Gun Country

In Nozzito, Madden Corio knew the first thing he had to do was face the Jordan brothers, Grayson and Tolan, and tell them their brother Bert was dead. He’d done so with his four gunmen drawn close around him, at a hitch rail out in front of the Perro Blanco Cantina. As he’d expected, their first response had been barely controlled rage. But after a few minutes the two calmed down a little.

“Yes,” said Corio, “I’m riding Bert’s horse, sort of my way of keeping his memory alive.” He patted the sweaty horse’s head.

“How’d Bert get it?” Grayson asked, studying Corio’s eyes closely. Corio stood with the reins to Bert Jordan’s horse still in hand. He’d been riding the dead gunman’s horse ever since he’d killed him, Tuesday Bonhart having stolen his bay and made her getaway on it. But that was something he didn’t want to mention here.

Instead of answering, Corio turned to Max Skinner, with whom he’d already worked out a story. “You tell them what you saw, Max.”

“It was Fast Larry Shaw who killed Bert,” Skinner said straight-faced. “I saw him do it. But I was too far away to get there and do anything about it. Luckily, some of Bocanero’s rebels made quick work of Shaw. I saw them blow the hell out of him with a French grenade.”

But Shaw’s death brought the two little consolation. Grayson slammed his fist into his palm. “Damn it, I wish it was us who killed Shaw. I would have done it slow and painfully.”

“Bert deserved better,” said Tolan, although he wasn’t sure what he meant by it. He narrowed his gaze and went on to ask Corio, “One question, Madden. What was Fast Larry Shaw doing riding with you and your men?”

“It’s a long story,” said Corio. “He rode in with Lowe’s wagon drivers. Lowe took him in as a partner. Then Lowe and his young whore got in an argument and she killed Lowe, leaving Shaw in charge.” He shook his head and gave a look of regret. “I’ve got to take responsibility for it. I’m ashamed to say, if I hadn’t let Shaw in, poor Bert would still be alive.”

Grayson and Tolan looked at each other as if coming to a decision whether or not to hold Corio to blame. Finally, Grayson said, “The way I look at it, Bert, you, me, all of us, we choose this life of ours. We know the risks. So long as Shaw is dead, I reckon we’ve got no axe to grind.”

“Oh, he’s dead sure enough,” Corio said. “Max saw it happen. . . . I saw his mangled body afterwards. He barely looked human,” he said, throwing in a little more than he and Skinner had planned to.

“Enough said,” Tolan declared. He motioned toward the cantina’s open door, giving Corio the lead. “Come on in. Let’s talk about what you’ve got lined up.”

Corio handed him the reins, gave him a look and said under his breath, “Have these three take turns attending to their horses, and getting themselves something to eat and drink.” He looked warily back along the street they’d ridden on; then he turned, stepped onto a low boardwalk and walked into the cantina.

Skinner saw the way Hooks had turned a curious glance toward Corio. He waited until Corio was out of sight, then said, “Don’t let it bother you, Hooks. He gets a little overly cautious after a big job.”

“Yeah?” said Hooks. “We’re not supposed to eat or drink, until it comes our turn? Hell, if I wanted to be treated like this, I’d have joined the army.”

“Do like you’re told, Hooks,” said Skinner. “It’s my job to see to it things get done the way he wants them done. Don’t give me a hard time.”

Hooks gave him a harsh stare but let the matter drop. He hitched his horse to the hitch rail beside Brule Kaggan’s and Harvey Lemate’s.

“You’ll get used to it, Hooks,” said Kaggan. He and Lemate gave a short chuckle and walked to the side of the cantina and stood beneath a ragged canvas overhang out of the sun. Skinner walked inside, joining Corio and the Jordans.

A half hour later, outside town, Dawson and Caldwell had ridden at a quick, steady pace down off the high trail and across the valley floor. When they’d reached the far edge of town, they swung around off the wide trail and slipped the rest of the way in on a narrow winding path that ran behind the buildings along the main street. At the corner of an alleyway, they stepped down from their saddles and carefully looked across the street at the five horses standing out in front of the cantina.

“Yep,” said Dawson, his Colt held up, his thumb resting over its hammer. “And there’s three of the riders standing out front,” he added. “Corio must be inside taking it easy, while these men watch his back trail.” He glanced both directions along the dirt street, making sure he saw no other gunmen standing around.

“What do you say, Marshal?” Caldwell asked, sliding his rifle from its scabbard and levering a round into its chamber. He stared expectantly at Dawson.

Across the street, Max Skinner walked out of the cantina carrying a tin plate piled high with goat meat and beans. In the same hand as his fork he carried a bottle of mescal. Chewing a mouthful of the greasy meat, he said to the others, “All right, now one of you go get yourself some grub and liquor.” He grinned with bulging jaws. “This ain’t working out so bad, is it?”

Hooks straightened from against the adobe wall and flipped a cigarette butt away. He looked at Kaggan and Lamate, neither of whom made a move toward the cantina door. “I don’t have to be asked twice,” he said. But as he started to walk to the cantina door, a shot from Caldwell’s rifle lifted him off his feet and slammed him back against the wall where he’d been leaning.

“Look out!” shouted Max Skinner, his plate of food flying from his hand, the bottle of mescal falling to the dirt.

Another rifle shot exploded, clipping Lemate as he made a long dive for the cover of a water trough five yards away.

