Joe Fischer was a handsome sort of a fellow.
This was his own opinion, of course. A disinterested spectator might have pointed out that though the boy’s features were good, skin tanned and smooth, body slim and wiry, hands supple and long-fingered, eyes clear and healthy, there was something weak about the set of the mouth, something shifty about the way the eyes returned your glance, something not quite square. Maybe it was just pride. Joe Fischer was as full of pride as a bull is full of wind at corn time.
Right now he had it in mind to do a little courtin’, and he was duded up appropriately. He was wearing a new blue shirt and Levi pants which, if not new, were at least clean. With his boots shined and spurs jingling, Joe Fischer rode across the prairie tall in the saddle, admiring the shadow his passing figure threw on the ground, thinking how pleased Susie Webb would be to see him.
He’d taken the mountain pass road that morning, the one that curved up into the lower foothills of the Arabelas to the east of the Fischer ranch and then made a wide loop south, crossing the Rio Abajo on its way to join the main Las Vegas road. The Webb ranch was in a shaded stand of timber alongside the river; he could see the place as he came down the long crest of the hill. One of these days he’d marry the Webb girl and take over running it. Kick her snot-nosed brother out for a start. It would open the whole range to Fischer stock, which would make Ed happy too. Joe Fischer grinned. That wasn’t the reason he fancied being married to Susie Webb.
He stopped at the edge of a trickling creek that joined the Rio Abajo, slicking down his long black hair with water, blowing into a cupped hand to make sure his breath was sweet. Then he swung back aboard the paint, reining sharply back to bring the animal’s head up as he cantered up the slope towards the house, a long rising cloud of dust marking his passage.
As he hitched the paint to the rail in front of the porch, the Mexican woman who acted as a housekeeper for the Webbs came around the side of the house, a wicker basket full of half-dried laundry beneath her arm. If she was pleased to see Joe Fischer, her face didn’t show it.
“Howdy, there, Deluvina,” Fischer said, smiling ingratiatingly. “Miss Susie about the place?”
Deluvina nodded, her dark eyes unfriendly and watchful.
“She in the house?”
Again the unfriendly movement of the head. Damn the bitch! Pumped full of that stiff-necked greaser haughtiness. Her son was the same: acted like he figured he was as good as a white man.
“I’ll go say hello,” Fischer said. “You get on with what you’re doin’, no need to disturb you.”
“Si, senor,” Deluvina said, bowing her head. She left on cat feet, and Joe Fischer cursed at the feeling she had managed to impart: of having permitted him to go inside. Permitted him, Joe Fischer, to do something!
He pushed open the door and called Susie Webb’s name. She came to the doorway of the big room at the far end of the corridor, her fresh young face bright with an anticipation that faded to suspicion when she saw who her visitor was.
“Oh, hello, Joe,” she said. “What do you want?”
The way she said it made Joe Fischer angry. It wasn’t the kind of welcome he’d been imagining all the way across the mountains, nothing like. The fact that Susie Webb cordially disliked him had never occurred to Joe. He put her coolness down to woman’s wiles: just her way of leading him on, seeing if he had the fire to melt the iceberg. Well, he did, he assured himself.
“Just thought I’d ride over to see you, Susie,” Joe said, pushing the door closed. “How’ve you been?”
“Pretty well,” Susie said, “Joe, I was just getting ready to go out.”
“Aw, no need to dash off, is there. I was figgerin’ on settin’ and talkin’ awhile.”
“No, I promised to meet Dick, bring his lunch up to the north past—”
Something in Joe Fischer’s eyes made her pause just for a fleeting moment.
No, she told herself. “Pasture,” she repeated.
“He’s working that far out?” Joe asked artlessly.
“Yes,” Susie said briskly, “so you see I’ve ...”
She made to walk by him in the narrow corridor but he put his palm flat against the wall, his arm effectively barring her way.
