PARTWAY TO LORDSBURG they ran into an Army patrol.
The column was headed by a captain with a soft, Southern accent who announced himself as Tyree. He was polite but cautious, one hand fisted over the butt of his Colt as he spoke.
‘Seems like you come from the badlands.’
‘That’s right,’ said Azul. ‘Now we want to get as far away as we can.’
‘Why’s that?’ asked Tyree; pleasantly.
‘Don’t seem like a good place to stop,’ said the half-breed. ‘So we’re heading for Lordsburg.’
Tyree nodded, then lifted his hat clear of his face and wiped his sleeve across his forehead.
‘Sure isn’t. We just run into a bunch of hostiles. Craziest thing a man ever done see. There was one feller out in front wavin’ a shield an’ firing a Winchester he musta took off a dead man. Had his own face painted on the shield.’
‘What happened to him?’ asked Backenhauser.
Tyree grinned and set his hat back on his head. Azul noticed that there was a small feather tucked into the band: the kind his father had told him the rebel cavalry wore during the fight between the States.
‘Come straight at us,’ said Tyree. ‘Head-on, with his Winchester pumpin’ shots like a steam engine puffin’ wind. Kept that goddam shield up in front like he thought it could hold off bullets. We shot him down.’
‘He got killed then?’ said Backenhauser.
‘Sure as shit smells bad,’ said Tyree. ‘He was wavin’ that shield around so busy he couldn’t fire his gun straight. He got killed with the first volley. From what little got left, I reckon he was the one causin’ the trouble. A bronco called Knife-With-Two-Sides. You know him?’
‘No.’ Azul spoke for them both. ‘Never heard of him.’
‘Pity.’ Tyree looked at the half-breed. ‘I was hopin’ you might. There was only one hostile got away. Looked like an old man. All hair an’ beads an’ skulls.’
Azul shook his head. ‘Don’t sound like anyone I know.’
‘Nor me,’ added Backenhauser. ‘We just rode out from Placeros. Where are you headed?’
‘There,’ said Tyree. ‘The hostiles been causin’ trouble on the stage route, so now I gotta patrol the line.’
‘That’s hard work,’ said the Englishman. ‘You got my sympathy.’
‘Yeah,’ said Azul. ‘Good luck.’
‘Thanks.’
Tyree brushed his hand against the brim of his hat and motioned his squadron forwards.
‘Thanks a lot.’
Azul and Backenhauser sat their horses until the troop was gone away into the dusty distance of the wide spread of Paradise Valley. Then the half-breed heeled the gray stallion forwards, the movement drawing the tan stage horse in pursuit.
‘Why didn’t you tell them?’ asked the Englishman. ‘Why not tell them where those Indians were hidden?’
‘Close your mouth,’ said Azul. ‘Keep it closed.’
‘Why?’ Backenhauser asked. ‘Maybe you could get your money back.’
‘The money doesn’t matter,’ rasped Azul. ‘Knife was killed. That’s what matters.’
‘I don’t understand,’ said the Englishman. ‘You were ready to fight him. To kill him.’
‘That was different,’ said the half-breed. ‘I’m part Chiricahua, so that would have been a fair fight.’
‘I still don’t understand,’ said Backenhauser. ‘Why not?’
‘He got killed by the Cavalry,’ rasped Azul. ‘Just like all the other Indians the white people have slaughtered. I don’t have to like that.’
‘I don’t understand,’ said the artist. ‘He’d have killed you if he could.’
‘Mimbreño and Chiricahua.’ Azul laughed; cynically. ‘Sometimes we fight, but over the same things. Not over land.’
‘They raided the stage,’ said Backenhauser. ‘Isn’t that the same?’
‘No,’ Azul shook his head. ‘It’s not.’
‘I don’t understand,’ said the Englishman.
‘I don’t think you can,’ said the half-breed. ‘Let’s go to Lordsburg.’
He urged the gray stallion on without waiting for an answer.
Lordsburg was a tight cluster of buildings spread out around the Tucson road. The prairie sloped down towards the settlement, affording the two horsemen a clear view of the size and lay-out of the town. It was larger than both San Jacinto and Placeros, a busy commercial center for the ranches and mines located over the surrounding country. The main hub of activity was centered on the single broad street. There were five saloons and one hotel – the only building standing taller than a single story – spaced out along the roadway; two eating houses, and a collection of stores ranging from a hardware emporium through an undertaker’s parlor to a milliner’s. On the south side, set back from the main street, was a sprawl of shacks with red lanterns hung outside in cheerful advertisement of the occupants’ profession. The town was noisy and brightly-lit in the dusk of early evening.
