El Paso

This is the first part of three stories based on the Marty Robbins trilogy of songs, "El Paso," "Feleena" and "El Paso City." Randi has written the first, Cagivagurl, the second and Stev2244, part three. The stories should be read in this order. Readers may find the other two stories here: Readers may find the other two stories here: El Paso : Feleena and here, El Paso City This story is a tragedy, and the readers must follow the stories to find anything like a happy ending. These are linked by the songs, but they are not chapters of the same story. We are different writers telling parts of the story from our own perspective. This was quite a challenge, I thank Cagivagurl and Stev2244 for accepting a challenge so far outside their experience and I hope the readers enjoy a Western themed trilogy. I thank my hommies over at Secret Imperatives for their reading of our stories with critical intent. Randi.

Every step the cattle took sent a puff of dust into the heatwaves rising shimmering from the mirage of water-covered plains, combining into a dust cloud that made Sinclair thankful for the bright red handkerchief covering his nose and mouth. It also reminded him how thirsty he was.

Thankfully, El Paso was just over the horizon, and the drive would be done. He took a drink from the tepid water in his canteen and poured a little over his face. The dusty gritty feeling vanished, temporarily, and he felt better. He would sell his small herd, and he would finally have enough to get that shorthorn bull he had been coveting.

Evening was coming on when he got them into the corral, he paid off his two trail riders and headed for the hotel. He knew the man working the desk, and arranged for a hot bath. Stowing his gear in his room, he went to the tubs and felt a great sense of relief at washing away the grime of the trail. Squeaky clean, he dressed in his "town" clothes and went to look for food.

The small restaurant was one of his favorites, and he had steak and eggs. Eggs were a commodity in short supply, and he was thrilled to get them. A drink was next on his agenda, and he wandered down the street, stopping at the first saloon and ordering whiskey. It was awful, and he grimaced at the taste. Having paid for it, he finished, but decided to move on.

Music was coming from a little cantina down the street, and someone was playing a Spanish guitar. He passed through the doors and it was cool inside the adobe building. He noticed the sign over the door said, "Rosa's."

He went to the bar and got another drink, wincing in anticipation of the burn as he sipped. To his surprise, this was good, tequila, and he looked around. There were card games going at two tables, and one had an empty chair. He walked over.

"Gentlemen, mind if I sit in?" he asked.

The men at the table glanced up, and waved him to a seat. The hand played out and they dealt him in. They were playing seven-card stud, and he checked his cards. It looked good: pocket sevens, a club and a diamond.

The player to his right, a cowboy Sinclair had seen before, raised aggressively, and Sinclair called. The Jack of spades didn't help his hand, but he called again when the cowboy raised. At that point, he would have preferred to check and almost folded, but he decided to call at the last minute. He figured the cowboy had a high pocket pair, and unless he got some help, he would throw in on the next card.

His next card was the seven of diamonds. The cowboy bet again, and feeling good about his three sevens, Sinclair raised. The cowboy called, and the hand played out. Sinclair had been right. The cowboy flopped a pair of kings, but Sinclair's three sevens were good.

Sinclair had enjoyed the hand, and he played for about an hour, winning some and losing some, while drinking just enough to feel mellow. There was a little stir, and the guitar player picked up the volume a bit, playing something a little faster.

The doors at the back of the bar opened, and Sinclair was a little stunned. A vision came through those doors, long black hair flowing in billowing waves down her back, a white blouse and a bright red Spanish style wrap-around skirt flowing down to trim ankles and pretty black shoes.

The blouse was tied up in a knot, showing the slenderness of her waist, brown skin looking incredibly soft as it showed above the dramatic swell of her hips as they moved inside the skirt. She danced her way among the tables, hands, arms, body and feet moving gracefully among the tables.

She swayed closer, and Sinclair realized this was a real beauty. Her features were finely formed, huge very dark eyes, high cheekbones, cheeks a little hollow, a thin little elegant nose, full luscious red lips and a little pointed chin. He watched as she danced closer, and it seemed she felt his eyes on her, because she met his look with one of her own, sending him a flashing smile, the whiteness of her teeth lighting up her dusky features.

He held up a dollar bill, and she shot him a grateful smile, dancing over to him and allowing him to tuck it into the band of her skirt. She raised her arms, her alluring curves swaying, turning to bounce a firm round butt inside that skirt in front of him, shooting a sultry glance back over her shoulder at him before dancing away to another table.

