Ride to Hell's Gate

Walking slowly with their hands raised, Dawson and Caldwell looked down the edge above the trail. On the ground they watched a soldier walk over and nudge Elkins with the toe of his boot, making sure he was dead. A few feet away another soldier, his pistol cocked and pointed forward, had stepped down beside Deacon Kay. But the soldier jumped back with a start as the wounded gunman struggled up onto one knee, one hand raised, the other hand clutching his bloody chest.

‘‘We’re not with them,’’ said Dawson, stepping around the rock from the steep footpath onto the edge of the trail. ‘‘We were their prisoners. We fired the shots to warn you there was an ambush waiting for you.’’

‘‘Oh, I see,’’ said the lean young corporal whose horse had reared at the rifle shot. He held a cocked pistol toward Dawson’s chest. ‘‘You are the ones who almost shot me from my saddle?’’

‘‘No,’’ said Caldwell, ‘‘we weren’t trying to shoot you, or you wouldn’t be standing here. That was a warning shot to get your attention. You saw who was waiting for you between those two stretches of rock, didn’t you?’’

The corporal didn’t answer, but he did seem to ease down a little, enough for Dawson to say, ‘‘We’re both lawmen. We’re tracking the Barrows.’’

‘‘But with your country’s permission,’’ Dawson countered quickly. ‘‘We’re supposed to get some help from your government. In fact, we thought that you—’’

On the ground, Deacon Kay cut in a coughing, rasping voice, ‘‘He’s telling you the truth, Corporal. They were our prisoners. We were taking them . . . to Sepreano. He would have . . . killed them.’’

‘‘Obliged, Kay,’’ said Dawson. He and Caldwell both gave the mortally wounded man a surprised look, not expecting any help from any of the Barrows Gang.

‘‘Ah, what the hell . . .’’ Kay coughed and clutched his chest even tighter. ‘‘When a man is dying he can . . . afford to be generous, I reckon.’’ He took a breath and struggled to continue. ‘‘We’re the Barrows Gang. We’ve thrown in with Sepreano’s army. We were going to . . . meet him. These lawdogs were hounding us. We took them prisoner . . . and were going to tell the general that they . . . killed his brother, Carlos.’’

‘‘Yeah . . . for what?’’ Kay rasped. He nodded up at the soldier holding the gun on him. ‘‘This peckerwood . . . is going to finish me off. Ain’t you?’’ As he asked, his bloody hand left his chest, reached inside his shirt and pulled out a small hideaway gun.

Seeing the gun swing up toward him, the young Mexican pulled the trigger. Kay’s head snapped back with the impact of the bullet. He pitched backward in the dirt, a puddle of blood spreading beneath his skull.

Dawson started to say something, but before he could, the corporal rushed him and Caldwell toward the spot where they’d tied the horses. ‘‘Are there any more of you up here?’’ the corporal asked.

‘‘One more,’’ Dawson said, still thinking that Shaw must be somewhere on the trail behind them. ‘‘He should be coming along any time.’’

Dawson once again started to say something, but again the corporal cut him off, this time telling him curtly, ‘‘Anything you say to me, you will only have to say again when we get to my capitán. Dawson took that as a polite way of telling him and Caldwell to shut up.

As they walked along through the brush around the large rock, one of the soldiers hurried to the top of the ledge and came back carrying the pistol, gun belt and rifle the two had left lying on the ground. Caldwell and Dawson looked at one another with a sigh of relief they hadn’t breathed in days.

‘‘You can believe us when we tell you, we are both mighty pleased to see you,’’ Dawson said over his shoulder, still holding his raised chest high.

‘‘You can lower your hands,’’ the corporal said, appearing to believe what the two had told him.

‘‘Gracias, Corporal,’’ Dawson replied. He and Caldwell lowered their hands as the soldiers unhitched the horses and motioned for them to get mounted.

