Dance With A Gunfighter

by JoMarie Lodge

  He took another swallow of his whiskey. She spun around, turning so that her back pressed against the bar. She placed her elbows on it in a way that made her breasts thrust out at him like the horns on a bull. He kept his attention on his whiskey.

  "Buy me a drink?" she purred.

  "Sure." He nodded at Sanders, the barkeep, who refilled his glass then grabbed another bottle and poured a shot glass for Clara. Her drink looked like whiskey, he would be charged as if it were, but he knew it was tea. Tea didn’t cut into the profits.

  She sidled closer to him. "Not having much luck at cards tonight, McLowry."

  He didn’t answer.

  "Maybe you’ll make up for it in other ways." She angled so that the side of her breast pressed against his arm. Perfume and the smell of face powder filled his nostrils; the soft swell of her breasts reminded him how it would feel to put his hands there, or to press his face against her, to surround himself with all the softness that a woman like this could give.

  "You got any suggestions?" he asked.

  "For you, I got a head filled with them." Her frizzed hair had been tinted a brassy orange, and each cheekbone had a round dot of pink rouge, but her eyes were a fun-filled sparkling green and her red-painted mouth was wide and pouting and full of promise. Maybe she offered what he needed. Offered a way to get a skinny, too innocent female out of his mind and heart. Or, what little heart he had left.

  He thought about suggesting they go to her room, but somehow, the words just wouldn’t come. Frustrated, he finished the second drink and asked for another. He knew if he were going to bed this whore, he would have to be drunk to do it.

  "What’s the matter, McLowry?" She played with a button on his shirt.

  He brushed her hand away. "Nothing."

  "I can take care of you." She curled herself around him, her face close to his. "I can do things for you a flat-chested tomboy wouldn’t even think of. You need a woman." Her voice went soft, her eyes wide and longing. "I’ve hankered for you since the first day I saw you. That one playful kiss you gave me was hardly a taste--and it’s made me want lots more."

  "McLowry!" His name was shouted in a voice that was gruff and challenging.

  He didn’t turn. "Yeah?"

  "Your time’s up, McLowry."

  Clara eased away from him. He heard the sound of chairs crashing as others fled.

  "I’m not interested in fighting you," he said, still not turning. "Whoever you are."

  "The name’s King Dunahay. It’ll be a famous name soon."

  "I’ve got no quarrel with you. Let’s just forget this. Turn around and leave." His voice was cold and deadly.

  "I heard you’d turned yellow, McLowry. I didn’t believe it, but now I see it’s true. You’ve got your gun on. That means something to me. Draw, if you’re a man."

  "You’re getting me angry, boy," McLowry said.

  "You’ve got to the count of three. One. Two. Th--"

  McLowry turned and fired. He didn’t touch the six-shooter in his greased holster, didn’t touch the one he knew Dunahay was riveted on and would have shot him as soon as he went for it. Instead, he had kept his hands and arms in front of him, never lowering them below his waist as he eased the snub-nosed Remington from his shoulder holster, spun and fired. He hit Dunahay once in the shoulder. Dunahay’s return volley went wild, hitting the ceiling. "Drop the gun, Dung-away, and get out of town. If I see any part of you, I’ll be thinking that you’re trying to settle the score." McLowry stood over him, his pistol inches from Dunahay’s face. The man opened his fingers and his gun clattered against the saloon floor.

  A couple of men got him to his feet and helped him out of the saloon.

  When they were gone, McLowry turned back to his drink. Clara stepped up to him again.

  "You still have all those feelings you were talking about a little while ago?" he asked her. He downed the whiskey and slammed the empty glass on the bar.

  "More than ever, McLowry."

  "Can’t let all that go to waste." He picked up a half-full whiskey bottle. "Let’s go."

  She took his hand and led him up the stairs.

  o0o

  At the livery stables, time and again throughout the following week, Gabe heard about McLowry’s shootout in the Crystal Palace. Everyone was amazed he had let the man go without killing him. Most gunfighters emptied their guns before they stopped shooting. She was glad Jess hadn’t killed Dunahay, but she kept on the lookout for the no-account, just to make sure he didn’t return to exact a coward’s revenge.

