Waltzing With Tumbleweeds (15 page)

Mohammed’s angular head darted about, watching, as though he was her guardian. Slowly his body threaded between her legs and emerged around her right thigh. The ribbed structure brushed her in private pleasure. As he continued his sensuous journey down her body, her belly was free to rise and fall with the gentle gyrations of her hips. Then as if ordered, the serpent began his slow ascent up her body. His retreat quickened her breathing and in response, her dance became more demanding. Salome began to hear the bawdy shouts and lurid jeers of hundreds of men. Though always ghostly and far away, she could still hear
them. The sounds did not diminish the pleasure she experienced whenever she performed.

When she knelt to put the serpent back, she noticed Harold’s pallor.

“You’ve seen the first dance,” she said softly, realizing Sidney was not there as usual to collect the money.

He tossed something that struck heavy in the sand. Her breath caught in her throat. Swallowing back her excitement least she destroy his image of her, she rose and began to hum. The sun glinted on her jewelry. Then she looked directly into Harold’s eyes.

She saw that the cob-webbed recesses of his brain had been cleared. The youthful clarity of Adam replaced his former look. Yes, she had transformed Harold into becoming the first man, Adam. The serpent had shown him, lied, promised, coerced him into believing this was Eden and she was the first Eve. The power of Harold’s manhood had been restored at this dry fountain of youth. Salome knew Harold could taste the apple. One at a time, she shed the layers of gauzy veils which fluttered to the sparkling stage floor. Her body became a loom. Dreamlike, she wove a promise for her audience that grew in intensity with each discarded thread.

Salome knew her power. Men would scream for her to go faster, as
though she could deliver some relief from the pressures building within their skulls. They wanted her to help them escape the obsession that she had created.

Then the dance was over.

She dropped to the prayer rug and knelt; the last vestige of strength drained from her body.

The thud of two more heavy objects struck the sand. The sound took her breath. Deliberate, she kept her eyes closed, afraid to open them and discover that she had merely dreamed the entire episode.

“Yes, sirree.” Harold’s voice sounded dry and weak. “I’ve spent fortunes on a lot less than your dancing. I’m obliged for mine and Myra’s freedom. We’ll be going, before you change your mind about releasing us.”

Salome raised up. She studied the man’s back, his step lighter; his shoulders thrown back like a younger man. She could faintly hear his prattle with the burro.

“Yes, Myra, you seen things that ain’t been done on this earth in thousands of years. Best of all, we’ve escaped old Lucifer again... but it’s mighty sure he’s around here somewhere.”

Salome expected him to look back, but he did not. With weak hands, she reached for the nearest canvas bag. Her heart raced and her ragged
pulse beat at her throat as she fumbled with the drawstrings.

Gold dust. Each bag was full to the seams with genuine gold. A fortune was hers. Tears blinded her as she considered what she must do next.

Burdened by the heavy gold pouches that she hugged in her arms, Salome hurried to the van. The eastbound stage would soon be coming. Sidney could have the costume; she tore off the last veils. He could have the hated wig too, Salome threw it aside.

She viciously brushed her own hair and studied the image in the mirror to be sure she was not dreaming. The animals, Jo Jo and Mohammed must go along with her on the stagecoach. She could not leave them for Sidney to abuse. She had danced her last dance and played her last role as an enticer of men’s dreams. And she’d given new life to one old man and his burro.

Her elbows dripping with sudsy water, Rhettia hoisted a pair of heavy sodden pants from the tub. The muscles between her slender shoulder blades complained as she tossed the soapy britches into the rinse tub.

Hands on her hips, she arched her back to ease the dull ache at the base. The thin blouse that hugged her breasts was soaked down the front and the material strained against her nipples. She pushed back her wavy brown hair, then bent to remove another pair of pants.

Horse hooves clumped on the hard ground in the alley. Rhettia paused. One rider—perhaps more—were coming up past her tall backyard fence. When they passed the place where the board was missing, she craned her head to see who it was.

An iron gray horse entered her vision, the rider wearing a canvas duster. Her eyes widened as the man dismounted and
opened the gate.

“Ma’am,” he said in a very cultured sounding drawl. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but I need to check my horse’s shoe. Do you mind?”

Too shocked to speak, she shook her head woodenly. He turned his back to her and raised the gray horse’s foot.

She was curious about him, guessing his age to be mid-thirties. He was slender, under six foot tall. Because of the duster, she couldn’t see if he wore a side arm but the brass plate of a rifle glistened behind his stirrup.

He seemed to hold the hoof up for a long time. Rhettia dried her hands on a rag as she waited for him to release it and straighten up. When she glanced down, she blinked in horror at the dark rings of her nipples and she quickly turned her back to him. Her face grew hot with embarrassment. What should she do to cover herself?