Random gunshots still resounded on the sand flats below, but the Gatling gun had fallen silent as they turned the horses onto the trail and followed it down to the base of the steep hill. Once they were upon the flatlands, the other soldiers spotted them riding across the trail. By the time they stopped and sat atop their horses in front of the captain and the sergeant, the gunfire had ceased altogether. ‘‘Who have we here, Duego,’’ the captain said, looking Dawson and Caldwell up and down with close scrutiny.

‘‘Capitán Agosto,’’ the young corporal said as he gave a salute, ‘‘these two men were waiting atop a ledge on the hill trail.’’ He gestured toward Dawson. ‘‘This one says they are on our side, that they warned us of the ambush and in doing so, kept us from suffering casualties.’’

‘‘Oh, so we have them to thank,’’ the captain said, appearing cautiously grateful. ‘‘What do you make of all this, Sergeant?’’

‘‘If he is telling the truth,’’ the big sergeant cut in gruffly, ‘‘then we are fortunate that they warned us.’’ He glared at Dawson as if to decide whether or not to believe him.

‘‘They had all of these fine horses, Capitán,’’ said the corporal. ‘‘If they wanted to get away, they could have. But they did not flee. Instead they stopped the two men we were chasing. One of the men said that the gang had been holding these two prisoners.’’

The captain fell silent for a moment, considering everything. During the pause, Dawson said, ‘‘Captain, I’m U.S Marshal Crayton Dawson. This is my deputy, Jedson Caldwell. We were told that Mexico would be sending us some help when the time came. I figured that was you and your men. Am I right?’’

The captain only gave a thin, sly grin and said, ‘‘Por favor, allow me to ask all the questions, U.S. Marshal Dawson.’’

From the other side of the rocks along the trail, a rider came racing up to them at breakneck speed and slid his horse to a halt in a spray of sand and rock. With a hasty salute, he stared anxiously at the captain until the officer said, ‘‘Speak.’’

‘‘Si, Capitán,’’ the man said, ‘‘we have found a spot on the trail where the men we were chasing gathered back together and rode on across the desert.’’

‘‘In which direction are they headed?’’ the captain asked, already rising in his stirrups and stretching for a look through the stirred dust and wavering heat.

Dawson cut in. ‘‘They’re headed for a valley up in the hills known to be the Barrows Gang’s hideout, Captain. It’s called Puerta del Infierno. It’s my belief that Sepreano and his men will be gathering there too. The Barrows were bringing him these horses.’’ He gestured toward the Bengreen horses strung along behind them.

‘‘Ah, a place known as Hell’s Gate,’’ the captain said, still weighing Dawson’s words. ‘‘How fitting that we should all travel to such a place as Hell’s Gate, each in search of our enemies.’’ Then he asked as he watched Dawson’s eyes closely, to see what his answer would be. ‘‘Tell me, Marshal Dawson, do you know the way to Puerta del Infierno?’’

‘‘No,’’ Dawson was quick to point out. ‘‘But that’s where they’re headed. If you want them, they’re leaving us plenty of tracks to follow.’’

‘‘Ah, yes, and it is for the first time that we have tracks to follow!’’ Looking at his sergeant, the captain said, ‘‘Assemble the men, Sergeant. I think it will be I who will be known as the one to have followed Luis Sepreano to the gates of hell, and there killed him.’’

On their way toward the valley where Puerta del Infierno lay hidden between two towering hill lines, Shaw, Rhineholt and the others heard the distant sound of gunfire far behind them. They looked back only now and then in curiosity until the firing had stopped and the desert floor lay in silence.

‘‘Anything we should be concerned about?’’ Shaw asked Rhineholt, in a way that included himself in with Sepreano’s Army of Liberación.

‘‘No,’’ said Rhineholt. ‘‘The federales are always chasing their tails out here. They probably shot up some poor band of gypsies crossing the flats—mistook them for us most likely.’’ He chuckled under his breath.

‘‘All right . . .’’ Shaw smiled slightly. ‘‘It’s going to feel good riding with a bunch that wields so much power and has so much confidence.’’

