by Ward, Marsha
James looked back at Amparo. She had her head down, but she was watching him. “Amparo, te amo,” he called across the floor.
She raised one finger to her lips and blew him a kiss. I should have taken that room, he thought. We’d be out of reach of this lead throwing contest with four walls close about us. Then his head jerked around to face the door as five men tumbled through the opening.
The hotel man rose up on his elbows and protested. “Take your fight back out on the street, Dunn.”
“Shut up, Philo,” a big man grunted. “Gutiérrez has three hundred greasers out there, all riled up and after my blood.”
“They’re welcome to it, Frank Blue. Get out of my hotel. You’re fired off the stage,” Philo yelled.
More men from the street backed into the doorway, firing at the crowd outside, drowning out the argument between Philo and Frank Blue. During a lull in the shooting, James crawled to Amparo, grabbed his rifle where it lay on the floor, and got himself and his wife behind the back counter.
“Are you in one piece?” he asked her, looking hard into her eyes.
“Chemes, tengo tanto temor,” she whispered, trembling, sinking her fingers into the meat of his forearm.
James took her chin in his free hand. “We’re not in this fight. Soon as we hit a breathing place, I’ll yell for that sheriff to let us go free.” He rose up a bit and peered into the room over the counter. There must be fifty men in this lobby, he thought.
Philo, the hotel man, sat in a corner, glaring at a man who had a rifle trained on him. Several men hauled flour sacks to make a barricade at the front of the store. Three others were chipping holes through the wall with their belt knives.
They’re forting up for a regular siege, James thought. A drop of sweat ran down his neck and into his collar. He pulled his head down and slumped against the counter. I can’t let her know we’re in a pinch.
Amparo grabbed his arm again. He looked her way and felt his mouth pulling up at the corner as he shut his eye in a slow wink. “We’ll wait out the storm,” he said, and wondered if there was a back way out of the hotel.
Then several shots from outside the rear of the building sealed off that route. James felt the pounding of boots on the floorboards underneath him as men ran down a hallway to his left. The thump of his heart matched the echo of the boots.
“Philo, you keep your hands in view and we’ll let you go set on your stool,” growled the voice that belonged to Frank Blue. “We wouldn’t use your stupid flour ‘lessen it was an emergency.” The voice stopped, then after a shot was fired, it continued. “See there, we have to have something in front of us so’s we can shoot at those filthy greasers. Now git, Philo. I don’t want you accident’ly coming into my sights.”
Philo came stumbling around the counter, hands held high, muttering to himself. “Thinks I’m foolish enough to set up on that stool, does he? Catch a stray bullet myself, that away.” He ducked down beside James and Amparo and lowered his hands. “I may be old, but I ain’t lost my faculties yet.”
The crowd outside continued to shoot at the hotel, and then there were answering shots from the men in the store. James heard a yell from the street, and a loud conversation between three men huddled against the front wall. A horse whinnied from the hitch rack out front, and he thought of his animals, wondering if any of them had been hit.
I’ve got my rifle. I could bully my way out there and turn them loose. Then he thought better of the idea. I’d be a target for either side in this ruckus. I’ve got a wife to think about now. She doesn’t need to be left a widow in this unfriendly town.
“Rice, get me some more of those cartridges back of the counter.” John Dunn was talking. “And while you’re at it, see if Philo’s got a bottle under there.”
The man came thumping across the floor toward the end of the counter, then into the narrow space between the counter and the wall of shelves. James looked up as the man gave a grunt of surprise, then yelled.
“How’d this greaser woman get in here?”
Chapter 17
Rice’s boot moved faster than James could scramble upward, and Amparo’s yelp filled the shelves and echoed back to his ears. As James got to his feet he rammed his fist into the man’s fat belly, and Rice cried out, “Frank!” James stepped backward and the man fell forward as he doubled up. James’s heel came down onto the stock of the rifle that lay on the floor, and he slipped and fell against the edge of the counter.
