Red Rock

He stretched the Indian out on his back and examined the wound. He was gut shot. Green could see part of the gut protruding. He figured the Indian had a day--maybe two--before he died. And it would be a painful death.

He could do nothing but try to make him as comfortable as possible. He took off his serape and taking the Indian's bandana soaked it in the rain and cleaned as much of the blood off of him as he could; he staunched the wound with it and wrapped his serape around him for warmth. He gathered up a bundle of desert grass and placed it under him for bedding and pillow. With some dead yucca stalks, sage and snake wood, he made a small fire.

He went to check on his horse and put the Indian's knife in the saddle bag. As he turned to go back to the ledge, he saw a buggy, with a yellow, canvas hood, heading at a walk toward Red Rock on the stage road. Green recalled the yellow-topped buggy in the alleyway below the doctor's office.

Quickly, he mounted up and galloped down the slope to intercept it.

As he drew near he could see a man beneath the hood, lying down in the seat on his back with his legs drawn up, feet cocked against the arm rest.

He seemed oblivious to everything as Green reached out to lay hold of the reins of his horse and bring the buggy to a halt.

Green could hear the man snoring loudly as he dismounted and jerked at the cuff of his trousers.

He looked to be in his early sixties: wire-rimmed glasses and a gray, untrimmed mustache under a full, unkempt head of hair with white sideburns. Underneath an unbuttoned slicker he had on a rumpled gray suit with vest; a silver watch chain hung from a button hole. The black shoes were muddy, but the uppers still show signs of a high gloss.

"What the hell --" the man muttered groggily, as he sat up slowly, taking off his glasses to rub his face with his hands.

"If you're planning on robbing me you sure as hell picked the wrong person," he said squinting up at Green.

"No," Green replied. "You the Doc?"

"Doctor Greely," the gray headed man answered, nodding.

"I've got an Indian gut-shot up in the rocks. I don't guess there's much anyone can do for him, but I thought maybe you could take a look."

He cast a tired glance up the slope Green had come down. His eyes were red veined as if he hadn't slept for days.

"Indian? Gut shot?" He shook his head and rubbed his face some more. Then . . . "Ah, what the hell . . . Might as well take a look -- since I'm already awake, maybe give him something for the pain."

He sighed and got out of the buggy, his feet sinking into the mud, and hobbled his horse.

"I have to follow you up on foot, too rough for a buggy."

He took a hat and a black, leather bag out from underneath the seat and followed as Green led him up to the ledge.

He spent some time examining the Indian for vital signs; after he was through he asked Green to bring him some prickly pear from higher up the slope.

When Green returned, the doctor burned off the stickers in the fire, cut a pad in half and coated it with jelly.

"This is an Apache remedy," he explained. They use buffalo grease, but this oughta work; he'll never know the difference."

He placed the prickly pear on the open wound and wrapped it with cotton bandage.

"Will it do any good?" Green asked.

The doctor shrugged.

"Who knows. The Indians claim it works; I've known it to work. Something in the juice that keeps a wound from festering, I expect. They're a wise and hardy race. If anyone can recover from such a wound it'll be an Apache."

Night came and the rain continued to fall.

Green and the doctor sat with their backs against the rear of the ledge, in the flickering light of the fire, drinking from a bottle of whiskey the doctor had in his medicine bag and smoking cigarettes.

"Just a boy," the doctor said. Probably trying to rustle some beef and got caught."

He lowered his head and ran the fingers of his hand through his hair, his wire-rimmed glasses glinting in the firelight.

He glanced at Green, drew some smoke into his lungs and blew it out.

"How is it that you stopped to help an Indian?"

"Don't know to tell you the truth," Green replied. "I don't make it a habit. My father used to tell me most men weren't worth a damn, and I've lived by that most of my life."

The doctor nodded thoughtfully.

"I've been a doctor for almost forty years, and I've met all kinds of people. Some good, some bad. But, good or bad, they're just pathetic bastards trying to figure out why God is always punishing them or their children with this or that hideous infirmity. And I've spent my life trying to save the poor bastards -- I no longer kid myself, though. It's a losing battle. But if there's one thing I've learned it's that you can't give up on people. Sure, your daddy was right, most people are guided by their own selfish concerns, and most haven't crawled very far out of the mud from which God made them; but, eventually, if you lose your faith in others you lose faith in yourself. You become a soulless bastard. In time I've learned that just when you think it's all pointless, you sometimes find something that'll restore your hope in the human race. What it was meant to be. Not always but sometimes. If it wasn't for that, I don't think I would have anything to hang onto. Someday we'll be better than we are. That's my faith."

