THE GOOD, THE BAD, AND THE OJETE, OR A FISTFUL OF HUEVOS

Salome Wilde

The town of Española was eerily silent as two figures on horseback rode in, soon after sunrise. Red’s tired eyes were far brighter than his namesake hair, a curling thatch that matched the parched earth beneath their horses’ galloping hooves almost as precisely as his eyes reflected the color of the vast New Mexico sky. Justice’s name suited far less well than Red’s, imparted on him as it was by a poor Kentucky woman whose man left her when he’d found she’d been sleeping with their twin farmhands. Despite or perhaps because of his beginnings, the boy had turned out equal parts handsome and ruthless. It was hard not to stare at the way his dark tan was set off by a mass of blond, sun-bleached hair. They made quite a memorable picture, especially for a couple of bounty hunters on the trail of a killer.

A quiet, dry wind, setting into motion a creaking hotel sign, accompanied the muffled stamp of their horses on the dirt road into town. No one came out to greet the strangers as they came to a stop in front of the dry goods store and dismounted. Red tipped his hat back and wiped his brow with the back of his hand. Justice frowned and stomped his feet, shaking thick dust from his boots before looking up and pointing to the sheriff’s office. The worn door was painted with a dark smear of blood that ended in a dried pool where a body had clearly slumped not too long before.

As they approached, a squinting sheriff opened his door and eyed them, head to toe. “That’s close enough,” he warned, pistols shining in the early morning sun.

Red and Justice stopped in their tracks, raising their hands in a gesture of peace. Justice spat out the stub of a cigar. Dust rose and the fringe on Justice’s coat sleeves rustled in the arid breeze.

“We’re not here to make trouble,” Red promised, his voice low and even. It was the truth, but he knew the sheriff wouldn’t believe a well-armed pair of strangers, especially after the night of terror the town had faced.

“Maybe you’d like to toss those gun belts my way to prove it,” answered the sheriff.

Red pursed his lips. “Afraid not.”

The sheriff cocked his guns.

Justice’s fingers twitched. A bead of sweat trickled down his stubbled cheek.

Red kept his hands high and took a single step forward. “We’ve come to help.”

He let the words sink in, watching as the tall, grizzled lawman weighed the likelihood he was telling the truth. Out of the corner of narrow, hazel eyes, Justice spied a pair of rifles trained on them from behind a broken saloon window.

“Help how?” quizzed the sheriff.

“We’re after the man who shot up your town.”

With a tight nod and a motioning pistol, the sheriff directed the men into the office. He kept his pistols cocked as he kicked the door shut behind them. When the two were seated, the lawman leaned against his desk and offered them a choice of day-old coffee or cheap whiskey. Red helped himself to the latter, while Justice paused, removing his wide-brimmed hat, and asked for a basin of water. Too pretty for his own good, thought Red.

“There’s water in the pitcher,” he told Justice, pointing to a table just outside the single cell that served as the town jail.

“Much obliged,” answered Justice with a nod, rising to leave the talking, as usual, to Red.

“I don’t like your kind,” the sheriff said, glancing from man to man as he put one gun back in its holster and kept the other in hand. He removed his hat and smoothed back the little hair he had. “Seen too much blood spilled when outlaws fight outlaws.”

“Understood,” replied Red, before knocking back a healthy shot of the harsh liquor. He relished the way it burned, just as sure as the sun but to better effect. “But blood’s already been spilled.” He cocked his head toward the bent tin badge on the desk with a crimson-stained gun belt beside it.

The sheriff frowned, deep furrows knotting between his brows. “Emmett Farley,” he said with a slow nod, eyes on the badge and hand on the belt. “A kid, practically, but the best deputy this town’s ever had.”

“Dead?”

He shook his head. “Doc says he should pull through.” There was exhaustion rather than relief in the man’s voice, thought Red. Or maybe it was just shame that the blood spilled wasn’t his own. The sheriff put his second pistol down beside him and poured from the bottle into his coffee cup.

“How’d it happen?” asked Red, opening the wound a little wider.

“Some pig of a bandit,” the sheriff spat. “Rode into town, made himself cozy in a game of poker at the saloon, then held up the players for the measly few hundred in the pot plus three bottles of good whiskey.”

“Ain’t much to get shot over,” Red mused.

“Emmett was on duty and heard the commotion. He emptied his pistols at the renegade, who was mounting his horse. Emmett was hit, once in the shoulder and once in the thigh.” He downed the contents of his mug.

“Get any shots in?”

“He hasn’t come to long enough to say yet, but Jake, the bartender, says not.”

