Dirty Joe wiped a trembling hand across his brow and took a deep breath. “Sorry, Boss. What I meant was, the bank money came to a little over three thousand dollars.” He settled himself and went on. “We got Sherman Fentress patched up and liquored up, and it looks like he might be all right. Jorge set fire to the telegraph office, so ain’t nobody going to be telling on us ... not for a while, anyway.” His eyes drifted back around toward the woman as he spoke. “We, uh ...”
“Joe, damn it!” said Earl, a threat rising in his voice. “Look at me when you talk!”
“Yes, Boss!” Joe snapped his eyes back to Earl. “We swapped out what fresh horses we could find, loaded a few bottles of rye for the trail ... and I reckon we’re ready to cut out of here most any time now.” He felt his eyes draw toward the woman, but this time he caught himself and pulled them back to Earl. “When you’re ready, that is.”
“Good work, Dirty,” said Earl. He started to say something else, but a shotgun blast coming from the street below caused both men to duck instinctively. “What the ... ?” They both hurried to the window and looked down.
“Over there, Boss!” shouted Dirty Joe Turley, pointing down at the dirt street out front of the New Royal Saloon. In the open door of the saloon, Sherman Fentress lay flat on his back, his bandaged wounds ripped to shreds by the blast of the 10-gauge shotgun. His bloody right hand grasped the bottom edge of one of the batwing doors as if it were the only thing keeping him from sliding downward to hell.
“That damned old sheriff!” Earl growled. On the street below, Sheriff Matheson came limping toward the hotel, dragging one foot behind him and using a born pole as a walking stick. The double-barreled shotgun was propped against his good hip, a curl of smoke still rising from its tip. “I reckon I’ll have to kill that old bastard again—this time it better take!”
“Boss, let me go down and—”
“Huh-uh,” said Cherokee Earl, turning and snatching his holster from a peg on the wall beside the bed. “I’ll take care of this myself, personally.” He quickly buttoned his fly, buckled his belt, and slung his gun belt around his waist. As he buckled the gun belt, his eyes went to Ellen Waddell. “Get dressed!” he commanded, snatching up his boots and throwing them under his arm. But as she rose slowly from the edge of the bed, he glanced impatiently toward the window, then said to Dirty Joe Turley, “Stay here and make sure she gets dressed.... Make sure she doesn’t try to sneak away. Don’t take your eyes off her for a minute.” Earl slung his shirt over his shoulder. He grabbed his hat.
Joe’s eyes widened. “But what if she does try to make a run for it? What do I do about it?”
Cherokee Earl had already made it to the door and swung it open. Stopping for only a second, he said to Dirty Joe as he gazed coldly at Ellen, “What the hell do you think I would want you to do, Dirty Joe? I’d want you to kill her!”
Chapter 8
No sooner had Cherokee Earl left the room than Dirty Joe Turley turned red-faced to Ellen Waddell and said, “Ma’am, you heard him. Now get yourself dressed, with no funny stuff.”
“Funny stuff?” said Ellen quietly. She seemed to consider his words for a moment. “All right, excuse me.” Picking up her dress from the bottom bedpost, she walked halfway across the room toward the door to an adjoining room.
“Wait up now!” said Dirty Joe. “You heard the boss.” He took a step forward, stopping less than three feet from her. “He said not to take my eyes off you ... and I’m not about to.”
“I understand.” Ellen seemed to once again ponder what he said. Then she turned loose of the front of the blanket and let it fall to the floor around her feet. At the sight of her standing naked before him, Joe Turley actually jumped back and gasped.
“My God almighty!” He looked at her, then jerked his head away; his hat fell from his hands. He quickly looked back at her, then ducked his eyes with a hand raised as if to hold the world in place while he gained his bearings. “Ma’am, cover yourself, please! You’re going to get me into big trouble!” He shot a frightened glance at the door as if Cherokee Earl might return at any second.
“What’s it going to be then?” Ellen said, her voice taking on a slight authority. “Do I go in there and dress? Or do I dress here while you stand and watch me?”
“Ma’am, please, just stand still and put that dress on! I won’t look—only hurry though!” said Dirty Joe.
“Joe,” she said, her voice low and silky, “just between you and me, I don’t mind if you look ... a little, that is.”
