“Who are you anyway?” he demanded, ready to shake an answer from her.
“I am the daughter of Tall-Elk, my name is Red Star,” she said struggling loose from his hold. “And who are you to come to my village and spoil my life?”
“You have been ruining my life for months,” he said and let her go.
She shook her head. Her English was so limited that she could not understand his meaning. She turned to leave.
“Wait!” he ordered. “Are you a spirit?”
“Red Star,” she said, turning back to see him in the dim light.
“Are you a spirit?” he asked.
“No.” She wondered why he disliked her so. Her arms burned where he had held her as if an eagle’s talons had pierced through the skin. The notion froze her feet in place as she began to realize why she had come there. Not for the horse, but for him.
“Why did you hide from me?” Karien asked.
“I was afraid of you,” she said. Where did her words come from? Had she spoken her own speech or that of a spirit.
“I’m pleased that you came here,” he said and slowly took her in his arms. “I feared you were married. That you belonged to someone else.”
“I belong to no man,” she said more sharply than she intended.
This time his arms were gentle as he hugged her to his chest. When he smelled her clean hair, he felt the dread in his heart subside. All these years, he had been searching for something. Under the snow-capped peaks of the Big Horns, he’d found her.
She knew in her heart as she pressed her forehead against the fringe and beads of his leather shirt that this was to be her man.
Charlie’s Last Gal
The town was deserted. A dozen stores and businesses were boarded up. Russian thistle piled on the porches and several of the dilapidated boardwalks had fallen into a dangerous state of disrepair.
Lacey shook his head in disbelief. What had happened to this place? Back in ‘83, this had been the hub of commerce. No less than a dozen saloons had been open twenty-four hours a day. A steady stream of customers had milled in the street night and day. The air punctuated with pistol shots, raucous laughter and screaming saloon women all over the place and twelve pianos, all tinkling a different tune. Freight wagons, oxen and mule teams, packhorses and buggies had congested this street in those days.
Lacey reined in his dun, noting that at least one place was still open for business. The name on the saloon, The Lucky Dame, was barely legible on the false front. The paint was so cracked and sun bleached, it was hard to tell it had once been dark green.
Stiff from the long ride, he dismounted and put the stirrup over the seat to undo the latigos. The cinch loosened, he cast a speculative look at the cracked front window. The town had sure gone downhill. He drew a deep breath and shoved his shirttail into his pants.
What made him hesitate about going inside? He had wanted a beer ever since he had crossed over the divide. His mouth was watering for the first glass. He inhaled deeply, chiding himself for his reluctance. There wasn’t a grizzly bear beyond those louvered doors unless it was stuffed.
Still wary, he searched the street again. Not a soul in sight. Damn, where had everyone gone?
He pushed through the batwing doors and entered the sour smelling saloon. His eyes adjusting to the darkened interior.
“Hello, stranger,” a woman offered from behind the bar.
“Howdy,” he acknowledged her greeting. Undecided, he stood wondering whether to sit at a table or stand at the bar. He chose the latter, strode over to it then placed his dusty boot on the brass rail at the base.
“What’ll it be?” she asked.
He studied her for a moment. She was nice looking, possibly thirty years old; her light brown hair was clean and tied back. She wore a man’s shirt that molded her breasts. It was unbuttoned just enough to expose the shadowy V of her cleavage.
“Guess I’ll have a beer,” he said. When she turned to draw it, he looked around. His gaze was drawn to the painting of the nude over the counter. A voluptuous model reclined on a mound of pillows. The artist had depicted her almost life-size.
“Some picture, ain’t it?” the woman bartender asked, delivering the beer, the foam sliding down the side of the mug.
He felt a little uncomfortable talking to someone of the opposite sex about a painting of a naked lady. He cleared his throat and mumbled in agreement.
She turned her back to him and studied the picture. “I reckon to a man, she’s real pretty,” she commented in a detached voice. “But she seems a might padded to me. What do you say?”
