by Ralph Cotton
When he reached a stretch of trail that snaked around a tall wall of sheer, solid rock, he slowed his horse and looked up along the ridgeline in the failing light. He felt relieved when he saw a torch flame rise and wave back and forth slowly. “All right, put it down now,” he murmured to the high ridge. Taking another look back along the darkening trail behind him, he tapped his horse forward another sixty yards and reined it to the left, up onto a steep, narrow path.
A half hour later he’d stepped the horse out onto the higher ridge trail and started forward, when Stanley and Shala Lowden appeared like two apparitions out of a tangle of brush and scrub cedar. “Hello, Mr. Glick,” Stanley said in a guarded tone, wanting to make sure the Dutchman recognized them both.
“Yes, Stanley, I see it’s you,” Glick replied quietly, stopping his tired horse and stepping stiffly down from his saddle. Eyeing a pack mule in the brush beside the couple’s horses, he said, “I hope you brought me plenty of whiskey and laudanum, like I told you to.”
“Yes, we did,” said Stanley. “We brought plenty of both.”
“That’s a good boy,” said Glick, having difficulty getting his limbs to work smoothly. He reached out a pale, cold hand and patted Stanley on the shoulder. Shala stayed a few feet behind her husband, hoping to keep away from the foul smell of rotting scalp atop Glick’s head, a smell strengthened from the scalp’s being beneath his warm hat all day. When his eyes crept toward her, she avoided him and looked back along the high trail.
“I also brought you some Chinese brown powder. The store owner said it’s the best thing around for saddle pain and the like.”
“Chinese brown powder?” Glick chuckled under his breath. “What will this world discover next?”
“Did you happen to see the ranger down there?” Stanley asked.
“No,” said Glick. “But it doesn’t matter. He’ll be along tomorrow.” He didn’t mention the three riders he’d seen earlier near town, or the fact that he’d come upon their horses’ hoofprints later when he’d reached this higher trail.
“Tomorrow?” said Stanley.
“I expect he was a little gun-shy riding this trail with the afternoon sun facing the ridge,” Glick said. “In the morning the sun will be on his side. This afternoon the sun was his enemy.” He gave a grim smile. “That’s how I would figure it if I was him. That’s why we got up here today. He’ll be coming along the trail at first light. We want to be snug down in position, like squirrel hunters, waiting for him to show himself.”
“I see,” said Stanley. Hearing Shala turn and walk away behind him, deeper into the cover of brush, he said quickly to the Dutchman, “We’ve got a fire going, and some hot coffee boiled and waiting back in there.”
“Wonderful, my boy,” Glick said. Staring past Stanley, he watched Shala walk away into the growing darkness. Without asking, he absently handed Stanley his horse’s reins and said, “Go feed and water this old cayuse and rub him down good for me. The trail’s getting harder on him every day.”
Stanley kept quiet and led the tired horse on toward the glow of fire farther back into the rocky hillside. Glick walked ahead of him, keeping his eyes on Shala, who stopped at the fire, where the smell of sizzling pork wafted on the air. As Stanley led the horse off to the side where the Lowdens’ horses and a pack mule stood tied to a rope drawn between two cedar trees, he said to Shala, “As soon as the food’s hot, we’ll need to put out the fire.”
“Nonsense, Stanley,” said Glick, keeping his hungry eyes on Shala as he spoke. “No one can see the fire from the lower trail. I’ll need some heat on these old bones of mine, sleeping alone as I do, without the comfort of a warm body pressed against me.”
Shala saw the look in his eyes, but she turned away from him and picked up the coffeepot. “Do you have your cup with you, Mr. Glick?” she asked.
“Ready and waiting,” said Glick. He held out a battered tin cup he’d pulled from inside his bearskin coat, his pale, blue-veined hand wrapped around it like the talons of a hawk. He stepped in closer as she tipped the coffeepot to pour. “I thought about you all day, young lady,” he said in a lowered voice.
“Oh?” Shala let the remark pass, hoping it wouldn’t go much further.
“I was thinking about what a lucky man young Stanley is, having a woman like you around.” He eyed her large bosom pressed to the front of her man’s linsey-woolsey bib-front shirt.
“And I too am lucky,” Shala offered, “having a husband like Stanley.”
