“It’s not something I’m likely to forget,” he admitted readily, when she paused.
She smiled at him across the room. “Would you like to kiss me again, Chuck?”
“I reckon I would,” he said evenly. “But—”
Her eyes narrowed slightly. “But what?”
“But I’d have trouble keeping my mind on it, ma’am, since I’d be waiting for Mr. Bristow, as he calls himself here, to come busting through that door with a gun and catch me making improper advances to his wife, as you call yourself here. . ."
There was a silence. Her face had gone a little pale, and tightness had come to her lips; then her features relaxed and she smiled at him approvingly.
“Good boy,” she murmured. “You’ve got all the possibilities figured out, as you should. Mr. Bristow-Keller has hired a rig and left town to make certain arrangements. He won’t be back until morning, but I don’t expect you to take my word for that. Suppose I wedge a chair under the door knob, since there seems to be no key; would that reassure you?”
He said, “I reckon it would serve.”
His voice, he was pleased to hear, was steady enough, although he wasn’t quite sure how he’d managed to keep it that way. He watched her prop the chair against the door and come across the room with that soft, feminine whisper of clothing: the lamplight, dull elsewhere, seemed to be shining very brightly in her hair. He knew that he no longer cared why she’d come; yet he wanted her respect, he didn’t want to act like a fool boy who could be twisted around the finger of any pretty woman. He waited until she’d sat down beside him again; then he reached out and turned her face and touched the ugly bruise gently.
“You want me to kill him for you?” he said. “For that? Is that it, ma’am? Is that why you’re here?”
She said calmly, “You’ll kill him, probably. You’ll most likely have to, not because of me, not because he killed your brother, but because you both want the same thing, and he isn’t a man who’ll give up until he’s dead. But I didn’t come here to ask it of you, although I won’t deny I’d like to see it. You’ll do it or not, as the situation demands. I just came here to make sure that, if the time comes, you’ll stand a chance. No boy is going to beat Jack Keller. I figure it’s about time you stopped being a boy, Chuck McAuliffe.”
He looked at her, and heard his own voice speaking with that unnatural steadiness for which he had no explanation: “It’s easy to say.”
She said gently, “It’s not hard to do, my dear. Most boys seem to manage. Now I want you to kiss me, and then you can help me undress. . . . No, we’ll leave the light. I’m not modest, and there’s no reason for you to be. It’s not something one should be modest about, anyway. It’s the one thing that’s never respectable, no matter how much people try to make it so. . . . Chuck.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said.
“Amanda,” she said.
“Amanda,” he said.
She put her arms about his neck, regarding him thoughtfully. “When you do this, my dear,” she said, “when you do this, it’s always nice to tell the woman you love her, even if you don’t mean it.”
He tried to speak, but now the words would not come. She smiled and drew his head down. Her lips were warm and responsive as he’d remembered them, her body was warm and pliant through the layers of clothing, her hands held him close, and the whiskey helped: tonight there was no feeling of shame or guilt, or even any great sense of urgency. When they overbalanced, in each other’s arms, and fell to the bed together, the springs let out a great groan; and suddenly they were lying there, looking at each other in the lamplight and laughing. She sat up, presently, and pulled the pins from her hair, and shook it loose. It fell about her shoulders, shining redly, the way he’d first seen it.
“Amanda,” he said, watching her.
“Yes.”
“I love you,” he said.
“Yes,” she said. “Now help me off with my dress, there’s a good boy. . . ."
CHAPTER 21
Afterwards, lying in bed beside her, he was aware of a feeling of release and revelation, and he knew that nothing would ever be quite the same again. He could look back tolerantly, as if over miles of distance and years of time, at the young kid who’d come up the trail, cocksure and ignorant, brash and scared. He felt strong and adult and confident, and he kissed her lips lightly, and allowed his hand to trace the shape of her breast, firm and smooth to his touch. It seemed quite natural to take this liberty, until she stiffened slightly against him. He took his hand away.
