Nobody knew Linda Aragon’s age. That was because nobody had known her before she had come into this country. It was assumed by most of those who knew her that Aragon was not her real name and in that they were probably right. But nobody disapproved of her use of it. It had a descriptive and even noble ring to it and somehow that suited her. Few realized that it was the name of one of the old houses that had once claimed regal authority over part of Old Spain. Certainly she ruled here where she lived, holding her power in much the same way as the old Spanish landowners did in the days that were gone. Here the Mexicans tended sheep, the vaqueros herded their long-horned cattle of the kind that had come over from Europe with the conquistadores. Here the few travelers who moved through the hills could find an open door in much the same way as they did in the ancient days. Here, even the Indian who dared to enter into the world of the white man might receive food.
But if any of the strangers who came to her door expected courtesy and conversation from the lady of the land herself, they were disappointed. Linda Aragon had neither the wish nor the need for human company, except on the rare occasions when there was a baile held by her people and then she would step down from her metaphorical throne and join in their festivities with such abandon that they thought her to be another woman. But that was seldom, and for the most part she was a creature aloof to whom they looked for guidance and protection.
She was, they said among themselves, hard, but she was also just. All authority was hard in the world they knew, but seldom was it just. And there was a curious quality to her hardness that was difficult to put a word to. Many a man had suffered her punishment and yet stayed to serve her well. Perhaps it was that she was not involved in any way with their affairs, but stayed aloof. She gained no pleasure from the pain she inflicted any more than she suffered remorse from dealing it out.
She now stood in the cool of the patio surrounded by the white walls of her house watching the soothing water of the fountain playing there and she was thinking of Martin Storm. Once since she had left McCord’s store, she had sent a rider to find out how Mart was recovering and, on learning that he was doing well, she had not sent again. The rider who went, Jesus Utrillo, told her that he had seen the gringo sitting there as large as life in front of the store. He had obeyed her instructions and, having learned that the man was recovering from his wound, had not made it known either to McCord or the stranger the reason for his visit. Jesus, she knew, was a great gossip and the news would be among her people that she had sent to inquire after the gringo. She might strive to keep herself isolated, but she was always naked to the public gaze. She had only herself to blame. She had chosen to come here, to build this place and to take up her position with these people. There had been a niche and she had filled it. She didn’t seem to have much choice in the matter. Which was, she mused, a strange attitude for one who always boasted to herself that she made her own fate.
There came to her Gregorio Nunez. He was a shortish man, dressed in the leather of the cattleman, favoring a horseman’s swagger and the jingling of outsize Chihuahua spurs. He maintained that when a cowman needed his horse to jump, then that horse had better jump or there could be Hell to pay. Besides, he said, large spurs were kinder to a horse. There were men who said that Gregorio was an illiterate horseman who didn’t have the brains to be the right hand of the señorita, but Linda Aragon knew differently. Gregorio was a man of loyalties and that she needed for a place like this. He had organizing ability and fear, while not unknown to him, was not a familiar.
He took off his sombrero now and gave his little bow. In his harsh Spanish, he now detailed the condition of her establishment, as he put it. Like so many men who did not have their letters, his memory seldom failed him. He knew the sheep to the last ewe and the cattle to the last cow. He knew the state of each water-hole and how many Indians had trotted their ponies across her land during the last few days. He knew how many pups the bitch had pupped at Sebastian’s house and who was responsible for putting little Juanita Gomez in the family way. Straight-faced, Linda accused him of the last. Straight-faced, hand on heart, he admitted that she was flattering him, but he had in the service of truth to deny it. She relied on him for her gossip. Manuel Iturbe was beating his wife again and the gringo in the east wing of the house hadn’t stopped drinking since he arrived here. Gregorio didn’t like the gringos in the house and he made no secret of it.
“I will look out for the house, Gregorio,” she said, “and you will watch the range.”
“As you say, señorita,” he said, “but the maids they are frightened. All the time his hand is up their clothes. These gringos despise us. If a man is a man, he chokes on it.”
“Keep your eyes on the range, Gregorio.”
“I try, but it is not easy.”
“The gringo will be gone soon.”
“It cannot be too soon for me.”
“The women do well with the blankets,” she said, “but they will never be up to the standard of the Navahos.”
