Dance With A Gunfighter

by JoMarie Lodge

  Gabe shuddered at the sight, and turned her head. She noticed Lomax shake his head and step away, a bored look on his face, as if this was a little scene Melissa and Cramer liked to play, over and over.

  "I want you, Tack." Melissa’s breathing grew heavy as her hand worked furiously. "Now, right now."

  Cramer bent toward Melissa's neck and she threw her head back, moaning in ecstasy. Cramer lifted his head and looked over the camp. "Lomax. Take care a the girl."

  Lomax dragged Gabe to an ironwood tree, had her sit, then pulled her arms back around the small trunk and tied them. He looped the rope around her waist and chest and tied it tight, making sure she couldn't move at all. She struggled against them, but couldn’t loosen them in the slightest.

  "Get McLowry down, please," Gabe said to Lomax. "He’ll die there."

  Lomax's gaze was stony. "Better him than me."

  Gabe watched McLowry through the long, hot afternoon. The only blessing was that as the afternoon wore on, the sun angled against the shed in a way that covered him with shade.

  McLowry remained unconscious. At first Gabe was glad; anything was better than the pain he would feel when he awakened. His back was fiery, seeping blood. Even though he wasn't conscious, she could see the muscles quiver in agony. As the afternoon waned, though, she grew increasingly worried about his continuing unconsciousness.

  She had to figure out a way for them to escape this place. His being here, being hurt, was all her fault.

  Images filled her mind. Jess at the dance--was it really just last night? His surprise at being thanked by the townspeople for his help. As they camped on the desert, the way he’d held her and kissed her. And today, his stubborn determination to show no weakness as these men were beating him so mercilessly.

  They'd pay, she vowed. Every last one of them.

  Soon, Melissa's harsh voice shattered Gabe's thoughts. "You sat around long enough. It’s almost suppertime." Melissa and Cramer approached.

  "We got eggs," Melissa said, then smiled at Cramer. "Thanks to me."

  "Eggs?" He wrinkled his thin lips. "What do you think I am? Some damn fox alus raidin' the hen house! I'm sick a eggs. Reminds me a chicken guts."

  Melissa glared at Gabe, clearly blaming Gabe for Cramer's petulance.

  "I want real meat!" Cramer raged.

  "We can't kill more hens, Tack," Melissa whined.

  "I don't want no birds either. An' no rabbit or snake! I don't want nothin' that flies, hops or slithers."

  Lefty strapped on his gun belt. "I'll get you something, boss. I heard there's some new settlers on the west range. I'm sure they'll be neighborly."

  Cramer's eyes squinted. "You make sure! Red, Slim, go with him."

  Red jumped to his feet.

  "I got me a hankerin' fer pig meat, boys. You git me one and that girl can cook it up." He gave Gabe a murderous glance. "But you better not wreck it, hear?"

  Gabe nodded. She watched Lefty, Red and Slim ride off, praying their journey would be a long one. Now only three men, Cramer, Lomax, and Dawes, plus Melissa, were left here.

  "Hell, Melissa, I'm hungry now," Cramer bawled.

  "We'll feed you right quick, Tack." Melissa hurried to remove Gabe's bindings, then led her past the shack to the cooking area. A cookstove sat out in the sun. On it was a large kettle. Two iron skillets, one large and another hardly big enough to fry one egg, were stacked on one side, and on the other stood a square wood block work table. Atop it lay a cleaver and several wide-blade knives.

  Nearby, a water hole broke the surface of the canyon floor, with a cottonwood tree near its edge. Under the tree stood a warped table and benches. Onions and greens were stacked on the table.

  Lomax strutted toward the women carrying two of Melissa's hens by the feet. Their heads had been removed, and blood trailed onto the ground as he walked.

  Melissa told Gabe she was expected to cook them a dinner of chicken stew. "But it better be good. You wouldn't want to disappoint Tack." Then Melissa plopped herself on a blanket, her back against the cottonwood’s trunk, and watched as Gabe removed the birds’ feathers to begin the cooking process.

  An hour later Cramer came by to see what was happening. Gabe stood at the wood block, hacking the birds apart with the cleaver. Perspiration dripped from her face; her dress was tattered and dirty and ringed with sweat along her back and neckline. Cramer took a look at the sharp blade in her hand and backed away.