“Ma’am?” the stranger asked quietly. “Could you spare me a tall drink of water?”

She started to turn then noticed the shawl on the short line across the porch. She pulled it free by the corner and covered her shoulders, draping the ends over her breasts to conceal her exposure.

“Yes,” she said. “I’ll get one from the house.”

He thanked her and turned back to check his saddle. As she went indoors for his water, Rhettia wondered what the stranger did for a living.

When she returned, he stood at the edge of the porch stoop. His good looks shocked her. He was very tanned with a strong lean face. She offered him a demure nod as she handed him the glass.

“I certainly appreciate this. I’m sorry I’ve interrupted your work.”

She watched him take a long swallow, his Adam’s apple moving smoothly.

“I needed a break anyway.”

“Yes, washing clothes is hard work.” He looked around the small yard. “I’ve never lived in town. Guess I never realized how crowded it was.”

Rhettia wondered where he lived.

“Thanks,” he returned the glass and dug in his shirt
pocket, producing a silver dollar that he held out for her to take.

Shocked at the idea of someone paying a dollar for a drink of water, she quickly refused his generosity. The stranger closed his hand over the dollar and walked away.

Rhettia watched him gather his reins and slip them over the gray horse’s head. But he turned back before she could avert her eyes and his warm smile caused her to blush. He reined the horse around, then with a devilish laugh, he flipped the coin into her washtub.

He looked right at her. “Jesse James always pays his debts.” Then like a gentleman touched the wide brim of his hat. “Have a good day, ma’am.”

Jesse James? Rhettia’s breath caught in her throat. Numb, she watched him hold the gate open and nudge the horse with his heel into the alley.

What was Jesse James doing in Minnesota? Should she warn the authorities? But he seemed so polite? All those stories about Jesse being a killer and outlaw, why this man must not have been the same one. With a shake of her head,
she went back to her tubs. Reaching down in the water, she seined out the dollar from among the sunken clothes.

Down the street, gunfire abruptly disrupted the quiet afternoon. Rhettia’s head jerked up as she listened to the distant shooting.

Well, maybe the stories had been true after all. With a shrug, she put the dollar in her skirt pocket and bent back over the washtub.

The blue sky was all he could see. Cold seeped into Jake’s clothing. Lying on his back was why all he saw was the damn sky. If he turned, his cheek would be in the snow. Warm blood leaked out of the bullet hole in his side, soaked through his shirt into the fleece-lined jacket and puddled under his back.

Too weak to rise, now, how much precious blood would he spill before he died? Fighting to remain conscious, he wondered if angels would come for him. Jake had seen such winged messengers. They were naked, painted on a canvas in the Silver Dollar Saloon. In his final hours on earth he’d like to see naked angels. Maybe they’d even hug him and make him warm again.

Damn, he’d soon die out in the middle of no-where, ten miles west of Dodge. Jake Mahaffey would expire. His whole body shivered, just awful cold dying.

No angels without clothes were coming for him. Who was he trying to fool? Not himself, certainly not some God he didn’t believe in, not in these last moments of his life, there would be no heavenly intervention for Jake Mahaffey.

He needed a drink of whiskey. Liquor with a kick. Real fire water that would burn his throat going down; even heat his ears. Why didn’t some barkeep come by? He had money to pay him—lots of money.

Jake thought of Thelma. Her voluptuous body spilling out of her satin undergarments standing before him. Two pillows for lips, the curve of her sensuous belly, the pleasure between her short legs. The notion warmed him more than the dead January sun overhead. If Thelma knew of his condition, she would cry and beg him not to die. He hoped she’d cry later, when she learned the news of his death. No one else would.

Jake could barely remember his mother, a breed who sold her body to enlisted soldiers. The lowest form of a dove, she died of TB at a very young age. Her death left Jake on his own as a pre-teen.

Vividly, Jake recalled the first man he’d ever shot. Silvan Cates, a broad shouldered bully with a matted beard, the breath of a gut eating dog and wearing dirt glazed buckskins. For no reason other than pure meanness, Silvan had knocked the thirteen-year-old Jake to the ground, then kicked him, spat on him and called him the spawn of scum.

It required two hours that day for Jake to steal a pistol. A cap and ball model, the Walker Colt was so heavy it took both of his hands to steady the muzzle. Jake strode into the sutler’s store. To keep the Colt concealed, he cocked the hammer back by his side. Quickly before the shock of recognition could warn Cates, Jake raised the revolver and aimed at the man’s heart. The shot blew Silvan Cates over backwards in his chair. There was a cloud of eye burning smoke and confusion in the room. Jake ran outside, stole Cates’ horse and fled Fort Laramie. From then on Jake lived by the gun and his wits.

