For the Love of a Woman

by Orrin Russell

  ‘You like that, baby?’ her voice came in a whine.

  ‘Yes,’ he gasped.

  ‘You want it back in my mouth?’

  ‘Yes,’ he uttered again, his vision hazy.

  ‘You’ll take me to the bank?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, mechanically, desperately.

  She sunk the shaft past her lips and along her tongue, and let him rock his hips back and forth until his cock erupted in a stream of cum, shooting hot and thick into the back of her throat.

  She did not let him go. Her mouth tightened. With one hand at his back, the other took the base of his cock and gave short strokes, squeezing the last of his cum into her mouth as he groaned in pleasure above her. When he drew it from her mouth a string of cum clung to her lip. She reached a finger out and lifted it, then sucked it back into her mouth and swallowed.

  ‘You feel better, baby?’ she asked.

  Balum’s legs shook slightly. A response was too much to muster. His eyes closed and his head floated upward, and suddenly, nothing seemed to matter.

  15

  Not until shortly after noon, as the court proceedings got underway, did Balum begin to regain focus.

  He had not taken the ride as planned. The envelope still sat unopened in his shirt pocket. Instead he had accompanied Sara Sanderson to the Denver Commercial Bank, where they had sat together before the bank manager’s quizzical looks and signed the required paperwork which transferred Sara’s name onto his account, authorizing full access over its funds.

  Seated in the densely packed courthouse, the nearly tactile sense of excitement brought Balum’s mind to a focal point. The trial was nearly over. Only two witnesses were left. At the end of their testimonies the jury would retire to the jury room to hash out a verdict on the fate of Frederick Nelson. Balum could feel his breath come quickly. His hands felt clammy. He looked across the aisle for Sara but his eyes found only her parents seated together, eyes straight ahead. He swung his head to where their focus was directed and saw Saul Farro turned sideways in his seat with his head crooked around facing the back.

  Balum cocked his head. Had there been a look exchanged just then? No, he told himself. He was imagining things.

  The time for doubt was broken by Judge Vanderloop’s entrance into the courtroom. In short order, Douglas Crenshaw called Saul Farro to the stand. The enormous man’s frame took up the seat as no other witness had. He sat with his torso leaned forward in a challenge directed at the entire hall.

  ‘Mr. Saul Farro,’ began Crenshaw. ‘Can you tell us what your relationship was to the Oregon Expedition, and to my client, Frederick Nelson?’

  ‘I can. Nelson hired me and my brother as guides.’

  ‘Do you dispute any of the assertions made by Mr. Balum concerning Mr. Nelson?’

  ‘All of ‘em!’ shouted Saul. ‘Every single one.’

  ‘Tell the court please, just what happened on that expedition.’

  ‘Everything started just fine. Then that Balum fellow, he starts to get a craw up his ass.’

  ‘Watch your language,’ interjected the judge.

  ‘Anyway,’ continued Saul, ‘he gets to drinking. Fighting. Turns out he’s a regular drunk. A troublemaker. Chasing after the women, scaring folks. He picked a fight with my brother Gus and me. Got so bad we had to throw him and his Injun buddy off the expedition. Well, he didn’t like that much so he come huntin’ us. Killed my brother. Shot him dead. Him and his buddy, they killed a poor young boy goes by the name of Billy Gunter. They shot a war hero as well, Major Shroud. Balum tried to kill me, tried to kill Nelson. He’s a maniac. A killer through and through. Them folks on the Oregon Expedition were lucky to get away. Nelson; he wasn’t. Balum caught him, tied him up, decided to bring him into Denver with this cockamamie story that’s all nothing but a bunch of goddamn horse shit anyway.’

  ‘Farro!’ shouted the judge. ‘I won’t warn you again.’

  ‘Is everything you’ve told us here the truth, Mr Farro?’ asked Crenshaw.

  ‘You bet it is.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  The District Attorney rose and set into Farro with questions meant to pick his story apart. He pried at the edges, looking for cracks, seeking more information which might throw doubt on what had been said. But Saul, though a brute, was no fool. He stuck to his story. As though he had been coached on how to react to the questioning, he kept his answers to a minimum, often only a word or two, and offered no further details other than what was specifically asked. The cross-examination lasted nearly half an hour. When the District Attorney returned to his seat he did so in a manner of abjection, his head low and his brow furrowed in defeat.