“You don’t believe that.” Glick chuckled darkly. “Men are plentiful up here, especially men like Stanley. But big, beautiful women like you are a rarity worth their weight in gold.”
“Please, Mr. Glick, you’re embarrassing me,” Shala said, avoiding his eyes as she always did. She wanted to end this ordeal quickly and get away from this foul-smelling old ghoul of a man.
But Glick wasn’t finished with her. He reached out with his free hand and grabbed her wrist firmly. In a lustful voice he whispered, “I’d pay half the coin in my purse for a—aighh!”
His words turned into a yelp of pain as Shala tipped the coffeepot just enough to let a short stream of hot coffee spill from the spout of the pot onto the back of Glick’s pale hand.
“Oh my! Mr. Glick!” Shala jumped back, looking horrified. “Are you all right? I’m so sorry!”
Hearing Glick’s yelp and his wife’s alarmed voice, Stanley came running over from the horses, in his hand a wad of dried bracken that he’d used to wipe down the Dutchman’s old horse. “What happened?”
Glick had dropped his cup of coffee and slung his hand back and forth vigorously. But after a second he’d stopped slinging his burned hand and stood holding it tightly against his bearskin coat. “Nothing, just an accident,” he said flatly. But he eyed Shala curiously, uncertain whether this had really been an accident or a deliberate attempt at staving off his unwelcome advance.
“Are you hurt?” Stanley asked. “Let me see.” He tried to take Glick’s burned hand, but the old man jerked away gruffly. “Get away! I’m all right,” he said. “She spilled coffee on my hand.” In his wild gyrations his hat and scalp wig had gotten twisted and turned sideways atop his head. The long black hair hung loosely, covering most of his pale face.
But neither Stanley nor Shala dared laugh at the ridiculous old man. “Can I help you, Mr. Glick?” Stanley asked.
Glick turned loose of his stinging hand and quickly reached up and straightened his hat and wig. “Did you take care of my horse like I told you to?”
“I was rubbing him down when I heard you. . . .” Stanley let his words trail, not wanting to mention the way in which the old man had yelped like a kicked dog.
“Then get finished with him,” Glick ordered. “I’m going to get my saddle and blanket and draw down by the fire.” He turned and stomped away stiffly toward the horses.
“Jesus, Shala, what did you do?” Stanley said, keeping his voice low.
“I won’t have that old murderer putting his hands on me, Stanley,” she said, also keeping her voice lowered.
“He put his hands on you?” Stanley asked, getting an angry tightness to his voice.
“He grabbed my wrist,” said Shala. “But that was just his start. He’ll get worse. Only I won’t stand for it. I know how to keep him away from me, and I’ll do it, whatever it takes.”
“Shala, I’ll take care of you,” Stanley said, sounding almost hurt that she hadn’t turned to him on the matter.
But what could he have done? she asked herself.
“Thank you, Stanley. I’ll keep that in mind,” she said. “But when you’re not around, I’ll do the best I can to take care of myself.” She jiggled the coffeepot as if showing him her weapon of choice this time.
After a meal of fried pork, beans and flatbread, Glick had lain back on his saddle. The couple watched him for a few moments, wondering if he had really gone to sleep or if he was only feigning, listening to anything they might say about him. Wrapped as
he was in his blanket with his hat pulled down over the side of his face, the couple couldn’t tell. But they carefully guarded their every word, just in case. They spoke clearly and sparingly, only about matters of firewood, the horses and the trail ahead.
When Stanley said, “I best go check on the horses before I turn in,” Shala knew his intention was to have her follow him, yet he gestured a nod toward the horses just to make his message clear.
“I’ll join you,” she said, casting a glance toward the old man on the other side of the flickering fire.
At the horses, Shala started to whisper something, but Stanley’s lips covered hers before she got the chance to speak. She returned his kiss, but when his hands came up her sides and onto her breasts, she drew back from him and whispered, “Stanley, this is no time for that.”
Stanley smiled in the darkness. “There’s always time for that.” His hands came back up her sides, this time to the buttons on her bib-front shirt. “I swear, Shala,” he whispered. “I look at you, your skin, you hair, your mouth, the way you move.” He worked feverishly at the buttons while he spoke. “I can’t keep my hands off you. I’ve just got to have you, else I’m going to explode.”
