by Frank Leslie
He was half done with the soup when he glanced up to see Speares enter the saloon with a dapper little man in a three-piece suit, black bowler, round-rimmed glasses, and gray muttonchops. The pair headed for a table that three mule skinners had just vacated, and they immediately hunkered down in serious discussion.
Given the dapper gent’s appearance, he was no doubt the president of the local bank, and he and Speares were no doubt discussing the gold shipment the U.S. marshal had thought Yakima was after. The marshal was another reason Yakima had better get back on the trail first thing in the morning. When the man got free of his bindings, he’d likely track Yakima to Saber Creek. There were laws against assaulting lawmen, even those who deserved it.
As he ate and sipped his beer, enjoying the meal, Yakima kept an eye on the sheriff. He and the banker ordered beer and shots, and Anjanette came back with both, setting the glasses on the table before the men. Speares spoke to the girl, grinning, but the girl stared at him icily, her cheeks drawn in.
When she held her hand out for money, Speares grabbed her wrist, pulled her toward him, and spoke harshly through gritted teeth. He cast a quick glance at Yakima. The girl looked at Yakima then, too, her sun-tanned cheeks flushing. She pulled her hand from Speares’s grip, wheeled, and headed back to the bar, her jaw set hard.
Yakima held his spoon in front of his mouth, frozen in his chair, shifting his gaze between Anjanette and the sheriff. Something told him that the girl was the reason Speares hadn’t wanted Yakima patronizing Charlier’s.
Well, he’d be damned. Letting a man know he wouldn’t be ordered around was one thing. Getting between the man and his girl was like dancing between a diamondback and a scorpion.
He felt foolish, and that made his gut burn with anger.
Yakima swallowed his last bit of soup and dropped the spoon into the bowl. He glanced up to see Speares staring at him from twenty feet away. The lawman had his back to Yakima, but he’d craned his neck around to stare across his right shoulder. The man’s eyes beneath his shaggy bangs were dark, his face flushed.
Yakima lifted his beer glass in salute, and sipped. Speares turned away, jaws moving as he said something to the dapper gent lifting a shot glass to his mustachioed mouth.
Yakima finished his beer and set the mug on the table. He’d best not push his luck tonight—especially since the sheriff had obviously set his sights on Anjanette. Besides, Yakima had made his point. He wouldn’t be pushed around. Now he’d better spread his hot roll in the ravine behind the livery barn and lay low until morning, then get the hell out of town as fast as Wolf could carry him.
He grabbed his Winchester and saddlebags, but before he could stand, someone put a hand on his shoulder. Anjanettecrouched beside him. She wore a strange smile as she said tightly, only inches from his face, “Please don’t go, Yakima.”
“Sorry, miss, but it’s been a long day and I’m—”
“I think he’s going to kill me.”
Yakima stared at her. She held a tray full of empty glasses in her right hand. Her half-exposed bosom rose and fell.
“The man’s crazy,” she said, just loudly enough for Yakima to hear above the din. “He knows I don’t want him near me. He says he’s going to kill me so no one else can have me.”
Yakima stared at her skeptically.
Anjanette opened her mouth to speak, but a voice booming above the din cut her off. “Well, well, I hate to break up this little powwow, but what the hell did I just get done telling you, girl?”
Towering over Yakima’s table, Speares grabbed Anjanette’s arm and jerked her around behind him so quickly that she dropped the tray of empty glasses, tripped over a chair, and fell with a yelp against the wall.
She gave an enraged scream and, whipping up a razor-edged pearl-handled knife from behind her belt, bolted toward Speares. The sheriff stuck out his hand to grab the knife, and the blade sliced across his palm.
“You little bitch!” Speares shouted, glancing down at his bloody hand, then lunging forward and grabbing the girl’s right wrist as she swung the knife toward him once more.
He squeezed her wrist until, giving a defiant scream, she opened her fingers and the knife clattered onto the floor. Speares backhanded her, sending her flying.
At the same time, he stepped back from Yakima’s table and raked one of his big Remingtons from its holster. A grin pulled up the corners of his mouth, revealing his big yellow horse teeth. His mustache was flecked with beer foam, and a lock of silver hair hung down over his forehead.
The smile did not reach Speares’s brown eyes. “Breed, you’re gonna wish like hell—”
Yakima bounded up out of his chair, lifting his table like a shield and throwing it into Speares. The sheriff cursed as the Remington popped, the bullet blasting a hole through the table six inches to the right of Yakima’s thrusting arm.
Yakima put his head down and laid his forearms flat against the underside of the table, pushing Speares straight back against the wall. Speares gritted his teeth and yowled.
The Remy belched once more, and a bullet slammed through the table, raking across Yakima’s left side with an icy burn.
As Yakima flinched, Speares lowered his own head, and the table rammed against Yakima, shoving him back the way he’d come. He fell onto another table and rolled sideways across an ashtray, scattering beer and shot glasses, coins, and playing cards. Men scuttled away like mice from a pitchfork, bellowing.
As Yakima hit the floor on his right shoulder, he looked up.
Speares stood over him, backing away from the two tables and bringing his Remy to bear. “As I was sayin’—”
Kapop!