  Without any pause, Saul Farro took his seat and Frederick Nelson was called to the stand. Crenshaw paced in front of the jurors.

  ‘Mr Nelson,’ he began. ‘How are you today?’

  ‘Still sore, sir. I was treated mighty rough on the way here.’

  ‘Mr Nelson, we have heard Saul Farro’s testimony. Anything you would disagree with there?’

  ‘Saul Farro is an upstanding citizen. A solid man. Every word he spoke was God’s own truth.’

  ‘Is there anything you would like to add? What reason would Balum have for treating you so harshly? For making up all these lies?’

  ‘I’ll tell you why. Just like Saul said, he was chasing the women. But he’s a rotten man, and they could see through him. He had his eyes set on Leigha Atkisson, Jonathan Atkisson’s daughter. She was in love with me however, and this vexed him. When she wouldn’t degrade herself by giving him her company, he took his vengeance out on me.’

  Nelson bent his head and put a hand to his eyes. From where Balum sat he could see the man’s shoulders shudder. When Nelson raised his head again a tear was at his eye.

  ‘I’ll be damned,’ mumbled Balum.

  ‘He crying?’ whispered Ross Buckling next to him.

  ‘We could have had a beautiful life together,’ Nelson confessed to the courtroom. ‘We were in love. But sometimes evil lurks in the shadows. Hatred and vileness. That’s my story. Balum couldn’t have the woman he desired, so he decided no man should have her. He killed nearly all my men, save for Saul, and tied me up, mistreated me, and hoped to have me hanged by the neck until dead, and all for spite.’

  A commotion rose up in the courtroom. Judge Vanderloop brought the gavel down several times over and shouted for silence, but Nelson’s testimony was too rich. From the back a voice shouted over the din, ‘Hang that murderer Balum!’

  The judge beat the gavel over the sound block and shouted until the hall returned to calm.

  ‘If you people can’t sit quiet I’ll have you all leave and we’ll carry the rest of this trial out in private. Got that? Now quiet down.’

  But the commotion was over. The news was out. Crenshaw retired to his bench and the District Attorney rose to question the defendant in as unproductive a manner as he had Saul Farro. He asked for proof of the purported romance but Nelson eloquently responded that his heart was proof enough. He was unbreakable. A well-spoken man, good looking and confident, Nelson found the jury and those in attendance sobbing with him, captivated by his story of lost love and the cruel vengefulness of his rival.

  When he finally stepped down from the stand there were no more witnesses to call, no more questions to ask. Closing arguments were made. The District Attorney attempted to remind the jury of the facts of the case. The affidavits, the value of the word of a Deputy Marshal. His implorings fell on stone-faced men sitting tall in the jury box. When Crenshaw took the floor their expressions softened. He spoke with authority, with the voice of a victor. He decried the treatment of his client, reminded the jury of Freed’s testimony, the notary, of Balum’s history of incarceration, and the sad tale of Nelson’s lost love. He finished with a flourish and a bow worthy of the star performer in a Shakespearean opera, and took his seat.

  The twelve members of the jury rose and filed out in a single line through the door guarded by a ba
iliff and ensconced themselves in the jury room. The double doors at the back of the courthouse opened and a waft of fresh air entered. Balum looked across the aisle for Sara, but once again found her absent. He caught Aston’s eye, briefly, but the man quickly looked away.

  ‘I need some fresh air,’ said Ross Buckling next to him. ‘You coming with?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You just gonna sit there? Might be awhile before they come up with a verdict.’

  ‘Ross,’ said Balum. ‘Has Aston Sanderson visited Nelson in jail?’

  ‘Couple of times he has. Thought you knew that.’

  Balum ran a hand through his hair. He yearned for a plug of tobacco. Something to settle his nerves.

  ‘Come on, Balum. Let’s get you out of this courthouse. I ain’t gonna let you just sit there. You’re liable to fall over dead of worry before that jury’s ready. Let’s go.’

  They rose and left the dark courthouse hall for the sunbaked dust of the Denver streets where they stood side by side, tobacco chewed and savored and spit, while the final bets on Nelson’s future were laid in generous odds.

