by Danny Hogan
Yet again I spat chew and looked to the east, long and hard. I quietly reminded myself that it’d serve me well to keep a check on my confidence levels there. Their own over confidence is the weapon I use most against other folks, after all.
I relieved dead Cecile of his little automatic and its nice fancy holster, and emptied out his suit pockets for anything else of value. Nothing much. A few bits, a cheap watch and picture of his grubby looking wife and two kids. A boy and a girl. Their smiles looked painfully forced. The picture was stuck in an old leather wallet that had some kind of metal badge on it. Well, the pistol was in very good condition, the slide moved up and down with no effort at all. It was fully loaded and he had three spare mags waiting to go, snug in pouches attached to the holster. I’d get some money for the gun, the holster and ammo at least. I looked east again.
3
I paid Mr. Calaway the 250 bits he wanted. Then I went back into Sal’s and started to ruminate but good.
‘You ought to stop shooting people Jezebel, I don’t think it agrees with you,’ Sal said, as he poured me, and himself, a couple of stiff little bastards of whiskey.
‘What in tarnation are you talking about Sal? Them in Houston are sending bounty hunters after me for no good reason I can imagine.’ I banged the table with my gun hand. ‘I am being forced, against my will, to defend myself, and that’s the truth of it right there.’
I drained my glass, and stuffed a wad of chew in my lower lip.
‘I think you’re addicted to the shooting like you are to that there chew.’ Sal’s voice sounded humorously sad.
I just shook my head and spat, and caught myself in the mirror again and was horrified with how much of a monkey I looked at that particular moment.
‘I’m a gunfighter by trade, Sal, it’s what I do.’ I wiped a bit of brown tobacco drool from my chin.
‘Ain’t you seen how little you have to do these days? People are so fearful of those agents coming out of Houston, spreading the word of this new law they’re talking of.’
‘Agents, pffft,’ I spat chew juice on the dirty floor. ‘I sure am hard up for bits right now, though. You got any work for me?’
‘Well,’ said Sal, polishing up some glasses. ‘You’re too small to work the door and too mean ’n’ mangy to work the bar, not to mention too goddamned bone idle.’
‘What?’ I said, nearly choking on the plug. ‘You bastard.’
I looked around to where those men had been sat. They were still there though much quieter. They eyed me cautiously and drank all dainty.
‘With the trade routes opening up all along the old 290 and Big 10, you could get yourself a job as an escort. That’d keep you occupied and out of trouble. And out of range, as far as agents coming from out of Houston are concerned,’ Sal smiled at me with that pig grin of his. ‘I known you a long time Jezebel and I really like you so I’m gonna be honest with you. Apart from shooting the odd trouble maker and robbing their corpses I ain’t seen you ever do much of anything except enjoy a whiskey, a dance and a little sun.’
‘Yeah? Consider this, who’s going to keep the justice around here if I go away for a spell looking for work, huh?’
‘Oh, I’m sure we’ll manage.’
I observed Sal chuckling to himself as I sipped my whiskey.
‘Sal?’
‘Yes, sweetheart?’
A scrawny but well dressed looking dude walked into the bar as if he was expecting enemies to come leaping from behind the furniture. His strange manner took mine and Sal’s attention for a second. I turned back to Sal.
‘You think I look like a monkey?’
‘What?’
The scrawny dude came up beside me at that inopportune moment and looked at me as if I had whipped my drawers off to blow my nose with them. He then looked at Sal, and finally looked up and down the bar like he was part of some kind of theatre show.
‘I’ll have a soda water, if I may, Sal.’
I rolled my eyes without thinking, which made me realise just how bored and ill tempered I really was. Why did I care?
‘I was just saying to my good friend Jezebel here she should consider a position protecting folks and wares on the trails,’ Sal spoke up.
The scrawny guy looked at me like somebody had just handed him a lump of dog poop and told him it was gold. He then pointed at me but looked right at Sal.