The bullet carved a stinging line across Yakima’s left cheek as he threw himself sideways. Hearing the snick-click of the hammer being cocked once more, he kept rolling.
The Remy barked two more times, both bullets crashing into the stone floor as Yakima rolled to his left. The Remy barked again, the bullet plowing into the leg of a table as Yakima rolled under it. The next bullet slammed through the tabletop.
As Yakima rolled out the table’s far side, he grabbed a chair. Speares was thumbing back the Remy’s hammer and lowering the barrel once more.
Yakima slung the chair. The edge of the seat clipped the sheriff’s forehead, then shattered against the adobe wall.
Speares dropped the revolver and stumbled back and sideways, grabbing his bloody head. Yakima bolted off his haunches. Speares got his feet beneath him, squared his shoulders, and swung his right fist at Yakima’s face. Yakima ducked, and the fist sliced the air with a dull whistle.
He came up and buried first his left fist and then his right into Speares’s belly.
The sheriff grunted as he stumbled back. When Speares stopped and lifted his head, raging like a bull buffalo with a Comanche arrow in its lungs, Yakima leapt straight up in the air. Two feet off the ground, he wheeled in a full circle and drove the heel of his left boot up and out.
Speares had turned his head, so Yakima’s heel smashed into the center of the man’s nose. There was a dull smack and a crunch as the nose exploded like a ripe tomato, blood splattering in all directions. The nose itself lay sideways against the sheriff’s bloody face.
“Unnnhhhh!” Speares’s own boots left the floor, and he wheeled as though caught in a cyclone. On his way down, his head hit a chair, and then he was on his belly, arms and legs spread, flopping and groaning.
Yakima stumbled forward. A thunderous blast shattered the sudden, dense silence, and he wheeled right. Anjanette’s grandfather, Old Antoine, stood ten feet away—a dark, wizened little man in a soiled apron and with long gray hair held back by a red bandanna.
He held a double-barreled shotgun straight out from his side. Smoke ribboned out of the right-side bore. Adobe chunks and wood slivers sluiced out of the fist-sized hole in the ceiling above his head.
The man turned his molasses-black eyes on Yakima, glanced at the groaning Speares, then indicated the door with hi
s shotgun. “Out wit da bot of youss!”
Yakima turned. Anjanette sat on her butt against the wall, knees drawn up, breathing hard. Her hair was in her face. Yakima went over and helped her up. “You okay?”
She slid her fearful gaze to Speares and nodded.
“Out!” her grandfather shouted once more.
Yakima tossed a couple of tables and a chair out of his way, then stopped to pick up his hat, Winchester, and saddlebags. He didn’t want to leave Anjanette here with Speares, but since Old Antoine obviously knew how to handle the shotgun, and seemed eager to use it, he headed toward the door through the hushed crowd forming a broad circle around the wrecked tables and chairs and the nearly unconscious sheriff.
“Don’t have to tell me twice.” He stooped to pluck a cigar from the floor, and stuck it in his mouth. Continuing toward the wind-jostled batwings, he glanced at Speares. “I think the sheriff’s gonna need some help, though.”
He pushed between two gawking freighters and out the batwings. At the edge of the porch, he glanced down to inspect his side. His shirt was red and sticky. The bullet graze burned like a fresh brand.
“Shit,” he groused around the cigar in his teeth.
He hiked the saddlebags higher on his shoulder, turned to glance over the batwings, then stepped off the porch and angled across the night-cloaked street. He strode down a trash-strewn alley, then around several goat pens and chicken coops, and made his way through the sage and creosote to the cottonwood-lined bank of Saber Creek.
Dropping down the six-foot bank, he pushed through the willows to where the creek lay, not much more than a trickle this time of the year. The silvery water shone in the starlight, speckled with cottonwood leaves and pine needles.
Yakima dropped to his knees and removed his neckerchief. He soaked the faded red cloth in the stream, then opened his tunic and shoved the neckerchief inside. He winced as the cold water seared him. As he continued dabbing the wound with fresh water, cleaning it, he decided there was no real damage. The bullet had carved a neat furrow between two lower ribs and continued out behind him.
When he’d stopped the bleeding, he continued pressing the wet cloth against the wound, then carried his rifle, bedroll, and saddlebags over to a mesquite tree, rolled out the two heavy trade blankets, and sagged down against the tree’s trunk.
“Yakima Henry, you’re a damn fool,” he grunted. “When are you gonna stop chasin’ saloon girls?”
He stretched out his legs, crossed his boots, dug a lucifer from a tunic pocket, and snapped it to life on his thumbnail. He doffed his hat, rested his head against the mesquite trunk, and sat staring out at the star-shrouded night, listening to the stream’s quiet chuckle and slowly puffing the cigar.
He wasn’t sure how much time had passed when a stone rattled down the bank to his right. In half a second his Colt was in his fist, its hammer cocked.
Anjanette’s sexy, raspy voice: “Yakima?”
He groaned and depressed the hammer. “Shit.”
Chapter 5
Yakima lowered the Colt to his thigh as he said, “Come on in if you’re alone.”
