The Quantro Story

by Chris Scott Wilson

  A while later he edged his way into a poker game and spent the next two hours studying cards. He played each hand with care, as was his way, keeping a practiced impassive face as he called and raised. The growing pile of coins on the table before him attested his skill.

  The evening wore on and the bottle next to his left hand slowly emptied. Cowhands continually changed places at the table as they went broke, making rueful expressions at the loss of their wages. Their friends just laughed and then took a seat. The chances were that they went broke too. By the time Quantro’d had enough he had lost a few but won most. He dealt his last hand, then placed the deck in the middle of the table.

  “That’s me out,” he said, sliding his winnings off the edge of the table into his hand. “Say, have they got many girls? I’d like to pay me a visit upstairs.”

  “Not a chance,” one of the luckier players replied, “Tonight’s pay day, and all the girls’ll have queues stretching way along the corridor. Tell you what, Mister, there’s a cathouse right along the street. Costs a little more but you won’t have to wait for so long. More for the businessmen types, but as long as you pay your way they won’t complain.”

  “Obliged, friend.” Quantro touched the brim of his Stetson and gave up his chair for the next cowboy who felt lucky.

  He pushed his way out through the batwing doors and onto the boardwalk. What the hell, he’d won a few bucks and could afford a more expensive woman. After all, it was only money, and spending was what it was for. There would be enough time to worry about the lack of it when he took out after Zeb Cole tomorrow morning.

  After the warm, smoky atmosphere of the saloon, the night was cool and clean, a fresh breeze ruffling the sides of his hair. Looking off to the left he could see where the stores merged into the private houses. All the lights were on in the fifth one along. That could only be the place he was headed.

  He grinned and hitched his pants, then set off at an easy gait along the planking. Here and there, a drunken cowhand stumbled in the shadows, and as he crossed an alley a spread-eagled body emitted clear snores, humming in the night air like bursts on a buzz saw. At the end of the raised sidewalk he stepped down on to the ruts of the road, moving past dainty white fences that cordoned the gardens of the private houses. He could see that flowers and bushes had been planted, a contrast to the wild untamed land that bordered the town’s limits.

  He was already past two of the dark houses when he heard scuffling and voices coming from the porch of the third. Unconsciously squinting, he could make out two shadows struggling in the darkness.

  One was tall and wearing a hat, and the other was small, surrounded by swishing petticoats. Some husband and wife arguing. He smiled to himself, it was no problem of his. If a man had a wife, then…

  “Will you leave me alone,” the woman said clearly, her voice rising.

  “Aw, Come on Janey. A little kissin’ d’int ever hurt nobody…” the man’s voice slurred in the darkness.

  “Get off me, you drunken pig. Go home and sleep with your cows.” The female’s voice was even plainer this time, clear and shrill on the night air. Something about the husky timbre of her voice jarred Quantro’s senses. Something familiar. He frowned, his feet halting, then he swiftly opened the gate and strode up the path. As he walked, a mental image of his mother lashed to the bed blazed into his mind.

  “Okay, Mister. You heard the lady. Now go home and sleep it off.” His voice was harsh in the darkness. As he approached the porch the drunken cowhand released his hold on the woman and turned towards the intruder.

  “Who the hell are you ? Beat it stranger, afore I lose my temper.” The light caught the cowhand’s face twisted into an ugly grimace.

  “Won’t tell you again,” Quantro said quietly. “Don’t tell nobody twice.”

  The cowhand swung wildly, his drink soaked brain slow and clumsy. Quantro blocked the punch easily with his left arm and drove his right in a straight-arm to the cowhand’s stomach.

  “Goddam…” the man snarled just before Quantro’s punch forced the breath out of his lungs and he began to double over. As his head came forward Quantro neatly rabbit-punched him across the nape of his neck and the falling man continued floorwards until he hit the wooden planking.

  He didn’t move.

  Quantro tilted back his hat and the woman saw his face for the first time.