  At the same time, rumors reached her that Will Tanner and Blackie Lane were last seen around Globe, far to the north. Luke Murdock and Tack Cramer, on the other hand, seemed to have disappeared altogether. The tales she heard were confirmed by McLowry’s own stories from the saloon.

  The saloon...not his construction job. For some reason, the day after their picnic, he had quit the job and she scarcely saw him any longer. She had heard he was seeing Clara down at the Crystal Palace. As much as she tried not to believe it, she suspected it was true. Each night, he would put on his shiny black vest, black gabardine trousers and silky white shirt--the gambler’s dress she had seen him with when she had met him in Jackson City. She’d had the impression he had given up that life, but obviously she had been wrong. Once, she had asked him about gambling, but his face had turned hard, his eyes flat and cold, and he didn’t answer. His actions made no sense to her.

  He might have been seeing Clara, but she couldn’t believe that he cared about the woman. The afternoon of their picnic, she felt an awareness develop between them and she wanted to believe it was that sensation, not her questions, that kept him away now. But why such feelings would have driven him into Clara’s arms, she couldn’t begin to understand.

  Perhaps she was wrong and he really did love Clara? She didn’t understand men, and never would. All she knew was that they caused heartache.

  Each evening, he would knock on her door and she would let him into her room. He would inquire how she was, and after she replied, "Fine," she would proceed to tell him anything she might have heard that day about the men she sought.

  He would tell her if he had heard similar rumors at the saloon, then he would ask if she were ready to leave Tombstone. His expression was always placid and indifferent, as if her reply didn’t matter to him at all. When she would answer, "No," he would nod, and then leave for the evening.

  And she would eat her supper alone.

  If her answer were to be different, she was sure he wouldn’t walk away, but would stay with her, and see her safely back to Jackson City. What would happen afterward, she didn’t know. She was never going to find out either, because she wasn’t giving up. She would see this through to the end.

  One afternoon, as Gabe stood in the stables brushing the roan that belonged to Camilus Fly, a photographer, she thought about getting Jess a session at Fly’s studio. It was less than a block away, behind the OK Corral. To be able to glance at Jess’s picture now and again after they had parted would be a comfort. She knew better, though, than to even ask.

  She finished grooming the roan. Still carrying the coarse brush, she walked to the stable doorway and looked down Allen Street, at the people bustling along the boardwalk. The sun was so bright in the cloudless sky it hurt her eyes, and she raised her arm to shade them. Despite herself, she liked Tombstone. The hope that brought men here to make their fortune or to lose their lives trying, gave an edge of excitement and danger that she hadn’t known in Jackson City. She had never before been anywhere that made her feel so vibrant and yet so vulnerable, so numb and yet so emotional.

  The time spent here had been good for her. She had gone from a raging, burning, flailing hatred of the men who had killed her family, to a fixed, unwavering determination to find them. She had learned to accept that she would kill them, or die trying, because she absolutely could not accede to the alternative. She would never allow her family’s murderers to go free, no matter what the co
st.

  Maggie nudged her shoulder as if to remind her that she needed brushing, too. Gabe put her arms around Maggie’s neck and held her tight. Maggie was the one living creature from her early life still with her.

  "Finally, you’ve found your type."

  Gabe spun around at the sound of a woman’s voice and was astonished to see Clara, her blue satin dress with black fringes shimmering in the sunlight, standing at the door of the stable watching her.

  "You must be lost," Gabe said dismissively.

  "No. I’m here to see you. We’ve got to talk." She sauntered inside. "Jess won’t do it, so I’m here for him."

  Jess? Gabe picked up Maggie’s brush and turned her back on Clara as she began grooming the gray. "McLowry’s a big boy," she replied cautiously. "I’ve never known him to be tongue-tied."

  "He feels sorry for you," Clara announced. "And for that reason, he hides from you the information you want. That keeps you here--and keeps you between him and me. I’m tired of it, so I came here to tell you, myself, what’s going on."

  Gabe’s hand stilled. "What do you mean?"