“Aah,” said Gregorio, “the barbarians. They make a man nervous. There are too many of them and you make them too welcome out of the kindness of your heart.”
“Are you telling me I’m too soft?”
He met those eyes and he lowered his own. His familiarity would be the end of him, he thought.
“No,” he said, “you are not too soft.”
“Very well, Gregorio, all is well. Go back to your duties.”
“And you will speak to the gringo.”
“I promise.”
He gave her a thousand thanks, he bowed and he retired, clanking his spurs, dragged his heels through the house, smacked Serafina, the housekeeper, on her fat backside and reached his horse. As he stepped into the saddle, he thought: “By God, it is time the señorita found herself a man. God make it one of our own people. I could not tolerate an accursed gringo in the saddle here.”
Linda Aragon set her thin face hard and walked to the far end of the house. She entered the cool shade of it and mounted the stairs in front of her. Halfway up, she met a middle-aged Mexican woman hurrying down. She saw fright on the woman’s face and heard the muffled scream in the same moment.
“Ah, señorita,” the woman cried, “I was coming for you. Such things I have never seen. By God, I say …”
“Get out of the way, Manuela.”
“It is the gringo. I must fetch Gregorio.”
“You will fetch no one. When I cannot handle a gringo, the world will end.”
She brushed past the woman and reached the top of the stairs, not hurrying. Her eyes glittered, hard and bright as a reptile’s. Turning right at the head of the stairs, she was faced by two doors. Heavy oak, constructed by slave-labor long ago when the Spaniards ruled the land. She opened the second and stepped into the room beyond. The stench of whiskey and human sweat struck her nostrils. She recoiled before it. But she didn’t recoil from the man on the bed. He didn’t hear her enter, but the girl under him saw her with wide eyes. Whether the girl was willing or not, Linda never knew. Nor cared. No gringo was going to sire the children of her people in this way.
She crossed the room in three strides, caught him by the collar and heaved him off the bed. He hit the floor on his back and glared up at her in shock and fury. When he saw who had handled him, his expression changed. He was still mad, but there had taken place some modification in his anger.
“Jesus Christ, Linda,” he said softly.
In Spanish, Linda said to the girl: “Go.”
The girl obeyed wordlessly, pulling down her wide skirts and going from the room with lowered head. She knew better than to speak now.
The man climbed to his feet.
He was a good-looking fellow in his middle twenties, but living had played Hell with him. It had somehow washed out the firmness from the lines of his face. Once, long ago, his nose had been broken. And once, not so long ago, he had received a knife slash down the side of his face. If Aragon was a woman and conscious of the maleness of him, she did not show it. Neither did she show if he inspired any physical fear in her. She had ruled here too long. She was known and there wasn’t a man in the country who would dare to touch her unless she willed it. Her face was cold and her eyes were arrogant.
“Brydon,” she said, “you have outstayed your welcome here. Tomorrow at dawn, you will ride.”
He might not have heard her.
He hitched his pants with one hand and wiped his mouth with the back of the other.
“You didn’t ought to of done that,” he said.
“I gave you shelter here,” she said, “and you have abused my hospitality. Never come here again.”
He laughed. The laugh was a little shaky, but there was enough derision in it to goad her.
“Christ, Aragon,” he said, “she wasn’t nothin’ but a little Mex piece. They love it. You know they love it. An’ little ole Brydon’s the one to give it ’em.”
“You came here with a bullet in you,” she said. “You came like the whipped cur you are. You’re alive because I took you in. You’d best watch your tongue or I’ll wish I’d let you die.”
“Don’t talk that way, honey,” he said. “You know you don’t mean it. Why, I know an’ ever’ man on the owl-hoot knows the way you feel about us’ns. You’re a good sort. I admire you. You’re one fine woman. Only trouble with you is you fancies you’re a goddam queen or somethin’. But you ain’t no queen, Aragon. You’re a woman like the rest. You need a man, girl. You need one real bad. That’d cure that nasty temper of yourn. All you need—one good man. An’ by God if I ain’t the one.”
“You’re drunk.”
“So I’m drunk. You think the drink gelded me or somethin’.”
His right hand, the fast gun-hand, shot out and gripped her thin wrist. She resisted him and knew it was useless. It came to her that she might scream, but the thought of calling for help was foreign to her nature. He pulled her towards him.
