Shadow River (16 page)

“Let's ride,” he said. “The sooner we reach Bell Madson, the better. I don't need to tell you that he'd better never learn about this gold coming from Segert's gun deal, or your next gunfight will be with him.”

Burke and Montana both eased down, seeing Sam's Colt standing uncocked back in the holster.

“What good's having gold that you can't show around a little?” Burke said.

“You can show it around,” Sam said. “Just don't tell him where it come from.”

Burke grinned.

“Tell him we robbed a Mexican bank south of Durango.” He added proudly, “It was the first Mexican bank I ever robbed—Germans ran it at the time. It's still there, though—gets robbed so often I'm surprised they lock their doors.”

“That's our story, then,” Sam said.

The three dusted their trouser seats, picked up their canteens, capped them and walked to their horses. Atop the cactus, the big buzzard rose with a powerful batting of wings, swooped up and circled wide overhead. When they'd swung up onto their saddles, Montana gazed up at the soaring scavenger.

“He sticks much longer, I suppose I ought to name him,” he said.

Burke chuffed.

“Don't name him after me,” he said, the three of them backing their horses, turning them down toward the desert floor.

Shadow River Valley, Mexican badlands

Three weeks had passed when Clyde Burke, Jarvis Finland—the Montana Kid—and the Ranger, impersonating a gunman simply known as Jones, sat their horses abreast on a trail atop a wide limestone ridge cliff. They looked down on a small Mexican town where only moments earlier three gunshots had split the midmorning quietness. A man sat bleeding in the middle of the street below, his hand limp on the ground beside him, yet still holding a gun. Guitar and accordion music spilled from the open doors of a cantina.

“It's a mite early for killing or celebrating either one, wouldn't you say?” the Montana Kid commented.

“Depends on
who
you're killing and
why
you're celebrating,” Burke replied matter-of-factly. “If I was down there, I'd likely be celebrating something myself. Music cordial-izes me something fierce when I'm drunk.” He jiggled a bottle of tequila he held resting atop his saddle horn. He'd opened the bottle at the crack of dawn. He and Montana had been nipping steadily at the fiery liquid since then.

Sam looked at the two of them.

“You mean it
affable-ize
s you,” Montana said.

“Either one,” said Burke. “Maybe both.” He paused, then said, “I know what we can celebrate. We can drink to us hiding our cuts of the gold without being seen—or without any of us killing each other.” He grinned and held the bottle of tequila over to Montana, who took it and threw back a swallow. The Kid held the bottle toward Sam, but Sam turned it down.

Burke shook his head as Montana passed the half-full bottle back to him.

“It worries me how little you drink, Jones,” he said. “I fear it's a sign of oncoming ill health.”

Sam didn't reply. He looked down where, along the edge of the street below, four gunmen stood watching as if to see how long the man would sit bleeding in the dirt before he fell over dead. He looked up from the town below and at a wooden sign standing beside them on the edge of the trail. The sign read in English W
ELCOME TO
L
ITTLE
H
ELL
. In the dirt a faded discarded sign—this one splintered and bullet-riddled—read B
IENVENIDO AL
E
NSOMBREZA EL
R
ÍO
.

Welcome to Shadow River,
Sam interpreted to himself.

Noting the sign, Burke and Montana cocked their heads sideways to read it.

“Ha,”
Burke said. “Looks like Madson and his men have been here long enough to bring about some change.”

“That doesn't surprise you, does it?” Montana asked as the three turned their horses back onto the trail.

“Nope,” said Burke. “I figured he wouldn't waste any time taking this town over once he got settled in.”

“I expect if he buys himself enough politicos and
federales
, he can do whatever he wants,” said Montana. He grinned. “I'm eager to hear his position on free whores and whiskey.”

“I wouldn't get my hopes up for anything being free,” Burke said. “Anything he gives free today, he'll take back tomorrow, with interest.”

The three followed the winding trail down onto the streets of Little Hell—formerly Shadow River. Entering the town, they rode across a fifty-foot-long iron and wooden bridge spanning a swift river that spilled down from inside the steep hills behind them.

When they'd crossed the bridge and their horses started to step off it onto the dirt street, two riflemen appeared from inside a wooden shack and stood in front of them, stopping them. Two more gunmen appeared behind the riflemen and stood with a hand resting on the butt of their holstered pistols.

“Welcome to Little Hell. That'll be a dollar a head for each horse crossing,” said one of the men standing behind the riflemen.

“A
dollar
!” said Burke, instantly outraged. “To cross one damn river?”

