look on Shaw’s face, Readling introduced his companion. “This well-armed gentleman is Willis Dorphin, my personal assistant.” To Dorphin he said, “Say hello to Mr. Shaw, Big T.”

  Big T . . . , Shaw said to himself, recognizing the man’s name right away.

  “Mr. Dorphin to you,” the broad-shouldered man said to Shaw, as if he’d heard his thoughts. “Only my best friends call me Big T. He tried to appear unimpressed by the shooting he’d witnessed only moments earlier.

  Shaw let it go. He knew that part of Dorphin’s job was to keep his boss thinking he was the best protection money could buy. “Mr. Dorphin,” he said with another nod.

  To keep himself and Charlie Ruiz from being left out of the conversation, Ollie Wilcox cut in, saying innocently, “Is that Dorphin, like the big fish?”

  “What?” Dorphin stared coldly at him.

  Ruiz rolled his eyes slightly and looked away, embarrassed. In opening his mouth, Wilcox had made a fool of himself.

  “You know, Dorphin?” Wilcox plodded on, making his blunder even worse, “like the big fish with the pointed nose?”

  “My name is Dorphin, you foot-licking idiot,” the big gunman lashed at him, “not Dolphin.” He glared at Wilcox with fire and venom in his fierce eyes.

  “Pardon my mistake, Mr. Dorphin,” said Wilcox. The inept gunman slinked backward along the edge of the bar like a scared hound.

  “Damn ignorant rube,” Dorphin grumbled under his breath, tearing his hard stare away from Wilcox. He wore a black leather glove on his left hand. His right hand was bare, Shaw noted, seeing the glove shoved down behind his gun belt. He also saw the tied-down holster on the big gunman’s hip, housing a black-handled Colt, similar to his own.

  To defuse what Ollie Wilcox had clumsily managed to turn into a dangerous situation, Shaw moved his eyes and attention to Howard Readling, who stood watching intently. “Tell me, then, Mr. Readling, why would this man want to kill a wealthy fellow like yourself?” Shaw questioned.

  Dorphin said quickly, “That’s none of your damned business—”

  But Readling cut him off, saying, “Come now, Big T. Mr. Shaw was gracious enough to spare us both from having to kill this man.” He smiled affably and gestured toward the smear of blood running down the wall beside the door. “I believe he deserves an answer.”

  Shaw spooned beans into his mouth and gave a slight shrug. He felt his patience begin to wear thin. “Not if it’s inconvenient,” he said.

  “Nonsense. It’s no inconvenience at all,” said Readling. He looked at Dorphin and said, “Why don’t you be a good personal assistant and see to it I have a full glass in my hand while I’m speaking to Mr. Shaw? Hail us a bottle and glasses.”

  Dorphin caught the threat in Readling’s stern, brittle look. “Yes, sir,” he said obediently, and backed away, his gun hand resting atop the bar. “Bartender,” he called out, “three glasses and a fresh bottle, pronto.”

  Wilcox and Ruiz looked at each other, unsure of where they stood now that Readling and his bodyguard had entered the scene. They both searched Shaw for an answer. He gave them a nod that directed them to the other end of the bar, and they made their way across the room. Once there, Wilcox cursed under his breath.

  “Damn Esconza’s hide, he got us into this mess, then went and got himself killed,” he said.

  “How long are we going to stay here kowtowing to Fast Larry?” Ruiz asked in a whisper. “If the rest of the Cut-Jaws ever hear about this, we’ll be in a tight spot for sure.”

  Wilcox stared at him coldly. “We’re in a tight spot right now, in case you haven’t noticed,” he whispered. “I was hoping to get Shaw to ride off with us—catch him unawares and bash his head in. Now we’ll just have to hope another chance doesn’t pass us by.”

  The two stopped whispering when they looked down the bar and saw Shaw’s piercing eyes sweep across them, as if he’d heard every word.

  “Unawares? Jesus,” Ruiz whispered, tightening his grip around the shot glass in his hand. “Did I miss something here, or did you?” He glanced at the blood on the wall, the floor and out on the street, where heel marks were left behind from the bodies being dragged away.

  “All right,” Wilcox conceded, “he’s fast. He’s deadly. But did you get a look deep in his eyes the way I did?”

  “Evidently I did not,” said Ruiz.

  “Well, if you had,” said Wilcox, “you’d seen that he’s not all here.”

  Not all here . . . ? Ruiz jerked his head around and gave Wilcox an incredulous look. Above them Shaw’s gun smoke still loomed on the ceiling. “If he ain’t all here, I hope to hell I’m gone before the rest of him shows up.”

  As Shaw finished his food and washed it down with a drink of whiskey, Readling stood close by his side and spoke in a guarded but straightforward manner. “A wealthy man who doesn’t have people wanting to kill him must not have his whole heart in making his fortune, Shaw.”

  “I understand,” Shaw said. He looked down the bar at Ruiz and Wilcox. They were trying hard to listen, but Shaw could tell they weren’t hearing much of the conversation.

