by Ralph Cotton
‘‘Now what?’’ Caldwell asked, his hand still pressed to his bleeding side. He wore black gloves with the fingers cut short at his first knuckle.
‘‘Now we wait until he reaches the hills, just like I said we would,’’ said Dawson with disgust and anger at himself. He stared after Fairday and the young woman.
Riding away from Poco Río at a fast pace, Fairday reached a gloved hand down into the young woman’s naked lap and pinched her playfully. ‘‘You did good, honey, real good.’’
Slapping his gloved hand away, the young woman said in a pouting voice, ‘‘I should be angry with you, poking me with that gun barrel . . . calling me a puta.’’
‘‘Aw, now, little darling, I had to make it look real, didn’t I?’’ Fairday said, grinning. ‘‘Besides, you are a puta, and a dang good one at that.’’ He reached up and jiggled her breast. The girl giggled and slapped halfheartedly at his hand.
Chapter 2
Gathering their horses from the streets of Poco Río, Dawson and Caldwell led the tired animals toward a lean-to livery shed. ‘‘We’ve got to have more men riding with us,’’ Caldwell said, pushing up the brim of his stylish, flat-crowned black hat. ‘‘You’ve got to tell them.’’
‘‘We won’t get any more men,’’ replied Dawson, watching the dust rise from Fairday’s horse’s hooves. ‘‘You heard Messenger. It’s up to you and me, nobody else.’’
Caldwell shook his head. ‘‘We threw down on five men. Two of them got away from us. It shouldn’t have happened. It wouldn’t have happened if we’d had more men. We need more men,’’ he repeated firmly. ‘‘We’re both worn to a frazzle. We need to rest.’’ A black string tie lay loosely around his neck. His white shirt had turned the color of sand, suet and dried sweat.
‘‘Then we’ll have to manage to get ourselves some rest,’’ said Dawson. ‘‘But that’s all we’ll get. Don’t expect anything from Messenger and his federal government boys.’’
‘‘Then we’re in big trouble.’’ Caldwell gestured toward the two fleeing gunmen’s rise of dust. ‘‘Once the Barrows and Sepreano join forces, we won’t stand a chance against them. Maybe Messenger needs to ask himself how he’s going to feel facing the president, telling him this border operation didn’t work.’’
Hearing the exhausted tone of Caldwell’s voice and noting the wound in his side, Dawson said, ‘‘Why don’t you stay here, get a hot meal and some rest. Get your wound looked after. I’ll ride on out and bring the girl back.’’
‘‘I’m riding with you to bring the girl back, in case Fairday has a trap waiting for you,’’ Caldwell replied firmly. ‘‘But maybe afterward it’s time we both turned back, returned this dog to its pen.’’
‘‘I’m not turning back.’’ Dawson stopped and allowed his horse to lower its muzzle into a trough of water beneath the shade of the lean-to overhang.
‘‘In that case, neither am I,’’ said Caldwell, letting his horse drink beside Dawson’s. ‘‘But if the U.S. government doesn’t give us the help we need, we might want to consider taking the matter into our own hands, bring in some guns without them knowing about it.’’
‘‘Yeah?’’ Dawson said wryly. ‘‘Look around us, Jed. These hill-country folks are too poor to afford corn, let alone guns and bullets. Anybody who knows how to use a gun around here has either been killed by Sepreano and his gang, or thrown in with them.’’
On the street behind them, villagers ventured forward. Some of them stripped the deceased’s pockets inside out in search of money before dragging the bodies away. At a hitch rail the two dead men’s horses had already disappeared, as if by magic.
When Leo Fairday reached a trail at the base of the hills, he followed it up into the cover of broken rock, scrub pine and juniper. There he stopped the horse, let the girl down from his lap and stepped down behind her. ‘‘Well, little darling,’’ he said, handing her the blanket that had come undone during the ride, ‘‘looks like this is where we say adios, for now anyway.’’
The girl wrapped herself in the blanket and pulled her long, disheveled hair back and wrapped it deftly in a way that held it in place. ‘‘Si, and now for my money,’’ she said with a smile, extending her hand.
‘‘Money? What money?’’ Fairday shrugged. ‘‘I already paid you for everything we did back at Poco Río.’’
She kept her hand out, wiggling her fingers. ‘‘You said if I would act like you were stealing me away, you would give me more money.’’