‘‘That’s Sepreano for sure,’’ said Rhineholt. ‘‘If it wasn’t I wouldn’t be riding with him.’’

‘‘It sounds like you and I ride gun with an outfit for the same reasons,’’ Shaw said, wanting to know as much as he could about Sepreano and his men.

‘‘You hit it dead center, Fast Larry,’’ Rhineholt replied. He gave a guarded look around to make certain they weren’t being overheard. ‘‘They can stuff all the liberación, all the common good, all the flags, politics and fireworks. When the money runs out, I run out, usually one step ahead of it, if I’m lucky enough to make it happen that way.’’

As afternoon shadows fell long across the hillsides and flats, they rode up along a high ledge, following its path until the land leveled off and led down into a valley of broken rock and patches of wild grass. In the first purple shades of night, Rhineholt brought the men to a halt. He gestured Shaw’s attention ahead where the valley narrowed and funneled in between two rocky hillsides.

‘‘There it is, Hell’s Gate,’’ he said. ‘‘Could you ever imagine a better hiding place than this? There’s room to hide an army here. Sometimes I believe the only reason Sepreano let the Barrows join his forces was to find out about their hideout.’’

Noting the eeriness of the place, Simon made the sign of the cross on his chest as he looked up and saw a dark, winged predator glide silently past their heads. Then, seeing the two look at him, he said, ‘‘Forgive my superstitious peasant ways, senors. But all my worthless, drunken life I have lived in fear of reaching the gates of hell, and yet, here I am.’’ He wobbled a bit in his saddle. ‘‘I have arrived at the gates of hell of my own accord.’’

Shaw eyed the half-full bottle in his hand. But he made no comment. Instead he said to Rhineholt, ‘‘I hope you’ll allow him to get some food in his belly and get some sleep—sober up some before we meet Sepreano.’’

‘‘Don’t worry,’’ said Rhineholt, nudging his horse forward, signaling the men to follow him, ‘‘you won’t be seeing Sepreano tonight.’’

‘‘He conducts no business after dark,’’ said Rhineholt. ‘‘The general believes in allowing his men to let off a little steam at night.’’

‘‘I can live with that kind of attitude,’’ Shaw said, looking all around at the dark, vast terrain. ‘‘Can’t you?’’

In the rocks to their left a coyote let out a long, sharp howl. ‘‘I can, if that’s the way it is.’’ Rhineholt shrugged. ‘‘He says it makes the men more eager to make it through another day. That’s the Mexican way of looking at things, I suppose.’’ He passed Shaw a look.

Shaw only nodded, not knowing Rhineholt’s opinion on the matter, and not wanting to cross views with him.

‘‘I don’t mind telling you, Shaw,’’ Rhineholt said, lowering his tone of voice a little, ‘‘it’s good to talk to someone like myself for a change.’’

‘‘Nothing against the Mexicans,’’ said Rhineholt, ‘‘but I’m convinced I could raise a better grade of soldiers from among the aborigines, if you get my meaning.’’

Shaw got his meaning. He wasn’t going to tell the man that he had lived much of his life among the people of Mexican hill country. He wouldn’t mention his friend Gerardo Luna, his deceased wife, Rosa, the widow Anna Reyes Bengreen. . . . The list went on in his mind. But this was no time to discuss such matters. Instead he passed the subject aside, saying, ‘‘I expect it would be hard to have a Mexican revolution without Mexicans.’’

‘‘That’s true,’’ Rhineholt said wistfully, ‘‘but it would sure make things go a lot smoother.’’

By the time they rode through an ever-narrowing corridor through the rocks, Simon sat slumped and limp in his saddle, the bottle of rye dangling loosely and almost empty in his hand. Sidling close to him, Shaw eased the bottle out of his fingers without disturbinghim. He looked at the amber liquid, swirled it and considered taking a drink. Yet, thinking about Dawson and Caldwell, knowing he needed to keep his wits sharp for their sakes, he reached back, slid the bottle into his saddlebag and rode on.