Ride With the Devil (12 page)

“Yes, ma’am,” Kendall said. “You can get under here with me.”

Darci climbed into bed, then pressed herself against him.

“Can I ask you a question?” Kendall asked.

“Ask whatever you want.”

“Does it really snap shut?”

“What?” Darci asked, surprised by the question. She pulled away from him far enough to allow her to look into his face. “What are you talking about?”

“Down here,” Kendall asked, pointing. “Does it…well, that is, Pete and Dusty told me that sometimes it will, uh, snap shut and trap me inside.”

Darci laughed out loud.

“Well, cowboy, it never has before,” she said. “And if it does, why, I can’t think of anyone I’d rather have trapped inside than you.”

Kendall smiled broadly, then felt his need for her growing. He reached for her.

“I’m ready now,” he said.

“Oh yes,” Darci replied. “I’d say that you are definitely ready.”

It was almost an hour before Kendall returned to the saloon, and when he did return, Pete was so drunk that he was barely able to hold up his head.

“Boy,” Dusty said. “It sure took you a long time.”

“I reckon it did,” Kendall said. “I don’t reckon I’m as good as you two at it, but I liked it nevertheless.”

“Well, we’ve had our ashes hauled,” Dusty said. “Only thing left to do now is get drunk.”

“Looks like Pete is already drunk,” Kendall said.

“Yes,” Dusty said, lifting his glass. “Better drink up. We’ve got a lot of catching up to do.”

On board the Texas Southern train

THEY HAD LEFT SAN ANTONIO AT FIVE THAT EVEING, and would arrive in Marva at seven the next morning. After dinner in the dining car, Hawke and Flaire lingered at the table, engrossed in conversation. The window beside them, backed by the blackness of night, glistened with their reflected images.

The only other people still in the dining car were a couple of white-jacketed porters who were busy bussing the empty tables and cleaning the floor.

“Folks, we’ll be closin’ the diner in about fifteen more minutes,” one of the porters said. “If you want another cup of coffee, this’ll be the last call.”

“Thanks, I’m good,” Hawke said, putting his hand over his cup.

“Miss?”

“I’m fine, thank you.”

All during dinner the two had talked. Flaire told of growing up, the only girl with two brothers. She shared some humorous stories with him, laughing sometimes, on the verge
of tears at other times, realizing that she was the only one left in her family.

Hawke told Flaire about Tamara, a woman from his past, and the plans they had made.

“We were going to be married, then go back to Europe for a grand tour of the continent,” he said. “But she died during the war.”

Flaire put her hand across the table and rested it on Hawke’s hand.

“Oh, Hawke, I’m so sorry,” she said.

“Yes, well, I’m sorry that Tamara died. But I don’t think we would have ever gotten married. The Mason Hawke she fell in love with is not the Mason Hawke who returned from the war.”

The train passed over a trestle and the noise of the bridge reverberated throughout the car. When it was over, the porter returned to their table.

“Sorry to have to run you off, folks, but we’re closin’ down now.”

“Thank you for allowing us to stay awhile,” Hawke said, handing the porter a dollar.

“Thank
you
, sir!” the porter said, brightening at the large tip. The porter hurried around to hold the chair for Flaire as she stood.

They had adjacent rooms in the Wagner parlor car, and Hawke walked her to her room, then waited until she opened the door.

“Good night,” Flaire said, stepping into her room quickly, as if denying any opportunity for him to kiss her.

“Good night,” Hawke said.

It was well over an hour later when he heard a light knock on his door. Hawke had gone to bed, but the lantern was still burning because he was reading the San Antonio newspaper.

“Who is it?” he called.

“It’s me,” Flaire replied.

Getting up quickly, Hawke opened the door, causing a wedge of light from the aisle lantern to spill into the room. Flaire was standing in the doorway.

“Please let me in,” she said. “I don’t think anyone saw me and I don’t particularly want to be seen standing outside your room.”

Hawke moved to one side and she came in, then closed the door behind her.

“Is something wrong?” Hawke asked.

“No, nothing is wrong,” Flaire said. She slipped off the long cotton duster she was wearing, and underneath, Hawke saw that she had on nothing but a silk-muslin chemise. The soft light of the lantern highlighted the thin garment, making it shimmer as if by its own golden light. Her nightgown draped her form like a filmy curtain, and the nipples of her breasts stood out in bold relief.

“Please tell me I’m not making a mistake,” she said.

Hawke shook his head. “I can’t tell you that,” he said. “That’s for you to decide.”

“This isn’t the first time I’ve come down here tonight.”

“Oh?”

