CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Townes Pierce handed Johnny Teague a cup of coffee and said, “You got to get over it, boss. What’s done is done and there’s no going back to change it.”
Teague said, “Five men, Townes. Five of the best. Tom Racker, Fulton Smith . . . the others. We’re done. Finished. The hoedown is over.”
The night was dark, silent, brooding, as though the desert was lifeless.
“You got four of us left, boss,” Pierce said. “You got me, Dave Quarrels, Slim Porter and the breed. It’s enough.”
“Enough for what?” Teague said, the black dog of depression ravaging him. “Townes, you got no right to say it’s enough.”
“Frank and Jesse did some of their best work with four,” Pierce said.
“How do you know that?” Teague said.
Pierce lowered his head and didn’t answer.
Juan Sanchez had been listening, and he stepped away from the fire. “Johnny, including you, there’s five of us, enough to take the gold mine.”
“Sure enough,” Dave Quarrels said. “Hell, I heard of mines where a feller could just walk into the shaft an’ pick nuggets up off the ground. I heard that plenty of times.”
Teague raised lusterless eyes to Sanchez. “You still sure the stage with the Talbot woman was headed for the Cornudas?”
“Yeah, damned sure,” Sanchez said.
Teague thought that through for a spell and then said, “Well, maybe we’ll head out that way.”
“We got to do something, boss,” Pierce said. “We need to get some money and leave this desert.”
“Is there any alternative?” Teague said. “If we don’t go for the mine, what else can we do?”
“Nothing,” Sanchez said. “Except split up and go our separate ways.”
“We could rob a bank,” Dave Quarrels said. “Plenty of fat banks in El Paso. I say we rob a bank and then skip over the border into Old Mexico.”
“We’re already all shot to pieces,” Teague said. “You really want to rob a bank in a town with some tough lawmen? Remember what happened to Jesse and Frank and them in Northfield? No, robbing banks is out as far as I’m concerned. At least for the time being.”
Quarrels looked contrite. “Well, all right then, maybe a bank in some other town . . . a small town, huh?”
“Dave, don’t say the word ‘bank’ again or I’ll shoot you dead,” Teague said.
“And if you ain’t dead, I’ll make sure of it,” Sanchez said.
“Well, if somebody makes a decision soon I’ll go along with it,” Pierce said.
“Me too,” Slim Porter said. He was a tall, round-shouldered man with a pleasant, open face. Later Dave Quarrels would say of him that Slim was the best of a bad bunch, fast and deadly with a gun but much given to reading the Bible he kept in his saddlebags. And he’d had a good mother.
Teague stared over his coffee cup into darkness, seeing nothing as a night bird made a trilling sound. The breeze had a cool edge and made the campfire flames dance.
After a while, he looked up at Sanchez and said, “I’m taking your word for it. We’ll head for the Cornudas and claim ourselves a gold mine. We ride out at first light.”
“Johnny, melancholy comes to a man that sees no future for himself,” Sanchez said. “Now you got a future, it’s time to throw off the woebegone, I think.”
“What’s in my future, Sanchez?” Teague said. “You got a crystal ball?”
“Striking it rich, by golly,” Quarrels said.
Sanchez nodded. “Like the man says.”
“We may have to kill to get it,” Teague said.
“We’ve all killed before,” Sanchez said.
Teague smiled. “Gets easier, don’t it? You kill a man. Time goes along, and you kill another and pretty soon you don’t feel it anymore.”
“Yeah, the more you kill, the easier it gets,” Sanchez said. “It’s a natural law.”
“An’ it’s also a natural fact,” Quarrels said, grinning.
* * *
Crystal Casey and Daphne Loveshade had been deep in whispered conversation, and they stepped to where the men were gathered around Johnny Teague.
“Ahem, gentlemen,” Crystal said. “Listen up. Daphne has an announcement to make, something she wants to tell us. Speak now, Daphne. Don’t be shy.”
The girl smiled . . . shyly . . . and said, “As you know, I’ve left my husband and now wish to make a new life for myself. Since I’m very young and not used to the ways of the world, I’ve been talking things over with Crystal, and she’s given me valuable advice on my future profession.”
Five men, all of them hardcases, stared at Daphne in puzzlement, wondering where all this was headed.
“My decision was not an easy one to make, but with Crystal’s encouragement I’ve finally decided on the forthcoming course of my life,” the girl said. In the dull, rose glow of the firelight she was thin, painfully shy, and painfully plain.
“So, what’s your decision, girlie?” Dave Quarrels said, a known mankiller but the most affable male present. He smiled. “We’re all waiting to hear.”
“I have decided”—she swallowed hard—“to change my name to Daphne Dumont. That’s French, you know.”
“Now tell them the most important part,” Crystal said. “Speak up, loud and clear.”
“Oh yes,” Daphne said. “And I’ve decided to become a prostitute.”
Surprised as they were, the laughter of the men was a little slow in coming, but then it arrived with a gale-force gust of guffaws. Johnny Teague forgot his depression and even slapped his thigh in delight.
Tears in his eyes, he gasped his laughter. “Good luck with that, Daphne Dumont. I’m sure . . . oh, God help me . . . I’m sure . . .” He ended in a breathless rush, “I’m sure you’ll get plenty of customers.”
According to newsman A. B. Boyd, Dave Quarrels told him that he didn’t laugh, out of regard for the girl’s feelings. In fact, he rolled around on the ground, clutching a knee, tears streaming down his cheeks as his ringing peals of merriment threatened to cut off his breathing. Slim Porter laughed, and even the dour Juan Sanchez managed a grin.
But the newly minted Daphne Dumont was not amused, and neither was Crystal Casey.
“What are you men laughing at?” she said. “Daphne’s got the right to be a whore if she wants to. She’ll prosper in the profession, I can tell you that.”
“Sure, she will,” Teague said. “Just so long as a man ain’t too fussy.”
At that Daphne showed some spunk. Leaning forward, her hands on her hips she said, “Well I can tell you this, Mr. Johnny Teague, you’ll never get a taste. And for your information, Preacher Loveshade never complained about our time in bed.”
“No, I guess he didn’t,” Teague said, blinking away tears.
“Then I guess he wasn’t fussy,” Dave Quarrels said.
“Then I guess I’d make a bad preacher,” Porter said.
And the men laughed again.
“Come on over to the fire, Daphne,” Crystal said. “We won’t get a lick of sense out of those jackasses tonight.”
Both women turned on their heels and flounced away.
* * *
Fifty miles north of Johnny Teague’s camp as the crow flies, Luna Talbot hid in the brush and shivered in the evening cool. Rain clouds covered the moon, and she was grateful for the darkness. The Rathmores made a search after she shot Elijah but finding a slender woman in a wilderness of brush and cactus was like looking for a needle in a haystack, and Papa Mace called off the search when the day shaded into night.
Luna was sure Red Ryan, Buttons Muldoon, and Arman Broussard were already dead, and that grieved her. She’d liked all three of the men, and she admitted to herself that she was attracted to the Cajun gambler and his gentlemanly ways. The woman hugged her knees and planned her next move . . . though the choices were limited. She could head south toward her ranch or . . . or . . . There was no other option. She’d foot it south and the rising sun would give her direction. Luna considered her chances of making it to the ranch, and they were slim. She’d be at least two days on the trail, maybe three, under a burning sun and without water. Walking at night and resting up during the day was a possibility, but the desert was treacherous, more so in the dark, and her chances of survival would not improve any.
Her head on her knees, Luna Talbot came to a decision. She’d start walking south at first light . . .
“And God help me,” she whispered.