by Kurt Barker
Blackshot waited until the echoes of the hooves faded, and then turned his horse toward the opposite side of the hill and spurred it onward. Sooner or later the men would figure out that they had lost the quarry and retrace their steps, and Blackshot intended to be far away by that time.
Mrs. Turpin struggled to move on his lap. “Stop! I'm getting sick!” she moaned. “I gotta sit up!”
Blackshot slid an arm around her waist and helped her to pull herself upright. She sat sideways on his lap with her thin arms wrapped tight around him and her cheek pressed to his broad chest. They rode this way in silence across the fields until they reached the well-worn trail that led south from Hammer Creek. The fire still raged over the remains of the Turpin house, and glowed like an untimely sunrise over the treetops behind them.
“I hope it don't reach town,” the girl mumbled into Blackshot's shirtfront.
“I reckon they'll stop it,” Blackshot replied. “And if anything gets burned down they can just dust off the old stone hammer and build it up again.”
The girl looked up at him quizzically. “Old stone hammer? What are you talking about?”
“The old stone hammer that the pioneers found when they settled here. That's why they called it Hammer Creek.”
She laughed. “That ain't so. The town's named after Rudolf Hammer, the fella that built the old inn by the river bank. His son still runs the saloon in town. Who told you that story about the hammer?”
“Nevermind,” Blackshot said. He knew there was no point in cussing a man who was already dead, but he did anyway.
Chapter 7
“Can't we stop yet?” the girl asked, after they had put several miles between themselves and Hammer Creek. “I'm tired as hell.”
“We can stop when we get to Battler's Falls,” Blackshot replied.
“Battler's Falls? Why are we going there?”
“You know the place?”
“No, never heard of it that I can remember. What's in Battler's Falls?”
“Maybe the money those men are after. One of your husband's, uh... acquaintances said he talked about going there, like it was a regular place he stayed.”
“Never said nothing to me about it.”
They rode in silence for a while. Finally Blackshot said, “What's your name, anyway?”
“Linda. Linda Reuben before I was Linda Turpin.”
“That's a pretty name, Linda.”
Linda blushed a little. “What did you say your name was again? With everything else I been thinking about it kinda got pushed out of my mind.”
“Tom Blackshot.”
“That's a nice name, too.”
“Thanks for not calling it pretty.”
Linda giggled, then stopped. “I thought you said Clem hid the money in the house; now you're thinking it's in this other town, Battler's Falls?”
“Those boys didn't seem to be worried about burning the money up,” Blackshot said. “I figure it must be in some kind of an iron chest or maybe it's silver reals or something that won't burn too easily. I reckoned you'd have noticed if Clem had left something like that in that little house. Unless he buried it- did he ever dig up the floor?”
“No, never. He wasn't around much, really. And he surely never came home with no chest full of silver. It was rare enough that he brought any money home at all. Sometimes it was powerful hard to make do. He could be such a bastard....”
Tears welled up in her eyes and Blackshot felt her arms tighten around him. He wondered again how a beautiful young woman like this had ended up with a man twice her age, and a no-account sort of man at that. He supposed that this sort of thing happened often enough, especially in a hard land like the West, where the harsh realities of living sometimes drove folks to trade one problem for another just to survive. Linda's golden ponytail brushed his shoulder as it swayed with the movement of the horse, and the swell of her full breasts bulged from her sweat soaked shirt and pressed warm against his stomach. Blackshot shook his head; he's probably never understand it.
The sun was slowly emerging from the dusky line of the horizon when the black roofs of Battler's Falls came into view. Linda had fallen asleep against Blackshot's chest and the stumbling gait of the horse told him that it was just about to follow suit. Blackshot himself was feeling tired and sore, and the sweat that had drenched his clothes had dried to a chilly damp stiffness, making him long for the warm bath he had left not twenty four hours before.