“You heard me right,” said the same gunman. Sam and Montana sat watching.

“Jesus!” said Burke. “The river must be full of gold.”

The gunman stared at Burke coolly with a smirk on his pockmarked face.

“If it was, we'd be squeezing it instead of you,” he said. His words drew a muffled chuff from the other three men.

Burke fumed. He stared at Sam, then at Montana, gauging their support. Neither gave him any encouragement. He fished grudgingly in his vest pocket as he spoke.

“You need a sign up, telling folks beforehand,” he grumbled.

“Say, now, that's a good idea,” the gunman said to the other men who surrounded him. “Why didn't one of you think of that?”

“I did,” said one with a jaw crammed full of tobacco. “I just forgot to write it down.” Flecks of brown spittle flew from his lips as he spoke. He turned his head sideways and let a stream of spit go to the ground.

Burke eyed the tobacco chewer closely. Sam and Montana paid their toll fees.

“Atzen Allison . . . ?” Burke said, pondering the tobacco chewer. But as the man raised his face a little more and looked at him, Burke nodded. “Hell yes, it is you,” he said. He flipped a Mexican silver coin to the gunman with the smirk and the pockmarked face. He faced the tobacco chewer and said, “I heard you got hung for burning out a sheeper in Tejas.”

“No Texan ever hung a man for burning sheepers out,” said Atzen Allison. He spat again. Recognizing Burke, he said, “Anyways, it was an accident, Clyde. I was trying to cook one of his sheep. The fire got out of hand.”

“Clyde, huh?” said the man with the pockmarked face.

“Yep, Clyde Burke,” said Burke. “I was riding for Madson and Raymond Segert when you was still learning to squat without soiling your shirttail.”

The man with the pockmarked face bristled. He clenched his gun butt. So did Burke, Sam and Montana. The two riflemen clenched their Winchesters. Allison saw the trouble coming and headed it off with a dark chuckle.

“Hell, Jaxton here still has a little trouble not soiling his shirttail,” he said jokingly. “Don't you, Junior?”

“Hell no, I don't. I never did,” said Jaxton Brooks, the pockmarked gunman. But he cooled down, following Allison's unspoken advice.

“Who're your pals?” Allison asked Burke, eyeing both Sam and the Montana Kid.

“This here is Jones,” said Burke, giving a jerk of his head toward Sam, “and this is Jarvis Finland—the Montana Kid. Montana has been with us awhile. You just haven't been here long enough to meet him.”

“I've heard of him,” said Allison. He looked at Sam. “Heard of this one too,” he said. “Rumor is he killed Raymond Segert.”

“That's no rumor,” Sam put in, wanting to be completely honest about the matter. He had nothing to hide. “It's a plain fact; I killed him.” He stared at Allison.

Allison grinned.

“Don't be so bashful about it,” he said jokingly. “Once everybody knew he was dead, turns out nobody much liked him anyway.” He turned his head sideways and spat. “Right, Junior?” he said to Brooks.

“I never cared much for him,” Brooks admitted grudgingly.

“Then I expect I should feel welcome here,” Sam said.

“I expect so,” said Brooks, still wearing a severe expression.

Sam touched his boots to the dun's sides and put both horses forward at a walk. Burke and Montana rode flanking him on either side across the dirt street toward the cantina. Atop the cantina a young Mexican dove stood on a wooden platform beside a tall well-dressed American. She held a parasol over his head while he smoked a black cigar and stared at the three of them.

“There's Bell Madson,” Burke said without looking directly up at the man.

They rode on and then recognized the man they'd seen earlier lying wounded in the dirt. Now he lay flat, his eyes staring up blankly at the burning Mexican sun. The gunmen who had been watching were now back inside the cantina. An old man stood tying the end of a rope around the dead man's foot, the other end tied to a donkey's pack frame, ready to pull the body away.

Stopping out in front of a recently whitewashed adobe building, Sam and the other two stepped down from the saddles and hitched their horses to an iron rail. A red-and-green sign on the front of the building read L
ITTLE
H
ELL
C
ANTINA
. Below it hung a smaller sign that read the same words in Spanish: I
NFIERNO
P
EQUEÑO
C
ANTINA
.

Burke grinned as he stepped onto the boardwalk and walked through the front door.

“Welcome to Little Hell,” Burke said under his breath to Sam and Montana. “I feel at home already.” As they walked to the bar, he added, “Let's just get some whiskey and relax a spell. I give Madson about five minutes before he sends down for us.”