‘‘Did I? I swear I can’t recall. . . .’’ Fairday appeared to think hard about the matter.
‘‘Si, you did, and you know you did,’’ the girl insisted, keeping her hand out.
Fairday gave a strained, perplexed grin. ‘‘In the heat of excitement it must have slipped my mind. How’s about let’s say you just did this because you like ole Leo so much, you know, for the way I always take good care of you when I ride through these parts? Sort of a token of your fondness?’’ He took a step toward her, his arms outspread.
But the girl would have none of it. She stepped back saying, ‘‘No, no, no,’’ and shook her head. ‘‘I give myself to you only for the money, nothing else.’’
‘‘Now that is awfully cold-hearted of you, little darling,’’ Fairday said, appearing taken aback by her words and actions.
‘‘Don’t put me off, Leo,’’ the girl said, her attitude growing more emboldened. ‘‘You said you would give me something extra, and I want it.’’
Leo shook his head as he reached inside his shirt pocket and took out a sweat-dampened roll of cash. ‘‘All right then. I suppose I shouldn’t have expected anything different from you. Your mama was the same way, always grubbing for every dollar she could squeeze out of a fellow.’’
‘‘Leave my mother out of this, Leo,’’ she said in a strong tone, her hand extended toward him.
‘‘Here.’’ Fairday peeled off two one-dollar bills from the roll and flung them at her. She snatched the bills from the air and gripped them tightly as she looked at them.
‘‘Is this all? Two dollars for helping you escape the law?’’ she asked, more angry than disappointed.
Leo looked embarrassed. ‘‘Don’t push me, honey,’’ he warned. ‘‘The law is no big deal to me. They’re always after me for something or other.’’ He tried to turn away and step back into his stirrup.
‘‘And now what?’’ the girl asked. ‘‘You are going to leave me out here? I must walk all the way back to Poco Río?’’
‘‘Yep, that’s what I had in mind. But you ain’t hurting. Play your cards right and those lawdogs will be fighting one another to see which one carries your plump little bottom back to town on their lap.’’ Leo chuckled and started to step up into the saddle. But he stopped with his hand on the saddle horn when the girl slapped his shoulder.
‘‘You stinking old pig!’’ she shouted, swinging at him with both hands. ‘‘It is no wonder the other girls have nothing to do with you! It was only I who took pity on you and let you do what you wanted to inside me! You are old and dirty, and you smell like—’’
Her words stopped short. Leo backhanded her away from him; her blanket flew away. She landed on her naked rear end in the dirt. He turned toward her in a fiery rage, but then he stopped and took a deep breath and kept control of himself. Raising a finger for emphasis he said, ‘‘Your mama never acted like that. She knew how far to go and when to stop.’’
‘‘My mother died a penniless whore!’’ the young girl shrieked, throwing the two wadded-up bills at him. ‘‘Killed by a pig like you!’’
‘‘Too bad she never taught you when to keep your mouth shut,’’ Leo said. He turned back to his horse and stepped up into the saddle. ‘‘I don’t have time, or I’d teach you myself. I’d paddle you with a plank.’’ He winked at her, trying to keep control of himself, and turned his horse to the trail. ‘‘Try to settle yourself down some before those lawdogs get here.’’
‘‘I hope they get her
e soon!’’ she shouted. ‘‘I want them to ride me back to Poco Río instead of you!’’ She threw a hand onto her naked hip. ‘‘I will give them whatever they want for free! Over and over I will give it to them!’’
Leo Fairday made no response.
Seeing her words were having no effect, she shouted at him, ‘‘And I tell them what a tiny pene you have!’’ As she taunted him she looked all around, spotted a good throwing-sized rock, picked it up and hurled it at him. It struck him on the shoulder. ‘‘I will tell them what my mother told me about us . . . who you are and why you always choose me! I will tell them where you hide when you are not killing and robbing!’’
Leo grunted and turned the horse around toward her, rubbing his shoulder. ‘‘What did you say?’’ he asked in a low and even voice.
She saw she had gone too far. She threw a hand to her mouth and said, ‘‘I didn’t mean it. I would never tell where you hide.’’
‘‘Before that,’’ he said, his face red, his eyes wide, filled with rage and humiliation.