Rice scrabbled to his feet. He clutched at the front of James’s coat, grabbing his lapels and lifting him, bending him backward over the counter. Then another man’s arm curled around James’s neck, and as Rice let go, the arm pulled James off the counter. Tobacco stink filled his nose and he tried to get fresh air, but the arm tightened, squeezing against his throat, cutting his wind, then somehow dimming the sunlight filtering through the…
~~~
Rice grabbed Amparo’s arm and yanked her to her feet.
“¡Madre Santa!” she cried, pulling her arm back from his grasp.
“Shut up, you filthy greaser,” the man growled, slapping her across the face. “There’ll be none of that heathen talk.” Amparo’s head snapped to one side. Light flashed before her eyes. She felt something warm trickle from her nose as the man hit her again. She grasped his hand, bit it, felt sinews moving between her teeth as the man howled in rage and pain. Then he yanked his hand loose and hit her in the stomach. Amparo bent double, arms wrapped around herself as the man dragged her from behind the counter.
“Colley, give me a hand with this Mex.”
Another man took her left arm, and a sick feeling of panic washed over Amparo. She screamed out in Spanish, “Help me, Blessed Virgin,” as she struggled in the men’s grasp. “Give me aid, Holy Mother. They are going to violate me!”
~~~
...sound he’d ever heard, like the Rebel yell pitched higher than any man he’d served with could keen it. The noise came again, passing outside the hotel, then faded into the distance.
James opened his eyes and tried to swallow, but something was caught in his throat. He fought it, struggling to clear the clog, and finally squeezed through a drop of saliva. Then he relaxed, the clog eased up, and he knew what it was that had choked him: his neck and throat were swollen from Frank Blue’s chokehold.
When James went to lift his hand to his neck, both of them rose up, and he discovered that his two hands were tied together at the wrists. He stared at the binding, then shifted his focus to his ankles and found them tied, also. His tongue was crowded by a wad of cloth, which was held in his mouth by something that passed between his opened teeth, then went around to the back of his head.
I don’t know this place, James thought. Barrels and crates. Some kind of storeroom, I reckon. He closed his eyes, trying to recall— Something horribly important was gone from his mind, and he strained to pull it back.
For a while James sat and thought, but the more he thought, the less he remembered, so he started to work on getting loose. He found that if he raised his arms high above his head and lowered them a bit behind, he could get his fingers into the knot holding twisted-up cloth around his head. He tried to move the whole binding upward, but it wasn’t loose enough to slip from between his teeth.
James craned his neck to one side, got one thumb and finger around the knot, and worked the fabric back and forth. After several minutes, a knife-sharp pain in his shoulders made him lower his arms and rest a bit.
Malditos, he thought.
He rested, breathing in a raspy, ragged way. His nose told him the pieces of cloth gagging him had gone a long spell since the last laundering.
Malditos. Bad men. Amparo! James’s body went stiff, and he looked around. She’s not here with me. He recalled her cry as the man Rice kicked her, and raised his arms to try the knot again. The pain came back, but stronger still was the recollection of her cry echoing through the store, and he remembered a laugh he’d heard. James started to sweat, and wo
rked harder at the knot.
The cord-like cloth fell to his lap, and he pulled his arms back over his head and down and dug the gag from his mouth with his thumb. Now that his teeth were free, he picked loose the knot around his wrists, and then untied his ankles.
The door was unlocked. James opened it a crack and saw two men reloading weapons in the corridor between him and the front of the hotel. An angry voice shouted threats from the street.
“...meddling Indians or not, you send out my prisoner or we’ll storm you from all sides. This is the last chance I give you.”
Then, “You call that justice? You’d hang a man for spitting on the sidewalk,” yelled Dunn from the store. “We’ll take our chances the way we make them.”
The men were finished reloading. The two hefted the guns onto their shoulders and moved out of James’s view.
He took a breath, held it, let it out slowly, and pulled the door wide open. Before he stepped into the hall, James glanced toward the rear door. The defenders there had their eyes pressed against cracks in the door, so he eased through the opening and toward the front of the hotel.
