Gunman's Song by Ralph Cotton Page B

edge of the ridge with their rifles across their laps. Shaw sipped from a tin cup of steaming coffee in his left hand. Catching sight of Shaw and Dawson, the Comanchero started to back his horse and take cover, but before he could make a move, Shaw called out in a hearty voice, “
Buenos días.
” As the unsuspecting rider stopped cold in his tracks, Shaw called out, “What’s your hurry? You just got here.”
    Turning his small paint horse slowly, the scout looked at Shaw and replied with his hand on his short-barreled rifle, “My hurry? I am in no hurry…not because of you, you foolish
gringos.
” He offered a smirk and said, “There are fifty of us just around the turn in the trail. You should have run while you had the chance.”
    Beside Shaw, Dawson whispered, “Fifty? Jesus, Shaw!”
    â€œHuh-uh,” Shaw said sidelong to Dawson. “He’s scared and lying. Divide what he said by at least ten. There’s no more than a dozen, if that.” He called down to the Comanchero, “There are five of us…that’s all it’s going to take. Where’s your
honcho
? I only talk terms with the man in charge.”
    â€œTerms?” said the scout, looking amazed by Shaw’s brassy attitude. “What do you mean, terms? We are the ones with the terms! You must pay to cross our land! I will wear your scalp on my saddle horn before the morning is over.”
    â€œYour land?” Shaw spit in contempt. “I’m through talking to a flunky,” he said, setting the tin cup down beside him, standing up slowly, and handing Cray Dawson his rifle.
    â€œHold it, you,” said another voice. Shaw and Dawson watched as another rider, then another and another came slowly into view around a tall rock beside the trail. The three spread out abreast beside the scout. Each of them wore some article of Della’s clothing taken from the wagon before they had burned it. The one speaking was a white man with a thick crop of dirty red hair bushing out from under the brim of one of Della’s fancy lady’s hats. A crepe veil hung in front of his face. His ragged sombrero hung from his saddle horn. His red beard was a tangle of braids, feathers, and beads, with a tiny round bell plaited into the tip of it below his chin.
    â€œWhat kind of fools are you that you sit here and wait for us to come kill you?” he asked, his pistol already out, cocked, and lying across his lap. He gazed up at Shaw but had to squint against the dazzling sunlight.
    Shaw and Dawson heard the sound of unseen riders dismount and spread out into the surrounding brush back off the trail. Dawson tossed a glance over his shoulder at Dillard Frome and Jedson Caldwell. “We hear them,” said Frome, reassuring Dawson before he said a word.
    â€œI’ll say one thing though; you knew how to get the sun at your back,” said the Comancheros’ leader.
    â€œYou’re not the first Comanchero roaches I’ve had to step on,” said Shaw. “I’m going to give all of you one chance, and one chance only, to turn around right now and ride away. If not, I’m going to shoot all of you where you stand and get on back to my coffee while it’s still hot.”
    The Comanchero leader offered a dark laugh, and pointed his finger up at Shaw, saying, “You are onefunny son of a bitch, you are. But we don’t leave without the woman, the horses, and all your whiskey! You give us these things, we go. If not, we kill all of you!”
    â€œWhiskey, huh?” said Shaw. Over his shoulder he said to Caldwell, “Undertaker, hand me my canteen.”
    Caldwell hurried to Shaw’s horse, took the canteen from the saddle horn, and returned, pitching it to Shaw. Shaw called out as he threw it down from the edge of the ridge, “If it’s whiskey you’re craving…I’ll oblige you.”
    â€œHa!” said the leader, gesturing