‘‘Nothing,’’ she said, backing up a step as he nudged his horse closer. ‘‘I don’t know what I said! But you better stay away from me, or I will tell everybody!’’
She saw his boot lift up from the stirrup and his hand go down to it. She saw his hand streak up and around in a high loop. But she did not see the big knife until she felt the blinding pain of sharp steel sink deep into her naked breast, the impact of the knife’s hilt hitting her solidly and knocking her backward.
She struggled up onto her knees, gasping for breath, her hands trembling near the knife’s hilt, yet not touching it. ‘‘Santa . . . Madre—,‘‘ she pleaded for help brokenly in her native tongue.
‘‘Now look at you,’’ Fairday said, stepping down from his saddle. He took his time searching through his saddlebags and pulled out a rolled-up length of rawhide. Shaking out the long length of rawhide he walked calmly over to her. ‘‘You’ve let your mouth get you killed, you foolish girl.’’
‘‘Por favor,’’ she begged, although she had no idea what she was asking from him, no idea what he could do for her now.
Fairday stooped down eye level and looked at her closely, cupping a hand to his ear. ‘‘What’s that? Oh, you’re sorry? Sorry for all those bad and cutting things you said to ole Leo?’’ He gave a cruel grin and gestured at the knife sticking from between her breasts, a growing web of blood spreading beneath it. ‘‘See, your mama could have told you not to ride me so hard. She knew how I was. But no, she was busy filling your head with things you shouldn’t even know about. Now you’ve done it, and after me telling that lawman I wouldn’t kill you.’’
‘‘Please,’’ she gasped in English, her voice growing weaker.
‘‘You still won’t shut up, will you?’’ Fairday grabbed her roughly by her wrist, wrapping the end of the rawhide around it and tying it tight. ‘‘Just so’s you know,’’ he said, his voice taking on an urgent sound, his breath quickening, ‘‘I’m going to stake you down and stir your guts up, Apache style, just like I said back in Poco Río.’’
Two miles farther up the hill trail, Black Jake Patterson held a bloody bandanna to the bullet graze along the side of his head. He’d watched Fairday’s dust on the flatlands below until it dissipated up onto the winding hill trail. He’d waited another half hour before seeing the rider appear in and out of sight through the maze of rock, brush and scrub pine. When he recognized Leo Fairday he murmured to himself, ‘‘Leo, you old cur, if anybody else made it out of there I’d bet it’d be you.’’
Lying low in his saddle, Fairday searched the hard ground for any sign of Black Jake’s hoofprints. As his horse rounded an upward turn and stepped into a clearing, a rifle shot exploded above him, kicking bits of dirt and rock against the spooked animal’s forelegs.
‘‘Halt. Who goes there?’’ Black Jake shouted down, stepping up from behind a large boulder and looking down with a dark laugh as Fairday struggled to settle his horse.
‘‘Damn it, Jake!’’ Fairday replied, wobbling in the saddle, one hand planted atop his head to keep from losing his battered Stetson. ‘‘It’s me! You see clear as day, it’s me!’’
‘‘A man can’t be too careful these days. For all I knew you could have been U.S. Federal Marshal Crayton Dawson dogging my trail.’’ Black Jake laughed again at his little joke and levered another round into his rifle chamber as he looked back along the trail behind Fairday. ‘‘Did we kill them? Are they following us?’’
‘‘No, we didn’t kill them,’’ said Fairday, ‘‘but they’re shot up same as us.’’ Settling his nervous horse, he looked back himself. ‘‘I’ll wager they heard that rifle shot and honed right in on us.’’
‘‘Then they are following you?’’ said Black Jake, visoring a hand above his eyes for a better look.
‘‘Yes, you can bet your mama’s old corset they’re following us,’’ said Fairday. ‘‘What did you expect? Dawson ain’t no easy piece of work.’’
Black Jake shook his head in disappointment. ‘‘I figured you boys would have killed them deader than hell, else I never would have left the way I did.’’
‘‘Well, we didn’t.’’ Fairday crossed his wrists on his saddle horn. ‘‘I took the young whore with me, threatened to kill her. It got me a head start. But they’ll still be coming.’’
‘‘You mean the little half Mex? The one that’s supposed to be kin to you?’’ asked Black Jake. As he spoke he backed away out of sight, picked up his horse’s reins and led the animal the few yards down the trail toward Fairday.
