Shadow River (23 page)

“I can stay back, boss,” Montana said. “I might even sew him up and get him to stop bleeding.”

“You're a doctor now?” Madson snapped at Montana.

“I'm just saying,” Montana replied, looking a little surprised by Madson's sudden flare-up at him.

“You don't have to
just say
,” said Madson. “Jon Ho and Burke are staying behind. All you've got to do is swap out your horse and get the hell out of here with us. We've got
federales
ready to stake our heads on a pole, they catch up to us.”

Sam stood watching, his forearm pressing the cool damp bandage to his side. Madson stepped over closer.

“I mighta been wrong not trusting you, Jones,” he said. “You get to Shadow River, you're getting something more than just a fee for handling the relay horses.” He paused and nodded. “Next job we go out on, you're riding up front, taking a full cut for yourself. How does that sound?”

“That's what I come down here for, boss,” Sam said, as if relieved to hear it. He let himself relax, looking comfortable with everything Madson had just told him—when in fact, he didn't believe a word of it.

With some medical supplies Montana had left with him, Sam washed the wound on his forearm and, after a deep breath, set about sewing the gash shut. Burke stood watching him while the tired horses drank and rested. Jon Ho sat on a tall rock off to the side and gazed back at the dust rising back below the hill line. As Sam drew on the needle and thread and tightened the last stitch in his forearm, he looked over at Jon Ho, then up at Burke.

“Is your pal always so talkative, Clyde?” he said.

Talkative . . . ?

Appearing to have a lot on his mind, Burke took a second to understand Sam's gibe. Finally getting it, he gave a short, troubled grin.

“He's never much of a talker anyway,” he said. “I don't think he likes me much.”

“Yeah?” said Sam. “He seems real fond of me.”

“Pay him no mind. He's Bell Madson's lapdog, Jones,” Burke said. “Whatever Madson tells him to do, he jumps to it.”

“What about you, Clyde?” Sam asked, just wanting to see what Burke's response would be.

“What about me?” said Burke.

Sam stared at him until Burke had to admit he'd understood the question.

“I'm nobody's lapdog,” Burke said. “Haven't you seen that by now?”

“Yeah, I've seen that,” Sam said. He tied off the stitch, bit the thread and broke it and laid the wet bandana along his forearm over the stitches. “So, you're always your own man?” he asked. He worked his hand and elbow easily, testing the use of it.

“You know I am, Jones,” said Burke.

Sam studied his forearm, knowing it had taken the brunt of the knife thrust. After washing and looking at his side wound, he saw no need in stitching it.

“So, Madson tells you to do something, you don't blame him, you do it because you want to?” he said coolly.

Burke gave a shrug.

“That's right, I do what suits me,” he said. His gaze settled on Sam. “Why? What are you getting at, Jones?”

Sam just stared at him.

“Just curious,” Sam said.

He reached over and picked up his Winchester lying beside him and held the barrel up to Burke. “Give me a hand up, Clyde,” he said. The two saw Jon Ho climb down from atop the rock and walk toward them. Sam took note of Ho adjusting his gun belt. With a sidelong glance, Sam also noted the horses had drunk their fill and begun pulling back from the water's edge. They stood milling, poking their wet muzzles here and there for graze.

Burke pulled him up by the rifle barrel.

“I will say this, though,” Burke put in. “Soon as I get my cut, there's no son of a bitch ever going to tell me to do something I don't want to do.”

Sam caught a bitterness in his tone. But before he could pursue the matter, Jon Ho stopped a few feet back from them.

“Soldiers,” Ho said. He pointed off toward the distant rise of dust.

The two looked at him. Sam noted that Burke was still holding his Winchester after pulling him to his feet with it.

“Go now,” Ho said. He stared at Burke expectantly. “Go now,” he said more insistently.

Sam got the picture. But he waited.

Let it play itself out,
he told himself.

“What's your damn hurry, Jon Ho?” Burke said tightly, taking a step farther back from Sam. “Don't tell me what to do, you damn Chinese-Mexican . . . !” He let his words trail as if an ending wasn't readily available.