‘Jezebel… the Jezebel?’
Sal nodded his head, looking mighty pleased with hisself. The scrawny guy looked back at me like he was surprised, scared and disgusted all at the same time. Then the asshole just kept on glaring at me with that surprised look on is face.
‘Carry on eyeballing me, and you’ll be finding out how those stories about me are true.’
‘Hey are you joking? With your rep you’ll get work just like that if you head down the trail office at Travis Heights. I just wasn’t, you know… you look like a kid.’
‘I ain’t no kid.’
‘I was expecting you to be taller. Much taller,’ he said, as he indicated a six-footer with his hands.
I spat tabacci and some juice accidentally on purpose hit the toecap of his withered spats.
‘My daddy always told me, never trust a tall woman,’ I said.
‘Hey, well I’m sure somebody said you were blonde, I’m pretty sure I heard that.’
‘My hair’s naturally yella as a matter of fact, but I been having all kinds of colours since I was a child.’ All of a sudden I started feeling very tired at the prospect of trying to explain myself to this’un.
‘No, I mean…’ he did the six footer thing with his hands again, ‘Amazonian, long blond hair… you look just like a bandit.’
‘A mean’un at that, huh?’ Sal butted in, all cheerily as was his way.
The scrawny guy was squinting at me and I just new something precious was about to come out of his mouth.
‘And… kind of stout.’
Well as you can imagine I was off my barstool like a shot, huffing and puffing and ready to blow this son of a bitch away.
‘Hey buddy,’ Sal hissed at the scrawny fella. He was not smiling at all but he was holding his hand towards the guy with a calming motion.
‘This is the Jezebel, like I said. She is also a lady, so…’
‘Hell, I’m sorry,’ the scrawny fella practically whimpered. ‘Hell I really am. Look, if you’re looking for work on the trails I can guarantee you work.’
He must have seen I was interested then and, besides, he was just a dummy anyways. Not worth drawing my wheel-gun for. Despite this fella’s disrespecting me I was sure proud of the way I looked. Standing only a gnat’s hair above five foot two, you could not describe me as Amazonian, but I was not stout either. I was just large in all the right places, you know, breasts, hips and broad of shoulder to help carry my rack. I was short of leg that was true but it weren’t fat on ’em, it was pure muscle from all the strolling I did. My legs were actually pretty well toned if I do say so myself. In my younger days I had run with bandits, as I said before, and I had kept the look ’cos it suited me.
‘You can guarantee me work, eh?’ I asked.
‘Yeah, good money, three square a day… good bull, too. You also get expenses paid, on top of your wages, for ammo and stuff.’ I sure was intrigued at that last bit. I ordered a round and me and Sal toasted the scrawny fella’s health.
4
I don’t remember much else of that particular night. I woke up the next morning in my room alone, mercifully. I did not feel well at all. My head was beating a funeral march and my guts were not happy with me, not one bit.
I stood up, or at least I tried to but I couldn’t seem to get any footing. I had to grab hold of the wall to stop myself keeling over. As I stumbled I kicked a couple of empty whiskey bottles, that rattled and clinked slowly across the floor and hit a half full one that had been lying peacefully on its side. The glugging sound the disturbed booze made when the empty bottles hit it caused my stomach to kick up one h
ell of a mean spirited fuss.
I heard myself moaning weakly and my eyes refused to open properly, shunning all and any signs of light. And, to compound my woes, it was hotter than a whorehouse on nickel night.
I slumped back down again and dragged myself to a jar of water that I kept by the bed. There was just a dribble left in it. Dammit. I tried to make that last just as long as I could before pressing my face down into the stale booze and tabacci smelling floor. I heard myself groan again. I was weighing up which I needed more: water, or not to walk to the pump down the street. I tried to sabotage myself by banging my forehead off the deck a couple of times. I must have passed out briefly ’cos I remember opening my eyes again, feeling my nose pressed against the floor and being awful surprised at only being able to see wood planks real close.
