Between Hell and Texas (14 page)

Eddie Grafe and Joe Poole didn’t slow down long enough to rest their horses until they’d reached the bottom of the hill line and traveled across a three-mile stretch of high, rolling ground dotted with mesquite, scrub juniper, and piñon. When they finally stopped at the crest of a creek bank, Joe Poole jumped down from his saddle, raised his horse’s right front hoof and examined it. “Just my luck, he’s stone-bruised sure as hell!” he said in disgust.

“We ain’t got time for no stone-bruised cayuse, Joe, damn it to hell!” Eddie Grafe exclaimed, looking back across the undulating trail at a distant rise of dust. “That gunman’s onto us! We’re going to have to go fast!”

Joe Poole dropped the horse’s hoof from his hands and winced, studying the rise of dust. Then he said, “Well, we ain’t no match for facing a cold-blooded gunman like Crayton Dawson straight up.”

“We sure as hell can’t outrun him riding double,” said Grafe, nodding at Poole’s injured horse.

“If we start dragging along, he’ll kill us both the way he did poor Higgs.”

“You’re right,” said Grafe, looking all around. “We better find a good spot to put an ambush on him.”

“There ain’t no better spot than right here,” said Poole “I say we get ready, drop him as soon as he clears that rise.”

“Then we better hit hard. He’ll get real suspicious once he sees we’re not making any more dust in front of him,” Grafe said.

“I ain’t going down without a fight,” Poole vowed.

“Me neither,” said Grafe. He dropped from his saddle and pulled his rifle from its boot.

Beside him Poole did the same, saying “We should’ve done this in the first place, instead of letting him run us down out of the hills.”

“It’s too late to worry about what we
should’ve
done,” said Grafe, checking his Spencer rifle before levering a round up into the chamber. “We won’t get a second try at saving our own lives here. Soon as he tops the rise, turn him into chopped mutton!”

Jerking a double-barreled shotgun from his saddle boot, Poole said, “don’t worry, he won’t know what hit him.” He broke open the shotgun, quickly checked to make sure it was loaded, then snapped it shut. They waited tensely, watching the dust until the sound of pounding hoofs came into hearing range. Then the two separated, putting the thin trail between them, letting their horses’ reins fall to the ground.

In moments, the hoofbeats had grown closer, coming up on them from the other side of the rise. “Get ready!” said Grafe.

“I am ready,” Poole hissed in reply, his hands tightening on the shotgun. As the ground beneath his feet vibrated to the rhythm of the coming hooves, he cocked both hammers on the shotgun and raised it to his shoulder.

Poole whispered as the horse and rider sprang into sight, “This is for Jewel, you son of a bitch!” He fired both barrels, unable to stop himself when he saw at the last second the terrified face of the very man he had just sworn to avenge.

“Oh, no!” Jewel Higgs screamed a split second before the shots from Poole’s double-barrel and Grafe’s rifle hit him at the same time. The blasts launched him upward from his saddle and flung him backward and to the ground like a bundle of rags.

“My god, Poole! What have you done?” Grafe shrieked, running to the bloody body lying sprawled in the dirt.

“Me?” shouted Poole, running alongside him. “What about you? We both shot him!”

“I didn’t mean to!” cried Grafe, throwing himself onto his knees beside Higgs, whose entire body quivered and tried to rise up, his face, chest, and belly mangled by buckshot and lead, and covered with dark blood. “No, Jewel! You lay still now,” said Grafe. “You’re hurt really bad. We’ll save you!”

“Get…get the—” Higgs tried to talk, his voice a choking, halting rasp.

“What’s that?” asked Poole, staring down and shouting close to Higgs’s face. “Speak to me, Jewel! What did you say?” he asked the bloody face staring up at him, the eyes glazing and slipping fast.

Jewel Higgs struggled hard to speak. “Get…get, the…”

“Yeah, Jewel!” said Grafe, “Tell me, what is it you want? You just tell us!”

“Get…get—” Higgs was fading fast. Grafe and Poole saw it. “Get the…hell, away, from me…” he managed to say, his voice faltering and ending in
a deep sigh as his face went slack and he gave in to death.

“Lord, Eddie, we’ve killed the poor bastard,” said Joe Poole, turning loose of Higgs and standing up, dusting his knees. “How the hell are we going to explain this to Lematte?”

“Explain what to Lematte?” asked Eddie Grafe. “How we got ambushed up in the hills? How somebody shot poor Higgs dead with a rifle?”

