Waltzing With Tumbleweeds

by Dusty Richards

  “That’s the reason you’re here,” he accused her. “I know ever time I strike it rich, I’ve always craved flesh and cards. But why tell you? You know how I’ve wasted it time and again. No matter I want to see that dance you did for Herod. And that snake on the sign, he’s here too, ain’t he?”

  “Yes.” She felt sad for the man. He acted so confused, she worried about him. He was much older than she had first thought and his brown eyes held a pleading note that she could not ignore. She was not frightened by this prospector and she certainly did not mind performing for him. In other places she had danced for much worse than the likes of him, usually for very little gain, thanks to Sidney. Besides, if Harold insisted that she take a few granules of gold in exchange for entertaining him, she would be that much closer to getting away from her keeper.

  “Mohammed is here, too,” she finally said. “Do you want to see both dances?”

  “Yes, yes. I’ll pay you for both of them, but then you got to promise to let us go. Both Myra and me. Do you promise, Salome?”

  She lowered her face to hide a smile. He obviously considered her some type of siren or a witch. But she could hardly blame the poor man. Who would have expected to come upon someone like her in such a barren wasteland?

  “I will do that. It will take a little time for me to prepare,” she warned him. She would need a stage of some kind. Glancing around, she noticed the gray rock wall in the dry wash beside the road.

  “Have we got a deal?” he persisted.

  Clasping her hands in front of her, she bowed slightly. “Yes, we have a deal” Then she pointed to the gully. “You must go to the dry wash over there and wait.”

  “Dag nab it, Myra, we’ve struck a deal!”

  “Wait!” she ordered. This new role for her was beginning to be fun and she knew intuitively that this man expected a commanding tone from her. “Take that canvas chair down there and place it on the edge of the sand bar for you to sit on.”

  “Yes sirree. What else?” he asked excited. “What else you want me to do?”

  She straightened her shoulders, fully prepared to give the old man something to remember for the rest of his lonely life. “When you hear my words, close your eyes. Do you understand?”

  “Oh, yes. I will. I’ll do just as you say.”

  “Go now and wait in your chair.”

  “Yes ma’am. I’ll take Myra too, cause she’s putting up her half.”

  Afraid she would burst out laughing, she turned and hurried inside the van. She closed the dusty curtain over the rear of the wagon so he could not see inside, should he decide to peek. Her fingers trembled unaccountably as she fumbled with the sash on her shift. Quickly she stepped out of the filmy garment and stood naked in the close confine of the wagon. The air was hot and stifling, bringing out fresh beads of perspiration on her olive skin.

  Confidently, she began her ritual. She poured fine scented oil in her palms and began to rub it into her skin. Soon her legs were glistening in the shadowy light. Then her supple belly, firm breasts, arms and face received a ritualistic coating of oil.

  Carefully she shadowed her eyes with black grease paint. If the old man gave her a few gold granules, it might be enough for her to escape Sidney’s bondage. She tried to suppress her own excitement, not wanting her hopes to become too high, but she found it an effort to ignore her apparent good luck.

  She prepared the wig careful to hide her own Dutch boy bob. Her hands shaking with anticipation, Salome vowed she would dance for this prospector as she had never danced before.

  Not even the hated black hairpiece that resembled Cleopatra’s would dampen her spirits this time. After slipping large gold hoops through her ears, she drew out the gold chains from her wooden jewelry box. Sidney had told her they were real, but she doubted him. Wetting her lips, she looked in the mirror and spoke aloud, “You can be Salome or plain old Nelda Greenbaum whenever you get away from Sidney.”

  The baggy silk pants slid on easily and she stood to tie them at the waist. Next, she draped the gauzy veils in place. She was ready. The smoky mirror revealed to her the girl outside on the painting. All she needed to complete the picture were her Arabic prayer rug and her dance partner Mohammed.

  With the carpet under one arm, she picked up the serpent’s hamper and climbed out of the van. As she crossed to the makeshift stage, she noticed that Harold was seated below, his face turned away.

  “Close your eyes,” she commanded in a loud voice.