  “Oh, it’s you.” She seemed startled.

  “I guess so,” he replied with a grin. “Them beefsteaks of yours sure do give a man energy. I hit him afore I knew it.”

  She smiled at his modesty. “I’d like to thank you anyway, Mr.…? I’m sorry, even though I feel I know you already, I don’t know your name.”

  “Quantro, ma’am. Quantro Glad to be of service.”

  “Well, thank you Mr. Quantro. I’m Janey Morgan.” She held out a small glove-covered hand. He took it hesitantly and squeezed. Their eyes locked for a second, then she lowered hers and withdrew her hand.

  “Well,” he said gruffly to cover his embarrassment, “What do I do about him? I can’t leave him asleep on your front porch. Kinda untidy. Some poor unsuspectin’ person might just trip over him in the dark.” He thought for a moment.

  “Is he a ranch hand?”

  “Yes. He comes in every pay day with all the others. They all get drunk and then broke. In that order.”

  “Figures. Then he’s probably left his horse down at the livery. I’ll take him down and leave him to sleep it off.”

  Before she could speak, he stooped and pulled the cowhand upright, then hauled him up over his shoulder, apparently without effort.

  “Thank you, Mr. Quantro.”

  “Think nothing of it,” he replied over his shoulder as he walked through the open gateway and turned along the main street again.

  The old man at the stable chuckled when Quantro dumped his load into the straw of an empty stall. He knew the cowboy and promised to see he was left alone to sleep it off. A silver dollar ensured the old man’s co-operation.

  A few minutes later Quantro was back out on the street, still with his woman problem. Not the problem of owning one, more the problem of satisfying his need for one. For the second time that evening he set out for the cathouse up the street. This time he would make it for sure.

  As he drew level with Janey Morgan’s house he glanced at the porch, then heard her calling out softly in the darkness. He turned in at the gate and walked up the path. She was standing by the door, her small hands held together in front of her.

  “I just wanted to explain about Jimmy…”

  “Nothin’ to explain, ma’am. That’s your business. Ain’t nothing to do with me. I was only glad to be of help.” He paused and looked at the ground. “Any man’d do the same for a woman as sweet lookin’ as you.”

  He looked up and she appeared flustered by his compliment.

  “No. I would like to explain. Really. It wasn’t what it seemed…” Her voice trailed away, then in a fresh burst she carried on. “We can’t talk out here. Come inside.”

  “Well, Miss Morgan, er…”

  “No buts, come inside.”

  She didn’t need to ask twice.

  She opened the front door and led him into a neat and tidy living room. He busied himself lighting the hurricane lamp as she removed her gloves and shawl. He sat down and watched her with open admiration as she bustled about the room, drawing the curtains and adjusting cushions. He accepted her offer of coffee, then waited while she disappeared into the kitchen for a few minutes.

  Finally, when she seemed to have overcome her awkwardness of the situation, she sat down opposite him and poured out two cups of the best coffee he had ever tasted.

  “Now,” she said, her mouth determined. When Quantro opened his mouth to speak she silenced him with a deft gesture of her hands. “What happened out there wasn’t what it seemed to be. Jimmy is a ranch hand who comes into town a few times a month. Sometimes he eats in my restaurant.” She sighed audibly. “The
trouble is you smile at a man a few times and well, when he’s had a few too many drinks he remembers those smiles and he reads something into them that wasn’t there.” She sighed again and fluttered a hand. “Tonight I was coming home and when I got to the front door he was waiting. Well, you heard what he wanted. Things were just beginning to get difficult when you came along.” She shrugged. “That’s all there was to it. He got the wrong impression…”

  “I told you it didn’t matter to me, ma’am…”

  “Please call me Janey,” she said, looking straight into his blue eyes.

  “Okay,” he promised, “as long as you call me Shag.”

  “It’s a deal,” she smiled. “Anyway, tell me about yourself. It seems that you already know all my troubles. What with tonight, and earlier this afternoon.”

