Shadow River (17 page)

“Oh . . . ?” Madson stared at Sam appraisingly. “I'm full up with gunmen right now—maybe some other time.” He paused for a second, then said to Burke as he stared at Sam, “I know he's good with a gun. He shot and killed my partner. Crazy Ray was as good as they come, gunwise.”

“That's right, I killed Raymond Segert,” Sam said. “I'd kill any man who had me beaten and dragged on the end of a rope.” He stood returning Madson's hard stare. Madson was the first to look away.

After appearing to consider matters, Madson said, “I might need another gunman after all. Jones, why don't you go down and have yourself a drink on me?”

“I didn't come for a free drink, I come for a job,” Sam replied firmly.

Madson let out a breath.

“See . . . that was just me being polite, Jones,” he said. “What I meant was, haul your ass out of here so we can confab about you behind your back.”

Sam looked at Burke.

“Go get you a drink,” Burke said quietly. “We'll be on down shortly.”

Sam gave Madson a respectful nod, excusing himself, and turned and walked away.

“He's good, boss,” Burke said, as soon as Sam left the roof platform. “We robbed a bank over in Durango—” He chuffed and shook his head. “I can't begin to tell you what all we went through coming back.” He looked at Montana.

“It's true, boss,” said Montana. “Jones saved our hides a couple of times.”

“A brave pistolero, huh?” said Madson.

“And then some,” said Burke. “I believe the man would goose a bull rattlesnake if one got in his way.”

Madson rolled his cigar in his mouth and glanced at Clarence Rhodes.

“Rhodes has a mad-on over Jones killing Segert. Says he thought highly of Crazy Raymond.” Madson added, “Says for two cents he'd shoot Jones down like a dog.”

“You thought highly of
Crazy Ray
?” said Burke, he and Montana turning to face Rhodes. “All this time I figured that like everybody else, you couldn't wait to see somebody kill the no-good son of a bitch. Guess I was wrong.” He gave a thin, sharp grin. “I'll up your two cents, Rhodes, and throw in an extra dollar to see you take Jones on man-to-man.”

Rhodes didn't reply. He just stared sourly at Burke.

“So, you're standing good for Jones?” Madson said.

“That's right, boss,” said Burke.

“So am I,” said Montana.

Madson drank his bourbon.

“All right,” he said finally. “Tell him he's in. We're getting ready to make a big strike next week. If he shows me something, I'll have more work for him after that.” He raised a thick finger for emphasis. “But if he messes up . . .” He let his warning trail.

“He won't mess up, boss,” said Burke. “We'll be ready to ride when you are.”

“Good, see that you are,” said Madson. He looked at Montana and nodded toward the door. Now you go get a drink, let me and Burke talk some. Rhodes, you and Wilbert go with him.”

When the three had turned and left, Madson looked at Burke and motioned him to the chair where Deonte had sat.

Burke sat down.

Madson shoved a glass and the bourbon bottle across the top of his desk to him. “Tell me everything you know about your pal Jones,” he said.

Clyde Burke raised a glass of bourbon, took a long swig and let out a satisfying hiss. He held the glass in his hand and swished the remaining liquid around as he glanced at the half-full bottle standing atop the desk. Seeing the look in his eyes, Madson reached over and pulled the bottle to his side of the desk. Burke gave a dark chuckle.

“Crazy Raymond had Jones beaten and dragged around the Twisted Hills,” he said. “But I suppose you knew all about that.”

Madson tossed a hand, relaxed in his tall Spanish armchair.

“Yeah, I knew, more or less,” he said with a shrug. “Segert had a mad-on over Jones coming into Agua Fría, taming all the rowdies at the Fair Deal Cantina. Jones came looking for work with us, but he ended up a bouncer for the Fair Deal. He was a little overambitious for my taste, Segert's too.” His gaze leveled expectantly.

“That's where the bad blood started between him and Segert,” said Burke, trying to stay away from anything about the gun deal Segert had set up with Marcos' rebels. He wasn't sure Madson knew about the rifles, or the gold involved. “Segert had everybody down on Jones. Was down on him myself. But after riding with him awhile, I have to say, he's a man who fears nothing. We had Apache on our tail,
federales
capturing us for no reason at all. Through it all, Jones stayed tough, helped Montana and me get through it. I'd trust him with anything I've got. He won't run out if things get hot.”

“I wanted to hear the kind of outlaw he is, Clyde,” said Madson. He gave a slight laugh. “I wasn't looking to send him to Texas and run him for office.”

“I know,” said Burke. “But you asked me, so I told you. I trust him as much as any man you've got swinging a saddle—so does Montana.”

“But you haven't mentioned a word about where he's from or who he's ridden with,” said Madson.

Burke drank his bourbon and reflected on the matter.

“No, I sure enough haven't,” he said. “Jones never says anything about who he rode with. Hasn't said where home is either.” He eyed Madson. “But aren't you always saying you want men who know how to keep their mouths shut?”

Madson let out a breath.

“You got me there,” he said. Seeing Burke's glass go empty in an upturned gulp, he slid the bottle back across the desk to him.

