He turned from the mirror and took a peek through the washroom window. Night had fallen, the streets lay shrouded in darkness. From the saloons came random shouts of drunkards. What he should do was go back to his room and sleep. He knew that often times a man’s problems were solved in a dreamstate. Maybe his would be solved tonight.
He checked the rounds in his revolver, then reholstered it. He brushed his shirt, though it held no wrinkles, placed his hat over his head and eased open the washroom door. No sooner did he open it than he swung it nearly shut again and pressed his ear to the crack. Voices from the hotel lobby drifted down the hallway.
‘I didn’t check anyone in by that description,’ came the hotel clerk’s voice. ‘Then again, he might have arrived at night. I generally work the day shift.’
‘Well Earl says a goddamn injun shown up two days ago looking just like the one that busted through the Acropolis window a couple weeks back. The one chasing after Big Tom’s woman. He left his horse in the livery and he ain’t picked it up yet.’
‘Like I say, I didn’t check him in.’
‘Look in the goddamn register then. We been to every hotel in town and this here’s the last. Big Tom will have our hides if we don’t track this feller down.’
‘What’s the name?’ asked the clerk.
‘I don’t know his goddamn name. Some injun name. Hell, just read the names off the ledger and tell us who’s here.’
After a pause the clerk said, ‘There are only two guests at the moment.’
‘Who?’
‘Joe, room six…’
‘Joe who?’
‘That’s all the register says.’
‘That ain’t no indian.’
‘Could be him,’ came a third voice. ‘No last name.’
‘Could be. Who else?’
‘Ladislav Toth, room two.’
A hand slapped the reception counter. The sound echoed down the hallway to the washroom door.
‘That’s gotta be him,’ said the first man.
‘Sounds like a Slovak name to me,’ said the other.
‘Well it’s either him or that Joe fella. We’ll check one, then the other.’
Joe eased the washroom door closed. He spun to the window and slid it open, put his hands over the ledge and in a hop had half his torso through the opening. He pushed himself forward, ribs scraping the sill, stomach through, hips over, and landed suddenly on the ground, then rolled to his feet and ran down the outside wall of the hotel, counting the windows as he did. At the sixth window he stopped and grasped the frame. The stiles wiggled in their casings but finally gave, stuttering upward until the glass was cracked open enough to squeeze through. He entered this window the same as he’d exited the last, and from his room he grabbed his saddlebags, chucked them out the open window, and dove back outside after them.
A moment later he walked in darkness. He avoided the main drag where lanterns hung from saloon doors and drunken miners sucked at pewter mugs. Instead he circled around to the rear of town where the desert hugged the backsides of buildings and the only few miners he passed were those stumbling back to where they slept in pitched canvas tents strewn haphazardly in the sand.
At the backside of the Acropolis he stopped with his shoulders tight against the wall. After a moment he eased the saddlebags to the ground. He checked both sides of the alleyway before disappearing inside it.
The saloon’s clapboard siding presented no obstacle. He’d scaled more difficult surfaces in his life, and two nights ago he’d climbed the very same wall in under a minute. He raised both hands, hooked his fingers over a panel and pulled himself up, his feet searching for footholds and finding them. From the street resounded the boom of drunken laughter. A lone shot cracked and echoed and died. Joe froze, continued up. His heart shoved blood into his throat but he knew of no way to calm it. Clutched to the wall like a lizard, he realized for a moment what a fool he was, but he had no choice in the matter.
He worked his boot toes along the clapboard, his fingertips biting into a half-inch edge of plank, all the way to the front where her window waited. All was dark, he couldn’t make out anything inside. If Big Tom was around…
He tapped at the window.
It opened a moment later like she’d been waiting there all along. He felt her hands at his elbow, helping him along, guiding him over the ledge and into the darkness of her room where she whispered his name and drew him against her and met his lips with hers.
He wanted that kiss to last forever. He feared it might be their last, but he pulled away and told her what he’d overheard.
