by Lou Cameron
He said, “Not being a woman, I’ve never worried about that too much. A man has to just accept the facts of nature as he finds ‘em. Maybe if we men were stuck with giving our all to critters bigger, stronger, and more take-charge than us, we’d suffer some mixed emotions as well.” Then he laughed and added, “Speaking of taking charge, though, don’t I have anything to say about what you’re doing to my poor thing right now?”
She gripped more firmly as she felt it responding to her playfulness and told him, “You don’t have to do anything if it refuses to get hard again.”
He reached out to snuff their smoke as he chuckled and told her, “You know damned well it’s almost hard enough already.”
She chuckled back, rolled atop him, and said, “Why, so it is,” as she lowered herself to accept all he had to offer in a manner that made it rise to the occasion indeed. He was content to let her do all the work for now. He’d had a rough day after similar abuse from a less natural brunette the night before, and even if he hadn’t, he couldn’t have moved in Rimfire Rowena any faster, or better, than she was moving for him. But as he enjoyed the contrast between her smaller, more muscular torso and the softer more Junoesque charms of the gal called Cherokee, he was reminded of the fibs he’d told the law about the female situation in Iron Mountain. So he asked the one he was with, tonight, “Could I have your disinterested opinion on a moral dilemma that’s been gnawing at me, honey?”
She stopped and frowned down at him in the dim light to ask, “Are you worried about how moral we’re acting, now? Can’t you wait, damnit, until the cold gray dawn to ask if I still respect you?”
He said, “I’m not worried about being immoral with you. You’ve been doing fine. I’ve been thinking about another gal who …”
“While you’re all the way inside of me, you son of a bitch?” she cut in, rolling off him to hit the mattress on her side with her back to him, cussing under her breath.
He patted her bare rump soothingly and explained, “I wasn’t talking about making love to another gal, damnit. I was just wondering how far a man should go in lying for a friend. Turn over again, doll face. We can talk about it later, after we finish what we were just doing so nice.”
She resisted. A gal who made her living aboard a show horse knew how to resist good. “That other gal must have been the bee’s knees if you could even think of her, platonical, whilst I was making bare-ass love to you, you brute!”
“I’m sorry my mind drifted to dispolite,” he said, stroking her thigh. “I hope you’ll recall you had my undivided attention the first three times I was coming in you. Let me get on top and I’m sure I won’t be able to think of anyone but you for a spell.”
She sniffed and said, “I’m not much in the mood right now. Who was this durned old bawd you lie so much in favor of?”
“Well,” he drawled, “since you ask, she wasn’t exactly a bawd. She was a gal who warned me about a hired gun and likely saved my life.”
“Before or after you’d screwed her?”
Stringer sighed and said, “She never warned me as a lover. I can’t say for sure whether she was behaving in a Christian way or if she didn’t want a shoot-out attracting the attention of the law to her surroundings. Either way, her warning gave me the edge I needed, and it was still close.”
Interested, now, despite herself, Rimfire Rowena rolled over to ask, “Where does the lying come in, then?”
“Later,” he said. “After she’d put me in her debt, I ran into some lawmen who may have been looking for her. I gave them a bum steer. I felt it was only my duty to a lady I owed my life to.”
The lady in bed with him at the moment said, “I’ll bet you owed her more than your life, you sex maniac. But what’s the big deal about covering up for a gal you owed? It’s a free country and you’re not the law.”
“I know. I’m not an outlaw, either, and if that gal is really who I suspect she could be, she and her friends were wanted serious. Ever since it happened, I’ve been chawing on whether I was right to pay back a debt of honor or wrong to aid and abet the Wild Bunch. For they’re mighty wild as well as being a bunch, and if some innocent party was to get hurt because I failed to peach on a possible member of the gang …”
“Was she an outright bandit or just a gun moll?” Rimfire Rowena cut in.
“I’d say you could leave the gun off the moll in describing her. She may not even be the gal the law would like to question. But if she is, she’s the sweetheart of a much more dangerous person,” he explained.
