Ride to Hell's Gate

When Shaw and Caldwell walked into the Gato Perdido Cantina, they stepped around a couple dancing slowly to the music of an accordion and a guitar. The American wore a dusty black sombrero hanging down behind his shoulders by a thin hat cord. Metal studs ran the length of his buckskin trouser legs from his gun belt to his tall Spanish boots. He wore a single-action Colt like the one in Shaw’s holster.

Without having to say a word to Caldwell, Shaw saw him take a step away and position himself sidelong at the bar in a manner that kept an eye not only on the American dancing, but also on the other two Americans in black sombreros at the end of the bar. The only other customer was a long-bearded elderly Mexican who sat sipping mescal from a clay cup at a table in the corner.

Shaw took note of the three Americans as he and Caldwell walked to the tiled bar. The American on the dance floor stared at Shaw until his raven-haired dance partner lowered the top of her white peasant dress and drew his attention to her naked breasts.

Upon seeing Shaw walk in, a gray-haired Mexican behind the bar immediately laid down a paring knife and a lime he’d been slicing and hurriedly wiped his hands on a ragged white apron. ‘‘Welcome, Senor Reed,’’ he said, knowing that was a name Shaw had been going by when any strangers were within hearing distance. It was also a way of letting Shaw know that the men at the bar had been asking about him.

Shaw caught the warning. ‘‘Hola, Max, mi amigo,’’ he said without looking any closer at the three Americans.

‘‘How is my favorite abogado today?’’ Max asked as he reached down and pulled up a fresh bottle of mescal from under the bar top. From the wall behind him he also took down a full bottle of whiskey and stood it beside the mescal. Then he reached down the bar and snagged two clean clay cups and stood them side by side. He started to uncork the whiskey, but Shaw stopped him.

‘‘Oh?’’ Max gave him a concerned look. ‘‘I hope you have been well. I have not seen you for a few days.’’ He looked at Shaw’s right arm in the sling and said in a secretive voice, ‘‘The last time I see you is when you were shot. I watch Sheriff Luna drag you out of the street.’’ Upon mentioning Luna’s name he quickly crossed himself. ‘‘I hope you have come to reap vengeance on his killers.’’

‘‘That’s why I’m here. As long as they’re alive, they’ll be in my gun sights, Max,’’ said Shaw in the same lowered voice. ‘‘You can count on that.’’ Without looking along the bar, he asked, ‘‘Now, what about these men?’’

‘‘Si, they rode in yesterday morning,’’ said Max, even more secretively. ‘‘Always they are asking, ‘Where is this Fast Larry? When will he be here?’ ’’ He slid the two men at the end of the bar a glance from beneath his lowered brow. ‘‘I told them Fast Larry is dead, but they say they know better. They say they heard in Brownsville that you were shot down in the street here. You must watch out for these men, eh?’’

Beside him, Caldwell let his jacket lapel lie open, putting his Colt in easy reach. He looked along the bar, seeing the two Americans staring back at him, drinking, talking quietly between themselves. As the musicians ended their song, the third American and the cantina girl left the dance floor, his left arm around her waist. They joined the other two, one of them handing him a clay cup of whiskey.

As Caldwell kept an eye on the three men, Shaw said to Max, ‘‘I’ll try to take it outside if they force a gunfight on me.’’

‘‘You must do what you must do,’’ Max replied. He shrugged. ‘‘I will not have you risk your life to keep my walls from getting shot up.’’

Shaw nodded his thanks, then said, ‘‘I’m looking for Charlie Pepper or his cousin Rady LaVease. Have you seen either of them around in the past couple of days?’’

‘‘Don’t worry, this is my friend, Jed. Anything you can say to me, you can say to him.’’

‘‘Si, I understand,’’ said Max. He slid a glance back and forth along the bar, then said, ‘‘Pepper, his cousin Rady and some of their friends are hiding out at the old French fort settlement along the river. I am not supposed to tell anyone where they are, but I know you are not the law looking for them, eh? So it is all right.’’

