Border Snakes

by Peter Brandvold

  Saradee followed Hawk inside and kicked the door closed behind her. For a few seconds, the shack was dark. Then a match flared.

  Saradee touched the flame to a candle. She waved out the match, flipped Hansen’s gun in the air, caught it by the barrel, and held it out to Hawk. He took it, frowning at her.

  She stared at him. Her face was expressionless, but her blue eyes sparked with feral want. She spread her boots a little farther than shoulder-width apart and began unbuttoning her blouse with trembling fingers.

  Hawk’s temples throbbed. The shack pitched around him. Before he realized what he was doing, he was kicking out of his boots and fairly ripping off his own vest and his shirt.

  Lust seared his loins. His brows hooded his flaring green eyes. Dust shone above his lip, glowing molten gold in the candlelight.

  How had he ever thought he’d be able to resist her?

  When he’d shucked out of his balbriggans and tossed them against the wall, he looked across the room to see Saradee standing against the wall beside the door. She’d propped a plank against the door, locking it. She was naked, regarding him almost warily as she fingered her silver crucifix, holding it up near her neck. She held her other hand down low against the wall.

  Her full, cherry-tipped breasts rose and fell heavily.

  She smiled at him wistfully, challengingly.

  Hawk tramped across the room. She turned away from him suddenly, dropping her chin. Her hair fell down her shoulder to hide the side of her face.

  He placed his left hand on her hip, his shaft jutting against her belly, aching with need. With his trembling right hand, he slid her hair back away from her smooth, fine-boned cheek, hooked his fingers beneath her chin, and turned her face toward his.

  At first she resisted. Then suddenly she faced him of her own accord, her jaws hard, cheeks flushed, lilac eyes spitting sparks of raw passion.

  She dropped her hand down between them, squeezed him. She wrapped her other arm around his neck and kissed him hungrily. He groaned as he ran his hands down her slender back to her flaring hips, spreading his fingers across the ripe globe of her rump.

  After a time, he swung her up into his arms. She laughed from deep in her belly—it was more of a primal yelp or a wail—as he tossed her onto the cot and mounted her, grunting.

  Later, Hawk pulled his head away from her breasts and, rising to a sitting position, dropped his feet to the floor.

  His head throbbed dully from the poison he’d been consuming—both the liquid and the female kind. He didn’t know how long he and the irresistible blond desperado had been here, but he was bathed in sweat, and he felt as though he’d been dragged a mile through rocks and sage.

  His spent loins ached pleasantly.

  Outside, the revelry continued—occasional muffled pistol shots, shouts, screams. Sometimes boots thumped the ground near the shack, staggering footsteps that dwindled quickly into the distance.

  Hawk glanced over his shoulder at Saradee. She lay propped on an elbow, as naked as before, her breasts sloping toward the wool blanket beneath her. She wore an oblique expression. Strands of her sweat-damp hair were pasted to her cheeks.

  She arched a brow. “Just like old times, eh, lover?”

  Hawk was too spent to protest. Too flogged to even feel regret for not having resisted her. If he had it to do over again, he’d likely do it over again.

  “What you got going with Knife-Hand?”

  She studied him for a moment, as though measuring his intentions. Finally, she hiked a shoulder slightly and said in her catlike purr, “Opium.”

  “That’s what you hauled back from California?”

  “Sí, señor. Five barrels. Worth two thousand dollars a barrel most places. Here it’s worth twice that.”

  “Congratulations.” Hawk lowered his head and ran his hands through his mussed, black hair.

  “It would have been a nice deal.”

  Hawk glanced at her again.

  One corner of her pink mouth rose. She kept her catlike blue eyes on Hawk’s back as she absently cupped a breast, chafed from Hawk’s nuzzling, in her right hand. “The problem with being beautiful and running with wolves is that often a certain wolf gets his fangs into you and doesn’t want to let go.”

  “Monjosa?”

  “I’m afraid the man won’t settle for a broken heart.”

  Hawk kept his eyes on her as she moved a finger around on her large aureole. “If I don’t stay, he’ll try to shoot me. And that will be the end of what could have been a beautiful business arrangement.”

  “We all have problems.” Hawk stood and began dressing.

