Ride to Hell's Gate

With the woman and Ernesto’s son buried and wooden markers stuck into the ground to mark their graves, Dawson, Caldwell and Shaw rode in silence from the Bengreen spread onto the trail leading to Matamoros. Caldwell led three of the Bengreen horses on a rope—stragglers that the Barrows men had overlooked in their haste. He’d found the horses grazing on sparse clumps of wild grass beyond the burned barn.

When they had reached a distance of a thousand yards from the Bengreen spread, Caldwell brought Dawson’s attention to Shaw who had stopped his horse for a moment and sat gazing back at the walled hacienda.

‘‘No, leave him be, Jedson,’’ Dawson said quietly, the two of them staring back at Shaw. ‘‘He’ll have to work it out for himself. We’ve done all we can do.’’

‘‘Yeah, I suppose so,’’ Caldwell said. ‘‘He’ll be all right,’’ he added as if to convince himself. ‘‘Shaw’s as tough as they come.’’

‘‘Right,’’ said Dawson. He turned and nudged his horse forward with no more to say on the matter.

Caldwell caught up to him and asked, ‘‘Is there a problem between you and Shaw that I don’t know about?’’

‘‘Yes,’’ said Caldwell, ‘‘ever since we rode up to him you’ve acted half cross and put out about something. Is it something I ought to know about?’’

‘‘Naw,’’ said Dawson, staring ahead, ‘‘I’ve got no problem with him, at least no more than any man would have when he finds his friend working up the courage to kill himself.’’

‘‘I can understand that,’’ Caldwell agreed. ‘‘I expect that a man like Shaw has the courage. If he really wanted to die there would be no stopping him.’’

‘‘It’s complicated,’’ said Caldwell, considering it for a second. ‘‘A man who thinks about pulling the trigger is still thinking there might be hope for something better. A man who goes ahead and pulls the trigger is a man who’s saying he doesn’t care enough about living to even stick around and see if his circumstances might change for the better.’’

‘‘I can see what you mean by complicated,’’ said Dawson with a thin smile. ‘‘A man has to be alive to see if life got better for him. I expect that means if he’s dead he didn’t really want it to?’’

‘‘Yeah,’’ said Dawson. ‘‘But to keep it simple, I happen to think that Shaw still has too much wolf in his belly to pull that trigger. He might think about doing it, but when it comes down to getting it done, his instincts won’t turn him loose and let him do it.’’

‘‘The wolf in his belly . . . ?’’ Caldwell worked on Dawson’s explanation in his mind. ‘‘You’re saying the same animal nature that brought him through every gunfight is the same nature that won’t allow him to destroy himself?’’

‘‘Something like that,’’ Dawson replied. ‘‘There’s enough of the wild left in us to make us want to keep living. Someday maybe the wild will be gone . . . but for now we’ve still got it.’’

‘‘I’m not smart enough to speculate where we came from,’’ said Dawson, ‘‘but wherever we come from, it was no gentle place. We slashed and ripped and hacked our way here from somewhere. It was no easy road and it’s still not. We didn’t learn to give up easy. I expect that nature or spirit or whatever you want to call it is still in us . . . so far anyway.’’

They both looked back at Shaw in time to see him turn his horse and ride to catch up to them. ‘‘You said Luna told you he passed out in the gunfight? You figure he got himself drunk enough to turn loose, get himself killed and get it over with?’’

‘‘Yeah,’’ said Dawson, ‘‘but since that didn’t work, maybe nothing else we just said amounts to a hill of beans.’’ He allowed a thin, wry smile. ‘‘Maybe it’s just luck and nothing else.’’

‘‘ ‘God’s will is what a sinner calls luck,’ ’’ said Dawson. ‘‘That’s something I once heard a preacher say.’’

The two stopped talking as Shaw rode up close and drew his horse down to a walk. As they rode forward abreast, Caldwell leading the Cedros Altos horses, Shaw said in a steadier voice, ‘‘I should have said this earlier. Much obliged to both of you, coming along when you did. You’re both friends—good friends—no matter what I said back there.’’

Without a word, Dawson and Caldwell touched their hat brims in reply. ‘‘Are you up to talking about a few things before we get to Matamoros?’’ Dawson asked, gazing ahead along wagon and buggy ruts on the widening, more traveled trail.

Dawson smiled to himself; he could tell Shaw was coming around. ‘‘I’ve been wanting more help out here, chasing the Barrows Gang. After what happened at Cedros Altos, I’m going back to the American consulate, ask one more time. I think I might get it now.’’

Dawson looked at him. ‘‘This is a big gang, Shaw. It’ll get bigger as soon as Redlow and Eddie hook up with Sepreano and his Army of Liberation. You’d be a fool trying to take them all on by yourself.’’

‘‘I only want the Barrows,’’ said Shaw. ‘‘I have no fight with Luis Sepreano. If Sepreano keeps his soldiers out of my way, I won’t kill them.’’

