Red Rock

~New Mexico, 1870's~

Chapter 1: A Stranger Rides In

A dead Indian hung from the limb of a cottonwood over a dry creek bed. There was a flurry of large wings as a rider slowly approached, and reddish-colored hawks lifted their engorged bodies sluggishly into the air with a chorus of kreeing sounds and began to circle leisurely overhead.

John Green clicked his tongue softly and the pinto he was riding came to a stop at the edge of the shallow clay bank on the opposite side. It was past June when most stream beds had dried up. He lifted his, wide-brimmed hat from his head and wiped the back of his hand across his sweaty brow. His face was streaked with grime. His blue shirt and tan buckskin pants were covered in a thin coating of alkali from days of trekking up the Jornada del Muerto, a waterless waste of blistering sand and sagebrush.

He wore a holstered pair of Colt .44-40s with the ivory butts pointed forward on two criss-crossed cartridge belts. Hanging from his pommel by a shoulder strap was a leather case. Inside was a Sharps .52 caliber buffalo rifle. The throat of his shirt was open underneath a yellow bandana, and the sleeves were rolled up deeply tanned arms to the elbows. He looked to be a man in his mid-twenties with black, curly hair and piercing blue eyes.

He squinted against the hot glare of the noonday sun and, after a moment, placed the sweat-stained Stetson back on his head.

The Indian, a boy, had been dead some considerable time. The body was bloated with gas. The lower portion, from the hips down, was coal black where the blood had settled. Decay had caused the torso to turn a reddish black. Clots of dried blood hung in black strands from the nostrils. Shit had fallen to the ground beneath, but it had long since dried, and no flies buzzed around it. The eyes were gone from their sockets. The mouth hung open; the tongue was chewed away as well as the lips by the hawks. The cock was missing, too. Either eaten . . . or cut off. Whoever had hanged the boy had mutilated him; the belly had been cut open. The uncoiled gut hung to the ground like a long, withered snake.

Green guessed he had been dead at least twenty-four hours. The rope used to hang the Indian was a Mexican-made maguey, a light string good for calf roping. It had been tossed over the limb of the cottonwood and, after the Indian had been hoisted up, secured around the trunk of the tree. There were many hoof prints in the sandy creek bottom around the boy. Maybe half a dozen riders.

Green wiped his sweaty palms on his thighs and took out a draw-string pouch of tobacco from his shirt pocket and rolled a smoke, lighting it with one of the few remaining matches stuck in the yellow band. He inhaled the smoke deeply smelling sulfur fumes mixed with the faint stench of the Indian. He didn't want to get any closer.

Whoever had hanged the boy wanted his body to be seen, for it was in plain sight of the stage route Green had been following. He nudged his silver spurs gently against the pinto's flanks and continued on across the creek bed avoiding the body by a wide margin; the hooves of the horse clopped on a bed of sandstone near the center. Green knew that the circling hawks would draw attention from far off, and he didn't want to be around when the boy's relatives showed up, for he had, most likely, been killed by whites; the hoof prints he had observed near the body had been those of shod horses.

He moved on off and after awhile came to the top of a rise where stretched out before him was a panorama of red-cliffed mesas and deep canyons interspersed with wide, open plains. Scraggily pinons and other various pines and junipers clung to the nearby slopes, surging up through cracks in the reddish rocks. Prickly pear and sagebrush dotted the landscape. Below on a stretch of open ground, he could see a small cluster of twenty or thirty buildings mostly of adobe. A few of two stories. He looked around at the low outcroppings of rocks on either side of the road. Several hundred feet to his right was a rocky overhang adjacent to a wide-spreading juniper. He guided his horse toward it and dismounted. The tangy odor of the juniper itched his nostrils. Behind the tree, he inspected the outcrop. Near the bottom was a narrow fissure running several feet horizontally and several inches wide vertically. He got down on his hands and knees and peered into it; after a moment, he stood back up and took the leather case holding the Sharps rifle off the saddle and fitted it into the fissure. It went back far enough to be out of sight.

Mounting up once more, he returned to the stage route and headed down the gently sloping rise toward the small cluster of buildings. On the outskirts he passed a cemetery on a hillock and a pine marker leaning into the ground with a panel nailed to the top that read 'RED ROCK'. An Apache arrow was stuck in the post. The sign had several bullet holes in it.