“Shame,” said Justice, returning to his teetering stool. His hair was damp.

“Sloppy,” Red retorted.

The sheriff looked up, steely eyed, hand on his gun. “What’d you say?”

“Sloppy. The criminal, I mean.”

Scratching his chin with a horny thumbnail, the sheriff nodded.

“This Jake tell you what the man looked like?”

“Dark, mostly: hair, skin, eyes. Black hat that matched his boots. Went by the name of Bronco.” The sheriff shrugged. “Strangers come through here on the way to Santa Fe all the time. Usually, they don’t make trouble.” He sucked his teeth. “Usually.”

“That’s our man,” said Red. He pulled a folded piece of paper from his vest, shook it out, and offered it to the sheriff. The defiant face of Alejandro “Bronco” Vasquez glared up at them. “Been after him for months. Travels all over, robbing and looting. No amount too small.”

“Must have a death wish,” said Justice.

The flyer promised $5,000 for his arrest on multiple counts, including the murder of a preacher in Montana. “I’d pay that out of my own pocket for what he did to Emmett,” said the sheriff. “If I had it. Strange I haven’t ever heard of him before.” He looked over to the small cluster of wanted posters on the back of the office door, none of which had Bronco’s face on it.

Red shrugged.

“You think you can bring him in?”

“Sure of it. He’ll be in Santa Fe tonight, maybe Albuquerque if he rides through. Headed for El Paso then across the border into Mexico.”

“We’ll make sure he never makes it,” added Justice, combing his fingers through his blond mop.

“And bring him back here?” prompted the sheriff.

“By rights to Montana, for the reward.”

The sheriff nodded in understanding.

“Of course, if your town can pay…” Red knew that many a New Mexico prospector used the small town’s bank to stash their takings. Not too out-of-the-way, just enough so it wasn’t a likely target for a holdup.

“Like I said, I don’t like your kind,” the sheriff replied to the unstated agreement. “But in this case, I’ll make an exception.”

Red could see the thirst for revenge glittering in the old lawman’s eyes. Had the victim been anyone other than the young deputy, there’d probably have been no deal. As it was, the sheriff sent the bounty hunters on their way with a toast to their speedy success.

The sheriff’s good wishes were heartfelt, but it was planning and experience that led the bounty hunters straight to their prey, only two days later. They knew he’d have made his way to Santa Fe, and they used the trail of drunks at the city’s edge to find the broken-down hideout where they discovered the wretch, snoring in the darkness after having shared his expensive whiskey with all and sundry and squandered the pittance he’d stolen from the Española poker table.

Kicking in the door of the creaking, windowless shack, bucket of water in hand, Red barked a welcome. “Wake up, you filthy mongrel!”

Justice strode in behind him, lighting a slender cigar. He used its glow to find a candle.

In the flickering light, a naked outlaw lay on a bare straw mattress. He was groaning at the intrusion.

“He looks like shit,” said Red to Justice, picking up the gun belt lying beside the candle and slinging it over his shoulder.

“Smells like shit, too,” answered Justice, blowing smoke.

Red hoisted the bucket and tossed its contents at the sprawling form.

Bronco roared as he rose to his knees. “Go to hell, ojete,” he growled.

“Angry cuss, ain’t he?” Justice said with a grin.

Red approached the bed and yanked Bronco’s head back by his thick, black hair. “Listen up, borracho: there’s five thousand dollars with your name on it waiting for us in Española. So get moving before we drag you there.”

That seemed to sober Bronco up, and fast. “Amigos,” he said with what passed for a smile on his dark, craggy face. “Perhaps we can make a deal.”

Justice sneered. Red, however, was listening. He released Bronco’s hair with a shove. “What sort of deal?”

“I got money,” whispered Bronco.

“You lyin’ sonofabitch. You ain’t got shit, old man,” answered Justice.

Calling him “old” seemed to enrage Bronco even more than being called a liar. “I’m talking to him, cabrón,” he growled, pointing. “To the man, not the boy.”

Justice chewed his cigar as he reached for his gun.

Red held up a hand. “Hold on now, Justice. Vasquez here says he’s got money. We’re reasonable hombres. You just fetch that money, amigo, and we’ll see about letting you go.”

Bronco scrambled off what passed for a bed and reached beneath it. He came up with a battered leather wallet and tossed it to Red.

“Well, look here. The man’s telling the truth.” He rifled through a small stack of bills. “Ain’t five thousand, but it ain’t hay either.”

Justice blew smoke, peering over Red’s shoulder. “What say we keep this for our troubles, and take him in anyway.”

