Desperadoes

by Chris Scott Wilson

  His voice emerged harshly. “I want that son of a bitch just as much as you, but rushing it ain’t gonna get us nothing but dead,” he blurted before looking away, fighting to bring his temper under control. After a couple of seconds he said, “Aw, shit, I’m sorry, Sophie. I guess we’re both tired.”

  “It’s all right, Floyd…”

  Before she could say more, Jody and Billy came ambling along the boardwalk towards them. “Horses’re taken care of. Double L livery along the street. He’s graining ’em for us,” Billy said.

  “Good. They could use it. Tell you what, boys. We’ll check into a hotel then go get ourselves something to eat. After that I’ll buy you both a drink.”

  “A bottleful of it,” Jody crowed. “After that bone-dry trail I need it.”

  “You got it,” Floyd promised. “But right now I could eat me a steak as big as a saddle.”

  ***

  A Mexican cantina provided fare enough to fill their bellies to busting. Steaks, tortillas, tacos, enchiladas, tamales, and chilli. They ate at a small table in the corner of the spartan room. Floyd sat with his back to the wall, eyeing newcomers for a glimpse of the Sonora Kid. He knew his friend preferred the company of his countrymen, but he didn’t show.

  When the meal was over and the bartender brought over a pot of strong black coffee, Floyd stopped him leaving by placing a hand on his tray.

  “You know a man with a hook?”

  “Que? What?”

  Floyd made a claw with his right hand. “A steel hook like this. Gancho del acero. We are riding companions, hombres del monte, men of the country.”

  The man’s face was blank. “I do not know who you mean, Señor.”

  Floyd scowled. “Okay. Mil gracias, amigo, a thousand thanks friend.”

  As the bartender scuttled away Jody flung the remains of his whiskey down his throat then drew his gun. “Floyd boy, y’all shoulda shown him this.” He aimed at the Mexican’s back. “Damn tight mouth.”

  Floyd quickly reached across the table and knocked down Jody’s gun arm. “Put it away. Killing greasers ain’t gonna help us find the Kid.”

  “If you say so,” Jody sulked, unable to resist spinning his Colt back into its holster. “One Mex more or less don’t matter none to me.”

  Floyd dropped some coins on the table and came to his feet, holding onto Sophie’s arm. “Think it’s time we made us a tour of the saloons to see if the Kid’s around.”

  “You get along” Jody said, eyes straying across the room to where a dusky señorita in a low-cut dress was watching him with obvious interest. “I figure I’ve just picked up on something here.”

  Floyd followed Jody’s sightline as Billy stood up. He knew what Jody was like when he was in this kind of a mood. He would be like a cat worrying at a mouse. “We’ll see you back at the hotel, then. Just make sure you don’t pick up anything you don’t want.”

  “Sure,” Jody grinned cockily, giving the woman across the room the benefit of his flashing white teeth.

  Outside, Floyd turned towards the hotel. “Sophie, you go get some sleep. Me an’ Billy’ll make the rounds.”

  “I’m not tired,” she protested, although she was.

  “Honey, you could use it,” he said softly, squeezing her arm and guiding her towards the lobby. “Ain’t gonna be nothing but drinking and nosing ’round. Two men’re not as noticeable as two men with a pretty woman.”

  She dredged up the glimmer of a smile in return for the compliment. “Well, I guess I am worn out,” she admitted.

  “See you at breakfast,” Floyd promised with a wink. “We’ll know where we are by then.” As she disappeared through the doors they turned away, headed for the nearest saloon.

  “I don’t know a woman who could ride like she’s done these last few days,” Billy said.

  Floyd glanced sideways at him. “Me neither. She’s some kind of woman.” He peered at the batwing doors ahead. “Yes, she sure is,” he said, thinking of Mary, Sophie’s sister.

  They found no trace of the Kid anywhere. Discreet questions raised no answers. Folks in towns like Las Cruces were too used to turning a deaf ear, averting their eyes, and minding their own business. They even tried the cathouses. No luck there either. In the last saloon Floyd was reluctant to admit defeat.

