Red Rock

The back door to the livery had been busted open when they reached it. Someone was moving around inside. Green knew that to an Apache horses were the same as money. Gray Wolf had no doubt ordered some of his warriors to collect the horses in the livery and take them back to their camping ground to later go into his own private herd.

From the front of the livery came the faint glow of a lantern. Green motioned for Faye to wait; he moved silently up the alleyway staying in the shadows of the stalls.

The liveryman was hanging naked from the loft by a rope tied around his cock. He was dead; blood dripped from multiple wounds. Two warriors, their oily bodies glistening in the glow of the lantern, were entertaining themselves by twirling his body around and around and releasing it while holding the points of their knives against the skin flaying off the flesh as his body spun about.

They were too engaged in their sadistic torture to notice Green who grasped the handle of a nearby pitch-fork sunk in a pile of hay. He swung the handle hard against the back of the head of the Indian nearest him, then rammed the prongs into the throat of the other one as he turned. The Indian tried to shout, but his vocal cords were pierced. He grasped the handle of the pitch-fork in his two hands and staggered backwards until he hit up against the wall of the tack room. Green jerked the pitch-fork out of his grasp and stabbed it into the back of the other Indian, hearing one of the prongs make grisly contact with his spine.

Green got his pinto out of its stall and saddled up, along with a bay for Faye. A partial loaf of bread and a large wedge of cheese wrapped in wax paper -- the liveryman's meal -- sat next to the lantern on an oak barrel. Green stuffed these into a saddle bag hanging over a stall door after taking a large bite out of the cheese.

He released several more horses and mounting up guided them toward the back of the livery.

"As soon as we're out of town head for Widow Holbarth's place," he whispered as Faye mounted up. "You'll be safe there for the time being and be able to get some clothes."

"Where are you going?"

"I've got some business to take care of; I'll meet you at Holbarth's later."

Following the loose horses out of the back of the livery they whipped their horses into a gallop and sped swiftly out into the moon-glow desert.

Rising from the shadows of the tack room, where he had been hiding, a huge man lumbered into the light of the lantern. He touched the back of his head where a tomahawk had hit him. Luckily, he thought, it had been the blunt end and not the bladed end that hit him. He quickly stripped off his clothes and stuffed them into a canvas bag and saddled up one of the remaining horses that Green had not released. As he galloped out of the livery and reached the safety of open country he turned the horse in the direction of the Holbarth place.

Chapter 24: The long shot

Green reached the overhang by the juniper and retrieved his Sharps rifle, then turned his horse east. In the distance he could hear the steady bark of gunfire coming from Red Rock.

A few hours later he found a pool of water in some rocks and washed himself off and changed into his clothes. As dawn broke he ascended a rock-strewn butte, stopping two-thirds of the way up. In the distance he could see the Loomis ranch.

He dismounted, hobbled his horse and emptied his saddlebags, refilling them with sand. He placed them on top of a chest-high slab of boulder that had slid down from several hundred feet higher up many thousands of years ago. He took the Sharps out of it case and placed the hammer in half-cock position; extended the lever downward, opening the breech. Carefully he inserted a bullet into the breech, seating it firmly and filled the remainder of the chamber with black powder. Pointing the barrel straight down he tapped the rifle a few times to allow the powder to settle in the chamber and closed the breech; pointing the muzzle up he tapped the rifle several more times to make sure the powder had settled against the back of the breech block.

Moving to the boulder he placed the barrel of the rifle on the saddlebags. He estimated the distance to the main house to be about 1500 yards. He adjusted the rear sight for 5 degrees of elevation. He left the muzzle sight alone since there was no wind.

He sat down and waited, ate some of the cheese and bread and rolled a smoke. A few hours passed. A couple of times cowhands came out of the bunkhouse to the right of the main house to take a piss. An old woman went to the hen house for eggs and to draw a bucket of water. Only a skeleton crew, Green figured, would be left at the ranch. Most everyone else would be in Red Rock. Loomis would have no idea that the town was under siege.

Finally a door opened at the main house. Two men and a dark-haired woman stepped out onto the portico. One of the men had his arm around the woman. The other man stepped out into the yard and walked slowly toward the corral where a vaquero was leading a black horse out from the barn. The man was broad and had a mane of white hair. That would be Loomis. Green watched as the man climbed up onto the corral fence and seated himself to watch the horse prance about. When released the horse shook its head and trotted toward the man who pressed his palm against it's muzzle and patted it on the head.

Green positioned the Sharps on the saddlebags zeroing in on Loomis. He capped the rifle and fully cocked the hammer. He pulled on the rear trigger until it set. Keeping his aim on the target, he slowly squeezed the front trigger while holding his breath.

The bullet arched through the air traveling over 1300 fps. About six and a half seconds later it came down at about 600 fps into the top of Loomis' head which exploded like a wineskin.

Green mounted up leaving everything behind and eased his pinto down the slope of the hill. When he reached the desert floor he nudged the horse into a gallop.