“Go now!” said Ho, poised toward Burke.

Sam waited, watched.

Burke half turned between the two of them. He looked at Jon Ho, then at Sam.

“Damn it to hell, I've got all that gold waiting!” he said, as if arguing with himself. Then he swung toward Sam with the rifle and spoke hurriedly.

“He's going to kill you, Jones!” he blurted out suddenly. “I'm here to help him. Get out of here, Jones!” As he spoke, he swung Sam's cocked Winchester toward Jon Ho. But Ho was ready for him. The fiery-eyed gunman raised his Colt sleek and fast from his holster, fanned two rounds into Burke's midsection as he spun toward Sam. Burke jerked back a step when each bullet hit him.

Sam was ready for Jon Ho. His Colt came up cocked and leveled. His single shot nailed Jon Ho and sent him sprawling backward, his gun flying from his hand. Sam cocked his Colt again while smoke curled up from its barrel.

For the peddler woman,
he said to himself.

He stepped over quickly to Burke, stooped down and propped him up with his good forearm. But even as he lifted him to keep him from choking on his blood, he could see the gunman was going fast.

Burke gripped Sam's shirt with a bloody hand and gave a tight grin across bloody teeth.

“Damn you . . . Jones,” he said in a broken, dying voice. “A man can't . . . do right, after doing wrong . . . all his life.”

“You just did, Clyde,” Sam said quietly.

“Yeah,” said Burke. “Look at me . . . it got me killed.” He coughed; blood surged. Then he settled and said in a ragged whisper, “Aw, what the hell . . . ? Adios, pard.”

“Adios, Clyde,” Sam said, closing Burke's eyes with his palm. He picked up his Winchester, stood up, let out a tight breath and looked all around. Then he gazed back down at the dead outlaw and said in a lowered tone, “Don't worry. I won't leave you here.”

•   •   •

Shadow River, Mexican Desert badland

Daylight rose in a thin golden line, mantling the upper hill peaks like long gentle arms coming to embrace the desert and its kindred inhabitants. Yet even the dullest of these inhabitants knew that by midmorning, this gentle sunlight would turn fiery; the white-hot sky would rage against them like a lover scorned.

Sam kept the string of horses at a gallop along the last mile of trail leading up into Shadow River. Beside him the white-speckled barb loped along on a shorter lead rope. Behind the barb, the bodies of Clyde Burke and Jon Ho lay tied down over their saddles. Following the two bodies, the rest of the string galloped along in the cool but waning morning air.

At the sight of two riders coming down the trail from Shadow River, Sam slowed the dun to a walk and finally stopped ten feet back from Joe Sheff and Dan Crelo. He allowed the two gunmen to half circle him and see the bodies of Burke and Jon Ho. As they circled, he eyed the set of saddlebags they each carried over their shoulders.

“We've been expecting you,” said Sheff. Then he and Crelo recognized the bodies at the same time.

“Holy, John,” said Crelo, seeing the two dead gunmen he'd robbed a bank with only a day earlier. “Who killed them,
federales
?” he asked, casting a wary glance along the trail behind Sam.

“No,” Sam said flatly. He paused and raised his Winchester and propped the butt of it onto his thigh, “Jon Ho killed Burke. I killed Jon Ho.”

The two sat in silence for a moment. Joe Sheff shook his head slowly, staring at Jon Ho.

“Madson's going to throw a fit,” he said.

“You think so?” Sam said in the same flat tone.

“I do,” said Sheff. “Not that I care,” he added quickly, knowing why the Winchester was standing there. “But he thought the world of that sneaking, evil-eyed son of a bitch.”

“Good,” Sam said. “Then he can bury him.” He turned his eyes to Crelo, and saw a worried look on his face. “What're you wanting to say?” he asked.

“Nothing,” said Crelo.

“He heard you and Burke and the Montana Kid are pals,” Sheff cut in.

