Gunmen of the Desert Sands

Dawson and his party had approached the supply wagon warily, seeing the two bodies of the German mining engineers and their guide lying in the dirt. When they were satisfied that the area was safe, they holstered their weapons and stepped down from their saddles. ’’Good Lord," said Tunis, staring from body to body, noting the empty water bags and the lone mule standing close to the side of the wagon, taking shade from the evening sun. ’’Is there no letup in the killing?"

’’Not down here," Dawson said, stepping over to where a shovel lay in the sand. ’’That’s why they sent us to clean things up, both sides of the border." He picked up the shovel and stuck it into the sand, his hand resting on the handle for a moment. His eyes followed one set of tracks leading across the flats. The other set, now taking on the three mules, went off in the direction of Arajo. ’’Deacon Lucas took whatever water these men had, then killed them. Hatch and his pards knew they couldn’t make it without water, so they headed for Arajo."

’’Why didn’t they try to catch up to Leeman?" Tunis asked, studying everything Dawson said, realizing that the marshal made sense.

Dawson nodded toward the empty canvas water bags with bullet holes in them, their edges chewed to shreds by the second party’s horses. ’’Leeman and his men shot these other water bags up as a message to Hatch not to try catching up to them."

’’Who knows?" said Dawson. ’’If there wasn’t bad blood before, there should be now—there would be if I were Hatch or one of his pards."

’’But apparently these men cut one another’s throats when it comes to their own survival," said Tunis, shaking his head in disgust. ’’I’m beginning to better understand the kind of men we’re up against. They are all ruthless, savage and unpredictable. Would you agree that my summations are accurate, Marshal? I do want to be able to report accurately to Messenger when the time comes."

Carr let out a breath of frustration. ’’When you report to him, mention that I’m getting tired of being a traveling burial detail for these outlaw sons a’ bitches." Even as he spoke, he and Caldwell turned and walked over near the shallow grave. He took off his dusty riding coat, folded it neatly and laid it in the sand; then he picked up the other shovel and started digging, carving out a second grave beside the first.

By the time the dead had been buried, even though the four men had enough water to make it on into Arajo, Dawson considered the risk of riding into the village late at night, on tired horses, knowing that the three men and their hostage had to have gone there rather than try to cross the flats the way Deacon Lucas’ party had done. It had the ideal makings for a trap, and Dawson wasn’t going to step into it.

With the wagon shading them in the pale purple moonlight, the men made a dark campsite, eating jerked meat and sparingly sipping tepid water from their canteens. They each took turns sitting up, keeping watch for two-hour intervals. Late into the night as Carr sat gazing out across the barren rolling flatlands, he saw the dark silhouette of a crouched man move toward them, zigzagging wildly.

’’Wake up," he immediately hissed to the three sleeping men on the ground beside him. Rising to one knee, snatching his rifle up from his lap and clamping it to his shoulder, he leveled the sights onto the approaching figure and shouted out across the flats, ’’Halt!"

But the running figure didn’t slow down. Instead it seemed to come straighter at him, more purposely. On the ground Dawson, Caldwell and Tunis had jumped up from their blankets almost as one, their guns coming up, cocked and ready. ’’Halt, or I’ll shoot!" Carr shouted again, this time just as Dawson and the other two caught sight of the approaching figure.

’’Damn it, Carr!" shouted Tunis, seeing the figure drawing quickly closer. ’’Don’t make a threat! Shoot him!" As he spoke, Dawson saw them both level their rifles out across the flatlands. Yet something told him this was not one of the outlaws.

’’Wait! Wait!" Dawson shouted, but it was too late. His words were drowned out as both agents began firing repeatedly into the purple moonlight.

’’Don’t shoot!" a voice cried out shrilly amid the din of rifle fire. But as the bullets sliced through the air, the voice turned into a painful scream. The figure dropped out of sight.

’’Indeed, we took him down," Tunis called out, standing the rest of the way up and kicking his blanket aside. ’’Did you see him fall, Marshal?" he asked Dawson, levering a fresh round into his rifle chamber.

’’Yes, I saw somebody fall," Dawson said, he and Caldwell hurriedly moving in beside the two excited riflemen. ’’Now hold your fire. Let’s get out there and see just who it is you’ve shot."

Hearing the tone of Dawson’s voice, Carr said, ’’It’s one of them! I don’t know which one, but it has to be one of them." He started forward with the others. ’’Whichever one he is, I’m the one who stopped his clock for him. You saw it, didn’t you, Tunis?"

The four slowed to a halt a few feet from the writhing, moaning man lying in the sand. ’’Get your hands in sight!" Carr demanded, his rifle pointed down at the wounded man, whose hands clasped his chest tightly.

’’Strike a match, Carr," Tunis said, easing forward, Dawson and Caldwell closing in around the dying man in a half circle.

Carr fished a long sulfur match from his vest pocket, struck it on his rifle hammer and leaned down over the drawn face, seeing the open eyes, the curl of blood down one side of the parted lips. ’’Oh, no, my God, it’s Randall Wynn! One of the posse men," Carr said.

Dawson stooped down beside the wounded man and felt Wynn grasp him by his forearm with a bloody hand. ’’Marshal . . . thank God," Wynn gasped. ’’I thought I was . . . a goner." He coughed up blood from his shattered lungs.