There was the rattle of more dirt and gravel down the creek bank. He heard soft footfalls, then turned to see Anjanette’s silhouette take shape against the starry sky. She wore a wide-brimmed hat and a black cape, and she was carrying a couple of folded blankets under her arm.
She stopped a few feet away and stared down at him. “Figured you’d be down here since you weren’t in the livery barn. Thanks for helping me out back there.”
Yakima grunted.
“I shouldn’t have gotten you involved,” the girl said. “I should have just backshot the son of a bitch with Old Antoine’s shotgun.”
Yakima twirled the Colt and slipped it into its holster. “What the hell’s a woman like you doing with Speares?”
“I’m not with Speares. He just wants me to be. Follows me around like a hind-tit calf. Told me if I didn’t start acting a little more friendly, he’d slit my throat.”
“Charming bastard, huh? He won’t come after you with that broken nose of his. If he does, shoot him. The town won’t hang a girl that looks like you.”
“I’d prefer to cut his throat.”
“I reckon you damn near did.” Yakima glanced at the small knotted scar on her chin. “Where’d you learn to fight with a knife?”
Anjanette quirked a knowing half smile. “I was raised in the desert around wild men. You oughta see Old Antoine wield a pigsticker.” She knelt down, set the folded blankets beside Yakima. “You’ll need these tonight. It’s gonna get cold.” She fell silent as she looked him over. “Are you hurt?”
“Nothin’ serious.”
She nodded toward his bloody left side. “Let me take a look.”
“It’s all right. I cleaned it out. The cold water numbed it.”
She leaned toward him and began pulling his tunic up from his waist. “Let me take a look.”
He sighed and pulled the damp tunic up his chest, exposing the gash, over which a thick curve of blood had jelled. She leaned forward to have a better look, ran a finger along the furrow. He could feel her warm breath on his belly. Her hair slid off her shoulder to brush across his chest.
Yakima’s blood warmed. Her pull was elemental and strong. “You’re right,” she said huskily. “Doesn’t look too ba—”
She looked up as he slid her hair back from her face with the back of his hand. He rested the hand against the side of her head. His chest rose and fell as he stared down at her. She placed her own hand on his belly and lifted her head toward his.
He pulled her toward him and closed his mouth over her lips, which parted for him as she turned her head slightly, returning the kiss, closing her hands over his shoulders, digging her fingertips into his flesh.
She pushed her body against him, wrapping her arms around his neck and pressing her breasts against his chest. Passion engulfed him, his loins throbbing, his buckskins drawing taut across his thighs. He pushed her back and reached down to peel the cape up and over her head.
As he tossed the cape aside, her hair fell back in a tangled mass around her head and shoulders. Her chest heaved as she quickly unbuttoned her blouse, flung it aside, then lifted the lace-edged chemise over her head, exposing her full breasts—two shadowed mounds in the near-darkness.
Yakima leaned forward, shucked out of his tunic, and lowered his head to her breasts, nuzzling each until the nipples rose and the girl was groaning and sighing and running her hands brusquely through his hair.
After a time, she scuttled down between his legs, pushed him back against the tree, and began unbuttoning his buckskin breeches, nuzzling his member as it pushed out against the pants. Yakima rested his head against the mesquite and closed his eyes as she opened his pants and jerked them halfway down his thighs.
As she closed her mouth over him, he ground his elbows into the ground and sighed.
Later, after they had made love three times, Anjanette leaned forward, wrapped her arms around his neck—her legs were already around his waist—and kissed him hard. She pulled away and smiled as she gazed into his eyes and smoothed his hair back from his flat, chiseled cheeks. “Gotta break a leg, lover.”
“So soon?”
He ran his hands down the insides of her thighs, and she jerked with a shiver. “I’d love to stay all night, but if Old Antoine wakes and finds me gone, he’ll come looking for me.” She kissed him again. “With his shotgun.”
She rose and dressed quickly, shivering in the chill night, teeth clattering, breath puffing like cotton. When she’d stomped into her men’s boots, she leaned down, kissed him again, and, without saying anything more, strode off in the night, her boots clattering on the rocks. He heard her labored breath as she climbed the bank, and then she was gone.
Silence enveloped him. The only sounds were the creek’s gurgling and some night creature, probably an armadillo, milling in the brush on the opposite bank.
Yakima wrapp
ed up in the quilts, which were still warm from their lovemaking, turned onto his side, and closed his eyes. It seemed only minutes before he opened them again and saw a milky wash above the eastern horizon. He heard cactus wrens and desert larks chirping and flitting about the brush. The creek to his left glittered like quicksilver.
When he threw the quilts back, the morning’s metallic chill smacked him like an open hand. He rose and strode naked to the stream, where he leaned down for a long drink, then, hissing and grunting, slapped water across his body. Gooseflesh rose over every inch of him, but by the time he’d finished the bath and was heading back to his bedroll to dry himself with the quilts, he was as awake as he’d ever been.
He got dressed, stomped into his boots, donned his hat, and rolled his blankets. The sky was only slightly lighter when he propped his saddlebags and bedroll on one shoulder, climbed the creek bank, and, holding the Yellowboy in his right hand, traced a meandering course through the chaparral, back toward the town.