  “The Kid’s gotta be somewhere,” he said edgily, eyes sweeping the room.

  Billy took a drink. “He’ll turn up. If not today, tomorrow.”

  “He’d better. What the hell am I gonna tell Sophie?”

  Billy smiled. “You’ll think of something.”

  “Will I?”

  “You always do.”

  Floyd glanced around the room again then looked at his half-empty glass. He just couldn’t seem to enjoy a drink tonight. He pushed it away through the slops on the bar top.

  “The hell with it, I’m going to grab some sleep. You coming? “

  Billy frowned. “No, I think I’ll stick ’round.”

  “Okay.”

  “You got any money, Floyd?”

  “Sure. Why?”

  Billy shrugged, embarrassed. “Well, back down the street, you know that last house we called at…” Floyd laughed and dug out a five-dollar bill from the rapidly depleting roll in his pocket. “Here, enjoy yourself.” He turned and left.

  After hanging his gun belt within easy reach on the bedpost next to the pillow in the hotel room, Floyd wearily pulled off his boots and pants then tossed his shirt onto the chair and climbed into bed. For an hour he tossed and turned, then gave up the fight and lit a cheroot. He lay on his back in the darkness, rolling the smoke around his mouth then blowing it at the ceiling.

  What were they going to do if they couldn’t find the Kid? They were fast running short of money, which meant they couldn’t afford to spend much time here. And what was he going to tell Sophie in the morning? She looked about ready to break now. If they didn’t turn up the Kid, and through him the route to the man in black, Floyd feared she would go crazy. And what if they found the Kid and he didn’t know who this man was?

  That one didn’t bear thinking about,

  He stubbed out the butt of the cheroot and put both his hands behind his head. Hell, what a mess. All they could do was wait and see what turned up tomorrow, and if nothing did, then start thinking hard about the future.

  He sighed in the darkness.

  There was a click.

  Floyd cocked his head, withdrawing his right hand from behind his head to grope blindly for the bedpost. His fingers brushed the holster leather then fastened around the Colt’s butt. A sliver of light appeared at the edge of the door. Carefully, he pulled the revolver clear then brought it around so it was aimed at waist-height toward the doorway.

  The wedge of light grew wider.

  Slowly, he eared back the hammer.

  A shadow moved in the open doorway.

  The hammer clicked, held on its spring.

  There was sharp intake of breath.

  “Another step and you’re a dead man,” Floyd warned, his voice loud in the stillness.

  There was a hiss of expelled breath. “Floyd, you scared me.”

  “Aw, shit,” he said, releasing the hammer and easing it carefully down onto the full chamber, “Honey, you scared me too.” He reached the pistol back to its holster. “Come on over, I’ll light the lamp.”

  “No,” she said quickly, then added in explanation, “I haven’t got my hat on. You’ll be able to see my scar.”

  He didn’t figure it was worth arguing about. “Whatever you say.”

  She padded to the bed and sat down on the edge. “I just couldn’t sleep.”

  “Me neither,” he admitted.

  “You find him?”

  He stayed silent, not knowing how to tell her they hadn’t unearthed one man who knew anybody with a hook. There didn’t seem to be an easy way to tell it. Each time he thought he’d found it, he opened his mouth then realized he was back at the hard line.

  Her voice
was soft in the dark, not carrying an accusation, just resignation. “You didn’t, did you?”

  No seemed about the least painful thing to say. “No, but honey, there’s tomorrow. We’ve only been in town a couple of hours. Give us a chance.” He felt the vibrations through the mattress and realized she was crying. “Hey Sophie, don’t.”

  Her breathing grew stilted, grabbed between sobs. “I-just-knew-it. We-won’t-find-the-Kid. We-won’t.”

  Floyd sat up next to her and enveloped her small shoulders in his strong arms, “Don’t cry, honey. Tomorrow’s another day.” She nestled into his shoulder and he could feel her warm flesh through the thin cotton nightgown. Her tears wet his bare chest and he did his best to ignore them. Crying as she was, she still felt good in his arms. Her fragility made him seem stronger somehow, her protector. Not that he was making such a good job of that.