  16

  Through the bailiff-guarded door they came walking. Twelve men, somber-faced and righteous under the weight of duty. Into their seats they filed themselves where they sat facing forward and facing nowhere; twelve men possessing the knowledge of the defendant's fate of which they alone were the deciders.

  The overflowing courtroom with its benches crammed and the aisles stuffed with the standing reached a silence deeper than what it could have were it empty. The judge gave the gavel a crack over the sound block. The sound shot through Balum like a .44 bullet. He jerked, then tightened his fingers into his fists and waited.

  ‘Has the jury reached a verdict?’ asked the judge of the jury foreman.

  ‘We have, your honor.’

  ‘Mr. Crenshaw, Mr. Nelson. Please rise and face the jury.’

  The clanking of Nelson’s chains accompanied his movements.

  ‘Mr. Brown,’ nodded the judge to the foreman.

  ‘Superior Court of Denver, in the matter of the People of the United States of America versus Frederick Nelson, case number B three four nine six. We the jury in the above entitled action find the defendant Frederick Nelson not guilty in the crime of murder.’

  Balum felt his legs turn light. A fog clouded his eyes and the voice of the foreman gargled into meaninglessness as more legal jargon was recited to the court amongst groans and cheers from the assembled citizenry.

  The bailiff took a ring of keys from his belt and unlocked the chains wound tight around Nelson’s wrists and ankles. Liberated from his manacles, Nelson rose his fists into the air and turned to the crowd. He shook them over his head and grinned. His eyes met Balum’s and held them a moment. Saul Farro squeezed his way down the aisle and the two men clasped their great hands together. Even Johnny Freed managed to reach Nelson through the commotion and extend his hand to the newly-innocent man.

  All around them was the air of victory. Crenshaw received slaps on the back and he in turn squeezed the shoulders of his triumphant defendant. The crowd moved like fish crowded into a bucket, squirming past one another, some for the exit, others to find their bookmakers.

  Balum searched again for Sara and again found only her absence.

  ‘Let’s go, Balum,’ said Ross. ‘Nothing more to do here.’

  The two men edged along the side wall toward the back double doors. At the far end of the court Chester and Randolph stood waiting. They gave Balum a pat on the back in some small measure of reassurance and the four left together through the open court doors and into the street where they walked quickly away from the hysteria of the masses.

  ‘What’ll you do now, Balum?’ asked Chester when they’d reach a relatively silent section of street.

  Balum let out a long breath with his eyes glazed over.

  ‘Whatever you decide,’ said Ross, ‘don’t go gunning after Nelson. Or Farro for that matter. The law won’t look too kindly on it. Not that I wouldn’t, but I’m talking about Freed. You hear me, Balum?’

  Balum nodded.

  ‘You boys stay out of trouble,’ said the Sheriff. He looked at Chester and Daniel. ‘Keep him busy. Take him to the Baltimore Club, sit him in a game of poker, anything to keep his mind off it. And keep him off the drink.’

  Balum’s friends accepted the advice and when Ross had left they turned to him.

  ‘I know you won’t be in any mood for the Baltimore Club,’ said Daniel. ‘Sheriff’s right though; you need your mind occupied. How about a game at the Silver Nest? There’s another tournament starting up tonight. Still time to get in.’

  ‘I’d lose my money,’ said Balum. ‘My head’s not in it.’

  ‘Come watch then,’ said Chester. ‘I’ll be playing.’

  ‘What the hell,’ said Balum. ‘Let’s go.’

  The first floor of the Silver Nest was a mix of emotion. Nearly every man there had bet on the trial, and among the gathered there were none that could not be divided into winners and losers. The latter gave Balum nods and mumbles of encouragement when he entered. The winners paid him little mind.

  They crossed the barroom to the stairs where a burly gentleman dressed in finery held his hand up for the entrance fee to the second story.

  ‘Shane Carly says to tell you he sent us,’ said Balum.

  ‘Never heard of him,’ said the gatekeeper.

  ‘I figured as much.’

  ‘Who’s Shane Carly?’ asked Chester.

  ‘Nobody, apparently. Just some fool itching to be important.’