“Yeah,” he murmured, wishing he had taken his beer to a table. Restless, he shifted his weight and studied the suds in his glass.
The woman turned and cocked her head to look at him. “How old are you?” she asked abruptly.
He frowned at her. “Forty-six or close to it.”
“That’s what I figured. You’ve seen a few women without their clothes on in your time. Well, don’t you think that one there is a little on the plump side?”
“Maybe,” he said, his tone non-committed. Then he raised his mug, hoping to somehow escape her further questioning on the subject of the woman’s shape.
“You’re a stranger around here?”
“I’ve been gone a long time. Town seems to have died,” he said, glad to change the conversation to another subject.
“Yeah, reckon it has. I was born here. Guess I’ll dry up and die here.”
“You own this place?” he asked hoarsely, the cold beer having slid down his throat like a chip of ice over a hot stove.
“Yes, all by myself.” She nodded slowly. “My husband’s dead.”
“Sorry.”
“Ain’t no reason to be. He never did anything around here.” She slapped the bar with her palm. “He got drunk and broke his neck. Happened right across the street. It was the night they had the last hurrah and closed down the whore house. Yeah, James fell down those stairs and never lived to tell about it,” she said in a low voice.
He gazed out the window at the staircase alongside the boarded-up house of ill repute, then took another drink of his beer. It washed a bucketful of trail dust down his throat.
“Where did everyone go?” he asked, sneaking a glance at the artwork from the corner of his eye. He had to admit, the artist’s model was a little on the fleshy side.
She ignored his question and followed his gaze with her own. “A gal wanted to buy that painting,” she said.
“Huh?”
“My naked lady. A gal, who couldn’t have been more than a teenager, came storming in here. She went behind the bar like she owned this place, looked at the buffalo skull in the corner of the painting and offered to buy her.”
He squinted, trying to see the artist’s signature. The light wasn’t very good in the saloon and his eyes weren’t what they use to be.
She gestured with her hand. “Come around here and take a closer look if you like.”
He shook his head. “That’s all right.”
“You ready for another beer?”
“Sure.” He handed her his empty mug.
“Well,” she continued as she drew a fresh glass of beer, “that gal offered me quite a bit of money for the painting.”
“She did?”
“Yeah, a lot more money than I’ll make in the next ten years running this place.”
“Oh?’ He took the second beer and sipped on the foam.
“You’ll never guess who she was?”
“No, I reckon I won’t,” he lied, having already guessed who the would-be-buyer was.
“She was the artist’s wife,” the woman said, leaning toward him as if telling him a secret.
“That right?” He turned sideways and glanced around. “Where is everyone?” he asked, wanting to change the subject of the rendition of womanhood on the wall. Besides he was having a difficult time keeping his eyes off both her and the painting.
“Who?”
> “The townspeople,” he said, turning back to face her. “This was a busy place, really booming back in ‘83.”
“The mine played out.” She shrugged. “There was a couple bad winters, froze out the cattle. When the railroad laid their lines south along the river—this place just sort of died.”
“Why do you stay?” he asked curiously.
“Oh, I have a little business. Lord, I’m the only saloon in town. Saturday, some of the old hands come in. We wind up the that player piano and dance. What else could I do?”
“Nothing, I guess,” he said debating whether to tell her the truth about the painting.
“I told that woman if I sold her that painting, there wouldn’t be anything to bring them old bachelors in here. She’s their woman, you know. My lady up there, keeps them happy. There ain’t a house of ill-repute within a hundred miles.”
“Yes,” he said, feeling his face heat up with embarrassment.
“So, she’s my shady lady. They line up and gawk at her. Kind of like you’re doing,” she added with a small laugh.
“What gives you your gall, girl?” He glared at her. She laughed again, but it was not a mocking laugh, more one of gentle amusement. She knew what her lady did for a man.
“Why she’s what every man wants, voluptuous, wanton, waiting for him,” she said.