He preyed on the defenseless. The single traveler or an individual wagon on the trail became his victims. Jake robbed, raped, and murdered and he let the Indians have the blame.

When his eyelids grew heavy, Jake shut them. At last he began to feel warm. Earlier that morning, he had trailed the Texan out of Dodge. Flush with cattle sales money, the soft spoken rancher looked like an easy target. Jake expected to enjoy a lush time all winter on the proceeds from this robbery and murder.

But as life’s final ebb tide began to drain away, Jake managed to ask
one last question aloud. “How in hell’s name could such a slow talker have been so damn fast with a gun?”

The bitter wind answered him, but only Jake heard, then he died.

Cal blinked his burning eyes, wondering if the haze of his hangover was distorting his vision. A woman stood at the foot of his bed and she definitely was not the usual sort of female that frequented his shack in Tucson’s shanty row. This particular gal wore a spotless starched dress She was a lady and he didn’t have the faintest notion what she was doing in his place.

“California Jones?” she asked in a very cultured voice.

Cal sat up straight on the bed and scowled in pained disbelief at her beauty.

“I might be Jones,” he said with that he scratched his left ear and then tossed aside the thin green blanket, exposing his faded red underwear.

The woman gasped and quickly turned her face away.

“That’s right, you look off over there and I’ll get dressed.”

“You are California Jones?” she asked, sounding concerned about his true identity.

Who in the cat hair did she think he was? Wyatt Earp? He nodded in admission as he pulled on his waist overalls, then he realized she was not looking at him and spoke up in a gruff voice. “That’s my name. What’s yours lady?”

“Colleen Swain.”

He wrinkled his nose at the sour smelling shirt he picked off the nail on the wall. Never heard of her before. He frowned and silently repeated her name to himself as if to draw recognition from some recesses of his foggy brain. It still meant nothing to him.

“Don’t reckon we’ve ever met,” he said as he shoved his arms into the shirt. “You can turn around now,” he said, primed for her next move. “If you come to preach for my soul, save your breath, sister. Better men than you have tried before. I don’t give to needy causes either because I ain’t got nothing and besides I like my way of life and ain’t fixing to change.”

She raised her chin up, drew her shoulders back. “I have come here on business.”

“What kinda business?” he asked, taken back.

“I’ve come to hire you.”

“I don’t take care of no lawns and gardens. Go two doors down. That old Messikin, Jesus Juarez, he’ll help you.” He pointed in that direction. but she stood unwavering and he began to wonder what her real purpose was in being there.

“The Apaches have taken my son. I want him back.” She finished and chewed on her lower lip. Close to tears, she wrung her hands to control herself as she waited for his reply.

He shook his head slowly. “If the Apaches got your boy, you need the law or the army, ma’am. not me”

“But they’ve searched or so they tell me.” Her blue eyes began to flood. She turned away and dappled at them with a small handkerchief. “My Teddy is out there, Mr. Jones and they haven’t found a sign of him.” She drew up her shoulders and turned to face him. “They say you can do things with the renegades.”

He felt her stare. There was a time that he could have helped—he wanted to tell her something. Sunshine streamed in the dirt streaked windows illuminating her fine features. She looked to him like a gold nugget in a pile of debris. He dropped his head in defeat. “You’ve come to the wrong place for that kinda help.”

He squeezed his eyes to shut out the pounding at his temples. His tongue felt too thick for his mouth—he needed a drink. Why didn’t she leave—he’d done told her he couldn’t help her. She wanted to pin him down. He avoided looking at her as the cot protested his sitting down on it.

“Go see the military.” He stared at the floor for strength to tell her. “Look at me lady. I’m nothing like the man you want.” His coughing began and it grew deeper until he bent over, fearing he would not stop until all his air was gone.

He waved her help away. Finally half strangled but regaining his breath, he looked up at the knock on the door. Who else was coming?

Before he could rise to answer it, Gladys Newton, his neighbor and drinking partner burst in. Gladys stopped at the sight of Mrs. Swain and clasped her hand to her mouth.

“Hell, Cal. Why excuse me?” Her paunchy figure blocked the doorway, she acted undecided whether to come in or not. She drew in a deep breath exposing a generous portion of her large bosom in the low cut dress. “I didn’t realize you had company.”

“This here’s Mrs. Swain. But she’s leaving,” he said with a wave of his hand. “But you could have saved yourself a trip. Ain’t a drop of anything to drink left in this house.”

With some effort, Gladys came inside and looked at the stranger. “Nice to meetcha ma’am.” At that point, she kind of curtsied as much as her fat legs would bend. “Any friend of Cal’s is a friend of mine.”