Rimfire Rowena propped herself up on one elbow to shake her head clearer. Then she decided, “If you knew for certain she was someone really bad, it would have been your duty as a worthy citizen to turn her in. If you thought she was harmless, save for the company she keeps, I’d say you done right. Did she screw as good as me?”
Stringer laughed, shoved Rimfire Rowena on her back, and mounted her without answering. She protested that she didn’t want to go sloppy seconds to any infernal outlaw gal. But after she found her hips responding to his manly thrusts she relented enough to grin up at him and say, “Well, if you’ve had that fool thing in anyone else for at least a month, you’re just too ferocious to argue with. I’m sorry I called that poor outlaw gal a bawd. You have a mighty convincing way of proving your innocence and…Oh, Jeeee-zuss! Is this really the fourth…Don’t stop! For I see it is and I want it to last forever!”
It couldn’t, of course. So as they slowly drifted back down from heaven into each other’s arms, Rimfire Rowena crooned, “Oh, Lord, that was lovely. I wish I wasn’t leaving tomorrow, don’t you?”
He kissed her throbbing throat and answered, “I didn’t know you were. Don’t the Frontier Days have a few days to go?”
She said, “Just the stock show and some more parades and stuff. The last rodeo events wind down tomorrow afternoon. They would’ve earlier this evening if it hadn’t been for that sudden summer storm. They want me to ride in the opening warm-up, trick riding and shooting. They say I don’t have to stay until the final awards. I’m paid flat for my act. So as soon as it’s over I’m free to go.”
He moved teasingly still in her and asked, “Don’t you want to stick around and watch the rest of the show? I might buy you that ice cream soda afterwards.”
She sighed. “Don’t tempt me. It’s good to hear you don’t have no other gal here in Cheyenne. But honest injun, I have another rodeo to make in my slow-poke gypsy cart, and summer is the only time we can make money in my business, which is not the same business you’ve been moving in and out of me all night. So do you mean to give me the business again, or would you rather we saved some for morning? Once we have to get out of this bed, we won’t be able to do it no more, unless you’d like to ride to Fort Collins with me—nice and slow.”
Stringer sighed, rolled off her, and said he’d study on it, even though he had no reason to go that far south when he worked for a paper to the west. She snuggled closer and said, “I know. But at least we had tonight. I was so afraid you already had a gal here in Cheyenne. It must be the first time you was ever here, right?”
“I’ve passed through a time or more before,” he said, “but the only lady I know here seems to have another lover. By the way, is anyone named Martin connected with the show tomorrow? The reason I ask is that while I know nobody named Martin will be riding, there could be, for all I know, a promoter, judge or whatever by that name.”
She thought before she said, “There ain’t. I’d have recalled the name because I had a…friend named Martin down in Texas one time. Why do you ask?”
He shrugged and said, “Long shot. Even if that other lady’s boyfriend was named Martin, he wouldn’t work as the right one. That gunslick I told you about, up at Iron Mountain, had on a red silk rodeo shirt. But I can’t see why the man who hired him would be interested in such matters.”
She yawned. “Why did he want you so dead, then?” Stringer yawned himself, and said, “Other matters, I reckon. I got sid
etracked from the Frontier Days by what might have been a news scoop—if I’d just been able to find out a damned thing. I hope the mysterious Mister Martin knows by now how dumb I am. For I do mean to cover that rodeo tomorrow, and to do so I’ll have to be sitting close in, with my fool back open to that whole considerable crowd in the stands. If even one of them is out to get me at this late date…Oh, hell,” he murmured, snuggling in close to her and feeling the warmth of her body. “I can worry about it in the morning.”
He did worry, in fact—all the way out to the fair grounds. But as long as Tom Horn refused to put all the cards on the table, there was just no way to tell his feature editor he had more important fish to fry. Since Rimfire Rowena had slipped away discreetly from the hotel ahead of him, Stringer had to walk all the way alone. With the road to the rodeo crowded with folks on foot, or in horse-drawn or horseless vehicles, walking backwards the whole way would have looked plain silly and still left his back exposed to more than he liked to think about. He spotted a Baker Electric passing, with a male and female outline facing one another through the sun-glared glass. If either belonged to Pat Morrison, she didn’t see fit to stop and offer him a lift.
