The E. Hoffmann Price Spicy Adventure MEGAPACK ™: 14 Tales from the Spicy Pulp Magazines!

by E. Hoffmann Price

  “Suh, you can’t stand this here likker much longer, and if you fall on your face, I’m telling ’em why.”

  The colonel raised his voice. “That was delicious, marshal. Fill them up again.”

  Arms folded, they faced each other; once the marshal crossed the sideline, each had the option of a quick draw, or else waiting until the other had faced another jolt of forty-rod.

  Grimes’ cargo of Red Quill was raising ructions. He was beginning to wonder how long he could endure his own contest. He had no qualms about his gunnery. As long as he stayed on his feet, his trigger finger would work by instinct. But winning an exchange of lead, shooting down the widow’s sponsor would gain him and the Hanfords nothing at all, for the town would forgive the dead and coddle the Indian fighter’s daughter.

  Gun to gun, he had the colonel bluffed. It had worked just too well. Delevan would not draw, and if Grimes was the first to collapse, the duel was lost.

  Already, the plaza began to weave a little. Grimes was sweating from the effort to keep his attention focused against the instant when he could make his play.

  Finally, he caught the first sign of the colonel’s wavering, and Grimes risked letting himself go a little. He sagged, his legs went wobbly.

  Delevan’s draw, considering all, was very good. But Grimes’ was better.

  His gun blazed as it cleared the holster. The slug smashed against the cylinder of Delevan’s heavy Colt, and lead fragments tore his hand. The weapon was useless, and so were the gunner’s fingers. And then Grimes yelled through the smoke, “Knock ’er loose!”

  The Chinaman swung the axe with which he had been chopping fuel for the pot of sauce. The whiskey barrel’s hoops burst. They had been filled almost to the breaking point the night before the duel. Wing Lee had seen to that.

  Grimes pointed at the scattered staves. When the crowd saw what came out on the flood of liquor, they howled, “Putting trantlers and rattlesnakes in it!”

  The colonel saw and turned a sickly pea-green. He doubled up. Doreen Hopkins rushed from the sidelines and cried, “Oh, you scoundrel, poisoning all these people! I’d rather starve than take dividends for such filthy liquor!”

  Delevan was too sick to protest, and the shock of a bullet-torn hand did not help him. Doreen clawed and slapped him, ripped his flowing tie and his fine shirt. “I hope they lynch you—putting snakes and tarantulas into their liquor, just to make more profit!”

  There was talk of lynching, but Grimes and the marshal won Delevan a chance to get to his house to pack up for a trip. And then Grimes went to get the bottles of whiskey which Melba had concealed in her rig.

  “Drink up, gents; it’s this lady’s treat. Old Vickery, the best dang Bourbon ever come outen Kentucky, and no chemicals and acids in it. Jest repeal that ordinance, and her pappy’ll haul in a wagonload of it.”

  Outraged citizens smashed all the other barrels of Red Quill. And an hour later, when Grimes and Melba drove back toward Cold Deck to tell old man Hanford the news, the blonde pillowed her head on his shoulder and asked, “Simon, how did you stand it, knowing Wing Lee had put rattlers and tarantulas into every barrel in the warehouse?”

  She shuddered. He drew in the reins, and his arm closed about her.

  “Honey, when I was in Arizony, I et rattlers. They ain’t bad when you get used to the idee, and the trantlers was some Wing Lee made up outen black darning cotton, they sure looked good enough to turn the colonel’s stomach more inside out than if’n I’d shot him there.”

  SHE HERDED HIM AROUND

  Scowling, the boy from Georgia stamped out of his hotel room and down the hall. A straw colored cowlick reached to his china blue eyes; he was lean and long, and a black frock coat hung from his shoulders. He stopped at the door next to his own, tapped with a ham-sized fist, and barged in without waiting for an answer.

  “Ain’t no woman on Earth can herd me around,” he began.

  The girl sitting in the rocker let out a yeep and cried, “Simon, you might wait to find out if I was dressed.”

  She bounded to her feet and held a red silk dress in front of her to cover the most conspicuous bare spots.

  Simon Bolivar Grimes stuttered, “Dang it, Elma, how’d I know you’d be plumb…ah…uncovered-like?”