Battler's Falls was a sleepy little town in a fertile valley surrounded by tall cliffs from which descended the waterfall that gave the town its name. About five years prior someone struck gold in the cliffs and overnight the little village became a raucous, crowded boom town. Trees were cleared, dozens of shacks were erected all through the valley, the saloon doubled then tripled in size, men chopped through the cliffs in search of gold, men gambled and drank and whored their gold away, men fought in the streets with fists and knives and guns, boot hill doubled then tripled in size, and then it was over. The vein played out in less than a year, and the town emptied out like a man shaking the sand out of his boot. Battler's Falls was once again a sleepy little town, albeit one littered with abandoned shacks and empty houses, and once well-traveled streets that had been reclaimed by weeds and grass.
Blackshot weaved through the maze of dilapidated houses with their dark windows, monuments to a dead hope of fortune, the horse's hooves echoing loudly in the silent streets. Eventually the main street appeared, and Blackshot pulled the roan to a stop in front of the great dark hulk of the saloon. Most of it had been boarded up with only a small room remaining operational, and even that was closed at this hour.
Linda woke as they stopped and Blackshot helped her to the ground and went to look for the sheriff's office, glad to be finally stretching his stiff legs. The inquiries they made turned up similar results to those Blackshot had found in Hammer Creek; Clem Turpin was known and liked by the locals, despite various minor scraps and swindles, and having spent a few nights behind bars.
When he was not a guest of the law, Clem Turpin was known to stay at the house of a woman known in town only as “Conchita”. She had come with the gold rush, but had stayed when it was over. She lived in a cottage on the outskirts of town and operated a sort of “lodging house”; for a small fee men could spend some time inside Conchita's house, or for a larger fee they could spend some time inside Conchita.
As Clem Turpin's association with Conchita was echoed by each person they asked, Linda became increasingly sullen and withdrawn. When they had returned to the saloon, she stuck a cigarette between her lips and tried to strike a match against the hitching post in front of the building. It refused to light, and she threw it angrily to the dirt and stamped it with her foot.
“Shit! Shit! Shit!” she seethed, spitting the cigarette into the dust at her feet and kicking it away in a hail of dust.
“Easy there,” Blackshot said, pulling her close with an arm around her shoulder. “I know this is hard on you, but this is the hand we've been dealt. We just have to push on and make the best of it.”
“No, it's alright,” Linda muttered, “I figured it, y'know. I figured he fooled around with other women, it's just....”
There was movement from inside the saloon and the shutters over the window were pulled back by a round-faced man with a bulbous red nose. “Wait for me in the saloon,” Blackshot said, “I have to go talk to this Conchita woman, and I'll meet you back here afterwords.”
“I ain't gonna sit around here. I'm gonna come with you,” Linda replied, her chin set firmly. “I want to meet the bitch.”
Blackshot was about to respond when the door to the saloon opened and the round-faced man came out, tying a soiled apron around his prodigious waist. “Hey there!” he called, “You're the folks looking for Clem Turpin, ain'tcha?”
“That's us.”
“He's a popular man all of a sudden!” the saloon keeper laughed. “There was some other fellers asking about Clem just befo
re you got here! Headed up to Conchita's, I reckon, although I don't suppose Clem's up there at the moment. Still, if they're disappointed, Conchita's pretty good at making men forget about that sorta thing!” He winked at Blackshot in exaggerated fashion.
He chuckled as he walked back inside the bar, thinking idly of Conchita's charms and did not notice how quickly the visitors jumped onto the horse and sped away.
Chapter 8
The little house with whitewashed timbers came suddenly into view as the horse rounded a stand of trees by the roadside, and Blackshot saw three horses standing near the open front door. He pulled the reins sharply and brought his horse to a stop behind the trees. He did not want the sound of the horse's hooves to reach the house; the element of surprise might be the difference between life and death.
Blackshot slid down from the saddle and drew the Colts from their holsters. “Stay back and stay low,” he hissed to Linda, and stole across the yard to the house.