  With a smug grin Readling continued quietly. “The man you killed is a paid assassin by the name of Karl Herstadt, known as ‘the Hun.’ Perhaps you’ve heard of him?”

  “I might have . . . .” Shaw gave a short shrug, wanting to hear more. Of course he’d heard of Herstadt—he was no saddle tramp or local thug. He’d made his living killing for top dollar among the business elite.

  “You might have heard of him?” Dorphin cut in, sounding irritated. “Herstadt ‘the Hun’ just happens to be one of the most dangerous gunman on either side of this planet.”

  “Not anymore,” Shaw said
flatly. He nodded at the smear of blood Herstadt had left down the wall beside the door.

  Readling chuckled and said, “Quite true, Mr. Shaw.” Then he turned a sharp look to Dorphin. The bodyguard took the warning in his employer’s eyes and settled down to his glass of whiskey.

  “You must understand,” Readling said to Shaw, “Mr. Dorphin was looking forward to killing the Hun for me.” He flashed a white, smug grin. “We even spoke of a bonus for his efforts. But you beat him to it.”

  “Another second and I would have killed him myself, make no mistake on that,” Dorphin said grudgingly, brooding over his whiskey glass.

  Shaw wondered why a man like Readling tolerated so much directness from his hired help. But he made no comment on the matter.

  “Be that as it may,” said Readling, dismissing Dorphin’s remarks, “former business acquaintances of mine paid the Hun to kill me, Mr. Shaw. Now that he’s dead, I can expect there will be others hired to do the same.”

  “Sounds like a tough business you’re in,” Shaw said quietly.

  “Amassing a great fortune on a wild frontier isn’t a gentle game,” said Readling.

  “I never supposed it to be,” Shaw said.

  Readling studied his face for a moment, then said with resolve, “Allow me to speak freely. I need a man like you, Shaw.”

  Shaw cut a glance to Dorphin as the gunman grumbled and looked away. “You already have a man like me, Readling,” Shaw said. “You’ve got Big T here.”

  “That’s true. I have Big T, and I have access to many others just like him,” said Readling. “But I need more men like you and him for a project I’m venturing forward.” He paused and then said in the same guarded tone, “I recently purchased a gold mining facility from the French. As soon as I arrive at the mine, the French will pull out their soldiers and I’ll be responsible for my own security. Of course, the Mexican government have committed to providing federales until I have adequate security in place.”

  “Watch your words,” Shaw said cautiously, a warning that reminded Readling of Ruiz and Wilcox, who were still struggling to hear whatever they could.

  Readling lowered his voice and went on to say, “The mining operation is up above San Simon, near the city of Hombres Malos.”

  “City of Bad Men,” Shaw translated.

  “Yes, are you familiar with the area?” Readling asked.

  “Well enough,” Shaw said. He gave a dismissing shrug, seeing Dorphin turn and stare at him coldly.

  “How well?” Readling asked.

  “Well enough not to buy anything the French offered to sell me there,” Shaw replied, “even with the Mexican government providing security.”

  Readling only smiled slightly, then said, “I didn’t ask you what investments I should or should not purchase. If you worked for me your job would be to look after my personal safety. Put yourself and your Colt between me and men like the Hun when the time comes.”

  Shaw considered it. He looked down the bar at Ruiz and Wilcox. Santana would find out that the mine was changing hands, if he hadn’t heard it already. It was the sort of situation men like Santana and his Cut-Jaws lived for—catching a mining operation short on guards.

  “I appreciate your offer, Readling,” Shaw said. “But I’m not looking for work.”

  “What are you looking for, then, if I may be so bold as to ask?” Readling questioned.

  Shaw wasn’t about to tell him that he already had a job, that he carried a deputy marshal’s badge inside his clothes. Instead he said, “All I’m looking for right now is a good night’s sleep and a fresh start in the morning.”

  “A man with your talent . . .?” Readling looked shocked. “I can’t accept that you’re turning me down. I need your gun skill and I’m willing to pay you top dollar for it.”

  “Would I make the same as Big T?” Shaw asked. “Would I have to take orders from him?”

  Dorphin snapped an even colder stare at Shaw.

  “You’d both be on the same level,” said Readling. “You’d take orders directly from me—no one else.”

  “Same level, same pay?” Shaw asked.

  “Yes, for a man with your reputation,” said Readling. He eyed Dorphin. “I’ll pay you what I pay Big T.” He looked Shaw up and down, waiting for an answer. “What say you, sir?”

  “I’ll think about it,” Shaw replied.

  “You’ll think about it?” Readling seemed a little put off by Shaw’s attitude.

  “We’re headed in the same direction—toward the City of Bad Men,” Shaw said. “Our trails will be crossing plenty along the way.”

  “So if you decide to take my offer you’ll let me know at your convenience?” Readling asked, frustration in his voice.

