Night of the Cougar

by Len Levinson

  She smiled alluringly, although she considered him boring. Attired in a red silk gown with low bodice, she sat coyly and let him stare at her near-naked breasts as the candlelight glittered off her new gold-and-jade necklace, a gift from him. “You are kind, sir,” she said.

  He carved the roast, served her, then himself. The meat was tender, the potatoes and carrots cooked to perfection, and the champagne made her happy. You don't know what life is till you live like a rich person, she told herself.

  He chuckled. “I'm sure you'd rather be with a man your own age, instead of an old relic such as I.”

  “But young men are thickheaded mules,” she replied, telling him what he wanted to hear. “Older gentlemen are much more innerestin’.”

  “It may be difficult for you to imagine, but I was young once, and even handsome.”

  “Oh, I can tell, sir. I can see it in yer face.”

  “Just because I'm becoming old, why should I give up the pleasure of beautiful women?”

  “You'd be a fool,” she agreed. “Because, honey—I need you as much as you need me.”

  “Precisely,” he replied, delighted by her response, and then he regaled her with his most profound observations on life and love, as if she gave a damn. Her mind drifted, and she contemplated killing him for practice.

  “Why are you looking at me that way?” he asked.

  “I was thinkin’ how wunnerful you are, sir.”

  “I'm planning a trip to St. Louis in the fall. How'd you like to accompany me?”

  “What about yer wife?”

  “I leave her at home,” replied the lawyer. “She doesn't like to travel.”

  It's not hard to figure why, you ugly son of a bitch, thought Esther. “We'll see,” she said temptingly.

  “You make me feel young again, my darling.”

  “An hour with an experienced man like you is better than a lifetime with some young drunken cowboy.”

  His eyes filled with tears of joy. “Do you really believe that, Esther?”

  “The first moment I set eyes upon you, I knew we was meant to be together.”

  “Oh, my dearest.” He sighed, slipping off his chair and crawling to her on his knees. “That was my heartfelt desire as well.”

  She swung her legs toward him, raised the hem of her dress, and he dived at her feet, removed her shoes, and began to kiss her toes. “You are so beautiful, magnificent, vivacious . . .”

  She gazed at him coldly as he pressed his lips against her feet. “Oh, you do it so good,” she whispered as she considered taking the carving knife and burying it in his back, but he might start screaming, blood would spur! in all directions, and they'd catch her inside of fire minutes. There has to be a better way, she thought, then her eyes fell on a heavy brass candlestick. I could crown him neat and clean, she thought as she stood.

  “Where are you going?” he asked, looking up at her.

  “I want you to stay on yer knees,” she replied, “and you know what I've been a-wantin’ you to do since I first set eyes on you.”

  “Oh, my sweetest,” he replied breathlessly, raising her gown. Then he nuzzled his withered cheeks against her bare thighs, as she lifted the candlestick, thankful for the opportunity to pay back all the men who'd hurt her. The candlestick had the heft of a hammer, with sharp edges on the pedestal. “Go ahead,” she said as she poised it in the air. “Don't be afraid.”

  He clawed at her drawers, his eyes filled with desire as she brought the weapon down with such force, it nearly twisted out of her hand. He sucked wind, his eyes opening wide, and he looked up at her, his jaw hanging open, a trickle of blood flowing into his eye. But she felt no pity, and slammed him again.

  He went down facefirst, then lay still on the carpet. She gazed at him calmly. Wasn't so hard, she told herself. He gasped, and she realized he was still alive, blinking, struggling to breathe. She raised the candlestick with both hands and crowned him again.

  Blood leaked into the carpet, and she realized she had to get out of there pronto. Feeling oddly relieved, she admitted for the first time that she'd always wanted to kill a man, and had hated them all her life, except for Sam.

  Careful not to step in blood, she pulled up the bottom of his shirt, found his money belt, opened the flap and found paper money and coins. My whoring days are over, she thought merrily. Lifting her dress, she tied the money belt around her hips. Then she took one last look at the lawyer. “You should keep yer hands off n young gals,” she said, “but it's too late now.”