  As he nursed his second cup of her coffee he began to tell her of his travels across the States, the prairies and the deserts, the towns he’d seen, and his winter up at the cabin in the snow-capped Colorado peaks with Tom Galloway. Before he knew it, he had been talking for an hour. She listened to his stories, her coal black eyes twinkling in the lantern light, smiling as he recounted his hunt of an ornery old elk that had kept him out all day, and each time he got close enough to aim the old elk just started moving again. He remembered the stupid things that had happened to him and they laughed together over them.

  But for all he told her of his life, he did not mention the reason for his travels, just that he had business to attend to with certain men. By the end of his stories they were friends, relaxed, the rigidity of their strangeness to each other forgotten as they enjoyed each other’s company. He had come to respect this black-eyed woman who had the grit and determination to rebuild her life in pioneer country when her husband had run out on her. Many men could not stand up to the odds, let alone a beautiful woman. Her looks alone would cause enough trouble, as tonight had proved.

  She too, had developed a liking for this blonde-haired, blue-eyed, modest cowboy who had saved her from a nasty situation. He was the kind of man she was drawn to, even though there were one or two things that marred the impression she had acquired of him. One was the obvious fast-draw rig he wore, but then a man often had good reason for those things, and she could not blame him for keeping the reasons to himself.

  It was the way of The West.

  A man told another as much as he wished. That was his right. A man had to look out for himself.

  But the more she watched Quantro talk, the more he unsettled her with his masculinity. In passing, he had mentioned he must leave for the Arizona border the next day, but she had pushed it aside. There was enough time to worry about that tomorrow. She thought only of the present; take what you can while you can, and, she conceded she had been a long time without a man. He awoke something within her, a warmth that spread from the base of her stomach to envelop her whole being. It was all she could do to restrain herself from reaching out to touch him. Suddenly, she was nervous.

  She stood up, facing him, hoping he could not detect the nervousness within her that seemed to swell and grow as she slowly smoothed her hands down her dress. She drew strength from his appreciative gaze.

  “Where were you going when you were passing? I thought you were staying at the hotel?”

  Quantro turned his head away from her searching gaze. “Just along the street for a little air,” he mumbled.

  She moved to stand next to him, a hand tentatively reaching out to his shoulder. “I know where,” she said softly. “Two houses further along the street.” There was no derision in her voice, just a quiet understanding. He turned to look up at her and saw her gentle smile.

  “Well…” he stumbled.

  Her hand pressed a little harder on his shoulder then she touched his freshly shaven cheek. Her fingertips were like fire as they brushed his skin.

  “I understand,” she said quietly. “You’ve been up in the mountains all winter.” Her voice dropped even further so that he could barely hear her. “It’s been a long time for me too.”

  He stood up slowly, her fingers still resting on his cheek, then looked down into her coal black eyes. His arm circled her trim waist and his nostrils savored the sweet woman smell of her, the cleanliness of her lustrous black hair and the subtle cologne that rose from her milky skin.

  He bent a little and kissed her. The joining of their lips was hesitant at first, as if they were both frightened to give of themselves, then as confidence and need replaced their shyness, the kiss became the declaration between them of each’s passion and desires.

  When the kiss ended she opened her eyes and gazed up into the pools of ice-blue that were his own. Her lips moved, not quite pouting, as she formed the most inviting smile he had ever seen.

  “I can do a lot more for a man than just cook,” she promised as she took his hand and led him to the stairs.

  The next day he ate his steak for free.

  CHAPTER 4

  A tear wrestled its way from the corner of Janey Morgan’s eye and ran fitfully down the smooth skin of her cheek. Out in the street, his back to her, Quantro sat astride the big buckskin stallion, touching his spurs to its flanks. The springiness in the horse’s step gave the illusion it was dancing as it threaded between the wagons, heading west. Janey stood in the doorway of her restaurant, one hand on the doorjamb, her knees trembling slightly beneath her petticoats. She gazed at the wide span of his shoulders with despair. Her stomach muscles knotted and she felt as if his leaving was draining all of her strength, her heart aching, her chest full of nothing but emptiness.