Seeing he was serious, Dawson said, ‘‘I wish you’d stay sober. I need a good gunman. I believe I can get the consulate to grant you a marshal’s commission.’’

Dawson’s face reddened a little. ‘‘You know why we’re not wearing ours,’’ he said. ‘‘We’ve got no jurisdiction down here.’’

‘‘Oh,’’ said Shaw, looking back and forth between the two lawmen, ‘‘then what are you doing down here?’’

‘‘We’re on a manhunt that’s been agreed to between our government and the Mexicans. Neither side acknowledges us being here. We’ve got a free hand to deal with the Barrows, to keep them and Sepreano from getting too powerful.’’

‘‘Let me see if I understand,’’ said Shaw. ‘‘You think you might be able to get me a badge that I can’t wear because I’ll be doing a job that nobody on either side of the border wants to admit I’ll be doing?’’

Dawson frowned and stared straight ahead. ‘‘Wearing badges might make some folks think the U.S. government is taking sides in a people’s rebellion.’’

‘‘It would be,’’ said Dawson, ‘‘except we both know that Sepreano is a thief, not a leader of the people. He has to be stopped.’’

‘‘You’re saying bring down the Barrows Gang,’’ said Shaw, ‘‘not take them in for trial?’’

‘‘You heard me right,’’ said Dawson. ‘‘We’re taking them down. . . . It’s one more good reason not to be wearing a badge.’’

Shaw nodded, in contemplation. Maybe I will stay sober when we get to town. This is sounding more interesting all the time.’’ The three nudged their horses up into a trot and rode on in silence.

In Matamoros, a crowd had gathered along both sides of the street in front of the jail. Upon seeing the three Americans ride in off the trail that Boland and Fairday had taken out of town, townsmen pressed in around them in a close circle. ‘‘Show them your badge, Cray,’’ Shaw said in a teasing manner to Dawson, who rode beside him. ‘‘I bet that’ll settle them down.’’

But before Dawson could respond, six uniformed federales and two Americans in business suits stepped forward from the direction of the American consulate office a block away. The soldiers shoved their way through the townsmen and cleared a path for the two Americans. One of the Americans, a tall, lean man with a gray goatee and matching hair showing beneath the brim of his bowler hat, raised a hand and called out in Spanish to the crowd.

‘‘Listen to me! I’m Samuel Messenger, with the American Delegation.’’ He pointed a raised finger toward the American flag waving above the consulate building. ‘‘I vouch for these two men,’’ he said in their native tongue, motioning toward Dawson and Caldwell. ‘‘These two men are not with Sepreano and the Barrows Gang. You have my word.’’

‘‘Who are they, then?’’ a townsman shouted back in English. ‘‘What are they doing with three of Judge Bengreen’s horses?’’

The American replied in English as he pointed out Dawson, ‘‘He bought the horse he’s riding here the other day. Gerardo Luna introduced him to the horse dealer. He was Luna’s friend.’’ He looked up at Dawson and asked the same question under his breath, ‘‘What are you doing with these other three Bengreen horses?’’

But Dawson didn’t answer right away. Instead he asked, ‘‘What do you mean I was Luna’s friend?’’ He looked back and forth above the heads of the crowd. ‘‘Where is Luna? What’s going on here, Messenger?’’ Looking all around he dreaded the answer before it came.

‘‘Luna is dead. He was killed this morning before dawn by two of the Barrows Gang,’’ said Messenger. He intentionally spoke loud enough for the crowd to hear him answer Dawson.

Sam Messenger continued speaking in a raised voice for the crowd’s benefit. ‘‘I want all the good people of Matamoros to know that Gerardo Luna’s killers will not go unpunished! Speaking on behalf of the United States government, I want everyone to know that my government will cooperate in every way in tracking these killers down and bringing them to justice. I will be staying at the American consulate building and personally overseeing the capture of the Barrows, and everybody associated with them.’’

Shaw, Dawson and Caldwell gave one another a look of disgust. ‘‘Messenger, let’s go somewhere where we can talk in private,’’ Dawson said, before the American could say any more to the crowd on the matter. ‘‘This is no time to step on a soapbox.’’

Messenger held a hand up to the crowd and smiled, but said sideways to Dawson, ‘‘You’re wrong, Marshal Dawson. It’s always the right time to try and get a better foot up in the game.’’ Yet he lowered his hand and gestured toward Luna’s office across the street.

The crowd parted enough to allow Dawson, Shaw and Caldwell to follow Messenger on horseback to an iron hitch rail where they stepped down and hitched their horses. Caldwell tied the lead rope to the three Bengreen horses next to his own and hurried to the open door where Shaw stood waiting for him, keeping an eye on the confused and angry townsfolk.

Once inside the office, Dawson wasted no time. He turned to Messenger and said, ‘‘The Barrows Gang struck the Bengreen spread last night. They killed Bengreen’s widow and a family of Mexicans who still lived there. They rode away with the remaining horses she was waiting to sell.’’