Shaw only nodded, not mentioning his new appointment as U.S. federal deputy marshal. ‘‘I’m only looking for them for an introduction,’’ Shaw said.

‘‘An introducción?’’ Max asked, picking up the bottle of whiskey and putting it back on the shelf.

‘‘That’s right,’’ said Shaw. ‘‘I once heard Pepper and LaVease say that if I ever wanted to ride for the Barrows brothers, they could tell me where to find them.’’

‘‘Oh, mi amigo,’’ said Max, with a sour expression. ‘‘You do not want to ride for the Barrows. Think about this long and hard before you align yourselves with those outlaws.’’

‘‘I’m not interested in riding with the Barrows, Max,’’ Shaw explained. ‘‘I think the man who killed Luna is riding with them.’’

‘‘I see,’’ said the barkeeper. Before he could say another word on the matter, a voice from the end of the bar called out, ‘‘Shaw! Fast Larry Shaw!’’

Shaw had learned not to turn right away at the sound of someone calling his name unless he felt the next thing he would hear would be a gunshot. He continued looking at Max, and said in confirmation, ‘‘The old French fort settlement along the Río Grande?’’

‘‘Si,’’ Max whispered. He cut a nervous glance toward the end of the bar, then whispered as if Shaw might not have heard, ‘‘I think this one is talking to you.’’

‘‘Hey usted, hombre!’’ the man with the studded buckskins called out in bad Spanish. ‘‘Answer to your name! Míreme, hombre!’’ he demanded.

‘‘Speak English before you hurt yourself,’’ Shaw intervened. With no regard to the strategic position the three men had taken around them at the bar, he pointed at a slice of the lime Max had just sliced and asked, ‘‘Puede I, por favor?’’

Shaw picked up the slice of lime, twisted it and held it to his lips. ‘‘Gracias,’’ he said.

‘‘Here we go,’’ Caldwell whispered, seeing the three Americans move along the bar toward them, the cantina girl slipping quickly away. At the corner table the elderly Mexican drained his mescal with one tall bob of his Adam’s apple and managed to disappear like smoke. The two musicians did the same.

‘‘I said, ‘Hey you, look at me,’ ’’ the American in the studded buckskins said, stopping a few feet away and spreading his feet a shoulder-width apart.

‘‘I heard you the first time,’’ Shaw said. He pulled the juicy meat of the lime away from the rind with his teeth and chewed it as he looked the American up and down.

One of the others had spread out and now stood almost behind Caldwell. The third moved all the way around the bar, encircling them. The one facing Shaw gave up his bad Spanish and said in English, ‘‘I heard him call you abogado. An attorney, right?’’

‘‘I heard this barkeeper call you Reed,’’ the gunman said, ‘‘like you’re Chever Reed, the attorney from Brownsville?’’

‘‘That is what you heard him call me,’’ Shaw said, already realizing this man wasn’t having any of it.

‘‘Right, I did,’’ the man said, shoving it aside, ‘‘only I know for a fact that you’re not Reed, that you’re Fast Larry Shaw. Reed is dead and in the ground.’’ He poised, ready to do battle. ‘‘So, what have you got to say about that?’’

Shaw picked up another slice of lime, pulled the meat off the rind with his teeth and chewed it slowly. Half turning his back on the man, he said bluntly, ‘‘Who am I talking to, and why?’’

‘‘Who? I’ll tell you who,’’ the man said, stiffening at the offhanded way Shaw treated him, as if he were no one Shaw should show respect to, let alone fear. ‘‘Down here I might be nobody.’’ He nodded toward the east. ‘‘In Texas you’ve heard of me—I’m Killer Pete Roland.’’ He stopped long enough to let the name sink in, watching Shaw search his memory as he chewed the slice of lime and swallowed it.

‘‘Killer Pete Roland . . . ,’’ Shaw said, gazing off at the ceiling in an effort to remember. ‘‘No,’’ he lied with finality, ‘‘I can’t say that the name Killer Pete easily comes to mind.’’

