Lawless Land

by Dusty Richards

  “Fine. But when you do, you come get me. Don’t try to take him on your own.”

  “Sí.” Jesus stood up and put on his sombrero. “One thing. I could use a few pesos for a beer or two.”

  Sam looked at him with a small smile. He rose and dug two silver dollars out of his pocket. “You watch yourself. No whiskey.”

  “Sí. We will meet at the stables later.” Jesus jangled the coins in his palm, then stuffed them into his pocket.

  “No, you can meet him here later,” Rosita interrupted. “This man looks tired and I have a bed this big hombre can use. To sleep in.”

  “Yes, good idea,” Jesus said with frown of concern.

  “Jesus,” the woman said sharply, “your patron is safe here.”

  “Since you two have decided,” Sam said, “I won’t argue. I’ll shut my eyes while he finds him. Don’t make it too long.”

  Jesus agreed with a nod.

  Sam T. mused on the inviting thought of a real bed. His hip would appreciate the rest. Rosita held no appeal for him, but he was grateful for her hospitality. He looked at the waiting pair and then nodded.

  This job as territorial marshal was not working out as smoothly as he had anticipated. Perhaps after a few hours’ sleep he could assemble all the facts and put the information about this case in some sort of perspective. He had faith in Jesus finding the gang member. Maybe they would get some answers from this Jimmy. Surely this outlaw could tell them if Mrs. Stauffer was still alive. Perhaps Sam would have to wait for Too-Gut’s report on the hacienda to learn anything else. Who were those rifles intended for? Better yet, who had them?

  Sam followed her down the narrow hallway lit by small candle lamps. There was not a hell of a lot he could do for the next few hours besides sleep. She turned the knob, opened the thin wooden door and stepped back for him.

  “Sleep good, big man. No one will disturb you.”

  “Gracias,” he mumbled. She caught his arm and kissed him on the cheek.

  “That was for hiring Jesus.”

  Sam T. blinked at her. His nose full of her perfume and musk, he studied her.

  “He needed such work. You are a good man, Sam T.” She clapped him on the arm to go ahead.

  He agreed, and there seemed no need to tell her about Major Bowen, who deserved all the credit. His dulled thoughts were on the inviting bed in the room and shutting his eyes.

  Justine hugged the thick woven cotton blanket around her, shivering in spite of the small fire that Sid and his men had built. The orange-blue flames licked up in tongues, but did little to drive away the cool night air. Scooting closer on her butt, Justine wondered if she would ever be warm again.

  A shadowy figure, armed with a rifle, squatted on his heels across from her. The yellow light illuminated Sid’s long mustache. Despite the show of force by these men, Justine felt anxious for them to be on their way. If only Angela would come back. There had been no sign of the Indian girl and Justine worried about her.

  “Ma’am, we have more blankets,” Sid offered, obviously having observed her shivering.

  Knowing he was talking about their own blankets, she smiled feebly and shook her head. “No, thank you. I’ll get warm soon.”

  “Sure. I hate to bother you, Mrs. Stauffer, but we can’t find that Indian girl you were telling us about. It’s making the men a mite nervous. The girl knows that we’re your friends, don’t she?”

  Justine cleared her throat and forced herself to sound confident. “I’m sure she does, Sid. She saved my life, you know.”

  “Yes, ma’am, but me and the boys would feel better if you’d call to her. Try to make her understand that we ain’t going to hurt her.”

  Sighing wearily, Justine rose. She knew Sid was right. She was glad Dan had hired him. The other two men, Pete and Red, had been very considerate of her comfort too. Earlier they had fixed some beans and coffee, which tasted like ambrosia to Justine’s jaded palate. It was really absurd of Angela to hide out in the desert when she could be by the fire, eating decent food for a change.

  Irritated by her friend’s obstinacy, Justine moved beyond the fire circle and called out, “Angela! Angela, come!”

  The vast star-flecked desert swallowed her words, losing them in the chilly night air. She tried repeatedly to reach the girl, but there was no answer.

  “I’m sorry, Sid. She must have taken off somewhere. Are the horses still out back?”

  “Only one, ma’am. Could she have gone back to her people or something? Mrs. Stauffer, you got any idea how far back Lamas and his men are?”