Azul rode in slowly, eyes shifting from side-to-side as he scanned the street for signs of danger.
Behind him, Backenhauser stared in open-eyed delight at the signs of civilization.
The half-breed located the stage depot and dismounted. Inside the office a dark-haired man was checking a schedule, looking bored. He did his best to look efficient and welcoming as the two men walked in.
‘Gents.’ He ducked his brilliantined head. ‘What can I do fer you?’
‘Got one of your horses outside,’ said Azul. ‘Came from the Placeros stage.’
‘That was wiped out.’ The dark-haired man frowned his bewilderment. ‘Apaches killed everyone on board.’
‘Not me,’ Backenhauser corrected. ‘I got away when the horses ran loose.’
‘My God!’ The man stared at the artist. ‘We thought everyone was killed.’
‘No.’ Backenhauser shook his head. ‘I escaped and then Mr. Gunn here found me and brought me into Lordsburg.’
It was the story they had agreed on during the long ride through Paradise Valley. It was simpler than trying to explain the truth … and possibly safer for them both.
‘What happened?’ asked the depot manager.
Backenhauser explained, lying, that he had been thrown clear of the stage and found shelter in a patch of mesquite until a runaway horse came by, which he had taken. Then he had ridden away, wandering around without much idea of where he was headed until Azul found him.
The depot manager shook his head and said, ‘You gotta be one of the luckiest men I ever met. I’d be honored if I could buy you both a bottle by way of reward.’
‘What for?’ grunted Azul. ‘Staying alive?’
‘For bringing the horse in,’ grinned the young man. ‘Lotta folks would have kept the animal.’
‘We’re honest,’ said Backenhauser; sternly.
‘Wouldn’t do to lie about things,’ added Azul.
The artist’s gear was loaded on Azul’s horse, so they led the stage pony round to the corral and the half-breed accepted the manager’s offer of a free stable. Backenhauser decided to go on to Tucson and bought a ticket on the stage leaving the next morning. Then they allowed the manager to find them rooms in the hotel and went with him to a saloon called The Golden Slipper.
His name was Cutter Sutcliffe and he was new to his job. He was not far past twenty, and had held the Lordsburg post for only three months. He bought a bottle of good whiskey and then insisted on paying for a meal. He took them to a Chinese restaurant, where one course followed another in a bewildering succession of curiously-named dishes that were washed down with the rice wine called saki.
By the time they had finished both Azul and Backenhauser were feeling the effects of the liquor, though in different ways. The Englishman was relaxed; livening up and eager to continue the night. The half-breed was remembering his drinking bout back in San Jacinto. So when Sutcliffe suggested they go back to The Golden Slipper and then try the pleasures of the red-lit shacks behind main street, he shook his head.
‘Come on,’ grinned Backenhauser. ‘We come a long way together and I’m leaving in the morning. Let’s go have some fun.’
‘I can promise that,’ urged Sutcliffe, filling their glasses. ‘There’s a Mex girl at Rosa’s place can blow your brains out.’
He winked obscenely, and Backenhauser laughed.
Azul shook his head and stood up. ‘Thanks but leave me out. I’m heading for bed.’
‘So am I,’ chuckled the artist. ‘But not my own.’
Sutcliffe slapped him on the back and poured the last of the saki into his glass.
‘I’ll see you in the morning,’ Azul said, the words slurring a little. ‘Take it easy.’
‘It’s real easy when Anita takes it hard,’ grinned Sutcliffe.
Azul went back to the hotel and climbed into bed. The room was small, facing towards the red-light district from the upper level. It had a narrow bed and a rickety washstand with a dirty towel stretched over the chipped jug. There were three hooks nailed to the facing wall and the sound of snoring from the room beyond. The half-breed locked the door and turned up the kerosene lantern hung from the center of the ceiling. A moth began to beat its wings against the hot glass.
