Red Rock

"Anything else?" he asked.

Green hesitated. All he wanted was a few drinks to mellow out and relax, but he hadn't had anything to eat since early morning and only beans and jerky, at that, washed down with a cup of bitter, hot coffee made from re-heated grinds.

"Got anything to eat?"

The bartender nodded.

"Elena," he called out toward a curtained doorway in back. "Tostados, por favor."

"Si, si, Raymond," a woman's voice replied.

Green could hear chair legs scrapping on the hard clay floor and presently the light clatter of metal ware. He rolled a cigarette and smoked while waiting. The tequila burned all the way down, but it did the trick. He poured himself another, and it went down better. For the first time in many days he was beginning to feel relaxed.

Elena was a shapely Mexican wearing a white blouse and green skirt. She smiled at him and sat down a steaming plate of beans and melted cheese on open-faced tortillas and a steaming cup of coffee.

Green, despite his hunger, ate with a moderate amount of deliberation and, when finished, slowly rolled another smoke as Elena poured him a second cup and took up the empty plate.

"Ease tare anyteeng else I you can do, senor?" Her eyes were making sultry bedroom promises.

Green glanced at the bartender, Raymond, who was reading a newspaper at the bar and paying them no mind. Green wondered if the woman was his wife or a whore or both.

He shook his head. A flicker of disappointment registered in her dark eyes before she turned and disappeared through the curtained doorway.

As Green poured some tequila in the second cup of coffee, the front door opened and a huge, broad man with a beer belly entered. He was wearing a gray shirt and trousers and a Colt forty-five on his hip. A silver badge was pinned to his deerskin vest. He had black stubble on his face as if he hadn't shaved in a couple of days. A thick, walrus mustache covered his upper lip.

He paused just inside the doorway, letting his eyes adjust to the dim light, picking his teeth with a toothpick. He fixed his eyes on Green but spoke to the bartender.

"How's it going, Stubs?"

The bartender glanced at him with a look of loathing but didn't reply.

The big man with the badge chuckled.

"Who we got sittin' over there?" he asked, addressing the bartender again but kept his cold eyes fixed on Green. His cheeks were raised as if he were smiling, but it was hard to tell because of the thick mustache.

"Why don't you ask him, marshal?" Raymond answered.

The marshal chuckled again, lowered his hand and hooked his thumb in his vest pocket. He moved the toothpick around slowly with his tongue for a spell before addressing Green.

"You got a name, mister?"

Green let out a small sigh. He didn't have much use for lawmen. Most that he'd known were corrupt, and a corrupt man with a badge is dangerous.

"Yep."

"Well, let's have it."

"John Green," he answered, rolling another smoke, fingers deft and steady. When he finished, he stuck it between his lips and flared a match off the edge of the table and lighted it. He returned the marshal's hard stare without flinching and blew a cloud of blue smoke into the air between them.

"That your real name?"

"It'll do."

The marshal chewed on the end of the toothpick as if deliberating his next course of action, braking off eye contact.

"Give me some whiskey, Stubs; you know the brand."

Raymond took a bottle of Jack Daniels off the shelf behind him and placed it on the bar along with a glass.

The marshal placed the glass over the neck of the bottle and picked it up with his left hand, leaving his right hand free. He walked back to Green's table shuffling his feet arrogantly on the clay floor.

"Can't stand that Mex shit," he said, glancing down at the bottle of tequila in front of Green.

He pulled a chair -- thick with peeling green paint -- back from the table and sat down.

"Hope you don't mind me joining you, Mister Green."

Spitting out the toothpick, he placed a broad hand flat on the table, fingers spread wide. With the other he lifted the glass off the bottle neck, thumbed the cork out and poured a couple of ounces into the glass and downed the amber liquid with one quick swallow.

"Aaah, that puts everything right," he sighed. He poured another couple of ounces out but merely played with the glass, turning it in his hands. He fixed Green with a sly look.

"Got business in Red Rock, Green?"

"Nope. Just drifting."

This answer didn't seem to sit well with the marshal who shifted his square jaw slightly forward, his mouth drooping open, baring the lower teeth like a bulldog. He gave Green an insolent look through half-lidded eyes.

"Kinda rough territory to be drifting through what with renegade skins on the warpath."

Green shrugged.

