Twenty-eight

 

The grazing range south of Bisbee was where Ease Bixler drove them that May afternoon, to a miners’ shack halfway the eight miles to Mexico atop a little hill. Ease let his passengers and supplies off at the old shack and then drove the empty wagon up the little hill to a water tank with a wooden windmill next to it, where he unhooked the mules but left them in harness so the animals could refresh themselves but not run off easily.

Gillom was pouring his pal his first beer from a lunchpail as Ease hiked down from the windmill.

“How was business last night at the Red Light, girls?” Ease asked.

“Exhausting,” groaned Jean. She passed her friend a plate of fried chicken as Ease helped himself to some of her potato salad and honey biscuits.

“The miners have come down with spring fever, the way they were trying to stomp my toes last night.”

“I agree so, yes,” said Miss Romero.

Gillom didn’t look at her directly. “Did Luther Goose and his buddy come in?”

“I not see him.”

Ease uncorked the bottle with his pocket knife and poured the ladies wine. “This white sparkler may be a trifle sweet, but it’s refreshing on a warm day.”

The older courtesan toasted the group with her wineglass. “To fun and friends in the merry month of May.”

“I’ll drink to that,” smirked Ease. They all drank deeply and tucked into their lunch.

Miss Jean changed the subject. “Anybody here ever ridden a bicycle?”

Gillom burped his beer and didn’t excuse himself. Anel giggled. “I have not ride, how you say, these bi-cycles. But I like to.”

“Don’t you gals have to wear bloomers to get on a bicycle?” asked Ease through a mouthful of chicken.

“We had some gals riding bicycles Sundays in El Paso in their bloomers,” offered Gillom. “A couple of our pastors said they’d disgraced themselves.”

Red Jean’s cheeks flared, to match her hair. “The Women’s Club would say the same if we tried it in Bisbee.” Freckled hands fluttered in front of her face for emphasis. “Loose women, riding around town in their underwear. Shame and disgrace!”

“I dunno, those society ladies try to do some good, improve our foul air, put in more water fountains and horse troughs downtown, built a playground for kids,” mused Mr. Bixler.

“Their good works are fine,” snapped his girlfriend, “but those bluenoses are tryin’ to run us giddy girls out of the saloons, even if all we’re doin’ is dancin’ with a bunch of lonely miners. If they get the town incorporated, Ease, and pass a bunch of blue laws, it’s going to cut into your business, too, deep.”

“I know, darlin’.” Ease winked at Anel. “Gotta keep an owl eye on those snotty old ladies stalkin’ around in the dark, watchin’ us.”

Anel frowned. “You think is possible, they shut the Red Light?”

“Sure they could.” Jean nodded with a toss of her signature hair. She swallowed more wine. “They’ll get their husbands to vote to outlaw us darlings of the demimonde, as the newspapermen mockingly call us, and run us outta the dance halls. The cribs and parlor houses would be shut next. Then Bisbee’s big party is over, boys.”

“What would we do?” The Latina was suddenly concerned.

“What us painted cats have always done, girl. Get on the train or stage to the next Western boomtown, one that has fewer matrons to get prissy with the entertainment.”

“Where is that?”

“Oh, in these parts, Clifton maybe. It’s another copper bonanza a ways north, more isolated than Bisbee. But I wouldn’t work up there for Luther Goose and his gang. Heard bad tales.”

Their distress floated right over Gillom’s head. The afternoon was warm, the slight breeze soothing, and after a tasty lunch and a bellyful of beer, Gillom Rogers was drifting. His eyelids fluttered beneath the crease of his silverbelly Stetson. When the rattle on his snakeskin hatband began to vibrate with his breathing, the others noticed he was taking a little siesta.

Even Jean smiled when Anel giggled again at Gillom’s light snoring. A finger to his lips, Ease got to his knees, leaned down to his pal’s ear. “Holy smokes! Look out!”

Gillom jerked up, eyes popping open as both hands instinctively sought his guns, which weren’t there. He’d taken his gunbelt off to better enjoy his repast. His friends shared a laugh at his expense.

“This is just so pleasant.” He smiled, embarrassed.

“Give us a show with those pistolas, Gillom, boy. Wake us up!”

Gillom reluctantly agreed to redeem himself. He found his feet as he strapped his gun belt back on. Stepping away from them, off the blankets, he planted his boots. He shifted the double rig on his hips. He began slowly, pulling one six-gun, then both, spinning them on each index finger, forward and backward, returning them to their holsters.

“Show us how fast you surprised that bandido tried to rob us next to the Red Light.”

The matched revolvers almost jumped into Gillom Rogers’s hands, so fast was his draw. Then came the tricks, spinning the guns in the air and catching them by their handles, one of black gutta-percha, one of pearl. Pinwheeling them crossing in the air, so that the butts dropped naturally into the palms of his hands. Over-the-shoulder spins, from behind, dazzled his small audience. Maybe it was the beer, or his brief nap, but he was relaxed and didn’t miss any moves or drop one of his pistols.

