by Dirk Hawkman
Eli drew into Desolation in the early afternoon. There were only a few individuals around. Most of the town were likely sleeping off their hangovers. Gently trotting horseback along the stony high street, Eli’s nape prickled. It was as if he was riding through a forest riddled with coyotes hidden in the bushes. Dozens of unseen eyes were studying this stranger, guessing whether he would be an opportunity or a threat.
Eli dismounted and hitched his ride to the rails outside the saloon. The bar would be a good place to start: bartenders heard everything. Entering the saloon, he found only a handful of customers. Their eyes darted to measure up the stranger who had walked through the batwings. There was little chatter as Eli approached the bar.
‘What can I get you, stranger?’ Suzanne was long accustomed to the ways of violent and deceitful men. This visitor to her bar was different, though. There was something about the man’s comportment that suggested strength and dedication. She had also noticed him surreptitiously scanning her saloon like a hovering hawk. This was not a man to be trifled with.
‘Just a beer, barkeep.’ Eli would have preferred to keep a clear head, but supping lemonade or merely water in such an establishment was laughably naïve.
Eli did not want any undue attention. As Suzanne served his drink, though, the prickle on his nape burned like a candle.
Eli turned to see a drinker approaching him. Had Eli’s innate sense of danger not alerted him, the man’s reek would have given him warning enough. The young man was not greatly older than his sons. He was unshaven and unwashed, with few teeth and fewer scruples. The crook thought that he would test Eli’s pluck. He chewed tobacco as noisily as he could, then spit it out contemptuously at Eli’s feet.
‘Give me your money.’ He was not given to bashfulness nor bathing.
Eli did not respond. The varmint meant to reach for his six-gun. Eli noticed the slightest movement of the thief’s hand, a gesture Eli had learned to recognise the hard way. Before the bar bum’s hand had moved an inch, he found himself reeling backwards, blood coursing down his face, his nose shattered.
Haven’t done that for a while, thought Eli. He turned back to his beer, extending and contracting his sore fingers. It pained him to grip the beer glass.
‘You’ve cut yourself,’ Suzanne commented. Eli noticed that the impact of his blow had split the skin on his knuckles. ‘That’s one heck of a right cross you got there, mister.’ She admired him. This stern traveller had bested a man young enough to be his son, then calmly returned to his beer. Nobody in this darned snake-pit of a town was going to trouble him.
‘I’m . . . out of practise,’ Eli admitted, modestly.
‘You remind me of somebody. Something similar happened last night. He didn’t have any patience for saloon slobs, neither.’
‘Go on,’ Eli pressed.
CHAPTER 19
Suzanne could sense that Eli was unlike the pathetic lowlifes who made up her clientele. His would-be attacker had fled, leaving a spotty trail of blood that Suzanne would have to mop up. There were still a few customers in the main bar. Though they outwardly sipped their beers with indifference, Suzanne knew they were straining to eavesdrop. This was the curse of being a criminal: perpetual guardedness. They were desperate to know what Suzanne and Eli were discussing, hoping perhaps to extract some valuable information.
Suzanne took Eli’s cut hand in hers, inspecting the red slits on his fingers. As she did, their eyes met. Suzanne knew that they could both feel it: the connection of their digits conducted an invisible current of electricity through their bodies. The two remained silent for a moment.
‘Follow me, stranger. I’ve got some clean water in my backroom. I’ll give those knuckles a scrub.’ She led Eli by the hand into the chamber behind the main saloon. Suzanne did not care what the drinkers in the bar would report to their brigand brethren, nor what embellishments they might add. Indeed, in her time she had done foul things with fouler men. Suzanne was rather glad that the gossip would link her to this dashing mystery man.
Eli, too, was grateful for Suzanne’s attentions. He thought for a second that being taken by the hand by a woman would signify weakness. Eli quickly brushed the thought away. Indeed, he admitted to himself that it would be wise to cleanse the cuts on his knuckles.