Sam just looked at him.

Sheff continued. “He's fearing you'll want to take up the trouble between him and Burke—”

“No,
I'm not
, damn it, Joe!” said Crelo, cutting him off. “I don't know why you even thought you ought to open your mouth about it. Nobody asked you nothing.”

Joe Sheff shrugged.

“I'm just saying,” he said.

“Well, just
don't
,” Crelo snapped at him.

“I'm not taking up anybody's trouble,” Sam said quietly. “But we were pals, I guess you could say.” He nodded at the bulging saddlebags over their shoulders. “Everybody's got their cut and is leaving Shadow River?”

“What? No!” they both denied. Each clasped a hand on the saddlebags. Joe said, “These are just some—uh.” He stared at Crelo for help.

“Just this and that,” Crelo said. Then he stopped and composed himself and said, “All right. Yes, it's our cut. We're heading a long way from here.” He kept a hand on the saddlebags and his other hand close to his holstered Remington Army. “You've got a cut coming too.”

“Yep,” Sam said, looking away from the saddlebags to keep anybody from getting nervous. “That's why I'm here. Is Madson there?”

The two looked relieved.

“He was an hour ago,” said Crelo.

“But most everybody else has cut out, with the
federales
coming and all,” said Sheff. “You might not want to stick too long there yourself. Mexicans carry on something awful when you take their gold.” He chuckled and jiggled the heavy saddlebags up and down on his chest.

“Damn fool,” said Crelo. He looked at Sam somberly. “Just so you know, Jones, I liked that son of a bitch right there.” He nodded at Burke's body. “We always threatened to kill each other, but neither of us ever took it too serious, or we would have.” He paused, looking down at Burke's body. “But I don't expect I have to tell you how it is. You've seen it yourself in this kind of work. Ain't that about right?”

“Yeah,” Sam said. “That's about right.”

“Sit here and jaw all you want to,” said Sheff. “I'm gone.” He batted his horse forward. “Adios, Jones,” he called out over his shoulder.

“Get ol' Clyde buried proper enough, will you, Jones?” Crelo asked.

“You bet,” Sam said. He touched the brim of his sombrero toward him and nudged the dun on toward Shadow River.

The white-speckled barb at his side, the string of horses and their grisly cargo right behind him, he rode on without stopping until he reached the edge of the swift-running stream and followed it to the bridge that lay unattended by any toll collectors.

Welcome to Little Hell,
Sam said to himself, gazing across the bridge onto an empty street. He led the string of horses across the bridge and stopped again and sat for a moment gazing at the cantina where he and Montana and Burke had met with Bell Madson. He recalled the dying man who was sprawled shot and bleeding in the dirt street that day he'd first ridden into town. Gunmen from within the cantina had walked out and stood watching the man die. He wondered for a moment whose day it would be to die in the dirt. But as soon as the question came to mind, he put it away.

Ahead of him at the cantina, two dust-streaked men walked out and leaned against the weathered poles. One drew on a cigarette and let the stream of smoke go on a gust of hot wind. A faded green canvas flapped and clattered overhead, then settled into silence as Sam stepped the horses forward. Looking up atop the cantina, he saw Bell Madson, Fritz Downes and three men he didn't know looking down at him. They stood blackening in and out of silhouette against the white burning sun.

Standing atop the roof beside Bell Madson, Fritz Downes loosened the Colt in his holster and looked down at the two bodies tied across their saddles. Recognizing both dead men by their clothes and horses, he whistled low under his breath.

“Is that who I think it is leading them?” he said sidelong to Madson.

Madson still wore his trail clothes under his long riding duster. He took a thick cigar from his mouth and stared down long and hard at Sam as he spoke to Downes. On Madson's other side stood Tanner Hyatt, Boze Stillwell and Eric Waite, three men he'd hired and arranged to meet him after the bank robbery.

“If you think it's Jones, it
is
,” he replied to Downes. He held the cigar drooping between his thick fingers. “But why's this son of a bitch still alive, Burke and Jon Ho lying over their saddles?” With his right hand he eased the lapel of his duster back and laid his hand on his holstered Colt.