Ease’s mouth was open, and all three applauded as he slid his Remingtons back home.

“Jesus, Gillom. Never saw those tricks before.”

“Well.” Young Rogers wiped sweat off his palms on his jeans. “I been practicin’.”

“May I shoot one?” It was Jean again, reasserting her venturesome self. Gillom turned, looking about the empty terrain, then down at his friend.

“I guess. Nobody else around here to hit.”

“Besides us chickens,” said Ease, sitting up. He lit one of his cheap cigars, offered more around to the other three, who all turned them down.

“I can not esmoke,” apologized Anel. “Dance too hard.”

Gillom handed a .44 to the oldest among them, whose brown eyes flashed. “Hit the shack. Should slow a bullet.”

Jean lifted the three-pound revolver in her strong hand. The muscles of her forearm strained as she hefted it, squinted, cocked, and blasted a jagged hole in one of the thin wallboards of the old shack.

“Easy pull on the trigger.”

With another toss of her red hair, Jean followed his instructions—taking her stance, cocking the big pistol, and easing the trigger. More splinters flew.

“Now see if you can put one through that knothole.” The teacher pointed. The calico queen blasted away and whooped with delight when one of her shots clipped the knothole’s inside edge. She handed the empty weapon back to Gillom with a smile as big as her daring.

“I try, too?” asked Anel.

Gillom swallowed. “Sure.” He showed off by pulling his left-handed pistol and quickly reversing it in a road agent’s spin to hand over butt first. More grins from the girls at this little trick. Ease was on his feet now as well, shading his eyes to search the distance, seeing if anyone in the vicinity was bothered by their gunfire. But he missed the flash of light off a glass lens in the small grove of trees about a mile distant, back toward town.

Anel tried the other Remington, first gripping it in both her smaller hands to steady its wobble. The recoil and concussion jolted the smaller woman, sending her first shot up into the air. Gillom and Ease ducked.

“That’s okay. Now steady your aim, catch your breath, let a little air out, cock it and squeeze that trigger.”

At least she hit the shack’s side, prompting Gillom’s applause.

“Good! Now pepper that knothole.” Anel did, cocking and firing the revolver and gradually hitting closer to her target, while Gillom reloaded his first pistol.

“That is fun.” She handed back the empty revolver. “Heavy. Tired, mi arm.”

“So let’s see you hit somethin’, Mister fast gun.” Always the redhead.

Gillom stopped smiling. After a moment, he nodded and moved to Ease.

“Stand sideways to the shack and don’t move.”

Ease Bixler froze. “Oh boy…”

Gillom walked backward five long paces. “I’ll aim for the tip of the cigar, not your nose.”

Ease removed his derby hat, placed it carefully on a blanket, and inhaled the slender Mexican cigar between his lips. He exhaled nervous smoke. “Wish I’d made out a will.”

“Don’t stick your chin out, pardner, or I might make it cleft.”

Ease struck his pose and the lit cigarillo bobbled as he talked. “No fast draw now.”

“Quiet. You requested a performance.” The Remington was in his outstretched right hand as Gillom closed his left eye, paused, and fired. The lit cigar half flew up in the air. The girls cheered and clapped.

His pal let out a deep breath. “Damn. Ruint a good cigar.”

“Stand against that ol’ shack and I’ll paint your portrait.”

“Not me, pard. Already run through today’s luck.”

Ease plunked down next to his girlfriend, who tousled his shock of red hair playfully. Gillom pointed his pistol at Red Jean, inquiring?

“No thank you, sir. I’ve seen your crack shooting, but I’m nobody’s target practice.”

“I try eet.” Anel’s offer surprised them.

“Okay. Just stand there, back against those boards, and be very still.”

Gillom replaced another cartridge in his pearl-handled revolver. The young Latina stood up and walked resolutely to place her spine against the weathered boards, gritted her teeth, and squinted her eyes closed. Gillom gave no warning as his first shot splintered wood about six inches from her right elbow.

Anel flinched, but no splinters struck her and she didn’t jerk away. Four more shots banged out in fairly close succession, moving up her arm, over the curve of her right shoulder, alongside her rounded, light brown face.

He reholstered his empty weapon, pulled the left-hand gun with the black handle, began reloading.

Ease was consternated. “Gillom, enough. You’ve proved your skills today.”

“This is a portrait in lead we’re all gonna remember.”

Anel Romero opened her eyes to stare at the artist. Beads of sweat had formed, matting black hair on her forehead. Gillom focused on the small dark beauty mark on her left cheek, just below the prim line of her lips. I wonder if that mark is real or makeup? I’d like to lick it to find out.

Anel squinted and gave him a slight nod. The young man fired again, using his right, dominant hand outstretched, to lessen the chance of deadly error. His next shot was a little close, sending a splinter through her long black hair into her left earlobe. She grimaced but didn’t let out a peep of pain, allowing him to continue, placing bullet holes around the curve of her left shoulder and down her other arm. One last shot, in the space between her legs, thigh-high, made her jump.