Flaire shook her head. “This is the third time. Each time, I stood here, right outside of your door, but I couldn’t find the courage to knock. This time, I resolved to go through with it.”

Hawke smiled, then put his hand on her shoulder. “I’m glad you did, but you shouldn’t have had to take the chance of coming to me. I should’ve gone to you. Only, I didn’t know if you would welcome me.” He leaned down and kissed her.

“Hawke,” Flaire whimpered, and her quivering lips opened on his in a kiss that was both tender and urgent.

“Yes?”

“I’ve come this far. The rest is up to you. I’m afraid I have neither the courage to take this any further nor the strength to resist.”

“You’ve put me in an awkward position,” Hawke said. “I don’t want to take advantage of you.”

“I came this far of my own free will. You would not be taking advantage of me.”

Hawke needed no further urging to take the lead. He kissed her again, more urgently than before, and she responded by pushing her body against his.

Hawke reached down and scooped her up into his arms, then carried her over to the bed. He laid her on the bed and kissed her again, once more pulling her body against his, feeling her softness against the hardness of his muscles. His kisses became more demanding and Flaire became more responsive, positioning herself here and moving herself there to accommodate him. The tip of her tongue darted across his lips, then dipped into his mouth. The warmth Hawke felt erupted now to a raging inferno, and he began to pull at the hem of Flaire’s chemise while removing his own clothes, until they were naked against each other.

Hawke moved his hard, demanding body over her soft, yielding thighs and, poised above her, paused for a moment, as if giving her one last chance to resist. When she made no move to stop him, he went ahead.

Moses Gillespie’s wagon was loaded with the supplies the Bar-Z-Bar outfit would need to continue the drive. He had looked forward to coming into Salcedo because he had a particular friend who lived here and this would be the first time he had seen him in a long time.

Moses stopped in front of Sarge’s blacksmith shop. The
shop was closed now but a square of light splashed through a curtained window at the back.

“Sergeant Wright!” he called from the wagon. “Are you in there, you worthless bag of piss and vinegar? Come out here and I’ll whip your sorry black ass!”

There was a sound from inside the little cabin, then the door was pushed open, sending a bar of light splashing out to fall dimly on the forge, anvil, and tools of his trade.

Ken Wright’s large frame filled the door.

“Who the hell is that?” he called. “Who’s out here?”

“What do you mean who’s out here? I’m out here,” Gillespie said. “Private Moses Gillespie, company cook, reporting.” He saluted.

“Moses!” Ken said, smiling broadly. “Why you ugly old dried-up fart. What are you doing here?”

“I’m cooking for the Bar-Z-Bar outfit,” Moses said. “We’re moving a herd up to the railhead and we’re planning to camp for a few days just outside of town.”

“Well, climb down from that wagon and stay awhile,” Ken invited.

“Wait, wait,” Moses said. Turning, he began digging through a pile of canvas just behind the seat. After a moment of searching, he found what he was looking for and, triumphantly, held up a bottle.

“Never let it be said that Moses Gillespie visited a friend empty-handed. You do have a couple of glasses, don’t you? Or do we have to pass the bottle back and forth?”

“It wouldn’t be the first time you and me drank right from the bottle,” Ken said. “But I’ve got some glasses. Come on in.”

Hawke stuck his head through the door and looked up and down the aisle. Not seeing anyone, he signaled for Flaire to
come outside. Then he walked her back to her own bedroom compartment.

Flaire shivered.

“Are you cold?”

“No,” she said.

“Frightened?”

“A little.”

“Nobody has seen us.”

“That’s not what I’m frightened of.”

“Ah,” Hawke said, nodding. “You’re having second thoughts about what we did?”

“Yes. Well, not second thoughts about what we did, exactly. But I am having second thoughts about what you must think of me. Especially since I threw myself at you tonight.”

“Flaire, what happened tonight changes nothing about what I think of you. Before, and after, I thought of you as a beautiful, intelligent, and charming young woman.”

“I hope I didn’t give you the wrong idea. I’m not like this, I…I don’t know what got into me. I’m not a tramp, Hawke. Please don’t think that I am.”

Very gently, Hawke put his finger across her lips to shush her. Then he lifted her face to his.

He began to speak in a soft, rhythmic, almost melodious voice:

“Oh,” Flaire said. “Oh, that is lovely! Did you write that?”

“I wish I could claim credit,” Hawke said. “But it was written many years ago, by a man named George Etherege.”
Bending down toward her, he kissed her. “Good night,” he said.

“Good night,” she replied with a satisfied smile. He waited until she was safely inside with the door closed before he started back toward his own compartment

At the blacksmith shop, Moses looked around at Ken’s quarters and shook his head.