  Justine lowered herself back on the ground beside the fire. She had no idea how many days and nights she had been on the run. They all ran together in her tortured mind. Regretfully she shook her head, hoping Sid didn’t think she was stupid.

  “Don’t worry about it,” he said. “You try and get some rest. You’re safe not.”

  Safe. It sounded like a foreign word. Only in Dan’s strong arms would she ever feel safe and warm again.

  After arranging the saddle beneath her head, she wrapped the blanket tightly around her and glanced across the fire at Sid. Even though she felt grateful for the presence of the three men, they posed only a small force against the savage rapist Lamas and his men. Such a fragile defense to hold off his ruthless outlaws.

  She closed her eyes, thanking God in her prayers for sending Sid and his men to the hacienda. Soon, soon she would be with Dan.

  Immediately Justine fell into a heavy slumber. She was walking through the desert again, nothing but barren scrub land for miles. Far in the distance, on a low horizon she could see Dan. He was wearing a white vest, the familiar panama hat perched on his black hair. She moved toward him, but the desert transformed into quicksand and began pulling her down. Tears rolled down her face and she lifted her arms, pleading with Dan to save her. At last he began to move toward her, his figure shimmering through the heat waves that rose from the desert floor. Justine blinked the tears away to see his face. Only it wasn’t Dan. It was the grinning, dark face of Lamas.

  A pistol appeared in her hand as if by magic. With cold calculation, Justine raised the gun and aimed for his heart. The revolver kicked hard when she fired it. She watched in a mixture of joy and horror when a hole appeared in Lamas’s bared chest. Crimson blood flowed through the thick black hair, running in rivulets down his muscle-corded stomach. She lifted her eyes and smiled into his blazing black visage. He lunged for her. She stood immobile. Her limbs were frozen, holding her prisoner. When Lamas fell to the ground, the desert sand began to swallow him. Justine moaned softly in her sleep.

  A cold wind jolted her awake. She blinked her eyes. Sid squatted by the fire. And Lamas, she realized, was still out there somewhere—alive.

  In anticipation of what would happen next, Lamas wet his lips and peered into the darkness to better see the woman on her knees before him. He squatted down on the heels of his kidskin boots and smiled at the tied-up bitch. He nodded his approval at Sanchez, who stood beside her, the rifle cradled in his arms. At last, his man had captured and delivered one of them.

  He knelt down and reached out, snatched a handful of her long hair and jerked her face close to his. “How many men are with the gringo woman?”

  They’d never get an answer from this one. She was an Indian. Neither threats nor torture would open her stubborn mouth. Perhaps he would quickly use her body, then slit her throat. He looked around in the night. There was no time or place for that here. Which was a shame. Besides, she would only fetch a few pesos in some flea-ridden whorehouse. She and that other puta had cost him dearly. His brood mares, stallion and all the ranch horses were gone and now he was out in the desert, dirty as when he was an outcast boy in the village where he was born. This slut had caused him enough trouble and discomfort. He glared down at her, the moonlight on her face displaying her blazing, contemptuous eyes.

  Angela flung back her head in defiance and spat in his face. The slick warm wetness ran down his cheek
unchecked. His chest heaved with rage and a small tic in his jaw muscles fluttered.

  “Kill her,” Lamas said softly.

  Sanchez’s rifle butt smashed her head like a ripe melon. In an instant, Angela was dead.

  “Damn whore!” Lamas stood up.

  “Sarge will be here soon,” Sanchez said.

  “Taking him long enough.” He walked away from the lifeless body. Where in the hell was Jimmy? he wondered impatiently. Perhaps Sarge had already found the stupid boy and fed him to the ants. No, he would wait. And when they did stake him on an anthill, Lamas vowed with relish, he would sit on his heels and watch with great pleasure as the insects devoured him.

  Tomorrow, he would take back the silky-skinned woman too. He could already savor the pleasure of whipping her milky skin until the blood ran freely down her bare buttocks. On the back of his hand, Lamas wiped what remained of the dead girl’s spit from his face. The night wind picked up and blew off the sombrero latched at his throat. He lifted the hat back on his head.