  “You have problems, lover? Tell Saradee. Maybe I can make them right for you?”

  Hawk sat down to pull his balbriggans onto his aching body. “I’ve got a find a way to kill that son of a bitch.”

  Outside, a man’s drunk-thick voice rose: “Sar-a-deeee?”

  Hawk lifted his head, pricking his ears. Shambling footsteps grew louder—Monjosa heading toward Saradee’s shack.

  “Shit, I thought he’d be passed out by now!” she hissed.

  “Stay where you are.” Hawk quickly pulled his black denims on, then his shirt.

  Outside, above the loudening boot scuffs and faint spur chings, Monjosa’s voice rose once more: “Saradee—you turn in early tonight, amiga? But we have much to celebrate.”

  He pounded on the door, angrily. “Let me in, you blond bitch, or I break this door down!”

  Hawk had stomped into his boots, removing his spurs and dropping them into his vest pockets. Now he pulled his shell belt on, buckled it, and slipped Hansen’s Colt from the holster. He glanced at Saradee lying naked on the cot as he sidled up to the door.

  Her eyes, so cool before, were pinched with fear. Hawk had never seen fear in the woman’s eyes before, and whether it was spawned by the coupling or the liquor, it made him feel a tenderness toward her.

  But Monjosa’s savage hand would put the fear into the most fearless Mexican wolf.

  Hawk rocked the Colt’s hammer back and, as he pressed his back to the wall, held the gun above his head.

  “Just a minute, killer,” Saradee said, staying where she was, head resting against the heel of her hand. “I had a headache and retired early, but hell—let’s share a bottle!”

  27.

  AMBUSCADE

  HAWK kicked the plank away from the door. The metal an d leather latch clicked. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, squeezing the butt of the Colt in his hand.

  The door bolted open and banged against the wall. The bulky figure of Monjosa, wearing a leather hat and what appeared a purple boa around his neck, shuffled into the shack.

  “Why you turn in so early, mi . . . ?” Knife-Hand’s voice trailed off. He stopped halfway between the open door and the cot on which Saradee lay smiling and nervously flexing her bare, pink feet.

  Monjosa gave a raspy, lusty wheeze, and doffed his hat. “Ah, you wait for me, huh, my blond bandita?”

  Hawk slammed the barrel of the pistol across the back of Monjosa’s head. Knife-Hand groaned and, as his knees buckled, he reached upward with his hands. Hawk wheeled to the open door, extending the cocked Colt out in front of him as he stared out.

  No one else was near. Saradee’s visitor had come alone. Sixty yards away, beyond low shrubs, rocks, and the dead orange trees, shadows moved in the casa’s windows and laughter rose and fell like the roar of ocean waves.

  Hawk stepped back, closed the door, then turned back to where Monjosa was down on his hands and knees. The contrabandista pressed his hands to his head as he blubbered and stretched his lips back from his teeth, grunting and groaning miserably.

  Saradee was off the cot and scrambling around, picking up her strewn clothes and dressing.

  “What now, lover? I got a feeling my humble little digs have become a filled powder keg, and the fuse is lit.”

  Hawk holstered the Colt and grabbed Saradee’s coiled riata hanging from her saddle horn
. “I’m getting out of here, and he’s coming with me.”

  “Why bring him? Kill the son of a bitch. That’s what you came here for, wasn’t it?”

  Hawk cut a four-foot length off the riata’s end. “I’ll kill him after I’ve gotten some leverage out of him. He’s the king of this castle. His friends and associates will likely think twice before risking his smelly but valuable hide to get to us.” If it were only him here, he’d kill Monjosa now. But he wanted to get the sergeant and Saradee out alive first, since he had a chance at doing so. Especially the sergeant. With Monjosa dead, they’d likely die for sure.

  “Christ. Just tie that hand of his up good. You’re not going without me.” Saradee was buttoning her shirt, her legs still bare, as she watched Hawk trussing the grunting, groaning Monjosa’s hands behind his back. “I don’t know how many times I’ve dreamt of that damn blade being driven into my guts since I’ve been here. How’d you like to have someone nuzzling your neck and pressing a blade tip against your belly button?”

  “What about your gang?”