Red laughed. “I like the way you think, partner.”

Bronco spluttered a string of curse words in Spanish, some of which few above the Mexican border had ever heard. “That’s not fair!” he finally shouted in English, perhaps the most outrageous words he’d uttered yet.

“You’re right,” answered Red, calmly. “It ain’t fair at all.” He tapped his bottom lip in thought a moment. “But you know, Vasquez, today may still be your lucky day.” Keeping his gun belt buckled, he reached below to unfasten his pants. “Why don’t you show us a little of how grateful you’d be if we just take your money and forget we ever saw you?” He shook his half-hard shaft at Bronco.

“Hijo de perra,” muttered Bronco, but he turned around without hesitation and offered his ass, yielding to the coercion that might save his life.

Red spit down onto his cock and nudged Bronco’s legs apart. He spit again between smooth bronze cheeks. “Must be part Indian,” he remarked casually. “Hairless as a baby down here.”

Bronco snarled.

Red stopped talking. He’d understated his appreciation of the firm flesh before him, but there was no need to talk about it. He’d never had a taste for women, preferring a hard-living man with just enough hair on his body that you knew who you were fucking. Justice suited him well enough, but the eye-catching blond was a bit too pliant for Red’s rougher tastes. Vasquez was a fine trophy despite the drunkenness. He was resisting just enough to make the claiming especially worthwhile, and when he arched his broad back, Red couldn’t resist driving into him with a satisfied groan.

“You reckon he’s makin’ it easy for ya ’cos he likes it?” Justice quipped.

“I reckon,” answered Red, voice tight with pleasure.

Justice approached, cigar protruding from within a toothy grin. “I’m thinkin’ he might like both ends filled.” Walking around the creaking bed, he withdrew his own stiff prick. With his free hand, he took hold of Bronco’s hair as Red had done, and stuffed himself into the waiting mouth.

Thrusting smoothly until they’d matched their pace, the pair of bounty hunters hungrily claimed their willing quarry. Red’s eyes closed as he held tightly to dark slim hips. Justice watched his pale cock sliding in and out of Bronco’s red mouth as he puffed his cigar. Always curious, Justice took his hand off his own tool to reach beneath, where he found the desperado nearly as hard as he was. The gesture brought forth a pretty whimper that hummed all through Justice. So he kept it up as he lifted his eyes.

Red’s harsh cry as he reached his climax urged Justice on. He chomped down on his cigar and fucked Bronco’s mouth like his own life depended on it rather than Bronco’s. While Red filled their plaything with seed, Justice withdrew, to proudly decorate the criminal’s gaping visage.

Bronco collapsed as his accosters sat on the floor, catching their breaths and drinking the dregs of the whiskey Bronco had left beside the bed. After their few moments’ silent respite, Red rose, yawned, and buttoned up. “All right, amigo. Time to get dressed. We need to tie you up and get you back to Española.

Bronco narrowed his eyes and spat.

* * *

Just as Red had promised the sheriff, he and Justice rode back into town with the bound and gagged fugitive slung across the hindquarters of Justice’s horse. The lawman rose from the bench outside his office to greet them.

Red grinned as he dismounted and walked around to slap the captive Bronco on the ass. “We tried to pull him along on foot behind the horses for a while, but he kept falling. Didn’t want him dragged to death before we got here.” Justice laughed. “If you open the cage, we’ll toss him right in.”

“Right this way, fellas,” said the sheriff.

Bronco moaned through his gag as Red and Justice roughly slung him onto the hard cot at the back of the barred cell.

The sheriff locked the door behind the prisoner, pausing to gaze into his red eyes long enough to be certain this was the right man, then pocketed the key.

A dusty, road-weary Justice looked over longingly at the familiar pitcher in the corner.

“Mind if I…?” he asked, in his deep Texas twang.

“Why don’t you head over to the hotel instead,” the sheriff advised. “You can wash and rest up a bit while I make arrangements for the county judge, and fetch your reward.”

Mr. Calvin T. Farley, owner and clerk at the small but tidy Española Hotel, was overjoyed to introduce himself to and thank his two new guests for bringing in the villain who’d laid his nephew low. Anything he could get for them would be his great pleasure. Red asked for a nice juicy steak and a bottle of red wine, while Justice requested a bath, scalding hot. Farley hinted that, afterward, he might be able to procure the hospitality of one or two of Miss Lena’s gals for them, but he was met with polite refusal. “Just as you say, gentlemen,” replied the small, moustachioed man, surprised to find that the gunslingers were, perhaps, gentlemen after all.

