Lawman from Nogales (9781101544747) (2 page)

“Holy God—!” the Kid started to shout, trying to swing the shotguns down at the Ranger in time. But he didn't get the words out of his mouth. Nor did he get both shotguns cocked before the Ranger's bullet sliced through his heart, blowing part of it out his back. It thumped onto the stone steps behind him. A smear of blood and fragments of dark muscle matter streaked upward, as if pointing toward the ornate bordello doors.

As the Kid fell, the single shotgun he'd managed to cock flew backward, hit the stones and exploded in a blue-orange streak, peppering two iron-trimmed oak doors that marked the entrance of Beautiful Dreams. Splinters flew from the doors.

Atop the steps, a young prostitute who had been watching felt the sting of splinters nip at her bare shoulder. She had screamed, dropped the black cigar she'd been smoking and vanished inside behind one of the partially open doors.

From that day to this, Sam had followed the gang's tracks along stretches of sandy beach, through forests of cedar and pine, across wavering desert flats and down rocky hillsides.

And now to Wild Roses . . . , he told himself. Beneath him, the copper dun kept a brisk pace in spite of the fiery heat rising with the beat of its hooves on the burning sand.

 

From the hayloft above a plank-and-adobe livery barn, a young, red-haired Scots-Irish woman named Erin Donovan gazed out at the approaching Ranger atop the copper-colored dun. The dun's black stockings and matching mane and tail took on a sheen of silvery sand as dust rose and drifted behind it.

“It is him,” she murmured quietly, knowing that her brother, Bram, lay unconscious on a blanketed pallet of straw in a corner behind her. Her brother had spent another bad night shivering and rambling out of his head. Throughout the heat of the day, he had remained unconscious, sweating heavily, which the doctor had said was the best thing for him.
That, and plenty of clean, cool water
, she reminded herself, to help wash the venom from his system.

She continued to gaze out at the lone rider on the coppery, black-point dun, watching him stop more than a hundred yards from town, draw a rifle from his saddle boot, check it and lay it across his lap. All the while he stared toward Wild Roses as if he could see her—as if he was looking into her eyes deep enough to see the edges of her soul.

Nonsense. Stop it
, she scolded herself. Her life had neither the time nor the space for such farm girl romanticism. Still, her gaze lingered on the Ranger, staring as she might under different circumstances, as if he were some dusty cavalier, some king's knight in armor come to save her.

Yet these were not different circumstances, she thought, taking a quick glance over her shoulder as her brother moaned under his shallow breath and lay drenched in sweat. There was no changing her situation, and there were no knights, no dashing horsemen riding in her direction. There was only her and her brother, Bram. Both were wanted by the law in Texas—and here came a lawman. One who would do them dirt? she wondered.

Had Bram not stumbled upon a large desert rattlesnake a week ago, they would have vanished with the Torres brothers and lived under the protection of the Gun Killers' fierce reputation until Texas had forgotten them both.

Unfortunately, that was not to be the case. The snakebite in Bram's ankle had changed everything. Instead of taking shelter with the Gun Killers, poor Bram lay locked in a life-and-death struggle, snake venom coursing through his veins, and after only one robbery.

The Torres brothers had left them here—all of them apart from the wild-eyed gunman Matten Page. Page had stayed behind to kill the Ranger when he arrived. At least that was what the Torres brothers had ordered him to do. It appeared to Erin that his greatest interest was trying to catch her alone with no way out of a room except past him.

She looked back out at the rider and the drift of dust he and his black-point dun had left trailing them. Speaking of Page, it was time for her to go to the cantina and tell him the Ranger was here. After all, that was her job—that was what she'd promised to do.

She stood up to leave the loft, but instead of turning away and climbing down the ladder, she lingered at the open door, staring out at the Ranger as he and the dun drew closer to the edge of Wild Roses.

“What do you see out there, little darling?” the voice of Matten Page said behind her.

She spun around with a start and saw him step up off the ladder and walk toward her.

“Oh!” she said, collecting herself quickly. “I was just on my way to find you!”

“It didn't look that way to me,” Page said, a harsh expression on his bearded face. He stopped close to her, stooped a little and gazed out toward the lone rider nearing the edge of town.

“I—I think this might be him,” she said quietly.

“I think you just might be right, little darling,” Page replied, studying the rider closely.

Erin stared in silence.

Page straightened, turned to her and looked her up and down, as he did at every opportunity. He always stood too close to her, and his eyes always watched her in a manner that made her feel uncomfortable.

Sidling almost against her, Page said, “I hate thinking what would have happened had he walked in on me with the repeating rifle and caught me unawares.”

Erin only gazed out, avoiding Page's eyes. The outlaw reached over with a dark chuckle and pushed a strand of long red hair from her cheek with his fingertip.

“You weren't going to leave me in a lurch, were you, little darling?” he asked. “After all I've done for you and your snakebit brother?”

“No, Mr. Page,” she said, “I wasn't going to do that. I was on my way to tell you—”

“
Shhh
, of course you were,” Page said, cutting her off with a flat grin. “How many times do I have to tell you? Call me Matten.” He reached a hand out behind her and let it rest at the small of her back. Her skin crawled at his touch.

To detract his attention from her, she nodded out at the approaching Ranger.

“What are you going to do if that is him?” she asked.

Page grinned and gave a quick glance out the loft door and back to her.

“Oh, I'll just walk down there, put a bullet or two in him before he even knows I'm there.” He leaned close and breathed against her ear, “Then I'll get myself right back up here . . . to you.” His hand tightened a little above the curve of her hips. “How does that sound?”