Azul slid the window up and stared out over the shanty town. There was the tinkly sound of badly-played pianos mingling with the laughter of men and the higher-pitched tittering of the girls. The air was cool, and redolent of horse sweat and sex. He left it open as he stripped naked and splashed water over his body, then – still damp – threw himself on to the bed and closed his eyes.
Cal Backenhauser and Cutter Sutcliffe went back to The Golden Slipper. They downed a second bottle of whiskey while Sutcliffe described the charms of the whore called Anita in flowing, glowing detail.
Backenhauser’s eyes got brighter with each new revelation, and by the time the bottle was empty he was pantingly eager to go.
Sutcliffe helped him to his feet and they staggered out on to main street, stumbling through the dust as the artist tried to remember a longwinded joke about a man and a woman and a dog. Sutcliffe held him upright as they tracked down a side alley that led to a flight of steps opening on to the brothels. Backenhauser was laughing at the punchline he couldn’t remember, hanging on to the depot manager and telling him what a good friend he was.
When they reached Rosa’s place he drew himself upright and straightened his suit, adjusting the derby on his black hair and brushing the wayward strands of his mustache in place.
Sutcliffe knocked on the door.
And it opened to reveal a grossly fat woman, whose scarlet dress bulged over the spread of her breasts and the slightly lesser spread of her stomach. Her hair was piled up in oily curls above an olive face that might once have been pretty. Now, the eyes were almost lost between the folds of fat and the mouth was blubbery rather than sensual. The heavy pendants drooping from her ears shook as she smiled, and her smile gave off the stink of rotten teeth and garlic.
‘Cutter!’ Her voice matched her physical appearance: it was big and soft and oily. ‘How nice to see you again. Come in.’
Backenhauser and Sutcliffe stepped into a room that was totally red. There was a thick carpet covering the floor, dyed the color of fresh blood. The walls were papered in some kind of plush velour that matched the shade of the floor, and the ceiling had been painted red, too. Around the edges of the garish room there were seats, banquettes covered in the same material as spread over the walls, with little tables set beside them.
‘Anita around?’ asked Sutcliffe. ‘I been telling my friend about her.’
‘She’ll be free in a few minutes.’ Rosa ushered them to seats. ‘Take a drink while you wait.’
Before Backenhauser got a chance to say anything there was a glass of whiskey in his hand. And he began to drink it; automatically.
‘How long will you be staying?’ asked Rosa. ‘Anita is much in demand, so I have to charge you twenty dollars if you want to stay the night.’
‘Hell!’ Backenhauser fumbled in his pockets and spread bills over the table. ‘This looks better’n the hotel, so I’ll take a night.’
‘Thank you.’ Rosa counted out twenty dollars and tucked the remainder back in the artist’s vest. ‘And you, Cutter?’
‘I ain’t stayin.’ The depot manager shook his head. ‘Wish I could but I got paperwork needs clearin’ before the stage leaves.’
‘Hey!’ Backenhauser emptied his glass. ‘I thought we was making a night of this?’
‘You don’t need me where you’re goin’,’ grinned Sutcliffe. ‘You bought your ticket to ride, so enjoy the trip.’
The Englishman began to protest, but just then a Mexican girl entered the room and stoppered the words on the way out of his mouth. She was tall in her spike-heeled shoes, with stocking-clad legs that emphasized her slender build all the way to the café-au-lait expanse of thigh below the black silk of her corset. The garment was cut high over wide hips, exposing the dark bush of her pubic triangle, curving up over her flat stomach to cup and expose her breasts. Her nipples were erect, dark thimbles of tempting flesh that jutted from breasts almost too large for her body. Her hair was loose, tumbling in long waves as blue-black as midnight, around an oval face that shouldn’t have been beautiful, but was. Her eyes were huge, the whites startlingly so, throwing into contrast the large, brown pupils. Her nose was straight and wide, curving up at the tip so that her full lips, gleaming bright scarlet with a fresh application of make-up, seemed even wider and fuller than they really were.
Backenhauser gasped.
And Rosa said, ‘You like Anita? Most men do.’
Sutcliffe said, ‘Wish I could join you, friend. Enjoy yourself.’
Backenhauser went on staring.
Rosa beckoned the girl over and explained that the artist had hired her for the night. Up close it was possible to see that she wasn’t as young as she looked, and the color of her hair came from a bottle. But Backenhauser wasn’t looking that close: he was mostly concentrating on the breasts and that enticing triangle of hair.