“Not here, not like this, Stanley,” Shala whispered. Yet she made no move to stop him from opening the bib of her shirt and pressing his face between her warm breasts. “We’ve got to talk about what we need to do,” she said, but she could feel her breath turning shallow and quickening at his touch.
“I’ll take care of it,” Stanley whispered, his voice muffled by her soft, warm skin. He pulled her away from the horses toward a cleared spot beneath a cedar tree, both of them struggling to get her clothes off.
“We shouldn’t,” Shala said, panting, feeling hot and excited. Naked, she leaned back against the rough trunk of the cedar and took him into her warm arms. “I know he’s not really sleeping.” She heard the clink of his belt buckle. “I don’t like thinking he can see us over here—” Her words ended in a quiet gasp. “Oh, Stanley . . . ,” she cooed.
From a few yards away, out of the firelight, Ratliff and Beecham watched with their mouths agape until Emory gave them a critical look. “Get ready,” he whispered. “I’m telling them we’re here.”
“No, wait, just one more minute,” Beecham said in a breathless tone.
“My goodness gracious,” whispered Ratliff, “look at that big, pretty thing. I’ve never seen anything so knock-down beautiful in my life.”
Emory took an extra second to look at the naked woman in the outer edge of flickering firelight. “Jesus,” he said, “I can’t stand it.” Then he shook his head as if to clear it and walked forward, the other two right beside him, their horses reined to a nearby tree. “Hello the camp,” he said quietly, bracing himself, rifle in hand, not knowing what response would come from the couple.
Startled, Stanley and Shala jerked away from each other. Shala grabbed her clothes up from the dirt and wiggled quickly into her ragged men’s denim britches. Stanley’s trousers came up with the same clinking of the buckle. Ratliff and Beecham were both still staring transfixed at the woman who clutched her shirt to her breasts.
“Don’t dress on our account,” Emory said, turning a glance and his rifle toward the Dutchman, who lay on the ground near the fire. Glick hadn’t moved an inch.
“Who—who are you? What do you want?” Stanley asked. He stood facing the three, out of breath, unarmed and helpless.
“We saw your fire from down the trail and followed it in,” said Emory, staring himself at the half-naked woman now as he spoke. “Thought we’d see what you might have to share with some weary travelers.”
“Armed travelers,” Beecham pointed out, his eyes going up and down the shapely, full-figured woman.
Stanley read the threat and implication in the men’s words. “This is my wife,” he said firmly, stepping over in front of Shala to provide her cover while she put on her shirt.
“Uh-huh. Step away from her,” said Emory, nudging his rifle barrel to the side. To Shala he said, “Stay where we can see you, ma’am. Keep your hands in sight.”
Stanley stood firm. “Who are you? What gives you the right to come sneaking in here in the middle of the—”
“It’s all right, Stanley,” Shala said. Having heard Emory’s rifle cock, Shala stepped out from behind her husband, her hands chest high, her bib shirt on but the bib lying open, her large breasts exposed. “Here’s my hands, see?” she said calmly, hoping to keep down any trouble. She knew it wasn’t the fear of her being armed that they wanted to see.
“Yes, it is all right, ma’am,” said Emory, repeating her words. “We’re detectives on the trail of wanted outlaws.” A half smile came to Emory’s face. “We mean you no harm.”
“No, ma’am,” Beecham cut in, “none at all.”
She glanced toward Glick; so did Emory. Why hadn’t the old man moved? she wondered. Had he not been feigning sleep after all? Was he dead?
Emory gave Ratliff a nod, gesturing for him to watch the sleeping Dutchman.
“Do we look like wanted outlaws to you?” Stanley asked in a prickly tone, still trying to stand his ground.
But Emory didn’t reply. His eyes had gone to Shala and stayed there. “How do we know this is your wife?” he asked.
“What does it matter if she is?” Beecham, cutting in, said to Emory under his breath.
Emory ignored Beecham as well, and said to Shala, “Is this man really your husband, honey? Because if he’s not, you’re free to do about whatever you—”
“Damn right, I’m her husband,” said Stanley, seeing where this was headed. Rifles or no rifles, he wasn’t going to stand still for this. He stepped forward; but so did Emory; so did Beecham. Ratliff stood stone-still a few feet away, cutting his eyes back and forth between the detectives and the sleeping assassin, a worried look on his face.