Lacey drank more of his beer. Bad as he hated to admit it, the woman was right. Obviously, she knew a lot about men.
“The artist’s wife hasn’t been back to buy the painting?” he asked.
The woman snorted. “I ain’t selling it!”
Lacey titled his head and peered openly at the painting. “Not even for two-thousand dollars?”
“Hell, she never offered me that much.”
“I just wondered.” He was beginning to enjoy himself. He openly studied her rounded full breasts and the gentle swell of her bare belly. He couldn’t recall any woman in his life that well proportioned.
“Say, Mister, would you pay that much for her?”
Lacey blinked at the woman. “Hell, do I look like I have that much money?” He laughed, feeling a lot friendlier with the two beers inside him.
“Do you know something about my lady that I don’t?” the woman asked.
“I just might. Let me come back there and get a good look at the signature,” Lacey said. He went toward the end of the bar. She lifted the flat, hinged counter portion and allowed him past her.
He headed for the painting, trying not to stare too brazenly at the figure. His eyes squinted, he lowered his head and studied the buffalo skull. He finally nodded. “I thought it was his work.”
“Why would anyone in their right mind pay two-thousand dollars for a nude painting?” she demanded.
“Respectability,” Lacey said curtly as he walked back around the counter.
“How’s that?” The woman looked at him with hard eyes.
“She’s bought up every nude he ever painted, except this one.”
The woman walked briskly toward the cash register. “I’ve got her address right here.” Holding up a card, she read it aloud, “Great Falls, Montana.” She flicked the card against her fingers, her expression thoughtful. “You think she’d pay that much for it, if I hauled it up to Montana myself?”
“Don’t take a dime less,” he advised.
The woman drew in a deep breath then slowly exhaled it. “Well, Mister, drinks are on the house. Come tomorrow, I’ll be wrapping up my lady and going to Great Falls.”
“Why I thought she was your girl, worked for you like girls in a bar used to do?”
“Mister, in ten years, she couldn’t earn me that much from that bunch of old devils who come in here to drool over her.” She leaned her elbows on the bar with her back to him and admired the painting. “Say, do you know the artist? You seem to know a lot about all this.”
“Who me?” he asked. When she turned and frowned skeptically at him, he handed her the empty mug to refill. “To be honest, I do know him. We drank a few beers together. Squeezed a couple of gals like that one. He was always drawing and painting for his bar bills. But let me tell you, his young wife, Nancy really cleaned his nose. Now she’s selling his old paintings for big bucks. I thought she’d bought every one of the buck naked ones in the country. Guess she has, except for her.” He motioned to the picture.
“Well! Guess I never heard of this guy.”
“Old Charlie was a good guy to ride with,” Lacey said with a grin as his recollection of past times filled his thoughts.
“I’ll get you another beer. That’s the name on the skull in the corner. Charlie Russell. Whew! Two thousand dollars. Are you sure that she’ll pay that much?” the woman asked again.
“Yeah, she’ll pay it,” he said dryly. With a feeling of loss tugging at his conscience, he studied the painting. It would be a damned shame. Nancy Russell would sure as the devil burn it as soon as she owned it. But hell, everything else was gone. Charlie’s last naked lady might as well be too.
Creative Reader Magazine published Nov 92
Between Jobs
Eagle feathers in their braids twisted in the wind. The white, yellow, and red greasy war paint on their hard-set faces and earth-red chests glistened in the sun. Small copper bells on their knee high boots faintly jingled as they rode single file though the scrub juniper trees; their small bare-foot horses softly crunched their way down the mountain side. Bows and rifles bristled in the warriors’ rock-hard arms—their dark eyes seemed to scan everything in the canyon.
Rip quietly lowered himself behind the boulders. Relieved the Apaches had not seen him, he sprawled belly down and waited on their passing. The pitted barrel of the Colt .44 so close to his nose, he could smell the spend black powder’s sharpness. He glanced at his weather beaten felt wide-brimmed hat on the ground beside him. His mouth formed a wry scowl of disgust over his tenuous situation. He had never expected to run into an Apache war party. The short cut he had chosen across the broken Verde River country might very well prove his undoing.