Green took a swig and passed the bottle to the doctor. "Here, you'd better have some more of this."

.

Later as dawn began to lighten the east, the doctor stood and stretched with the palms of his hands pressed against the top of the rock ledge.

Well, I've done all I can here. I guess I'll be heading into town, if you plan on sticking it out with him."

Green nodded.

"Shouldn't be long, but a word of cautious. If he wakes up he'll do his best to kill you. The Apaches hate white men only a little less than they hate Mexicans. And they have no word in their language for mercy. They're raised from childhood not to trust anyone -- so be careful, Mister Green."

"Then we have something in common," Green said shaking the doctor's hand.

Before leaving the doctor gave him a small bottle.

"Give him a couple of nips of that if he's in pain. It'll help some."

Green watched the doctor down the slope until he was hid from view by boulders and shrubs.

He had left the whiskey, so Green settled back and took another drink.

Chapter 11: The Discovery

Abigail took a key from her waistband and unlocked the door to John Green's room. Dusk was falling, and he hadn't come back yet. She had debated whether or not to search through his things, but she finally decided that she had no choice. She had no money. The hotel was her only security. Without it she would literally be on the street. Tibbs had her over a barrel, and he wasn't a man to show mercy.

She went to the rain-streaked window and looked out. She would be able to see him if he came back. She had a clear view of the livery.

His canvas bedroll lay on the foot of the bed. The catch rope had been left untied so that all she had to do was unroll it.

Inside were two gray and black Navajo blankets of thick wool and a war-bag. She pulled open the drawstring and emptied the contents onto the bed.

There was an assortment of items: a tin of salve; some tobacco; a small metal coffee pot and cup; knife, fork and spoon; a small skillet; a small bag of coffee; some beef jerky wrapped in cloth; a half bag of flour; a bag of beans; a bag of pinon nuts; tooth brush and powder; and a razor and wet stone in a worn leather case with a mirror of polished nickel inside the lid. An edge of paper stuck out from the back of the mirror. She pulled on it and as it came out she saw a faded photograph of a woman, in a full-skirted outfit, sitting in a lawn chair, holding a small baby and a man, in a dark suit, standing next to her with one hand on a finial of the chair back with the thumb of his other hand stuck in the pocket of his vest. A star was pinned to the vest.

They were in a yard next to a tree, a mailbox by a road off to one side and part of a new looking, white-framed house on the other side.

There was a name on the mailbox, very small and difficult to read.

* * *

When Loomis got back to his ranch he had his servants prepare his bath. After this was done he stripped off his wet clothes and reclined in the brass tub for an hour or more puffing on a cigar and sipping from a pint bottle of whiskey while re-reading the article by Faye Morgan in the Red Rock Lantern. The more he read the madder he became. These damn women! Who did they think they were! Goddamn'em! He felt his cock becoming hard under the soapy water creating libidinous images in his mind as he begin to contemplate what he would do to them. He would teach them their proper place!

His hand found his cock and began to manipulate it. He envisioned their firm, naked, young bodies writhing on the ground beneath him as he stomped his boots into their soft flesh. Marking them with the imprint of his heels.

Oh, what he would love to do to them!

He thought of the squaws and mujeres he had raped and tortured as a young man building his empire. Those sordid memories inflamed his flesh like an unclean thirst that darkens one's veins and can never be subdued nor put off.

The head of his cock rose twitching above the surface of his bath water like the prow of a sunken ship shuddering up from its watery grave. Loomis squeezed his fist around the quaking shaft just below the swollen, red head where the foreskin had slipped back. This was the progenitor of his dynasty, his immortality. The fluid that seeped from its mouth would create living memorials to his genius and keep his legacy alive.

But only if his offspring survived, and that was beginning to look doubtful now. He couldn't afford to wait around on Patrick to sire children. He had to know now, before he died, that there would be grandchildren to carry on for him -- and only one sure way existed to do that.