The first building to his left, a barber shop, had a 'closed' sign hanging in the window. In a lot next to it were some hay stacks of grama grass and a corral behind a gabled livery of pine logs. Next to this a general store of adobe, with a doctor's office above, according to the sign over the porch walkway. On the slightly inclined roof sat a man holding a Winchester rifle in his lap. At the bottom of some side stairs that led up to the doctor's office was a buggy with a yellow canvas top. A black medical bag was sitting on the seat. Farther down, another sign on a small adobe building proclaimed it to be the jail.

In front of the general store, two men were loading a buckboard with supplies. Green noticed that both were heavily armed with pistols and knives. On the seat of the buckboard leaned two Winchester rifles. He also noted that the walls of the adobe buildings were pitted with bullet markings. As well as the logs of the livery which were splintered and punched full of holes. A few arrows stuck out just beneath the roof.

To his right, across from the barber shop, was a two story adobe. The 'Loomis Hotel' according to the sign. A vacant lot sat next to it; farther down was a hardware store. All the buildings had small windows and heavy shutters that could be closed in a hurry if need be. Typical of western towns periodically besieged by Indians.

Continuing on he passed another adobe building to his right. A pretty woman with blonde hair braided up in coils on the top of her head was leaning in the doorway observing him without expression, her arms crossed over her breasts, one foot extended out in front of the other on the plank walkway. On the front of the two-storied adobe an arch of black letters stated that it was the 'Red Rock Lantern'. A few buildings farther down was a cantina, also of adobe with bright red shutters on its two front windows, one on each side of the door. A canvas awning overhead held up with poles served as a porch. A drunk, with his wide-brimmed hat pulled down over his eyes, was kicked back in a chair against the wall next to the door sleeping one off.

As he dismounted in front of the livery, a strongly built man with close-cut gray hair beneath the brim of his black fedora stepped out of the alleyway. He was puffing on a curved pipe and pushing a wheelbarrow full of manure. The pitchfork handle stuck out in front like the jib pole of a ship. His shirt was blue and white stripped underneath a dark-gray vest. The sleeves were rolled up, revealing muscular forearms. His trousers were of blue denim.

When he saw Green he sat the wheelbarrow down and tipped his hat back.

"What can I do for you, mister?" he asked, taking the pipe from his mouth and cupping it in the palm of his dark-brown hand.

"Need to put my horse up for a day or two," Green replied.

The liveryman's narrow eyes sized him up, glancing at the makeshift rope hackamore on the pinto.

"Indian pony, huh." He lowered his eyes. "Not shod."

Green nodded. "Couple of bucks jumped me a few days back." He spoke slowly, softly, meeting the man gaze. "Killed my horse. I caught this one . . . afterwards; the other spooked and got away."

"Un, huh," the liveryman said, He glanced at the ivory handled Colts on Green's hips. He didn't feel a need to ask what happened to the two Indians. The eyes of the stranger were cool and watchful like a rattler before it strikes.

"Probably some of Gray Wolf's renegades," the liveryman said. "They've been hitting us pretty hard lately. Last stage through was two weeks ago. Indians killed a passenger and the guard. Hasn't been one since."

Green nodded slightly.

Pocketing his pipe the liveryman stepped off to the side of the pinto and cupped it's muzzle in his hand. The horse didn't shy off. He stuck his finger in the side of it's mouth and pushed up the lip to examine its teeth.

"About four years old," he said. "Tall for a paint, a ripper, good sixteen hands." He patted it shoulder. "Good slope but not too much. Good cow pony; large chest, healthy lungs and a big heart; holds his legs nice and straight under him; he'll be clear-footed. Got a short back, won't ride as comfortably as the long back, but he'll be stronger and quicker. Firm looking hooves, no cracks." He glanced at Green. "Probably need to shoe him if you plan on doing much riding. Lots of rough ground around here."

He straightened and took his pipe back out of his vest pocket. "I'd say the Indians did you a favor with that'un."

"Could've been worse," Green replied. "Got a blacksmith in town?"

"You're lookin' at'm." "OK. How soon?"

"Won't take long. I'll put him in the paddock, let him cool off some, and have at it as soon as I finish loading that wagon." He nodded toward a nearby work wagon. "Won't take more than an hour." Then he added. "Taking a load out to the Widow Holbarth's place tomorrow. She puts it on her garden."