“No, I mean about us killing him!” said Poole, not getting what Grafe was trying to tell him. “It wasn’t Dawson who killed him, it was us. His own pals!”

“I don’t know about you,” said Grafe, “but the last time I saw Higgs we were all three up in the hills above the place we tracked Dawson to. If Lematte wants to know, Higgs got himself shot clear out of his saddle. I ain’t saying it was Dawson who shot him, and I ain’t saying it wasn’t. We just tell it like it happened, except we drop the part about him riding in and you blowing him to hell with that shotgun.”

“Why do you keep acting like I’m the only one who shot him, Eddie?” Poole protested. “We both had a hand in it.”

Ignoring Poole’s question, Grafe said, “Does that sound about right to you? We just stick to our story on this. Don’t try to get clever and make up a bunch of details. It’s them added details that trip a man up every time.” His hand dropped close to his holstered pistol. “Are we agreed on what I’m saying?”

“I ain’t adding no details; I’ve never tried to be clever in my life,” said Poole.

“Are we agreed on what I’m saying?” Grafe repeated in a stronger tone.

Joe Poole swallowed a dry knot in his throat and stared down at the body of Jewel Higgs in the blood-splattered dirt. “Yeah, I understand you, Eddie,” he said quietly. “I believe that’s the best thing we can do.”

“Come on then, give me a hand,” said Grafe, bending back down beside Jewel Higgs’s body. “Let’s drag him off a ways and get him underground.” He grimaced with remorse. “This is the awfulest mess I ever seen.”

Poole bent down with him and together they picked the bloody body up between them and carried it off the trail. “It’s a shame them boots are going to have to go to waste,” Poole said quietly, nodding at Higgs’s limp feet.

“If you’re thinking what I think you’re thinking, you best put the notion out of your mind, Poole,” Grafe warned him.

“I’m just saying it’s a shame is all,” said Poole, struggling along with his end of the body.

They found a sunken spot alongside the creek bed, dropped Higgs’s body in it, and covered it with rocks. When they had finished their task they mounted their horses in silence and rode the rest of the way into Somos Santos as evening shadows began to overtake the land.

In the back room of the Silver Seven Saloon, Sheriff Martin Lematte looked three new girls over with a gleam in his eyes, a gray wisp of cigar smoke curling upward and drifting above his head. “You gals are in luck, arriving today. I just saw the owner of the Double D Ranch and a few of his hands ride into town. They’re over at the hotel settling in right now.
You’ll all three get to make some fast money starting off.”

“Good,” one of the young women murmured, all three of them looking at one another and nodding.

“But first,” said Lematte, “I want each of you to tell me a little about yourself.” He blew a thin stream of smoke studiously between his lips, then said, pointing the wet end of the cigar, “You there. What’s your name and where did you come from, sweetheart?” He asked this of a young black girl who stood in the middle of the three, who were standing abreast, facing him for inspection.

Stepping forward the young woman stood erect, leveling her shoulders, jutting her breasts beneath the low bodice of her red dress. “My name is Miami…Miami Jones, after the town where I grew up.”

“Miami, eh?” said Lematte, motioning her closer. “I’m not paying your travel fare all the way from Florida. Where were you when you took up my offer to come here?”

“Houston,” she said. “I tore one of your flyers off of a post outside an opium parlor.”

“Yeah, Houston,” said Lematte, “that’s more like it.” He gave a gesture toward the tight buttons of her dress. “Open up wide for me, Miami. Let’s see what those brown puppies look like without their muzzles on.”

She looked surprised. She’d only been in the business a couple of years, but so far no one she’d ever worked for had asked her to undress for them, not for free anyway. Seeing her hesitation, Lematte said, “I’ve just got to see what my good customers will be paying for.”

Miami Jones passed a guarded glance at the other
two women as if for guidance. When none came, she replied, “Sure, why not?” Reaching her hands up, she began to unbutton her dress, noting the flushed look on Lematte’s face as she spread it open and raised her exposed breasts for him to see.

“Oh, yes…” Lematte whispered, reaching a hand out and caressing the firm warm skin as she stood stonelike, staring into his eyes. “I think you’re going to do well for yourself here.”

“Are you going to be one of
those
kind of owners?” Miami asked boldly.

“What kind is that?” Lematte asked.

“The kind who’s always dipping into the cookie jar for samples,” said Miami.

