Santa Fe Death Trap

by Judd Cole

  His bullet hornet-buzzed harmlessly past Wild Bill’s ear.

  Frank crumpled, then writhed in the dirt, moaning piteously and begging for help. Looking disgusted at himself for caving in to pity, Bill walked closer and tossed a finishing shot into Tutt’s head.

  “I’m getting old, kid,” he lamented wearily as he thumbed three reloads into his smoking gun. Then he took his reins back from Josh and swung up and over.

  A few days of badly needed recuperation, at Mitt McGinnis’s comfortable ranch, put Wild Bill in a more sanguine mood.

  So, too, did the surprise messenger sent from Santa Fe by Elena Vargas. The citizens of Chimayo were still celebrating the return of their bell, convinced Wild Bill had broken the dreaded Curse of Hidalgo. Elena and Captain Guidry had rented the La Fonda’s fabulous ballroom for a celebration gala next week in Wild Bill and Josh’s honor.

  “And me and you also get to split these little beauties right down the middle, kid,” Wild Bill gloated as he emptied the chamois money pouch Elena had sent. Ten double-eagle gold pieces tumbled out onto the chenille spread of Josh’s bed.

  “A hundred dollars apiece,” Hickok added. “Better than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick, uh?”

  “I guess,” Josh responded listlessly, hardly even looking at the glittering coins. “I don’t deserve half. I ain’t half the hero you are.”

  “No, but few men are, kid,” Bill pointed out, for he had never been falsely modest about himself. “Listen. When you shot that team horse, you saved the bell. And your shooting saved me on that slope, allowed me to get into firing position below. Top of all that, you took a knife in your hand that might’ve ended up in my guts instead. You earned your pay.”

  “Yeah, I s’pose,” Josh agreed automatically, picking at a loose thread in the bedspread.

  Bill knew damn well what was rankling at the kid. He had struck a spark for Liddy McGinnis. Liddy, however, had set her romantic sights on Wild Bill. Normally, that would just have to be the kid’s tough luck—Bill did not practice charity where pretty girls were concerned.

  But he thought again about how the plucky kid from Philly had bravely refused to leave Chama Bluffs while he could. A man doesn’t desert his partner; it’s just not done.

  Damn it, Hickok, Bill told himself, you’re going to do something “noble,” ain’t you? You stupid fool—

  That afternoon, while Mitt supervised the dehorning of the yearlings, Bill and Liddy contrived to steal away into the empty library. Liddy looked pretty in a black skirt and a frilly white shirtwaist. Her blond hair fell unrestrained in back, in the bold new fashion Europeans called “the American style.”

  “Bill?” Liddy said coquettishly. “You said you don’t mind it when women presume. Well. . . you know, Elena Vargas has invited Mitt and me to the ball at La Fonda.”

  “Of course,” Bill said, subtly drawing Liddy with him into the bay of a window that overlooked the front yard. “I hope my name will be first on your dance card?”

  “I was hoping,” Liddy told him, lowering her eyes modestly, “it would also be last.”

  Both of them knew the custom. The last name listed on a lady’s dance card was also her official escort for the evening—a fact routinely reported in the “society pages.” And the name of any woman escorted by Wild Bill would go out over the wires, including the new Transatlantic Cable.

  Bill ignored her hint. Outside, a despondent-looking Josh was sitting on the top rail of the breaking pen, watching the peelers break wild broncos to leather.

  “Joshua pretty much figures the stars rise from your eyes,” Bill remarked casually. “And he told me you have a voice like waltzing violins.”

  “Josh said that? Why, how poetic!” Liddy’s eyes cut thoughtfully to the window. “He’s a sweet boy.”

  “Boy? Oh, hey! Take a better look at him, Liddy. Sure, his grammar is perfect; he’s a bang-up newspaperman. But he’s also all grit in a scrape. He faced death on Chama Bluffs and didn’t blink once. Know why? He wanted you to be proud of him.”

  “He did?”

  “I should say! He even told me he wasn’t afraid to die—not when Liddy McGinnis proved there were angels.”

  “Why . . . that sweet poet,” Liddy said, watching Joshua in earnest now.

  “Yeah,” Wild Bill went on, slyly playing to the “nest-building” instinct in most females. “A girl can have a good time with me, all right. But she can build a family with a man like that.”

  “Yes,” Liddy said softly, still watching Joshua. He was a handsome lad, especially in sad profile like this. He looked. . . . emotionally turbulent. That appealed to a high-strung girl like Liddy.

  “Maybe,” she suggested, as if it were her idea, “I can ask Joshua to be my escort?”

  “Excellent idea,” Bill approved. He was already edging toward the door, tempted by the intoxicating lilac smell of Liddy’s perfume—and the generous swell of her heaving bosom. It wouldn’t do to seduce Josh’s new lady love.

