Free Golden Riders by Ralph Cotton Page A

day, in the early afternoon, they arrived at an ancient nameless Mexican trade settlement overlooking a wide stretch of Sonora desert valley. There they gathered more guns, gun leather and ammunition from a Mexican gunrunner named Sibio Alverez, who was known to show partialityto the Kane brothers and anybody associated with the Golden Gang.
    The settlement had become a stopping point for any of the Golden Riders to lie low and lie the trail grow cold behind them. At Alverez’s cantina, two such men, Lester Stevens and Mason Gorn, had been drinking and carousing with four loose women who made their living off passing gunmen along the border badlands trails. Looking out through a window they recognized the six riders moving their horses along the dusty street.
    â€œAll right,” said Stevens, grinning, staring through the wavy window glass. “It’s about time we had some company show up.” He threw back his shot of rye and set his glass down hard and snatched the bottle by its neck. He and Gorn walked out front and met the men as they rode up to the hitch rail and stepped down from their saddles. The four women ventured out behind them and stood hanging and leaning on to the two and staring at the newcomers. In the doorway, Sibio Alverez stood chewing on a short black cigar. He grinned across gold teeth and raised a hand in welcome.
    â€œLook real pretty, senoritas,” he said in border En- glish, “these hombres can do for you what your daddies never could.”
    As the riders climbed down from their saddles, both Stevens and Gorn stepped forward, Stevens holding out the bottle of rye as a welcoming gesture. But upon seeing the men’s condition, the two stopped. Stevens let the bottle hang down his side.
    â€œJesus, Prew, what the hell has happened to you fellows?” Stevens said, staring at their singed hairlessfaces, their scorched clothes. They looked at Cutthroat Teddy Bonsell’s bandanna-wrapped hand.
    â€œToo much to talk about out here,” said Prew, reaching out and motioning for the bottle, which Stevens handed to him. Prew turned up a long swig of whiskey and passed the bottle to Jake Cleary standing nearest to him.
    â€œThen do come inside,” said Sibio Alverez with a sweeping gesture of his hand. “Let these lovely senoritas show you some sympathy.”
    The Bluebird, knowing his place, stayed at the hitch rail with the horses as the bedraggled men filed into the cantina and took up position along a long, ornately carved bar. The four women sidled into their midst, ignoring the men’s condition, the smell of burnt hair, of charcoal and gunpowder. Slipping around behind the bar, Alverez set up shot glasses and a row of three new bottles for the arriving gunmen. He filled the shot glasses and began filling beer mugs from a tap as the men threw back their first shots and refilled them as if in reflex.
    Prew glanced at one of the women who suggestively rubbed up against him and eased her hand inside his sweaty shirt. She looked up and gave him a smile.
    Prew turned his attention from her to Lester Stevens.
    â€œWe had a robbery go bad on us,” he said grimly.
    â€œMy God, they set you on fire?” said Stevens, looking along the line of charred gunmen.
    â€œNo,” said Prew. “The Mex-Injun out front is the Bluebird, he blows stuff up. You ever hear of him?”
    â€œYes, I have,” said Stevens. “He did all this?”
    â€œHim and I did this, getting my brothers out of jail. The explosion went bad too. My brothers turned into idiots on bad mescal.” He nodded toward Tillman and Foz who stood staring at their empty shot glasses as if in deep contemplation. “It’s been one mess after another this whole trip.” He shook his head in despair.
    â€œJesus . . . ,” said Stevens. He looked at Gorn on his other side, then back at Prew. “Brax sent us here to watch for any of our bunch and guard