Ambush at Shadow Valley

Turn the page for a preview of Ralph Cotton’s next book, RIDE TO HELL’S GATE Coming from Signet in September 2008

Lawrence Shaw, aka Fast Larry, aka the Fastest Gun Alive, aka the Mad Gunman, aka Chever Reed, had been too drunk for too long to be standing in a dirt street about to do battle. Yet here I am, he reminded himself through a whiskey haze. He held his right hand poised at the butt of the big Colt holstered at his hip. He stood with his feet spread shoulder-width apart, not so much in preparation for a gunfight, but rather to settle the unsteady world beneath him and keep himself from falling.

‘‘I know who you are,’’ Titus Boland called out from thirty feet away, stone sober, advancing slowly toward Shaw as he spoke.

So do I..., Shaw answered to himself, not sure what he meant, or if he could have formed an intelligent reply even if he’d wanted to. Instead he only nodded; he dared not attempt a step forward, not until the world stopped spinning and wobbling before his bloodshot eyes.

‘‘You’re sure as hell not Chever Reed, the attorney from Brownsville, the man you’ve tricked everybody here into thinking you are. You’re Lawrence Shaw, the murdering coward from Somo Santos, Texas,’’ Boland called out. ‘‘I aim to take from you what you took from my poor brother Ned in Eagle Pass—your life!’’

All right, now on with it . . . Shaw nodded again; he didn’t care. He stared at Boland, feeling his bleary eyes began to focus. He wasn’t the least bit concerned with Titus Boland’s angry threats, even though he knew Boland meant every word he’d said and had every intention of killing him, right here, right now, drunk or sober. It makes no differenceto Boland, Shaw thought, or to me either. He took a deep, drunken breath.

Lawrence Shaw had long forgotten how many men had shouted pretty much the same kind of threats at him from countless dirt streets, from hastily abandoned saloon bars, from overturned card tables, from hotels, restaurants, houses of ill-repute . . . Death threats all sounded the same; they had for a long time.

‘‘Let’s get it done,’’ Shaw managed to say flatly without his thick tongue betraying him. He almost attempted a step forward now that this senses seemed to be returning. But unsure, he stopped himself at the last second and remained standing perfectly still.

‘‘I’ve been killing you in my sleep for over three years, Fast Larry!’’ Boland bellowed. ‘‘Today I’m bringing everybody’s chickens home to roost.’’

A few feet behind him, to his left, one of Boland’s gunman pals, Albert McClinton, looked sidelong at Vincent Tomes and whispered, ‘‘What the hell is he talking about, ‘chickens roosting’?’’

‘‘I don’t know. Hush up,’’ Tomes replied nervously without taking his eyes off Shaw. ‘‘This Shaw fellow is faster than a rattlesnake. We do not want to be caught unawares by him.’’

‘‘Yeah, but chickens roosting?’’ Albert persisted, still in a whisper. ‘‘I don’t see what chickens roosting has got to do with any—’’

‘‘It’s just a figure of speech, damn it!’’ Tomes growled. ‘‘Now spread out, so’s one shot don’t kill us both! I wish I’d never got talked into this.’’

Okay, there’s three of them. . . . Shaw grinned to himself. Good . . . Maybe these three were the ones who would do it. Maybe this would be the day the undertaker closed the lid over his face and lowered him into the ground forever. Mexico, eh . . . ? So this was where it would happen. He cut a glance across the wide street, seeing colorful banners and streamers fluttering on the breeze in front of the American Consulate building a block away.

Mexico will do, he told himself. He’d always liked Mexico. Rosa was from Mexico, not far from here. That was good enough for him. Ah, Rosa. Dear, precious Rosa, he said silently to his deceased wife, half closing his eyes. For a numb, drunken moment he felt a deep joy sweep over him. Was she here? Could she see him? He hoped so; God, he hoped so. I’m coming to you at last, Rosa, he spoke silently to her, even as the three gunmen settled into position.

‘‘Here it is, Shaw!’’ Boland shouted, his fingers opening and closing restlessly. ‘‘Anything you want to say before I send you straight to hell?’’

Shaw slowly shook his head, a dreamy smile on his lips as he thought of Rosa, seeing her loving face, her dark eyes. He could feel her warm arms around him. ‘‘Get it done,’’ he said, his hand poised and relaxed near his holster, as if he might or might not decide to draw it when the time came.