"Though what makes it doubly rough, pilgrim, is that this is Loomis territory. Three million acres as far as you can see in any direction all belong to Mr. Loomis, and Mr. Loomis he don't like no strangers hanging round on his property. And that goes for Red Rock, too. He owns the town lock, stock and barrel.

"Does that include you, marshal?"

The marshal sneered.

"A smart man savvies how the game is played and either goes along with it or gets his ass reamed. Get my drift?"

"Like I said, marshal, I'm just passing through minding my own business. Soon as I rest up for a day or two I'll be on my way." He took a final draw off his cigarette and dropped it in a brass spittoon setting next to the table. It made a faint hiss.

"I'd do just that, if I were you," the marshal replied. "Ain't healthy round here."

He tossed the rest of his whiskey off, sat the empty glass down hard on the table and scrapped back his chair, standing up.

"Well, Mister Green, nice talkin' to yuh," he said with a slight bob. Enjoy your stay in Red Rock." He put his hand casually on the butt of his pistol. "Just don't enjoy it too much." The eyes were as dead-staring as those of a fish in a pescaderia.

"Put the whiskey on my tab, Stubs," he said, chuckling as he swaggered out.

"On my tab my ass!" Raymond blurted irritably after the marshal was gone. "That'll be the goddamned day whenever that cocksucker ever pays for something. If I wasn't fucked up, I'd show the bastard a thing or two!"

"I take it you don't like the marshal," Green said calmly.

"You take that goddamn right! Fuckers not even a marshal, just a constable -- if even that. The high sheriff never even appointed him. The self-satisfied asshole thinks he's God. Takes anything he wants and never pays for it. And I don't mean just me. He does it to everyone. Clothes, shave and a haircut, a woman; you name it, he gets it free. And all because he's Loomis' man. Old Cordel Loomis is the most powerful rancher in the territory and he appointed Harry Tibbs, our so-called marshal, to keep an eye on things in this part of the county. Son-of-a-bitch is just a hired gun . . ." The bartender paused, shaking his head as if aggravated by a fly, "but, much as I dislike him, I'll have to give him this: he knows how to handle a six-shooter. He's fast and he's deadly."

Raymond turned and pointed to a playing card -- a three of clubs -- stuck beneath the edge of a large mirror on the wall above a rack of bottles.

"You see that," he said pointing to three bullet holes in the card. A silver dollar would have almost covered them.

"He did that at twenty paces. Sounded like one shot. That's how fast he was. Man don't want to mess with him when it comes to shootin'. And old man Loomis's got a bunch more of them just like Tibbs working for him. Not cow punchers but shootists. Men he hired to keep the settlers and small ranchers in their place. He's got the biggest spread around. Besides his hired thugs, he's got maybe a hundred and fifty to two hundred legitimate cowpunchers working for him. Like Tibbs said , the greedy, old bastard's got over three million acres, but he not satisfied with that. He won't be happy till he has driven off all the squatters and taken their land too."

Green nodded. It was an old story. Greed was the fuel that drove the human race as far as he could tell.

While Raymond cleared Tibbs' side of the table, Green rolled another smoke and stared at the bottle of cactus juice as if its ancient fluids -- brewed down from countless eons of shifting desert sands, heat, cold and emptiness -- could whisper a sage solution. He'd drunk too much. He would have one last drink and hit the hay. He was tired but floating on a peaceful cloud.

Chapter 4: The Newspaperwoman

Green heard the door of the cantina open, and when he looked up he saw the blonde woman who had been watching him from the doorway of the newspaper office. She was wearing a white blouse, brown skirt and tan boots.

"Elena, traigame unos cafe solo, por favor," she called out briskly as she entered.

Green could hear Elena's laughter from behind the curtain.

"Si, senora, al momento.

"Que pasa, Raymond?" she said, slapping her palm on the top of the bar.

Grinning, Raymond replied, in a bantering tone, "You shouldn't be in here Faye. People will think you're not a respectable woman."

"Hell, Ray, I'm not. I'm a newspaperwoman. You can't be that kind of critter and be respectable too."

Raymond chuckled.

"How 'bout a shot of aguariente and one of those stale cigarillos you have on the shelf?"

She stood with her hands on her hips while she waited for Raymond to pour her drink and glanced about feinting casualness but, out of the corner of her eye, was observing the stranger sitting near the back of the room facing her.

