AZUL OPENED HIS eyes and wondered why the light hurt. He closed them and winced at the pounding inside his head. It didn’t go away, so he sat up, running a furred tongue around the sandpaper of his mouth. Beside him in the wide bed, a mass of auburn curls shifted on the pillow and a pale arm reached down to drag the sheets over the unseen face.
For a moment, Azul wondered who the woman was. Wondered, too, where he was. Remembrance made him groan, reaching for the jug on the washstand. He filled an empty glass with the cold water and drank it down in one long swallow. Drank three more glasses before ducking his head over the bowl and spilling the remaining water over his skull and neck.
He was in a saloon called The Golden Goose, in a town called San Jacinto in northern New Mexico. And he was badly hung over.
He dried his face, piecing together the fragmented recollections of the previous night. He had come into the town after fifteen days on the trail and decided to stop over a spell to rest his horse and enjoy himself some. It had been a long time since he just lay around and drank, longer since he had had a woman. And with two thousand dollars in his saddlebags and no particular place to go, San Jacinto had seemed as good as anywhere to rest up and ease the saddle kinks from his body. He had checked his horse into the stable and gotten himself a room and a bath. Then he had eaten a meal and wandered into the main part of the saloon. He vaguely recalled working his way through half a bottle of whiskey before the red-head joined him, but after that it got difficult.
He rubbed his eyes, cursing his own stupidity. He was used to drink — most Apache warriors indulged in the home-brewed liquor they called tiswin when they got the chance, and there were some who favored whiskey but he had never drunk in such quantity before. He had never had so much money before.
The thought prompted him to action, concern and the natural resilience of his body overcoming the fuggy aftermath of the alcohol. He checked the Colt’s Frontier draped over the rail of the bedhead and then the Winchester propped against the wall. That was automatic, a reflex born of living long with the imminence of death. His next move was prompted by an emotion unfamiliar to him: pride of ownership. An Apache - and the man called Azul had been raised as a Chiricahua brave cared little for material possessions. His horses, his weapons, his wife, they were important to him, but little else. There was no need to own things when all was provided by whatever power ruled the world, the white man’s God or the Great Spirit of the Indians. There were buffalo on the plains and deer in the hills; rabbits in the meadows and fish in the streams. A man could build himself a shelter from branches and grass, or from animal hides, or even turves. He could fashion weapons from wood and bone and rock. Everything was there, and all a man need do was look around him and use what was given.
Unless he lived in the world of the pinda-lick-oyi – the whites – where everything was labelled and owned and bought with money. And Azul – half white and half Apache – had brought two thousand dollars of the white man’s money with him from Wyomingi.
He climbed off the mattress and got down on his knees to check the twin leather bags dumped under the bed. They were both there, and the cobwebs he had spread across the flaps were undisturbed. He stood up, gritting his teeth against the sudden elevation and clutching at the bedhead as his brain seemed to explode in blaze of light.
‘What’s the matter, honey?’
The auburn curls emerged from under the sheet and got pushed back by a long-fingered hand. The nails were painted a vivid red that matched what little was left of the lipstick. The face beneath was pert, not beautiful, but attractive even after a night’s drinking and a longer time in bed. Her eyes were green and large, the pupils distending as they focused on his naked body, and her mouth was full enough to offset the small, tip-tilted nose. She sat up, letting the sheet fall away so that firm breasts, tipped with dark nipples that erected in the early chill, were exposed. Her waist was trim, spreading into wide hips that looked, from the angling of the sheets, to give way to long legs.
She smiled when he grunted and shook his head, regretting the movement even as he began it.
‘You need some coffee, darling. Black coffee and a good breakfast. Then a long bath. You got the money?’
‘Sure.’ Azul sat down on the bed and closed his eyes. ‘What’s your name?’
He’d have seen the woman pout if his eves had been open, but instead he just heard her reply: ‘Colleen, honey. Colleen Murray. Don’t you remember?’
Images flashed swiftly through Azul’s mind. They had finished the bottle he had bought and then ordered another. Most of that had gone down his throat before the woman suggested they go to his room. They had taken what was left with them, and emptied it stretched over the wide bed. He remembered a fusion of bodies, limbs entwined, a tongue probing his mouth before drifting over his body; the spread of her thighs and the soft, welcoming warmth of her.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I guess I drank too much.’