‘‘My god, look at him!’’ Tomes whispered to McClinton in a shaken voice. ‘‘He’s as calm and cold-blooded as any man I’ve seen! He has no doubt what’s about to happen here.’’

‘‘Because he knows for damn sure that he’s going to kill us all,’’ McClinton replied, his voice turning strained and shaky.

‘‘Go for your gun, Shaw!’’ Boland raged, seeing Shaw’s indifferent attitude, ‘‘else I’ll kill you, anyway. It makes me no never-mind if you fight back or not!’’

Instantly Boland made the same move, his Colt coming up cocked and firing as Shaw’s hand seemed to stick to his holstered gun. McClinton and Tomes stood stunned, not believing their eyes as they saw Boland’s bullet punch Shaw in his right shoulder. They looked even more stunned as they watched Shaw pitch forward, unfazed by the gunshot wound, and pass out cold, facedown in the dirt.

‘‘Watch it, Boland!’’ Tomes warned, sidestepping away with his gun drawn and ready to fire. ‘‘It’s just a ploy!’’

‘‘A ploy?’’ Titus Boland cut Tomes a disgusted look as he advanced toward Shaw, who lay limp in the street. ‘‘This is no ploy. He’s hit. I nailed him fair and square.’’ He stopped a few feet away from Shaw and aimed the gun at the back of his head. ‘‘This one here is for my poor deceased brother.’’

But before Boland could pull the trigger, he and the other two froze at the sound of a shotgun cocking behind them. ‘‘Drop your guns, hombres,’’ a voice said with urgent determination.

Without turning or dropping his gun, Boland said over his shoulder, ‘‘Oh? And just who is making this request?’’

‘‘It is no request. It is an order,’’ the voice said. ‘‘I am Gerardo Luna, constable of Matamoros. But it will not matter to you who I am if you do not do as I say.’’

‘‘Gerardo Luna? The one all the local vaqueros and rounders call Moon?’’ Recognizing the name, Boland lowered his gun and let his aim move away from Shaw’s head.

‘‘Señor Moon to you,’’ said the Mexican lawman, stepping forward, in between Tomes and McClinton, nudging first one, then the other with his shotgun barrel. Their guns fell to the dirt.

‘‘With all respect, Señor Moon,’’ Boland said, holding out, stalling, his gun still in hand, ‘‘but you’re meddling in a fair fight. He drew first.’’

‘‘His gun is still holstered,’’ said Luna with an accent. ‘‘He is drunk. He passed out and fell. I saw it on my way here. Lucky for you I was not in range or mi pequeño ángel here would have shot you into the sky. Now you drop it, or I drop you.’’

Boland sighed. He uncocked his Colt and slowly let it fall to the dirt. He relaxed a little and looked at the shotgun in Luna’s hands. ‘‘Your little angel, eh?’’

"Sí, my little angel,’’ Luna repeated. He gestured down at the ornate eight-gauge shotgun with its brass-trimmed fluted barrel and its tall hammers drawn back.

‘‘Well, ain’t that just sweet as can be,’’ Boland said stiffly. ‘‘Maybe we’ll meet someday while your little angel ain’t handy, and we’ll reflect back on this thing from a whole other outlook. You just might find that I’m a man you do not want to anger.’’

Almost before the words left his mouth, Tomes and McClinton winced at the sound of the shotgun butt snapping up into his chin. Blood and broken teeth spilled from his lips as he fell to the ground beside Shaw.

‘‘Whoa!’’ Tomes said instinctively, ‘‘You had no cause to bust the man up that way.’’

Tomes and McClinton both backed away. Tomes raised a hand in a show of peace and said quickly, ‘‘Although I can certainly understand how you might have thought it was justified. . . . Titus has a way of getting testy if he goes unchecked.’’

‘‘Which, in all honesty, he is prone to do from time to time,’’ McClinton joined in, also raising his hands chest-high in submission.

‘‘I see,’’ said Luna, the short shotgun still clenched in his fists. ‘‘I am happy that you both agree with my decision.’’ He jerked a nod toward the knocked-out gunman and said, ‘‘Now get him up and out of here. It looks bad, hombres lying in the middle of my street.’’