  “They’ve bought chips into Monjosa’s game. He’s their leader now. If I stay, and he’s not here, things’ll likely get too hot for me. April’s been wanting to slit my throat and take my place with Melvin for weeks now.”

  “You have something to gag him with?”

  She looked around, then tossed her panties to Hawk. “Here.”

  Hawk glanced at her ironically. “Thanks.”

  Hawk kicked Monjosa onto his side, the bloody knife-hand tied snug against the other one behind his back. Monjosa gritted his teeth and blinked his eyes, fighting to remain conscious.

  Hawk wadded the girl’s lacy panties and shoved them into Knife-Hand’s mouth. Ripping his own bandanna from around his neck, he wound it around Monjosa’s face, threading it through his mouth.

  The man’s eyes snapped wide in sudden realization and horror. Hawk kicked him belly down once more, and tied the bandanna tight to the back of the killer’s head. He looked at the knife angling down across the man’s buttocks. It wasn’t in its sheath, with blood crusted on it, but was out of commission for now. If Hawk had time, he’d remove the grisly contraption from the killer’s arm, but he had to get him out of here pronto.

  Hawk leaned down to snarl into the man’s ear. “You make any noise, any sudden moves, and I’ll give you a taste of what a blade feels like. Understand?”

  Monjosa grunted and arched his back, enraged.

  Hawk slammed his head down against the earthen floor. “I asked you a question.”

  Under his hand, he could feel Monjosa try to nod.

  He looked at Saradee. She was stomping into her second boot as she buckled her cartridge belt. Her tapered cheeks were pink with anxiety, but her eyes were cool. “Saddle some horses?”

  “Unless we want to walk out of this canyon.”

  He stood and pulled Knife-Hand to his feet. The man had returned to his senses. In fact, he almost looked sober. His liquid brown eyes rolled around in their sockets. They held on Hawk, glaring.

  “We’re heading for the corral,” he grunted. “Nice and slow, no tricky moves.” He glanced at Saradee and tossed his head toward the door. “Lead the way. If you see any trouble, whistle.”

  The blond bandita had checked to make sure her guns were loaded. Spinning the cylinder of one, she dropped it into its holster, blew out the candle, grabbed her rifle, and opened the door. Hawk held Monjosa back as she looked around.

  Beyond her, the casa loomed, shadows still moving behind the windows. A figure slumped against the wall facing the shack, the man’s sombrero-clad head tipped over his knees.

  “Wait.” Saradee pushed past Hawk as he moved back into the shack. She slipped around him again, this time shouldering her saddlebags. “I’m not leaving my gear. Come on.”

  As she moved out, swinging left, Hawk pushed Monjosa out with his pistol barrel, and they followed Saradee through the dead trees and the spindly shrubs, around the front of the shack. They moved slowly so as not to appear suspicious, for there was no way to be completely out of view of the casa where Hawk, glancing over his shoulder, saw silhouettes milling around the gallery, and the small pinpricks of lit cigarettes and cigars.

  “This way,” Saradee whispered when they were several yards away from the shack and moving down the slight grade toward the barn and corrals nestled at the base of the canyon’s southeast wall.

  Starlight shone on the barn’s tile roof and on the back of the horses milling in the corral, not far from a large windmill rising against the sky.

  Thirty yards from the corral, Saradee stopped suddenly, then swerved behind what appeared a crumbling brick springhouse. Hawk shoved Monjosa toward her, then held his gun to the man’s right ear as he turned to Saradee. “What is it?”

  She was leaning slightly out from the springhouse, saddle on her shoulder, rifle in her hand, peering toward the corral. Hawk followed her gaze. A pinprick of umber light smoldered in front of the corral gate. Hawk’s eyes made out the figure of a man standing there, leaning against the corral slats, holding a rifle on his shoulder and pulling a quirley down from his mouth. Gray smoke billowed in the darkness around his head.

  Stock guard.

  Saradee turned to Hawk and whispered, “What should we do?”

  Hawk flicked his gaze across her chest. “You’re better built than I am.”

  She gave a caustic chuff, then turned back toward the guard whom she studied for a few seconds before looking at Hawk over her shoulder. “Keep him quiet. I’m going to circle around, come up on him from the other direction. I’ll distract him while you come up behind him and put him to sleep.”