“Obliged,” said Burke, filling his glass and setting the bottle down. He stared at Madson as he took another sip. “If you wanted to hear dirt on the man, I expect you asked the wrong two. Montana and I both vouched for him. What more do you want? I've never vouched for anybody before, have I?”

Madson considered it for a moment.

“No,” he said finally, “you haven't. Neither has Montana. Jones killed Raymond Segert, but that worked out well for me. Raymond needed killing. I caught wind of him having his hand in the pot on all kinds of deals.” His eyes leveled tight onto Burke's. “I even heard he had a gunrunning business with the peddler woman in Agua Fría.”

“You're joking?” said Burke, looking unaware of any such thing going on.

“Yeah, I always joke a lot about somebody beating me out of money,” he said with sarcasm.

“I know you wasn't joking. I was just surprised hearing it, is all,” Burke said. “I knew he was crooked as a snake. But I never figured him and the peddler woman for gunrunning.”

“Well, figure it,” said Madson. “So, as far as killing Segert goes, I suppose I should thank Jones for it. But still, there're things about the man that bother me.”

“I've said as much as I can say for him, boss.” Burke gave another shrug, took another sip of bourbon. “What more can I say?”

“Nothing, I suppose,” said Madson. “But there is something you can do for me.”

“Name it,” Burke said. Downing his bourbon, he set the glass on the desk. He had done a good job getting through all this without mentioning the rifles, the gold or the fracas they'd had with the
federales
because of it.

Madson drummed his thick fingers on the top of his desk. Then he stopped and sighed as if having come to a hard decision.

“Here it is, Clyde,” he said. “Jones has tried too hard for too long to ride with us. Soon as we're finished with this job, I want you and Montana to kill him.” He paused for a second to study Burke's eyes. “I don't trust the son of a bitch, and that's all there is to it.”

Burke sat in silence for a moment as a hot breeze licked at the canvas overhead.

“Jesus, boss,” he said quietly. “Jones is my pal, Montana's too.”

“So?” said Madson. “Haven't you ever killed a
pal?
It's no different than killing a stranger, except they're more surprised, more apt to beg you not to.” He gave a cruel grin.

Burke just stared at him.

“If I say no to doing it? Where does that put things between us?” he asked.

“It puts us where we are now,” said Madson. He tapped a thick finger on the side of his head. “Except I'm going to always remember asking you and Montana to do something for me and you turned me down.”

“And what about Jones?” Burke asked.

“He'll still die, you can count on it,” said Madson casually. “Rhodes wants to kill him. Him and Wilbert will do it.” He paused, then added, “They'll do it slower and make it more painful. But Jones has a seat at my table. He's dead no matter who kills him. I figured him being a
pal
, you and Montana might make it easier on him.”

“Damn, I need to do some serious thinking,” Burke said. “If I do it, and I'm not saying I will, I don't know if I'd tell Montana until afterward. He might not stand still for it.”

“He'll stand still for it, or I'll kill him too,” said Madson. “But you decide whether or not to bring him in on it.”

“I never thought I'd be considering killing Jones,” Burke said. He shook his head in regret.

“Take your time, Clyde,” Madson said softly. “I don't want to push you into anything.” As he spoke, he reached out and slid the bottle of bourbon back across the desk to Burke. “Have another drink before you give me your answer.”

•   •   •

Sam and the Montana Kid made a camp on the outskirts of Shadow River at the swift water's edge. While they waited for Burke to join them, they spent the afternoon graining, watering and grooming their trail-weary horses. Afterward they bathed, washed their trail clothes and groomed themselves. As their clothes dried on a rack made of cottonwood limbs standing near the fire, they sat with blankets around their waists, cleaning their firearms.

When they'd finished cleaning their guns, they put their clean clothes on damp. They ate warmed jerked goat meat and beans they'd cooked in a small pot atop the open flames. They sat in the broken shade of a weathered
acedera
tree as the sun stood low on the red western sky. When a lone coyote appeared slinking on the desert skyline against the falling sunlight, Montana looked at the remaining beans turning cold in the pot. He rubbed his palms on his knees.

“A few more minutes if he's not shown, those beans are gone,” he said.

Sam didn't reply. He sipped coffee from a tin cup and imagined what Burke and Madson might talk about so long.

A few minutes later, Burke's horse clopped along the hard-surfaced trail at a walk, from the direction of town. Sam and Montana saw Burke slumped low and swaying in his saddle. When the horse walked on without stopping or turning off the trail toward the camp, Montana trotted out and led the animal in by its bridle.

“Drunk?” Sam asked quietly, standing as Montana brought horse and rider to a halt across the campfire from him.

“Smells like it,” said Montana. “Else he's died and refused to fall.”

Sam stepped around the campfire and helped Montana lower Burke from his saddle.

“Get the back end of the house raised,” Burke shouted, thick-tongued and mindless, the two holding him up between them.

“Yep, he's drunk himself slack-jawed blind,” said Montana.

The two sat Burke down a safe distance from the fire lest he toppled face-forward into it. Montana stood over him, a hand on Burke's limp shoulder, while Sam pulled the saddle from atop the tired horse, brought it over and dropped it on the ground behind the drunken gunman's back. Two bottles clanked together in Burke's saddlebags.