‘What do you want to do?’ she whispered in his ear.
Joe shook his head but she couldn’t see it. ‘I have to get out. They’ll kill me if they find me. I’ll wait for Balum, and when he gets here…’
‘It will be too late.’
‘How?’
‘Big Tom will take me away. He’ll hide me somewhere, he’ll put guards up, you’ll never find me.’
‘I’ll find you.’
‘No,’ her voice firm in the darkness. She gripped his arms. ‘It has to be now.’
Joe felt his heart catch. ‘There’s nowhere to run to.’
‘There is! We’ll go to the cliff houses in the Scarlands.’
An image flashed through Joe’s mind. Not of the Scarlands, for although he’d heard of them he’d never seen them. But of other cliff dwellings, carved from towering rock faces — the homes of the ancient ones.
‘How far away are they?’
‘Three days on horseback.’
A wave of rebuttals a hundred strong came charging to Joe’s mind, but the gates to logic were shut tight. They attempted to squirm in anyhow; lack of water, of food, of ammunition, the fact that once they got there they would be trapped, the desert itself, and on and on, but his enamored heart fought them off.
Only one snuck through.
‘Do you have a horse?’ he asked.
‘No.’
‘We can’t make it. There’s no way, not on one horse.’ But even as he said it she was gone from him, moving in swishes around the room. He heard a drawer open, heard her remove something, heard the sounds of her nightgown coming off and other clothing replacing it, and then she was against him again.
‘I’m ready.’
It was all he needed.
In one leap he was through the window and in the street. She came falling after, trusting completely that he would catch her, and the two ran into the alley, grabbed the saddlebags, and fled hand in hand into the darkness.
4
After the old man and his nag disappeared over the bowl edge, Balum unscrewed the canteen cap and took another swallow. A drop only — he would need that water something fierce over the next couple days. The woman behind him said nothing. He could feel her eyes on him as he drank, and when he pulled the canteen away he took his time with the cap to allow himself a moment to think.
He wanted no part of her. He had helped her plenty already and he had no desire to chaperone a woman over the desert. Joe was waiting for him up ahead. He needed speed.
He lowered the canteen and turned around and there she was, standing alongside her overburdened cart. Her mind clearly assessing him. It occurred to Balum that for all she knew she might have traded one tribulation for something far worse. He could only imagine what she saw. Balum knew the effect he had on people. A big man, wide in the shoulders, large hands made rough by years of work. A face scarred by weather and by hardship, the skin darkened by the sun. It stretched over a thick jaw, heavy cheekbones, and a nose broken several times over.
He held the canteen away from his body and the other hand turned palm forward as one would to a frightened dog, and bowed his head. It was the best he could do. After a moment he stepped forward and saw her shoulders tighten. He paused.
‘Ma’am,’ he said, ‘you got no more reason to be afraid of me than I do of you.’
‘What do you mean by that?’ she said.
‘I’m guessing you’re short on water. And you see what I’ve got here in my hand,’ he gave the canteen a shake. ‘The desert has a way of turning folks nasty once water runs scarce.’
She didn’t respond. Only held the shawl in place where her dress had been torn and let her eyes move from his head down to his boots, pausing a moment on the gunbelt.
He hadn’t taken a good look at her before, and what he saw was a woman covered head to toe in desert dust. It clung heavy to her face. Here and there the sweat cut through, which left dark rivulets like burnmarks running down her cheeks and throat and disappearing beneath the neckline. She wouldn’t be over thirty, yet the dress she wore was from times long past. Heavy and drab. How she hadn’t collapsed yet beneath so many layers of thick fabric he had no idea.
‘Am I right about the water?’ he said.
She raised her chin an inch. A defiant gesture.
‘I had plenty on the first crossing.’
‘You crossed this desert once already?’
‘I certainly did. To San Antonio to purchase supplies, and now my horse has slowed.’ After Balum gave no response she conceded. ‘It appears the water may not be enough.’