The thought made his cock pulse even harder.

He got out of his bath, dried quickly and slipped on a flashy, silk, Turkish bathrobe that glinted with gold filigree and scimitars. He went to the head of his bed and picked up a silver bell, ringing it.

After the servants had come and emptied the bath water and removed the tub, Loomis told one of them to tell Conchita that he wanted to see her.

Several minutes later there was a faint knock at his bedroom door and a withered-looking crone entered.

"You wanted to see me, senor?" the stooped, skinny, old woman whispered hoarsely.

"Yes, Conchita," Loomis replied, stroking his chin. "I wanted to know if la senora has had her evening chocolate yet?"

The old Mexican shook her head. "No, senor; mas tarde."

"Bueno," he said moving close to the old woman, staring into the dulled, gray eyes, smiling, still stroking his chin thoughtfully.

"I want you to give la senora something special, something to make her sleep soundly, very soundly, si? Un sedante muy fuerte."

A faint, knowing grin crinkled the parchment at the corner of her mouth. The eyelids narrowed slowly, the ashen eyes becoming intent with a dusty lasciviousness.

"Si. Eet I do, senor," she whispered, her eyes widening as she gave emphasis to the word 'do'.

She nodded slightly and moved back out of the room with the hesitant, unsteady gait of the ancient.

* * *

She made her way slowly down the tiled hallway until she came to the cocina. Soon she was bringing milk to a boil on the stove and pouring boiling water into a mix of cocoa, sugar and salt to make a paste; she poured in the scalded milk and added several teaspoons of brandy, milling it for a couple of minutes. From a small clay bottle she added several drops of a grayish liquid, and stirred this into the mix.

Mona was brushing out her long black hair at a vanity when Conchita brought the hot chocolate to her. Mona thanked her and had the old servant continue to brush her hair while she sipped her drink. Inwardly, as she glanced into the mirror, she shuddered to think that someday she would become as old and ugly as the woman. That her firm, full body would become a withered sack of skin stretched over a crumbling frame of rotting bones. That her beautiful white teeth would, one day, fall out, one by one, until her mouth and cheeks caved into her face. After that who would want her? What a horrible fate, she thought, awaits even the best of us, the luckiest.

But she was young and did not pursue these morbid thoughts long. Instead she sipped the warmth of the brandied chocolate into her body enjoying the luxurious feel of the old servants hands stroking the brush through her hair. Outside, through the open patio doors, she could hear the rain splattering on the tiles of the inner court. The sound, with it constant rhythm, was soothing to listen to, and soon she found herself nodding off.

She was vaguely aware of the old woman guiding her to bed, but she remembered nothing more as her head touched the soft, scented pillow.

* * *

Loomis watched Conchita leave Mona's bedroom and cross the inner court, bent by age and a desire to avoid facing into the rain. He stood at his patio door and smoked. Waiting. The front of his robe had come open and his hard cock stood out in front of him angled up forty-five degrees from his belly.

When he was sure enough time had passed he put his cigar out in the silver ashtray on his desk and slipped out of the robe. Naked he walked out into the rain of the inner court, enjoying the feel of the cool drops on his naked flesh, the sensuous feel of the wet tiles beneath his bare feet. He was more alive than he had been for a long time. He was as excited as he had been when he was young and had the whole world before him. Like a voyager or explorer seeking new worlds. Where no laws existed except what a man made for himself. Where he was free to do anything he wanted that was within his strength to do -- and to hell with the consequences. A long time had passed since he had experienced such a feeling of omnipotence, and he savored it.

How he wondered had he managed to let himself become old -- not just old but civilized too. Civilized behavior was for weaklings who didn't have balls enough to take what they wanted. He couldn't let that happen to himself --not Cordel Loomis. He must recapture his old fire. Be the man he used to be. Instead of some dandified flop like the hanger-ons and social sycophants that spawned like vermin in the upper reaches of western high society. Only a man deserves this land. And, by God, he was a man still! Nobody was ever gonna say Cordel Loomis died anything less.

When he entered Mona's bedroom his pulse was racing. His whole body was alive to the slightest sensations. Tingles raced through his spine stiffening his cock to the point of being painful.