“I don't know,” said Downes, as if Madson really expected an answer from him. “Apache, maybe?”

“Keep talking stupid, Downes, and I'll send you away,” Madson said menacingly. To the man standing nearest him on his other said, he said, “Tanner, is everybody gone that ought to be gone?”

“Yeah, Mr. Madson, they've all hightailed, like you told them to do,” said Hyatt, a steely-eyed Texas gunman.

“Horses are ready?” Madson asked sidelong. “The gold's all packed?”

Hyatt looked around the two men beside him. Stillwell, a tall, gangly Missourian, gave him a nod.

“The horses are ready,” Hyatt said to Madson. “The gold's all packed.” He stood staring down intently at Sam as Sam stepped down from the dun, hitched it and the barb to the rail and hitched the string alongside them. “You want this monkey kilt and skint?” he asked.

“Yeah, I do,” said Madson, gazing at Jon Ho hanging down his horse's side. He straightened and took a breath as if to clear his head. “Damn right I do.”

Hyatt looked at the other two gunmen and nodded his head. Then he turned back to Madson.

“Mr. Madson, why don't you and Fritz here head out? The three of us will take care of this fool.”

Madson snapped his eyes to Hyatt.

“First day here, you're going to start telling me how to run things?” he said in a heated tone.

Hyatt just stared at him.

Madson flung his cigar aside.

“The three of you fan out along this platform,” he commanded, gesturing a hand along the narrow platform walkway leading to where his outdoor office sat beneath a canvas overhang. “Fritz, there's a shotgun broke down in a desk drawer. Get over here and put it together!”

Hyatt, Stillwell and Waite looked at one another, amazed at all this preparation for one lone gunman. Yet, even as they mused at one another, Hyatt shrugged and jerked his head toward the walkway stretched along behind him.

“You heard Mr. Madson,” he said.

The three of them spread out along the walkway.

Madson raised his Colt from his holster, checked it and held it down his side, ready to cock and swing up into action.

“We need to kill him fast,” he said. “We've got
federales
riding down our shirts anytime.”

“We've got this, boss,” said Hyatt. He wanted to tell Madson to settle down, but he knew better than to say it.

Madson was getting nervous, starting to sweat.

“How's that shotgun coming along,
damn it to hell
!” he called out to Fritz Downes, who stood at the desk trying to assemble the two parts of a short-barreled hammer gun together.

“Boss, she's sprung or something!” Downes shouted back to him, unable to connect the two simple parts.

“Sprung?”
shouted Madson, getting enraged. “A damn shotgun doesn't get sprung, you
babbling idiot
!”

•   •   •

Stepping around the hitch rail, Sam came face-to-face with the two men lounging out in front of the cantina. One straightened from against the pole as Sam stopped and stared at him from four feet away. The other man backed a step and stood with his feet spread shoulder-width apart. From inside the darkened cantina, the sound of boots hurried out the rear door. Sam heard the door slam shut behind the fleeing boots.

“You men working for Bell Madson?” he asked the group flatly, his hand wrapped around the butt of his holstered Colt.

The man with the cigarette took his time. The smell of burning marijuana wafted on the hot desert air. He let out a stream of smoke, tilted his head at an odd angle and held one eye closed, his cigarette pinched between his thumb and finger.

“Might be we do . . . ,” he answered in a long drawling voice. “Then again, might be we don't. It all depends who's—”

You
don't have time for this,
Sam advised himself.

The barrel of his Colt swung up, cracked the man hard up under his chin and sent him backward behind a spray of broken teeth. Before the other man could make a move, Sam grabbed him by his shirt, jerked him forward and buried his knee in the man's groin. The man jackknifed at the waist, his hat flew off, his knees clasped together and his hands clutched his privates. Sam pulled the bowed man forward quickly, at a short run. He guided his bare head into the iron hitch rail with a loud
gong
and let him fall.

