by Lou Cameron
He wondered if he was imagining things as he stepped into the bedroom for a whiff of jasmine perfume. Had old Tessie worn that scent, so much of it, the night before?
Then, as he went to hang his hat and gun rig over the bedpost he heard a soft giggle and knew he was not alone in there in the dark. He hung on to his gun as he reached for a match, saying, “I would ask you who you were and what you were doing here, if I wasn’t afraid of sounding just plain stupid, ma’am.”
The familiar voice of Jenny Lee answered, “I have to hide. That big greasy Skeeter is after my fair white body, and they say he’s part Cherokee!”
Stringer answered, dryly, “He’s not pretty enough to be related to anyone that human. But what did I ever do to deserve this, Miss Jenny?”
She giggled again and said, “Tessie told me you were quite a lover and I’m more particular than pure. I dasn’t sleep in my ’dobe tonight. Skeeter knows where it is, and I’d rather rut with a sheep than that disgusting brute.”
He sighed and got rid of his gun, as he told her, “So would I. Thank God the one door can be barred from the inside. But, tempting as your offer is, Miss Jenny, I fear I’m going to have to pass. I’ve already got enough folk gunning for me and…”
Then they both stiffened as the whole place was shaken by the force of mighty blows and the now really drunken voice of Skeeter Norris echoed through the night, “I know you two are in there, damn it, and I know just what the two of you are up to. So open this damned door and let me at her!”
The girl moaned in sincere terror as Stringer put his gun rig back on and moved out to the other room, calling out, “Not by the hair of my chinny-chin-chin! Have you gone loco en la cabeza, Skeeter? It must be pushing midnight!”
Skeeter banged on the door some more with a fist, or perhaps his head, bellowing, “I don’t care what time it is. If you’ve been screwing my truelove in there I mean to clean your plow you sissy, pencil-pushing bastard!”
Stringer scowled and called back, “I’ll own up to pushing a pencil now and again, but if you call me a bastard again I’m coming out to teach you some manners, and you’d best have your gun out when I do so.”
He let that echo away before he added, “As to my even kissing your truelove, you have my word I’ve done no such thing to date. I just come home to catch some shut-eye, and I don’t want you in bed with me, so go jerk off somewhere else, damn it!”
He’d only stated the simple truth, as soon as one studied hard on it, but Skeeter kicked the door and insisted, “Let me in if you ain’t got no gal in there, then.”
Stringer was sure others were listening by now, so he laughed loudly and yelled back, “I just said you were too damned ugly for me, damn it.”
This inspired Skeeter to fire a shot through the door.
Fortunately, Stringer knew better than to argue with an armed drunk through a closed door without standing well to one side. But it still startled him and inspired him to mutter, in a fatalistic tone, “All right, if that’s the way it has to be, that’s the way it has to be.”
But even as Stringer holstered his six-gun to unbar the door, he heard Hamp Dugan call out, in his capacity as town law, “Who fired his fool gun out here? Is that you, Skeeter? What’s going on?”
Skeeter called back, in a lovesick drunken slobber, “This damn newsboy has stole my truelove, Hamp! Make him give her back to me afore I kill ’em both!”
Dugan’s voice sounded louder to Stringer as he called out in a sober and slightly weary tone, “Can you hear me, MacKail?”
To which Stringer replied, “They can hear either one of you in San Berdoo, most likely. What’s that asshole bellowing about?”
The older lawman replied, “That’s what I’m trying to find out. Have you been messing with that Jenny Lee, MacKail?”
Stringer said, “Not so far. I just got in and I was just fixing to flop when Romeo out there commenced sobbing for his Juliet. He called me a bastard whilst he was at it. So I advise one and all that I’ve had just about enough of this shit!”
Hamp Dugan answered, “So have I. You just stay put, MacKail. I mean that.” Then Stringer heard him tell Skeeter, “You come along with me, Romeo. If the boss wanted either of you boys kilt he’d have asked me to see to it.”