  “That’s right,” said Shaw. “I’ll let you know.”

  “I don’t do business that way, Shaw,” Readling said, his countenance stiffening, a hard edge coming to the corner of his eyes.

  “I do,” Shaw said calmly.

  “Putting people off is bad business. It won’t make you many friends, Shaw,” Readling said.

  “Oh . . .?” Shaw caught the slightest warning in the man’s tone. He glanced down the bar at Ruiz and Wilcox, then back to Readling and said, “I’ve been in town less than an hour, and I’ve had two job offers.”

  Chapter 3

  “After you, men,” Shaw said, ushering Charlie Ruiz and Ollie Wilcox out the cantina door ahead of him. Readling and Dorphin watched the two outlaws gather their horses from the hitch rail and lead them away, down the dusty street toward the town well.

  Dorphin said to Readling, “It’s just as well if he doesn’t join us, sir. The Johnson brothers will be here most any time—Doc Penton too. There’s plenty of damn good gunmen looking for work these days.”

  “Yes,” Readling agreed in a stiff tone, turning back to his drink sitting on the bar, “but they’re not Lawrence Shaw, are they, Big T?”

  “They may not be the fastest gun alive,” Dorphin said in a critical voice. “But truth be known, neither is Shaw.”

  Readling gave him a hard icy stare. “Do I look like a fool, Big T? Do you take me for some sort of imbecile?”

  “Well, no—no, sir,” Dorphin stammered. “I only meant—” He tried to explain himself, but Readling cut him off.

  “Do you suppose I actually believe there is such a man—the fastest gun alive?” he asked, his voice growing heated.

  “No, indeed, sir,” Dorphin said stoically. “We both know there is no such man. It’s just something to call a man like Shaw, who is—”

  “Somewhere, every gunman has a bullet with his name on it,” said Readling, cutting him off again, “the same way every businessman has a charge he must answer for someday.”

  “Of course,” Dorphin said, agreeing in order to placate his employer.

  Readling fell silent. After a moment of dark contemplation, he said, “As soon as Penton and the Johnson brothers arrive, you come tell me.” He clasped a hand around a bottle of rye. “Until then, I’ll be in my room with the woman.” He gave Dorphin a level stare. “I don’t want to be disturbed.”

  “Yes, sir,” Dorphin said. He watched as his employer swung away from the bar with a knowing wink and walked out the front door.

  Walking along the dirt street, Shaw had made it a point to stay behind the two gunmen. Noting a tense silence, Wilcox said over his shoulder, “Where are you taking us, Shaw? Are you still thinking about riding with us? If you are, you’re going to have to learn to trust us behind your back.”

  When Shaw didn’t answer, the two slowed and looked behind them. They saw him standing ten yards back in the street, staring aimlessly toward the hotel.

  “What the hell . . .?” said Ruiz, his hand going almost to his gun butt.

  “Don’t try it, Charlie,” Wilcox whispered, “not yet. He’s got eyes in the back of his head and the speed of a rattlesnake.”

  “I know it,” said Ruiz, letting out a breath.

  Shaw stood swayi
ng slightly. But as the two gunmen watched him, he caught himself and shook his head as if to set his mind back in motion again.

  “Shaw?” Wilcox called out. “Are you all right back there?”

  Shaw turned as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened and walked on to where they stood waiting, their horses’ reins in hand. “Yeah, I’m all right,” Shaw said.

  “We need to know, Shaw,” said Wilcox, “are you going to ride with us Cut-Jaws?”

  “I’m still thinking about it,” Shaw said, walking right between the two and on to the well.

  “Still thinking about it . . .?” Ruiz said to Wilcox. The two looked at each other and followed along behind Shaw. Only moments before, it had seemed Shaw wasn’t about to turn his back to the two; now it appeared as if he couldn’t care less.

  “You heard him,” said Wilcox. He looked at the hotel, then back at Ruiz with a bewildered shrug.

  At the well, Shaw saw the livery boy filling a large wooden bucket to carry back to the barn. As the boy lifted the bucket, Shaw stepped forward and handed him a gold coin. “Bring my horse to me, por favor,” he said.

  “Sí, I bring him right away, senor,” the boy replied, hurrying his pace as he shoved the coin inside his loose ragged shirt.

  While Ruiz and Wilcox began watering their horses, Shaw watched a sheet of dust billow up and drift sidelong, revealing four riders making their way into town at an easy gallop. When they slowed their horses to a walk, they looked Shaw and the other two over and made their way on to the iron hitch rail out in front of the cantina.

  Having seen the four riders step down from their horses, Dorphin turned and said to the bartender, “Set up four whiskey glasses for my associates, and bring in a tall drink of milk from your cocina.”

  “Leche?” said the bartender, sounding surprised that a man might want milk when there was plenty of whiskey at hand. He quickly pulled four glasses from under the bar and stood them next to Dorphin’s bottle.

  “Yes, milk, and make it quick,” said Dorphin.