‘What sort of supplies?’ he asked.
‘Medical supplies. I work with Doctor Friedman in Tin City.’
Neither the name of the doctor nor the name of the town meant anything to Balum. ‘Is that where you’re headed?’ he asked.
‘It is. And you, sir?’
‘There’s a silver town up ahead.’
‘A silver town?’
‘Mining,’ he said. ‘Silver mining. It’s one of them boomtowns that pop up overnight. A disordered mess, mostly.’
‘Why, that’s Tin City!’
‘Is that what it’s called?’
‘Of course.’
‘That’s news to me.’
Her eyes narrowed some. ‘You’re a miner?’
Balum took a moment to answer. She was starting to probe. Exactly what he didn’t need.
‘No,’ he said.
‘What brings you to Tin City then?’
‘I’ve business to attend to.’
Her eyes narrowed further. Her mouth tightened. ‘Business?’ she repeated the word like it harbored a foul taste within it.
‘That’s right, private business. And I’d like to keep it private.’
‘Hmph,’ she gave her head a shake. ‘Well are you going to offer me a drink or aren’t you?’
‘Ma’am...’ he started.
‘Ms. Wilsey. Josephine Wilsey.’
‘Ms. Wilsey,’ he began again, but again she interrupted.
‘And you sir? Do you have a name, or would you like to keep that private as well and force me to continue addressing you as sir, clear to Tin City?’
Heat rose up inside Balum. Heat not caused by the sun, which had nearly set over the western ridge. He put a hand to his jaw, let his fingers run over the stubble. He had not yet offered to accompany her, yet it was clear if he did not, then she would die of thirst in the desert. Clear to him anyway.
‘The name’s Balum.’
‘Balum.’
‘That’s right, and before you go spouting off any more questions, I’ll ask you one. Do you have any idea what kind of a mess you’ve gotten yourself into?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘The only water between here and that boomtown — at the rate you’re traveling — is a desert stream that cuts through a gorge of caliche rock, and that’s four days away. Until then all we’ve got is this canteen and another two on my horse. That’s enough to get me though, but nowhere near enough for all of us. We drink it up now and we’ll be dead before we reach water.’
‘Then what do you propose?’
‘Most of this water I’ll save for the horses. If they die we die.’ He glanced at the sunset and back at the woman. ‘Sun is down, the heat’s gone. Now’s the time to travel.’
‘Now?’ Her voice rose an octave.
‘That’s right. Now. I’m going to hitch my horse alongside yours, and with both of them pulling we might make it to water in three days instead of four.’
She drew several long breaths through her nose and seemed about to respond, but Balum had lost the patience to hear it. He turned his back and marched to where the roan stood and led the horse to the front of the cart where he unhooked the shaft and traces and backed it in with a few gentle commands. The ease with which the horse complied settled his nerves some. That was one thing he was lucky to have: the roan. Through good times and bad, that horse would stick.
It took not ten minutes to ready the oxcart. When he finished he stepped to the front and was about to start the horses forward when Josephine Wilsey approached the driving bench and lifted a foot to the ladder step.
‘Oh no you don’t,’ he said. His voice hurtled through the vast emptiness of the desert at dusk.
‘Don’t what?’
‘We’re not adding another pound to that cart. Those two animals are about to be put through hell, and I’m not going to make it any worse on them.’
She stood still for a moment, chin lifted, mouth puckered up, but Balum was right and she knew it.
‘Very well,’ she conceded. ‘Although I’ll ask you to watch your language. You’re in the presence of a lady.’
Balum hooked a finger from each hand through the bits, and the two horses fell in line behind him. He got them walking to a pace he felt was optimal, then let go his hold and marched beside the roan on the opposite side of the cart as Josephine.
He looked up once at the fading pink horizon and the few stars beginning to glimmer so far out in the distance, then dropped his eyes again. Three days, he told himself. Three days of hell, alright.