When she had her drink in hand, she walked with a casual swagger back to Green's table.

"Hi, got a light, hombre?"

She leaned over the table as Green struck a match for her.

"Thanks," she said when the cigarillo was lit. She straightened and blew a cloud of smoke toward the ceiling, nodding her head sideways at the empty chair opposite him.

"Help yourself," Green said, raising a hand palm up.

"I'm Faye Morgan," she said, crossing her legs and hanging one arm over the back of her chair. "I'm the editor of the Red Rock Lantern. Largest circulation west of the Pecos," she added playfully. "I saw the marshal leave just now; I assume he gave you the same welcome he gives to all the occasional strangers who happen upon Red Rock."

"Yep, nice fellow. I told him I was just passing through and he indicated the sooner the better. Name's Green, by the way, John Green." He noted a smudge of printer's ink on her cheek.

"Well, he doesn't speak for everyone in Red Rock. We're not all assholes around here. Pardon my French. It's just that he works for Loomis --"

"I already told him," Raymond cut in, polishing a glass behind the bar.

"Well, then, you know; it's not just you but everyone. That old bastard Loomis doesn't want anyone on his land. Acts as if he had a patent on the whole goddamn earth."

She lightly hammered the table top with the side of a fist.

"He's placed a bounty on any Indian caught on his land. Imagine that! He kills off all their buffalo -- the Indians' main source of food, shelter and clothing in these parts -- to make room for his cattle. Then along comes the soldiers to throw the poor bastards onto reservations, and Loomis makes a fortune selling his downers to the government-run reservations at wildly inflated prices. Half the stock listed on the books never even make it to the Indians and as a result many of them starve to death. So out of desperation, what do the Indians do? They raid the ranchers stealing the cattle they need to survive; and, sometimes, to show their hatred for the white man, they slaughter a hundred head of cattle just for the hell of it. And who could blame them?"

Faye paused waiting for a response, but the stranger was impassive, his somber face unreadable. She sighed.

"You'll have to overlook me," she said concealing her annoyance at his lack of response. "I tend to get real riled up over life's little injustices. It's in my blood, I guess. My views don't tend to be popular with the majority of whites around here. To them the only good Indian is a dead one. I didn't mean to bore you."

"There was a dead Indian hanging from a tree west of here," Green said, calmly.

She was not sure she had actually heard him speak. His lips barely moved. He tilted his head down. The brim of his hat hid his eyes from view. She stared at his hand as he laid it on the stock of his rifle and stroked it absently. It was the hand of an artist: beautifully shaped and dexterous.

Her shoulders sank slightly as she let her breath out.

"There'll be trouble again, for sure, when Gray Wolf finds out," Raymond, who had been listening, said.

"You can count on that," Faye agreed. "No doubt some of Loomis' men are behind it.

At back the curtain moved aside and Elena came to their table with Faye's coffee. The two women spoke in Spanish, and even if Green hadn't known the language, he could have told by the sudden worried expression on Elena's face that Faye had been warning her of possible reprisals over the murder of the Indian.

"Como hay Dios," Elena exclaimed.

Faye poured a shot of the brandy in the cup and tasted it.

"Bueno."

Green noticed the Mexican shake her head a little sadly as she watched the pretty gringa take another drink before turning and disappearing behind the curtain.

"Well," Faye said, "did you mention the dead Indian to our distinguished marshal?"

"Subject didn't come up," Green replied.

"So . . . well, I guess I'd better inform him so he can warn people to expect an attack. Maybe earn some of that hundred and fifty dollars a month he gets for doing nothing. Nice to have met you, Mr. Green."

She finished her laced coffee and stood, turned to go, but paused, wondering why she did so. He obviously didn't care. He was like all the rest. Totally indifferent to the injustices of the world. Yet she felt attracted to him on some level, for some reason. He was a mystery and a mystery is always intriguing.

"Perhaps, if you're not busy," she said, assuming a business-like tone, "you could stop by my office before you leave Red Rock and give me an eyewitness account of your discovery of the dead Indian for my next week's edition."

Green looked up at her with cool, contemplative eyes and nodded. When she was gone, he finished his drink, picked up his rifle and followed.

Outside the harsh glare of the sun had softened to a subdued hue of reddish-orange as it nestled above a plum-colored horizon of snow-capped mountains. Soon the desert would begin to cool and the coyote would start his nocturnal hunt giving voice to the thin night air as the world, once more, turned its darkened face into the void.