  He turned to look over her head at the window and caught the scent of her hair. She must have taken a bath after she returned to the hotel. Her hair smelt fresh and he touched it in a gesture of tenderness. It was soft, silky. He wound a few strands around his fingers then released them. They were springy, bouncing back onto her shoulders. It reminded him of Mary.

  A fresh burst of sobs racked her. She turned her face up into his neck as though raising her face from his chest would stop the tears running downwards. Her hands went around his body, hugging him close.

  “It just seems so useless,” she murmured hopelessly. “Like we’ve come all this way for nothing.”

  “Don’t cry, honey. Please don’t cry. Everything’ll work out fine. Tomorrow, you’ll see. We’ll find him.”

  As she clung to him he became aware of her breasts against his ribs, soft and vulnerable beneath her nightgown. And her hip, pressing against his. She was warm too, a pleasant warmth that made her good to hold. She felt almost like Mary. Poor dead Mary. Absently, he began to stroke her hair like he would have comforted a frightened horse.

  After a few minutes her sobbing subsided. She still clung to him tightly as though reluctant to allow his strength to escape her need for reassurance. “Oh Floyd,” she sighed. “Thank God you’re here. If it weren’t for you, then…”

  “I’m here. It’s all right, honey,” he quieted her, fingertips brushing her damp cheek as she lifted her face from his neck.

  “Thank you, Floyd.” She kissed his cheek. Embarrassed, he nearly shrugged.

  Her lips moved to his for a second kiss. They met tentatively, sisterly somehow. He didn’t move or say anything, just enjoyed the soft embrace. When he offered no resistance, she kissed him again.

  That third kiss was less than sisterly.

  The fourth contained the stirrings of appetite.

  Floyd responded, pulling her even closer.

  The fifth was hungry.

  Floyd crushed her to him, his hands beginning to perform the ritual dance of caress.

  The sixth was dynamite.

  Floyd wasn’t quite sure how it happened, but somehow they were in bed together. She had shed her nightgown like a duck shucking water and now she was naked beside him. They explored each other. The crying childlike girl of a moment ago had disappeared, replaced by a full-grown woman who possessed all the needs and earthiness of her sex. Her hunger matched his. As their bodies came together, seeking, yearning, he forgot Mary altogether. Although she was Mary’s sister, Sophie was a completely different woman. Her own woman. All woman.

  And right then, he wanted her more than he had ever wanted any woman before.

  ***

  The Sonora Kid stood on the front porch savoring the first stillness of the morning before the sun succeeded in its daily climb to the summit of the sky. By then the land would be shriveling under its glare, a heaviness in a man’s bones that would make him reluctant to venture out of the shade.

  Absently, he raked his hook gently across his bare chest. The scratching was pleasant, a totally different sensation to Conchita’s nails urgently digging into his flesh. Ah, but she had been good last night. Both tender and aggressive as a woman should be when the fire was in her loins. And, he had to admit somewhat modestly, he had sated her desires quite adequately. Now she was at her hearth, the enticing aromas of tortillas and coffee wafting from the cabin behind him. He leaned a little more towards the doorway to enjoy it all the more.

  Ah, a good woman, a good breakfast, and a good day ahead.

  “Hey, you idle fat man! You going to stand there all day?”

  He was hurt. Idle he could accept, but fat? He glanced down at his stomach. It wasn’t so much of a lie. Where it had been hard and flat it was now proving the good food she had been feeding him in the last weeks had been more than ample for his needs.

  “Ah, my pretty one,” he sighed, ignoring her taunt, “I smell your delicious cooking. When do I sample it?”

  She stood, hands on hips in the open doorway, scowling. “No breakfast for you unless you earn your keep.”

  Earn his keep? Had she already forgotten the delights they had shared last night under the soft glow of the desert moon?

  “I need wood for the fire.”

  He smiled lazily. “My love, after breakfast I will cut all the wood you need. I will cut a veritable mountain…”

  “No wood, no breakfast. The axe is in the lean-to.” She turned away, abruptly terminating the conversation by slamming the door behind her.