5
By the time the sky began to lighten in the east, Balum felt as though each foot weighed sixteen pounds. A fine layer of dust covered his tongue and throat. His eyes sat heavy in their sockets. His head throbbed. About the only positives he could come up with was that he was still alive, the roan was still alive, and Josephine Wilsey, by some stroke of good fortune, had kept silent all through the night.
Time to time he glanced back at her. She was so quiet he thought more than once she might have simply fallen over and given up. But each time he turned his head he saw her marching along on the other side of the oxcart, burdened down as she was in her oversized dress, hair hanging in tangled strings from her bonnet, the dust glowing white in the starlight so that she appeared some object of fantasy, a ghostly creature trudging through a parched and crooked landscape.
As the sky lightened so did the land. Balum rubbed his eyes and looked ahead. They needed to rest the horses, let them sleep, but for that they needed shade. With the sunrise the heat would return. In three hours the sand would be hot enough to feel through his boots. He walked on. The sun’s rays struck their small party. They hurled long shadows out before the cart and horses and lit up stands of nopales that stood prickly and plate-shaped over the smaller yucca and cholla. When he spotted out in the distance a crag of stone heaved up and curved at the tip like the fingernail of a gypsy woman, he swung a hand out to the roan and tugged, and the roan turned with him.
‘Bal — ’ Josephine croaked behind him. She coughed and tried again. ‘Balum. What are you doing?’ Her voice had the rasp of a woman stricken with consumption.
He didn’t answer, just raised an arm to the outcropping.
It was farther than he’d thought. And smaller. Or maybe their pace was so ponderous and his vision so blurred that he misjudged it. By the time they reached it the sun was a flaring demon above them, and sweat ran down Balum’s neck so fiercely he thought he might wring his shirt out and drink from it. The shade it offered was enough for two horses, no more. He guided them into it. Josephine crossed her arms over the side of the cart and dropped her forehead into the crook of her elbows and stood panting at the ground while the sun cooked the back of her head.
It took time to unhitch the team.
Balum’s fingers seemed dumb and cumbersome, but finally he freed them from the pole shafts. He wanted nothing more than to lay down and drink, but instead he twisted open his canteen and wet a rag and sponged out the animals’ mouths. Their ferocity surprised him. They craned their necks and barred their teeth and slurped greedily at the water, two crazed animals fighting for the last drops of the rag.
After he’d given them all he dared, he tipped the canteen to his lips and drank only enough to wet his throat, then circled the cart and touched Josephine by the elbow. She raised her head from the crook of her arm and accepted the canteen. Only a slosh remained. She drank it, then looked up at him confused.
‘That’s all?’ she said.
‘That’s all for now. We’ve got two days ahead of us and two canteens to make it on.’
Josephine turned her head slowly around. She stared at her surroundings as if she were surprised to find herself there.
‘Why,’ she said, ‘there’s hardly enough shade for the horses. What about us?’
Balum nodded at the oxcart. ‘There’s enough.’
He sank to his knees, removed his hat, then crawled under the bottom boards and stretched out on his back. The temperature was easily twenty degrees lower in the shade. He sighed and gave a half-smile, felt sleep begin to cascade over him, refreshing and beckoning and holding within it the promise of rejuvenation, when Josephine Wilsey’s voice jarred him from it.
‘What about me?’ She knelt in the sand beside the oxcart and tilted her face so she could see Balum where he lay just beneath the boards.
‘Well don’t just sit there and cook in the sun,’ growled Balum. ‘Crawl in here and get some rest.’
‘You can’t be serious.’
‘Ms. Wilsey — ’
‘How dare you suggest such a thing. Crawl in and lie down beside you. Why I only just met you. The very idea.’
Balum didn’t move. He was comfortable lying there on his back in the shade, and he didn’t much give a damn what she did. He turned his head away and closed his eyes and mumbled, ‘You do what you’re of a mind to, ma’am.’
Balum's Harem Page 2