He exhaled the breath he didn't know he'd been holding, and the man to his left slapped his shoulder.

"Now you see why we come in here," he said with a laugh. "Feleena. She dances every night. She'll tease anyone who'll tip her, but we all go away with broken hearts. She's a good girl with a body that says she isn't."

Sinclair moved back to the bar, sipping his drink and watching Feleena. She danced for maybe fifteen minutes and came to the bar, sitting two seats down from him.

He got the bartender's attention and nodded at Feleena. "Give the lady what she wants," he said.

She shot him a grateful smile. "Thank you," she said. Her voice was soft, low pitched for a woman, and he wanted to hear more.

"I'm Sinclair Davis," he said.

"Me, I am Feleena Mendez," she replied. "Are you from El Paso, Mr. Davis? I have never seen you before."

"No, I have a place out toward Santa Teresa," he said. "I drove in a little herd and just wandered in here."

"Ah, on the river," she said. "Feleena was born in Las Palomas."

"I've been there," he said. "Quaint little town."

"Yes, but very dull and sleepy," she said. "I came here to El Paso. Feleena does not admire boring."

Sinclair chuckled. "No, I can imagine you don't. I doubt anything around you is boring for very long."

She smiled again. "No, I liven it up. It was very pleasant to meet you, Mr. Davis. I must dance, lest people find Rosa's boring."

She was away with a giggle, and Sinclair finished his drink and went back to his hotel. He was enchanted with Feleena. She was a little gypsy, and very nice to look at. He thought he'd stop in and watch her dance again before he left for home.

It was another hot dusty day in El Paso, and Sinclair went to the stockman's office to see what he could get in the way of an offer on his cattle. He kept up on the prices pretty well, and he met with Miles Calhoun. He was a stocky fellow, always with the stump of an unlit cigar clenched between his teeth.

They walked down to where Sinclair's steers were being held and Calhoun looked them over. "Well, they're fat, Davis. You got some good grass out there. What are you thinking they weigh?"

"I'm just guessing, but I'd say they'll average somewhere around 1000 to 1100 pounds," Sinclair said.

"I'd guess that's close," Calhoun said. "I'll be making a drive to Abilene next week. These steers will probably bring $40 per head. I have to pay drovers and rail costs. I can give you $18."

Sinclair was thinking. He could make the drive himself, but he'd have to hire a hand. "I'll take $19," he said. "If you find me a good young shorthorn bull I can buy, I'll take $18.50."

"Deal," Calhoun stuck out his hand. "I know a man who raises shorthorns over at Odessa. I'll see what he's got."

They negotiated what Sinclair was willing to pay for the bull, and Calhoun took him back to his office to pay him off on the steers. With his saddlebag full of money, Sinclair felt like giving himself a treat.

He went back to the hotel, pocketed two double eagles and locked the saddlebag in the hotel safe. He went down the street to the clothing store, looked over their suit selection, picked a grey flannel and the tailor altered it to fit his broad shoulders, slim waist and long legs. Going back to the hotel, he passed a barber shop, and went in for a haircut and a shave. They also offered hot baths, so he paid for one, donned his new suit and dropped his clothes at the hotel.

As he exited the hotel, he nearly collided with a woman who was passing by. Pulling up short, he noticed that it was Feleena, the dancer from Rosa's. "Feleena? Excuse me. I just came barging out there. I should have been watching where I was going."

"Dios mio," she said. "Is that you, Sinclair? You look very handsome! And here I thought you were just a cowboy."

He laughed. "Well, I guess I am. I was just going out to look for dinner."

"Feleena, also, is going for dinner," she said, shooting him a sultry look from those black eyes.

"Did you have a place in mind?" he asked.

"Yes, I am going to Café Central," she said.

"Will you allow me to buy you dinner? I would love having such a beautiful lady as my dinner companion."

"Oh, yes. I would like that very much," she said.

He offered her his arm, she tucked her little brown hand into it, and he escorted her down the boardwalk. She was dressed much differently than she had been at Rosa's the night before. More... modestly, with a beautiful dull yellow dress that was a beautiful contrast to her brown complexion. There was quite a show of cleavage, smooth brown mounds swelling, but the rest of her was covered. She had on a little white hat, and her ebony curls cascaded around her shoulders.

