Gunmen of the Desert Sands

Madsen considered the consequences of his men shooting it out with Shaw right then and there. He’d already seen enough to know that Shaw was not an easy man to kill. He also knew that with his being the leader of the gang it stood to reason that he would be Shaw’s first target. With all this in mind, plus the fact that he still needed men like Shaw riding with him, Madsen looked around slowly and calmly at the situation.

"Everybody take it real easy,’’ he said, raising his hand for emphasis. "I want Shaw to tell us who this piece of tin belonged to before we go shooting one another full of holes over it. For all we know Fast Larry might have killed the lawman who was wearing this badge. What about it, Shaw?’’ he asked.

"I don’t deny it,’’ Shaw said matter-of-factly. "That badge belongs to me. I took it off the day I caught up with Titus Boland and killed him.’’ As he spoke, he looked past Cero Stewart at Drop the Dog Jones.

"No, he didn’t do all that,’’ said Jones, cutting off Earl before he could go any further with his tale. "But he did kill them, and now that I see that badge, I understand why he did. Fast Larry has turned straight-up lawdog!’’

"No, I’m not,’’ Shaw replied, his right hand hanging loose but ready at his side. "But it’s all true what Jones said. I took on a deputy badge because it was the best way for me to hunt down Titus Boland after he murdered a woman I cared for. As soon as I killed him, I took off the badge.’’

"You’re saying you was a deputy, but now you’re not?’’ Cero asked with a sly grin. "That sounds awfully peculiar. You just put on a badge and wear it so long as it suits you?’’

"Believe what you want,’’ said Shaw. "I’m through talking about it. If you plan on pulling iron, get to it.’’ He stared hard at Cero.

"Whoa, hang on,’’ said Madsen, keeping everybody at bay. Then he said to Shaw, "You say you only become a lawman long enough to kill Titus Boland? That must’ve been some woman you cared about.’’

"The Barrowses just happened to get in my gun sights,’’ Shaw said coolly. "So did a few federales before it was over.’’ He continued staring at Cero Stewart. "What about it, Double Aces? Are you going to draw that six-shooter, or has the room grown too small for you?’’

"Wait!’’ Madsen shouted at Stewart, seeing the gunman begin to make his move. But Cero had gone too far to stop himself. He snatched his Colt from his holster.

Shaw’s response came fast, catlike. His colt streaked up from his holster; his bullet hit Cero in the heart before the gunman got off a shot. But Shaw didn’t stop there. A child’s voice shrieked from the rear of the cantina, "Look out, senor!’’

Shaw spun away from the bar on his heel. He turned in time to see Tommy Layton leap forward from beside the rear door with a rifle leveled toward him.

A shot from Shaw’s Colt slammed Layton back against the wall. Layton’s rifle flew from his hands; he slid to the floor onto his knees clutching his bleeding chest. Shaw fanned the Colt back and forth, searching for his next target. Turner and the rest of Madsen’s men stood tensed, ready to reach for their guns. But Madsen stood with his hands spread, showing Shaw he wanted no fight with him. "It’s over! Everybody stand down!’’ he shouted at both Shaw and his men.

"None of us had anything to do with this, Shaw,’’ Madsen said, gesturing toward Tommy Layton lying dead by the rear door. "If it’s more killing you want, so be it. But this was Cero and Layton’s doings, not mine.’’

"I believe you,’’ Shaw said. He glanced across the men and saw they had eased down under Madsen’s order. He lowered his Colt a bit in reply. Then he looked along the rear wall and found the owner of the voice that had called out a warning to him. "Who’s this?’’ he asked, seeing the young girl huddled down beside a broken table in the far corner.

"You know her?’’ Shaw asked, slipping his Colt into his holster as the man pulled the child up and led her toward the bar.