  "Jess and I are in love. We’re planning to get married."

  Gabe felt as if the world stopped, as if the day had turned suddenly dark. The scene she had witnessed of Jess kissing this woman flashed before her eyes. "I don’t believe you." The words were only a whisper.

  "It’s true. We share a magic together." Clara gloated. "A very special magic."

  Gabe shook her head, she didn’t want to hear it. She had heard rumors about the two of them, but she had dismissed them...or, at least, had tried to.

  "That’s why he comes to see me every night," Clara vaunted. "Surely, you’ve noticed."

  Gabe was silent. A fierce churning in her stomach made her physically ill at Clara’s words and the repugnant images they conjured.

  Clara promenaded before her like a hen puffing out its feathers. "He’s going to take me away from all this--away from the Crystal Palace, away from Tombstone. We’re going to get a little house, maybe a ranch. But he won’t do any of that as long as he’s got you as a millstone around his neck. He feels some strange need to protect you that I simply don’t understand."

  Gabe’s cheeks burned. "Neither do I. I’ve never asked anything of him. He’s free to do what he wants." She took a stumbling step back into Maggie, then put her hand on the gray’s withers for support. That she had been a fool with her notions about Jess McLowry and his regard for her was clear now. "Congratulations on your marriage," she said.

  Clara’s grin was ugly. "That’s what I thought you’d say once you understood how it was between us."

  Gabe’s pride came back to her then, and she leveled her shoulders, her voice sharp and solid. "You said something about McLowry hiding information from me?"

  "Oh, yes. I suppose you should know this." Clara grimaced. "It’s about one of the men you’re looking for--Blackie Lane. He’s in Dry Springs. Rumor has it, Tanner’s up there, too."

  "Dry Springs? Where is that?"

  "Northeast of here, in a valley near the Chiricahua Mountains. Some silver and copper mines are up that way."

  "I see," Gabe murmured, her face ashen. "You’re sure? And McLowry knew it as well?"

  Clara put her hand on her hip. "He was afraid you’d go up there after them. He wants to keep you here, safe, where he can watch over you, and also be near me. He knows this sort of thing is simply too dangerous for you." She tried to twist her expression into one of pity, but she merely looked afflicted. "He feels so very sorry for you."

  Gabe refused to acknowledge that last statement. "I appreciate the information about Tanner and Lane. Thank you."

  This time, Clara’s smile was more honest. "You’re most welcome. Good luck to you." She left.

  In a stunned blur, Gabe made her way to the General Store and bought bullets and supplies for desert travel. She knew what she had to do.

  At the hotel, she packed her saddlebags, then paid her bill and checked out. She left no message for McLowry.

  It was surprisingly hard to break the news to Neil Dexter that she was leaving. She had grown fond of the big, hard-working man. But she had no choice. She saddled Maggie and left town at a gallop, needing to get far, far away from the Crystal Palace and a certain gunslinger who hung out there.

  Not that he mattered. Nothing mattered to her anymore except reaching Dry Springs and confronting Lane and Tanner.

  Only when she heard Maggie’s hard blowing did she allow the gray to slow down. She didn’t stop, though. She kept going northeasterly. Evening came, but she didn’t stop to make camp. After days of waiting and questioning, she finally knew where to find the men she sought. Now, she had to be sure to get to Dry Springs before they left.

  When night fell, she realized she had no choice but to stop. Letting Maggie trot through the desert at night was madness. Even though the land looked flat, crevices and potholes dotted it. Maggie could easily step in one, break her leg, and it would be all over for both of them. Surviving in the desert without a horse was almost impossible. Watering holes stretched too far from each other for walking, and too much danger lay between.

  She dismounted. The moon was nearly full, lighting the desert enough to allow her to see how alone she was. Leading Maggie, Gabe tried to find a secluded spot to camp. She remembered the saying that everything in the desert was either prickly or poisonous. True, she thought. Especially the men.

  Finally, she gave up trying to find a decent campsite near a watering hole or sheltering hillside, and simply stopped. Maggie stayed close beside her, as if aware of the loneliness and danger surrounding them both.