  “Promise to . . . I ain’t looking.”

  She looked down. His hands gripped the armrests, she felt certain his eyes matched them. Salome smiled at her new found power and hurried to her stage.

  A platform of diamond sparkling sand shone under the sun’s highest zenith. Mohammed’s basket was in place and the prayer rug rolled out. Salome stood back to face her audience.

  Her arms folded over the layers, she spoke, “Harold, open your eyes.”

  He seemed to brace himself in the chair as his eyelids fluttered.

  “Oh, my Gawd—I’m sorry. It’s just I couldn’t believe that painting and that there really was someone like you.”

  Salome noted three canvas bags at his feet. Hastily, she drew her eyes away from the tempting sight.

  “You must stay in your chair,” she warned him, “until the dance is over.” When he did not answer her, a knot formed in her throat as she worried what he expected from her. She gambled. “Do you have payment?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Right here.” He pointed to the pouches at his feet. “I promise you I’ll be on my best behavior.”

  “Very good,” she said, controlling her breathing. “The dance will begin.”

  Salome knelt before the basket and wound her arm in with the serpent. She had no doubts that Mohammed would begin his circling journey to her neck as cued. The snake responded. When she stepped back and began to dance, he slowly began to encircle her. The scales sliding under his powerful muscles rubbed her nipples hard in passing over her breasts. The turgid coils girdled her waist with the firmness of a lover’s hands.

  Mohammed’s angular head darted about, watching, as though he was her guardian. Slowly his body threaded between her legs and emerged around her right thigh. The ribbed structure brushed her in private pleasure. As he continued his sensuous journey down her body, her belly was free to rise and fall with the gentle gyrations of her hips. Then as if ordered, the serpent began his slow ascent up her body. His retreat quickened her breathing and in response, her dance became more demanding. Salome began to hear the bawdy shouts and lurid jeers of hundreds of men. Though always ghostly and far away, she could still hear them. The sounds did not diminish the pleasure she experienced whenever she performed.

  When she knelt to put the serpent back, she noticed Harold’s pallor.

  “You’ve seen the first dance,” she said softly, realizing Sidney was not there as usual to collect the money.

  He tossed something that struck heavy in the sand. Her breath caught in her throat. Swallowing back her excitement least she destroy his image of her, she rose and began to hum. The sun glinted on her jewelry. Then she looked directly into Harold’s eyes.

  She saw that the cob-webbed recesses of his brain had been cleared. The youthful clarity of Adam replaced his former look. Yes, she had transformed Harold into becoming the first man, Adam. The serpent had shown him, lied, promised, coerced him into believing this was Eden and she was the first Eve. The power of Harold’s manhood had been restored at this dry fountain of youth. Salome knew Harold could taste the apple. One at a time, she shed the layers of gauzy veils which fluttered to the sparkling stage floor. Her body became a loom. Dreamlike, she wove a promise for her audience that grew in intensity with each discarded thread.

  Salome knew her power. Men would scream for her to go faster, as though she could deliver some relief from the pressures building within their skulls. They wanted her to help them escape the obsession that she had created.

  Then the
dance was over.

  She dropped to the prayer rug and knelt; the last vestige of strength drained from her body.

  The thud of two more heavy objects struck the sand. The sound took her breath. Deliberate, she kept her eyes closed, afraid to open them and discover that she had merely dreamed the entire episode.

  “Yes, sirree.” Harold’s voice sounded dry and weak. “I’ve spent fortunes on a lot less than your dancing. I’m obliged for mine and Myra’s freedom. We’ll be going, before you change your mind about releasing us.”

  Salome raised up. She studied the man’s back, his step lighter; his shoulders thrown back like a younger man. She could faintly hear his prattle with the burro.

  “Yes, Myra, you seen things that ain’t been done on this earth in thousands of years. Best of all, we’ve escaped old Lucifer again... but it’s mighty sure he’s around here somewhere.”

  Salome expected him to look back, but he did not. With weak hands, she reached for the nearest canvas bag. Her heart raced and her ragged pulse beat at her throat as she fumbled with the drawstrings.