Chapter 25: The Holbarth ranch

The Holbarth ranch was bathed in the glow of the full moon when Faye Morgan arrived. As she entered the compound she eased her horse into a walk sensing something was wrong. It wasn't just that no light was visible in the windows of the cabin, but the general look of neglect. The barn door was open and the logs of the corral gate had been taken down and strewn about haphazardly. She could see the silhouette of a large skeletal lump lying within the corral. A horse or cow. She couldn't tell which. She hitched her horse to the rail in front of the cabin wishing she had a gun as she cautiously entered the open door.

Moonlight coming through the windows gave enough light so that she could make her way around the interior. She saw a lamp on the table, but she couldn't find any matches nearby. A crude looking armoire stood by a wire-framed bed. She would be able to find clothes to wear inside. Naked, she moved barefoot over the gritty, canvas-covered floor to the stone fireplace and ran her hand over the rough-surfaced mantle until she felt a square box of cardboard. She shook it and could hear the rattle of matches inside.

As she started to turn she heard the sound of hooves approaching.

John Green!

Her heart beat a little faster as she recalled the naked, hard-muscled body; the corded belly and slim hips; the large organ swinging heavily between strong thighs. She dropped the match box on the table and moved toward the door. As she stepped out onto the porch she saw not the pinto but a strange horse tied to the rail. Before she could wonder at this hands grabbed her around the waist and pulled her against a broad, hairy chest. A bloated cock pressed up against her ass.

Tibbs twisted her about and kissed her crudely on the mouth thrusting his tongue deep inside.

Holding her tightly he took her inside the cabin and found the matches on the table. He lighted the lamp and searching around, found a length of hemp with which he tied her spread-eagle to the bed. Sitting next to her he smoothed the palm of his hand over her body, squeezing the full, firm tits. He moved his hand down to her pussy and massaged it insistently, working his finger in and out and tweaking the clit roughly between thumb and forefinger.

When he removed his finger from her, it was wet.

"You like it, doncha? You're just a cock-loving slut like all the rest."

He wiped the palm of his hand across her pussy.

"You're gonna make me a lot of money in Juarez, donkey girl. A lot of money."

Tibbs sighed with satisfaction and stood up. He was naked except for a gunbelt with revolver strapped around his thick, hairy, beer belly.

"But first we'll have to take care of Mr. Green, aka wanted-for-murder, Jack McGee. I'll cut his fuckin' head off and put it in a pickle jar. Take it to Santa Fe and collect a five hundred dollar reward. And he can watch me fuck you all the way there."

Tibbs laughed raucously at this idea.

She watched him check his revolver, pulling the hammer back and spinning the cylinder and shove it back in its holster. He found a half empty bottle of whiskey on a shelf among some canned goods.

After taking a swig or two he took the lamp and went out to move the horses to the barn and get his clothes.

Chapter 26: My kingdom for a horse

Green headed the pinto toward a range of mountains a few miles distant. If he could get to it before Loomis' men caught up to him, he could set his horse free and lose himself in the myriad rock-strewn ravines and buttes. Later, when he had shaken them, he would be able to walk to the Widow Holbarth's to pick up the rest of his money and get a fresh horse.

That was the plan . . . at least until his horse stepped into a prairie dog hole spilling them both. After slowly picking himself up, Green checked the right front leg of the horse. It wasn't broken, but the horse was unable to put its full weight down. Sighing, Green took the saddle and hackamore off and swatted the horse's butt.

"Go on get! No sense in both of us getting killed."

The horse hobbled off a little ways, stopped and began nibbling around some sagebrush where a patch of desert grass grew sparsely.

Green eased himself down onto the ground resting his back against the saddle and rolled a cigarette.

Looking in the direction from which he had just come, he saw a narrow band of dust rising into the air. It couldn't be Loomis' men. They would have raised a hell of a lot more dust than that; it couldn't be more than one or two riders. He stood up and checked his guns, spinning the cylinders and took out the empty cartridges that he normally left in for the hammers to rest against and put in two loaded ones. He looked around for a place of concealment. Seeing nothing but mounds of sage he picked up his riding gear and hid himself behind a nearby clump. It would have to do.

As the column of dust grew nearer he made out a lone rider: an Indian.

"You cannot hide from an Apache, Nah-kah-yen. I saw you from miles off." The Indian was grinning.

Green stood up, holstering his guns. It was the young Apache, Bear Claw, his face concealed behind red and black chevrons but recognizable from the scar on his belly and the brash attitude. He held a Winchester across the pommel. A pearl-handled .38 hung by the trigger guard from a leather thong around his waist.

"I see you managed to survive," Green said, staring at the .38. He rolled a cigarette and handed it to the Indian. Bear Claw held it under his nose sniffing before placing it in his mouth waiting for a light.