Dirty Joe felt the hair on his neck tingle. He turned his eyes back to her, the sight of her pearly-white skin causing him to have difficulty breathing.
Ellen stood with her dress clasped in one hand and held between her naked breasts. She held her feet shoulder width apart, the dress hanging down the middle of her, leaving little to the imagination. “I always say it costs nothing to look.”
“Yes, ma‘am.... I mean, no, ma’am! I mean, God almighty, you are the most beautiful woman I ever saw!” He rocked back and forth on his boot heels, opening and closing his hands. It seemed to take all his self-control to keep from lunging upon her.
She smiled coyly, half turning from him as she gathered the dress and raised it over her head. He caught a glimpse of fiery red hair and pale white thighs. “Tell me, Joe, why does he call you Dirty? You look as clean as the rest of this bunch.”
She waited on dropping the dress down past her head, taking her time, knowing how much she was torturing him.
“Yes, ma’am, I am. Clean, that is. It’s just a moniker, you know? Like some men they call Lefty?”
“Oh, I see,” she said. She dropped the dress down and smoothed it, the open buttons up the midriff still exposing her breasts. “But isn’t that a case where the person is left-handed?” she said softly.
“I—I don’t know,” Dirty Joe stammered. “Nobody ever called me Lefty.”
Dumber than a cellar rat, Ellen thought. Perfect. She closed the dress in front and buttoned the lower buttons one at a time, slowly. “Does it bother you that he leaves you here alone with me?”
“God, no,” Dirty Joe grinned. “This is the best thing happened to me in a long time!”
“Will you get my shoes for me, Joe?” She nodded at the dust-covered shoes beside the bed. As he scurried past her to get them, she almost felt her hand brush the handle of the pistol on his hip. She fought to keep herself from snatching it up and shooting him, then making a run for it. But run to where? What would that get her—a few minutes of freedom before they caught up to her? She was in this game to stay alive. She had to play it on out. She would know when the time was right.
“Why would it bother me?” Joe asked, coming back and dropping the shoes before her. His breathing was labored. Sweat had beaded on his brow. He stood close to her. She could feel the heat of him.
“Just that maybe he thinks you’re not man enough to try anything,” she said tauntingly, “the way some of the others would, the two of us alone like this.”
“Ha! He knows I’m as much man as the next.” Joe looked her up and down. “He just knows he can trust me, is all. I’ve been with Earl for a long time.” He extended a hand slowly toward where her dress remained open in the front.
But she artfully stepped away from his probing hand and said, nodding down at her shoes, “You’ll have to help me, Joe.”
“Huh?” Dirty Joe seemed to have gone blank for a second.
“My shoes,” she said, almost in a whisper. “Will you bend down there, put my shoes on me?”
“Well ...” He glanced at the door but had already begun to sink down onto his knees. “Sure, I reckon I can do that.” He picked up her left shoe.
She placed a hand on his bare head for support and entwined her fingers into his thick, damp hair. “There now,” she said, almost moaning, raising her foot and propping it onto his knee. “Do it for me.”
He fumbled, her foot in one hand, her shoe in the other. She raised her dress
above her knee. “Ma’am, I hope this is going to be our little secret, me and you getting this close,” he said.
“I’ll never tell a soul, Joe,” she said, guiding her foot, helping him slip it into the trembling shoe. “You can count on it.”
“Lord, I hope so, ma’am,” he said, his voice turning thick with passion. “I hope I can count on you. He’d kill us both if he was to ever think—”
“Shhh, hush, Joe.” She cut him off, reaching down, taking his hand, and placing it inside her thigh, just above her knee. “Now, if I told him, whose fault would it be? It would be mine, wouldn’t it, Joe, getting you to do this?” She pressed his hand there, slicing a breath as if in ecstasy.
“Oh, yes, ma’am, it would be,” Joe said, giving in, letting go of his fear of death for the moment. “It would be indeed.” He tried to raise his hand farther up, but she stopped him.
“No, Joe, not now,” she whispered. “Not now, but soon. I promise, soon.”
“Ma’am, now I’m this far, I just don’t think I can hold off,” he said, panting, his hand fevered and trembling.