  Gold dust. Each bag was full to the seams with genuine gold. A fortune was hers. Tears blinded her as she considered what she must do next.

  Burdened by the heavy gold pouches that she hugged in her arms, Salome hurried to the van. The eastbound stage would soon be coming. Sidney could have the costume; she tore off the last veils. He could have the hated wig too, Salome threw it aside.

  She viciously brushed her own hair and studied the image in the mirror to be sure she was not dreaming. The animals, Jo Jo and Mohammed must go along with her on the stagecoach. She could not leave them for Sidney to abuse. She had danced her last dance and played her last role as an enticer of men’s dreams. And she’d given new life to one old man and his burro.

  Wash Day

  Her elbows dripping with sudsy water, Rhettia hoisted a pair of heavy sodden pants from the tub. The muscles between her slender shoulder blades complained as she tossed the soapy britches into the rinse tub.

  Hands on her hips, she arched her back to ease the dull ache at the base. The thin blouse that hugged her breasts was soaked down the front and the material strained against her nipples. She pushed back her wavy brown hair, then bent to remove another pair of pants.

  Horse hooves clumped on the hard ground in the alley. Rhettia paused. One rider—perhaps more—were coming up past her tall backyard fence. When they passed the place where the board was missing, she craned her head to see who it was.

  An iron gray horse entered her vision, the rider wearing a canvas duster. Her eyes widened as the man dismounted and opened the gate.

  “Ma’am,” he said in a very cultured sounding drawl. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but I need to check my horse’s shoe. Do you mind?”

  Too shocked to speak, she shook her head woodenly. He turned his back to her and raised the gray horse’s foot.

  She was curious about him, guessing his age to be mid-thirties. He was slender, under six foot tall. Because of the duster, she couldn’t see if he wore a side arm but the brass plate of a rifle glistened behind his stirrup.

  He seemed to hold the hoof up for a long time. Rhettia dried her hands on a rag as she waited for him to release it and straighten up. When she glanced down, she blinked in horror at the dark rings of her nipples and she quickly turned her back to him. Her face grew hot with embarrassment. What should she do to cover herself?

  “Ma’am?” the stranger asked quietly. “Could you spare me a tall drink of water?”

  She started to turn then noticed the shawl on the short line across the porch. She pulled it free by the corner and covered her shoulders, draping the ends over her breasts to conceal her exposure.

  “Yes,” she said. “I’ll get one from the house.”

  He thanked her and turned back to check his saddle. As she went indoors for his water, Rhettia wondered what the stranger did for a living.

  When she returned, he stood at the edge of the porch stoop. His good looks shocked her. He was very tanned with a strong lean face. She offered him a demure nod as she handed him the glass.

  “I certainly appreciate this. I’m sorry I’ve interrupted your work.”

  She watched him take a long swallow, his Adam’s apple moving smoothly.

  “I needed a break anyway.”

  “Yes, washing clothes is hard work.” He looked around the small yard. “I’ve never lived in town. Guess I never realized how crowded it was.”

  Rhettia wondered where he lived.

  “Thanks,” he returned the glass and dug in his shirt pocket, producing a silver dollar that he held out for her to take.

  Shocked at the idea of someone paying a dollar for a drink of water, she quickly refused his generosity. The stranger closed his hand over the dollar and walked away.

  Rhettia watched him gather his reins and slip them over the gray horse’s head. But he turned back before she could avert her eyes and his warm smile caused her to blush. He reined the horse around, then with a devilish laugh, he flipped the coin into her washtub.

  He looked right at her. “Jesse James always pays his debts.” Then like a gentleman touched the wide brim of his hat. “Have a good day, ma’am.”

  Jesse James? Rhettia’s breath caught in her throat. Numb, she watched him hold the gate open and nudge the horse with his heel into the alley.

  What was Jesse James doing in Minnesota? Should she warn the authorities? But he seemed so polite? All those stories about Jesse being a killer and outlaw, why this man must not have been the same one. With a shake of her head, she went back to her tubs. Reaching down in the water, she seined out the dollar from among the sunken clothes.