"Her mother is a friend of mine,’’ said Madsen. "A really good friend, if you understand what I’m saying.’’ He reached down for the child to come to him. "What are you doing here, Francisca’’ he asked. But the girl passed him without so much as a glance. Instead she hurried to Shaw, looked him up and down and said, "You—you are not hurt, Mr. Angel?’’ Then before he had time to answer she said quickly, "I knew you would not be hurt. I knew they could not harm you—’’

Mr. Angel . . . ? Stooping down to her, Shaw said, "Whoa, little lady, my name is Mr. Shaw, not Mr. Angel.’’ He looked at her closely. "No, I’m not hurt, thanks to you.’’ He brushed a strand of hair from her cheek. "Gracias, usted niño bello.’’ For a fleeing instant he felt as if his life was worth saving, something he had not felt in a long time.

Madsen appeared uncomfortable at the sight of Shaw and the young girl talking so easily. "You’re right, Francisca is a beautiful child,’’ he said, translating Shaw’s words. As he spoke he reached out a hand and drew the girl away from Shaw. "You run along now, sweetheart. Mr. Shaw and I are busy men.’’

When the girl resisted, Madsen squeezed her shoulder a little tighter and pulled a little harder. "Go fill your basket and get home,’’ he said, keeping his voice from growing gruff with her. "Or maybe you’d like me to have Deacon Lucas come along to help you?’’

Shaw saw the child’s eyes fill instantly with fear. "No,’’ she replied, giving in quickly and stepping away, "I will go! My Mamá is expecting me.’’ Even as she spoke her dark eyes stayed on Shaw’s.

"Rodero,’’ Madsen said to the cantina owner, "take her out back to the cocina, send some food home with her.’’ As Madsen pulled her farther away he patted the girl’s shoulder, but Shaw saw that it was only for appearance’s sake. He also saw that the child was not accustomed to the gesture, and that she resented it. "I can’t have either of my girls going hungry, now, can I?’’ Madsen said with a false-looking smile toward the child.

The girl’s eyes lingered on Shaw a moment longer until Rodero came behind the bar and ushered her along with him toward the rear door, the two of them having to veer around Tommy Layton’s body still lying where he’d fallen. What had he seen in her eyes? Shaw had to ask himself. Fear? Yes. Despair? Yes. Hopelessness? Yes, but it was hopelessness giving way to something. But what? Faith . . . ? Yes, he decided, he believed it was. But faith in what? In him . . . ? No, he told himself, that couldn’t be it.

"Who is Mr. Angel?’’ he asked Madsen, as interested in studying the expression on the outlaw leader’s face as he was to hear his answer.

Madsen shrugged. "Who knows, with this kid? Probably some make-believe friend of hers.’’ He stepped closer to the bar, picked up the bottle of tequila and poured some into Shaw’s wooden cup. At the same time he motioned for some of the men to get the two bodies up and out the door. "I don’t have much to do with the girl, to tell you the truth.’’ He gave a short sly grin. "It’s her mother I’m interested in.’’

"I see,’’ Shaw said contemplatively, staring toward the rear door, unable to get the girl’s eyes out of his mind.

Studying Shaw’s expression for a moment, Madsen read it completely wrong, and said in a lowered voice between the two of them, "She’s a little young, but not too young. She’s growing up every day. Just because I’m with the mother doesn’t mean you couldn’t—’’

"Forget it,’’ Shaw said, cutting him off. Madsen’s words caused anger to well up in his chest. Anger was something he hadn’t felt for a long time, in spite of all the killing he’d been a party to.

"No offense,’’ said Madsen, pushing the wooden cup closer to Shaw’s hand on the bar top. "That just goes to show what I’m willing to give, just to get you to ride with us.’’

Shaw threw back the shot of tequila and set the cup down on the battered bar top. "Do you have to have an answer right now? If you do I have to tell you no.’’

"Right now I’m tired and cross, and I’ve spent a lot of my time shooting your men,’’ Shaw said. "Maybe I’ll change my mind after I get a little rest, and get to know more about the men I’d be riding with.’’

