La Puta del Diablo

 

“I know who you are,” Estella said, hugging her knees and eying him accusingly across the fire.

Hawk returned the coffee pouch to his saddlebags. “You and half of Arizona, seems like.”

“Lawmen came to the cantina a couple of weeks ago,” Estella said. “They said you were an outlaw lawman. A vigilante. They said that you killed another lawman last winter.” She smiled. “Your friend.”

A dull blade prodded Hawk’s heart. The pain must have shown in his eyes; Estella recoiled slightly and stopped chewing, the smile fading from her lips.

“Perhaps . . . they were wrong,” the whore said haltingly, staring at him.

Chin on her knees, Estella stared at him furtively. Finally, she rose, stretched like a cat, then moved around the fire.

She had a wild, lusty look in her eyes.

“Come on,” she crooned, grinding against him. “I make you feel good tonight . . . then we go to Tucson tomorrow. . . .”

Hawk didn’t lift his hands to her, and he didn’t return the kiss, but he didn’t resist her. He couldn’t deny her pull, and he hadn’t had a woman in a long time. . . .