The woman's name meant something to Green, but only a slight flicker of his eyelids gave notice under the shadow of his hat brim.

"No hurry," Green said, handing him the rope reins of the hackamore. "I won't be needing him until tomorrow." He untied the apron strings and retrieved his bedroll, saddlebags and canteen.

Walking back toward the Loomis Hotel, shouldering his gear, he saw the blonde woman still watching him from the doorway of the newspaper office. His spurs made a chinking sound as he crossed the hard packed clay of the street.

Chapter 2: The Woman Behind The Desk

A tinkling bell on a spring above the door announced his arrival. To his right, as he entered, was a square arch way and beyond a small dinning area with an oak table and half a dozen chairs placed around it. Upon the table cups and plates had been placed face down. A kitchen area could be seen through an open door. In front of him a sofa, just past the archway, and beyond a reception desk with several keys hanging from hooks on the adobe wall behind. At the left was a stairway to the second floor. In between was a curtained doorway.

After the tone of the bell had died down, the curtain was pulled aside and a petite woman with brown hair fixed in a bun came out, one hand smoothing back a loose strand over her forehead. She was wearing a blue and white plaid gingham dress with a full skirt. She moved behind the desk, her manner unhurried, collected; her face was smooth and tanned, set with sparkling hazel eyes; her figure shapely. She gave Green a calm, friendly smile.

On top of the desk beside the register was a short-barreled, pearl-handled .38.

"The six-shooter is for the Indians," she said, in a voice that was soft and charming with a trace of southern accent followed with a faint smile. "Not for guests."

She turned the register so he could sign it, then turned it back around.

"Welcome to Red Rock, Mr. Green," she said, after glancing at his signature. A hint of irony played in her voice, her lips pinched in a wry smile.

"Thanks. Maybe I'll live long enough to see some of it."

"Um hmm," she replied.

She turned to the side and slowly reached up to take a key off one of the hooks; the fullness of her breast was accented under the soft cotton bodice.

"I'll give you one of the center rooms. Not as many shutters to close when the bullets begin flying."

"Appreciate it," he replied.

"By the way," she said, handing him the key, "my name is Abigail Crane. Everyone calls me Abby. If there is anything you need just let me know."

"Need a bath, but the barber shop had a closed sign."

"Yes. Mr. Ames, our barber, was shot in the arm two days ago during the last Indian raid. His shop won't be open for awhile, I expect.

Green nodded, finding it difficult to keep his eyes from ranging over the shapely figure of the woman.

"But we have a bathing room upstairs at the end of the hall. I could heat some water for you, if you like."

"That would do it. I haven't had a hot bath in a long time."

"Well then. Your room is to the left at the top of the stairs. First door on your left."

The room was small with one narrow window facing the street. A bed to his left. Opposite it, to the right, was a chest of drawers with a japanned wash bowl and pitcher on top and next to it a pocket mirror with easel back. He hung his hat on one of the coat pegs next to the door and removed his gun belts. He sat down wearily on the bed, unstrapped his spurs and pulled off his boots. He was asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow. One of the nickel plated .44s lying by his side.

A light tapping at his door woke him. His gun was in his hand and cocked before he was fully aware.

"Yes?" he said, when he realized someone was at the door.

"Your bath's ready," a woman replied. It was the voice of Abigail Crane.

In the bathroom was a steaming foot tub full of soap suds. A faucet connected to a metal pipe that ran to a cistern on the roof provided the cold water. A bucket of hot water sat next to the tub. On a stool nearby was a sponge and an oval bar of coconut oil soap. A towel hung from a rack on the wall.

He laid his pistol, shaving gear and a fresh change of clothes on the stool and stripped off the sweat-stained shirt and dusty buckskins he was wearing. When he was settled in the steaming, wet warmth of the tub, he heard a tap on the door.

"If you would like," Abigail said, sticking her head around the half-opened door, "I can have my servant, Maria, wash your dirty laundry."

Her face was impassive, but her eyes didn't fail to notice the broad, sloping shoulders and muscular chest of her guest.

His eyes held hers as he nodded.

After she was gone, he found himself becoming hard as he fantasized holding her naked body in his arms, melting her cool, efficient facade with a raw, unbridled fuck, for he knew it was only a facade. He had seen the heat in her eyes when she had looked at him, and he was equally certain she had seen the heat in his.