Skinner got his Colt up and began returning fire as he ran for the front door of the cantina. But two shots from Dawson’s Colt hit him, spun him on the spot and sent him stumbling backward through the front door. A third shot pounded into his chest. He flew farther backward inside the cantina. His pistol exploded wildly into the ceiling.

“Damn it to hell!” said Corio, seeing his right-hand man spread-eagle, dead on the floor. He ventured a look out and saw Dawson and Caldwell just as they moved forward and took new cover. “It’s them damn lawmen who’s been breaking up everything down here! They’ve got us trapped like rats here!”

“No, they don’t,” said Grayson, above the sound of rapid gunfire out on the street. “We hitched our horses out back just in case we needed them there.”

“We even brought along a fresh horse for Bert,” said Tolan. “Looks like you’ll be needing it, though, instead of him.”

“Hell then, what are we waiting for?” said Corio, running along with the two brothers in a crouch toward the rear door, his gun drawn and cocked.

Out front, Lemate fired until his Colt was empty. In the dirt a few feet away, Kaggan had fallen dead. “Damn it,” Lemate cursed to himself, looking back at Kaggan’s bloody body. From the cover of the water trough, he’d heard the pounding of hooves behind the cantina and knew there would be no help coming his way from Corio or the Jordan brothers.

“Skinner? Are you up?” he called out during a lull in the gunfire from the lawmen. But he heard no reply. He searched his gun belt for more bullets but found the belt empty. He let out a sigh of resignation. “To hell with this.”

Dawson and Caldwell advanced on the cantina, guns smoking, looking all around for their next target. “Watch the water trough,” Dawson said under his breath as the two spread farther apart on the empty dirt street.

No sooner had Dawson said the words than Lemate sprang up, his Colt at arm’s length, and let out a loud rebel yell. But as soon as his empty gun leveled toward them, both lawmen fired as one. Their shots lifted him and drove him backward against the adobe building beside the body of Robert Hooks. Lemate slid down, leaving a wide smear of blood behind him. His unloaded Colt fell from his fingertips. He lay staring straight ahead, his eyes wide-open, a dumb, bemused smile frozen forever on his face.

“Curio’s getting away,” said Dawson to Caldwell, both of them seeing the rise of dust stretching out from the rear of the cantina. The two turned and ran for their horses.

Having left Cedrianno, riding along the high trail in the gun wagon, Shaw heard the gunfire coming from the direction of Nozzito, on the valley floor. By the time he’d reached a spot where he could look out over the valley, the firing had stopped, and three riders had raced across the flatlands and up onto the high trail leading toward him. All that remained was a drifting rise of trail dust.

As Shaw turned away from looking down onto the valley, he saw Tuesday Bonhart riding toward him all alone, her horse at a slow walk. “Fast Larry, are you all right?” she called out to him. She nudged her horse forward with a pained look on her face.

“I’m all right,” Shaw called out in reply. “Wait right there for me.” He hurried the wagon horses forward with a jiggle of the traces in his hand, and stopped only a few feet from where Tuesday sat slumped in her saddle, her head slightly bowed. “The question is, are you doing all right?” he asked.

“Yes, I’m all right,” Tuesday said, “just a little tired is all. This saddle is killing my back.”

“Here,” said Shaw, “this will help some.” He stood up, reached out to her and helped her over into the wagon seat beside him. “Where’s Jane and Raidy?” he asked. He took her horse’s reins, stepped over the wagon seat and walked back and hitched the animal beside his speckled barb.

“They left . . . together,” Tuesday said in a tired voice, giving Shaw a look as he came back and sat down beside her in the wagon seat.

“I don’t mean anything,” she said. “Who am I to judge Jane Crowley or anybody else?” She gave a tired smile. “I’m a whore, remember? I used to be anyway,” she added.

“Maybe it’s time you quit calling yourself that,” Shaw said, “since you say you’re not going to do it anymore.” He put the wagon horses forward on the trail.

“Yeah,” she said, “maybe it is time I stopped calling myself a whore.” She paused, then weighed her words and asked, “If I could tell you who shot you in the head, would you want to know?”

Tuesday knew he meant if it was Jane Crowley, he didn’t want to know. “Why is that?” she asked.

“Because if it was somebody close to me, I don’t want to go around reminding myself of it all the time,” he said.

“Besides,” said Shaw, deflecting away any thought of who might have shot him, “I could have shot myself for all I know.” He shook his head slowly. “That’s how wild-eyed drunk I was at the time.”

“You could have shot yourself . . . ?” Tuesday asked in a dubious tone. “You don’t think about doing something like that, do you?”

“No,” Shaw said, “not anymore. But I admit I used to think about it some . . . a few years back.” He took a deep breath and let it out. “But I’m past all that now.”

“Good,” Tuesday said, sounding relieved. She ran her arm through his and snuggled against him. “I’m glad to hear that.”

At a spot where the trail turned sharply downward toward the valley and on toward Nozzito, Shaw listened to the sound of horses’ hooves drawing closer toward them. He stopped the wagon, untwined his arm from Tuesday’s and said in a calm voice, “I want you to do me a favor.”

“I want you to take both horses and walk them over off the trail, get them and yourself out of sight, just in case,” Shaw said.

“Just in case . . . ?” She stepped down and stood on the trail looking at him, hearing the hooves herself, now that they’d gotten closer. “Are you going to be all right? Should I stay and maybe help?”