“My apologies,” he said, a little hurt She laughed softly, and took his hand and replaced it where it had been. “Don’t be silly. You just. . . He bruised me there, this afternoon.”
“Do you want me to kill him?” He asked it quite calmly.
“No,” she said. “I don’t want you to kill anybody. I don’t think it’s a pleasant thing to have to live with. But if the necessity should arise, I don’t want you to have any childish scruples, either. Killing a man is like taking a woman, Chuck. Those who fail at it are those who think too much about it. It’s something that, when the time comes it should be done, you just go ahead and do.” He murmured, “Have you killed so many, then, Amanda, that you can speak of it with authority?” She laughed. “No, but I’ve known men who have, army officers and . . . and others.” He knew a little pang of jealousy at the thought of the other men she’d known; apparently she sensed it, because she went on quickly: “Sometimes they’d talk about it. Don’t forget If the time comes, don’t think about it, or worry whether it’s right or wrong. He won’t be thinking or worrying, you can be sure. Just do it. Like . . . like you did this, tonight.”
It seemed, at first glance, as if there was little connection between the two things, one dealing in life and the other in death; yet when he reflected upon it, he realized that, somehow, she was right. They were both facets of the same mystery, a little of which had been revealed to him tonight.
He said abruptly, “The nearest town is called Sabrina.” Her eyes opened to regard him widely. “Nearest to where, my dear?”
“You could wait in town,” he said, “but the hotel is a poor place. You’d better go straight out to the ranch. It’s close to fifty miles, but Henry Espenshade, at the livery stable, will have somebody drive you out. I’ll give you a note to Pablo Aguilar, who’s looking after things at home. Like I told you, the house isn’t in real good shape, but you’ll be comfortable enough. With any luck, I should join you before very long.”
“And then?” she whispered, still watching his face with that curious, intent look.
“Why,” he said, “then we’ll be married.” She did not speak, and after a little he went on: “I’d like to take you with me now, but the trail’s no place for a woman— as you’ve learned—and there may be trouble along the way. It’s better that you go down the river and come into Texas from the east. I’ll have to figure where to get you enough money for your fare—”
She said, “Chuck McAuliffe, you’re a fool!”
He looked at her in mild surprise. She sat up, heedless of her nakedness, and stared down at him angrily. He thought he’d never seen anything near as lovely as she looked, sitting there, with her long hair loose about her bare shoulders. There was a funny, tight expression about her mouth and eyes, as if she were hard put to keep from crying.
He said calmly, “I see nothing foolish in what I said.” She said breathlessly: “Just because we . . . You don’t have to marry me, you idiot! You don’t want to marry me!”
“As for having to,” he said, “I don’t know about that. As for wanting to, I reckon I’m a better judge than you are.”
She cried, “You’re no judge of anything! You’re just a boy who’s taken a woman to bed and figures he’s made a great discovery. Well, maybe you have, but I assure you it’s a discovery you can make with any woman, any time. It’s got very little to do with marriage, with two people living together day after day, year after year. You’re not
going to spend the rest of your life in bed, my dear!”
He grinned, lying there, and said lazily: “At the moment, I could think of worse—”
She went on without heeding him: “You’re going to spend your life among other people, in that little town you just mentioned, Sabrina, and what are you going to tell them when they ask about your new bride? A man wants to be proud of the woman he marries! Are you going to tell them the truth? Are you going to tell them you married a little trollop you took away from an outlaw named Jack Keller because he was mistreating her and you felt sorry for her?”
He reached up and began to wind a lock of the long chestnut hair about his finger. “No need to be so hard on yourself, Amanda.”
She slapped his hand away. “Hard? I know what they’ll say, all those good people! Hard? There’s nothing like your fine, righteous citizens for hard!”
“They don’t need to know,” he said. “Not that I care if they do. The McAuliffes have run Clear Creek without advice from Sabrina; I reckon they can get married without consulting Sabrina. And I reckon the folks of Sabrina will be civil to Mrs. McAuliffe, whoever she may be, or we’ll just pull their town down and build us a new one with better manners.”