The sheriff turned loose his mob.
James ducked into a door space halfway up the hall, then crouched over and ran to the front room, dived behind the counter, and crashed into Philo, who had his hands tied behind his back.
“Where’s my wife?” James grunted as he undid the old man’s knots.
“They argued some after they carted you off, then old Frank slapped her around a bit before the Indians came into town,” Philo whispered.
“Where is she? Indians?” he yelped.
“Shhhh. I think Frank put her in one of the rooms.”
“Did he...touch her?” James watched the color drain from his clenched fist and felt a muscle throbbing along his swollen neck.
“He beat her some, but he ain’t had time to take liberties. Them Utes rode in and riled Gutiérrez right proper. Kept Dunn and old Frank guessing for a spell.”
“How long they going to exchange lead?” James found his rifle under the kick space at the base of the counter.
“Till one side runs out,” Philo hissed. “And my hotel won’t ever be the same again.” He swore. “Them scalawag politicians won’t pay for this mess.”
~~~
“I think somebody ran out of bullets.”
Philo’s voice woke James. He blinked, listening to the screaming quiet in the darkened room. Hush, Pa won’t believe I slept through this battle. Ma won’t believe I’m bringing her another daughter, neither. He reached out to touch Amparo’s hair and felt a leathery bald spot fringed with spiky tufts.
The hotel man pulled James’s hand down from his head. “She’s still in the other room, son,” he whispered. “I think it’s the first one on the far side.”
“No offense meant,” James muttered, knowing his cheeks were blooming.
“None taken. You been dreaming a handsome dream of your little lady, I can tell. I remember how it was when I was young and had a new wife. That’s a long time ago, but I recollect it’s a good feeling. Yes, and it’s never the same with a second wife.”
“I reckon I’ll never know.”
“Listen to the old man,” Philo said. “He prattles on while you chafe to have your woman safe at your side again. Look here. Dunn and Blue have been over in the corner discussing something for quite a spell. If you was to dash over into the hall, they’d never know you’d been and left.”
“I reckon,” James said, and crouched into a ball, preparing to rush into the hallway.
“Good luck, son,” Philo said, very low.
James patted his shoulder and left as quietly as he could, carrying his rifle. The door squeaked a little as he eased it open, but the dog howled in the street, and James hoped the animal noise covered the sound he made opening the door.
The room was black as the inside of a cook stove, and James stood by the closed door for a moment, letting his eyes get used to the dark. Soon he saw the outline of a bed with Amparo lying on it, bound as he had been bound. He crossed the room to her side and loosed her, and she came into his arms and huddled against his chest.
“¡Válgame Dios! Eres tú,” she sobbed.
“Shhh, shhh,” he whispered. “We’re not safe yet.”
James’s fingers searched her face, finding a lump next to her eye and dried blood under her nose. His rage shook them both, and he swore, “The man who did this to you—he will pay!” He put his face into Amparo’s disordered hair, breathed in her warmth and rubbed her back. “My pretty wife, my sweet girl, he will pay!”
“Chemes, salgamos de aquí, por favor,” she said. James recognized the pleading tone to her voice.
“I’ve got to vamos you out of this room. If he comes back, you won’t be here to put up with his filthy paws.”
James took Amparo’s hand and stepped to the door, listening to the men moving around in the lobby of the hotel. “It’s quiet right now,” he whispered, putting his finger to his lips. “Best we move silent down the hall.”
He recalled that the door hinges creaked, so he opened the door slowly, holding his breath so he wouldn’t draw in a noisy lungful of air. Then the door was open and the hall stretched black before him. He waited until he had the storeroom door located, then inched forward, holding Amparo’s hand as she followed behind.
We’re going to make it, he thought, and put his hand out to unlatch the storeroom door. Then the hall filled with dim, pushing, shoving figures. The crack of a pistol echoed in James’s head. Amparo slammed against his back.
“Who’s that?” Dunn rasped. Then James was jostled and bumped as several men swore their way down the hall, and he slipped his arm around Amparo and drew her close to keep her from falling.