“You fool,” she said, “you could get yourself killed for this.”
He laughed again and the laugh was excited now.
“You won’t want to kill me after I’m through, sweetheart,” he said. “You’ll want to keep me on ice.”
His left arm went around her waist and she was pulled against him. The reek of him hit her and she almost gagged. The scream rose in her. His left hand was around her buttocks, holding her hard against his loins.
“You feel good,” he said. “Jesus, but you feel good.”
She tried to strike him in the face, but his reaction was like lightning. He spun her toward the bed and she fell over it. He was after her like a pouncing cougar.
Even as he landed on her, he heard the voice—
“I think we will stop there, gringo.”
He rolled over on one side and stared at the doorway, glaring through the hair that fell over his eyes. He knew real fear as he looked into the black eye of Gregorio’s gun. Even as he looked that brown gnarled thumb drew back the hammer.
“For crissake,” he said. “For crissake, man.”
The Mexican stood silently, watching him. Slowly, he rose to his feet. All evidence of his manhood was gone. He knew he was very near death.
Linda Aragon stood up and rearranged her clothes. Womanlike she automatically tidied her dark hair. She was shaking and she hated the fact that both men could see she was. When she spoke, her voice trembled very slightly.
In Spanish, she said: “You will find him a horse, Gregorio. Not a very good horse and take him a day’s ride south. A little money and some food. If he comes back you will make sure that I do not see him. You understand?”
The Mexican nodded.
“I understand, but I do not approve. The carrion should die.”
“You are probably right, but, nevertheless, you will do as I say.”
In his bad English, Gregorio said: “Walk ahead of me, gringo. Walk carefully like you are walking on glass. The lady say you can live, but me, I want excuse to kill you.”
Brydon went to say something, but he thought better of it. He shrugged and went to pick his gun up from the bureau.
Gregorio said: “Not the gun.”
“I can’t travel without a gun in this country.”
“You are wrong. That is what you will do.”
The man looked shaken. Without looking at the woman, he walked out of the room and down the stairs. Gregorio went after him. It was only then that Linda realized that Gregorio had taken off his spurs. She left the room and walked along the passageway to her own room. This was a long low spacious place in which she spent most of her idle time. Nobody came here but her own servant, the housekeeper and sometimes when he reported to her, Gregorio. It was simply, almost sparsely furnished in the old Spanish tradition, the walls whitewashed, the floors covered with Navaho rugs.
She sat on her bed, deep in thought, knowing that she was on the edge of tears and hating herself for it. She knew also that the tears belonged only to rage. She should have had that two-bit badman whipped.
After a while, she pulled herself together, rose and poured water from a pitcher into a bowl. She felt unclean and must wash.
She heard the cry of the watchman on the tower. Somebody down in the patio called up to him and he replied, but she could not catch the words. The man on the tower had a view of the whole valley.
She went to the window overlooking the patio and saw Serafina down below.
“What did he say, Serafina?” she asked.
“He says there is a rider coming, little one. A gringo.”
Oh no, the woman thought, not another one.
Gregorio came into the patio.
“Why are you still here, hombre?” Linda demanded. “I told you to go with Brydon.”
“I decided against it, Señorita. You need me here.”
“I gave you an order and I …”
“I was willing to incur your disfavor. And I did right as you will soon see.”
“What does that mean?”
“This gringo who approaches,” he said, “it is the one who lay wounded at the doctor’s house.”
She turned away abruptly from the window. She did not want them to see her face.
She was shaking again. Why did he have to come here? She put a hand to her face and found it burning. She was a fool. She was past all that. This man was just another rider. He had roused pity in her and nothing more. She bathed her face in the cool water and found herself at her mirror combing her hair. She saw she wore her riding clothes. Was he to see her in nothing but these? Then she pulled herself up. He was just another man, following his appetite. They were all the same. She went to her desk and opened her account book. She must treat him the same as the others. He was no different. But she didn’t see the figures on the page and she was waiting for the tap on her door.
An eternity seemed to tick slowly by.
When the tap on the door came and Serafina entered, she spun around in her chair and said sharply, “What is it?”
The woman was smiling.