  Two hundred yards from where she stood Quantro turned in his saddle and looked back. There was no smile on his face and she could not be sure of his expression at that distance, but he raised a hand in a brief gesture of farewell. As she waved back, the full pressure of the salt tears came up behind her eyes and she let it go. The emotion brought back the memories of the night before, and she ignored the streams that coursed down her cheeks. Her lips tasted their saltiness and her heart, too, tasted their sadness.

  It had been a night to remember.

  The vision of her own soft white skin covered by his hard and tanned body. His lean frame stretched across her bed, knowing hands exploring the secret places of her body, the urgent need for release, and the blistering heat of it. After the first insistent passion they had taken their time, giving love and taking love through the long hours of the night, until the grey sky crept into the window, and they acknowledged the forerunner of the dawn.

  When she had cooked his breakfast, each time she turned to look at him, she had found him watching her, his blue eyes expressionless. She wondered at the thoughts that crossed his mind. She knew only too well the thoughts that crossed her own.

  Quantro had enjoyed the sight of her tousled black hair, carelessly pinned, and her soft dewy eyes, fresh from sleep. He appreciated the way she moved, economically and yet with the hint of a flourish, perhaps for his benefit. She was almost too much of a woman to be real. She had everything he wanted, the ability to have love and share it with him. But for the one thing that would drive him away from her.

  Revenge.

  He wanted to stay, to turn the buckskin around and come back and enjoy for ever the good food she would serve him. He wanted to stir in the night and feel her soft warm flesh as she lay beside him. He wanted to savor the scent of her each time he was near, to enjoy the sheer womanliness of her. If he turned back now the days would be warm and pleasant and they would move together through life building a private place of their own.

  But each time he contemplated these things, the picture of the cruel destruction, the inhuman torture and wanton lechery that he had witnessed in his parents’ house came back to haunt him. Two faces, whose names he knew, two men, were yet to be called to account for their doings.

  There would be no peace for him until he had done what he had to do.

  When she asked the question, as he knew she would, he had not been able to answer he
r, and she had read her own reply in his clear eyes. She did not understand what, but she understood there was something that drove him, and all she could do was watch in silence as he saddled the buckskin stallion and swung up on to its back. He had leant down and gently touched her cheek, then he clucked his tongue to the horse and turned away.

  Maybe, she thought, when he had been where he had to go he would return.

  Her parting gift was a pack of supplies. She hoped that as he ate, somewhere out on the prairie, he would remember what had passed between them and feel the need to come back.

  She would wait.

  ***

  He rode continuously through the day, stopping only briefly to water the stallion at noon, and to sit in the shade of a Pecan tree. In the saddle, his eyes kept a constant watch on the land and occasionally he turned to familiarize himself with the scenery behind him, just in case he would want to ride back this way again. He knew you could often ride the same trail in the opposite direction and not recognize the terrain at all. It was another scrap of information that he had gleaned from his father’s lips.

  As he rode, he tried to shrug off the longing to return to Janey Morgan and instead settled his mind on the task ahead, falling into his familiar traveling routine. Absently, he placed the sun behind him in the morning and headed west. Gallup was only fifty miles ahead, and that was where he intended to resume his search. A half-breed who had a mean way with a gun shouldn’t be all that hard to find.

  He was wrong.

  There was no trace of Zeb Cole in Gallup. The sheriff’s office yielded no clues either. The upholder of the law in Gallup turned out to be an ornery man, not in the least eager to impart any information, however meager. He took one look at the tall, blue-eyed cowboy who was dusty and travel-stained and took him to be a bounty hunter. The proffered flyer on the outlaw, Zeb Cole, only added to the illusion.