  "It’s okay, girl." Gabe patted Maggie’s neck. "We don’t need him. We’ve been alone before and did just fine. We can do it again."

  She tried to find some twigs to build a fire, but couldn’t. The land was barren except for barrel-shaped cactus, scrub and gravel. She would have to spend the night sitting upright, watching that no night-hunting mountain lion, or even a diamondback or sidewinder came upon them. Except for man, this land came alive at night when it was cool and easy to hunt, forage and travel.

  She took a blanket from the saddlebag and wrapped it over her head and shoulders to ward off the eerie chill of the desert night, then wrapped Maggie’s reins around her arm, her Winchester at her side. She wanted to be ready to run or fight at the first sign of trouble.

  The lonesome call of a coyote caused her to hug the blanket closer, cursing Jess McLowry and her own foolish heart.

  Chapter 9

  She felt the blanket being pulled away from her and opened her eyes to the pale light of dawn. She was lying on her side on the ground. "Jess?" she murmured as she turned over to face him.

  "Ha! Look at this, fellas." An enormous man with thick, shaggy black hair and a bushy black beard grabbed her arm and pulled her to her feet.

  She blinked, wondering if this was a dream. Despite the sudden fear hammering within her, she couldn’t take her eyes from the man.

  Blackie Lane, the outlaw she had been told was in Dry Springs, stood before her. She spun around to look at Lane’s companions. One was big, blond and dumb-looking, and the other was wiry, with slicked back, greasy gray hair. Will Tanner wasn’t among them.

  Lane gripped her neck with crushing fingers and turned her face to his. His hold was like iron. "Here I am, girlie. The answer to your prayers." He laughed and leaned so close his hot breath smacked against her face like mid-day sun.

  Sickened, she broke free and swooped down to pick up her Winchester. She was fast, but Lane stomped on the gun just as she slid her fingers under it to pick it up. She cried out with pain, jerking back her hand and kneeling on the ground.

  Laughing, he grabbed her arms and lifted her to her feet, then pressed her against his belly, wrapping her in a hug that pinned her arms to her sides. He bent back, lifting her feet off the ground. She shrieked with fury.

  "Hey, I thought you wanted me," he said. "I heard all over, �
�Go to Tombstone--some gal there is so hot for you she’s asking ‘bout you all over the territory.’ If I’d of had more time I’d of come lookin’ for you sooner. But now yore here, I’ll even let you have me...’fore I kill you."

  "Let go of me!" she cried, fighting for air, her chest and lungs crushed against his bulk.

  "A little skinny," he called to his friends. "But she wiggles like an iguana." The men laughed.

  She twisted around and managed to free an arm. Rearing back, she punched his nose with such force blood flew out onto his shirt. The other two men bellowed with laughter.

  Lane dropped her and slapped her hard against the side of her head. She sprawled, dazed, several paces from where he stood fingering his nose. On the ground, her head rang from the force of the blow.

  "Hey, look." The gray-haired man pulled her belongings out of her saddlebag. "She’s got money. Looks like over fifty dollars here."

  "Damn you!" Dizzy from the blow to her head, she half-crawled, half-ran toward him, grabbing for her money sack. The gray-haired man tossed it to Lane.

  "To me! To me!" The big blond yelled.

  Gabe scrambled toward Lane and got her hands on the small leather bag. His eyes were flat and lifeless, with something so cruel, so inhuman about them, it took her breath away. She froze, knowing she was face to face with death. Her mind raced. She couldn’t let it end here in this lonely desert, not after what Lane, Tanner and the others had done.

  They had taken her rifle, but a Bowie knife was sheathed to her saddle. If she could get to it without them noticing...

  It was worth a try.

  Lane smiled viciously, the blood from his nose oozing through his mustache, around his lips, then down onto his chin. "I’ll give you back some of this money," he said. "For a kiss."

  "Bastard!" She yanked the sack from his hand. He grabbed her shirt. She smashed her heavy-booted heel into his kneecap, and slammed the coin-filled sack into his already battered nose. He roared with pain and toppled over, grasping his leg with one hand, his nose with the other.