“You’re safe now,” he grunted as the men passed through the back door and out into the alley.
Hush, my shirt’s all wet, he thought, loosening his hold around Amparo’s back. She slumped against him, her body slack and falling. Warm and sticky, his mind urged. Blood. They shot her!
“A light, bring a light!” James bellowed into the gloom as he fell to one knee and eased her to the floor. “Amparo?” He turned toward the store. “Philo! A lamp, man.”
A glimmer of light bobbed down the hall toward James, then came to floor level as Philo knelt. He asked, “What’s the trouble, son?” then inhaled sharply.
James watched the bright red stain spread on Amparo’s white blouse beside a small, powder black hole, heard her cough, sigh “Chemes,” slowly take in a breath, then hold it.
He yanked his handkerchief from his pocket and balled it in his hand, pressed it to her chest, and grunted, “Breathe, breathe, take a breath.”
Somebody was trying to lift him away from Amparo, and he wrestled loose. “Amparo, breathe!” he commanded, and pressed the cloth to the wound.
“It’s no use, son,” someone, Philo, he guessed, muttered in his ear. Gentle. It surprised him. Then, “She’s gone. Give it up, son.” Hands hauled him to his feet.
Chills and horror and black, rending pain swept his body. James looked down on her, lying still in the flicker of the lamp on the floor; silent, peaceful, her eyes closed by someone’s hand, coins placed to weight the lids shut. Black and brown and white. And red: awful, blinding, jolting red. He felt her blood drying on his hands, binding his shirt to his chest, smelled the rank sweet odor of her blood mingling with the reek of sweat and the heavy gunpowder fumes in the hall.
James crumpled his fingers into fists, and rage took over his soul. They will pay, he swore. Upon my word as an Owen, they will pay!
~~~
“They favor lots of candles around the departed.”
Philo climbed down the ladder with a fistful of candlesticks from the top shelf. Thick blood pounded in James’s temples, hot from his heart, and he thought, I don’t know the rites of her church, but she’ll have the candles until a priest comes.
As he watched Philo put candles into the holders and
set the wicks ablaze, James remembered the few minutes he had gained alone with Amparo’s body. He had called for water and a cloth, picked her up and carried her into the storeroom, and kicked the door shut behind him. A moment later someone brought the water and the gray cloak he’d bought for Amparo in Santa Fe. Then James closed the door on the world.
He bathed her face, soaking the blood from around her nose and mouth, and ran his thumb over her lips, still soft and giving. Then he took off her ruined blouse and washed all the stiff blood from her body, looking on her beauty one last, hurtful time.
His soul cried out to her, Amparo, my girl, my wife. We were just beginning. Now there would be no homestead to prove up, no cabin in the pines, no fireplace tended by a caring wife, no little niños giggling in the twilight. The sense of loss, the dark sorrow, cut deeper when James thought of his never born children, and he wondered if his bride’s body had sheltered a growing babe.
He had wrapped her in the gray cloak, then laid her on the cleared off side counter in the store while Philo lighted candles to put at her head and her feet.
James took a step backward, and something clinked under his heel. He stooped, picked up one of Amparo’s silver spurs, then looked for its mate and found it in the litter on the floor. The rowels glistened in the candle light, cool in his burning hands. Then he knelt and put the spurs onto his boots.
The men who had sprung Frank Blue from jail gathered in little groups around the lobby, hats off—twiddled in their hands. They come up during the night, in knots of twos and threes, curious at the dead stranger in their midst. James watched their hard faces turn soft, and there was more than one man with a need to blow his nose after looking on her. James kept an account. Dunn and Blue and Rice and one other man were missing, and he drew their features on a black slate in a corner of his mind marked vengeance.
Through the hours of the night he kept a death watch, standing close enough to the counter to hear the plop of wax on the wood, the crackle of the wick. The taste of sulfur in his mouth from the thick air in the corridor brought thirst, but he set it aside.