“I want my woman! I want to get laid!” Skeeter insisted. So Dugan laughed despite himself and said, “Let’s get you over to French Lilly’s then. You’re going to get yourself fired if you keep starting fights unauthorized, Skeeter!”
Stringer couldn’t make out the bully’s muffled reply as the two of them crunched off in the moonlight. He realised he’d been holding his breath, let it out with a sigh or relief, and moved back to the bedroom to inform the little troublemaker, “I guess it’s over, for now. I really needed another enemy. I just can’t thank you enough. The son of a bitch put a bullet through the door just now!”
She sobbed, “I heard! What am I ever to do? I don’t want to be his truelove. I don’t want to be anyone’s truelove. I just want to have fun!”
He hung up his gun again, peeled off his jacket and shirt, and sat on the bed to grumble off his spurred Justins as he told her, “You’re going to have to think about following Tessie into the big city, then. They call Skeeter’s condition monomania. Sooner or later, he’s going to either kiss you or kill you a lot. Didn’t your mother ever tell you it’s not nice to tease animals?”
She insisted, “Damn it, I was hired to encourage the boys to buy more hard liquor than they might otherwise. Left to their fool selves, most working stiffs only order beer.”
He finished undressing as he replied, morosely, “I’ve noticed that. Suckering hands just passing through with a herd is one thing, Jenny. It was dumb of you to play up to a regular unless you meant to give him just a little, for Pete’s sake.”
He rolled under the covers with her and took her nude body in his bare arms, patting her down as if for secret weapons as he added, “Speaking of giving just a little …”
But she’d been running her hands over his body at the same time, of course, and as she grasped what her chum Tessie had told her about, she gasped, tried to cross her thighs on his wrist, and protested, “Oh, wait, Tessie said you were nice in the feathers, not armed this dangerous!”
He snorted in disgust and told her, “Forget it, then. If I wanted to play kid games I’d scout up a kid.”
She gripped him tighter. It was unfair. For, how was a man to pretend he didn’t give a damn, when his old organ grinder rose so formal to greet a lady? “Don’t get sore. I know you think I’m teasing. It’s just that I’m built sort of small and that mean Tessie fibbed to me!”
He answered in a gentler tone, “I noticed she didn’t seem too truthful, Honey. But what could she have led you to expect down yonder, mice?”
She giggled and confided, “It feels more like the serpent that tempted Mother Eve, only she was likely built more matronly than me. I’m serious about my female problems, Honey. Tessie knew I had trouble with men of average size and that I’d only really enjoyed it now and again with sort of small-hung men. So when she allowed she was going back to her muleskinner because you was sweet and gentle but hung too small for her, I thought… Oh, damn, why do you reckon she wanted to do us both so cruel?”
He sighed and said, “Unless she’s out to cause trouble for practice, she must have some twisted reason to get me in fights with other men. Meanwhile, if you’d be kind enough to unhand my manhood, we’d best see about getting you dressed and back to your own quarters.”
She didn’t let go as she asked in a concerned tone, “Are you sure it’s not too late? I know how you men are, once you’ve been excited to this point.”
To which he could only answer with a groan, “I’m sure you do, if you make a habit of trifling with men’s love tools so familiarly. Do you think it’s fair to beg for mercy while teasing a man so?”
She snuggled closer and confided, “You can tease me, some, if you promise not to hurt me with this
awesome weapon. You don’t have to go all the way to have some fun, right?”
He muttered, half to himself, “This felt dumb even in high school.” But by now he was aroused enough to settle for almost any form of relief, and mutual manipulation beat a few others he knew of. So they were petting one another pretty enthusiastically when they both heard someone tapping on the bottle glass window above them. As she stiffened in his arms whilst Stringer had one finger up her, they heard an all too familiar voice slobber, “Hey, Jenny? Are you in there acting dirty with another man, you horny little thing?”
Since she sure was, she started to giggle. Stringer kissed her hard to hush her. He could tell from the softness of the drunk’s remarks that Skeeter was ducking the town law. So, with luck, he’d get discouraged and move on if nobody answered him. Kissing the not too bright but well-built bar girl had its other compensations as well. She kissed back swell and when Skeeter moaned in at them, “Goddamn it, I’ll bet you two are screwing right under my poor nose!” it seemed only natural to roll into the love saddle between her shapely thighs and see what else she had to offer.