  He backed toward the door, but the dark haired girl said, “Might as well stay, if there’s anything you’ve missed, I’d love to know what it is.”

  She turned her back and proved her point. There was a fluff of chiffon about her hips; it didn’t reach very low in one direction or high in the other. Her back and shoulders had a creamy richness. She was plump and shapely; her legs were sleek, and her garters made luscious indentations. Just a single graceful move, and the red dress was slipping over her head and sinking down to her hips. A pat, and it rustled past her knees and cut off his view of her calves, which tapered down to dainty ankles.

  “How’d I know?” Grimes repeated.

  “I guess you wouldn’t.” Elma sighed, then winced. “Ouch!” She picked a needle from the red dress. “Never occurred to you I’d have to patch the only dress I have. And you’re as ragged as I am, after riding a hundred miles in a frock coat!”

  A frown again tightened Grimes’ coffin-shaped face. “Look here, Elma, ain’t no woman on Earth can herd me around. I am damn-blasted if I aim to be a cowpuncher just account you got a notion I’m too dumb to reckonize gold if I stumbled over it.”

  “Simon, darling, I don’t mean you’re stupid. I mean, you just don’t know a thing about mining. Anyway, mining towns are poison, and miners are the lousiest ruffians.”

  “Huh! When I found you, you was hustling drinks in a dance hall!”

  Elma slapped him with both hands before he could dodge. “Yes, and I got you out of jail, I got you the horse you escaped on, and you were a small town lawyer when I found you, you long-legged idiot!”

  She began crying and clung to him. “Simon, mining towns are poison! Claim jumpers shot my dad. Anyway, your uncle’s a cattleman, if you weren’t so stubborn you and me could get a start with him.”

  “Aw, honey—” She was close enough now for him to be delightfully aware of her generous curves, and she snuggled closer; but the Grimes stubbornness won out. “Look here, I ain’t got more’n a couple hundred dollars, and my uncle’d mock me, coming back thattaway, after I busted outen that jail wheah that crooked Jedge Hillman flung me fo’ contempt of court. I got to get myself some gold, and I’m a-going to.”

  She jerked back, wiped her eyes. “Simon Bolivar Grimes, you weren’t too proud to have me smuggle saws into the jail!”

  The boy from Georgia straightened up. He dug into his pocket and brought out a buckskin poke and emptied half the gold pieces on the dresser. “M’am, I am mighty sick of these here reminders.” He looked at the heavy gold watch his grandpappy had given him just before he was hanged for shooting a revenue officer. “It is jest about time for the stage coach to get here. You kin keep both the hosses you got.”

  He turned to the hall. She snatched the coins and flung them. They hit the panel just as he closed the door behind him.

  “Ain’t no woman herding me around,” he repeated. He knew he’d miss Elma, and he had to build up his courage.

  Grimes stepped into his room and shouldered the saddle bags which contained his razor, a quart of whiskey, and a pair of field glasses. Then he went down the creaking stairs and stood in the doorway.

  Cowpunchers yelled when, a few minutes later, the stage came clattering down the dusty main street. Hostlers brought out the new relay and took the sweating team to the stables. The driver leaped down, and so did the shotgun messenger who guarded the heavy box of gold coin. A blond girl stepped from the stage.

  There was a seductive rustle of skirts, a coy flash of shapely legs; the slanting rays of the sun twinkled on the sheer
silk of her hosiery. The sweetness of her perfume warmed Grimes’ heart; he felt a little less bleak inside.

  Grimes watched her walk into the stage station. She lifted her skirts a little and picked her way daintily across the dust and among the bottles and cigar butts that littered the dirt sidewalk; but she looked at home, for all her frilly garments and the little hat with the blue plume. Neither did she grimace when she entered the dingy dining room.

  Grimes bought a ticket for Skull Gulch. He had barely stuffed a few ham sandwiches and a slab of apple pie into his coat pocket when it was time to board the coach. He held the door open for the fascinating stranger and then followed her to the coach; now that she had walked the cramps out of her legs, she needed no assistance.

  Grimes looked up at the window at the end of the second floor hallway of the hotel. He caught a glimpse of Elma, and for a moment he felt like a skunk. Then he said to himself, “Ain’t no woman kin herd me around.”