  Sleep well tonight, Senora Stauffer, he thought. Tomorrow you will pay.

  Jesus entered the Rojo Cantina. Cigarette smoke hung so thick it curled around in clouds under the low roof. Under the yellow candle lamps, the thick haze engulfed the serious gamblers, who played cards on a green felt-top table. He eased to the bar and felt in his pocket for the money Sam T. had given him. Two dollars, an entire week’s wages working in the adobe pit. He scanned the bottles of expensive liquor behind the bar. His tongue floated at the notion of tasting real tequila, salt and lime again.

  “Hey.” A young painted puta slipped up and hugged him around the waist. “Buy me a drink, amigo.”

  He looked down into her eyes. She was too thin, too young. He wondered about Tia. He missed her. It forced him to recall the week he stayed at her place getting ready for Sam T. They were good times. This wisp of a woman—yes, she would be the one.

  He put his arm around her familiarly and whispered in her ear, “Let’s find a booth.”

  The girl’s eye widened. “Sure. My name is Ruby.”

  “Yes, Ruby,” he whispered. “Bring the lady some whiskey,” he said to the bartender, and with his hand on her waist, they went to the darker side of the cantina.

  She slid in the booth and he followed. Someone was busy in the next one. All he could see was the wooden divider when he sat down, but he could hear the other couples breathing hard and their squirming told him enough. They would soon leave for that one’s crib.

  “What is your name?” she asked, getting up on her knees and slipping his hat off. With care she smoothed his hair and fussed about his face with her hands.

  “Jesus.” He drew out the dollar to pay the barmaid for her drink.

  “You don’t want anything, señor?” the girl asked.

  “No.” He shook his head, then accepted his change and put it on the tabletop before him.

  “Ah, Jesus …” Ruby moved to get in front of him, so her knees straddled his legs. “You want to feel my tits?”

  He leaned forward to whisper in her ear. “Where is this outlaw they call Jimmy?” His hands idly ran up and down, feeling the sides of Ruby’s hips under the material.

  She narrowed her eyes and peered closely at him. “Who?”

  “The outlaw Jimmy.”

  She checked around to be certain they were alone, then she leaned over and cupped his ear in her hand to whisper, “Across the street at the Monte, passed out in a room. Don’t you tell him I said so. He is a gang member of Don Lamas’s. They would kill me so fast.”

  She straightened and looked into his eyes to plead for her request.

  “Your secret is safe with me. I am going to pay you two bits for your kindness.”

  “Oh,” she moaned disappointedly. “I could show you such a good time in my bed.” She tossed her head toward the back.

  “I have business. Another time.”

  She swept her limp hair back and kissed him hard on the mouth. Putas don’t kiss men. He knew she was sincere in her heart. No time for her; he needed to find this Jimmy and then go wake Sam T. Perhaps Jimmy could be “persuaded” into telling them much about the Stauffer woman.

  At last, Ruby reluctantly moved aside so he could slide out of the booth. When he stood up, he gave her the two bits and pocketed the rest. They exchanged strained smiles. Jesus made his way across to the Monte. With a dollar and thirty cents left in his pocket, he went into the lobby.

  The night clerk stood behind the counter, busy reading the newspaper. He never looked up. At the desk, Jesus cleared his throat for the man’s attention.

  “Yes?”

  “What room is Jimmy in?”

  “Why?” The man looked ready to fall asleep on his feet.

  “Fifty cents of this is yours for an answer.” Jesus slapped the dollar on the counter.

  “In back, room seven in the courtyard.” He motioned with his head that direction, then reached for the dollar.

  “Fifty cents,” Jesus reminded him and covered the clerk’s hand with his own, pressing down to make his point.

  “Yeah, I can count.” Their gazes met and Jesus released his hold.

  “I need a passkey too.”

  The clerk nodded and reached underneath to produce one.

  With his change and the key in his pocket, Jesus went out in the night and stood on the porch. The Chinese lanterns strung along the porch of the Rojo lit the night. The place beckoned him. Not for the young girl, Ruby—but for the yellow gold in those bottles gleaming so bright behind the bar. He rubbed his whisker-bristled mouth with the palm of his hand and licked his dry lips.