He saw the same vehicle later, parked outside the gate to the grand stands. He shrugged, got in line, and flashed his press pass at the vapidly pretty young gal taking tickets from most everyone else.
Once inside, Stringer strode at ground level between the rails protecting the crowd and the ever higher tiers of seats that were already starting to fill up. A little kid broke loose from his mom and charged Stringer’s way waving a cotton candy cone like a Sioux on the warpath. Stringer blocked the little bastard, who counted coup on his jeans with sticky spun sugar, and hung on until his flustered and not-bad-looking mom could catch up and grab him by one ear, saying, “Thank you, sir. I don’t know what’s gotten into him today.”
Stringer didn’t see fit to offer an opinion of her tiny terror. The poor gal had enough on her plate. He told her boys would be boys, ticked his hat brim at her, and moved on.
A familiar voice called his name. He looked up to see Bat Masterson waving at him from the judging box. His fellow newsman yelled, “Climb up here, old son. The view is grand and there’s plenty of room.”
Stringer didn’t see any steps on his side. But he found it easy enough to climb up hand over hand without tearing any of the red, white, and blue bunting draped over the sides.
He wasn’t so sure he wanted to be there once he got there and saw who else was sharing the box with the easygoing panel of six judges. Pat Morrison was seated on a folding chair on the far side, with a sporty-looking young gent in a checked suit and derby. Pat was wearing a straw boater and a nifty outfit of rose velveteen. She looked as if butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth as she glanced his way, nodded, and went back to jawing with the dude she’d come with.
As Stringer took a seat next to Bat Masterson, Judge Kenton, in front of them, turned in his seat, blinked at Stringer, and said, “Well, this is a pleasant surprise. I thought you’d be up at Iron Mountain today, son.”
“I almost was, your honor,” Stringer replied. “I fear there’s just nothing any of us can do for poor Tom Horn, though. I talked to him last night again. He keeps saying he has an alibi. But he refuses to say where he was and with whom at the time that kid was killed. So it’s just his word against the arresting officer and I’d have likely had to go with the law against a known outlaw had I been on that jury - ”
Judge Kenton sighed and said, “I told you I’d read the transcripts and I’m glad I wasn’t the presiding judge. I fear I’d have had to try him the same way. Joe LeFors, for all his faults, did put Horn behind that rocky outcrop, and since everybody had to be some-damned-where that fateful morning, it was up to Tom Horn to say where else he might have been. Calling the law a liar doesn’t help much when a man insists he just can’t recall where else he might have been at the time.”
The older man shrugged in resignation and said, “At least the judging I have to do today won’t involve half as much disputed testimony. Would you like to take part in our judging, seeing you must know more about the subject than any of us old city folk?”
Stringer shook his head and said, “No thanks, your honor. Some of the entrants are friends of mine and some could almost be called enemies—if they had more nerve. By the way, do you want those papers appointing me a sort of special whatever?”
Judge Kenton thought, shook his head, and said, “No, you may get lucky between now and the time you leave Cheyenne. They pack no authority anywhere else. But should you spot the murderer of Willie Nickell in the crowd today, feel free to arrest the son of a bitch.”
Stringer cast a thoughtful look over his shoulder at all the faces way the hell up and back that had the drop on him. Suddenly Judge Kenton’s words registered. “I didn’t know your writ gave me arrest powers. What about other crooks I notice?”
The older man laughed and said, “Be my guest. I never appointed you a special investigator just to play patty-cakes with criminals…Oh,” he added, suddenly turning away, “I see the show is about to begin.”
Bat Masterson leaned over Stringer’s way and asked what that had been all about. Stringer frowned. “Wild goose chase,” he said. “I told you before about Tom Horn, remember?”
“I do,” Masterson said, “and if you’ll recall, I told you you were wasting your time. I’m still waiting to hear about that death trap at the hotel last night.”
Stringer grinned sheepishly and said, “I got laid. Where’s old Charlie Siringo now, by the way? I owe you both an apology for getting spooked over nothing.”