Eating and soaking accomplished, it wasn’t long after before the sheriff was knocking on their door. He brought in two hand-tooled saddlebags full of dollar bills and gold nuggets, and laid them carefully on an overstuffed chair. “You’re welcome to count it.”

“No need, Sheriff,” answered Red, waving the idea away.

“Bill,” corrected the sheriff. “Bill Thomson.”

“Pleased to know you, Bill,” said Red, lowering his hand for a shake.

“Right pleased,” echoed Justice from the bed, pulling on a new pair of socks that Mr. Farley had been kind enough to provide him.

“Judge’ll be here late tomorrow,” Bill reported.

“That’s good news,” said Red.

The transaction complete, the three men fell silent.

“Well, I’ll be getting back to the office,” Bill announced. “Got old Harry Parsons spelling me while I’ve been taking care of business, but can’t leave him alone too long.” He chuckled. “Probably asleep with his head on the desk right now.” He turned to go.

“You’ll be spending the night there with Bronco—the prisoner, I imagine?”

“That’s right,” Bill said, facing Red squarely. “He’ll stay put and face the law when the judge comes, rest assured.” There was a determined pride in his posture and his promise.

“A sheriff’s work is never done,” affirmed Red, holding the door open for the older man.

Bill nodded as he left, and Red closed the door behind him.

After unbuckling first one saddlebag and then the other, Red dug his hands into piles of neatly bound bills and hefty nuggets. “Now that’s what I like to see,” he told Justice. “A promise kept by a good, honest sheriff in a good, honest town.”

Justice snickered and leaned back against a stack of pillows. “So long as it don’t rub off on us.”

“Damn right,” said Red, tossing a small chunk of gold at his partner in crime.

Justice snatched it out of the air, just before it would have struck him in the face. He looked it over as Red joined him.

“Only one thing I hate about this work,” he grumbled, sitting on the bed’s edge.

“The waiting,” answered Justice.

Red made a grunt of assent as he watched Justice’s strong, nimble fingers toy with the glittering rock. “What say you put those hands to better use while we wait for this honest little town to lock its doors and go to sleep?”

Justice put the precious nugget beside him and helped Red undo his belt and unfasten his pants. Taking out his stiffening rod and bringing his mouth close, the younger man made a sound of annoyance. “Sure wish you’d take a bath sometimes, Red.”

“A nice tongue bath’s good enough for me,” Red replied, and shoved Justice down.

By the time the moon was high, a relaxed Red and a bored Justice were ready to get the hell out of Española for good. With it all dark and quiet in the town, there was just one final errand to manage before they made their discreet exit.

Justice headed for the stables, strapping the saddlebags of loot over the haunches of two well-bred, well-kept horses that suited him better than the tired mounts they rode in on. Leading the pair quietly out to the road, he couldn’t help eyeing a third whose tawny coat was a perfect match for his jacket and boots.

Tying his selection loosely outside the sheriff’s office, he slipped in to join Red and Bill in a farewell drink of the wine Red had saved for the occasion. A cuffed but ungagged Bronco Vasquez sat on the cot in his cell, hunched over his knees, glaring out at his captors with savage eyes.

“Appreciate the hospitality, Sheriff, but we’re hoping to reach Jicarilla by daybreak,” Red was explaining. “Seems there’s some crazy rustler up there, killing horses and Indians alike for sport. Not sure the reward’s worth the risk, but we thought we’d take a look.”

“A bounty hunter’s work is never done,” said Bill with a frown, downing the last of his wine.

Justice leaned against the wall and crossed his arms, preferring to stand over the rickety stool available. He watched as Red clapped the sheriff on the back and laughed at his attempt at humor, then glanced at the man in the cell, who remained as still as death but for the menacing glow in his deep brown eyes.

Bill yawned.

“Tired, Sheriff?” asked Red.

“Guess so,” Bill replied with a smile. “But don’t you worry about me. I’ll be…be…”

His thought was left incomplete as the sheriff slumped forward over his desk.

Red patted him gently on the back. “You have a good rest now. We’ll see to everything.” With that, he withdrew the cell and wrist-iron keys from his pocket, tossed them to Justice, and then carefully removed his gun belt from around his waist. “Got you some nice shiny new pistolas, guapo,” he said over his shoulder as Bronco emerged from the cage, stretching his long limbs.

“Vámanos,” beckoned Bronco, leading the way out the door as he strapped the sheriff’s belt around his waist. “I’m sick of this town. Oh, and next time, Red, you get to be the criminal.”