  Hawk cast an anxious glance toward the casa. More figures seemed to be moving around in front of it. Or maybe he could just see more from this angle. Tension pricked the hair under his collar, and his heart beat insistently.

  He turned back to Saradee. “Hurry up.”

  She glanced once more at the corral guard, then ran off, circling wide, staying as far as she could from the horses, several of whom were staring toward the springhouse and working their noses. When Hawk saw her materialize on the other side of the lean-to shelter at the corral’s rear, rifle in her hand, saddle on her shoulder, he turned to Monjosa, whom he’d shoved down onto his knees behind him.

  Knife-Hand’s eyes met Hawk’s. They widened with exasperation. He’d just begun to grunt behind the gag, when Hawk smashed the Colt’s barrel across the top of the man’s head. It wasn’t a hard blow—he’d tried to glance it, as Monjosa would be no insurance for him dead—but Monjosa crumpled at the base of the springhouse, out cold.

  Hawk touched a finger to the man’s bristly neck, sticky with alcohol sweat, felt a fluttering pulse.

  He turned to the corral. Saradee was moving up to the guard, who jerked with a start and turned toward her, lowering his rifle. Saradee stopped and laughed, dropping her saddle and throwing her head back on her shoulders, thrusting out her breasts.

  Hawk heard her ask for tobacco. He bolted forward and, running on the balls of his feet, headed to the front of the corral.

  The horses snorted, and the guard began to turn away from Saradee. She laughed and wrapped her free arm around his neck, stepping in close to him. A second later, Hawk pushed up behind the man and laid him out cold at the base of the gate.

  “What took you so long?”

  “I thought I killed your man.”

  “My man.” Saradee cursed.

  Hawk holsted the Colt as he cast a glance toward the casa looming at the top of the rise. The men and women outside were vague shadows from this distance, and he doubted any of them were looking this way. Even if some were, they were likely too drunk and distracted to become suspicious.

  Hawk pulled Saradee’s saddle off her shoulder. “I’ll get our horses. Keep an eye on Monjosa.”

  Saradee headed back to the springhouse, ignoring the now-milling horses. As Hawk went into the corral, he looked again toward the casa. />
  He’d like to get Sergeant Ironside out of there, but he wouldn’t know where to start looking for him. Besides, there was no time. It looked like the sergeant was on his own. But Hawk and Saradee taking off with Monjosa should be enough distraction for the sergeant to slip safely away and hightail it back to Bowie.

  Hawk found his own gear piled with other gear in a corner, then roped and saddled his grulla, Saradee’s buckskin, and a third mount for Monjosa. He led the horses as quietly as possible out the gate and into the yard. He closed the gate and turned to see Saradee moving toward him, nudging Monjosa, who was awake again but shamble-footed, along ahead of her with her rifle maw.

  From somewhere rose the faint ching of a boot spur. Hawk looked toward the casa then turned left. The wagon sat just beyond the windmill, which was between him and the wagon. It was a vague shadow from this distance, facing away from him.

  Tension pinched his short hairs.

  “Hurry,” he rasped out to Saradee heading toward him, stopping occasionally to poke Monjosa ahead with her rifle barrel. She poked him too hard, and he stumbled, dropped to his knees, his groans muffled by the gag.

  Hawk hurried over to him, jerked him up by his coat, careful to stay clear of that razor-edged knife angling down across the man’s ass. He shoved him against the third horse, a coyote dun, and the horse nickered and sidestepped away from him. Hawk cut the man’s hands free and, while Saradee kept her rifle snugged against the man’s head, tied his hands in front of him.

  Finished, he stepped back away from the bloody knife. “Get up there. I’ve got the reins in my hand, you son of a bitch. You try to get away, you’re finished. ¿Comprende?”

  His chest rising and falling heavily, breathing loudly through his nose, Monjosa reached up and hooked his tied hands around the dun’s saddle horn. At the same time, Hawk took the slack out of the reins, holding the horse close to him.

  As Saradee stepped into her own saddle, Hawk led the dun around to the grulla’s left side, and there was the high whine of a slug screaming off a rock followed by the racketing crash of a near rifle. The dun jumped and nearly tore its reins from Hawk’s hand.