  "Hi there, honey," Melissa purred. "I sure do appreciate your gift," she said with a nod toward Gabe. Sitting up now, Melissa fanned herself with a tin plate then dabbed her fingers into the cup of water at her side and stroked them over her chest, slipping her hand in the crevice between her full breasts. "I feel so cool here, so relaxed."

  "That so?" Cramer walked over to her, squatted on his haunches then slid his hand down to where hers had been moments before.

  Gabe gawked as the man openly fondled Melissa's breasts and saw her writhe as if she were enjoying it. When Cramer pulled down the front of Melissa's dress and bent his head to her breasts Gabe nearly dropped the chicken onto the ground.

  But then she remembered how she had felt when Jess kissed her, how it seemed that every part of her ached to be touched by him. If he had touched her breasts, or lowered his mouth...

  She shut her eyes, rocking with agony over what they’d done to him. Please, Jess. Don’t let Cramer take you, too, away from me. Please be strong...

  When she looked up again, Cramer and Melissa had gone. Lomax sat nearby, his dark eyes staring at the shack.

  Ignoring him, she hacked at the chickens, imagining it was Cramer on the block of wood instead of the skinny, dead birds.

  A black kettle filled with chickens, greens, onions and water was boiling furiously when Cramer showed up again. He looked at Lomax and angled his head back toward the shack. "She plumb wore me out." He put a cigar between his teeth.

  "I could use a little of her myself," Lomax said.

  "Go ahead." Cramer flicked his thumb over his shoulder. "She's still inside, an' ready--like always."

  Lomax unhitched his trousers as he walked toward the shack. It was Cramer’s turn to stretch out under the cottonwood. He opened a new bottle of whiskey and took a long swallow.

  The whiskey bottle gave Gabe an idea. After the chicken had finished cooking, she set it in a platter, then slowly poured whiskey over the whole thing, letting it soak into the meat. Instead of the dinner causing Cramer and the others to grow less drunk, she'd see that it increased their drunkenness. Maybe even make them pass out. She planned to keep the whiskey flowing freely as they ate.

  A short while later, Dawes strolled over to her, standing close as Gabe was putting the food on the small block table. "Why does this here chicken smell like likker?"

  "It's French," Gabe said. "Don't you know anything?"

  Cramer yelled over to him. "Hey, that's right. Gabriella Devere. Sounds like one a them fancy Frenchie women. I heard they know more ways to do it than sand in the desert."

  "One way’s all I need." Dawes grinned with a slow glance over her body.

  Cramer called to Gabe. "How French are you, Frenchie?"

  She scooted around to the opposite side of the cooking area. "My grandfather was from Louisiana. That do?"

  Cramer laughed. "Good 'nough, I reckon."

  As Gabe dished out the greens, Dawes watched, nearly drooling as he eyed the food. "You didn't really pour good likker on these birds, did you?"

  Gabe just smiled.

  Melissa stepped out of the shack and flounced over to them, Lomax following. She sat on the bench beside Cramer. "No dinner yet? My new girl seems a bit slow on the job, Tack. I think she needs to be taught the same lesson McLowry learned. He's been nice and docile ever since."

  Cramer leaned back, holding his knee for support. "Melissa's right fer once. Where's my dinner?"

  "Is everybody here?" Gabe asked. Cramer nodded. His other three men hadn’t returned yet.

  "I
t's ready," she said. Every eye was on her as she carried the platter of chicken to the table. Remembering the fancy dinner her father told her he'd once had in Denver, she doused the chicken with more whiskey, ignoring the men's scowls, then lit a match and touched it to the liquor. It flamed up. The three men leaped to their feet shrieking that she'd burned the dinner. Melissa struggled to stand.

  "It's flambé!" She yelled back as she spooned the whiskey over the chicken until the flame died out. "It's supposed to do that!"

  Cautiously, Cramer sat down again, his eyes darting from the chicken to Gabe. She held her breath. Finally, he gave a smug look to his men. "That's flam-bay. Now eat up."