“My oh my, you got yourself a real nice place here, Sarge,” he said.

“Thanks,” Ken said, getting a couple of glasses down from the cupboard.

As Ken poured the drinks, Moses continued to look around. He saw a bow and a quiver of arrows, and he pointed to it.

“Where’d you get that?”

“You remember our Indian scout, Keytano?”

“Yeah, sure I remember him.”

“He made it for me, gave it to me when I left the army.”

“Do you know how to use it?”

Smiling, Ken picked up the bow and fitted an arrow into it. It wasn’t until then that Moses saw a target on the wall on the far side of the room. There were a lot of holes in the target, indicating that bow shooting had become one of Ken’s pastimes. He noticed also that there were very few holes outside the center disk of the target.

Ken loosed the arrow and it flew straight and true across the room, burying itself in the exact dead center of the bull’s-eye.

“Damn, Sarge!” Moses said, impressed. “You are good with that thing.”

“You want to try?” Ken offered, extending the bow toward him.

“No thanks,” Moses said. “I’d probably wind up shooting you in the foot or something. Or worse, shooting myself in the foot.”

Ken laughed, and Moses walked over to stand in front of a painting. It showed a mounted trooper at a gallop. He was twisted around in his saddle and firing his rifle back at pursuing Indians. One of the Indians was falling from his horse, having been hit by the trooper.

The trooper was black.

“This is a great painting,” Moses said.

“Thanks,” Ken responded. The glasses now full, he handed one to Moses.

“Where’d you find a painting like that? I didn’t think anyone had ever painted a picture of colored soldiers.”

“I painted it,” Ken said.

Moses looked around in surprise. “You painted it? I didn’t know you were a painter.”

Ken chuckled. “I didn’t either until I got out of the army. I came here and started this business.” He took in the place with a wave of his hand. “And I’m doing real good too. But it’s kind of lonesome here with no other colored folk around.

“Don’t get me wrong, some of the folks here is real nice. But for someone like me, there’s just not that much to do. So, I got me some paints and brushes and canvas, and next thing you know, I was paintin’ pictures.”

“Damn. You good, Sarge. You really good.” Moses studied the painting for a moment longer before turning back to Ken. “You loved the army, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“So tell me, then, why you got out. I mean, you was a sergeant and everything. You had it made.”

“Sit down,” Ken invited. “I’m going to tell you a story.”

Moses settled back in the proffered chair and took a swallow of his whiskey as Ken began talking.

“As I recollect, this happened about six months after you got out. A bunch of Injuns went bad and started spreadin’ their mischief aroun’, burnin’ a ranch here, killin’ a few miners and prospectors there…the kind of thing they’re good at doin’. But there wasn’t enough of ’em off the reservation to send out more’n a single company, so Colonel Hatch sent out just one troop of cavalry, D Troop.”

“That was your troop as I recollect,” Moses said.

“Yes, and Cap’n Bailey was the CO. You remember him?”

“Yeah, sure I remember him. I thought he was the best officer in the regiment. But after I got out, I heard tell that he got hisself into some kind of trouble and got court-martialed. What was all that about?”

“You goin’ to let me tell the story or not?”

“Yeah, sure, Sarge. Go ahead,” Moses said.

Ken was a good storyteller. And, like Ken, Moses was a veteran of dozens of field campaigns against the Indians, so it was very easy for Moses to project himself into the story Ken began telling.

“After Boots ’n’ Saddles, we set out after the Injuns. The plains was stretched out before us, sort of like motionless waves, one after another. As we come over each wave, why, we would see us another one ahead, and beyond that another one still.

“You’ve been on the march, Moses, you know what it’s like; the jangling equipment, squeaking leather, and that sort of dull thudding sound the horses’ hooves make.”

“Sure I know,” Moses said.

“They was a lot of grasshoppers out then too. Don’t know as I ever seen so many before or since, and the horses stirred ’em up so’s they whirred ahead of us. And, underneath, well, the dusty grass give off that smell. I can’t quite describe it.”

“You don’t need to describe it to me, Sarge. Once you smell that smell, you don’t never forget. And I done smell
that smell a million times,” Moses said, taking another swallow of his whiskey.

“Well, sir, we find us a burned-out wagon, and a man and woman. The man was already dead but the woman was still alive. She died pretty soon after we found ’er, but before she died, she told us that the injuns carried off their colored girl they had workin’ for ’em.

“About that time a courier come from the fort with the message that we been ordered to come back. But Cap’n Bailey said we ain’t comin’ back till we find the girl the Injuns took.”