“But we’ve got to wait, Joe. Please!” She struggled halfheartedly. “Right now I need a friend, Joe.” She entwined her fingers in his hair again and pulled his head up, pressing his chin into her flat lower belly. “Will you be my friend for now, Joe?”
“Oh, yes, ma’am,” he gasped, clinging helplessly to her. “I am your friend ... your best friend.... You can believe that!” Outside the open window, the sound of a shotgun roared, followed by repeated blasts of pistol fire. But Dirty Joe only heard them from a distance, through the pounding of his pulse and the rush of hot blood through his veins and his senses.
On the dirt street, Cherokee Earl stopped long enough to pull his socks from inside his boots. He put them on, then stepped into his dusty boots and stamped them onto his feet. He pulled on his shirt as he walked toward the spot where the old sheriff lay crumpled in the street. Blood spilled from the sheriff’s lips as he struggled to speak. From the middle of the street, Avery McRoy and Jorge Sentores closed the open space between them and came forward also, each of them flipping out the spent cartridges from their pistols and replacing them as they walked.
Cherokee Earl looked up at the open hotel window as he reloaded and said, “What the hell’s taking Dirty Joe so long?”
“Where is he anyway?” asked Avery McRoy.
“He’s getting the woman dressed,” said Cherokee Earl.
“Oh?” Avery McRoy and Jorge looked at each other. McRoy raised an eyebrow and said, “I wish I’d heard you ask for volunteers. I’m a good hand at getting women dressed ... or undressed, either one.”
“Shut up, McRoy,” said Earl. “I couldn’t leave her alone. I left him to watch her, make sure she didn’t take off.”
“Again,” said McRoy, “had I only known you was looking for someone to—”
“Do you think I won’t open your belly, McRoy?” Earl spat at him. Having reloaded his Colt, Earl slapped the cylinder shut and cocked it with a snap of his thumb. “Huh? You think I have a sense of humor when it comes to my woman? Do you?”
His woman! “Easy, Boss!” said McRoy. “No, I reckon you don’t! I was just making man talk, is all! Hell, I take it back.”
Cherokee Earl eased the pistol down and turned slowly to the sheriff in the dirt. “Look at this old buzzard. Still trying to set things right for himself.” He leveled the pistol down at arm’s length. Seeing the sheriff struggle to speak, Earl said, “What’s that, old-timer? What’re you saying?”
The sheriff summoned all his strength and rasped, “You son of a low, white-livered—”
“Whoa, now!” said Earl with a dark chuckle. “You can’t talk about my mama that way!” The pistol jumped once in his hand, and the old sheriff fell silent. “The hell’s the matter with you anyway?” he said to the still form. As he looked down, he saw the faintest flicker of the sheriff’s wrinkled eyelid. “I’ll be switched if this old turd ain’t still alive.”
“You’re kidding,” said McRoy, leaning in for a better look. He reached his hand out and cocked his Colt toward the sheriff’s head. “I’ll fix that.”
But Earl stopped him. “Forget it. Hardheaded as he is, it’ll just ricochet, hit one of us.” He looked up toward the hotel window as he holstered his Colt. Beside him, McRoy and Jorge did the same. “What the hell is taking him so long?”
McRoy and Jorge gave one another a look, but neither offered any comments. “We got a good take from the bank, Boss,” said McRoy, changing the subject.
Earl ignored him. “Jorge, get up there and see what’s keeping them,” he said, growing irritated. “I’d like to set fire to a few buildings before we leave ... if that doesn’t interfere with anybody’s plans.” There was a sarcastic snap to Earl’s voice.
“Sí, Boss, I’ll tell them to hurry up,” said Jorge, hurrying off across the street toward the hotel.
Earl and McRoy turned back and looked down at the sheriff, seeing that the man was still alive and had even managed to claw his hand toward the shotgun lying two feet away in the dirt. McRoy chuckled and kicked the shotgun closer to the sheriff’s hand. “There you go, old slick. Grab it and give us hell.” He grinned at Earl. “It ain’t loaded, of course.”
Earl said to the sheriff, “You sure know how to try a man’s patience, you old bastard.” He drew back his boot and kicked the sheriff in the face. The sheriff fell limp.
McRoy’s grin broadened. “If you ain’t careful, you’re gong to hurt him, Boss.”