‘You didn’t act drunk,’ she smiled. ‘Why don’t I go fetch you breakfast and we try it again sober?’
‘Don’t forget the bath,’ moaned the half-breed. ‘I need that.’
Colleen pushed the sheets all the way down and stood up. Even through the hangover, Azul could see that her body was trim, not yet given over to the flabby softness of drinking with too many wandering drifters, of spending most of her life in bed. She pulled on a dress that was cut low at the front and high on her legs, not bothering with the underwear scattered over the floor. Not even bothering to fasten all of the hooks at the back.
‘You just wait there, Azul,’ she said. ‘I’ll be back in just a little while.’
He began to nod but then thought better of it. Instead, he stretched out on the bed, keeping his eyes closed as his head struck the pillow and fresh sparks of light danced painfully through his mind.
The opening door lifted him to his feet with the Colt cocked and ready in his hand. Colleen gasped as she saw the pistol, then smiled, heeling the door closed.
‘Don’t shoot me, sweetheart. Leastways, not with that weapon.’
Azul shrugged, lowering the hammer. ‘Sorry.’
‘Don’t say that.’ Colleen settled the tray on the bed. ‘Man like you doesn’t need to say he’s sorry.’
‘Just being polite,’ said the half-breed.
‘Being polite,’ said the whore, undoing her dress, ‘is never needing to say you’re sorry.’
‘Sounds like some old love story,’ grunted Azul. ‘What you get to eat?’
In answer she lifted the cloth covering the tray. The first thing Azul saw was the coffee pot. He grabbed it and poured a mug of thick, dark coffee. After that he looked at the food. Colleen watched as he forked bacon and eggs into his mouth, crunching biscuits and solid hunks of fried bread at the same time. He emptied the coffee pot and wiped his mouth clean with the napkin.
‘The bath ready?’ he asked.
The woman laughed. ‘Should be. Come on, I’ll scrub your back.’
She was very good. Azul did nothing except obey her instructions as she lathered his body and sluiced him clean. When she was finished she wrapped him in a towel and hurried him back to the room.
‘Well?’ she asked, laughing. ‘You feel clean now?’
‘I feel sober,’ he said. ‘What time is it?’
‘Around noon, I guess.’ She frowned. ‘Why?’
‘I gotta be moving on.’
He didn’t know why he said it. There was no reason he had to leave, no place he had to go. He could stay around San Jacinto and live high on the money in his saddlebags for a year or more or bank the money and settle down. Whatever, there was no reason he needed to hit the trail again. Except the one driving reason: the wanderlust.
He knew that he couldn’t stay happy in a town for long. A night or two, maybe, but after that he began to feel closed in, to long for the open spaces, for the mountains and high meadows that had been his home.
He tugged the saddlebags out from under the bed and delved inside, peeling off two twenty-dollar notes. Passed them to Colleen.
‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘For everything.’
The whore’s eyes got wide as she took in the size of the bills.
‘You sure you wanta give me this much?’
‘Sure,’ said Azul. ‘You helped me through the night.’
He got dressed and went down to the saloon.
He was mostly thinking about fetching his horse from the stable and moving further south. Drifting down to the Mogollons to check the Apache trails and maybe following the bands down into Mexico for the winter. But then the stink of the saloon hit him and his head swirled so that he felt like his belly was climbing up his throat to spew its contents out over his fresh-cleaned shirt.
He remembered something his father had told him, the first time they had drunk whiskey together. That had been in Santa Fe, when Kieron Gunn was still trading between the merchants there and the Chiricahua. He had taken his son into a saloon and bought a bottle without a label, filling both glasses and urging Azul to down the near colorless liquid. After five glasses, the boy had collapsed and his father had carried him to bed. In the morning, Azul’s head had felt the same way it did now, and his father had poured black coffee into him and forced a breakfast down his throat that he spewed up a few minutes later. When the boy had ended his vomiting, Kieron Gunn had taken him down to the saloon and ordered more whiskey.
We call it the hair of the dog, he had told his son. A man’s gotta learn to hold his likker. He needs to handle it an’ make it work for him, instead of against him. Best you learn that early.