When he left the hotel, she wasn't in sight, but he could hear movement and voices coming from the kitchen area.

He stepped off the porch and started down the street toward the general store. The sun was farther to the west now. The air was still and hot after the relative coolness of the thick-walled adobe hotel; the heat from the sun penetrated his clothes; he felt sticky beads of sweat already forming on his freshly scrubbed body. Beyond, a pale, earthshine moon hung its ghostly rim over a purple range of mountains in the distance. Hawks swirled far off with majestic leisure on an uplift of air as they had done since the beginning of time. Barn swallows flitted about the loft of the livery. Below the liveryman was bent over shoeing the pinto, the necessary tools stuck in the top of his boot for easy access, his curved pipe hanging from the corner of his mouth, gray smoke rising.

The men who had been loading their buckboard were gone now. The guard who had been posted on top of the doctor's office was still there, idly watching him as he crossed the street.

Inside, the store was deep and high-ceilinged. The floor was hard-packed clay swept clean. Long glassed-in counters ran the length of it on both sides offering a wide assortment of goods, as well as the walls which had shelves packed with the luxuries and necessities of life.

The proprietor, a fat man with a cigar in his mouth and a sweat-stained white shirt, was standing behind the left-hand counter scribbling something on a piece of paper, beads of sweat trickling down his cheeks. When he noticed Green he paused in his scribbling and wiped his face with a wet hand towel that was lying on the counter next to him. Gold rings glinted on his fat fingers.

"This heat's something else, ain't it? I'm gonna halfta find me a cool cave somewhere and crawl in it till winter." He turned leisurely to a bucket of water setting on a stand behind him and dipped the towel in it, rung it out and placed it around his fleshy neck.

Green stopped in front of a rifle rack on the wall. The fat man moseyed up still wiping his fat neck with the towel.

"Don't have much left," he said, eyeing the rack. "Folks just been buy'n'em up purt' heavily since we started having Injun troubles. Alls I got left is that ten gage and the saddle carbine, only twenty inch barrel though if you're lookin' for a long shooter. The gage is used but in real fine shape; the Winchester is brand spankin' new. Got a real purtdee burl stock and cleaning rod trap; it's a forty-four."

Green nodded.

"I'll need a couple of boxes of cartridges to go with it and a saddle sheath and a box of matches too," Green said, reaching in his pocket for some money.

The fat man took the rifle down from the rack and laid it on the counter along with a pale orange scabbard which he placed it next to the rifle. Out of a drawer nearby, he took out two cartridge boxes and placed them on the counter also.

"Box of a hundred each." He took a box of matches from the shelf behind and jotted down some figures on a piece of scrap paper.

"Yes, sir, that'll come to fourteen dollars and eighty-three cents. Get you anything else?" he added with obsequious rapaciousness as Green paid him.

"Nope, that'll do me," Green answered. He slid the rifle in it sheath, picked up the boxes of cartridges and matches, nodded curtly and walked out.

Chapter 3: A Friendly Drink

The small lobby of the hotel was still empty as Green went back to his room. He loaded the rifle and put the boxes of cartridges in his saddle bags from which he took out an empty soap powder tin. He filled it with matches, snapped the lid shut and stuck it in his shirt pocket, putting the rest of the matches in his saddle bags. He took the Winchester with him when he left.

The bartender had a twelve gage lever action lying on the bar. A dozen square tables filled the room. Green took one facing the doorway in the darkened back, away from the front windows, and ordered tequila, laying the rifle on the table. The bartender, a bald-headed man with a neatly trimmed mustache, lost some height as he stepped from behind the bar. Green saw that his legs had been amputated just above the knees. For walking he had padded leather cups around the stumps. He wore a red and white vertically striped shirt without the collar.

"Most folks are surprised when they first see me do that -- steppin' out," he said grinning as he placed a glass and bottle on the table. Standing on the stumps he was about four feet tall.

"Got a plank sittin' on some old powder kegs to walk on." He nodded toward the bar. Lost 'em in the war. Didn't have the three thousand dollars Lincoln wanted to get out of serving, and since they shot you if you didn't serve, I didn't figure I had much choice. Didn't reckon on losin' my legs though or I'd of hightailed it for parts unknown."

He dipped his head and raised his shoulders as if to say it was all in the past -- what the hell.