In the backroom, Suzanne filled a bowl with clean water, and lathered up the water with carbolic soap. The silence was charged with their shared attraction. Suzanne was alluring in a very different way to Cassie. Whereas his late wife was an angel to Eli and his sons, Suzanne had a touch of devilishness about her, a quality only emphasised by her flaming hair. She was no saint, Eli mused, but Suzanne’s warmth and kindness were palpable.
Eli caught himself. He had been a widower too long, but concentrated on his pursuit.
‘Suzanne,’ Eli entreated. ‘Please tell me about this incident last night.’
Eli’s good manners confirmed Suzanne’s inkling. His courtesy reminded her of Bob’s politeness. Eli’s handling of his assailant mirrored the way Bob neutralised that fat bully.
‘Four men rode in last night. I knew two of them: the Strong brothers. They show up in Desolation from time to time. The two others were young men: perhaps eighteen or nineteen. I think their names were Adam and Bob Connor.’ Suzanne felt a frisson run through Eli’s fingers. ‘Now, Adam and Bob were respectable boys. They looked out of place with the Strongs. The four of them drank a few whiskies, when Bob came up to the bar. This fat fellow – I think his name was Gordo – started shoving Bob around.’
Suzanne paused. She took Eli’s hand from the bowl and dried it with a towel. ‘Now this is a rough town, but I did not expect what happened next. This polite young gentleman drew his gun and shot Gordo dead.’
Eli was speechless, and Suzanne continued.
‘Now Gordo was a nasty piece of work. Shooting, thieving. He also had a . . . fondness for handsome young men. Nobody’s going to miss Gordo. In fact, it was party time afterwards.’
Were he not so stupefied and shocked, Eli might have wept. What had these Strong brothers done to his sons? From the rumours, Bob had been transformed for the worse.
‘Come on now, Eli,’ Suzanne cajoled flirtatiously. ‘What’s your connection? You ain’t no travelling salesman.’
Eli felt that he could trust Suzanne.
‘Adam and Bob Connor are my . . . sons. They were abducted on Monday night. The lawmen back home in Morriston won’t do nothin’, so I have to find them. I’ve heard that they’ve been involved in a robbery in Wells. And now this!’
Enraged, Eli pulled away from Suzanne, turning away from her. She was not surprised that Bob was his son: both possessed the same blend of courteousness and callousness. Suzanne did not volunteer details of Adam and Bob’s trysts with Candy and Jezebel. Eli was emotional enough already.
Suzanne gently rubbed Eli’s shoulder. Despite himself, Eli’s skin again tingled. He turned back to face her.
‘Suzanne – is there anythin’ else you can tell me? Do you know where they are headed?’
‘They camped up for the night and rode off at first light. The Strongs spoke of following a mountain trail North East. Back out to the plains.’
‘I’ll find it. Thank you, Suzanne.’
Eli was about to leave, when Suzanne lay her palm flat on Eli’s breast.
‘Be careful, Eli. You’ve got a pure heart. Your sons need you – but they need you in once piece.’
Eli nodded, but did not have time for Suzanne’s reassurances, however heartfelt. He pushed past her. Seconds later, Suzanne heard the pounding of hoofs on the stony ground outside.
Suzanne sighed. She was not given to sentimentality nor indulgent daydreaming. While there was no denying the chemistry she shared with Eli, the man had much more important things on this mind. It had been a pleasure to share some time with him, however brief.
Suzanne returned to the bar. It was not a throng this afternoon, and the bustle or otherwise of the saloon could not be predicted.
The species of men that passed through Desolation did not keep to a timetable.
She took the mop from behind the bar and walked over to the bloodstains which Eli had drawn from his attacker. Moving across the bar floor, one of her patrons could not resist comment.
‘What you get up to with that stranger, Suzanne? Anything . . . salacious?’ he hissed. He had a filthy, greying beard and a gap in his teeth that made him lisp. The observer was a little older than Suzanne, but not too old for a kick in the groin.
Flailing painfully from her ruthless delivery, the commentator did not question Suzanne further.
CHAPTER 20
Suzanne’s violent repulsion of the customer gladdened her. She smirked proudly as the strokes of her mop wiped away the spots of blood from the wooden floor. Her victim’s pained groans had faded now, and he had limped away. Hopefully, Suzanne thought, you’re a little wiser now.