They got a table at the restaurant, ordered drinks, and she chattered away happily, telling him about her childhood in New Mexico, her adventures as a dancer in Santa Fe, and her move to El Paso.

He found himself drawn to this enchanting little gypsy. She was gorgeous, of course, but she bubbled with enthusiasm, full of life, laughing easily and often. She touched his arm when she spoke to him, and he felt a strange wave of euphoria sweep over him every time that hot little hand lingered on his arm.

"Tell me of Sinclair," she said. "Is there, or has there been a Mrs. Davis?"

He laughed. "No. I was engaged once."

"She broke your heart?"

I had to laugh again. "Well, yes, and no."

"Ah, there is something mysterious in this answer: 'yes and no,'" she said.

"Not that mysterious," he answered. "I was conscripted into the army. After the war, by the time I mustered out, she had married someone else."

"Ella era una perra," she said. "Sinclair is fortunate he did not marry this woman. On which side of the war were you?"

"I was born and raised in Illinois," he said. "The Union army. I am completely opposed to slavery, Feleena. I wouldn't have served the Confederacy."

"Yes, I too very much dislike slavery," she said. "Did you fight many battles?"

"A few," he said. "More than I wanted to fight."

"Yes, I can imagine it would have been quite dreadful," she said. "We will not speak of the awfulness."

Sinclair chuckled at the quaint way of speaking she had. Her little accent was delightful, as well, and she rolled her Rs, even when speaking English. He had noticed two men sitting over at a table on the other side of the room when he walked in. The younger one was slight, seemed on a hair trigger and his legs bounced constantly, as if he was full of nervous energy. The older man looked like a grizzly bear from the high country, as if he'd seen it all more than once, fought off packs of wolves with a stick. That was a dangerous man, Sinclair realized.

The younger man kept watching them, a weird light in his eyes, and Sinclair wondered if he had something in his head that had jumped the tracks.

Their meal finished, he and Feleena conversed, sipped at the tequila they were drinking, and enjoyed the company.

"Sinclair would walk me home?" she asked. "I must change for my time at Rosa's." She gave him one of those incredibly alluring glances from the corner of those huge black eyes. "You could come to Rosa's. I would dance with you after my dances for the cantina are finished."

"I will. This is my last night in town for a while," he said. "I'll be back to pick up a bull I'm purchasing soon, though. Would you have dinner with me again when I come back?"

"Oh, yes, I will," she said. "You are very handsome and charming, Sinclair."

He could feel himself blushing, and to cover his embarrassment, he stood and helped her from her chair. "A gentleman, tambien," she said.

He paid for the dinner and they stepped outside. He heard boots on the boardwalk behind them, and a high-pitched voice spoke. "Hey, stranger. You're poaching on my territory there."

Sinclair didn't answer, and he felt Feleena clutch his arm a little tighter, as if to hurry him along.

"Hey, I'm talking to you," the voice came again.

"Do not listen, Sinclair," Feleena murmured. "Let us go faster. He will try to goad you into a fight."

"He won't succeed," Sinclair said. "It's okay, Feleena."

He stopped and turned back. It was the slender gentleman from the restaurant, accompanied by the older man. Sinclair saw the older man's eyes narrow as he got a good look at Sinclair.

"Sir," Sinclair addressed the young man, "I believe you have mistaken me for someone else. This young lady agreed to have dinner with me, and I'm escorting her home. We don't wish to be disturbed."

"If anyone is escorting her home, it'll be me," the young man said. "Maybe you don't know who I am?"

"No, I'm afraid I don't," Sinclair replied. "I feel certain you're about to enlighten me."

"I'm Hardy Clinton. My father is Captain Clinton. We own the biggest place around here. I've killed nine men in gunfights."

"I offer my compliments," Sinclair said. He could feel it rising up in him, that cold black wave, everything coming into crystal clarity, the movement of the grizzled veteran up close behind the slender young man, a horse swishing the flies away at the hitching rail, the smell of the dust in the street. He fought it down, realizing this wasn't the time or place, Feleena beside him, holding his arm, trusting him.

The older man spoke in a low voice. "Hardy, that's Sinclair Davis."

Clinton stiffened, shooting his companion a look. "Are you sure?"

The older man nodded and spat in the dust. "Yeah, I saw him over at Adobe Wells."