“Oh, Joe, stop that,” she said, pushing ineffectually at his arm. It was a harmless moment. But she was too close, and much too pretty. Her blue eyes sparked with impatience, and she turned, pushing against Joe’s chest with both hands. He caught her arms in his hands, pulling her against him. She smelled of soap. Like fresh cut grass, he thought, bending his head down to kiss her, pinioning the girl against him.
“Joe,” she panted. “You stop this now. Get away from me.”
“Aw,” he said, his head pursuing her dodging lips. “Just one li’l ol’ kiss, Susie. Come on, you ain’t foolin’ me none. You know you want it.”
“Joe,” the girl said. Something in her voice stopped him for a second and he stared at her, surprised.
“Joe,” she repeated. “Let go of me or I’ll scream.”
“Now I know you’re givin’ me the runaround,” he grinned. “Ain’t nobody gonna come if you scream.” He pulled her tight, wrapping his arms around her, thrusting himself against her. And she screamed—screamed until Joe managed to get a hand across her mouth, stifling the shocking noise, his eyes bugging with astonishment at her treachery.
“What you want to do that for?” he said. “What in the hell you want to do that for?”
He took his hand away and the girl screamed again, and without even thinking Joe hit her with the flat of his hand. Susie Webb went back on her heels, tears of shock in her eyes. She banged against the wall, spinning, and sat down on the floor as the door burst open and Deluvina’s fifteen-year-old son Pedro ran in, a pistol in his hand.
Joe Fischer still wasn’t thinking properly, but he saw the gun and he reacted instantaneously. His hand flickered down towards the holstered six-gun at his side, faster than the eye could follow. The heavy boom of the weapon in the confined space of the hallway was like the sound of a cannon, and the slug took the kid right below the sternum, blowing his heart apart, picking up the slight body as if it had been a rag doll and hurling it in a tattered heap ten yards outside the open door. Joe Fischer stood, his mouth open, the gun smoking in his hand, only just becoming aware of the enormity of what he had done. He didn’t even hear Susie Webb come up off the floor, pure blinded rage propelling her, landing like a demented hellcat on Joe Fischer’s back, her hands clawed like talons, raking his skin. As her nails dug into him, Fischer reacted with a bellowing roar, shaking Susie off his back as if she had been a small child. She sprawled to one side as he whirled on her; then she went for his face again, desperation in her eyes, the breath whistling through her lips. Her bright blonde hair had come unfastened from the ribbon which tied it back and it swung long and loose.
“Stop it!” Fischer shouted, grabbing at her, keeping his face averted so that she could not reach him with her nails. He felt, rather than saw her knee coming up, and then the sharp pain of the wicked rising blow into the groin hit him with a numbing shock. The rage in his eyes now made the girl fall back in terror and Joe came after her, grabbing for her shoulder, nothing in his mind except the intention to punish, to hurt, to act. The flimsy cotton blouse tore as the girl pulled away, trying for the door of the bedroom behind her. It ripped from collar to waist and Susie instinctively clasped her hands over herself to cover her nakedness. Joe Fischer tore her hands away with a rough gesture, feasting his eyes on her lissome body. He pinned her against the wall with his left hand, pawing her with the other. The girl stood stock-still, her eyes wide and terrified as some forest creature trapped by a merciless predator.
“Joe,” she managed. “No, Joe. Don’t do this. Don’t do this, Joe.”
He started to fumble with his pants and she screamed again, bucking against him, making enough room to move, to try to get to the door. Now Joe Fischer growled with anger and hit the girl, his clenched fist catching her at the nape of the neck. She fell to the floor, on her knees, head hanging, long hair flowing like a golden waterfall to the rough boards. Sobbing, she tried to writhe away from the reaching hands, but Fischer dragged her to her feet. This time he ripped the rest of her blouse away and lurched against her. His hands tugged at her skirt, and then under it. She screamed, the last despairing sound of a drowning soul. Then Fischer hit her again, and her knees buckled. There was a roaring in her head, and her eyes would not focus. And then he was on her.