  Down the street, gunfire abruptly disrupted the quiet afternoon. Rhettia’s head jerked up as she listened to the distant shooting.

  Well, maybe the stories had been true after all. With a shrug, she put the dollar in her skirt pocket and bent back over the washtub.

  Bitter Wind

  The blue sky was all he could see. Cold seeped into Jake’s clothing. Lying on his back was why all he saw was the damn sky. If he turned, his cheek would be in the snow. Warm blood leaked out of the bullet hole in his side, soaked through his shirt into the fleece-lined jacket and puddled under his back.

  Too weak to rise, now, how much precious blood would he spill before he died? Fighting to remain conscious, he wondered if angels would come for him. Jake had seen such winged messengers. They were naked, painted on a canvas in the Silver Dollar Saloon. In his final hours on earth he’d like to see naked angels. Maybe they’d even hug him and make him warm again.

  Damn, he’d soon die out in the middle of no-where, ten miles west of Dodge. Jake Mahaffey would expire. His whole body shivered, just awful cold dying.

  No angels without clothes were coming for him. Who was he trying to fool? Not himself, certainly not some God he didn’t believe in, not in these last moments of his life, there would be no heavenly intervention for Jake Mahaffey.

  He needed a drink of whiskey. Liquor with a kick. Real fire water that would burn his throat going down; even heat his ears. Why didn’t some barkeep come by? He had money to pay him—lots of money.

  Jake thought of Thelma. Her voluptuous body spilling out of her satin undergarments standing before him. Two pillows for lips, the curve of her sensuous belly, the pleasure between her short legs. The notion warmed him more than the dead January sun overhead. If Thelma knew of his condition, she would cry and beg him not to die. He hoped she’d cry later, when she learned the news of his death. No one else would.

  Jake could barely remember his mother, a breed who sold her body to enlisted soldiers. The lowest form of a dove, she died of TB at a very young age. Her death left Jake on his own as a pre-teen.

  Vividly, Jake recalled the first man he’d ever shot. Silvan Cates, a broad shouldered bully with a matted beard, the breath of a gut eating dog and wearing dirt glazed buckskins. For no reason other than pure meanness, Silvan had
knocked the thirteen-year-old Jake to the ground, then kicked him, spat on him and called him the spawn of scum.

  It required two hours that day for Jake to steal a pistol. A cap and ball model, the Walker Colt was so heavy it took both of his hands to steady the muzzle. Jake strode into the sutler’s store. To keep the Colt concealed, he cocked the hammer back by his side. Quickly before the shock of recognition could warn Cates, Jake raised the revolver and aimed at the man’s heart. The shot blew Silvan Cates over backwards in his chair. There was a cloud of eye burning smoke and confusion in the room. Jake ran outside, stole Cates’ horse and fled Fort Laramie. From then on Jake lived by the gun and his wits.

  He preyed on the defenseless. The single traveler or an individual wagon on the trail became his victims. Jake robbed, raped, and murdered and he let the Indians have the blame.

  When his eyelids grew heavy, Jake shut them. At last he began to feel warm. Earlier that morning, he had trailed the Texan out of Dodge. Flush with cattle sales money, the soft spoken rancher looked like an easy target. Jake expected to enjoy a lush time all winter on the proceeds from this robbery and murder.

  But as life’s final ebb tide began to drain away, Jake managed to ask one last question aloud. “How in hell’s name could such a slow talker have been so damn fast with a gun?”

  The bitter wind answered him, but only Jake heard, then he died.

  California Jones

  Cal blinked his burning eyes, wondering if the haze of his hangover was distorting his vision. A woman stood at the foot of his bed and she definitely was not the usual sort of female that frequented his shack in Tucson’s shanty row. This particular gal wore a spotless starched dress She was a lady and he didn’t have the faintest notion what she was doing in his place.

  “California Jones?” she asked in a very cultured voice.

  Cal sat up straight on the bed and scowled in pained disbelief at her beauty.