  Just as Bill excused himself and started to open the door, Liddy’s voice stopped him.

  “Bill? It’s not. . . me, is it?” She cast her eyes down and flushed. “Do you find me desirable enough?”

  Bill took in those polished-apple cheeks and cornflower blue eyes, the heart-shaped lips made for endless kisses. He shut the door with his heel.

  “Come on over here,” he dared her, his voice suddenly husky, “and I’ll show you how desirable you are. I’ve already seen you naked, in my thoughts, and I like what I saw.”

  His bluntness shocked her so much that Liddy was forced to grab the back of the nearest chair. “Bill! My lands, you’re shameless! You’ve . . . why, I can hardly catch a breath!”

  Bill laughed. “You hot little firecracker! You’ll eat the kid alive and spit out his bones. But what a way to go.”

  His mission complete, Hickok was about to open the door. But Liddy called his name again.

  “Bill? Yesterday I talked to Martha Jane. Is it true she saved your life at Chama Bluffs?”

  Liddy had a sly look on her face. Bill didn’t like the turn this trail was taking.

  “She’s saved it more than once,” he conceded reluctantly.

  “Yes. Because she’s so sweet on you.”

  Bill started to shake his head, for he had caught Liddy’s drift. Sure, Calamity Jane saved his bacon. But her face terrified buzzards. And the smell coming off her could raise blood blisters on new leather.

  “Oh no you don’t, Liddy. I’m grateful, but not crazy.”

  “The newspapers call you a gentleman, Bill Hickok. Gentlemen do the noble thing.”

  “Absolutely not,” Bill insisted. “It won’t happen. Me, take Jane to a dance? It’s like pouring kerosene on a wildfire.”

  Liddy flashed a coy smile. “Sorry, Bill. It’s a deal-breaker, as my brother says. If I go with Joshua, you go with Martha.”

  “It won’t happen,” Bill repeated stubbornly. “The woman is a cannibal! Absolutely not, I’m telling you.”

  By the time the night for feting Wild Bill had arrived, speculation was intense: Which beautiful, exotic woman would end up on the arm of the dashing Hickok?

  The carriage from the Lazy M arrived fashionably late. The ballroom was full, and the guest-of-honor table already crowded. Its occupants included Elena in an elegant silk sheath; Captain Guidry in his dress blues; and the mayor of Santa Fe, wearing long tails and a topper.

  A delighted murmur rolled through the grand ballroom when Joshua, with Liddy on his arm, entered from the lobby. Liddy’s emerald-green gown sparkled under the chandeliers. Next came Mitt, with a popular local schoolteacher on his arm.

  And a moment later, the guest of honor himself. Wild Bill wore his new black wool suit. But he hadn’t bothered with his guns tonight because the proudly beaming woman on his arm wore hers.

  “It’s Calamity Jane!” exclaimed a dumbfounded East Coast newspaperman. “In a dress! Well, that gets my money!”

  Jane’s calico d
ress looked more like a sack than a dress, and barely covered her stout limbs. She still wore her beloved John B. Stetson. And to protect Bill, her Smith & Wesson protruded from the sash around her waist.

  “Wine?” Jane snorted with contempt when a white-jacketed steward hovered at her elbow, ready to pour. “Hell, honey, wine is just vinegar sneaking up on old age! Bring me some whiskey. Rotgut will do just fine.”

  Several reporters stood along the walls, furiously taking notes. One was red-faced from drinking all evening.

  “Hey, Jane!” he roared out in the quiet ballroom. “Is it true those camels of yours love you so much because they see their mothers in your face?”

  Jane was on her best behavior. But suddenly she had sand in her ointment. The pistol filled her hand before Bill could move to stop her.

  “By grab, mister,” she retorted, thumbing the weapon to full cock, “they’re going to see daylight in yours, you milk-kneed gal-boy!”

  Bill grabbed the muzzle. “Apologize real nice, mister, and I won’t let her kill you.”

  The reporter stammered his regrets, mollifying Jane. But before a half hour had passed, she had emptied her first bottle of whiskey.

  “Hey!” she hollered down the table so Josh and Liddy, busy whispering to each other, could hear her. So could everyone else. “You two aim to pitch a little hay tonight?”

  Liddy didn’t understand the phrase, but Josh flushed deep. Before he could recover, Jane added, addressing the entire ballroom: “Bill told me Joshua here ain’t never had his clock wound. Hell, he’s still on ma’s milk!”

  The La Fonda erupted in laughter. Bill, too, laughed until tears streamed from his eyes.

  This is more like it, he told himself as he returned the wink of a sassy redhead across the room. Finally I’m having some fun.

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