He followed Anita up the corridor like a little lost dog seeking a home. Just for the night.
Cutter Sutcliffe went back to his stage depot and made himself coffee in the little room at the back. Then he sat down in the chair and waited.
After a while there was a knock on the door. He picked up the cut-down Colt from his desk and turned the key.
Fritz Baum and Amos Dumfries came into the room.
‘Where are they?’
It was the German who spoke.
‘The half-breed’s callin’ himself Matthew Gunn,’ said Sutcliffe. ‘He’s in the hotel, I think.’
‘You think?’ Baum’s voice was cold as winter snow. ‘You was paid to spot them.’
‘He’s booked into the hotel,’ said Sutcliffe. ‘I got them rooms myself. I tried to set them both up like you wanted, but he said he wanted to sleep. I guess he’s there now.’
‘An’ the other one?’ said Amos Dumfries. ‘The artist?’
‘Like I promised.’ Sutcliffe smiled nervously. ‘He’s in Rosa’s place. With Anita.’
‘What do we do?’ asked the rancher. ‘Which one first?’
Baum thought for a minute, then: ‘How was the ’breed when you left him?’
‘Sleepy,’ said Sutcliffe. ‘Looked like he’d taken a might too much likker.’
‘So he’ll sleep, most like.’ Baum was speaking mostly to himself. ‘An’ if we take him now, the artist could invite the marshal in.’
‘So let’s take the artist,’ said Dumfries. ‘I want to see that bastard die, anyway.’
‘Yeah.’ Baum nodded. ‘We’ll find him and then Breed.’
Suddenly, like a rabbit jumping clear of a magician’s hat, his gun appeared in his hand. The hammer clicked back and the barrel ground hard against Sutcliffe’s face.
‘You been paid for this, feller.’ His big hand clutched the depot manager’s wrist, twisting the Colt down and away. Applying enough pressure that Sutcliffe groaned and let the Colt drop to the floor. ‘You been paid well. Enough to forget it. You understand? You never seen us. Not ever.’
Cutter Sutcliffe nodded. ‘Sure thing, Mr. Baum.’
The German scraped the pistol over Sutcliffe’s teeth, ripping up the lip.
‘You never heard of anyone called Baum, feller. You never even seen me.’
‘Nossir. Sorry.’
Sutcliffe slumped back against the desk as the pressure went away from his wrist. When he looked down, there were bruises below his cuff, and thin droplets of blood falling over his shirt where his lip had been cut.
The door slammed closed. Sutcliffe found his whiskey bottle and took a long drink
Naked of the corset and stockings, Anita was beginning to spread out around the waist. Her belly was soft, starting to fold, and her breasts drooped.
Backenhauser didn’t notice because she was the first woman he had enjoyed in a long time; and she was very professional.
He lay back on the bed, mind still fuggy from the whiskey, and let her go to work on him. And forgot about time and danger and everything but the mounting warmth in his groin. The whole journey was worth this, he decided; everything: from the long trek west to San Jacinto to the hazardous crossing of the mountains; capture by the Apaches; running from Dumfries. All of it, for this moment of expert pleasure.
And then the window shattered inwards and Anita raised her head with her mouth opening even wider as she tried to scream.
It was hard, because Backenhauser was filling her up, and then a pistol barrel landed hard and heavy over her face, breaking her nose and smashing her back from the bed with blood pumping from her nostrils and the welcoming arms of black oblivion taking her down into a cessation of awareness.
Backenhauser grunted and tried to sit up. But his body was still jerking and before he could even shout, there was a barrel jammed into his mouth.
‘Now ain’t that funny,’ rasped Baum. ‘The Englishman’s takin’ it in the head.’
‘Don’t kill him!’ snapped Dumfries. ‘Not yet.’
Backenhauser’s eyes got wide, and his teeth grated on the oiled metal. Involuntarily he urinated, the hot liquid splashing over his spread thighs and down onto the sheets.
‘He pissed hisself.’ Baum snatched the gun from the artist’s mouth, taking chips of enamel with it. ‘I guess he’s scared.’
‘Who are you?’ Backenhauser realized his voice was hoarse. Knew it was fear that drained his vocal chords of saliva. ‘Who the hell are you?’