Montana turned loose of Burke's shoulder and gave him the slightest nudge. Burke collapsed backward, his mouth agape toward the grainy purple sky. His hat pitched backward off his head.

“He's not going to want those beans,” Montana said. He reached a finger down under Burke's chin and lifted his mouth shut.

Sam dropped Burke's hat over his face. While he unrolled the blanket from behind Burke's saddle, Montana ate the cold beans out of the pot from the flat side of his boot knife.

“I've seen him drunk enough he couldn't scratch one ear with both hands—but never like this,” he said, chewing the cold beans.

Sam flipped the dusty blanket out and up with both hands and let it settle down over the passed-out gunman. He slipped Burke's gun from his holster and shoved it behind his saddle under the edge of his saddlebags to keep it from getting rolled in the dirt.

“Well,” said Montana, “I've got his horse.” He set the empty pot down and rubbed his knife blade back and forth across the sandy ground. “I'd hate to be wearing his head come morning.” He turned and led Burke's horse over to the water's edge to let it drink its fill.

Sam cleaned up around the low, glowing fire, scraped the bean pot clean and washed it out with a few drops of canteen water. He slung the pot dry and put it away.

When Montana led Burke's watered horse away from the river's edge to grain it and wipe it down beside the other horses, Sam started to rub out the glowing embers of the campfire with his boot. But before he did, he turned as Burke mumbled in his sleep.

“Jones?
Jones . . . ?
” Burke said, mouthing the name from within his drunken stupor. His hat had fallen from over his face.

Sam turned and stepped over to him. But he saw that Burke was still knocked out, only rattling some senseless whiskey litany. Sam picked up his hat, started to place it back over his face.

“I don't like sneaking, boss . . . ,” Burke mumbled under his whiskey-sodden breath. “Don't like it. . . .” He shook his head.

Sam stopped and listened. He watched Burke wrestle with something dark and troubling, even in his drunken mind.

“All right.
All right 
. . . ,” he argued. “Didn't I say I would, damn it?”

Instead of laying the sweat-stained hat back over Burke's face, Sam dropped it on the ground beside him. Seeing Montana walk back from the horses, Sam walked over to the glowing firebed. But Burke fell silent.

“What's he mumbling about?” Montana asked. “I heard him all the way over there.”

“Nothing,” Sam said, “just whiskey-drunk. Let's get some shut-eye.” He reached his boot out and dragged the embers back and forth until they died and the camp darkened beneath a wide starlit sky.

•   •   •

Late into the night, Montana sat up, awakened by Burke's snoring and the replying yelping howl of a curious coyote. Looking all around blurry-eyed, he saw the silhouette of Sam against the sky, keeping watch on a clustered group of red eyes moving back and forth, blinking in the direction of the darkened camp.

“Coyotes?” Montana whispered, easing over close to Sam in a crouch, his rifle poised in his hands.

“Yeah, most likely,” Sam whispered back to him.

A long rattling snore rose from Burke's bedroll, followed by mumbling, drunken mindless jabber.

“Is this drunken fool bringing wildlife in on us?” Montana asked, gazing at Burke's outline lying stretched out in the dirt.

“They hear him,” Sam said. “But his snoring isn't bringing them in. They're drawn more by scent than sound.”

“If they draw from scent, they must think somebody broke a keg of whiskey and left it,” Montana whispered.

“The thing is,” Sam said, “if coyotes are hearing him, so will anybody else happening by.” Standing up in a crouch beside Montana, he moved toward the snoring, mumbling Burke, Montana right beside him. They stopped over Burke. Sam raised the passed-out gunman's hat two feet and dropped it back down over his face.

Burke puffed a breath in and out and groaned. The drunken snoring fell silent.

“That won't stop him for long,” said Montana. No sooner had he said it than Burke let out a long gurgling snore.

“Think if we knocked him out with a rifle butt?” Montana said, only half joking.

“Go on back to sleep,” Sam whispered in reply, ignoring Montana's suggestion. “I'll sit here for a spell and keep him quiet.”

“I'll sit and help,” Montana offered.

“Go on to sleep,” Sam said. “I'm all right here. Anyway, it'll be coming up daylight in a couple more hours.”

“Obliged, I'll owe you one,” said Montana. He moved back over to his blanket, wrapped it over himself and went back to sleep.

A few minutes later when Burke began to snore again, Sam gave him a sharp nudge, quieting him. In another moment a familiar rumble moved along under the desert floor. Sam waited in anticipation, but the tremor seemed to have dissipated and stopped.

“Good enough . . . ,” he whispered to himself. In front of him, the red eyes had appeared to freeze for a moment in the wake of the tremor. Yet, as he sat in silence, he soon watched the red eyes play in and out of sight along the desert floor. He knew the younger coyotes among the pack were curious about the shadowy sight of him, about his scent, the scent of man and horse, and all the accompanying scents that man brought along with him.

Using the coyotes as a warning system, he watched them as he relaxed, resting without sleep. But after a while, when he saw the pack suddenly break up and disappear, he stretched out on the ground, rifle in hand, and stared and listened out into the silent desert night.