"Today I am Gray Wolf's greatest warrior. I get all the pussy I want now. I take a white woman at Red Rock. I will fuck her tonight, after I beat her." He laughed while leaning over to catch the flame Green struck with a match. He blew a thick cloud of smoke toward the sky baring his muscular throat. Green could see splatters of blood on the Indian's naked body, and none of it belonged to the Indian.

Green glanced back into the distance as he lit his own cigarette. He heard the faint sound of gunfire.

"The vaqueros will not be coming," Bear Claw grinned. "There is a dark-haired woman and a black stallion Gray Wolf wants. They will be too busy fighting him to find the one who made the long shot, the one with the keen eyes, Nah-kah-yen."

Green nodded in the direction of the Holbath place. "How 'bout a ride?"

Bear Claw shook his foot out of the stirrup and held out a hand.

As they trotted off the pinto limped along after them trying to keep up even when they disappeared from view.

Coming over a slight rise close to the ranch, Green told Bear Claw to hold up.

"What is wrong?"

"I'm not sure; but there's the remains of a dead horse lying in that corral, and the gate's been pulled down."

.

Puzzled, Tibbs took a final swig from the bottle and tossed it into the fireplace. Through the window he had seen Green dismount from the Indian's horse on the rise. Suddenly it came to him why: the horse carcass in the corral. He cursed under his breath. Green couldn't have known about the widow woman and what Loomis' men did to her: sewing her up naked inside the horse's carcass; leaving her for the wolves and cougars coming down out of the mountains for a meal. Green had been in the pit all that time afterwards. Not knowing she was dead he would naturally wonder why leftovers were lying neglected in the corral -- if everything was okay. And he wouldn't likely be crazy enough to come waltzing in until he had an answer -- not in full daylight, unless the widow or the newspaperwoman showed herself, and that wasn't going to happen.

Tibbs cursed himself for having drunk so much; and at the same time he licked his lips wishing he had another swaller. He couldn't figure Green being with a redskin, and that worried him. Where there's one fucking skin there might be more. And if there were more then it was all over for him. He had lost the advantage of ambush, too. As he figured it he only had one remaining chance: no one could beat him in a gunfight. No one.

Tibbs smiled feeling his dick stiffen. He would call Green out. Mano a mano and kill him. Afterwards he'd get the fuck out with the woman in tow before any more skins showed.

Tibbs cast a look at the woman spreadeagled on the bed and walked out onto the porch; he stepped off into the yard his hand hovering over the butt of his pistol.

"Green. You want the woman, come down and get her like a man."

Green didn't reply right off. Reaching in his shirt pocket he pulled out his tobacco pouch and rolled a smoke, lit it, took a heavy draw and studied the situation.

"Which woman we talkin' about?" Green hollered back.

"The newspaperwoman, asshole. The widow's history. Loomis' men fucked and killed her over a week ago." Tibbs chuckled. "From what the boys told me it was some good fuckin', too."

"Asshole?" Green muttered softly. Glancing at the Indian he said, "Do me a favor. You got bullets in that thing?"

Bear Claw nodded.

"Toss it to me."

Bear Claw hesitated a moment, shrugged and tossed Green the Winchester. What happened next was too quick for the Indian to see. There wasn't even a blur of action. One instant the rifle was in the air flying toward Green, the next a loud report sounded in synch with a muzzle flash -- and the rifle was back in the air coming toward Bear Claw who barely reacted fast enough to catch it.

"Thanks; shoots a bit to the left," Green said, drawing a pistol, and starting down the rise.

When he came to where Tibbs was lying he stopped and gazed down at the three bullet holes in his chest.

Tibbs stared up at him with a bewildered expression on his face.

"McGee?," he whispered hoarsely.

Green was silent.

Blood bubbled out of Tibbs' mouth; his eyes became still; his head dropped limply back against the ground.

Green knelt down and went through his pants pockets and retrieved his pouch with the five hundred in gold the widow had given him.

As he entered the cabin, Green glanced back up the rise. The Indian was gone.

He saw the newspaperwoman on the bed, but ignored her. He went to the armoire instead and began ransacking it.

"What are you doing?" Morgan asked in astonishment.

"Gettin' the rest of my money."

"Think you could . . ." she nodded her head at her bound wrists and wiggled her hands.

Green merely grunted and moved to the fireplace. He ran his hands over the stone facing until he felt one move slightly and pulled it out. He reached inside and pulled out a leather pouch. It chinkled heavily as he hefted it from one hand to the other. He opened it on the table; large fifty dollar gold pieces spilled out.

"Must be about five or six thousand," he murmured. "The widow won't be needing it."

He left the money lying on the table and went to the bed sitting down on the edge. Their eyes met briefly as he reached toward the rope that bound one of her wrists.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

"Untying you."

"Mas tarde."

Epilog.

Bear Claw recovered the pinto and the saddle. It was a good, strong pony and the leg was only sprained; it would be healed by the next full moon. Slowly, he guided his horse toward the west with the pinto in tow. Someday he would have a herd as big as Gray Wolf's.

Someday . . . .