•   •   •

On a newly built platform atop the roof of the Little Hell Cantina, Bell Madson sat behind a wide desk in a tall Spanish
padrón
armchair. Providing shade for the platform, an overhead canvas flapped lazily on a hot wind. Three of Madson's gunmen sat in folding chairs off to one side. A Chinese-Mexican gunman, Jon Ho, stood to Madson's right. A distinguished-looking Mexican in a white linen business suit sat across Madson's desk with a petite glass of wine in his thick hand. The Mexican looked around nervously and attended his sweat-beaded forehead often with a clean white handkerchief.

“What I must make you understand, Señor Madson, is that we are overdue to carry out our plan,” he said in well-spoken English. “It is imperative that we strike right away.”

Bell Madson relaxed back in his chair and sipped from a glass of bourbon.

“
Overdue
depends on whose calendar you look at,” he said. “If I rush in and rob Banco Nacional shorthanded, it won't matter if we're overdue or not. Are your men in Mexico City sure all the big money is there, ready and waiting?”

“They are,”
said the Mexican, Roberto Deonte. “But they cannot wait much longer. It will look suspicious. These are government officials—they grow nervous.”

“They won't be waiting much longer,” said Madson. “I just saw some of my men ride in. We'll be in Agua Fría next week. Tell any of your government pals if they don't want to get shot, don't be in the Banco Nacional with money sticking out of their pockets. Does that ease your troubled mind?”

“Ah, Señor Madson, you cannot realize how much it does,” he said, sitting back in relief. He blotted his forehead and started to sip his wine. But Madson gave a nod to Jon Ho. The Chinese-Mexican gunman stepped around the desk and expertly removed the glass of wine from Deonte's hand, stood it on the corner of the desk and stared down at him expectantly.

Deonte wilted quickly under the dark flat gaze. He stood up, catching his straw hat before it fell from his knee.

“Yes, then, we are through here, I take it?” he said.

“We're through,” said Madson. “Jon Ho is going to escort you down the back stairs to your coach. Will your
federale
escort be able to get you to Agua Fría without the devil Apache eating your brains?”

Deonte's eyes widened.

“
Sí
, I must hope so,” he said. He stopped his hand from making the sign of the cross.

“Good, then I won't need to send any of my men tagging alongside you,” Madson said. He nodded toward the new wooden stairs leading down the back of the cantina. “Jon Ho, show him out,” he said to the Chinese-Mexican gunman.

As soon as Jon Ho and Roberto Deonte disappeared down the rear stairs of the building, Madson turned and spoke to Manning Wilbert, one of the gunmen who sat waiting to do his bidding.

“Manning, go fetch Burke and Finland up here,” he said.

“What about that drifter with them?” Manning asked.

“Yeah, bring him too. We need more gunmen—but don't tell them I said that,” he added, catching himself. He took the last drink of bourbon and set the empty glass on his desk.

“You got it, boss,” said Wilbert, already turning, hurrying down through a newly built stairway to the cantina below.

As Wilbert left, a gunman named Fritz Downes stood up from his folding chair, stepped over to the desk and filled Madson's empty bourbon glass.

“Just so you know, boss,” he said quietly, “the third man is the one who killed Raymond Segert.”

“I know that,” Madson said, eyeing him sharply. “But it's good to see that you're awake.” He picked up his fresh glass of bourbon and swirled it in his hand.

The third seated gunman, Clarence Rhodes, took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

“Boss, I'll ride with whoever you say to ride with,” he said. “But I thought highly of Segert. When the time comes, it will make me happy to kill this Jones fellow for you.”

“I'll keep that in mind, Rhodes,” said Madson. “Since my main reason for being here is to make you happy.”

“Boss,” Rhodes said quickly, “I didn't mean to—”

“Shut up, Rhodes,” said Madson. “I don't care if you kill him. But nobody kills nobody until we get the bank robbed. Understand?” He glared at the belittled gunman.

“Got it, boss,” Rhodes said.

The three of them looked over as the sound of boots came up the stairs and onto the roof. They watched Manning Wilbert lead Sam, Burke and Montana over to Madson's desk.

“Clyde Burke and the Montana Kid,” said Madson, leaning back in his chair. “I was beginning to think you two were dead. Where've you been?” he asked pointedly.

“Oh, doing a little robbing,” said Burke. “Enough to hold us over till we heard from you.”

“You can't hear from me if you're not here,” Madson said.

“That's true,” Burke said. “But we're here now, ready to back any play you make.” He gestured a nod toward Sam. “This is Jones. He's a damn good man if you need another one.”