Amos Dumfries pointed a Colt’s .45 Peacemaker at the Englishman’s belly and said, ‘You helped that goddam half-breed kill my son. That’s who I am. That dead boy’s father.’
‘Oh, God!’ Backenhauser sat upright in the bed, instinctively tugging the sheets over his body. Fritz Baum reached over to haul them away, exposing the artist’s nakedness.
‘He’s yours,’ said the bounty hunter. ‘But don’t use the gun: we don’t want no noise.’
‘So what the hell do I use?’ snarled Dumfries. ‘My hands?’
Baum shook his head and reached inside his gray jacket. ‘No, this.’
He tossed a clasp-knife to the rancher. Dumfries caught it in his left hand and holstered the Colt. The blade came out with a sudden click! Like a spring snapping. The blade was around four inches long, honed razor sharp on one side with a wicked tip jutting from the curved edge.
Backenhauser tried to scream, but Baum shoved the gun back into his mouth, then picked up the Englishman’s shirt and stuffed that through the man’s lips, knotting the sleeves behind his head.
He used Backenhauser’s belt to lash the artist’s arms to the bedhead, and tore up a sheet to fasten the ankles to the foot of the bed.
‘All yours,’ he said.
Dumfries moved forwards.
‘You goddam bastard.’ He perched on the bed, glaring down into Backenhauser’s terrified eyes. ‘You helped kill my son.’
Abruptly, the knife sliced over the artist’s belly. It cut a dripping swathe of flesh through the area above the Englishman’s groin. Backenhauser lurched, jerking upright against his bonds. Dumfries cut again.
This time the blade scored a line over the artist’s chest, running from his left shoulder to the point of his right hipbone. Dumfries chuckled and carved a second line to form a massive, bloody cross over the naked body.
From behind the gag there came gargled screams, and Backenhauser shut his eyes tight against the pain.
Dumfries reached over, drawing the knife delicately across the Englishman’s right eye. The lid parted from the socket and Backenhauser screamed afresh as the pocket of skin dropped down his cheek and blood flooded over his eyeball.
‘My son never did get married,’ rasped Dumfries. ‘Nor will you.’
He reached down, cupping Backenhauser’s penis in his hand. Then sliced the blade hard and fast through the column of flesh. Backenhauser’s screaming became nearly audible and Dumfries ducked back as a huge, thick column of blood spurted high into the air.
He watched as the fountain died down, then sliced the Englishman’s testicles away with the same casual movement he might have used to geld a calf.
The sheets got thick with blood as Backenhauser’s body jerked and shuddered through the pain, pumping his life away from the gaping hole between his legs.
Dumfries watched for a while, waiting for the spasmodic horror of the shock to die away. Then he stuck the knife deep into the Englishman’s belly not caring much where he put the blade and dragged it out. The sac of the stomach opened, spilling feces and Chinese food and blood in a high-spouting fountain of foul-smelling liquid over the bed and Backenhauser’s staring face.
The staring eyeball got filled up with the stuff, and Dumfries sprang clear of the bed, smiling as he watched the ugly gouts of stinking liquid splash steadily lower.
‘The girl might recognize you,’ said Baum. ‘An’ we gotta find the ’breed still.’
‘No problem.’ Dumfries laughed. ‘I’ll take care of her.’
He reached down to swipe the knife over Anita’s throat. The flesh parted easily, the honed edge cutting into skin and muscle at the same time, so that a second fountain of blood gushed upwards to join the dripping of Backenhauser’s murdered body spilling thickly over the bed;
Dumfries sighed, staring at the butchered corpse. ‘Makes a real pretty picture, don’t he?’
Baum glanced disinterestedly at the bodies. ‘Let’s get the hell outta here. Before someone comes.’
‘Yeah.’ Dumfries wiped the knife on Backenhauser’s coat and passed it back to the German. There was an unholy light in his blue eyes. ‘Let’s get the ’breed.’
‘Alive,’ warned the bounty hunter. ‘Remember that.’
‘All right.’ Dumfries sounded reluctant. ‘It’s kinda funny, though.’
‘What is?’ asked Baum.
‘Well,’ the rancher stifled a near-hysterical, laugh, ‘the artist is already pretty cut up. But it’s his friend who gets hung.’