Her mouth trembled, and composed itself firmly against this weakness. “You see!” she said. “Already you’ve wiped out a town full of people because of me!”
He chuckled. “It was a pleasure, ma’am. You want San Antone or Austin razed to the ground, just say the word.”
She stared at him blindly for a moment, and began to cry, the tears running down her cheeks unheeded. He sat up and reached out to touch her, but instead he got up and extinguished the flame of the lamp, throwing the room into darkness. Then he got back into bed and drew her down beside him, still crying, and covered them both with the sleazy blanket.
“You don’t understand,” she gasped. “You . . . you just don’t understand what kind of a person . . . You don’t know what I’ve been!” She went on quickly, before he could speak: “Oh, I know what you’re thinking] You’re thinking I’m a tragic victim of fate whom you’re going to save from a life of shame. Well, I’ve always managed to keep some such notion, myself, until today. I’ve told myself that somehow I’m finer and better than the girls who . . . who work in . . . I’ve seen myself as a clever, calculating adventuress; a brave, free soul. . . . Brave! I’m a coward, Chuck. When he hit me, this afternoon, there was nothing left but. . . but jelly. I’d have said anything, done anything, to make him stop. And I realized suddenly that I’ve always been a coward, running from the slightest pain or discomfort, running anywhere, to anybody who’d promise to take care of me. . .
He said, “You seemed to be bearing up real well under pain and discomfort when we met on the trail.”
“But you’re wrong!” she whispered. “I was trapped into that. I couldn’t refuse to go along and help when I heard he was hurt. I owed him that much; besides I needed him, or thought I did. . . . I had brave plans for using him. And all the time he knew what I had in mind and was laughing, waiting for the right moment to . . .” She stopped, and put her hand to her bruised cheek. Chuck did not speak, and after a moment she went on: “And I didn’t bear up at all out there; I turned to you, don’t you remember?”
“I remember,” he said, “But—”
“Oh, it was deliberate and cold-blooded, my dear,” she said. “It should tell you what I am. After a week or so I’d had enough of nursing a sick man, of being tired and frightened and dirty. I was looking for someone who’d take me away from . . . Keller knows me, he’s a devil for reaching into a woman’s soul and holding up to scorn all the trashy little illusions with which she tries to deceive herself. He showed me the truth about myself, this afternoon.” She drew a long, ragged breath. “And if I should let you marry me, and there should be hard times on your ranch, I’d doubtless run off with the first well-dressed traveling man who promised a fine meal and a new dress!”
He said placidly, “I’d come after you, and shoot the fellow, and bring you back.”
She was silent for a little; then she whispered, “Now you’ve razed a town and killed a man. Because of me. Can’t you see? I’ll bring you nothing but trouble, my dear!”
It was a capitulation, and he kissed her gently. “We’ll sleep now,” he said. “In the morning, early, before Keller gets back. I’ll take you down to camp. You’ll be safe there until we can arrange how you’re to travel.”
CHAPTER 22
Amanda Netherton stirred in the darkness, disengaging herself cautiously from the arms of the boy beside her. Then she waited a little, but his breathing remained steady and undisturbed. She slipped out of bed and stood looking down at him for a moment—not that she could see more than the vague shape of him, sleeping there, but she could imagine the way he looked: an odd mixture of boyishness and sunburned toughness. He was a real sweet boy, and she should have known how he’d react to being . . . well, seduced was the proper word for it, no sense mincing matters. Perhaps she had known.
The thought frightened her. She’d thought of it as a valiant gesture, a way of showing herself that she still had the courage to defy Jack Keller, even though the thought of his big fist now made her sick with fear. There was also the fact that she liked this young Texan and wanted to help him: an experienced woman could do much for a youth at this point in his life. He needed confidence if he was going up against Jack Keller. She could give it to him. It was a way of paying her debts to both of them.
