Red Moon by Ralph Cotton Page A

the brunt of the present storm had passed on. The wind had fallen off; the rain had dissipated to a fine, cold mist. Yet, on the low, dark horizon, another front had already begun forming up, gathering itself like some vengeful army ready to mount another assault. A low rumble of thunder resounded along the curve of the earth. The roan chuffed and grumbled as if cursing the thunder and rode on at a labored gait with kicked-up mud clinging to its belly and legs.
    Atop the roan Sam studied the dark sky and guided the horse around a muddy basin that had receded overnight only to begin rising again throughout the morning. As he rode closer to the shotgun rider and the body of Dan Long lying on the wet ground, the old coachman stood up where he’d seated himself on a rock and stared grimly toward him.
    â€œI never expected to see you or your horse again, Ranger,” the shotgun rider said as Sam brought the roan to a halt and stepped down from the saddle.
    â€œNor I you,” Sam replied, leading the roan closer.
    â€œWhen I heard your shot, I had to think long and hard before I fired my last load,” Dawson said.
    â€œI’m glad you did fire it,” Sam said. He looked down at the muddy shotgun leaning against the rock, then at Long’s body on the ground at Dawson’s bare, bloody feet. “I see your driver didn’t make it,” he added respectfully.
    The shotgun rider’s eyes grew watery as he shook his head and spoke.
    â€œI found him adrift and pulled him out of the floodwater,” he said. “It wasn’t the water that killed him, though.” He gestured a nod down at Long, showing Sam the deep wound in the coach driver’s abdomen. “He had a piece of iron railing from the top edge of the coach stuck through him.” He paused and added, “I pulled it out so’s I could carry him better—couldn’t stand looking at it sticking in him anyway.” He took a deep breath.
    Sam looked at the long trail of bare footprints weaving across the wet desert long behind the shotgun rider. He looked down at Dan Long’s wet boots. Then he looked at Dawson’s bloody, mud-smeared feet.
    â€œOh, I know what you’re thinking, Ranger,” Dawson said. “Why didn’t I leave him there and come back for him later? I couldn’t do it, leave ol’ Dan’l that way. This desert is full of lobos and coyotes. Dan’l would never have let me hear the end of it if I let them eat him.”
    â€œI understand,” Sam said quietly, knowing the old man was deep in his grief. “I was just wondering. . . . Think your pard would mind if you wore his boots? You can see he’s got no more need for them, can’t you?”
    â€œOh yeah, I can see that,” Dawson replied. “I know he’s dead and all. But Dan’l was a strange one when it come to his stuff. I can see him not liking the idea of me wearing his boots.” He looked down and wiggled his thick bloody toes. A cactus needle stood stuck atop his mud-streaked foot. “The thing is, I couldn’t bring myself to take them off him.” He looked off northeast. “Anyways, Nogales will be sending somebody out for us any time. They always do when a storm like this hits and they have a coach out in it. Especially when they know there’s passengers.”
    Sam nodded and looked off in the direction of Nogales for a moment.
    â€œWhat about those passengers?” he asked. “Did you see what become of them?”
    The old coachman shook his head.
    â€œNot a sign,” he said. “But it was so dark, they could have drowned right beside me. I’d never seen it unless lightning flashed on them.” He shook his scraggly head again, reliving the night’s experience. “I’ll tell you what. That’s the closest to hell I’ll ever be until the real hell comes along.”
    â€œThey have to be down along there