’’Try to lie still, Wynn," said Dawson, although he could see the man was dying; it made no difference if he lay still or not.

’’I . . . I have been wandering around . . . out here, hiding, scared to come in. Thank God . . . I found you men . . . instead of Deacon Lucas’. . . ."

Dawson saw the light go out in the man’s eyes. He sighed, shook his head slowly and loosened the grip of Wynn’s bloody hand on his forearm. ’’The only man who lived through the gun battle in Julimez." He stared down at the flicker of firelight on the dead face. Then he stood up and stepped back, his rifle hanging in his hand. ’’We killed him."

’’Not we," Tunis pointed out quickly, suddenly distancing himself from Carr in the shooting. ’’You heard Carr. He’s the one who shot him, not me."

’’No, Carr," Tunis said flatly, wanting to get himself off the hook, ’’we all heard you say that you are the one who shot the poor fellow. Don’t think you’re going to implicate me in this ugly mess."

’’What was I supposed to do?" Carr simpered. ’’You told me to shoot him. I told him to stop." He turned a remorseful look to Dawson and asked, ’’Why did he keep running toward us like that?"

’’You heard," said Dawson. ’’He’s been out in the desert, scared and alone. He must’ve thought he’d found a place where he’d be safe."

’’For God’s sake," Tunis said, ’’and for all his effort, all the poor man got was two rifle slugs in his chest." He also shook his head. ’’I don’t know how I can report this without making us all look bad."

’’I don’t think I should admit it was me alone who shot him," Carr cut in, realizing how it was going to sound on Tunis’ report.

’’Be quiet, both of you," Dawson said firmly. ’’A man is dead, one of the posse men who was here to help us. His death was an accident. Let’s not make it worse by denying it or covering it up." He looked first at Carr, then shifted his gaze to Tunis. ’’When you report it, just tell the truth. We owe Randall Wynn and his family that much."

’’The truth you say?" Tunis’ tone hardened. ’’I know how to report on matters of this sort. Believe me, the truth is important only if it serves our purpose. Success in cleaning up this border depends on how things are reported."

’’You’re right, Tunis," said Dawson, looking him up and down with disdain, ’’but I get the feeling I still know more than I care to." He turned, Caldwell right beside him, and walked toward the wagon bed where they had laid the shovels.

’’I’ve been fooling myself," Dawson said quietly to Caldwell on their way. ’’I had started thinking Tunis showed some promise, that maybe he’s more than just some Washington lackey doing Messenger’s paperwork to suit him."

’’Why’d you think it?" Caldwell asked. ’’Just because he’d started to agree with you on things?" He gave a bitter grin as he tugged on his fingerless gloves. ’’That’s the oldest Washington trick in the book—take control of things by agreeing with everybody. I should have warned you."

’’Anything else you need to warn me about?" Dawson asked wryly, realizing that Caldwell was right. That was all Tunis had been doing, watching, agreeing, looking for a chance to take control.

’’Good," said Dawson, ’’and if you see me allowing him to agree with me, flatter me or make me think that what I’ve said is important, be sure and crack me over the head with your pistol barrel."

In the first silver hour of dawn, Morgan Hatch and Sonny Engles looked back on the flatlands below them from a narrow trail meandering up into a long stretch of rocky hills. ’’What do you think?" Engles asked. ’’It’s near daylight. Shouldn’t we have heard some gunfire by now?"

’’Yeah, we would have heard something if they’d rode in during the night," said Hatch, crossing his wrists on his saddle horn for a moment. He looked disappointed. Beside him stood one of the mules on a lead rope, filled water gourds tied down securely to the animal’s knobby back.

Hatch shook his head. ’’I don’t think she’s that kind of whore, unless there was some reward money on him she might’ve figured she could get. Something about that whore tells me she’ll stick."

’’Me too," said Engles. ’’Besides, there’s no reward money on Wild Dick that I ever heard of." He grinned. ’’He was too slick to ever get blamed outright for anything. Far as I know, he was never even shot other than a scratch or two until all this happened."

’’The lawdogs didn’t show up last night," Hatch said with resolve, turning his horse back on the steep trail. ’’Marshal Dawson was wise enough not to ride into a dark town. It’s that simple."

’’Yeah, that lawdog son of a bitch." Engles spat as if to get a bitter taste from his mouth. ’’It looks like we’ll still have him and his deputy to deal with." The two nudged their horses forward and rode on.

In Arajo, Juanita Rey sat on the dirt floor wrapped in a ragged blanket, beside the straw-filled pallet where Wild Dick lay sleeping with his shoulders propped against the bare wall.

When two young men slipped silently into the adobe, she opened her eyes without lifting her face. Beneath the blanket came the muffled sound of a gun cocking. The sound caused Wild Dick to stir groggily for a moment, then drop his head. One of the men whispered to the woman, ’’Do not shoot, senora! We come to warn you, the way the americano paid us to do."

She looked at Wild Dick in contemplation, then asked without taking her eyes off his pale sleeping face, ’’Will I be able to see them from the window?"

The men looked at each other. ’’Sí, you will see them when they ride in onto the street." He shrugged. ’’But by then it might be too late to get away."