Balum's Harem

by Orrin Russell

It took her a minute to crawl under. Balum knew she would; the sun could chase an ant out of a honey jar if given the chance. He remained motionless with his eyes closed while she scooched over the sand, and when her elbow bumped him he neither reacommodated himself nor offered comment.

  Josephine did.

  ‘I’ll ask you to keep your hands to yourself,’ she said.

  Eyes still shut, Balum gave an imperceptible shake of his head. This woman would give him no peace. Even in the shade beneath the cart it was hot enough to make a man’s head ache. If he could have scooted another inch away from her without moving into sunlight he would have. He was hot, dry, exhausted. The woman next to him was a sweaty, nagging, frumpy mess, and so covered in dust she looked like something that had been buried a long while and somehow risen from the grave. The one thing he did admit to himself, which surprised him greatly, was that in spite of her condition she sure smelled good. Like a savory meal after days without food. How that was possible, he had no idea. His own condition was ripe enough, that was a fact.

  When he didn’t respond she kept on. ‘Plenty of men would try to take advantage of a woman in this situation. No one around. Nowhere for me to go. Not many could resist lying so close to a woman without giving into temptation. It wouldn’t be hard to rip my dress off. Leave me naked and do with me what you will.’

  An image of Josephine’s naked body flew into his head. Or more precisely, an image of some other naked woman, someone supple and tempting, for in no way could Balum imagine that the dust-covered trainwreck in the oversized frock beside him could possibly possess the body that his imagination conjured up. Impossible. Besides, he was too sick with heat to do anything about it.

  ‘Josephine Wilsey,’ he said. ‘I’m a patient man, but you’ve just about worn me down. You quit your jabbering or I’ll toss you into the sun and you can cook. I’m going to sleep. I suggest you do the same.’

  With that he turned his back to her and let her huffs of indignation lull him into slumber.

  6

  Joe snatched the saddlebags from along the alley wall. He carried them in one hand, the other intertwined with Valeria’s, and together they ran along the backsides of buildings, through the miners’ tents and past a short-haired dog that yapped at their flight, and directly to the livery door which they found shut tight for the night.

  Joe pushed a hand against it but it didn’t budge. His eyes searched in the darkness but he saw no lock. It had to be secured with a drawbar, and that meant someone was inside; the liveryman most likely.

  He made a fist and slammed the side of it into the door — three deep knocks. He waited. Valeria’s breath hard beside him from the run.

  A few seconds ticked by — they seemed like minutes — and he slammed his fist against the wood again. Not three times, but over and over, recklessly, until finally the scrape of the drawbar sounded and the liveryman raised it from its hooks.

  ‘What in tarnation…’ came the voice as the door creaked open.

  ‘I’ve come for my horse. I need it, fast.’

  ‘At this hour?’

  ‘At this second,’ said Joe. He pushed himself through the doorway.

  ‘Hold on a gosh darned minute, son.’ The liveryman rustled around in the sightless interior, his movements achingly slow.

  Joe turned his head around but the building had no windows, and the only clues to guide his senses were the smells of horseflesh and hay, the pungent odor of fresh dung and the sounds of the liveryman searching out his lantern.

  When he found it he lit it and stepped back suddenly when the light landed on Joe.

  ‘Hey, wait a second,’ he said. ‘Ain’t you that indian feller Big Tom is looking for?’

  ‘I doubt there’s another.’

  ‘His men gave me clear instructions. Said I wasn’t to give you your horse back.’

  ‘You’re not giving it back; I’m taking it.’

  ‘I can’t let you do that, mister. When Big Tom gives an order, a man takes it. That’s how it works in Tin City.’

  ‘Did Big Tom order you to eat a .45 caliber bullet?’

  A soft rustle was all there was and suddenly Joe’s revolver was hanging in the air with the barrel inches from the liveryman’s teeth.

  ‘Whoa, now,’ the liveryman crossed his eyes over the barrel. He threw a pleading look to Valeria, whose face in the lantern light offered no help.

  ‘Which stall is he in?’