‘‘She’s no kin of mine, Jake,’’ Fairday called out to the rocks and brush. ‘‘It’ll serve you well to know that saying she’s my kin is the very thing that got Rodney Turner’s throat cut and gullet sliced.’’ He spit a stream of brown trail dust and wiped a hand across his dry lips, waiting until Black Jake stepped into sight.
‘‘Then excuse the hell out of me,’’ said Black Jake, walking out of a stand of trailside brush and leading his sweat-streaked dun. ‘‘I only mentioned it because that’s what I heard.’’
Fairday stared at him for a moment, then said, ‘‘I was with her mama off and on for a year or two. That don’t make us kin.’’
‘‘It might,’’ Black Jake said knowingly. Realizing he was pushing Fairday a bit more than he should, he kept his rifle handy as he led the dun onto the trail.
‘‘And it might not,’’ Fairday added quickly. His face reddened. ‘‘Anyway, she’s dead. The lawdogs caught up to us. I had to leave her behind. I looked back and saw them kill her.’’ He looked down at his saddle horn, shaking his head. ‘‘The poor girl . . . not much more than a child.’’
Black Jake studied him curiously, noting blood on his gloves and shirtsleeves. ‘‘You killed her, didn’t you, Leo?’’
Fairday bit his lower lip as if to keep himself from admitting what he’d done. But finally he said, ‘‘All right, damn it, maybe I did kill her. But we was no kin.’’
‘‘I don’t care who’s kin or who’s not,’’ said Black Jake, ‘‘and I don’t care that you killed her. I just like knowing what’s going on around me.’’
‘‘She wouldn’t shut her mouth,’’ said Fairday. ‘‘She kept on running me down, calling me names. She hit me with a rock.’’ He rubbed his shoulder as he mentioned it.
‘‘Well . . . so long, Poco Río.’’ Black Jake stepped up into his saddle. ‘‘Unless you want to lie up here and ambush Dawson and his pal.’’
‘‘I don’t want nothing to do with Dawson, unless there’s more of us than you and me,’’ said Fairday. ‘‘I don’t think it’s sporting of him and his dude-dressed deputy to be down here below the border stirring up trouble with us.’’
‘‘Let’s get to the Barrows and let them know he’s coming,’’ said Black Jake. ‘‘There’s enough of us, we won’t have to worry about Dawson for long.’’
‘‘We was supposed to be rounding up some horses for when we meet
up with Sepreano,’’ Fairday reminded him.
‘‘Yes, but we didn’t, now did we,’’ Black Jake said, nudging his dun forward.
Fairday nudged his tired horse along beside him. ‘‘I don’t want you telling anybody I killed that girl,’’ he said.
‘‘I won’t,’’ said Black Jake. He smiled. ‘‘I’ll just tell them what you told me. Dawson and his deputy killed her. How does that suit you?’’
‘‘Suits me fine.’’ Fairday let out a breath of relief and nudged his horse along the trail. ‘‘It was Dawson’s fault we didn’t bring back any horses, eh?’’
‘‘Yep.’’ Patterson grinned. ‘‘He’s the reason we’re heading back empty-handed, sure enough, the sonsabitch.’’
Chapter 3
The two lawmen first saw the girl’s body draped backward across a rock as they rode up and around a turn in the trail. The gruesome sight stopped Dawson cold in his tracks. Behind him, Caldwell reined his horse down to keep from running into him.
‘‘My God, he did it,’’ Dawson whispered, his hand going instinctively to the rifle across his lap. ‘‘He killed her, just like he threatened to if we dogged him.’’
‘‘Yes,’’ said Caldwell, ‘‘except we didn’t dog him any.’’ He drew his Colt and cocked it quietly. ‘‘We kept our word.’’ He nudged his horse a step forward, beside Dawson. The two then urged their horses forward together, both with guns in hand, wary of a trap.
When they had eased their horses closer without incident, Dawson winced at the sight of flies already swarming above the dead girl’s open chest cavity and said in a lowered voice, ‘‘What kind of fiend does something like this, Jedson?’’ He asked as if Caldwell’s past profession as an undertaker might offer an explanation.
‘‘Don’t ask me,’’ Caldwell replied, his voice also lowered as if in respect to the deceased. ‘‘I’ve seen murder at its most depraved, but I’ve never seen anything worse than this.’’