  He had half hoped she would fling her few odds and ends into her carpetbag and follow. But she had not, and it was too late to back down. Then the driver cracked the whip; the stage lurched forward, flinging the lovely blonde all over Grimes.

  She had curves in the right places, even though her prim blouse hid them from the eye. The momentary pressure, the warm contact of her hand, the fragrance of her garments: they all made Grimes tingle down to his boots.

  They were alone in the coach, but the girl might as well have been surrounded by a board fence. He could not get up his nerve to edge her into one corner and slip an arm about her; that puzzled Grimes, and fascinated him. She was sweet and friendly, and she wasn’t stand-offish, but he kept his hands clear.

  He said, after the exchange of names followed the untangling of accidentally scrambled limbs, “Miss Anne, I knowed you belonged out here, the minute I seen you picking yo’ way, calm and placid-like into that there station. Me, I’m a miner, but I usta practice law. I’m aiming to make a pile fo’ myself at Skull Gulch.”

  Anne Parsell made a gesture of dismay. “Why, Simon, that’s the murderingest town in Arizona.”

  “I reckon it ain’t too wild,” he answered and hitched about a little, for the .45s in his leather-lined hip pockets were a nuisance. Now that he was through being a lawyer, he’d wear his guns on belts again. “Anyways, a fellow can face a few risks for a saddlebag full of nuggets.”

  * * * *

  She laughed merrily. “Well, they do say gold is where you find it. You know, there’s the New Golconda, where I live, in Broken Axe. For years, it’s been completely played out. And do you know, now they’re taking ore out of it so rich they don’t let the miners leave the mine, or else they’d fill their boots with nuggets whenever they headed for town.”

  Grimes sat up straight. “Miss Anne, mebbe I been a mite hasty about Skull Gulch. Reckon I oughta go to Broken Axe instead.”

  “You won’t get rich on miner’s pay. Since you’ve practiced law, why don’t you work in dad’s bank?”

  “Yo’ pappy own a bank?”

  “No, he’s only president of it. Brad Thorman owns a bit of stock, and he wants to marry me, but he’s old as the hills. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s thirty-five.”

  * * * *

  It was dark now, and above the clatter of the stage, Grimes heard the yip-yip of a coyote, and the answering howl of another. Anne’s profile was exquisite in the gloom. The noise made conversation lag. She sat up, lovely and straight; but finally, as the hours wore on, her lovely head nodded.

  She leaned against the arm rest. She gasped, murmured an apology as a jolt flung her against Grimes, but she did not take her head from his shoulder. She pillowed her blond curls against the black frock coat, and Grimes said to himself, “Jest like a dang-blasted angel, gosh, she’s beautiful.…”

  To hell with Skull Gulch! He was going to Broken Axe. He hoped Elma wouldn’t follow him to Skull Gulch, it’d be too bad, going so far out of her way.

  Grimes must have been dozing, for the screech of brakes startled him. Then there was a shot. Anne cried, “Good Lord, a hold-up!” Men yelled, rocks clattered down the moonlit slope of the pass. The guard cut loose with his carbine, and then a volley raked the coach.

  The driver was trying to swing clear of boulders heaped in the trail. Grimes caught Anne by the shoulder and thrust her to the floor. “You scrunch down, honey,” he yelled and drew his .45s.

  She cried, “Simon, you’ll get killed—oh!”

  Two slugs had zinged from bolts inside the coach. Grimes leaned out the window. Four men were pelting down the slope. Their horses struck fire from the rocks. Their guns blazed. The driver was whipping the team, sawing the lines, weaving in and out among the boulders, trying to get back on the trail. Grimes fired. A man slumped over in his saddle, then rolled off; his horse galloped with the others.

  Then the messenger lurched from his post.

  The lead team piled up. A horse screamed. Grimes yelled, “Cut them loose, I’ll hold these here ____s!”

  The driver answered, and Grimes’ Colt blazed again.

  The nearest road agent doubled up, clutched for support, and thumped to the ground. Grimes shouted to Anne, “Honey, get out on the other side, get outen here and hide yo’self afore you git a stray bullet.”