Madsen stuck a fresh cigar into his mouth, lit it and blew out a stream of smoke. He considered Shaw’s words carefully for a moment. Finally he said, "I’ll tell you what, Fast Larry, I’m still waiting for a few of my regular men—they’ve been off here and there, on small jobs across the border. You take a few days until they get here. Let Paco show you around. Enjoy yourself, get drunk, find a woman, do whatever you like. When I get ready to ride, you give me your answer . . . and let that answer be our final word on the matter. What do you say, have we got a deal?’’

"I say that sounds like a good way to leave it for now,’’ Shaw replied, touching his hat brim on the matter. "Yes, we’ve got ourselves a deal.’’

Madsen turned to the others, who had gone back to drinking even as they kept a cautious eye on Shaw and Madsen during their conversation. "All right, men, listen up,’’ said Madsen, raising his voice for everybody’s sake. "Until everybody gets here and we’re gathered up and ready to ride, consider Shaw here as my personal guest. Treat him like he’s one of us.’’ He raised his wooden cup as if in a toast. "I’m hoping that he will be soon enough.’’

No sooner had Paco led Shaw out of the cantina to show him where he’d be bunking than Turner sidled up closer to Madsen. "I saw how fast he is, but do we really want a man like him riding with us? He’s never going to follow anybody’s orders.’’

Madsen gave a crafty smile. "I know that. But you saw what a fighter he is. When the time comes that we need to leave a man behind between ourselves and the law, Shaw’s the man. He won’t do it if he thinks he’s following orders, but he’ll do it if he thinks it’s his own idea.’’

"Aw, hell, neither do I,’’ said Madsen. "He’s a belligerent, headstrong son of a bitch. But he didn’t get the name Fastest Gun Alive sitting home smoking a pipe. He’s a straight-up killer who doesn’t give a damn if he lives or dies.’’ He threw back a drink from his wooden cup and added, "I’m always looking for that kind of man.’’

Turner nodded. "I admit he is one hell of a gunman. The fastest I’ve ever seen. If the time comes we need to leave a man behind to protect our backs, he’s got my vote. The problem is putting up with him until that time comes.’’

Madsen poured more tequila for them both. "Don’t press me for details, but that time might come sooner than you think, Roscoe.’’ As he picked up his wooden cup he said, "Meanwhile, why don’t you get Bert Sibott to lean on Shaw a little? We know how good Shaw is with his Colt. Let’s find out how he is with his fists.’’

"Against Sibott?’’ Turner gave a bemused look. "Are you sure about this, Quinn? Bert Sibott was the French bare-knuckle champ. He’d likely kill him if Shaw was stupid enough to fight him unarmed.’’

Madsen gave Turner a cold stare. "Roscoe, if you think you’re going to question everything I say, you’re wrong. Now tell Bert you want him to get in Shaw’s face. The next thing I want to hear from you is how it turned out. Do you understand me?’’

"Clear as a bell,’’ said Turner, seeing he’d gone too far on the matter. "I’ll get Sibott right on it.’’ He stepped back and walked toward the big Frenchman standing bowed over his drink at the far end of the bar. When he drew closer and the Frenchman took note of him, Turner motioned toward the rear door and said quietly, "Bert, come talk to me out back. I’ve got a job for you....’’

Out in front of the cantina, Shaw and Paco had walked to the livery barn where Shaw checked on his horse and picked up his saddle, bedroll and saddlebags. Leaving the barn at Shaw’s side, Paco shook his head and said in a lowered, guarded tone, "Amigo, I have to tell you, I have never seen Quinn Madsen treat anybody so special, the way he is treating you.’’

Shaw only gave him a sidelong glance and asked, "Do you trust it?’’ He listened closely for Paco’s answer, knowing that his words would reveal just how much he could trust the Mexican as well.

With no hesitation, Paco said quietly, "No, I do not trust it. If I were you I would not be deceived by Madsen’s hospitality. But for now I would take advantage of it and rest my horse in his shade.’’ He grinned. "Your horse will thank you for it.’’ He shrugged. "Anyway, you are fast enough with your gun that you do not have to be in a hurry to please anyone.’’