  They paid the fee and ascended into the more eloquently furnished upper deck. The tables had been prepared and men were beginning to gather as the hour of the tournament approached.

  Balum felt sweat bead on his temples. It wouldn’t be enough to stand and watch; he knew that much. He longed for a drink. Multiple drinks. Enough to drown his thoughts out and put him to sleep for days at a stretch.

  ‘You ok, Balum?’ asked Randolph. They stood at the edge of the room along the balcony overlooking the street.

  ‘I changed my mind. I’m going to throw in on a game.’

  ‘You sure you’re in a state to gamble?’

  ‘I sure as hell ain’t in a state to stand around watching. What’s the buy-in?’

  ‘Fifty dollars. Steep, I know.’

  ‘If I have to lose fifty dollars to calm my mind it’ll be worth it. How much time have I got?’

  ‘A good half hour.’

  ‘I’m going to the bank. I’ll be right back. Tell the gamesmaster there's another hat in the ring.’

  His boots smacked the stairs down to the the main floor where he pushed through the drinkers clear through to the swinging doors and out onto the street. He did not walk blindly; he knew Nelson or Farro walked those same streets. He nearly wished to come upon them, for the fools to say something, start a fight. But they were nowhere, and he reached the bank just before closing time with the sweat still gathering at his brow.

  ‘I’d like to make a withdrawal,’ he said to the teller behind the iron bars.

  The teller stood mute with his mouth slightly open. ‘Balum, right?’ he said finally.

  ‘That’s right. I’ve got my account information.’

  ‘Let me get the manager,’ said the teller, and turned for the back offices. When he returned the bank manager came with him.

  ‘My employee says you’ve come to make a withdrawal?’ the manager enunciated the simple request as a question.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Mr. Balum, your account has already been withdrawn.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Ms. Sanderson took out the entire sum in cash this afternoon. Shortly after you signed her over to your account.’

  ‘What do you mean the entire sum?’

  ‘I mean all of it, Mr. Balum.’

  ‘How much is left?’

  The bank manager looked at the teller and then
back to Balum. ‘There’s nothing left. That’s what I’m telling you. Your account is empty. She took every last dollar. Down to the cent.’

  Balum took a step back and put a hand to the stubble on his jaw. The manager and the teller watched him look slowly around the bank, then turn and leave with his shoulders bent forward and the handle of his Dragoon revolver shining in its holster.

  No clear path of logic guided his steps. There was no plan of action he had considered; neither actions nor consequences. Emotion guided him. It took him down Main Street and past the hotels, away from the general stores and barbershop, off the boardwalks shaded under awnings and to the fashionable homes of High Street.

  At his knock the blue painted door opened and Aston Sanderson’s face greeted him on the other side.

  ‘Balum. Come in,’ he gestured. ‘I thought I might see you soon.’

  ‘Where is Sara?’

  ‘She’s about. Come to the parlor. Have a drink with me.’

  Just as before, Shane Carly stood in the parlor pouring whiskey into tumblers lined along a mantel. The splotch-faced man of blubbered physique wrinkled his lips at Balum when he saw him come through the parlor doorway with Aston.

  ‘I’m not in the mood for a drink,’ said Balum.

  ‘That’s too bad,’ said Aston. ‘You could use one.’

  A rustle sounded behind Balum. Aston’s eyes followed it, and Balum turned on his heel. A moment of incomprehension overtook Balum’s face.

  Frederick Nelson stood before him.

  From the parlor doorway came another blur of motion. Balum turned, and with a reflex a half second too late, threw his hands up to protect his face as Saul Farro swung a section of engraved crown moulding that dropped him into a formless heap on the floor.

  17

  The sensation of being dragged over distance woke him. It was night. The outlines of people and objects weaved and shimmered in the darkness. He attempted to gain control of his feet but they were tied. His hands as well; the wrists bound tight with rope. He felt himself be lifted from the ground and he let out an oomph when thrown belly-first over a saddle. The rope trailing from his wrists was looped under the horse’s belly and brought around his ankles and cinched tight, causing his frame to curve tightly over the horse in a full-body embrace. With his face resting against the horse’s flank his eyes could see the edge of the saddle which he knew to be his. The horse he also knew, for there was no mistaking the roan.