Azul had. He had learned to recognize his limitations and learned also to live within them. He had never been so drunk again, until now. And now he felt he needed his dead father’s support.
He went over to the bar and called for a drink.
‘Hard night?’ The barkeep was totally bald, the only hair on his head and face the thin mustache spreading across his upper lip like a black caterpillar. ‘Colleen does that to a man.’
Azul nodded and tossed the whiskey down his throat.
It burned, and for a moment he thought his skull might explode, but then it seemed to settle someplace deep inside him and take control so that he could look at the light and move his head without hurting. He poured a second and downed it fast. More than anything, he knew he had to get clear of San Jacinto. Had to get out into the open country, away from saloons and whores and barkeeps.
‘Got the funniest goddam thing going yet,’ said the tender. ‘See him?’
Azul turned his head to follow the pointing finger. And grunted.
At the far end of the bar, where the front windows bled light into the gloomy place, there was a man sketching. Two other men sat across the table from him, heads up and hands proud on holstered hips. The artist was small in comparison, a diminutive man with over-the-shoulders hair and a long, drooping mustache. He was dressed in a gray Eastern-style suit, the vest unbuttoned, and the matching derby set on the table beside his paints.
‘Calls hisself Cal Backenhauser,’ said the barkeep. ‘Says he wants to paint the real West.’
Azul grunted and emptied his glass.
‘I’ll leave him to it. I’m going to find it.’
He slung his saddlebags over his left shoulder and canted the Winchester on his right.
He was almost at the door when the argument broke out.
‘Jesus Christ!’ said the man seated left of the artist. ‘That don’t look a goddam bit like me. Does it?’
He passed the sketch to his companion, who shook his head and said, ‘No. Don’t look like me, either.’
‘Fuck it,’ said the first man. ‘I let some nancy Easterner do my picture, I expect it painted straight.’
‘That’s right, Wesley,’ said the second man. ‘We got a right to see us portraited right.’
‘Fuck it,’ said Wesley. ‘I got me a mind to kill this feller.’
As he said it, he drew a Colt’s Army model and pointed the heavy pistol across the table at Backenhauser. Following his lead, his companion drew a Smith and Wesson American model and cocked the hammer under the artist’s nose.
Azul paused at the door, and for a moment the artist’s eyes met his cold, blue stare.
There was no reason he could define for the next movement. No rational explanation other than sympathy for the man menaced by too many guns. Too many white guns. He allowed instinct to act for him.
His saddlebags dropped smoothly from his shoulder, the same movement snapping the ring of the Winchester down and up, thus shoving the hammer back so that the carbine was poised to fire.
‘You use those pistols,’ he said, ‘and you’re dead.’
Backenhauser collapsed under the table as Wesley and the other man turned to face the half-breed.
‘Why you buttin’ in?’ asked Wesley. ‘Ain’t nuthin’ to do with you. Just me an’ Cole.’
‘All right,’ said Azul. ‘Let him go. You don’t like the way he drew your face; you tear it up.’
‘The hell I will,’ snarled Wesley. ‘Ain’t no one gonna draw me like that an’ live. Nor anyone gonna tell me to ferget it.’
He thumbed the hammer of his Colt as he said it; fast. But not quite fast enough.
Azul triggered the Winchester as he saw Wesley’s finger get white round the knuckle holding the trigger down. And squeezed off on the .44-40 carbine as he shifted the ugly muzzle to point in line with the man’s chest.
The bullet hit dead center of the breastbone, fragmenting a hole that sent a thick spurt of bright lung blood as the protective sheath deflected the slug into Wesley’s right lung. His mouth snapped open as the impact threw him back, off balance, and the Colt blasted a single shot into the floor. He tottered, cannoning into the table so that it overturned as he fought to thumb back the hammer for a second shot. His face was very pale and as he breathed, there was a frothing of scarlet foam around his lips. Slowly, as though wearied by the effort, he let the pistol fall to the floor, then his knees folded and he went down. For a moment he stared at Azul, then his head lowered and he set both hands palms down on the planks. Blood dripped from his jaw and nostrils, the flow getting stronger as he began to cough.