Inside the door of the Crown Hotel, Jorge met Dirty Joe and Ellen Waddell coming down the stairs. He gave Dirty Joe a questioning look and said, “Everything is mostly all right, Dirty?”
“Yeah, why?” asked Joe, a defensive look coming to his eyes.
Jorge shrugged, looking the woman up and down. “Boss, he say why it take you so long. He send me to get you so we can burn some buildings. Now you hurry up, eh?” As Jorge spoke, he reached out and took Ellen by the forearm to hasten her along.
“Take your hands off her, Jorge!” Dirty Joe bellowed, shoving the Mexican back a step. Both men’s hands went instinctively to their pistol butts. Then Dirty Joe caught himself and said, letting his hand fall, “He told me to keep an eye on her, not you. I don’t like nobody horning in when it’s me supposed to be in charge of something, all right? Comprende?”
Jorge raised both hands in a show of peace. “Sí, comprende, mi amigo! I mean nothing by it.”
“All right then, let’s forget it,” said Dirty Joe, getting himself fully collected.
Ellen watched closely, taking in every action, examining every response between the two men.
“I reckon it just took her longer than it should to get dressed,” Dirty Joe said.
“Sí,” said Jorge. He looked Dirty Joe up and down. When Joe reached for the doorknob, Jorge stopped him. “Uno momento,” he said.
Joe stopped with his hand still on the knob. “What do you want, Jorge?” His tone of voice turned a bit testy.
“Do like this before you go out there,” said Jorge, rubbing his own chin vigorously.
“What the hell?” Dirty Joe gave him a strange look.
“You have lint on your chin,” Ellen cut in, lowering her eyes modestly. She idly smoothed down the wrinkled front of her gingham dress.
Dirty Joe picked at his beard stubble with nervous fingers, his face red and frightened. “Damn ... I don’t know how I got that,” he muttered, seeing—and knowing that Jorge saw as well—the small fleck of lint and a short scrap of thread that had undeniably come from Ellen’s dress. “Much obliged, Jorge.”
Jorge shook his head slowly, giving Joe a warning gaze. “Don’t tell me much obliged. I want to know nothing about what is going on. This is not my business. When Earl hears about this, you are on your own.”
Opening the door, Dirty Joe allowed Ellen Waddell to step outside. Then he stopped and said to Jorge, “What do you mean by that? You going to tell him
?”
Jorge said, “I am not loco. It is a bad thing that I want no part of.”
“It ain’t what you think it is, Jorge,” said Dirty Joe. “Nothing happened between us, I swear.”
“It is no business of mine,” Jorge said, stepping through the open door after the woman.
“Answer me, Jorge,” said Dirty Joe. “Are you going to tell Earl?”
Jorge only shook his head and walked on.
From across the street, Cherokee Earl called out, “It’s about damn time! We need to get a move on.” He turned from the limp body of Sheriff Matheson and walked toward the hitchrail, where fresh horses stood ready to go.
Matheson opened his eyes thinly and let his hand crawl once again to the stock of the shotgun. With all his waning strength, he forced his free hand inside his coat pocket, found the shotgun load, and brought it out. He saw the woman and the two men coming across the dirt street. God, he whispered to himself, just give me one more round.
Jorge gave Avery McRoy a telling glance as they all met up near the horses.
“What’s going on, Jorge?” McRoy asked, looking at Dirty Joe and the woman.
“He is playing with dynamite, that one,” Jorge whispered, nodding toward Dirty Joe.
“You mean, him ... and her?” McRoy looked stunned. “Dirty Joe and a woman?” The prospect of it seemed ridiculous to him.
“Sí,” said Jorge. “It is so. And now that I know about it, I must be a part of their secret. So it is I who is in the big trouble.”
Dirty Joe caught a trace of Jorge’s words and snapped his head toward him. “What the hell are you saying, Jorge?”
“I said nothing,” Jorge responded. “But I am not such a fool that I will put myself on the spot for you.”
Five horses away at the other end of the hitchrail, Cherokee Earl busily riffled through the bank bag, taking a loose count, too occupied to pay attention to what was being said.
“Yeah?” Dirty Joe stepped toward Jorge. “You best keep your mouth shut about me, Mex!”
Ralph Compton Death Along the Cimarron Page 9