  ‘You’re going to get me in a heap of trouble.’

  ‘I’ll give you three seconds,’ Joe drew the hammer back. The click reverberated through the enclosure, and in that space it was the only sound the world possessed.

  The liveryman turned and walked. He held the lantern before him. With each step it hurled light against the half-doors of stalls and over dirt and straw all beaten down by years of stomping hooves. When he stopped, the lantern stopped with him.

  ‘A heap of trouble,’ he mumbled.

  ‘Lead him out,’ said Joe. ‘Get him saddled and harnessed.’

  The man gave no further argument. He set the lantern on the ground and began a series of steps practiced so many times over that in the soft orange glow of light they seemed made of liquid.

  Joe scanned the building as he waited. After a while he said, ‘We’ll need water.’

  ‘That can be done.’

  ‘And food.’

  ‘This ain’t a restaurant, mister.’

  ‘A bag of oats for the horse at least.’

  The liveryman grunted. Whether from tightening the girth strap or as an answer, Joe couldn’t be sure. He bent to his saddlebags and took out a coin, then paused to let his mind work something over, and stood back up.

  ‘I’m going to pay you for those oats.’

  ‘I’m sure you will.’

  ‘And I’ll pay you for another horse also.’

  ‘Another horse?’

  ‘For the señorita.’

  The liveryman took another look at Valeria. ‘Ain’t no other horse for sale.’

  ‘How about your own?’

  ‘I take care of the horses, mister, I don’t own them.’

  ‘You don’t own a horse?’

  ‘I did. He was stolen…’ the liveryman raised his eyes from the bridle he was tightening and landed them on Joe, ‘...by an indian.’

  Joe’s face yielded nothing. The only movement took place in his head. He needed another horse something awful, but there’d be no way of getting one without stealing. Sure, he could leave money, a good deal of it, but in a boomtown in the middle of a desert a horse’s value could sometimes reach beyond what money could buy. And stealing a horse from an unknown miner, from an innocent man, was not something he would do. From someone like Big Tom though...

  ‘What about Big Tom?’ he said. ‘He keep his horses here? Him or his men?’

  ‘Big Tom’s got his own stable.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Few blocks over. My advice to you is to reconsider whatever’s going on up there,’ he aimed a gnarled finger at Joe’s head. ‘That’s a fortress over there. If you think you’ll waltz over and pick yourself up another mount, you’re dumber than a tinhorn on a cattle drive.’

  The liveryman untied the two canteens from Joe’s saddle and crossed to a water trough. He dunked them under and kept his eyes pointed down on the air bubbles surfacing and popping. When he finished he tied them back on, unhooked a sack of oats from the wall and lashed it beside the canteens.

  ‘What do I owe you?’ said Joe.

  The liveryman snorted. His eyes went back and forth between Joe and Valeria. Finally he said, ‘Look, mister, I ain’t got nothing against you. But this town is run by Big Tom and his men, and anyone crosses them doesn’t come out too good. So pay me whatever you think is fair, knowing what’s about to come my way, and do me another thing also.’

  ‘Name it,’ said Joe.

  ‘Big Tom is going to come after you. Everyone knows who she is,’ he jerked his head toward Valeria
. ‘He won’t stop until he gets her back. So I’ll ask this as a favor, and as a piece of advice for your own self…’ he snorted again, then planted his eyes hard on Joe. ‘You best put one of those .45 bullets square through his head, or you and me both won’t be long for the grave.’

  7

  They woke at dusk and again watered the horses, hitched them together and drove them into the setting sun. The two animals leaned hard into the traces. They faltered each time the oxcart hit a rut or divot, but they pressed on, two haggard horses, flagged and weary under the silver glow of starlight.

  Sometime around midnight they stopped and sat on a ledge of flat rock and ate jerked meat from Balum’s saddlebags. At least they had that, dry as it was. When they finished they stood to go but the horses only drooped their heads and quivered their hindquarters at Balum’s commands. He tugged at their bits and whistled and yanked, but the animals stood rigid.

  Balum looked at the cart and looked at Josephine Wilsey. ‘They’re through pulling,’ he said.