Sinclair made a gesture from his lips toward the pair. "Gentlemen, if you'll excuse us, we have somewhere to be."

He and Feleena continued down the sidewalk. He could hear words behind them, but couldn't make them out.

"I haven't seen any of his graveyards, Boykin," Clinton said to the older man.

"I have," Boykin said. "He's hell-on-wheels, Hardy. If you want to start something, do it when I'm not around. I like living."

Sinclair could feel Feleena's eyes on him. "That man knew you," she said. "'That is Sinclair Davis,' he said. Why does he know you, Sinclair? I feel there is a story here. What is Adobe Wells?"

"A little town in Arizona," he said.

"What happened there that the fierce man has seen?" she asked.

"Are you sure you want to know?" he asked. "It's kind of a long story."

She laughed. "You will tell me this story while I am changing, then we will go to Rosa's."

He chuckled. "Okay. I don't really like to talk about it, Feleena, but you've got me under your spell, you little sorceress."

She smiled and lit him up with those flashing eyes. "Si. Feleena has many powers."

Sinclair laughed again. "Yes, I can imagine you do."

Her house was a small adobe structure, cool and inviting inside. Sinclair could see there were two bedrooms. "Do you live with someone?" he asked.

"Yes, Rosa and I share this house. We are best friends," she said. "There is a bottle of very good whiskey over there on the table. Pour you some and speak to me while I get ready. Tell me of Sinclair and Adobe Wells."

Sinclair poured a finger, and sipped. It was very good, as she'd promised. She disappeared behind a painted screen in the corner, and he heard the rustling of cloth, then her dress was thrown over the top of the screen. The thought of her naked behind that screen was nearly enough to make him lose his presence of mind, but he shook his head and began.

"I was working for a sheepherder over in Arizona," he said. "The owner was from an old Castilian family that migrated to Mexico and then to Arizona. He got his land in one of those old land grants, and some rough bunch out of Texas was trying to move their herd onto his land. He wasn't a fighter, but he hired people who were. He had a wife and two daughters, almost as pretty as you."

He heard her giggle from behind the screen. "Anyway, there was a bar in Adobe Wells. I had a weekend off, and I was playing cards. Two of the Texas crew were there in the bar, and there were two more outside, but I didn't know it.

"One of the Texans was in the card game, and accused me of cheating. I hadn't even won the pot, but I was the dealer. Everyone at the table knew it was just an excuse to start a fight.

"The guy stood up, called me a cheat and went for his gun. His buddy at the bar drew, too, the third guy outside broke the window with a rifle barrel and the fourth stepped through the door. They were going to kill me, Feleena. I was in the way and they were going to take me out."

"Madre de Dios," she exclaimed, peeking around the screen. "What did you do, Sinclair?"

"I killed them," he said.

"But... how?"

"The two inside were slow," he said, some hesitation at the memory coming over him. "I shot the guy who called me a cheat and the guy at the bar, I rolled to the right, came up and got the guy at the door. He shot where I had been. The guy at the window had trouble lining up his rifle, and I got him as he shot me in the leg."

"But this is horrifying," she said, then disappeared again. "Sinclair was badly injured?"

"No. The bullet passed through the fleshy part of my thigh. I've got a scar, but in three months, I was up and around, and in six months, I was as good as ever."

"So the evil men, they knew this story?" her voice came from behind the screen, accompanied by more rustling sounds.

"The older guy said he was there," Sinclair said. "I don't remember him, though."

Feleena emerged from behind the screen, and Sinclair felt his breath catch in his chest. God, she was stunning. The low-cut white blouse, mid-riff bare, deep plunging neckline showing the rising mounds of her luscious breasts, red flowing skirt, tied in a knot at the side, showed an expanse of smooth brown leg, muscular above a dainty ankle and tiny feet in a black ballet flat.

She saw him looking and blushed a little, a peachy tint over her face. "Sinclair approves?"

"He does. You are a beautiful woman, Feleena. You don't need me to tell you that."

"Noo, all beautiful women need to hear this," she said, flashing him her white teeth in her beautiful smile. "Have you had other such encounters?"

"Yes. Too many," he replied. "They're not something I'm proud of or want to brag about, Feleena."

She swayed toward him. "I understand. I am sorry I spoke of it, Sinclair."

"Nothing to apologize for," he said. "You couldn't know."

"But you are... notorious," she said, making him laugh. "This is not the word?"