  How could one little drink hurt him? He had the money. Sam T. was napping at Rosita’s. He had the room key. Damn, he could taste it. His heart quickened at the prospect of having a stiff drink. A vision of that hellhole, the adobe pit, reminded him quickly of his duties. Did he want to throw away everything he had? Jesus physically tore himself away and started climbing the cobblestone street going up to the hill. He better go wake up Sam T. They had work to do.

  The laughter of the whores and the sound of the music in the night behind him did not make this any easier. Tia, we should go find a priest when I return. He thought of the girl back at Rojo’s and compared her to Tia. Not for him. You can be proud of me, woman. He hoped Sam T. fared better in getting some sleep than he did with his personal problems. Jesus drew a shuddering breath and hurried on his way.

  In the early morning light, Sam T. and Jesus crossed the hotel’s sprawling courtyard. Somewhere, a rooster crowed. Both men searched around for anything out of place. Jesus crowded close, used the pass key and then eased the door open. Pistol held high, Sam T. looked around one last time, then followed Jesus into the room.

  The sleeping outlaw lay naked, sprawled face down on the bed. Sam T. quickly shut the door. Good enough; they had him.

  “Wake him up,” Sam hissed.

  Jesus holstered his pistol and picked up a pitcher of water from the bedstand. He sloshed the kid with the water, then quickly lifted the new-looking gun and holster from the bedpost.

  “W-what the hell?” The dripping outlaw flopped over and blinked his eyes at the sight of them.

  “You’ve got thirty seconds to decide if you’re going to live or die. Where’s Mrs. Stauffer?” Sam T. demanded.

  “Who are—”

  Sam cut off his question. Gripping the boy by his hair, Sam shoved the barrel of the Colt into the kid’s cheek. “Talk or die!”

  Jimmy’s Adam’s apple bobbed erratically. His eyes nearly crossed as he looked at the pistol against his face. “S-she’s gone.”

  “Where?”

  “I don’t know, mister. She and that Indian bitch run off. Hell, Lamas ever catches me, he’ll kill me over it.”

  In disgust, Sam shoved the kid back on the bed. Jesus moved to the kid’s side and held a glistening knife to his throat.

  “Tell us everything,” Jesus ordered

  Jimmy gulped, his ey
es wide in terror. “No—no need for that knife. I’ll tell you what you want to know.”

  Sam stepped back, opened the door to check the courtyard. No one in sight. He closed the door and leaned his back against it. With the Colt still in his hand, he pointed at the outlaw. “I’m listening.”

  Jimmy cleared his throat and tried to sink down in the bed to get away from the threat of Jesus’ knife. “They caught me off guard.”

  “Who?” Jesus insisted.

  “Those bitches—they tied me up and run off with all of Lamas’s horses and then rode out.”

  “And just where was Lamas all this time?” Sam asked with heavy sarcasm.

  “He was off somewhere. Cripes, mister, I don’t know. I managed to catch one of them loose horses, then I rode like hell out of there before Lamas came back. That crazy Mexican will kill me for it when he finds me.”

  “Where are the other gang members?”

  “Hell, how should I know? Probably out with Lamas looking for them two damn bitches in the desert.”

  “So the women got away?” Sam went over the matter in his mind.

  “Yeah, that high-assed Stauffer bitch tricked me. That’s why I’m here. If Lamas ever catches me—”

  Sam T. wanted to bust him in the mouth, but he contained his anger. It was good news the women had escaped. Perhaps Too-Gut and Da-yah would manage to find them before Lamas did.

  “Get dressed. You’re going across the border.”

  “What for?” the kid demanded.

  Sam’s eyes narrowed. “You can go peacefully with us over there or we’ll deliver you to Lamas. What’ll it be?”

  “Just who are you guys?”

  “You never mind, boy,” Sam growled. “Just get dressed; we ain’t got time for explanations.” He tossed the boy’s clothes to Jesus.

  There were more important things to do than spend time on this worthless piece of shit, Sam mused grimly. Mars. Stauffer was somewhere between them and Lamas’s place. By this time, she could either be safe or lost in the desert or recaptured by Lamas. The latter alternative was one that Sam didn’t want to dwell on.