The afternoon returned to its quiet. Later, the saloon would likely be as riotous as usual. To busy herself, Suzanne pressed on with her cleansing of the floor. Fresh blood, as Suzanne well knew, could be mopped up with ease. However, sprinkles of gunpowder, spilled whiskey and beer, cigar stubs and other substances which Suzanne did not care to dwell on, had accumulated. Her saloon floor was a collage of cruelty. The mop would give it a glistening sheen for a few minutes. It would only be a sheen, though. Nothing would ever truly shift the filth.
Nor could the mop purify her memories. The scratches and stains on the wooden floorboards were scars from countless grisly encounters which her saloon had hosted. Suzanne preferred to do her own housework. It was her bar, at least in name. Though she had a small crew of barmen and scarlet women under her, Suzanne led by example. She paid her staff well enough, but they had plenty to endure already. Suffering insults from drunks, and throwing them out when enough was enough, would be difficult for a barkeeper in a peaceful town. In Desolation, bartending to killers and outlaws could be deadly.
Suzanne hoped that her mop strokes would also somehow wash away her thoughts of Eli. He was plainly a decent and dedicated man. No lovesick schoolgirl was she, and Suzanne was not fantasising about being rescued by Eli. Rather, she was concerned for the man and his sons. Eli, brave though he was, did not understand the peril he was riding into.
Inevitably, thoughts of Eli led to thoughts of her own past. Though she tried not to dwell, the images in her mind played on like an intoxicated raconteur stubbornly refusing to shut up. Suzanne gripped the mop handle furiously, making awkward, powerful thrusts. Yet her mop strokes impotently failed to arrest the torrent of unwelcome memories.
Suzanne had never known her father, nor had she ever been interested in asking. Her earliest years had been spent in a house of ill-fame in Cheyenne. Suzanne’s own mother had been a painted lady. The establishment provided a simple boarding-house behind the front rooms where guests were entertained. A number of courtesans had children.
Suzanne was guarded about who she revealed her individual history to. So many stomachs seemed to sicken when she shared her story. Suzanne accepted that the notion of a young girl raised in a brothel was visceral, yet her earliest recollections were joyful.
The demi-mondes, at the madam’s insistence, operated behind a Chinese wall to their families. The children never strayed across this invisible line. Their business was a sleazy one, yet lucrative. All the fallen women paid for their children to attend school.
Outsiders always imagined that Suzanne’s mother was some species of beast, selfishly exposing her child to dangerous baseness for the sake of a few dollars. In fact, though at first Suzanne did not understand her mom’s nocturnal disappearances, she was loved and cherished. She felt that she had a dozen mothers, and a dozen brothers or sisters. To the astonishment of strangers, this secret sisterhood was happy and safe.
When the children of the harlots became adults, they often moved on to good jobs, marriage, or even college. Unfortunately, there were sometimes stragglers. The madam was loath to introduce them to the family business. Instead, she found odd jobs for these late bloomers around the establishment: barkeepers, receptionists or cleaners.
Suzanne was such a straggler. Smart though she was, Suzanne was also restless and irascible. At school, she had been a regular inhabitant of the naughty chair. Her red hair reflected the inferno in her soul. It was this fiery quality that led to Suzanne saving a life, and her own damnation.
Aged eighteen, Suzanne was a dogsbody in the house of ill-fame. She had been reluctantly performing an errand one evening when she was alerted by screaming from one of the private rooms. This was not the familiar report of feigned ecstasy: Suzanne’s sister within was being assaulted.
The house retained security men to protect the sisters from customers who were base in violent ways. Suzanne lacked the patience to summon them as she kicked the door open. She saw the customer, an elderly man not yet so frail that he could not subdue a young woman, with his hands around the courtesan’s throat. Her sister’s face was reddened by welts. That relentless fire in Suzanne’s belly exploded.
She noted a weapon in a holster on the Welsh dresser. Under house rules, guns were forbidden, but this fiend had slipped one through.
Many years later, Suzanne had yet to decipher the violent haze that followed. She remembered looking down on the dead man. The Colt had still been warm in her hand. Her ears had been ringing from the gun’s blast. Suzanne had pulled the trigger on that sick-minded creep. Years and years later, she regretted nothing.