Sam reached down, pulled the man's gun from its holster and unloaded it into the street. Stepping over to the other man, he stooped beside him, pulled up his gun, unloaded it and pitched it aside. As he stepped inside the cantina doors, he saw a Mexican bartender raise his hands in a hurry, looking scared, appearing to have witnessed what just happened out front.

“Welcome back to Little Hell,
señor
!” he said quickly, recognizing Sam from his prior visit. He shrugged. “Or Shadow River, whichever you like best. It is all the same to me.”

Sam tossed a questioning gesture toward a new set of steps reaching up through the roof.

The bartender nodded and whispered,
“Sí,”
lifting his eyes toward the roof. Sam walked to the bar with his left hand held out. The bartender reached under the bar slowly, lifted a shotgun and laid it over into Sam's hand, butt first.

Sam broke the shotgun open, checked it, snapped it shut and turned and walked to the steps. Looking up, he saw Fritz Downes at the top of the steps fumbling with the two pieces of Madson's hammer gun. His eyes widened, seeing Sam with the bartender's shotgun pointed up, cocked and braced against his hip.

Atop the roof, Madson and his three new gunmen stiffened at the sound of the explosion from downstairs. They saw Downes fly up backward in a spray of blood, bone and soft tissue. Their hands wrapped around their gun butts. They started to move forward toward the stairs. But Madson held them in place with a raised hand.

The three stood looking at Madson for a signal. He motioned them over to his desk and hurried around it himself and took his chair.

Sam stepped up into sight, one barrel of the shotgun curling smoke, the other barrel cocked, ready to fire. Blood from his wounded forearm had seeped through his stitches and his shirt and now made a thin line along his duster sleeve. He held his Colt up in his right hand, cocked and ready.

“Well, well,” said Madson from behind his desk, the three gunmen spread apart on either side of him, facing Sam. “Fritz thought he heard someone on the stairs.” He gave a tight grin. “Looks like he was right.” He stuck his cigar in his mouth.

“You just saw me ride in,” Sam said.

“Well, yes, that's true, I did,” Madson admitted. “I wanted to make us all comfortable, you know . . . in case there's anything you might want to talk about.”

“There's nothing to talk about, Madson,” Sam said. “I came here to kill you. It's that simple.”

“Nothing's ever
that
simple,” Madson said, leaning back a little in his chair. “You had to have a reason to want to kill Jon Ho and me.”

“How's this?” Sam said. “You had Burke and Ho set up to kill me. Turned out Burke wouldn't do it. So Jon Ho killed him.” He gave a shrug. “I killed Jon Ho—now I'm going to kill you.”

Tanner Hyatt cut in, saying, “You make it sound easy. Am I missing something? Don't you see us standing here?” He gestured at the other two gunmen.

Sam ignored him; Madson gave the gunman a disapproving stare.

“There's more to it than that,” Madson said to Sam. “I knew you were trouble when I first heard of you back in Agua Fría. Heard you wanted to join us, but something told me you're nothing but a one-eyed Jack. Nobody was seeing your other side.” He stood up, a big Colt cocked in his thick right hand. “I don't aim to die without knowing what for,” he said. “So spit it out. What is your game,
Jones
—or whoever the hell you are?”

Sam saw the Colt ready to rise toward him; the three gunmen saw it too. “I've got a right to know—!” Madson shouted.

But Sam's first bullet hit him dead center before his words were finished. Madson staggered backward and fell over his chair. His Colt fired wildly through the canvas flapping overhead.

Sam spun and fired at Tanner Hyatt as Hyatt's gun bucked in his hand and sent a bullet whistling past his head. Hyatt flew backward. Sam turned toward the other two gunmen, but held his fire, seeing their hands raised chest high in a show of peace.

“Easy there, Mr. Jones,” said Stillwell in a calm, soothing voice. “Let's see if we can't work this thing out between us like gentlemen.” When Madson went flying backward over his chair, Stillwell's and Waite's minds had drawn immediately to the horses readied for the trail and loaded with gold, hitched to a pole, waiting out back.