She gasped and tried to break free of his lips to let out a war whoop as he entered her. He wasn’t sure he liked it all that much, himself, until he had it most of the way in. For, despite her casual morals, Jenny hadn’t been fibbing about the way she was built. Stringer knew, despite the way ladies liked to flatter him, that he, himself, was simply a little taller than the average man in every way. He didn’t consider himself a circus freak and it seemed to fit just right in most of the gals he got this close to. But this one made him feel like a stud horse trying to service an amorous alley cat, and it would have been even tougher if she hadn’t wrapped her womanly legs around his bare waist and thrust up to meet him as, outside, Skeeter Norris panted against the glass and offered obscene comments on what he felt sure they must be doing. Some of them were rather imaginative and so, trying not to laugh out loud, they tried them.
For once she’d managed to take him all the way to the hilt in her astoundingly tight vagina, Jenny warmed to the notion and, if it chafed them both a mite to do it with her ankles locked about the nape of his neck, they had to agree it offered more pleasure than pain.
But Stringer was relieved when the amorous Skeeter warned her not to go French on no other man if she ever expected her truelove to kiss her on the lips again. For, as the inspired bargirl giggled and kissed her way down his naked flesh, he discovered her oral entrance, at least, was proportioned normally, although more than one state’s moral code of the time would have it that what she was doing to him now was neither normal nor even halfway decent.
Stringer thought it felt swell and wondered what good old Skeeter would come up with next. But the son of a bitch wandered off muttering to himself, and in the end Stringer had to come up with some suggestions of his own.
But Jenny seemed game to try anything that didn’t sound downright dangerous. So, in the end, a good time was had by all.
When Stringer woke up alone in bed, the sun was up and the damned front door was ajar. He slammed it and barred it, calling Jenny bad words, before he did anything else. For he’d told the fool girl someone was after him and, if she didn’t know how to bar a door after her, she could have at least poked him awake so he could do it.
Once he’d secured his immediate safety, Stringer checked his pocket watch and whistled softly. He’d slept slugabed past sunrise and on to pushing 7:00 A.M. That’d learn him to screw bargirls way past midnight.
As he gave himself a whore-bath at the corner washstand in the bedroom, he could see why little Jenny hadn’t wanted to give his morning erection a wake-up call. He washed the itchy traces off with plenty of soap and tepid water from the clay olla slung above the wash basin. He washed or at least wet down the rest of himself, brushed his teeth and dried himself briskly with the rough turkish towel Tessie hadn’t taken with her to Barstow, and took his time getting dressed as he considered what he was supposed to do next.
Aside from breakfast, he couldn’t think of much. He knew he had to hang around for that coroner’s inquest, but he’d run out of notions about the mysterious mummies. He knew Sam Barca was expecting some damned copy back at the press room. But, while he’d come up with all sorts of possible leads, Stringer knew he didn’t have anything solid that they hadn’t all known before Sam had sent him down here.
Leaving his jacket and bandana behind, but protecting his head from the desert sun with his Rough Rider hat, and the rest of him with his sixgun, Stringer went scouting for breakfast.
He found a storefront chili joint, just past Binnie Kellog’s smithy. The smithy itself was shut down for the morning, if not the day. He found himself wondering if that handsome lady blacksmith still lay slugabed, and if so whether she slept as raw as she hammered wagon spring stock. He told himself to behave and sauntered into the beanery. There was nobody seated at the small counter. The middle-aged Mex or Cahuilla behind it favored him with the uncertain smile he likely reserved for total strangers and tried not to stare too pointedly at Stringer’s gun rig.