“This gringo ...” She giggled. “This gringo ... por Dios, little one, I never saw one such before. His Spanish, it has a so much elegance ... were it not for other things, I would think him a true Christian.”
“You will give him a room, Serafina,” Linda said. “Pull yourself together, woman. Have you never spoken to a gringo before?”
“Not such as this, I swear. I feel ten, twenty years younger.” She gained a grip on herself and said: “No, my darling, you do not understand. He is not one of those. Praise God, he is not one of those. I have had enough of those to last me until I am with the angels.”
“By God,” said Linda fiercely, “if you do not stop this nonsense, you will be with the angels quicker than you think.”
“This is the gringo whose life you saved, little one. He is asking for you.”
“Then he will wait. I am busy now as you can see.”
“Oh, he will wait. Never fear. He is talking to Gregorio just as if they were old friends and he is flirting with Juanita. My love, it is an outrage the way that man flirts.”
“Enough, woman. Stop your prattling and go about your work.”
Serafina looked astonished.
“Work, sweetheart? Do you not remember? I am the housekeeper. It is not for me to do the work. Blood of Christ, I wish I were twenty years younger.”
“Serafina!”
The housekeeper chuckled fatly and disappeared.
Linda stared at her account book and in English said a loud and emphatic: “Damn it to Hell.”
Serafina said, with a coyness that cloyed, “You are angry. That shows that you are interested in this man...”
Linda stood up.
“You seem to think that your position is privileged, woman,” she said. “One more word and you will see just how much you are mistaken, Never forget that you could find yourself cooking for the riders or caring for that no-good husband of yours.”
The fat woman stood there, the look on her face that of a woman who has inadvertently walked into a trap. Her eyes were frightened and her fat shook a little.
“Serafina’s little joke, señorita,” she said.
“Serafina didn’t make a little joke, my fat one,” Linda retorted. “She just made a big mistake. Go now as fast as your fat legs can carry you and find some other work for your mischievous mind.”
“I go,” the housekeeper cried. “With all haste, gracious lady. Anything you say, darling señorita.”
She heaved herself around and padded away.
Linda was shaking. That fat fool of a woman. The eyes of the whole estate would be on her and this damned gringo. She knew how the woman talked. By God ...
But she must see him. She would take the leer from his lips and chill the heat of his heart. She would go down to him and put paid to him now. But when she reached the door, she looked down at herself and knew that she didn’t want to be seen in this heavy riding skirt, these boots. She would make little impression on him looking like a tender of cattle and a rider of horses. She would show him the grand lady side of her and the grand manner that went with it.
Hastily, she turned to her closet and ran her eye over her dresses, dismissing the pink as too young, the black as too old, the white as too dramatic, the green as too harsh. Her eyes fell on the blue, the finest silk—elegant, subdued, yet an astonishing color, halfway between a green and a blue. She slipped out of her riding clothes and put the dress on, surveyed herself in the mirror and saw to her pleasure that it made something of her small breasts and a lot of her waist and hips. It clung to her lean thighs and whirled out from the knees, Mexican fashion. She reached for a velvet ribbon and latched it around her long column of a throat. The face above it, lit by her large dark eyes would command any man. She looked every inch the woman who could own this place and command the men and women on it. Quickly, she adjusted her dark hair and took a last look at herself. She knew that she would see the man with her confidence strong. She took her ivory fan and went down the stairs.
At the foot, Gregorio waited. His eyes showed that he was aware of her as a woman; they showed that he knew she had changed for this gringo, but he was too wise to say anything.
“Where is the American?” she asked.
“He is in the patio, señorita.”
“Show him into the salon. And Gregorio …”
“Yes, señorita?”
“You will announce him. Properly—with a flourish.”
For a second he looked indignant. It was not his place in life to announce visitors like a lackey. But then he smiled and said: “I will do it so that it is a thing of beauty.”
She turned into the cool half-light of the salon and walked to the far end of it and stood by the fireplace. Here hung the portraits of the dons of old, haughty and cold-faced Spaniards every one. The walls were hung with pikes and cross-bows, Indian carvings, some banner of old Spain, tattered and faded yet somehow proclaiming its pride. The gringo would be suitably awed by it all.
A moment later, she heard them coming. Their spurs crashed and, damn them, they were laughing together as only men could. Her confidence drained from her and she stood cold, alone and frightened.