I picked my head up off the floor enough for my chin to rest on the planks. I really loved my little room. I had some nice pictures a few talented friends had done me for favours and I had rows of books on the shelves. I did derive a lot of fun from books. I read everything but mainly liked truths and legends of the old world.
Finally I dragged myself along the floor and dumped my carcass in the “wet room” of my abode. Let me tell you that was no easy thing. I had a couple of 12 gallon bags that heated up in the sun. Attached to those bags was a shower hose and shower head thing. I reached up to grab the lever that released the water but it took three attempts and then… well I was on my feet and half way across the room before you knew it. My skin was glowing red. The sun had cooked the water mighty good, being so particularly hot as it was that day. Well, I was pissed on two counts then. One because I had gotten myself burnt and two because I had screamed out loud like a damned girl. I had been trying to train myself to roar like a mountain lion in such situations, but every now and then when I got surprised I came out with this shrill squeal that didn’t even sound like me.
My nausea had slowly made its way from the shower and had finally come and joined me again as the shock wore off. I was hoping to drink some of that shower water, too. Dammit to hell. This day was not looking hopeful at all.
I was about to collapse back in bed and not emerge until I started feeling better, but then I caught myself. That was exactly what I had been doing every day for the best part of a week and I was starting to run out of funds.
One of the last things I remembered from the night before was the scrawny fella pushing the scout and guard jobs on the trail to Houston. Then I remembered him trying it on with me and I felt the flash of rage again. I checked my .44 but there were still five left in the cylinder, so I hadn’t shot him. My Bowie showed no new stains on it and my knuckles weren’t skinned so I guessed I must have let my mouth do the talking.
Anyways. I decided, mighty bravely if I say so myself, that I wasn’t going to spend the day causing a stink in bed, no. I was going out to get me a job on the trails. Working the trails like in ancient times, yessir that’d be the life. Lying on the bank, dangling my legs and chewing on a straw while I watched the livestock amble lazily along the highway. Occasionally I’d have to shoot a wolf or a bandit but that’d be about it. Everything else would be eating, drinking and getting lavished in awe as I told my stories around the campfire. Plus, out there, it would be a lot harder for cocksuckers like Cecile to come find me. I sure was starting to feel a whole lot better. Oh yeah, that’s what I thought. Dumb bitch.
5
I had to suffice with a sponge wash; the water in the shower was still way too hot to suffer but there was a puddle in the shower tray I could use. The sponge was too hard and the water cold and slimy but a girl’s gotta try and be hygienic sometimes.
I got dressed and headed out. Then I turned right around and headed back inside. I knew that, with my rep, I’d be snapped up pretty quick so I it was probably a good idea to pack my shit so I would be ready to roll immediately. I got my canvas pack, filled it with some changes of clothes, spare shorts, a top or two, drawers, a few bras, wash pack, first aid kit, rations… the rest of it I could pick up from the trail agency on my future employer’s dime I figured.
I pushed an extra cap into Comeuppance’s cylinder and then holstered the fully loaded magnum in its scabbard. The holster, belt and bandolier combo I wore was something to behold. It was tooled two-tone leather and fairly gleaming with .44 mag bullets in a selection of hollow points, soft points and wadcutters.
I am right handed, but my revolver sits on my left hip with the handle facing outward, and the holster angled forward for the cross draw. I had a little difficulty in the past with my old friend Bitch Maguire. She broke my arm by slamming her knee into my elbow and levering my beer stick the wrong way, like she was trying to win a jackpot out of me. Well, for a few years I could not rightly draw straight any longer and took to the old cross draw. I guess the habit stuck, and my arm has never really been back to normal anyways. But hell, don’t worry about me, I done bit her lower lip off for it. You should know that I always gets my justice.