Azul swung the Winchester to cover Cole, but the smaller man had lowered the S&W, shaking his head as he stared at his dying companion.
‘Ease the hammer down,’ rasped the half-breed. ‘Then drop it.’
The gun thudded loud in the silence. ‘God!’ whispered Cole. ‘I never saw anyone shoot so fast.’
He went on staring and shaking his head as Wesley slumped full length over the boards. The sawdust beneath his corpse got sticky and red. Azul grinned, his wide mouth sliding into a humorless line.
‘Maybe he likes that color better,’ he said. ‘You try anything, and you get painted the same way.’
‘Not me,’ gasped Cole. ‘I ain’t tryin’ nuthin’.’
Azul nodded, looking at the artist climbing out from under the spilled table. The front of his shirt was stained with fallen whiskey and he was wiping at his face where some of Wesley’s blood had splattered his mustache.
‘Thanks, mister.’ His voice was far too deep for his small frame. ‘I guess you saved my life. If there’s some way I can pay you back?’
Azul shook his head, surprised to find that it didn’t hurt anymore. ‘Forget it.’
‘I could paint you.’ Backenhauser stooped to collect his fallen materials. ‘I could make you famous.’
‘I just seen what your painting does,’ murmured Azul. ‘I figure I’ll be safer if I don’t get famous.’
He turned away, still holding the Winchester cocked as he picked up his bags and moved towards the door. The aftermath of the night’s drinking must still have been with him to some extent, for he was slow to hear the grunt as Cole went down on his knees to retrieve the S&W, and slow to hear the triple click of the hammer going back.
He was partway through the batwings before the sounds registered, the hinged boards swinging back to strike him with sufficient force that he was pushed off balance even as he turned the Winchester into the saloon.
Flame danced before his eyes, and he let himself drop. Felt flakes of splintered wood strike his face as the bullet pierced the batwings. Then rolled to the side, putting the wall between him and Cole.
Then there was the sound of boots thudding on sawdusted planks.
A scream, pitched up high with agony.
The batwings flew open, and Cole staggered through, the S&W in his right hand, his left bent over his shoulder to clutch at his back. He tottered onto the sidewalk, mouth wide open as his eyes. The gun was forgotten as he sought to draw the slender wooden handle that was protruding from between his shoulder blades clear of his bleeding flesh.
Then Backenhauser exploded through the doors, crashing into the gunman so that Cole was pitched clear of the sidewalk as the artist sprawled on his face.
‘He was gonna shoot you!’ yelled Backenhauser. ‘He’d have shot you in the back if I hadn’t …’
His voice broke off in mid-sentence as Cole came up on his knees with the S&W pointed on his direction.
‘Oh, Jesus!’
Azul fired. The Winchester bucked once in his hands, the heavy slug taking Cole in the face. It went in through his left cheek, slicing through the soft flesh to splinter outwards on the far side at the head of a spray of blood and fragmented chips of molars. Cole’s face twisted sideways under the impact; the aim of S&W spoiled so that the bullet sent splinters from the porch.
Azul levered the Winchester and fired again. The second shot hit higher than the first. It fractured the cheekbone and plucked Cole’s left eye inwards, leaving only a gaping red hole before it tore through his nasal membranes and the lower rim of his brain, exiting from his right temple. A thick column of pale crimson that was flecked through with pieces of bone erupted from the side of the man’s head. A gout of blood burst from his empty eye socket, and from his nostrils there came a twin spurting of scarlet-colored mucus. His head jerked to the side, and as his ruined brain lost control, his body snapped upright, the arms stretching out to drop the S&W as his dying brain lost control of the body’s movements. He straightened up, a wide smear of stinking urine spreading over the front of his pants. Then, like a puppet cut loose of its strings, he crumpled face down in the street. Around his head, the dirt got puddled with blood.
Azul stood up, levering a fresh load into the breech as men came out from the saloon.
‘He dead?’ asked Backenhauser.
‘He’s not moving,’ grunted Azul. ‘I think you’re safe now.’
‘Good.’ The artist stepped down off the sidewalk and went over to the body. ‘I just wanted to be sure.’
He put a foot against Cole’s neck and reached down to grasp the wooden handle sticking out from the dead man’s neck.