The door swung open. Gregorio entered, erect, puffed up with the pride of a top-ranking minion.
“El Señor Don Martin Storm,” announced loud enough for a hall full of several hundred people. The fool, she thought. He was standing aside, bowing. Perhaps this would throw the gringo off his stride.
But no, if it had any effect on the gringo at all, he didn’t show it. He entered, except for the sound of his spurs, with a quietness and dignity that could have belonged to a man long-accustomed to such places and such entrances. He looked around for her, Gregorio gestured with one hand, Martin Storm turned, found her, registered no reaction whatever and came toward her without hurry.
She saw that, out of courtesy to her, he had removed his gun outside. He was unsmiling, calm, almost stern. When he halted several paces from her, he gave her a slight but most polite bow. He could, she thought, have been one of those haughty Spaniards on the wall condescending from his height. Her temper rose a little, both at herself and him.
When he spoke, the gringo used English.
“Ma’am,” he said, “I take it very kindly, you receivin’ me this way.”
“Surely the least I could do after your riding so many hot miles.”
“I came, ma’am, to thank you—it isn’t every day that a man has his life saved, still less often is it his good fortune to be saved by so gracious and beautiful a lady.”
She thought: The sonvabitch is laughing at me.
He thought: You want to play this game, gal—I’ll play it till your hair turns gray.
“Any other woman in my position would have done it for anybody, sir.”
“Ah, but when, ma’am, would a lady on her lonesome have had the courage to rescue a sorely wounded man and a stranger in such wild country? I insist, ma’am, that I owe you a debt that can never be repaid.”
“I could have done no less.”
“Ah, I refer now, not to your rescuing me, but for introducing to me a lady of such charm and beauty.”
He was going too far. He’ll get nowhere smarming over me this way.
“I can only surmise, sir, that your recent suffering has caused you to suffer from light-headedness.”
He came back quickly with: “I assure you, ma’am, that if I was in the supremest health I would have become light-headed at the sight that is now before my eyes.”
This was taking Texas gallantry too far. She looked toward the door and found Gregorio still standing there.
“Did you want something, man?” she demanded.
“I was waiting, señorita, to conduct the señor to his horse.”
“It would perhaps be more courteous to offer our guest some refreshment. You will perhaps take a little wine with me, sir?”
“Purely delighted, ma’am.”
Gregorio made a preposterous bow. She swore she would bring him down to size later. He clanked away through the house.
“Please be seated,” she said coldly, and gestured to a chair. He chose an elegant chaise-longue covered in gold brocade so that they could sit together, so she sat in a chair on the far side of the fireplace. She inspected him. He had the drawn peaked look of a man who has recovered from a serious wound; his clothes were worn and, though he had attempted to beat the dust from them before entering, he still bore traces of the trail on them. He was not, she considered, a handsome man in any sense of the term, but there was about him a self-contained air, a way he had of carrying himself, a look about him of having seen the world and all manner of men, that sat well with a woman. She reckoned that he was nearer forty than thirty and had no doubt sampled the women of the frontier towns to the full. There was too a complete awareness about him, as if he missed nothing and never failed to carefully weigh the situation he was in. She knew from the night when she had first seen him that he was a man of some physical hardihood. In the language of the men who sought sanctuary in her house, he was tough and he had grit. Which was what a man in this country needed.
As for him, he saw a woman who at once sparked his imagination. She was original and he liked originality. He was a man who liked to taste experience and the newer the experience, the better. Till now, he had known what were termed good women and those who were termed bad. As for himself, he never judged women by what other men thought of them. He liked to make up his own mind. He got along with both kinds fine. In fact, Mart got along with women. They saw there was enough danger in him and enough trustworthiness in him to make him both interesting and somehow comforting. What more could a woman ask for? Women, kids, horses and dogs felt the same way. Maybe, it was because they respected him. Men felt somewhat differently about him. That was because he possessed a gun and upon occasion it could be turned, cocked, in their direction. Now this Linda Aragon presented something of a challenge and Mart Storm hadn’t been really stretched to the limit of his capacity with a woman for many a long year. He knew instinctively that she was neither a toy nor just a pretty face. In fact, she wasn’t pretty at all. However, there was no getting away with the fact that she was one Hell of a woman. Her little finger could mean more to a man like him than the whole of any other woman. That was because she had to be met on equal terms. Which was unusual in that day and age. The West was a good land for men and horses, but it was sure Hell on women. Except this one. She had mastered it. She had created civilization here in this valley.