Erin couldn't answer, for a hard knot had suddenly risen in her throat. Her silence caused the outlaw to chuckle knowingly.

“You stay right here for me,” he said. “I'll be back shortly, to take up where we left off.” He gave a squeeze on the small of her back before turning her loose.

My goodness
, she thought. How would she ever shed herself of such dire circumstances?

Chapter 2

The Ranger wore a faded black bandanna tied back over his head, the tails knotted and hanging on the back of his neck, beneath a battered brown vaquero
-
style sombrero. He wore a faded dark-striped poncho that flapped low and steadily in the hot dry wind. As he rode forward, he eyed the few horses standing at the iron hitch rails of the Perros Malos Cantina.

Two doves from the cantina had stepped out onto the boardwalk to greet the Ranger when he rode up the center of the street. The older of the two, an American from Chicago named Glory Embers, fluffed her hair with her fingertips and wet her painted red lips.

“This one is mine first, Tereze,” the older dove said.

The younger dove, a raven-haired French-Mexican beauty, Sidel Tereze, only stared with a smile, a hand planted confidently on her rounded hip.

When they saw the Ranger turn the black-point dun to the opposite side of the street before stopping and stepping down, though, both women recognized trouble. He raised his Colt from his holster, checked it and held it down his side.

“Damn it, never mind, Tereze,” Glory whispered to the younger dove beside her. “You'd best go tell the Frenchman that a gunman has come to Wild Roses.”

The younger prostitute only turned and stared at her with uncertainty.

“Go and tell him
now
!” the older woman insisted in a stronger tone. “Henri will know what to do.”

Sam watched as the younger woman turned and hurried back inside the cantina from across the dusty stone-tiled street.

Sam knew the reputation of the Perros Malos—Bad Dogs—Cantina and its French owner, Henri “Three-Hand” Defoe. He unhurriedly laid the horse's reins over the hitch rail and examined the animal a little, making sure the young woman had plenty of time to tell Defoe he was here. Then he peeled off his fingerless right leather glove, stuffed it down behind his gun belt, turned and walked across the empty street.

Glory Embers stepped forward and gave him a welcoming smile, hoping to stall him long enough for Tereze to get to the Frenchman and warn him.

“Hello, stranger,” she called out from a few feet away. “Care to buy a thirsty gal a drink?”

Sam realized what she was doing and didn't slow his pace.

“Not today, ma'am. I'm here on business,” he said, gazing straight ahead.

Glory had started to move in closer, but gauging his demeanor, she decided it was best to keep her distance.

All right.
She shrugged as he walked past her toward the cantina's open front doors. She had done what the Frenchman expected from any of his girls. She had sent Tereze to warn him. She drifted cautiously to the side as the Ranger walked into the cooler shade of the cantina.

At the far end of the bar, Sam set eyes on the younger woman. Beside her stood Henri “Three-Hand” Defoe, who stuck a large, fresh cigar between his teeth and tried to look as if he hadn't been caught by surprise. Behind the bar, a bald, thick-necked bartender hurriedly lowered a sawed-off shotgun down out of sight, thinking no one had witnessed the move.

From the stony look on Sam's face, Henri's smile faded away. He decided quickly that there was no room for pretense.

“Well, well,
monsieur
,” Defoe said with a trace of a French accent. “The little lady here tells me you stood your cayuse all the way across the street. I've never known that to be a friendly gesture. . . .” He let his words trail. He held his hand to his cigar, keeping his other arm hanging loosely down the side of his long, tan swallow-tailed coat.

“Especially when we have so much room for your horse out front,” he said, giving a nod toward the half-empty cantina.

Sam didn't reply. Instead he stopped less than ten feet away and stared at the big, dapper Frenchman.

“Tell your bartender to take his hands up away from the hogleg,” he said bluntly. “I'm not here looking for either of you.”

“Oh?” The Frenchman eyed him up and down, noting the big Colt hanging in the Ranger's right hand, beneath the edge of his dusty poncho. “And who might you be here looking for?”

“We'll get to that,” said Sam. He cut a sharp sidelong glance at the bartender.

“Freddie,” Defoe said without taking his eyes from the Ranger, “bring your hands into sight. You make the gentleman uncomfortable.”

“Whatever you say, boss,” said the bartender, Fred Loopy. He let down the shotgun hammers, set the gun on a lower shelf and brought his thick hands up slowly, resting them along the bar's edge. He stared at Sam with a sour expression.

Defoe gave a shrug and a flat, mirthless grin. His curly black hair hung damp on his sweaty forehead.

“These are dangerous times in which we live, eh,
monsieur
,” he said to Sam. “A man must always prepare to protect himself and his chattels—”

“I'm looking for the Torres brothers and any of their Gun Killers,” Sam said, cutting him off. As he spoke, he let his gaze move about the cantina. Men were staring from the far end of the bar, from three tables along a wall and from a half-open side door where a man stood with an arm around a woman's waist.

“As you see,
monsieur,
” Defoe said with the same flat grin, “no one shoots you and no one runs for the door. The Perros Malos is a beacon of light in this harsh Mexican frontier.” He gestured toward the Colt hanging in Sam's hand. “Anything else?” he asked.

“You can take your other hand from under your coat,” Sam said matter-of-factly.

“My
other
hand . . . ?” The Frenchman turned a puzzled look to his bartender, as if for clarification. Then he turned back to Sam as the bartender gave him a bewildered look.

“I know who you are, Henri
‘
Three-Hand
'
Defoe,” Sam said. The hammer of his Colt cocked at his side. The barrel tipped up toward the big Frenchman. “Now, how do you want to do this?”