Seeing that Shaw was taunting him, making him look bad in front of his friends, Roland said, ‘‘That don’t matter, Mister. I know you’re Fast Larry, and you know why I’m here?’’ He paused. Then he added grimly, ‘‘Let’s get it done.’’

‘‘One minute . . .’’ Shaw finished chewing the slice of lime, swallowed it and rubbed his fingertips on his shirt, his right hand lying limp in the sling. ‘‘What about these two monkeys?’’ he asked, without looking away from Roland.

‘‘While I kill you, are they going to be shooting holes in my friend here?’’ Shaw asked matter-of-factly.

‘‘They go their own way,’’ said Roland. He managed a tight shrug. ‘‘If they kill him while I’m killing you,’’ he corrected Shaw, ‘‘I expect it’s just his bad luck for backing the wrong man.’’

‘‘Hear that, Undertaker?’’ Shaw asked Caldwell. ‘‘Killer Pete says you’re backing the wrong man.’’

‘‘I heard him,’’ said Caldwell. He had taken a slow step back and half turned, giving himself the benefit of seeing the other two men, both of whom had bristled at Shaw calling them monkeys.

‘‘What do you think?’’ Shaw asked him. Maybe there’s time for you to change sides. You could back Killer Pete here, my arm being injured and all?’’

‘‘I’ll stay with what I’m dealt,’’ Caldwell said, his dark eyes moving from one of the gunmen to the next.

But Shaw ignored him and asked the other two, ‘‘What about you hombres? You’ve got no qualms about your amigo here coming to gun down a man whose shooting arm is in a sling?’’

‘‘So much the better, far as I’m concerned,’’ said one of the men. ‘‘Your wounded shoulder is his big gain, the way I look at it.’’

‘‘Undertaker,’’ Shaw said to Caldwell, ‘‘don’t you kill Clifford. I want him, soon as I finish Killer Pete. Do you hear me?’’

‘‘I hear you,’’ said Caldwell, in the same flat, calm voice. He turned his cold stare away from Clifford Noonan and toward the other gunman.

‘‘I said stop wasting my time and let’s get this done, Fast Larry!’’ Roland shouted, his nerves starting to become frayed from Shaw’s slow, stalling manner. ‘‘I come here to kill you! I didn’t come here to be put off, listening to a whole bunch of—’’

Two shots exploded from Shaw’s Colt. The first bullet ripped through Killer Pete’s chest and sent a spray of blood and heart fragments streaking along the tile bar top. Even as Shaw fired the first shot, he’d spun toward Noonan. The second shot slammed Noonan backward before his hand closed around his gun butt to draw.

Caldwell froze, seeing the third man throw his empty hands in the air. ‘‘Don’t shoot! Please don’t shoot!’’

Shaw stood calmly, his Colt smoking in his hand. ‘‘Go for your gun,’’ he said quietly. ‘‘You came here for a fight—a fight is what you get. Now fill your hand.’’

Caldwell stood watching, stunned, aware that although he himself was considered to be a top gun hand, his barrel had made it only halfway up from his holster before Shaw’s second shot killed Noonan.

‘‘This was a mistake. I didn’t want to come here, Mister, I swear I didn’t!’’ the man pleaded. ‘‘I told Pete to stay home. But no! He swore he could take the Fastest Gun Alive!’’

‘‘Draw your gun, you coward.’’ Shaw insisted. ‘‘I’m not leaving you alive to come throwing down on me some dark night. You’re leaving here on a plank.’’

Seeing the look in Shaw’s eyes, Caldwell said, ‘‘Easy, Shaw. He doesn’t want to fight. Don’t kill him. Don’t let him turn you into a murderer.’’

‘‘Turn me into a murderer?’’ Shaw gave him a dark, strange look. ‘‘If I’m not a murderer now, what the hell do you think I am?’’ He turned the smoking Colt toward the young gunman and cocked the trigger. ‘‘Die with that smoker in your hand or in your holster. It’s the only choices you get today.’’

