Lawman from Nogales (9781101544747) (31 page)

“
Shhh
. Listen, lawman,” Teto said, cutting him off as a single gunshot resounded in the far distance. Teto smiled. “It's her signal.”

A second passed, then two shots, then a pause followed by three shots. Teto was right—it was the big Starr, Sam thought. There was no mistaking its sound.

Teto coughed and wheezed.

He said, “She does this to tell me where she is . . . that she has made it away from here . . . that everything is well. Ah, but that is good to hear. . . .” His voice trailed away to a whisper, then fell silent.

Sam gazed off in the direction of the distant gunshots. He liked to think that for some reason, she was signaling
him.

Having heard Teto Torres' last breath, he stooped down beside him, looked at the thin smile on his bloody lips and closed the outlaw leader's eyes.

When he stood up, he caught a glimpse of a figure in the doorway and swung his cocked Colt toward it instinctively.

“Don't shoot,
señor! Por favor!
” said the little well tender, his arms stretched toward the low ceiling.

“Mister, what are you doing here?” Sam asked, relieved, his Colt slumping toward the dirt floor. The dun grumbled under its breath toward the well tender, its rear hoof half-cocked, as if ready to launch the little man back through the doorway.

“I—I am only passing by, on my way back to the ghost town. Rosas Salvajes is too dangerous!”

“I understand,” Sam said.

“I like
living
with the dead better than I like
dying
with the living.” The well tender grinned at his cleverness and lowered his hands a little. “I hear all the shooting, and when it stopped I come running pronto!” He looked at Teto's bloody body sitting slumped in the rear doorway.

“Why?” Sam asked, looking past him and out the front door, seeing who might be behind him.

“After so much shooting,” the well tender said, wide-eyed, “I thought someone might need a bath?”

Sam looked at him curiously.

“You brought your tub with you?” he asked.

“I bring the tub everywhere I go,” the well tender said. “It is outside in the yard. Is the
señorita
here? She likes to take the bath.”

“She does,” Sam said, remembering she took one after the wolves had attacked her, “but she's gone. I don't think you'll be seeing her.”

“And you?” the well tender asked. “Do you need a bath?”

Sam looked at Teto's body, and out in the direction of the dead lying strewn about in the silver-gray sunlight.

“Yes, I need one,” he said quietly. “But it'll have to wait. Besides, is there water here?”

“Agua . . . ?”
The well tender scratched his head and looked all around; he hadn't thought of that.

Sam took the dun's reins and led it through the abandoned hovel and out the front door.

“You can bury these bodies, if you can find a shovel somewhere,” he said as the little man followed him outside.

“For free?” the little man asked, sounding disappointed at the prospect of digging in the hard ground on what would soon become a scorching hot day.

“Teto will pay you. He has the burial money in his hand,” Sam said, nodding toward the adobe where Teto Torres sat in the rear door facing the morning sun.

Maybe she did leave the coins for you, Teto
, Sam said to himself.

But he put the thought out of his mind, swung up into his saddle and turned the dun toward the trail leading north. He was headed home. He could ride northeast and be in Laredo in three days, four at the most. But for some reason, he didn't want to run into her, not now, not this soon. He would ride back straight up-country. It was harder, hotter and would take three times as long. But after all, he told himself, he'd come here from Nogales. He would go back the same way.

He put the dun into an easy pace, the Mexican sunlight rising across him and the horse from the east. Alone now, he thought, but soon the horse's shadow and his own would appear alongside them and ride there most of the day. Times like these, wasn't that all the company he needed?

Yes, he believed it was, he told himself with some small degree of satisfaction. He adjusted his sombrero down on his forehead—and he rode on.

Don't miss a page of
action from America's most
exciting Western author,
Ralph Cotton, in

Coming from Signet in February 2012.

 

 

Will Summers heard the sudden blasts of rifle and pistol fire echo out to him along the rocky hills far to his left. He stopped his dapple gray and pulled his four-horse string up alongside him. He listened intently as the gunfire raged for only a matter of seconds before falling away as quickly as it had started.

Summers scanned the black roofline of Gunn Point, beyond the fresh layer of snow lying between him and the small town. His first thought was that the shooting could've been a couple of range hands who'd awakened surly and hungover in the rooms above Caster Stems's Maplethorpe Saloon and crossed each other's paths on the way to their horses. He'd known it to happen just that way.

But no, that wasn't it. Not cowhands . . . too many guns involved.

He watched wood smoke curl upward from tin stovepipes and stone chimneys, drifting away on the crisp morning air. Beside him, steam billowed and swirled on the breath of the four-horse string. Their backs glistened, half-frosted, half-wet—more steam wafting from the heat of their bodies.

His dapple gray chuffed and snorted beneath him, and now that they had come to a halt, the big barb scraped a forehoof on the snow-covered ground, revealing a patch of dried wild grass.

“Pay attention, here,” Summers said quietly to the dapple gray. “You'll get your breakfast . . .”

He touched up the reins to keep the barb from dipping his head. The dapple shook out his mane and blew out a hot breath.

As Summers continued scanning the distant rooflines, shooting broke out again, this time on the trail leading out of Gunn Point in his direction.
All right, whatever it is,
he told himself,
don't get caught midtrail on open flatlands when it arrives
.