The dead customer had turned out to be wealthy and powerful. Suzanne may have gone to the noose, but for the fortuitous presence of a customer more powerful still.
An occasional guest of the establishment, John Morris had been in the adjacent room. Hearing the disturbance, he had taken pause from his dalliance, dressed, and found Suzanne, armed, standing over the dead old goat. The bloodied scene did not trouble Morris. He had seen and done worse things. Morris had an instinct for opportunity. He could use a woman like Suzanne in a saloon he owned, which was hidden away in the mountains.
These reminiscences made Suzanne’s arms stiffen. Her mopping had become laboured and tiresome. She was about to give up when she shivered. Suzanne had stepped into the shadow of a very tall, powerfully-built man.
She had never been one to defer to men. In her saloon she had faced innumerable individuals with less honour than rats. Yet she could never quite look Morris in the eye. He was not exactly her boss. Rather, Morris was an unseen force, manipulating her from afar.
Morris did not speak when Suzanne turned to face him. She well knew what she had had to do.
‘I told him, Mr Morris,’ she explained with uncustomary meekness. ‘Eli is on his way through the mountain pass. He’s well on his way to your ranch.’
CHAPTER 21
The mountain trail was a slippery passage of loose pebbles on slopes that rose and fell sharply. The Strongs were typically reckless horsemen, but even they had to slow their pace to climb the hazardous inclines.
‘So where are you taking us now?’ Bob had demanded. Since his masterful handling of the robbery, and his unexpected – yet brilliant – elimination of the fat drunk, Bob had become flippant and resentful. While this defiance made him more difficult to handle, Charlie liked this change in him. Despite his violent experiences and forced abduction, Bob was more than a little cheeky.
Indeed, Charlie saw this as a similarity with him. The Strongs’ string of crimes had been more wild gambles than daring exploits. In spite of the bloodshed they had caused and suffered, the Strongs had always ridden away laughing.
‘Told you, son. Somebody we’d like you to meet,’ Charlie had answered enigmatically. Almost unconsciously, Charlie had taken to calling Bob son. Charlie did not mean to be condescending. It was a true term of endearment. Charlie had never fathered any children. He had never even had a sweetheart. Charlie had nevertheless begun to fancy himself as a surrogate father to Bob.
The Strongs led the way through the mo
untain trail. Unknown to their charges, they were heading back out West to the plains. From Morriston to Wells to Desolation back to the grasslands was a somewhat circuitous route, but that was all part of the Strongs’ instructions. Charlie glanced back at his wards. He was reassured to see Bob seething in his saddle, while Adam was so frightened he had paled.
Charlie’s cuckoo fatherhood of the Connors reminded him of his own father. Strong Senior had been a drunkard, saloon brawler and petty thief. Yet Charlie’s father had been courageous and faithful in his own manner.
The Strongs had never known their mother. For as long as they could remember, their father had marched them from town to town. Charlie and Dwight had never spent a single day in school, nor created any lasting friendships. Since they were infants, they had been each other’s only companion.
Their father had been a drifter and a small-time crook. Even as children, the Strongs had been constantly on the run. Zeke Strong, their progenitor, had received many thrashings from people he had tried to rob, or had otherwise affronted. He had always been too cunning for the lawmen, though, and had disappeared before they ever raised their inquisitive ears.
Zeke had been content to pick pockets, shoplift, burgle, and on one occasion steal a cow. Charlie recalled the time when he and Dwight had assisted their father to lead away the hapless animal. This was an episode which demonstrated Zeke’s reckless dearth of foresight, a carelessness that his sons would inherit.
Zeke had stirred his sons from their beds late one night. The Strongs occasionally stayed in boarding houses when their father could afford it, but more often they slept under the stars, or in improvised tents. The night of the cattle robbery, Charlie and Dwight had been fast asleep under their blankets. Zeke had never told them he was planning to steal a cow. Indeed, their father had not exactly planned the theft. Rather, he had been chewing the idea over as he lay in bed, and impulsively decided to make a go of it.