  She blew out the candles, tiptoed to the door, listened, and waited for footsteps to pass. When all was silent, she peeked into the corridor. No one was there, so she fled to her room and darted inside.

  “I've done it!” she whispered exultantly, shivering with pleasure. She removed the money belt, emptied it on the bed, and it was more than eight hundred dollars. She returned the money to the belt, wondered where to hide it, and then, in the stillness of night, a fearsome awareness came over her.

  What if the sheriff searches my room? The money was evidence, and she contemplated life in prison or at the end of a noose, but she didn't want to dump it out the window, because she needed money for her trip to Arizona. She could leave it around her own waist, but what if they searched her? Her mouth went dry, and she sat heavily on the bed. What have I done?

  She looked out the window, wishing she could fly. I don't dare take it back because somebody might see me. But if I keep it, I can't explain whar it come from. There's got to be a way.

  She could find no good hiding place, then realized she was on the top floor of the hotel, beneath the roof. Slowly, silently, she advanced to the window, then stood on a chair, reached outside, and her fingers found the gutter. It might get wet but it's better'n the gallows, she said to herself as she arranged the money belt inside the gutter. Then she closed the window, returned the chair to its proper spot, removed her clothing, washed, and crawled into bed.

  She lay in the darkness, unable to stop plotting. If they find the money belt, I'll say it ain't mine. How can anyone be sure the real killer din't crawl over the roof, and dropped it by mistake? It's one thing to charge somebody with murder, and another to back it up. Nobody saw nawthin’, nobody can prove nawthin’, and I'm headed west on the next stage.

  It was night in the traveling Apache camp, and the warriors and their wives cuddled beneath blankets, everyone in full view of each other, since they were traveling without wickiups.

  Beau and Constanza dared not perform their usual deviant activities, so instead they lay still, seemingly asleep, facing each other on their sides, embracing. If anyone drew close, deep breathing could be heard.

  Subtle, exquisite, and tantalizing, their forbidden pleasure caused every tiny sensation to become magnified as they built gradually to a grand crescendo.

  “Promise that you will never forget me,” she whispered hoarsely into his ear.

  “I promise,” he replied through a throat constricted by lust.

  They kissed, their tongues touched, and the crescendo became an avalanche utterly washing them away.

  There was a knock on the door, awakening Esther abruptly. “Who's thar?” she mumbled sleepily, opening her eyes.

  “Sheriff John Stoneham.”

  She remembered the murder and robbery; fear shot through her. “Just a moment,” she replied, rolling out of bed. It was morning, she covered her nightgown with a robe, opened the door, and saw four lawmen standing in the corridor, looking at her suspiciously.

  “What's your name?” asked one of them, who wore a gray mustache and had the red nose of a drunkard.

  “Esther Rainey.”

  “Do you know a man named Bramwell Oates?”

  “I sure do.”

  “When's the last time you saw him?”

  “Had supper in his room. Anythin’ wrong?”

  “I'm afraid I have bad news,” said Sheriff Stone-ham. “Mr. Oates has been murdered.”

  She raised her hands to h
er cheeks as if in shock, “Why ... I ...”

  “And robbed. Mind if we look around?”

  “I got nothin’ to hide.”

  One lawman searched her dresser, another the luggage, and a third opened the door to the closet. Sheriff Stoneham kneeled beside her bed and examined the soles of her shoes, but they were free of blood. They turned over the mattress, checked for loose floorboards, and her heart caught when she noticed Sheriff Stoneham heading for the window. He pulled up the bottom half, looked outside, but failed to check the gutter. Then he pulled his head back and made a frustrated wheeze.

  “You don't think I did it, do you?” she asked innocently.

  “As far as we know, you were the last person to see him alive.” Sheriff Stoneham walked up to her and looked into her eye. “What's your game, lady?”

  “I'm on my way to California to see my pore ole father.”

  “You're not a whore, are you?”

  “I don't claim to be no angel, but I ain't afraid to hire no lawyer neither, ‘cause I done nothin’ wrong.”

  “Nobody said you did.” The sheriff smiled. “Sorry to bother you, but we have to make sure. I reckon it was some outlaw passing through. Maybe he knew Oates was rich and knocked on his door after you'd gone.”