  She stood still, as if she hadn’t heard him or hadn’t understood. Long enough that Balum was about to repeat himself when she said, ‘What do you suggest?’

  ‘Unhook them.’

  ‘And then what?’

  ‘Ride on.’

  ‘On to where?’

  ‘To water, to Tin City,’ he made a motion as if tossing something toward the boomtown hidden far beyond the sunset. A tired gesture.

  ‘What about the cart?’

  ‘To hell with the cart.’

  Josephine’s head jerked like she’d been slapped. ‘What, exactly, are you suggesting?’

  ‘We leave it where it sits.’

  ‘Absolutely not.’

  ‘It’s a goddamned oxcart,’ Balum heard his own rough voice crack low and hard from his throat. His eyes felt like they’d been scratched with thorns, his tongue swollen and heavy. ‘You need a draft team of eight oxen to pull this thing the way you’ve got it loaded down. What the hell is in here anyway?’

  ‘Watch your language.’

  ‘To hell with my language. I’m not going to kill my horse to pull this cart any further.’

  He swiveled to the horse and put his hands to the collar, and suddenly she was beside him. She slapped his arm and shoved herself between Balum and the roan.

  ‘I told you already these are medical supplies. I have crutches and gauze and splints and wrappings, not to mention scissors, stitching, casts, bone saws, and all manner of items necessary for proper medical care. Those men in Tin City are hardworking miners, and the job they do is a dangerous one. Not that you would have any idea, you and your business, as if I didn’t know what that was.’

  Balum was about to respond when the roan unexpectedly jerked forward. Josephine’s horse lurched ahead with it, and suddenly the cart was creaking and wobbling once more into the night.

  ‘You see?’ she declared. She raised a triumphant arm. ‘Now no more talk of leaving the cart. I’ll not hear of it.’

  She said nothing more. Not that evening nor the following, though Balum guessed that it had more to do with the complete disaster of their physical state. He took not another sip from the canteen and offered her none either, instead saving all he had for the horses. His throat seized up, his nostrils burned from the dry air. He put a piece of jerky in his mouth and let it sit there, not chewing, waiting for saliva to collect.

  As the sun rose on that third day, it shone its light on two miserable souls covered in sweat and dust, their lips cracked and bleeding, eyes bloodshot, stumbling alongside two horses that looked in no better shape and quite possibly closer to death than their owners.

  All thoughts other than the desert stream vanished from Balum’s mind. That and the uneasy premonition of death approaching. He plundered on, not bothering to look for shade for the day. At each squeal of the oxcart wheels, his ears would deceive him and his eyes would flash up expecting to see the stream flowing cool and inviting before him, but each time he was disappointed.

  And so when the chortle of water finally did reach his ears he paid no attention. Only when the horses snapped taut the traces did he look up. Limestone ridges hid the view, but by the sudden frenzy of the animals he knew it was close; they could smell it. They hauled at the cart as if the weight had been thrown from it, and as they closed in upon the stream they broke into a run, the hames bouncing on their necks and the cart careening over the limestone ridge in a commotion of dust and racket.

  Balum stumbled after them. He topped the ridge and at the sight of the stream curling through stands of palo verde he fell to his knees. Josephine staggered up behind him. She didn’t stop. She reeled unsteadily past him, tottering down the gentle slope to where the horses had already sunk their muzzles into the water, and there she sank to all fours and drank as an animal with her face plunged into the flowing waters.

  Balum drank until his belly hurt, then crawled to the shade of the palo verdes and slept. When he woke he only drank more. Slept more. Drank again.

  He opened his eyes sometime in the late afternoon and looked around as if woken from years of slumber. The sound of running water gave him comfort. The horses walked free from the wagon, though he hardly remembered unhitching them. They grazed at tufts of blue grama growing close to the stream where it bent and twisted and disappeared around an outcropping of stone.

  Josephine was gone. Another comfort. He looked around but soon realized he didn’t much care where she had wandered off to. He dug out his sack of jerky and ate, then watched the horses graze. After a while he stood and walked along the streambank toward them. The days of sweat and dust had hardened his clothing into an itchy mass of soiled fabric. It would do him well to bathe.