Chapter 5: The Night Visitor

It was around midnight when Green was awakened by a light tapping at his door. The light of a lamp shone beneath the bottom crack wedging back the darkness of his room. Naked, gun in hand, he stood behind the door and opened it halfway. She stood there holding a lamp with nothing on but a sheer, white nightgown which did nothing to hide the well-developed body underneath. He could see the dusky circles of her areolae and the tips of her nipples pressed against the thin fabric and the dark, enticing shadow between her thighs. Gone was the prim look given by hair fixed back tightly in a bun. Now it hung sensuously over her shoulders in liquid, wavy red sheens in the lamp light.

Nothing was said. Nothing needed to be. She merely gave him a look and that was all. She entered the room as he stepped back. She set the lamp on the nightstand next to the bed, dimming the flame, took the gun from his hand and laid it next to the lamp. She stepped up against him until the heat of their bodies mingled. He felt the firmness of her breasts and the hardness of her nipples against his chest. She pressed her mouth against his at the same time taking his hardening cock in her hand, squeezing it, stroking it up and down.

He pulled the gown down off her shoulders, and she let it drop to the floor. Easily, he picked her up and laid her on the bed. Her thighs were trembling as he entered her. She gasped softly and with more intensity as he pushed farther into her. Her fingernails scrapped over his muscular neck and back. Her breath was hot in his ear, her tongue wet as it explored.

He moved down her neck kissing and sucking. He teased her nipples rolling them between his teeth, nipping them. She arched her back bringing them up to him for punishment. She wrapped her legs around his ass pulling him deeper into her. There was pain. He was large, but it was a pain that excited her. Breathing came in short, shallow, labored gasps. She came uncontrollably and instantly felt herself building toward an even greater intensity. Her heart hammered against her rib cage. It would explode if she couldn't find release; yet she didn't want it to ever end.

She moved her hips beneath him, grinding them up against his, making circular movements, touching the velvet softness of her belly against his solid hardness.

His thrust quickened jarring her body. The slapping together of their flesh resounded off the walls of the small room. Her own motions increased until their hot bodies, slick with sweat, were moving in a groping, agonized frenzy. Flesh pounding against flesh until need found release in a burst of groaning ecstasy.

Green put the lamp out and turned on his back. In the dark she turned to him and placed her head on his shoulder, the palm of her hand resting lightly on his chest like a child's.

* * *

The jail had two cells enclosed with latticed bars riveted together. In front was a small open area that served as an office. In the center of the room was a potbellied stove. To the right, as one entered, sat an oak desk behind which was a small square table. On top sat a coffee pot, a small bag of sugar rolled down half way, and a blue bag of ground coffee -- some spilled out -- on a white cloth holding utensils.

Marshal Harry Tibbs was seated behind the desk rolling a smoke. When he was done, he leaned over the yellow glow of a lamp sitting on the desk, lit his cigarette and settled back in his chair, he took out a stack of wanted posters from a side drawer in the desk and placed them on top. Slowly he begin to thumb through them, stopping occasionally to study one and, as if unsatisfied, impatiently continued on to the next. Some of the posters had photographs followed by brief physical descriptions and what-fors; some were merely drawings, others were blank and offered only a brief summary of attributes, the alleged crime or crimes and the amount of the reward, if any. It was one of the last that finally caught Tibbs' attention.

He moved the poster closer to the lamp rubbing his wide-set jaw as he studied it carefully. The name at the top of the poster was Jack McGee. Ex army officer turned gambler. "Wanted in Texas for the murder of 'Fast' Eddie Purvis a known desperado and cow thief and for questioning in connection with several other homicides occurring over the past few years."

There was a caveat at the bottom. "Is to be considered a dangerous, cold-blooded individual and an expert marksman; should be approached only with extreme caution."

The physical description given was of a man "five-feet ten or eleven inches tall, black hair, blue eyes, in his early twenties."

But the reward offered was only five hundred dollars.

Not much if he was truly such a dangerous individual, thought Tibbs. He smiled. He knew how law officials loved to exaggerate the cleverness and dangerousness of a wanted person. That way if they caught the person it only added to their glory and if they didn't . . . well, who could blame them? The guy was clever after all, wasn't he?