  “Mr. Oates might've thought it was me a-comin’ back,” she suggested, so frightened by the lawmen she was able to evoke a tear. “He was a wunnerful man—what a shame.”

  “The murderer will give himself away sooner or later,” said Sheriff Stoneham. “They're never as smart as they think. Anyway, sorry to bother you.”

  “Maybe I orter move out'n this hotel.”

  “I don't think that's necessary. Just don't open your door for strangers.”

  After the lawmen departed, Esther sat on her bed, a triumphant smile on her face. In a town full of robbers and murderers, how could anybody suspect me? she asked herself, but dared not laugh, because she was in mourning. Time to book the next stage to Fort Buchanan, she told herself. Mrs. Rich Bitch, I'm hot on yer tail.

  Chapter Twelve

  Nathanial and his cowboys found a limping steer on the west range. The cowboys roped it, wrestled it to the ground, and Nathanial located the festering pus-filled sore on the back of a hoof, caused by screw-worms. Meanwhile, Joe Smith mixed dry cow manure with water, making a thick brown substance. Nathanial applied the time-honored compound to the wound, to prevent worms from breathing, when he heard Bastrop say, “Someone's comin’.”

  A rider galloped toward them, and Nathanial figured the emergency had arrived. Clarissa, the children, and Rosita were traveling with him in case of trouble.

  The steer lay on the ground, its great sides heaving, eyes crazed with fear as ropes were loosened. Then the beast scrambled to its feet and stumbled off. The cowboys waited for the rider, who turned out to be Dobbs. He reigned in his frothing horse, and speaking from the saddle, said, “They're comin’ from the south, thirty-two of ‘em, with Culhane in front!”

  “Round up the others,” ordered Nathanial.

  Dobbs rode off as Nathanial's mind switched to its warrior mode. First he had to hide the women and children, so he led them to a clearing they'd passed a short while ago, not far from a stream. The wagon contained baked bread and canned beans, and the goods were unloaded, then the cowboys hid the wagon behind a stand of palo verde bushes. Clarissa, the children, and maid gathered in the clearing, and Pancho was told to stay with them.

  “Keep your heads down and be quiet,” ordered Nathanial. “Don't light any fires, and if we don't come back in two days, try to make it to Fort Buchanan.”

  Clarissa, the children, and their maid looked at each other fearfully. If Nathanial and his cowboys were defeated, they were on their own. “This is the time to be soldiers,” Nathanial told Zachary and Gloria. “You've got to protect little Natalie, understand?”

  They nodded solemnly, then Nathanial turned to Clarissa. They kissed, stared at each other several seconds, and didn't say a word, for it was conceivable they might never meet again. Then they separated, Nathanial returned to his horse, and he and his cowboys rode off at a trot, to defend their corner of Arizona against the outlaw horde.

  The heavily armed outlaws rode in a column of twos toward the Barrington ranch buildings, which they could not yet see. They made no effort to conceal themselves, posted no scouts, and if trouble arose, they'd improvise.

  They were men not known for subtlety of feeling, nor the sort that doubted themselves. They believed in liberation from moral and legal restrictions, and the only thing that really mattered were the odds. Their wagon contained a crate of dynamite in addition to food and extra ammunition.

  At the head of the column rode Culhane and Avila, the latter chief of the Mexican outlaw contingent, a stocky bandido with an unshaven face. Culhane and Avila didn't trust each other, which was normal for outlaws, who considered betrayal normal behavior.

  They looked like a troop of demons as they passed through the land, and even snakes shrank from them, so hideous were their emanations. Murder, plunder, destruction, and rapine were their main pleasures, because danger made them feel alive.

  Culhane rode with the corners of his mouth down-turned, presenting a far different aspect from his usual wet smile. A cigarette hung from his lips, and he looked foul, angry, determined to harm. He amused himself by thinking of ways to kill Nathanial Barrington, from a shot between the eyes, to roasting him over an open fire, or possibly a hangman's noose.