  Gabe dished out the meal, then filled everyone’s glasses with whiskey. As the chicken disappeared to murmurs of approval, Cramer's look of smugness grew in tandem with Melissa's irritation. She wasn't too angry to eat, though. Despite her displeasure at how well the meal was received, she ate a man-sized share.

  Gabe had cooked a batch of pan-fried biscuits with the greens and chicken, and she kept pouring more whiskey as they ate. By the time dinner was over, the men and Melissa were glassy-eyed drunk and their stomachs pleasantly full.

  "Mighty fine, girl," Cramer said, rubbing his belly. "Mighty fine." He picked up a rope. "Sorry to have to do this, but you reckon how it is."

  He tied her hands behind her back, then bound her ankles together. To her shock and disgust, he pulled her down beside him as he stretched out on the blanket under the cottonwood. He lay on his back with a groan, his stomach pointing at the sky like a volcano ready to erupt. Tucking Gabe against his side, he slid his hand under the neckline of her dress and fondled her breasts. Her dinner threatened to come back up, but she swallowed hard and forced herself to lie absolutely still. He belched loudly then shut his eyes. Before long, she heard his long, loud snores.

  The others lay down when he did, and in no time, everyone was asleep.

  After about twenty minutes when no one stirred, Gabe slipped free of Cramer's hold. Rolling and inching her way quietly toward the worktable, she twisted herself into a sitting position and used the table to brace herself to stand. She had to turn around to pick up the meat cleaver since her hands were tied behind her. Once she held it securely, she dropped to her knees and clamped the cleaver between her boots, blade side facing outward. Angling her hands so that the ropes binding her wrists were against the sharp blade, she pressed hard against the blade, rocking her wrists up and down along it in a small, sawing motion.

  The ropes cut, then frayed, and then broke apart.

  In an instant she sliced through the ropes that bound her ankles.

  Quietly she stood up, watching Cramer and his men as she did, and took hold of the long and short knives, plus the strap of a water canteen. The canteen clanged against the leg of the table as she pulled it off. She froze, watching the sleepers, scared the sound would cause one of them to wake.

  They didn’t stir. She slipped silently to the far side of the shack where Jess had been left to die.

  He wasn’t there. Her heart pounded. Please, God, let him be alive, she prayed, over and over. Please, let me find him.

  The ground looked as if something had been dragged over it. She followed the tracks, scarcely able to breathe from fear of what she might find.

  He lay under a mesquite. His arms and legs were tied, and the way he lay tossed on the ground, face down, he looked dead. She took a stumbling, awkward step toward him, then another. Finally, she dropped at his side, her breath gone, her eyes blinking hard.

  "Jess," she whispered. She was almost afraid to touch him. She watched, and saw his chest move ever so slightly. She put her hand near his mouth and felt the faint blush of breath touch her skin. Blessed relief flowed through her as she kissed his forehead, his temple, rubbing her cheek and nose to his face, and thanking God he lived. His flesh was cold and clammy. His eyelids and face were caked with dust and burnt by the blistering sun. His poor back, once smooth and straight and proud, was raw and, in parts, still oozing thin, watery blood. But he was alive.

  "Jess, please wake up," she begged, her voice choked. "Please. Jess." She took the short knife and cut through his bindings, then rubbed his hands and wrists.

  His eyes flickered, then fastened on hers, clutching her as if she were a lifeline. His breathing came hard, and the throbbing of his pulse at the base of his throat was slow, too slow. She smiled at him in encouragement. "I've got water." She held up the canteen. He saw, too, the torn skin on her arm from the ropes, her swollen and bruised face. Fury flashed in his eyes. His arm moved, and he tried to reach for the water. She unscrewed the top and held his head as she raised the canteen, allowing him to drink greedily even as she warned him against it.

  When she lowered the canteen again, his breathing came harder, his strength seemed to have drained from the effort even while he needed the water to live. She couldn’t bear him being hurt this way.

  She bathed his face, neck and chest with water, hoping it would cool and soothe him, a little at least.

  His eyes opened. He looked around in wonder. His gaze traveled to the sky. It was already night.

  He was surprised to be alive--and to find Gabe with him. He was sorry he had failed her. He couldn’t tell her, though, because his voice was gone. All he could do was look at her, and let his eyes beg forgiveness. He saw the sorrow in her eyes as she gazed back at him and wished he had the strength to tell her how brave he thought she was.