They walked on along the dusty street toward the small adobe where the men stayed. Shaw considered Paco’s words and decided the Mexican was being honest with him. "What’s the story on the girl and her mother?’’

Paco gave him a serious look, seeing that there was more there than curiosity. "Please listen to me carefully, my friend. The girl Francisca and her mother belong to Madsen. There is nothing to be done for them. I must warn you not to think of them or get involved with them in any way.’’

As they talked they had walked to the adobe and stepped inside. Shaw looked around at saddles lined along the floor with blankets rolled up lying beside them. In a small hearth a bed of embers still glowed beneath a blackened tin coffeepot. "All right, you’ve warned me,’’ Shaw said. "Now tell me about them.’’

Paco sighed and again shook his head. "I will tell you, but only because I try to be your friend, and I know if I do not, you will find out some other way. So what I tell you must be in secret between us, comprende?’’

Paco looked all around as if to make sure no one was listening. "The woman stays with Madsen because he holds her husband prisoner. He will kill her husband if she does not go along with whatever he demands of her.’’ Paco shrugged. "What can she do? Madsen knows that she cannot go to the federales for help. Even if they cared enough to help her, she knows her husband would be dead before the federales could find him and set him free.’’

"Sí, I think she does,’’ said Paco. "She knows her father is gone. She knows her mother lives with Madsen. What more does a child see?’’

Shaw considered it for a moment, starting to understand the look in the girl’s eyes. "Mr. Angel...,’’ he murmured under his breath.

"Sí, Mr. Angel,’’ said Paco. "When I first came here, she called me Mr. Angel. But she stopped when she realized that I am only another of Madsen’s outlaws.’’

"The best hope for these people is for Madsen to tire of the woman, release her husband and ride away,’’ Shaw said. "But there’s lots of other ways things like this can go . . . none of them good.’’

"And now you see why I have done nothing,’’ said Paco. "Any move I would have made would only have gotten the child’s father killed, eh?’’

Paco fell silent for a moment, then said, "I am not a good man. I am a bandito and a gunman. I left this life of rags and hunger. I owe these people nothing. Her husband chose to be a sheep instead of a real man who stood up for his wife and child. What am I to do?’’

Even as he spoke, Shaw could see that he was talking harshly in order to hide his shame. "Like I said, you don’t have to explain yourself—’’

Shaw’s words were cut short by the booming voice of Bert Sibott, whose huge frame filled the doorway. "Well, well,’’ he said, with only a trace of a French accent. "It’s a good thing I got here when I did. You just threw your saddle down in my spot, Shaw. I can’t have that, now, can I?’’ He stepped inside, his sleeves already rolled up, his gun belt missing from around his waist.

Shaw looked at Paco, then down at the saddle on the floor beneath the window ledge. "You must believe that I knew nothing of this, my friend,’’ Paco said in a lowered voice. "This is Madsen’s doings.’’

"I understand,’’ Shaw said, watching Drop the Dog Jones and Lying Earl lurking outside the front door. To the big Frenchman he said, "Suppose you pick up my saddle and move it out of your way?’’

"I came here to bust your head, gunman,’’ said Sibott with a wide, cruel grin, "not to carry your lousy saddle for you.’’ He cracked his big round knuckles, raised his fists into a fighter’s guard and stalked forward.

"I didn’t think so,’’ Shaw said. "Let’s get this over with.’’ He took off his gun belt, let it fall atop his saddle on the floor, then took off his sombrero and dropped it atop his gun. He moved cautiously sideways until he stopped and stood a few feet in front of the hearth, casting a quick glance toward the iron poker leaning against the wall on the other side.

"I see what you’re thinking, gunman,’’ said Sibott. "Make a move for that poker and I’ll just have to beat you that much harder.’’

Shaw stopped dead still in front of the hearth, as if the big man had read his mind. "There’s no fooling you,’’ he said.

"Not when it comes to this, gunman,’’ said Sibott. "I’ve been in too many fighting rings . . . this is my game.’’