“This ain’t right, pards,” Ratliff muttered, seeing what Beecham and Emory had in mind.
But nothing was going to stop it. As Stanley came closer, Emory’s rifle barrel made a fast swipe sideways and smacked him hard across his cheek, sending him to the ground. “No!” Shala shouted, seeing the detective’s rifle butt ready to come into play. “Please! You’re right, Mister!” Even as she pleaded, her eyes went to where Glick lay by the fire. He lay as still as a bag of rocks. “I’m free to do whatever I want to do! He doesn’t tell me what to do!” She paused, then said, “Only, don’t hurt him.”
Emory looked down at Stanley lying half conscious in the dirt. He grinned. Then he looked back at Shala and said, “I think that’s a damned fine way to look at things, ma’am.”
Shala had hurriedly buttoned her britches when she’d pulled them up. Now, taking a breath in resignation, she reached up, loosened them and took them off. “Let’s get it over with,” she said. “It’s cold over here.”
“Yes, ma’am!” Emory glanceed toward Glick. He held his rifle out sidelong to Beecham as he stepped eagerly toward Shala. Loosening his gun belt and letting it fall, he unfastened his trousers and jerked them open. “Both of yas watch about the Dutchman,” he said over his shoulder. “He’s old, but he’s tricky as a damned—”
His words stopped as a bullet hit him in the center of his back and hurled him forward. He landed face-down at Shala’s feet, his warm blood splattering on her face and naked breasts.
Shala didn’t scream. She stood as if frozen in place. So did the two detectives as Glick’s raspy voice called out from the darkness a few feet away, “Lower those shooting arms, fellows. Hell’s only half full.”
“Dutchman?” Beecham said, caught completely off guard, in the awkward position of holding a rifle in each hand. Ratliff stood braced, rifle ready, but stunned by the suddenness of Emory’s death.
“We need no introduction, Beecham,” said Glick. “Drop them or use them. That goes for you too, Ratliff. I’ve woke in a killing mood.”
Ratliff’s eyes searched wildly in the darkness, trying to put Glick’s f
ace to his voice, but getting nowhere with it. “Okay, Dutch, it’s down!” he said quickly, knowing the old assassin wouldn’t give him a second to spare.
“Mine too,” said Beecham, “see?” Both rifles fell from his hands.
Glick stepped into the dull flicker of firelight from behind a scrub cedar and said, “You two ought to be ashamed, scaring my friends this way. . . .”
Chapter 5
A slight gesture from Glick sent Shala hurrying to button her britches, and then she stooped down over Stanley, who had risen onto an elbow, shaking his addled head. As she buttoned her bib-front shirt with one hand, she pulled her dazed husband to her and looked at the whelp along his jaw.
“Get on over by the fire. Wipe your face off,” Glick instructed her without taking his eyes off the two remaining detectives.
As Shala helped Stanley to his feet and looped his arm across her strong shoulder, Beecham said to her, “No hard feelings I hope, ma’am? We were just tryin—”
“Shut up,” Glick said, cutting him off. “She knows what you were trying to do, and so do I.”
Shala helped Stanley over to the fire and lowered him to the ground. Watching the two, Beecham said warily to Glick, “There was no need in you killing Emory.”
“I felt like there was,” said Glick. “It was a case of stopping him from what he was about to do. Are you saying you would testify otherwise if it came to it?”
“Oh, hell no,” Beecham said, staring at the Colt cocked and pointed at him. “I’m just saying, is all.”
“If it makes any difference, Mr. Glick, we wasn’t forcing ourselves on her,” Ratliff said. “She agreed to it.”
Glick didn’t seem to hear him. He stepped in closer, slipped both men’s revolvers from the holsters and pitched them onto the ground beside the rifles. Seeing a thick stream of blood ooze across the dirt and beneath their boots, he stepped back and gestured both men toward the fire. “Come on,” he said, “before we get ole Clement Emory all over us.”
Beecham felt relieved as he stepped forward, Ratliff beside him. They lowered their hands a few inches without Glick stopping them. These were good signs, Beecham knew. Had Glick intended to kill them both, he would have done so where they stood. Looking down at Emory’s body as he stepped away Beecham said, “I never seen a man die any quicker. I expect that’s something he’d be grateful to you for.”