Sam eased down a little but kept his Colt cocked, ready. He looked from Stillwell to Waite.

“Is he speaking for you too?” he asked the gunman with a battered derby cocked at a rakish angle.

“Oh yes, indeed he does,” said Waite. “The fact is, we were leaving when that unfortunate thing happened on the stairs.” He gestured toward Downes' mangled body lying on the other side of the roof. “Suits us to just leave, walk away from here and never look back.”

“Show me how slow you can pick those shooters up with two fingers,” Sam demanded.

“You've got it all, mister,” said Waite. They both eased their guns from their holsters with their thumb and finger and let them fall.

“What happened to the Montana Kid?” Sam asked.

“The Kid?” said Stillwell. He gave a slight smile. “He lit out of here happy as a twin-peckered billy goat.”

Sam took a breath and considered it.

Good,
he told himself.

“Move out,” he said to the two gunmen, gesturing them toward the steps with his gun barrel. “I see you waiting for me down there anywhere, I'll kill you both. That's fair warning.”

“Yes, it is,” Stillwell agreed. “But you won't see us down there. I'll swear it on a Bible, or whatever.” He looked all around as if searching for something to swear on. Then he and Waite gave each other a look on their way to the rear stairs, both of them thinking of the gold waiting out back for them.

Sam turned as soon as the two were out of sight. He walked down the stairs, keeping an eye out for any stray gunmen still hanging around Shadow River. Stepping out front, he saw the two men just now coming to and looking all around for their bullets scattered on the ground.

“Huh-uh, don't load them until I'm gone,” he said.

“You broke my damn teeth,” said a thick voice—the man who'd been smoking. “I like to have bit my damn tongue off.”

Sam made no reply. Instead he turned and looked at them, and at the Mexican bartender standing in the doorway.

“I left your shotgun upstairs,” he said.

The Mexican nodded.

Sam turned to the two recovering men, one holding a hand cupped under his bleeding mouth.

“You two know how to use shovels?” he asked.

They looked around on the ground.

“What shovels?” said the one still holding his groin.

Sam let out a patient breath.

“
Any
shovels,” he said. As he spoke, he fished two gold coins from his vest pocket.

“
Hell yes
, we do,” the man replied. “We're not stupid.” He thought about it. “You're wanting your pals buried?” His hand came out expectedly. He rubbed his thumb and finger together in the universal symbol for greed.

“Just that one,” Sam said, ignoring the gesture. He motioned toward Burke. “He was my
pard
,” he said quietly. He reached past the two men and gave the Mexican the coins. “Pay them when they're finished, not one minute before,” he said.

The Mexican bartender closed his fist around the coins and nodded his agreement.

Sam turned and walked around the hitch rail to the horses and took the bodies down and laid them under the overhead canopy out of the bright white sunlight. He stood looking down at Burke's cold dead face for a moment. His job here was finished, he reminded himself. He would meet up with Montana somewhere along the trail; he was certain of it. The three of them had gold hidden out there. He was sure the Montana Kid would take it sooner or later, do whatever outlaws do with gold.

Clyde Burke and the Montana Kid . . .
He allowed himself a thin smile, thinking about them. Then he stopped himself and turned away. It was time to lead these horses out somewhere off the desert and unstring them. It was time for him to step out of this outlaw's world and back over to the other side—to his side, the side of the law. He untied the string of horses, then unhitched the dun and the white-speckled barb. As he swung up into his saddle, he forced himself not to look back down at Clyde Burke.

Take them where?
he asked himself, regarding the horses. He backed the dun and barb from the rail and nudged the string along with them. He didn't know. . . . Maybe some grassy high meadow over where the hill country softened enough for horses to graze themselves full and run themselves strong and free. A place where everything wasn't out to eat everything else? He chuffed drily. Where would that be? He didn't know that either. The best thing was just turn them loose, give them a slap and watch them run.