Lematte chuckled. “Believe me, sweetheart,” he said, “the kind of money you’re going to be making here, you’ll be grateful enough to give me whatever I want from you.” He cupped her breast for a second, then lowered his hand.

“I see,” she said. “So that’s how it’s going to be.” She closed her dress and began to button it.

Lematte smiled. “If you object, just say the word. I can put you on a mule and point you back toward Houston.” He puffed on his cigar, staring at her.

“No, I don’t object,” said Miami. “I’m just trying to understand what’s required of me.”

“And now you know.” Lematte grinned, giving her a gentle nudge backward. He turned to the next young woman, saying, “Your turn. Come up here, Red. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

“How did you know my name?” said the young woman in surprise, stepping forward with her shaky hands already up on her dress buttons.

Looking at the flaming red curls spilling down
onto her shoulders, Lematte smiled and said, “Just a lucky guess, sweetheart.”

“Well, anyway,” she said, “I’m Angel Andrews—everybody calls me Red Angel. I came from over near El Paso, and this will be my first professional job! So, I’m going to be a little nervous at first, doing it for money and all.”

“You’ll do fine. I’ll train you myself,” said Lematte. He reached out a hand and stopped her from unbuttoning her dress and exposing her breasts. “For now let’s leave something to the imagination,” he said.

“Oh, okay.” She shrugged, dropping her hands clumsily to her sides. “Sorry.”

“Not at all, dear,” said Lematte. Then, cupping her chin in his palm, he studied her full, red lips and said, “I can already see where your talent lies. We’re going to be
real
close friends, you and I.” He ran his thumb back and forth across her lips. “Yes, indeed, we are. I think I can soon bring out the best in you,
Red Angel
.”

“Oh, I hope so, Mister Lematte!” she said, wide-eyed. “Thanks for all your help, and for paying my way here. You won’t be sorry, I promise you.”

“I bet I won’t, dear,” said Lematte.

As Angel Andrews stepped back beside Miami, Lematte watched the third young woman step forward without being asked. This one appeared a bit more experienced than the other two. “What have we here?” asked Lematte, wearing a different sort of grin as she stopped and put a hand on her hip, and tossed back her long auburn hair.

“I’m Suzzette,” she said, “and I never thought last names were important in this business. I came here from Eagle Pass. It cost me six dollars for stage fare,
food, and lodging.” She looked him up and down, then said crisply, “The flyer said you would reimburse stage fare and expenses upon arrival. I’d like that money now, if you please.”

“Whoa now!” Lematte chuckled. “Pleased to meet you too, Miss Suzzette. How about telling us a little about yourself first. Maybe show us some wares.” Lematte stepped forward, raising a hand toward the tie-string on the bosom of her dress. But Suzzette stepped away skillfully.

“Uh-uh, now,” she said, wagging her finger with a friendly but no-nonsense smile. “Nobody pays a toll
after
they’ve crossed the bridge, Mister Lematte.” She gave the other two women a glance, then added, “I came here to sell favors, not give them away.”

“But I enjoy having my girls feel as if we’re all just one big happy family, Suzzette,” said Lematte. “Are you going to be one of those hard-headed types, too tough for anyone to get along with?”

“I’m a whore, Lematte,” said Suzzette, “and it looks like I’m going to be one the rest of my life. I’m good at it, and I get paid good for doing it. If that’s not enough, tell
me
where to find that mule and point me back toward Eagle Pass.”

“Not so fast, honey.” Lematte chuckled, as if she might turn and leave without another word on the matter. “I like a woman who knows her business and how to run it. Have you ever ran your own string of women?”

“No,” said Suzzette, “but I always figured I could when and if the opportunity ever presented itself.”

“Well,” said Lematte, “the opportunity just has presented itself.” He pointed at her with his cigar. “I don’t usually do this—hire somebody to take charge
of something without knowing them first. But I need a lead woman, sort of a working madam, to take charge of these newer girls and show them how to squeeze every dollar they can out of these customers.” He shrugged, saying, “Of course, for the time being you’d still be servicing
some
men, but only the special customers. Most time you’d be keeping everything running smoothly. Can you be that person for me?”

“For how much of the take?” Suzzette asked firmly.

“We’ll work that out later,” said Lematte. “The main thing is, can you handle the job?”

“I can
handle
the job,” said Suzzette. “The main thing is, for how much of the take?”