Well, like I said, I was kind of hoping that I’d get myself some new shit paid for by my future master but, at the last minute, I thought that it’d be a good idea to grab my Marlin repeater as well. It took the same ammo as my pistol so there was no reason to have my pack rattling around with different types of cartridges and all the headaches that would bring. I pulled some books from the shelf that I hadn’t read all that much and that was that.
With the rifle in my hand, and my duster opened in such a way as to show off Comeuppance on my hip, I sure did look the part. Yep, it was a dead certitude that there would be a huge line of potential customers bidding for my service. I headed on out and hell if there weren’t a spring in my step despite the hangover.
The trail agency at Travis Heights was about an hour and a smidge walk from my place and, I’ll be honest with you, by the time I passed Woodward Street, which is about half way, the spring in my step had long gone. Frankly I was getting mighty bored, tired and hot.
I stopped by a water pump, paid the aquamonger a bit, cranked the stiff handle and got myself a nice cool sip. I looked about; the road was flanked by dead trees that looked like wooden corpses frozen and twisted in horror. The houses were one-storey affairs and each one had a nice plot of land around it.
‘Where you headed?’ the aquamonger enquired.
‘Over by Travis Heights.’ I paid another bit, cranked the pump again and wetted my bandanna.
‘Figuring on getting a job on the trails.’
‘You part of a gang?’
‘Nope.’
‘Just you?’
‘Yep.’
The old fool burst into a long wheezing laugh.
‘How’d you figure anybody would take you as a guard, little gal like you all on her lonesome?’ he asked, when he had finally composed himself and rubbed the drool from his scraggly bristles.
‘You know who I am old timer?’ I said, posing in such a way as it was obvious, I thought.
He scratched his head, squinted at me and said, ‘Can’t say I do. Should I?’
‘Goddamn it! I’m Jezebel, by Christ. Jezebel Misery St. Etienne.’
He looked at me slightly taken aback, scratched his head, squinted and said, ‘That Amazon dyke who’s always causing a fuss in South Congress?’
I shuddered with rage, clamped my eyes shut and tried to get a handle on my breathing in an effort to calm down. Was there some tall, Aryan rug muncher going about with the same name as me or were people just that damned stupid? Without so much as a “so long” I took myself up the street and headed to where I was sure to be more appreciated.
***
The time according to the clock tower of the trail agency read three in the afternoon when I finally arrived. The agency itself was a large log building, crowned by the aforementioned clock tower, and set in some land that was green and lush and surrounded by living trees. Living trees. It was that impressive I had to stop and take it all in. The wildlife in the city still suffered from the afflictio
n, and I seldom had the experience of beholding green vegetation. It sure rekindled my lust for getting out there and seeing the world, while making some money at the same time.
Even at that dreadful time of day there was a great many people milling around, preparing for the trails and some, like myself, looking for employ. The horse corral was fairly bristling with muscular beasts being fed, watered and paraded by tough looking hands in wide-brimmed hats and denims. I suppose, being a city girl my whole life, I had never had the affection for horse flesh that most other folk seemed to succumb to. The noise, stink and apparent unpredictability were a few of other the reasons I never learned to ride.
There were also a couple of bronc busters causing a hell of a ruckus as they snapped the backs of some feral ponies.
Out from inside of the bar and grill attached to the agency, a herd of handsome looking tarts emerged in all their finery. Flowing crinoline skirts of purples, reds and tangerines were hitched on their hips as they strode out chattering to each other like hens. They may have looked like cage birds but, judging by the way they carried themselves, I’d say that within their breasts beat the hearts of rattlers. A couple of belvederes in frock coats and jewels in their shirtfronts raised their mouldable brimmed hats at the tarts as they passed.
I counted no less than twenty-five bullies and bushwhackers swaggering about together outside the agency proper who, I could tell with one eye, were bandits. That got my back up. I thought the whole point of this place was to provide a haven for travellers, not harbour their botherers. But, I seemed to be the only one who was concerned by their presence so I made an effort to look less jittery given I had some self-promotion to do.