‘That’s a good scalpel,’ he said. ‘I’d hate to lose it.’
‘You could lose a whole lot more’n that.’ The barkeep’s voice echoed through the still street. ‘Those two had friends round here. They hear what happened your lives ain’t worth a plugged nickel.’
‘Fair fight,’ said Azul. ‘You saw it all.’
‘Sure it was,’ said the barkeep. ‘I told the little guy to stay clear o’ Wesley an’ Cole. But we don’t have no regular law here, so the closest thing we got is ole man Dumfries, an’ seein’ how he’s the biggest landowner around he’s the next best thing to law.’
‘So?’ Azul asked.
‘So you just killed one o’ his sons an’ his top hand,’ said the bald man. ‘He ain’t gonna like that. More like, he’ll bring some boys in to hang you.’
‘Tell him to find me.’ grunted the half-breed. ‘I was moving on, anyway.’
‘Takin’ yore friend with you?’ asked the barkeep. ‘Dumfries’ll hang him high as you.’
‘Oh my God!’ Backenhauser disappeared inside the saloon.
‘His problem,’ said Azul. ‘I’m riding out.’
No one tried to stop him, and he went down to the stable and fetched the gray stallion out from the stall. He got the animal saddled and fastened the bags in place behind the seat. He was leading the big horse out when Backenhauser showed.
‘Thank God!’ the artist slewed to a panting halt. ‘I hoped you’d still be here.’
‘Why?’ asked Azul.
‘You gotta get me out of here.’ Backenhauser dropped a large leather satchel on the straw and adjusted his derby over his long hair. ‘They’ll kill me else. You heard that barkeep.’
‘Why?’ Azul repeated. ‘Why should I help you?’
‘You done it once before,’ gasped Backenhauser. ‘And I helped you, didn’t I? If I hadn’t put that scalpel in Cole’s back, you’d be dead.’
‘Makes us even,’ said Azul. ‘So you go your way, and I’ll go mine.’
‘Jesus!’ moaned the artist. ‘Don’t you understand? I don’t know where to go. I need someone to show me the way.’
‘There’s a stage,’ said Azul. ‘Isn’t there?’
‘Sure there’s a stage.’ Backenhauser glanced round the stable, staring wide-eyed at the horses. ‘I came in on the stage. That’s how I know there isn’t another in a week.’
‘So take it,’ grunted Azul.
‘I’ll be dead by then,’ wailed the artist. ‘This Dumfries feller could have me hung by then.’
‘I thought you was a painter,’ said Azul. ‘That should please you.’
‘What the hell are you talking about?’ asked Backenhauser. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘I always thought painters wanted to get hung,’ grinned Azul.
‘Not when they’re framed,’ said Backenhauser. ‘Can you help me? Please.’
‘You got money for a horse and saddle?’ asked the half-breed.
The artist nodded enthusiastically, digging into his coat to produce a wad of notes.
‘You pick one for me. I don’t know much about horses. You just choose one. Same for the saddle.’
Azul fetched the stable hand over and asked if he had any animals to sell. The old man led him out back, where he picked a roan gelding that seemed docile enough to accept Backenhauser, and strong enough to make the journey south. Then he bought a second-hand saddle and got it on the roan.
‘All right,’ he said. ‘Let’s go.’
Backenhauser lashed his bags in place and climbed awkwardly astride the pony. Azul watched him fumble with the reins and groaned: it was obvious the man knew nothing about riding. He walked his own mount slowly clear of the stable while the artist followed nervously behind. Outside in the street the crowd was dispersing. A man in a black frockcoat was leading a wagon with two coffins loaded in the rear towards the saloon. He raised his hat as he watched Azul ride away.
‘You ever ridden before?’ asked the half-breed.
Backenhauser shook his head.
‘Then just follow me,’ said Azul. ‘Hold on hard land. Try to do what I tell you.’
‘Will it be hard?’ asked the artist warily.
‘Only in parts,’ grunted Azul. ‘Now move it.’
Backenhauser yelled as the roan took off at a gallop after the half-breed’s gray.
‘You’re not painting a pretty picture,’ he shouted. ‘It all feels black and blue.’