  He stared at the peeling wood. He knew her well enough by now to know she meant what she said when she was in that kind of mood. Ah well, perhaps just a few logs…

  He hunted out the axe, testing the blade with his good hand. There was a pile of branches loosely stacked by the corral. Clucking at his horse in greeting, he pulled a short limb free and dragged it to the tree stump in the center of the yard that served as a chopping block.

  He placed it squarely on the stump, holding it with his hook.

  Mind you, Conchita had been getting a little edgy.

  He swung the axe. Chop.

  Maybe he was beginning to outstay his welcome.

  Chop.

  Maybe it was time to ride. He glanced at his horse wandering around the corral restlessly. It looked fit and well fed.

  Chop.

  The axe struck sparks from his steel hook. Close, too close. It looked like he was getting too well fed himself. All the hard edges were wearing off. If a man let himself settle too much he began to get careless.

  Chop.

  He hated using an axe. For one thing it raised blisters, and if there’s one thing that’s no use to a man who uses a gun regularly, it’s blisters. Makes the gun feel all wrong, the butt uncomfortable. Hammers too, they were likely to do the same. He paused in his chopping to study the buildings. They were of adobe, sun-dried brick, a house and a barn and of course there was the corral. And all of them needed repairs.

  The Kid frowned. Axes and hammers and tar brushes. All of them bad news. He repressed a shudder.

  Chop.

  His hand felt sore already. Maybe it was time to ride. After all, he could always come back in a couple of months, and by then she’d be real pleased to see him…

  “Hey, come and eat. Enough.”

  He paused to survey the scattered pile of sticks he had cut during his reverie. The number surprised him. Come to think of it, his armpits were damp with sweat. Santa Maria, a few logs and he was sweating already. Another bad sign. Yes, the time had definitely come to move on. He swung the axe into the tree stump with an air of finality and left it. At the bucket by the door he swilled his face before going inside.

  When he sat down on the stool she slid a plateful of hot tortillas in front of him and poured a big tin mug of fragrant coffee. He took a bite and the thin oven cake collapsed on his tongue. He finished it off then sipped the steaming black coffee. He had no idea how she did it, but it tasted better than any coffee he had ever had.

  “Delicious, my flower of the desert,” he said appreciatively, blowing her a kiss from his fingertips. She smiled and came
to stand behind him, bending and wrapping her arms around his shoulders so that her face was next to his. What with the aroma of the food and coffee, and now he could smell her too, a rich woman smell that filled his mind with erotic images. And against his back he could feel her fat breasts pressing with a softness that was irresistible.

  What if he did have to cut a little wood? That wasn’t so bad, was it? She more than made up for the sharpness of her tongue by the comforts she provided. Ah, what the hell, he would ride another day. Just a little longer.

  She kissed his cheek and then went back to the hearth. He watched her with a smile as he ate the rest of the tortillas. When his mug was empty, almost telepathically she turned and refilled it, face glowing from the fire. He drank it then lit a cheap cigar.

  “Do you have many bullets?”

  He frowned. Of course he had bullets. What man of his kind would be without them? “Si, preciosidad, I have bullets. Why do you ask?”

  “We are short of meat. But out in the chaparral there are many jackrabbits.”

  He grinned expansively. “Say no more words, it is done.” He sucked at the wet end of the cigar, coaxing it to stay alight. “I shall need water. It will be hotter than hell out there.”

  “Here,” she said, holding out his canteen. “Fresh and cold from the well.”

  He snorted, catching on. “And when did you fill it?”

  “This morning, before you cut the wood,” she smiled.

  “Ah, but of course. I would have expected nothing less from you, querida, my ladylove.”

  ***

  It was growing unbearably hot out in the chaparral. The Kid hoisted the dead rabbit into the air and skewered its ears with his hook before setting off for a fresh spot. Nothing would show up around there for a while. He walked for five minutes then picked the shade of a tall cactus. He tossed the dead rabbit out of the way then sat down and jammed the canteen between his thighs so he could unscrew the cap with his good hand. He rinsed out his mouth and spat into the sand, then drank.