Stringer understood, as he forked himself aboard a stool and ordered fried eggs over chili con carne. In the changing West of the dawning twentieth century, Stringer knew better than to wear his gun tied down and challenging. But at the same time, he knew better than to pack it greenhorn awkward. A lot of the old gunslicks were still around. A lot of men who’d never been all that dangerous on their own had learned to judge the way strangers carried their guns, and it was starting to make folk proddy to see guns at all. For, even as the old West gave way to the new, it seemed to get, if anything, a mite wilder. Or maybe things just seemed wilder because they were out of joint. He knew many a nester gal dwelling forty miles from the nearest neighbor now subscribed to that new Vogue Magazine and smoked tailor-made Fatimas. While, at the same time, drunken trail hands still shot out the new electric street lamps of Cheyenne.
As he ate, Stringer knew he was mighty vexed with some sneaky son of a bitch left over from the covered wagon era. He asked the counter man how one went about using that telephone line he’d heard about. The local confided he’d heard they’d strung a line to Barstow, too, but that he’d never used it, so he didn’t know where one went to do so.
As Stringer was topping his chili and eggs with apple pie and black coffee he heard an awesome sputtering outside. The counter man followed as he sauntered out to see if he’d guessed right.
He had. Two touring cars, a REO and an imported French Panard, were pulling in out front of the saloon. Their factory finishes were covered with gray Mojave dust. So were the dozen passengers who’d ridden out from Barstow in travel dusters, caps and goggles. By the time it took Stringer to stroll that far, the folk from town had alit, coughing and brushing at themselves, and both the town law, Hamp, and the man who owned the town, Ben Winslow, had joined them. Stringer was surprised to hear his own name called out by a familiar voice. Save for his portly build, Fred Remington was tough to recognise in that dusty ankle-length poplin duster. As they shook, Remington said, “That Goddamned Henry Huntington’s not interested in American art. He’s as bad as young William Randolph Hearst when it comes to collecting. They both seem to think European artists are the bee’s knees and turn up their noses at anything made in the U.S.A.!”
Stringer shrugged and said, “Being western bred themselves, they may not find your cowboys and Indians as novel as naked French ladies. I’m glad you tagged along. Illustrations may punch up the story I have so far. Who are these other folk?”
Remington replied, “I’m not certain of all their names. I was changing trains in Barstow at dawn when I heard this expedition was setting out and so, recalling you were out here mucking about with mummies, I thought I’d tag along. That old geezer with the Robert E. Lee whiskers is in charge of the coroner’s office in Barstow. The lady in the perky hat is with the state historical society. She claims to be an expert on pioneer women. She may be, for all I know. She came
out to look those mummies over. Most of the others seem more interested in the shootout you had out here.”
As if to prove Remington’s point, Ben Winslow called him over to shake with the spade beard from the coroner’s department. The old fart didn’t take the hand Stringer held out, and stiffly asked Hamp Dugan how come they let a murder suspect wander about with a gun on his hip.
Hamp laughed lightly and said, “MacKail ain’t suspicious, Doc. Since his back was turnt to the killing, he barely qualifies as a witness. We got old Calico on ice for you with two rounds of .45 in him and you’ll note this boy’s weapon is a .38.”
The crusty older man grimaced and said, “I’ll be the judge of that. My forensic team and I need a place to hold the autopsy. Once we determine just how many bullets we’re talking about, and the sort of gun they were fired from, we can get down to depositions from the witnesses. Didn’t you say there were two survivors of… whatever happened?”
Ben Wilson nodded innocently and said, “Yessir. Young MacKail, here, and the younger cowhand who gunned Warren to keep him from killing MacKail. I disremember his real name. They just call him Kid around town when he rides in. Works on some outlying spread, I hear tell.”
The forensic surgeon blinked in dismay and demanded, “You let a confessed killer wander off to parts unknown without arresting him, Marshal?”
Hamp smiled sheepishly and answered, “Hell, Doc, he never confessed to no killing. Calico was fixing to shoot MacKail, here, in the back. Kid only done what was natural. I told him not to go far, lest someone from your office want a word with him. So he’ll likely ride in as soon as he hears you’re here. Do you want to look at old Calico, now?”
The older cuss snorted in disgust and said, “We’d better, before he takes it in his head to wander off somewhere as well!”