A line of bright flowering sage made an inviting purple border around the property, now partly trampled and uprooted by the horses. From the open door Blackshot heard the sounds of glass breaking and splintering wood, and a woman's voice cried out in pain. He flattened himself against the wall and leaned around the doorpost for a look inside.
The interior of the house looked like a whirlwind had run through it; a round wooden table was overturned by the door and a beaded vase lay beside it in a pool of water with fresh-cut flowers strewn all around it. Chairs were overturned, their neatly-sewn cushions ripped apart, glass dishes that had stood displayed on the mantle lay in shards on the floor, and even the woven curtain that covered the door to the bedroom had been torn from the heavy oak rod that hung above the door.
There was a large wooden table in the center of the room, and two men stood on either side of it. Between them, lying naked on her back atop the table was a beautiful young woman, cinnamon skinned with flowing brown locks and voluptuous breasts that shook and bounced on her chest as she struggled against the hands that held her down. The torn remnants of her clothes lay beneath her on the table; tears stained her cheeks and her plump lips glistened with blood.
The man that stood at her head brought the back of his hand slashing across her mouth, sending fresh blood streaming down her chin. He was tall and broad-shouldered with a shaggy blond beard and a buckskin shirt.
“This ain't gonna get any better, bitch!” he snarled. “Tell us where he hid it! We know it's here!”
“I don't know!” the woman wailed. “Please! I don't have it!”
“You're just making it harder on yourself!” the blond man growled, shaking her head violently by a fistful of hair. Through the doorway behind him came a loud crash and more breaking glass from the bedroom. “We'll find it sooner or later; we'll tear the whole damn house apart if we got to, and you'll be next if you don't start talking!”
“I know how to get her attention,” the second man said. He was burly and bald headed, with an unkempt beard. He forced his way between the woman's firm brown legs until his hips were pressed against the curve of her buxom ass, and began to loose his belt with one hand. “I heard a lot about this Conchita girl, and I figure it'd be a shame to ride all the way out here and not try her out for ourselves!”
The blond man laughed, but then the laughter cut off sharply and his hand fumbled for the gun at his side. His partner stared at him, confused, but an instant later a gun roared from the doorway and a bullet plowed through the blond man's forehead, sending him reeling back into the bright red blotch of blood on wall behind him before falling to the floor as limp as a rag doll.
The bald man struggled to untangle himself from Conchita's legs, unable to reach his own gun with his pants around his knees. Blackshot gripped his throat with a strong hand and hurled him to the floor; The man let out a piercing scream as the broken glass that littered the floor cut into his bare ass and legs.
“Don't feel too bad about it,” Blackshot said, driving the heel of his boot into the man's exposed balls, “You wouldn't have been able to get her attention with that little twig anyway.”
Just then, the man in the other room burst through the door, stumbling over the blond man's legs as did. “Son of a bitch!” he cried as he took in the scene in front of him, and lunged back through the door, pulling out his pistol from the holster at his waist.
Blackshot sent a slug smacking into his hip, spinning him sideways on his toes like a ballerina. His moment of unintentional gracefulness was cut short however, as two more bullets ripped through his chest and he fell lifeless on the broken bed with blood trailing onto the floor beneath it.
The bald man was doubled over in pain on the floor, trying vainly to reach the pistol in the holster around his ankles. Blackshot walked over to him casually.
“Don't worry, I didn't forget about you,” he said. The oak curtain rod was in his hand and he slung it with all his might into the bald man's head. The man collapsed back to the floor, and a second blow crushed his skull and sent blood flowing from his ears and pooling about his head.
Blackshot cast the rod onto the man's body, then turned to look for Conchita. She was nowhere to be seen in the room, but he heard her sobbing voice from outside. At the door, he saw Linda kneeling in the grass, her face ashen and her arms around Conchita whose face was buried in the blonde girl's bosom. Blackshot picked up the tablecloth that lay crumpled by the door as he came outside, and handed it to Linda who wrapped it around Conchita's naked back. He went back inside and dragged the bodies of the men into the bedroom then motioned Linda to bring the other woman in.
