One Last Score

I’m still not sure what went wrong; in fact, I don’t remember much about last night at all. I’d like to blame God, or fate, or just bad damn luck; but I reckon the fault might lie somewheres closer to home.

The train from Guaymas to Nogales was supposedly carryin’ a shipment of gold—a tribute from the new Mexican Republic to the Governor of Arizona, or some such political nonsense. Me and the boys, hell we didn’t care about nothin’ but gettin' our hands on all that loot, and high-tailin' it south. We planned on sittin’ on some sunny beach where the gold could be spent, the margaritas was sweet, and the senoritas was plentiful.

Bart Jonas and his cousin Dillon got the schedule off'n a Southern Pacific station master over at Tombstone, before they shot him and left his body for the buzzards. The train was supposedly bein’ guarded by a dozen rurales and at least one Mexican Federale, travelin’ north with the gold. From what the boys heard, the third passenger car was actually converted to an armored transport for the safe.

The problems started when we derailed the damn train. Jim Bernard was our powder monkey, and he’d blown the tracks just north of Cibuta. The train derailed alright, but it was goin' faster than we thought, and it piled up end-over-end out there in the desert, among the sage and saguaros.

The Federale was killed outright, but the rurales turned out to be trained soldiers from the Mexican army, and they was a tough bunch of bastards. After a gunfight that seemed to last forever, me and Bart was the only two left standin’. Dillon and old Jim were layin’ dead in the dirt, and all the Mexicans was either shot or they run off.

We found the safe layin’ on its side, all banged up and dented. What with Jim bein’ dead and all, it took over an hour for Bart to finally blast the hinges off of it, and he almost lost his left hand in the process. Once it was opened, it turned out the safe was stuffed plumb near full of 50 peso gold coins. We loaded our bags and dragged 'em back to the horses we’d left tied-off out in the hills; we mounted up and rode as hard as we could for the coast.

That was day before yesterday.

We rode them horses damn near into the dirt, and finally finished up in a little seaside fishin’ town as the sun was comin’ up. We found us an empty barn, and racked out.

Bart woke me near sundown, and we found our way to a little cantina near the wharf.

Wasn’t hardly nobody there, 'cept a grizzled old barkeep, and an ugly painted-up senora who didn’t speak no English. I told Bart he should just pay with some of the copper pennies we had been savin’ but he had to go and be a big shot. He flipped one of them big gold coins on the bar, and the keep’s eyes damn near jumped outta his head. We each grabbed a bottle of tequila and made our way over to the table where the whore was keepin’ house. I do recall she got a little prettier with each drink, but that’s about all I remember.

All I'd wanted was to head south, get my feet up, and live like a king, or at least a landed gentleman. That was before I woke up in this damn cell. Now my head is poundin’ and I’m alone in this dirty cage. I looked out the barred window a while ago, and I saw someone hanging by the neck from a scaffold. I think it’s Bart, but I can’t tell for sure.

I hope, if they’re comin’ for me next, they at least get a fresh rope.