  Avila had no knowledge of Barrington but hated him anyway, in the same general sense that he hated everybody. The Mexican bandido had risen to his position of leadership due to an insatiable appetite for brutality. Growing up poor, he blamed the so-called “good people” for everything that happened to him. All he wanted was revenge, and if he enriched himself along the way, so much the better.

  The outlaws were unashamed of their crimes, and believed everything was possible with enough guns. If the Barrington cowboys tried to stop them, they'd smash right through. Like angels of death, the outlaws rode onward, hoping to gratify their convoluted desires.

  The Barrington cowboys loaded ammunition, packed bedrolls, and filled canteens. Extra horses were let out of the corral, so outlaws couldn't steal them.

  Nathanial thought about torching the buildings, as the Russians had burned Moscow before the onslaught of Napoleon's Grande Armée, but the rancher had worked hard hauling logs and hammering nails; he couldn't bring himself to destroy his handiwork.

  Before leaving, Nathanial addressed the cowboys. “You signed on for ranch work, not a major war. If any of you cares to quit, I understand. It's not your fight—it's mine.”

  Blakelock spat at the ground. “Ain't nobody quittin’,” he said.

  They rode away from the main buildings, and Nathanial took a long last look at his home. The Apaches had taught him that permanent structures limit a war chiefs options, and an enemy can't attack what he can't see.

  Culhane, Avila, and the outlaws came to a crest in the road, and ranch buildings could be seen about a mile away, in the midst of a green-and-brown valley, not far from towering white cliffs.

  “Thar t'is,” said Culhane, drawing his six-shooter.

  Avila held up his hand as the column came to a halt. The men gathered around to hear final plans. “Looks like nobody's thar,” said Bascombe.

  “I ‘spect they're a-waitin’ on us in them buildin's,” replied Culhane. “They think they can hold us off, but they ain't figgered on the dynamite. “We'll blow then-asses to kingdom come.”

  The outlaws laughed, because it looked so easy. But Curry said, “The horses have been let loose.”

  Avila turned to Culhane. “You said there'd be horses.”

  “Just a matter of roundin’ ‘em up. And I bet that ranch is full of loot, in addition to the wimmin. We're a-gonna have a hot time tonight, muchachos. Let's git on with it.”

  Suddenly a shot rang out, and Dunphy toppled to the ground. As Culhane turned instin
ctively to see where the shooter was, a fusillade of gunfire ripped through the riders bunched in the middle of the trail. Culhane saw outlaws and bandidos fall out of their saddles, heard screams, and then his mount went down, a bullet through its heart. Culhane leapt out of the saddle and rolled over the ground as outlaws ran for cover. Volley after volley cut them down, forcing survivors to drop to their bellies, guns in hands, keeping their heads low. “Where the hell are they?” asked Avila.

  “Looks like they got us surrounded,” replied Culhane, bullets whizzing through the air.

  Then, as quickly as the shooting had begun, it ended. A cloud of gunsmoke swept over the desert like morning mist as gunfire echoed off distant mesas.

  Dead outlaws and animals were everywhere, but some horses had got away. Culhane was astonished by the sudden turn of the cards. “Looks like they ain't at the ranch,” he said, trying to sound cheerful. “All we got to do is rush down and take it.”

  “Go ahead and rush down,” said Avila scornfully. “We will see how far you get. This is like fighting Apaches.”

  Some of the outlaws’ horses could be seen waiting nearby warily, but not enough to mount all the men, and Nogales was a long way off. “Well, we cain't just stay here,” said Culhane.

  Avila grabbed a handful of Culhane's shirt. “You fool—you led us into a trap!”

  “At night, we'll git away.”

  More shooting broke out, forcing them to lower their heads.

  “Why don't they come into the open and fight like men,” asked Culhane bitterly.

  “I should have known this would not be easy,” said Avila.

  “But them buildin's . . . thar might be money!” protested Culhane.

  “Dead men spend no coins, but if you want to go—that is up to you. I should have known better than follow a gringo cabrón like you.”

  Culhane wanted to shoot the Mexican between the eyes, but managed to control himself. “You cain't win every hand,” he said philosophically.