The Guns of Santa Sangre. Eric Red

man stood across the street from the cowboy, watching him sitting on the porch smoking his cigarette.

      And this way they killed a few more minutes.

      It was just a harmless peasant, Tucker decided, who didn’t appear to be armed, though he didn’t know that for sure. Unwashed wretch was covered with filth, his face smeared with caked mud, grime and sweat. The cowboy wondered if these people bathed, and this one was the dirtiest he had ever seen. By habit, the shootist gauged the possible threat this stranger might pose to him on this barren morning and how he would handle it. The peasant was alone. Impoverished as he clearly was, he may have recognized Tucker from the wanted posters and thought he would try for the reward to feed his family. He had no rifle but could possibly have a pistol under his baggy clothes. Might be he had a knife or machete there instead. If the loiterer stepped within ten feet of him, Tucker would draw his gun. The man would be dead in the dirt before he drew down. The gunfighter was fast, very very fast. That was why he’d lived to age thirty-four.

      The lazy minutes passed. Tucker finished his smoke, pitched it with a flick of his fingers, and crossed his hands over his tight stomach, fingers inches from his Colt Peacemakers in the holsters slung from his chaps. The peasant didn’t move.

      Squinting up the street, he saw Fix sauntering up the block in his suit and bowler hat, pistols at his sides. Thin as a rail, a black mustache on his face, beady eyes that didn’t miss a thing, the other man gave a tiny nod of acknowledgment.

      “Who’s the sombrero?”

      Tucker shrugged. “Been giving me the eyeball last hour.”

      Fix regarded the peasant with a squinty black bullet eye. Quicker than any man Tucker knew to size up a threat, he was the fastest to dispatch it. The other cowboy was small, didn’t move much and was a man of few words, but he struck with the lethal speed of a scorpion. Fix took a chaw off a plug of tobacco and spat, squinting at the Mexican. “Looking for a handout?” he said.

      “Mebbe.”

      “Could be looking to get hisself the reward on us.”

      “Mebbe.”

      “Where the hell’s Bodie?”

      “Sleepin’ it off.”

      “Right.”

      “Mexican’s still there.”

      “Yup.”

      “We’re flat broke. I got three dollar.”

      “Then you’re holding all the money.”

      “The hell is Bodie?”

      A sound of something heavy falling, a vulgar curse and muttered grumbling answered his question. There was more banging, more cursing. Tucker and Fix turned their heads to see the third of their number, Bodie, stumbling around the side of the cantina. The Swede was a massive man, six foot five and thick as a buck and rail fence. His face was a square boulder set with sleepy, slow eyes and laugh lines around a mouth quick to smile. A lock of blond, uncombed hair fell along his face. With a broad, cracked grin, Bodie leaned against the wall beside Tucker’s chair. He tightened his cartridge belt around his waist, from which swung twin Remington Army revolvers. “Boys, my head’s comin’ apart. Right shorely it is.”

      “Hair that bit ya.” Fix tossed Bodie a silver flask. Bodie took a swig.

      “We need money, boys,” Tucker said, looking out at the sun lifting just above the horizon. He hated being broke, and this had been a bad spell. The gunfighter needed to make some cash quick or starve and he’d been considering their options. Most promising was a small cattle drive they’d ridden past in Juarez. Two days’ ride and Tucker, Fix and Bodie could catch up with the four wranglers, mostly kids, who wouldn’t stand in the way long of gunmen the ilk of he and his partners. They could either tie the wranglers up or shoot them, then haul the stolen cattle down to one of the many ranches near Mexico City and sell them for five bucks a head. It wouldn’t be the first time they’d resorted to thieving. He didn’t like it, but a man had to make a buck.

      “Scalps is selling for a good price.” Fix used his Bowie knife blade to clean some dirt from under a fingernail.

      “We don’t do that,” Tucker whispered.

      “Maybe we should start.”

      “I don’t trade in no hair.” Bodie shook his head in disgust.

      “Me neither.”

      “Well we better figure our situation out and get a plan, or we’re going to be eating sombrero over yonder.”

      “Plan is saddle up. Time to move. Can’t stay around here.” Tucker grunted.

      “Thought we were going to lie low until them Federales moved on.”

      “They may have already done.”

      “We don’t know that.”

      “Point is, we just can’t sit around this hole rottin’ away forever.”

      “Bodie’s right. We’re getting lead in our ass. Man’s gotta keep moving.” They were men of action and do or die they needed to saddle up.

      “That peasant’s gettin’ on muh nerves. What’s he doin’, just standing there?”

      The three big tough gunslingers lounged on the porch of the cantina and looked at the Mexican.

      He was coming across the street toward them.

      Finally, they would learn what he was after.

      As he came in their direction, the peasant doffed his sombrero, kowtowed and submissive as a dog who’d been beat too much. He stopped at the edge of the porch, where the gunmen fingered their triggers. “Please, señors, may I speak to you?”

      Tucker fired up another rolled cigarette and targeted the stranger with a glowering stare through the fire of the match. “What do you want?”

      The humble Mexican peasant stood before them, sunburnt head bowed, holding his straw hat contritely. He was in his late teens with soft features, baggy clothes and a quiet voice. “We are poor, we have no money to pay,” he said. “They have killed our women and children. This is not the worst of it, señors. They have taken over the church. In our village, our church was Santa Tomas, but now the people call it Santa Sangre. Saint Blood. Those who have come, they drink our blood, eat our flesh, they are men that walk like wolves. Will you help us, please?”

      The gunfighter Tucker looked at the other two gunslingers, spat in the dust and spun the cylinder of his revolver. “What’s in it for us?”

      “Silver.”

      “Thought you said you didn’t have no money.”

      “It is the silver in the church. Plates. Statues. A fortune, señor.”

      “It belongs to the church.”

      “The church of Santa Sangre now belongs to them, señor.”

      “So we kill them for you, we take the silver, that the deal?”

      “You will need the silver. You will need it to kill them, señor. You must melt it down into bullets that you shoot through their hearts. It is the only way to destroy the werewolf. What silver is left after you kill them, you may keep.”

      “How many?”

      “Many.”

      “We’ll think about it.”

      “But you must leave now. Tonight is the full moon.”

      Tucker studied his spurs, then looked laconically sideways at his comrades.

      Bodie shrugged.

      Fix clicked his teeth, which meant fine.

      None of the three gunfighters bought the Mexican’s story.

      Except the part that there was a church and it had