  And then a hammer blow knocked the breath out of Grimes. He had many times before now felt the paralyzing smash of a bullet, but this was different. He could not feel a thing from his collarbone to his knees; the moonlight blurred and blackened.

  He never did know how long it was before he heard Anne cry, “Oh, he’s not hurt at all, really.”

  The driver, head bandaged, knelt beside her, with a lantern. Grimes sat up. “M’am, what in tunket you mean I ain’t hurt none?”

  “Why, the bullet hit the big gold watch in your vest pocket.”

  “They busted that heirloom,” he muttered, looking at the wreckage. “If ever I ketch that sculpin, I’m staking him out on an ant-hill. How’s the hosses?”

  “One kilt, I had to shoot t’other whilst Miss Anne was looking for bullet holes in your gizzard. And they got the gold.”

  Anne recoiled. “They got the gold? Oh, good Lord.”

  Grimes hoisted himself to the seat and leaned back against the bullet-riddled upholstery. “Huh! Tain’t yo’ gold, is it?”

  * * * *

  At the next town, Ojo Caliente, the driver got a lead team; but Anne refused to go on.

  “Simon,” she said, “you’ve got to see a doctor, you got an awful wallop, watch or no watch. And I’m going to stop over to see that you’re taken care of.”

  Once the coach was on its way, Grimes muttered, “Shucks, nothing wrong with me, here I am letting a woman herd me around again.”

  Before he reached the head of the hotel stairs, he did think his gizzard had been knocked out of place; but he told the doctor, “Ain’t nothing wrong with me, get me a quart of liquor and a cigar.”

  * * * *

  It was perhaps an hour or two before dawn when he awoke, a gun in each hand, and sweat pouring down his cheeks. He looked around, realized that he had been dreaming of a second hold-up, and took another swig of rye.

  Then he heard the sobbing next door; Anne was crying, tossing restlessly. It was all plain through the thin partition. He got up, put on his boots and coat, and tapped at her door. When she answered, he said, “Honey, it’s jest me. I done heard you weeping like yo’ little heart’s busted wide open.”

  “Oh, just a minute—” There was a flurry of bare feet, the scratch of a match; then, “Come in, Simon, I’m so worried.”

  She wore a filmy robe over a lace-paneled gown; the two garments together wouldn’t have been enough to wad a shotgun. Her hair was shimmering gold in the light of the smoky lamp. For all her reddened eyes, Anne was the loveliest creat
ure he had ever seen; through the frail garments he could just distinguish the shadowy roundnesses of her slim figure.

  He caught her in his arms, gritted his teeth for a moment, then let himself down into the rocker.

  “It’s that robbery,” she said, snuggling against his shoulder.

  “Huh. Tain’t yo’ money.”

  “But the loss will hurt dad’s bank, there may be a run on it.”

  “Shucks, ain’t the stage company responsible?”

  She shook her bead. “The bank owns the stage line.”

  Grimes stroked the golden hair, slipped an arm about Anne, and kissed her. She did not protest, and before he could marvel at that, she was clinging to him, murmuring, “Simon, when you were half conscious from trying to defend me from the road agents, you said the sweetest things.”

  That kiss inspired Grimes. “Honey, all the more reason fo’ not working in yo’ pappy’s bank, and going to the New Golconda instead. I’ll give him the gold, and I wont ask fo’ my money until the bank’s earnt enough to stand the loss of the robbery.”

  “Simon, darling, miners just get pay.”

  Grimes chuckled. “Not me. I’m a-filling my boots with nuggets every shift I work. They ain’t keeping me locked up at any mine!”

  “Oh, but that’d be stealing.”

  “Huh. Tain’t neither. It’s downright stingy, expecting a fellow to dig and drill and blast all day long, and then holler if he stuffs a couple nuggets into his pockets. Did the owner of the New Golconda put the gold into the ground in the fust place? You jest hush up, honey, I’m saving yo’ pappy’s bank if I have to high-grade two-three mines.”

  Anne didn’t have an answer. Then he was kissing her until she couldn’t say anything for a while. At last Grimes said, “That there light’s too dang glaring.…” He got up and blew it out. When he got back to the warm white shape in the gloom, he went on, “Who’d you say owns the New Golconda?”