Summers levered a round into the Winchester's chamber and kept the rifle in his gloved right hand, the same hand holding the lead rope to his horse string. Like the dapple gray, the four horses had begun scraping their forehoofs and dipping their heads. He gave a tug on the lead rope as he tapped his heels to the dapple's side.

“Sorry, fellows. Not yet,” he murmured to the string. “Let's clear out of here.”

As he led the horses away from the trail and across the snow-streaked ground, Summers began to suspect the shooting must have been a robbery—a raid of some sort. That would have been plausible, had he been able to think of any business in Gunn Point worth robbing. But it had been more than a year since he'd last been in town. Change came quickly in this rocky hill country, especially if there were any traces of ore in the ground.

But that was neither here nor there, he reminded himself, looking all around the barren flatlands. What mattered now was cover—a safe spot for him and his horses. Whatever was coming would be here soon enough and he would be prepared to deal with it. But given the choice, he'd rather deal with it with his shoulder against a rock and his horses out of sight.

No cover,
he thought to himself as he slowed the dapple and the string almost to a halt. “Now what?” he heard himself say aloud. His breath steamed off on a cold breeze. He looked toward Gunn Point as he heard heavy firing coming from town, followed by a few shots farther along on the trail.

“Yep, a robbery of some sort,” he concluded. He could picture it now: a band of thieves leaving town in a hurry, a sheriff and a group of hastily gathered townsmen in hot pursuit.
That was it
, he told himself, looking toward the sound of the gunfire as two black dots rode into sight at the head of a white trail of swirling snow.

Two more black dots came into sight, riding hard to catch up to their partners.
There are the thieves . . .

Summers turned his gray and jerked the string along beside him. Farther back on the trail, he saw another rise of swirling snow.
And there's the sheriff and his posse . . .

He felt a little better knowing what to expect. But knowing didn't provide much comfort, not when he and his animals were still out in the open, standing amidst their own steam, about to be caught up in the fighting.

“What a spot to be in . . .” he said, still searching back and forth for any cover large enough to stop a bullet. There were times to pitch in and help the law, and there were times it was better to drop back out of the way and let the law do its job.

He considered quickly how this could all look to an angry posse—him out here on the flats with four horses, which just happened to be the right number of mounts to have waiting. He heard the shots firing back and forth along the trail, drawing closer every second.

This was not the time or place to get in the law's way. In the swirl of snow, their bullets had no way of knowing which side he was on. This was the time to lie back, let the thieves get past him—offering them no resistance—and wait for the posse. With any luck, the sheriff and his posse would believe he had nothing to do with whatever the four riders were running away from.

All right, it wasn't the best idea he'd ever had, he told himself, turning the dapple gray, but it would have to do. He loped farther away from the trail at an easy pace, leading his string, careful not to raise more powdery snow than he had to. He wondered if Turner Goss was still the sheriff in Gunn Point.
I hope so,
he thought, looking back over his shoulder at the second cloud of snow rising along the trail.

 

Three miles back along the trail, riding sightless in the billowing snow, Deputy Parley Stiles stopped firing and raised a gloved hand.

“Stop shooting!” he called out over his shoulder. He carefully slowed his horse down until he realized the men following him had done as they were told. As he came to a halt, the deputy could see the wake of powdery snow raised by the gunmen's horses already beginning to clear a little.

“Why are we stopping, Parley?” a townsman called out a few feet behind him. “We can't stop now! Not while we've got them in our gun sights. Let's ride them down!”

“Settle down, Dewitt,” said the young deputy. “We're not stopping any longer than it takes to clear the air some.”

“But damn it, Deputy—!” a mining engineer named Horace Dewitt cursed before the deputy cut him off.

“Strike that language from your mouth, Dewitt,” the young deputy demanded, “else you won't ride another step with this posse.”

“I meant nothing by it, Parley,” Dewitt said, fuming but keeping his temper in check. “I'm speaking for all of us! We need to stay right down their shirts until we—”

“Don't call me Parley again,” the young deputy snapped, once more cutting the miner short.

“It is your name!” the engineer countered. “What the hell—I mean
heck
—are we being so formal about?”

“I'm Deputy Stiles to every one of you,” the deputy said, loud enough for all to hear. “Especially while I'm leading this posse.” He looked around in turn from one face to the next through the steaming breath of men and animals.

“We understand, Deputy,” said a meek voice among the townsmen. “But why are we stopping? Shouldn't we—?”

“To keep from breaking our necks and ruining some good horses,” the deputy said with authority, before the timid apothecary clerk could finish his words.

“Our deputy is right,” said a gambler named Herbert Long. “As long as they've got a clear trail and we're stuck riding in their wake, they've got the odds working in their favor.”

Dewitt grumbled something cross under his breath, spat and looked away. “This ain't no poker game, Herbert,” he said sorely, settling a little but still clearly not happy about following the young deputy's orders.

“Oh, but I beg to differ with you, my
ore-craving
friend,” Long replied, a hint of disdain lying beneath his rich Southern accent. “It's
all
poker.” He passed a small, knowing smile around to the others. “We've only just been dealt this hand. Now we need to study our cards closely before we commit to any—”

“Anybody needs to step down and relieve themselves, this might be the best chance for a while,” said Deputy Stiles, cutting the gambler off as readily as he had the others.