Linda guided Conchita through the door and helped her into a chair that Blackshot had turned upright. She wiped the blood from her mouth with the hem of the tablecloth, and looked up at the strangers with teary eyes.
“Are they gone?” she asked softly.
“Gone for good,” Blackshot replied. “Are you okay?”
“Yes, you saved me. Gracias to you! To you both!” She clasped Linda's hand in hers, but the other girl pulled it away and stood back from her. Then she turned and began to pick up furniture and put things in order, keeping her head down to avoid the puzzled stare from Conchita and the exasperated look from Blackshot.
“Do you know a man named Clem Turpin?” Blackshot asked.
At the mention of that name, Conchita's eyes lit up. “Oh, Papi! Are you friends of Papi! Is he here?”
“No, he ain't coming!” Linda snapped, sitting the vase down on the table with a loud thump.
“That's one of his gifts to me,” Conchita beamed, indicating the vase. “My Papi is so sweet!”
“I'll bet you get a lot of gifts from men,” Linda scowled.
The meaning of her words was not lost on Conchita, who smiled at the other woman, tossing her hair defiantly. “Yes, many gifts,” she said haughtily. “My house is full of them. I will receive many more to replace the ones that are broken.”
Before Linda could answer, Blackshot cut in. “Did he give you anything recently? Maybe a metal box? Something with money in it?”
Conchita looked up sharply at him. “What's going on?” she demanded, “Where is Papi?”
“I hate to be the one to tell you this, but Clem Turpin was killed yesterday,” Blackshot said.
“No! No, you lie!” Conchita screamed, gripping the arm of the chair.
“I'm sorry, I wish it was a lie.”
“No! No! Poor Papi!” she cried, bursting into tears. She pressed the tablecloth to her face, sobbing uncontrollably. “Poor, poor Papi! It's not true!”
Linda's eyes were glassy with tears, too, and she put a comforting hand on the other woman's shoulder. “I guess he got to be more than just a client, huh?” she mumbled.
“Client?!” Conchita glared up at her angrily. “He was my husband!”
Chapter 9
Blackshot tried to stifle the swearword that rose to his lips, but it came out anyway in a shout. Conchita looked up at him, confused, but before he could
say anything to explain Linda burst out, “That's a lie, you dirty whore!”
Anger flared in Conchita's eyes. “Who do you think you are?” she bristled. “Get out of my house, you loco bitch!”
“Who do I think I am??” Linda screamed, “I'm Clem's wife! He was my husband, not yours, you filthy slut!”
“You are the liar!” Conchita shot back. She held up her hand and pointed to her ring finger, which bore the cheapest looking tin ring Blackshot had ever seen. “Look, bitch! What do you say to that?”
Linda thrust her hand up to Conchita's face and pointed at the equally dismal ring on her finger. “I say look at this! I'm his wife-- his real wife! I don't know what your game is, but you can forget it! My Clem would never marry a used-up tramp like you!”
Conchita slapped Linda's hand away and jumped to her feet, not bothering to hold the tablecloth closed across her chest. She brought her face within an inch of Linda's, her voluminous bare breasts pressed against the full curve of the other girl's chest.
“Is that right, little bitch girl?” she snarled, “You think a man wants a baby brat princess instead of a real woman? You fuck off out of my house, bitch, or I teach you what a real woman can do to a little girl!”
Blackshot stepped between them and pushed them apart, just as Linda was about to raise her hands toward Conchita. “That's enough of that!” he barked. “You've got no cause to be fighting each other! If Clem Turpin did some double dealing, then that's his wrong. Each of you was just as much in the dark as the other, so let's work this out calmly.”
Conchita stepped back, folding her arms across her chest. “Fine, it's no matter to me,” she said. “I know what we had together. We were deeply in love.”
Linda glowered at her but said nothing. Finally she turned her back and walked away, lighting a cigarette. “Yeah, whatever,” she muttered. “Let's get out of here, okay? I wanna go.”