“Done,” he exhaled.

Anel stepped away from the sidewall, shaking her head and arms slightly to see if all her digits were still attached and not bleeding.

“Outstanding,” said Jean, admiring the bullet-holed vaguely human figure. “Crazy, but outstanding.”

“I wouldn’t have believed that kind of marksmanship,” agreed Ease. “Barroom lies.”

Gillom smiled, loaded three more cartridges from his holster, and then completed the outline with his off hand, adding one hole over the crown of the head, another two a little indented, where her bare neck would have been.

“You’re my silhouette girl, Anel. Brave one, too.” He walked over to playfully buss her lips, lick the spot of blood off her earlobe where the splinter had pierced skin.

“This calls for a toast!” Ease rummaged in his burlap sack and pulled out shot glasses. He pulled the cork from a clear, unlabeled pint bottle with his teeth and poured light yellowish liquid into the little glasses.

“This is what the Mexicans call tequila. Made from the heart of the blue agave. The most refined cactus liquor from Mexico we can get our hands on. Supposed to be good for your health. Three whole dollars a small bottle and it ain’t been watered. Ladies?”

The bartender poured them all shots. Gillom seemed transported, larger than life. He raised his shot glass.

“To our fearless, feisty ladies. Gunslingers and living targets. I’m mighty impressed.”

Anel and Jean blushed at the compliment, raised their glasses, and grimaced as they sipped the fiery liquor.

“This’ll put hair on your nipples, girls!” chortled the bartender.

“Just what I need,” frowned the blousy redhead. Anel was slicing up a couple of Salt River Valley oranges on a plate, which she passed around to sweeten their mouths after the tart liquor. Then Anel, who’d tasted tequila before, pushed her shot glass forward for a refill.

“Por favor. Calm mis nervios.”

“You bet, honey. You earned it.”

Gillom finished reloading the last of his cartridges into his pistols, just in case.

“Do you have any lip paint I can borrow, ladies?”

Jean looked at Gillom quizzically, but dug into her leather purse to pull out a tin of carmine rouge that complemented her flaming hair.

Gillom took the tin and dabbed some on the tip of his finger as he walked to the bullet-holed silhouette on the old miner’s shack, where he smeared two curves of a heart right where his girlfriend’s would be. Anel came up when she saw what he was doing. Gillom took more rouge and printed his first name in red lip paint below the heart, added a plus sign, and handed the tin of lip polish to her.

With a shy smile Anel daubed a fingerful and painted her first name beneath his. Impulsively, they sealed their signatures with a lingering kiss.

“C’mon, loverboy. Help me hitch our matched mules.”

Gillom let Anel’s slender hand slip from his grasp before ambling after his friend.

When the boys returned in the wagon, the girls had packed up the picnic, except for the desserts. All four of them sat in the bed of the rented Jersey wagon under the shade of its leather top, enjoying Anel’s grapes and oatmeal cookies while the young men polished off their pails of warm beer.

“I was reading about Colonel Hooker’s hot springs on his ranch up north around Sierra Bonita, below Mt. Graham,” said Gillom. “Anybody been there?” Headshakes no. “Well, newspaper said the colonel had a gospel minister come visit and this pastor said the hot mineral waters there had healed him. He believed those soothing waters would cure any ailment, even ‘wash away sin.’”

The girls laughed. “Any sin?” inquired Jean.

“I guess so,” said Gillom. “I think we should all plan a trip to Sierra Bonita.”

The ladies helped themselves to the crystalized fruits, lemon slices Jean had bought from the candy store.

“Boy, I could use a healing scrub.”

“Might be a little hot for you, Ease, burning out all that sin,” smiled Red Jean, insincerely.

“Scorch my tailfeathers for sure.” Her friend grinned back.

“Would you go to the hot baths with me, Anel?” asked Gillom.

She smiled fetchingly at her young gunslinger. “Sí. Manana es otro dia.” (“Tomorrow is another day.”)

“Okay then! Spiritual refreshment for all!”

They laughed as Ease slid onto the driver’s seat. He grabbed the reins and clucked to their mule team, a lemon slice stuck between his teeth.

“I was reading, too, girls, that they’ve made a scientific discovery of alfalfa tablets that fatten human beings just like they work on hogs. We should get some of them pills for our next picnic.”

“That’s just what we girls need, Ease, fattening pills. Then you can take us up to Hooker’s hot springs and boil the lard off us just like they render them hogs.”

The mule driver chortled. “Sounds fun to me. A pinch and a squeeze and Ease always aims to please!”

The four were laughing so hard they didn’t notice the horse nearly hidden in the small grove of trees they passed on their slow roll back to Bisbee. William Pascoe pushed back his derby and peeked around a couple entwined tree trunks with his binoculars as the merry wagonful made for home. His boss would want to know exactly who had enjoyed themselves out here this Sunday. After church.