  "We don't have much time, Jess," she whispered. "Someone's sure to wake up soon. Try to move your legs; let's see if you can stand."

  His legs had no strength. His back felt as if it was on fire, and a throbbing pain sent waves of blackness and nausea over him.

  The muscles on his back quivered and twitched uncontrollably. Using his arms, he managed to sit up, but even that was so painful he felt himself blacking out again. She caught him as he slumped over, his head on her shoulder. Wordlessly, she stroked his hair back from his face, but he could feel her despair.

  "You go ahead, Gabe." He didn't recognize the voice as his own. "Get away while you can."

  "I won't leave you."

  "I can't make it. Go. Get help for me."

  They'd kill him. They’d kill him, bury his body and break up this camp so that there'd be no sign of it as soon as they realized she was gone. She continued to stroke his hair in a soothing massage against his scalp. "We'll get out of this together."

  She helped him lie down on his stomach once again. Taking off one of Patty Larkin's petticoats--how long ago it seemed she had put them on for the excitement of the dance--she sliced out a large square, soaked the square with water and laid it carefully against his back. At first he flinched from the feel of anything touching his skin, but soon the cool water helped ease the pain, and his enflamed muscles slowly began to grow calm.

  Seeing that it brought him some comfort, she did it again. "It helps, Gabe," he whispered.

  Her eyes stung at the simple gratitude she heard in his voice.

  Through nearly two more hours she gave him sips of water and placed wet cloths against his torn skin. Carefully she washed away any dirt, knowing there was little more she could do to ease his torment. He slept much of the time, but she never did.

  "Can you stand, Jess?" She didn’t want to make him try it, but had grown desperate that she must. "We can’t wait. We’ve got to get to the horses." As soon as the horses began to run, Cramer's men would awaken. If Jess couldn't ride strong and fast, he'd be shot before he made it to the tunnel in the canyon wall.

  McLowry slowly rose to his knees. Gabe put a cool, wet square of her petticoat over his back, then helped him put his shirt on over it. She stood before him and clutched his arms, letting him use her as support to pull himself to his feet.

  She stopped, listening hard. The distinctive sound of shuffling feet, followed by the noisy splash of a man relieving himself, was heard.

  She gave the long knife to McLowry and she slid the s
hort one under the dress sash at her back. "Stay here," she said. "Don’t move." Soundlessly, she eased herself into the night toward a cigarette’s glow.

  It was Dawes.

  Her heartbeat quickened. Jess was out of sight, for which she was glad. She didn't think she could go through with what she had to do if Jess were watching.

  She ignored the trembling of her knees as she stepped out in front of Dawes.

  "What the--" He lowered the cigarette from his mouth as he looked at her hands and feet. "Cramer let you free?"

  "Yes," she whispered. "But now, he's asleep." She kept her voice low and soft. "I didn't want to stay there when I saw you leave."

  Dawes smirked and drew on his cigarette again.

  Gabe continued. "There’s an interesting little triangle here--Cramer and Melissa and Lomax."

  He sucked in his breath. "Yeah? What of it?"

  "What about you? You’re a good-looking man. Who takes care of your needs?"

  A flicker of interest came into his eyes as he studied her, as if trying to figure out what she was getting at. "You got some suggestions, girl?"

  She smoothed her torn, battered dress by starting at the bodice and slowly running her palms over her breasts, to her waist and hips, just the way she'd seen Melissa do. "I do."

  His eyes searched hers, "What're you saying?"

  "This." She unfastened the top button of her dress, then took another step toward him as she continued to undo the remaining buttons. He didn't take his eyes off her hands, but put the rifle at his side and opened his knees wide so she could step between his legs.

  His eyes traveled to her face just a moment before slipping downward again. She saw his half-toothless smile as both hands reached out to stroke her. She jumped back and he froze, his eyes flashing dangerously.

  "I’m in charge here," she whispered huskily, and placed both her hands on his shoulders. An interested leer flashed in his eyes.

  Her left hand coiled into his greasy hair, her eyes meeting his. Then she slowly drew his head forward, to her breasts, as her right hand found the knife handle. She wrapped her fingers around it, then carefully slid it from her dress’s sash.