She’d been going to do this, and slip out into the darkness afterwards—she’d determined where she could hire a rig, even at this hour, and her belongings were packed and ready—she was going to disappear before the Preacher awoke from his drunken stupor, or Keller returned. She was going to leave this place, these people, this life, and start afresh somewhere. . . .
Now she shivered abruptly, knowing that she was not by any means brave enough to carry out this plan: she’d never really intended to. Deep down inside her, without admitting it, she’d known that, after making love to her, Chuck McAuliffe would not let her go. She’d known that, being young and chivalrous, he’d feel obliged to ask her to marry him; and she’d known, too, that she would let him persuade her to agree.
And in the morning, not too far away now, he’d wake up and look at her, not with the eyes of a boy intoxicated with his first discovery of manhood, but with the eyes of a man. He’d know he had been tricked, but he would stand by his word, being a nice boy. He’d take her to his camp, and Jack Keller would come for her there, and men would be killed, maybe Chuck McAuliffe among them. And if not there, then down in Texas. His crew knew what she was; it was no secret. Sooner or later, back home, one of them would speak, and sooner or later some man would pass a remark in Chuck McAuliffe’s honor, and he’d feel obliged to buckle on his big pistol in defense of his wife’s honor.
And, sooner or later, as this went on, she’d probably become the rich young widow McAuliffe, without much reputation, perhaps, but with a house and lands and cattle, and maybe she’d planned that, too. There seemed to be no end to her cleverness.
She shivered again, and began to dress hastily in the darkness. Finished, she started for the door, but paused to pick up the whiskey bottle: if it was gone in the morning, Jack Keller might be suspicious. A little missing liquor would be no cause for comment, however. He’d just assume she’d drunk herself to sleep. The thought would please him. She knew now that he meant to destroy her, deliberately, slowly, savoring each step in her downfall, and she would let him. After today, she’d be afraid to fight back.
The chair made a clatter as she pulled it away from the knob. The boy on the bed gave a deep sigh and moved; he seemed to be reaching for something, or someone. Then he was quiet again.
She stood there a moment longer. It had been a beautiful dream: a husband, a home, a place where nobody knew. . . . But there was no such place. There was only this dingy hotel, and she’d better get back to her room before people
started moving about and saw her slipping down the stairs with her hair down and her clothes half unfastened and a bottle in her fist. After all, here she was still, publicly, the proper young Mrs. Bristow—although certain glances she’d received yesterday seemed to indicate that even this false respectability had become somewhat tarnished since Will Reese’s visit of the night before. Either he’d been seen or he was a man who liked to boast of his conquests, maybe both.
The packed valise stared at her accusingly when she reached the sanctuary of her room—hers, at least, until Keller returned. She walked past it to the window and looked out at the dark, endless prairie, wondering how she’d managed to deceive herself that she’d ever dare venture out there alone, even with a road to guide her. She’d had quite enough of that, driving aimlessly through the rain with Jack Keller delirious in the wagon behind her. If they hadn’t run into the McAuliffe herd, they’d both be dead out there now.
To be sure, she’d thought fast enough—and talked fast enough—after help was at hand; you had to give her credit for that. Nobody could deny she was clever. But all her cleverness couldn’t get around the fact that she was trapped in this dusty frontier town until Jack Keller chose to take her elsewhere—she certainly couldn’t depart by stage without his knowing it. No woman runs out on Jack Keller, he’d said.
She wheeled abruptly, turned up the lamp, and walked across the room to the dresser. Her face looked back at her from the spotted mirror, disfigured by Keller’s blow. Only a boy in a poorly lighted room could have found her attractive, she reflected grimly, as she picked up a brush and began to brush her hair. The bruise would heal, but there would be other blows, now that the man had discovered the efficacy of the treatment. He’d probably beat her half to death if he learned what she’d done tonight, as he was bound to. Because Chuck McAuliffe, finding her gone, would come looking for her. Tricked or not, he’d feel obliged to, even though secretly he might regret his hasty offer of marriage.
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