He dared take another peek. In disbelief, he blinked, taken aback at the sight of her golden hair and blue calico dress. A white woman captive rode a bald faced horse led by one of the bucks. A cry of protest rose in his throat as he watched her grip the horse’s mane to stay seated. Then he thought of his own safety and silently dropped back down.
Damn, he wanted to look at her again but he hardly dared the risk. She was beautiful. His stomach rolled at the notion. Had he seen a mirage? Some sort of hallucination? While he crouched and listened to the soft drum of hooves, he became convinced he had actually seen a white female captive. What were those thieving no good redskins doing with her? He drew a deep breath for control for he could hardly contain himself at the prospect of her fate.
How could he save her? Someone’s wife or daughter, surely there were folks out looking for her. But one man against ten Apache bucks—no-no, the odds were too great. Besides he was not an Injun fighter or scout—he was just an unemployed cowboy heading for work, he hoped. The new job near Prescott wouldn’t be open for long—if he didn’t get his gear and horse there shortly, some other cowpoke would have his place at the Quarter Circle T’s bunkhouse.
The Apaches gone by, he rose to his feet studying where they had ridden down into the canyon. What would they do with the woman? The thought of her captivity only troubled him more as he headed for his picketed horse behind a screen of juniper. The bay gelding snatched a mouthful of sun-cured grass and twisted the blades into his mouth before raising his head at Rip’s approach. At least Buck had not nickered at the Apache ponies.
“Buck,” he said absently to the horse as he coiled up the lead rope. “We’ve got ourselves in a pickle barrel. Them Injuns have taken a white woman and we just can’t let that go on. I saw her too. She’s pretty as any—well, I thought she was.” He tied the lariat on the saddle horn and gave a quick check in the direction the Apaches had disappeared. Nothing. He mounted, uncertain about his next mov
e, he reined up the horse to stop for a minute and meditated on what he should do. The roiling in his intestines increased.
Only a damn fool would try to rescue that woman—but Rip Fisher had done stupider things in his lifetime. His mind set, he knew was going after her. The Winchester rifle under his stirrup fender was loaded to the gate with fresh ammo and he had an extra thirty rounds in his saddlebags for it and the Colt. More ammunition than he normally packed, but he’d bought the box of ammo to shoot game for his supper en route to his new job.
If he spent much time playing Injun fighter, he’d probably lose the position at the Quarter Circle T. Still, he knew as he booted Buck after them, that someone had to save her. Looked like he was elected. His impression of the blonde captive reminded him of a fine woman under a parasol he had once stepped aside for in Fort Worth. Her skin snow white, her eyes blue as the mountain skies and the dress’s hoop seemed to flow as she held the skirt to save the rim bumping against him or Shorty Carr. Maybe it was her, the woman from Fort Worth who those Apache devils had kidnapped. Rip shook his head in dread.
Hours later, the sign of smoke in the cottonwood tops gave him his first clue he was nearing their camp. Apaches never made much fire, but he saw the faint traces and being forewarned he halted to hide Buck in a thicket under the rim rock. He wasn’t certain of his actual location but the Apaches were camped along the Verde River. In the distance he could hear water’s rush and children screaming as they played in the river. Dread filled, he swallowed around a great lump in his throat and drew a deep breath for strength. Before he found this woman and they were either killed or escaped, he would need to become a lot tougher. His weak legs barely supported him as he cautiously advanced on the Apaches. Sneaking up on a band of Apaches could be a tall order—these savages were experienced at warfare, and he was not.
He listened carefully as he worked his way slowly around the bushy junipers. The pungent-smelling evergreens offered him cover. His hands wet with sweat from grasping the rifle, he dried them one at a time on his jean legs and then resumed stalking forward.
Waltzing With Tumbleweeds Page 11