“Charlie left for the South Pass County this morning. Something about the Wild Bunch. He ain’t expecting any apology. You done right to get spooked. All of us old-timers have been spooked and acted accordingly in our time. That’s how we got to be old-timers. They say James Butler Hickock was playing cards with his back to a whole saloon full of drunken strangers when he drew aces and eights. That wasn’t being brave. That was being just plain stupid.”
Before he could elaborate further a stocky newcomer in a too-big Stetson and too-loud lavender suit trimmed with white braid nudged Masterson and asked, “Do you mind?” So both Masterson and Stringer moved their seats to make room for his big purple rump. He sat down as if he owned the whole box and announced, “I am knowed as T.S. Powers. Texas born and weaned, of course. But now I owns the Bar TS. You’ve heard of it, of course?”
Masterson said dryly, “I know what a bar looks like. What do the letters stand for—tough shit?”
Powers laughed and said, “You sure are a cute little rascal. What do they call you, Mud?”
Masterson said, “You got the initial right. The name is Masterson. William Bartholomew Masterson.”
Powers replied, “Do tell? There used to be a Masterson down in Dodge. Some say he was sheriff and others say he was just a deputy. They called him Bat Masterson. Would you by any chance be related to him?”
Bat Masterson said, “No. I’m him. If you’re through bragging, I’d like to watch the show now.”
The cattle baron must have been. He went sort of dormant while a mess of white men dressed as Indians and at least a few real Indians dressed as cowboys paraded around waving the national and state colors to the sound of a brass band across the arena. It was hard to tell exactly what music they thought they were playing since it echoed back and forth between the tiers of seats. The cheaper ones way back against the skyline were so high above the ground that Stringer hoped that young mother and her pesky brat were seated further down the slope. A fall from that back row could prove something more fatal than any bucking critter could evoke.
As the cowboys, cowgirls, and Indians filed out of sight a mess of young gals charged in aboard trick ponies and proceeded to ride around the arena silly as hell. It was pretty to watch, though. Their shiny silk riding outfits left little at this range to a man’s imagination. So it was interesting to consider how any
gal who could contort her shape like that at full gallop would move in a more romantic setting. They jumped on and off, rode backwards and upside down, and when one fool gal actually fell off, the crowd gave her a splendid hand as she limped over to the rails, head down and rubbing her silk-clad rump.
Then the clowns, dressed more like hobo drunks, set up pipe racks with balloons, clay pipes, and Christmas tree balls swinging on strings of various lengths. Stringer nudged Bat and said, “I’ll bet this is where Rimfire Rowena makes her entrance.”
She did indeed, standing straight up with her soft-soled boots planted on the bobbing rump of her painted pony, going lickety-split with her leather skirt flapping in the breeze, her black hair streaming under her wide sombrero, and a long-barreled pistol in each hand.
She had that pony really trained. It ran around in the same big circle as if it thought it belonged on a merry-go-round. But just the same, it took a lot of skill to ride like that, and even more to pop free-hand with each pistol in turn and never miss.
The crowd went wild as Rimfire Rowena demolished target after target until half of them were gone. Then she spun like a ballet dancer to drop into her saddle, riding backwards as she holstered both pistols and got out a saddle carbine. Those in the crowd who knew how hard it was applauded as she commenced to pick off her targets after she’d passed them instead of the more spectacular but easier way. But T.S. Powers grumbled, “I’ll bet she’s got pepper-shot in that gun.”
Stringer asked mildly, “Do you reckon you could shoot like that with a fire hose?”
Bat Masterson nudged him and murmured, “The man’s entitled to his opinion, kid.” So Stringer shut up, knowing Masterson had some reason for being so nice to such an idiot.
It wasn’t easy. As Rimfire Rowena finished off the last target and circled the ring standing up again with her arms thrown wide and her head thrown back, as if she was leaning into the roar of the crowd, the big mouth laughed lewdly and said, “Well, nobody can say she don’t have a nice little set of tits. How’d you boys like to get some of that, eh?”