‘‘I’m not drawing! Everybody look!’’ the young man shouted. ‘‘I’m not making a reach for my gun! All I want to do is get out the door and across the Río! I swear that’s all!’’

‘‘Don’t kill him, Shaw,’’ said Caldwell. ‘‘Call it a personal favor to me. I’ll be obliged if you let him live.’’

‘‘It’s a mistake, Undertaker,’’ Shaw said, reluctantly lowering his Colt and easing the hammer down. ‘‘I know it’s a mistake.’’ He shook his head and held the Colt loosely in his hand. ‘‘What’s your name, Mister?’’ he asked the gunman, who let out a tense breath.

‘‘Bob Jones,’’ the man said quickly, waiting, watching to see the gun slip into the holster.

‘‘Yeah, I bet,’’ said Shaw. He eyed the man. ‘‘Bob Jones, if you ever come at me again, don’t have plans made for the next day.’’

‘‘I—I understand,’’ the man said, backing away toward the door as he spoke, seeing Shaw drop the Colt to his side.

As the man disappeared out the door, Shaw looked at Caldwell and said, ‘‘There, are you satisfied?’’

But before Caldwell could answer, a series of shots rang out from the open doorway where the young man stood fanning his Colt toward the bar. Shaw raised his Colt deftly, before Caldwell could reach for his. One shot hammered the gunman in his chest and sent him flying backward, dead in the street.

Outside on the street, horses nickered loudly. A woman screamed at the sight of the dead man flying out of the cantina doorway in a spray of blood. ‘‘I told you it was a mistake,’’ Shaw said with a bitter snap in his voice. He dropped three empty cartridges out of his Colt, replaced them and slipped the gun into its holster. ‘‘Next time listen to me.’’

The two had turned to the bar when Dawson walked into the cantina, his Colt out, prepared for anything. Seeing Shaw and Caldwell both eating a slice of lime, he let out a breath and slipped his Colt into its holster. ‘‘All right, what happened?’’ he asked, stepping over to them. He looked to see if any bottles or shot glasses stood in front of Shaw.

‘‘Don’t worry, I’m sober,’’ Shaw said. On the other side of the bar, Max nodded in agreement when Dawson gave him a questioning look.

Caldwell cut in, ‘‘We came looking for a couple of fellows who can tell us where the Barrows hole up.’’ He nodded at the bodies on the floor. ‘‘This one called Shaw down for a fight.’’ He shook his head. ‘‘I suppose you can see the rest of it.’’

‘‘Yes,’’ said Dawson, ‘‘I can see.’’ He turned to Shaw and said, ‘‘It never stops with you, does it?’’

‘‘Messenger won’t like this,’’ said Dawson. ‘‘He’s a government man. He won’t understand that there’s always men trying to kill you.’’

‘‘Oh?’’ said Shaw. ‘‘Then tell him something a government man will understand.’’ He worked his left hand open and closed. ‘‘Tell him I killed them because I needed the practice.’’

‘‘A murderer and horse thief named Charlie Pepper, and his cousin, Rady laVease,’’ said Shaw. ‘‘Max told me where to find them. I say we go pay them a visit. It could save us searching all over the desert if we lose the Barrows’ trail.’’

‘‘All right,’’ Dawson nodded. He looked all around at the bodies on the floor and outside at the onlookers gathering in the street. ‘‘Let’s drag these two out of here and get moving.’’

‘‘Go,’’ said Max with a wave of his hand. ‘‘Don’t worry about these two. I can have them moved for a shot of tequila.’’

‘‘Gracias, for all your help,’’ said Dawson, reaching out and placing a gold coin on the bar. ‘‘Please let it be heard that this was self-defense.’’

Max grinned and nodded toward Shaw. ‘‘The people of Matamoros know that with this one, it is always self-defense.’’