‘‘Oh my,’’ said Messenger, contemplating things as Dawson spoke. ‘‘This is one more reason for the people to realize how important it is to stop Sepreano and his Army of Liberation. If he’s riding with outlaws like the Barrows, he’s no better than they are.’’

Dawson gave Shaw and Caldwell a glance, then let out a breath and said to Messenger, ‘‘Save all that for the crowd. We need to get after the Barrows.’’

‘‘Don’t take what I do so lightly, Marshal Dawson,’’ said Messenger. ‘‘It’s terrible what happened to Luna and to Bengreen’s widow. But my job is to convince these people that Sepreano is no good for their country. I can best do that by showing the kind of men he allies himself with. So, before you judge me a fool and—’’

‘‘I’m not judging you, Messenger,’’ Dawson said, cutting him off. ‘‘You do your job, I’ll do mine.’’ He gestured a gloved hand toward Shaw. ‘‘This is Lawrence Shaw. I’m sure you’ve heard of him.’’

‘‘Yes, of course I’ve heard of Fast Larry Shaw, the fastest gun alive,’’ said Messenger, a look of distaste coming to his face. ‘‘In fact I’ve stepped over him a few times lying drunk on the street during my subsequent visits to Matamoros.’’ He stared at Shaw as he added, ‘‘Luna befriended him, much like one would befriend a stray cur. He allowed him to sleep here in the jail on occasion. That was about the extent of the friendship as I saw it.’’

‘‘Well, he’s not drunk now,’’ said Dawson, not wanting to discuss Shaw, ‘‘and I need help with the Barrows. I want you to swear him as a deputy.’’

‘‘You’ve been in the sun too long, Dawson,’’ said Messenger with a slight chuckle. He looked Shaw up and down critically, noting the sling on his right arm. ‘‘Look at him. Can he even pull a trigger, providing his hand isn’t shaking too much to draw a gun—?’’ His words stopped short.

Shaw’s left hand had streaked over to his Colt, which stood butt forward in a cross-hand draw, its slim-jim holster having been rigged to suit his needs. ‘‘That’s the draw part, Mister,’’ Shaw said, the Colt’s hammer cocked, the tip of the barrel no more than an inch from Messenger’s nose. ‘‘Want to see how I pull a trigger?’’

‘‘Easy, Shaw,’’ said Dawson. Seeing in Shaw’s eyes that this was strictly for show and that he had no intention of shooting the ambassador, Dawson played along. ‘‘Ambassador Messenger, this is the kind of man Caldwell and I need out there. We could use a dozen like Shaw. He has no qualms about killing men like the Barrows, especially since they killed his friend Luna. Unless you know of somebody better you can get on short notice, I want him with us.’’

Messenger looked up from the gun barrel and into Shaw’s eyes as he said to Dawson, ‘‘There is help coming from Mexico City, or so the federales tell me. But they didn’t say when or how many.’’ He considered things and added, ‘‘Of course they say they will concentrate only on bringing down Sepreano. We must take care of the Barrows Gang on our own.’’

‘‘That figures,’’ Dawson replied in disgust. ‘‘Meanwhile I need any help I can get, right here right now. So what do you say?’’

After a moment of consideration, Messenger sighed and said, ‘‘Perhaps I’m the one who has been too long in the sun.’’ He looked Shaw up and down. ‘‘I’ll get you a deputy badge, but you are forbidden to wear it on this assignment.’’ Messenger raised a finger and added, ‘‘And if you get into trouble with any of the rurales—the local Mexican authorities— both the Mexican and U.S. government will deny any knowledge of you. Do you understand me, Mr. Shaw?’’

‘‘Sure,’’ Shaw said cynically. ‘‘This sounds like the kind of job I’ve always wanted.’’ He lowered his Colt, uncocked it and slipped it over into his holster. ‘‘Now, if you gentlemen will excuse me, I’ll be waiting for you at the cantina.’’

Looking at Dawson, Shaw said, ‘‘I’m not going there to drink. I told you I’ll stay sober for now.’’

‘‘I know what you said,’’ said Dawson. ‘‘You don’t have to explain yourself to me. Just be ready to ride when we come for you.’’

When Shaw had turned and walked out the door, Dawson gave Caldwell a nod. Without a word Caldwell turned and walked out the door himself.

Out front he looked all around the street for Shaw, but when he didn’t see him he heard his voice say behind him, ‘‘Looking for me, Undertaker?’’

Caldwell looked around at where Shaw stood leaning against the front of the building. With a slight shrug, he said, ‘‘Come on, Shaw, he just wants me to look out for you.’’

‘‘Come on then.’’ Shaw nodded toward the cantina two blocks away. ‘‘In case you’re wondering, I’m going there to ask Max Manko who I need to see around here to join up with the Barrows brothers.’’

‘‘Yes, I thought so too,’’ said Shaw. ‘‘I’d like to think that all those weeks of drinking were worth something.’’ He offered a wry grin. ‘‘At least we’ll see if it’s kept me in touch with all the wrong element.’’