  He peeled off his shirt as he walked, then stepped carefully around the outcropping of stone and skirted around the other side. The stream flowed more calmly there, the water deeper. He tossed his shirt on the rocks then unbuckled his belt and stopped. His head swung back to the shirt. Beside it, stretched over a section of flat stone, a green dress had been laid out to dry. White undergarments beside it, a small bonnet held down with a rock so the breeze might not take it.

  For only a fraction of a second he stood there, brow furrowed, until his parched brain understood suddenly what he had walked into.

  But too late. He stood shirtless with his belt halfway off just as she emerged like a mermaid from the deep.

  The crown of her head broke the surface in a burst of golden yellow hair, her face next, washed clean of the desert dust to reveal soft white skin, smooth and unblemished. Pink lips, a bare throat. Water ran down her neck, over her shoulders. It fell like a sheath down her chest and split when it reached her breasts. They swayed free in the sunlight, a moment only, before she wrapped her arms around them as if she knew even before opening her eyes that he was there.

  His torso turned but his feet took him nowhere. They remained rooted to the ground. Even with Josephine’s clothing laying all about, a nugget of doubt said this could not possibly be the same woman rising from the water. Not this beauty. Not with those eyes, those slender arms squeezing tight two massive breasts against her chest. They bounced and jiggled, slipped out of her arms.

  ‘Balum!’ she said. Something rich in her voice. She slid her hands apart and cupped a nipple in each one, which only exposed her more.

  ‘Ma’am...’ he started, ‘I…’ He told himself to get walking, but to tear his eyes away was not in him. The stream curled around her hips. She didn’t turn or dunk herself back under. She stood waist-deep with her breasts cupped, juggling them slightly as if she couldn’t quite get control of them.

  ‘You should be ashamed of yourself.’

  ‘I apologize, ma’am. I didn’t realize — ’

  ‘My clothes are all spread out to dry. You were just waiting to see me naked, weren’t you.’

  ‘Now that’s not true,’ he said.

  ‘Well are you happy? Do you like what you see?’

  He had no respo
nse. Not that he didn’t know the answer, for what he saw was beyond fantasy, but the questions. The questions were leading and out of place for such a prudish young grouse. Was she admonishing him? Why didn’t she slink back down in the water? Was that really Josephine Wilsey?

  ‘You just can’t stop looking, can you?’ she said. She twisted a half-turn in either direction like she wanted to hide or conceal herself, but the movement only served to show more of her body, give him views of the sides of her breasts, the taper of her waist.

  He blinked and turned his head. His feet moved with him this time. He managed two steps before her voice called him back.

  ‘If you think I’m like one of those girls in Tin City, you’re wrong. I know what your business is, Balum.’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘There aren’t but two occupations in Tin City, and that’s mining and running girls. It’s no secret.’

  ‘That’s not my business.’

  ‘Oh no? Then what is it?’

  He opened his mouth but said nothing. The longer he looked at her the less resolve he had to leave.

  ‘That’s what I thought,’ she said. ‘Now shoo. Stop ogling me and let me get dressed.’ She let go her right breast and made a motion with the back of her hand to send him away, which granted him full view of her nipple glistening wet and pink in the sun.

  He grabbed up his shirt and walked back to the outcropping. Before he disappeared she called out again.

  ‘I’m going to be completely naked. Don’t you try spying on me from over there.’

  He took a final look at her then shook his head and left her where she was.

  8

  Balum kept walking. Past the horses, past the oxcart, around the palo verdes and up the bank. A quarter mile upstream, the caliche rock reared up in jagged crags close to the water. He ran the tips of his fingers over their surfaces as he walked.

  He couldn’t get her out of his mind. Still couldn’t believe that was Josephine he had just seen. He’d never imagined that hiding under that horrid green dress, her tangled hair smeared in sweat and dust, was a woman of that build. The vision of her standing naked replayed itself before his eyes.