Mona lay on the top of the covers in a sheer chemise, her face turned slightly toward him in the yellow glow of a candle on a nightstand. Shadows played over the outlines of her body caressing it as with phantom hands. He could see the rise and fall of her breasts and make out the naked flesh beneath the thin chemise, the full tits heavy against the thin fabric, the dark areolae and nipples visible.

He stood unable to move for a moment staring down at her. His son's wife and what he was going to do to her made him giddy with anticipation. The immorality of it overwhelmed his senses with intense surges of excitement that so overpowered him he almost fell to his knees. No noble action could ever reward one with the same level of intensity.

Carefully he moved to the side of the bed and sat down. He reached out and moved her head from side to side slowly. Her eyes remained closed, her face impassive.

He could do anything he wanted to her. Anything.

He parted her lips with his thumb and forefinger and with the tips pulled her tongue out as far as he could. He stared at it, then let go.

It slipped slowly back into her mouth.

This is what it would be like with a dead woman, he thought, and the thought excited him.

With trembling hands he untied the drawstring at the neck of the chemise and pulled it down off her smooth white shoulders. He placed one hand behind her back and lifted her slightly so that he could pull the top down uncovering her breasts. As he lifted her, her head fell back baring the graceful curve of her throat. Her thick, glossy hair brushed coolly against his forearm and shoulder with the liquid silkiness of a soft caress that caused the head of his cock to twitch against his rain wet belly.

He stared hungrily at the fully revealed tits. They were round and firm, taut. He laid her back down and took one of the brown nipples between the tips of his thumb and forefinger and rolled it as if it were putty to be shaped. Soon he could feel it harden and expand. Lowering his mouth to the other nipple he began sucking on it until both were fully extended.

Loomis' breath came in short, labored gasps now. He could feel a tightness in his chest. Sweat began to bead his white-haired chest in place of the droplets of rain water. His whole body was electric, trembling. With nervous fingers he drew the cotton fabric farther down. He had to see the pussy, her hairy center, the future abode of his cock and progeny.

The navel was deep and shadowy, set in a firm, flat belly. He pressed his finger next to it. Poked. Beneath the skin and muscle, he could feel the liquidity of gut smoothly subsiding. He recalled an Apache woman he had raped years ago. She had had a firm, flat belly too. He remembered how he had gutted her with his knife and rolled the bloody intestines around in his mouth, licking the blood from their slick surface.

He had done it while she watched him.

The look in her eyes made him feel something he had never felt before. It was not a look of disbelief in her eyes nor of horrified revelation, for she was an Apache woman and Apache women were as sadistic as Apache men -- more so in some cases. She had, no doubt, tortured many of her enemies to death in her life time, for many Apache women were warriors, too, and rode alongside the men into combat. And she knew what to expect if captured by a pin-dah-lickoyee, 'white eye'. She had known she would be raped and tortured. So the look was not one of astonished disbelief. But a look of submissive defeat cast from the closing shadow of death. And that look was the greatest aphrodisiac he had ever experienced. Her defiant look of scorn had vanished. He was the conqueror. And from that moment on he knew that nature, that life, intended only for the strong to triumph: to reap the rewards of living. And he pledged to himself -- and to whatever dark gods ruled the universe -- that he would never be weak, that no one would ever get the better of Cordel Loomis.

He yanked the chemise down over her hips, ripping it in his hurry to see her dark triangle. It was thick and wiry, hiding the velvet slit. He buried his face in it, sniffing the musky odor. The pussy hair scratched his face like a light textured brush. The anticipation of what her bush would feel like against the tender head of his cock was almost overwhelming.

He lifted first one of her long, shapely legs; then the other sliding the chemise down the firm thighs, full calves and delicate ankles; drawing it off; leaving her stark naked. The feet seemed small and childlike compared to his own. They were well-shaped and high arched. The nails neatly trimmed almost pearl-like in beauty. The toes graduated with perfect symmetry. He caressed each foot kneading the heels and balls and the tender softness of the arches. He separated the toes one at a time. Slowly. Feeling the slight resistance build as he stretched them to their limits. The skin was a lighter white between them, more tender. He could have easily snapped them like twigs they were so delicate.