In short, Mart Storm, erstwhile gunfighter, gambler, cattleman and outlaw was caught, hooked, trapped and was, to all intents and purposes, getting around to the time when he would meet his maybe justly earned comeuppance.
And maybe he didn’t mind too much that all these things were happening to him or about to happen. Just so long as they happened to him on his own terms.
As for the lady—her pulse was high, her breathing a giveaway and her emotions all shot to Hell. So her face remained cold and she sought what refuge she could from the fate which she was trying hard to convince herself she had no wish to suffer.
No, she told herself, this was no good. This fellow was a saddle bum who had a way with him. No more.
Mart looked her over two or ten times and told himself that this was one of those hard to get women and she could play other men for suckers, but not him. No, sir. Martin Storm had his wits about him.
The wine came, brought in on a silver tray by a plump, smiling and nubile girl of around eighteen with the eyes of a wanton, the figure of an Arabian houri, bare feet and the carriage of a princess. Mart, being Mart, could not keep the appreciation of so much pulchritude from his eyes. Which Aragon did not miss. Neither did the girl herself, for, after placing the wine on a small table, she offered Mart a smile so full of promise before she left that that susceptible fellow promised himself that if the mistress proved inaccessible, by God, he’d have the maid. Which showed that he was a man who didn’t like to agonize in his own defeat, if nothing else.
He poured wine for the two of them, their ringers touched as he handed her a glass and they drank.
Mart’s toast was as gallant as his previous words.
Looking into her dark eyes, he raised his glass and said: “To the happy bullet that brought such a beautiful woman into my life.”
She didn’t reply, but downed her wine like a trooper (or like a woman who needed a drink) and slammed down her glass so hard on the table that she nearly shattered it.
She looked at him long and hard.
Finally she said: “All right, Storm, we’ve had the smooth talk. Now let’s get down to cases.”
Mart raised his eyebrows and laughed. He liked her shock tactics. First the entrance she had made for him, then the picture of her like a grand lady in her salon looking desirable in her fine dress, now this.
“That’s great,” he cried. “I like that. What cases did you want to get down to, Aragon?”
“First, you.”
“What about me?”
“Why did you get yourself shot?”
“Crazy question,” he said. “Ask the feller that did it.”
“I don’t know who did it.”
“Neither do I, girl. I come on them in the dark and they just cut down on me, put one slug through my guts and creased me with the other. I didn’t fix it just so’s I could meet you, you know. Though it would of been worth it.”
“You can cut out that kind of talk. I don’t have too much patience with insincerity.”
He tossed off his wine. It was heavy and strong. It hit him smooth and hard. He stood up, took three paces and looked “Aragon,” he said, “let’s quit foolin’ around. Life’s too durned short for that. I think you’re the most woman I ever saw in my life. You don’t find me repulsive.”
Maybe she looked startled, maybe she looked just mad.
“The conversation’s gone the wrong way,” she said, craning back her head so she could look up at him. He didn’t know whether to look at her thrusting breasts or her wonderful eyes.
“This ain’t a conversation,” he declared. “This is a man an’ woman talkin’. We ain’t neither of us kids and we know the answers. The minute I set eyes on you, I knew you were the one.”
“The one for what?” she demanded. She liked directness, but this man went to the mark with a speed that left her breathless. Did the brute have no finesse?
“That’s for you to say.”
She wanted him out of her sight. She wanted to think, time to call herself a fool.
“You’re mistaken if you think that when I found you wounded I experienced any such emotion. You were just a man hurt. Nothing more. To read anything more into the situation is ridiculous. You have the imagination of a schoolboy.”
“Girl, what I’m thinkin’ right now don’t have no place in a schoolboy’s head.”
“I think I shall send for Gregorio and have you shown off my land.”
He looked at her for a moment, wooden-faced.
“All right,” he said. “I’ll go.”
He turned abruptly and headed for the door.
With his hand on the knob, he turned.
“There’s just one thing before I go,” he said.
“What’s that?”
“Who are the men you have here in the house?”