“Yes, er—nice to meet you too, Gladys.”

“By gad, Jonesy,” Gladys said with a knowing chuckle and a wink at him, “You got yourself a real looker this time. I better get back—over there. And let you two get on with—ah, your business, huh?”

“Go on Gladys,” he said in disapproval as she lumbered out the door laughing like a hyena. “Don’t mind her, ma’am, she don’t mean no harm.”

“I guess you can see, I’m not easily put off Mr. Jones,” Colleen said, with a deep swallow to punctuate her sentence. “I want you to bring my son back to me.”

Cal sighed aloud. Why did this stubborn woman persist to torment him? “Lady, if them Apaches did take him and I’m saying that because you need to know, he more than likely is dead by now—”

She gave him a short nod to continue. She was tough, he decided, but she better realize the chances that boy was dead were ten times more likely than finding him alive.

“Why I don’t even have a horse or anything.”

She pounced like a mountain lion on his excuse. “You can use my late husband’s things. I’ll get you any supplies you need.”

Cal knew he was licked. She would never leave until she’d badgered him into going on this wild goose chase. “I should have figured you was a widow woman coming here all alone and all.”

“Yes,” she said subdued. “My husband was killed when they took Teddy captive.”

Cal recalled something about the businessman getting murdered down on the San Pedro and the son being taken off by the raiders. He scratched the thin hair on top his head, trying to recall how long ago he’d heard of the raid.

“They say you know these people. That you once lived with them.”

He nodded. “Some—I scouted and rode with them, but it was a long time ago.”

“You’re my last hope.” She wet her lips and drew her shoulders back. “And if he—Teddy, is not alive then I want to I know that too.” Then she shook her head so slightly. “It is the
not knowing
that is so hard.”

He couldn’t stand to watch her any longer; he dropped his gaze to the floor. What could it hurt? Besides he was flat broke and she would pay him to go search. He knew some camps in the mountains. But they were many miles from Tucson—could he even ride that far? What the hell? When he got back, he and Gladys would drink her money up and rejoice.

“Where’s your place?” he asked.

“Then you’ll take the job?”

“Hold on here.” He held up both hands to settle her down. “I’ll ride out in the hills and ask some Injuns I know. They may or may not have heard of this boy. He may be in old Mexico by now.” He wanted to be certain she understood he might come back empty handed.

“I understand, Mr. Jones. I just know you will find Teddy.”

“Where do you live?” he asked, feeling uncomfortable at her words.

“Oh yes, on Fifth Street, third house from the corner of Congress.”

“I’ll find you. Give me a quarter.”

Colleen frowned at his outstretched hand. “What ever for?”

“I need a bath and a haircut, lady. I smell too bad to stay sober for long.”

Without hesitation, she withdrew two quarter from her reticule and placed them in his hand.

“Thanks,” he said and closed his fist over the coins. “I’ll be along in an hour or so. Have someone saddle that horse, put some grub in a sack, couple small sacks of corn too and fill a couple of canteens with water.” He scratched his right ear, something inside it was itching like hell. “I’ll need a rifle and some shells.” He rose and walked her to the door still deeply engrossed in his needs.

“I’ll have it all ready. Will you need money to trade for him?”

“Money? No. Let’s see, I’ll need four or five bottle of whiskey. That should do it.” He looked directly into her eyes, expecting to hear a protest at his demand for liquor. To his surprise, she quickly withdrew some bills from her purse and handed them to him.

“You’ll have to buy it,” she apologized and then she started for the rig parked at his fallen down yard gate.

“Ma’am,” he called out to her. “Try not to worry yourself sick. If he’s alive and in the country, mind you, I’ll try to find him. Worrying won’t help a thing.”

She turned back dabbing at her eyes and forced a nod in gratitude. “Thank you, Mr. Jones.”

Q Q Q

Two hours later smelling like a Chinese laundry in his clean clothes and bathed, he arrived at her front door. He had allowed himself two short beers, which entitled him to a free boiled egg lunch at McCarthy’s Saloon.
On her front step, he belched loud enough to wake the dead, then rapped on her door. In the time between their meeting and his recovery, he had grown more doubtful about the boy’s chances of being alive, but decided not to go over that with her again. She knew the risks—he certainly wasn’t God.

“Oh, Mr. Jones, you’ve kept your word.” She stepped back to invite him in.

“You figure I’d light out on some drunk?” he demanded.

“There were folks said,
—
”

“Listen, I been keeping my word all my life. That’s beside the point, is that horse saddled?” He followed her into the spacious living room.

“Yes, he’s ready out back.”

“I hope we can wrap this whiskey better, so it makes the ride,” he said showing her the poke he carried.

“I have some towels?”

“Sounds awfully good to use for that.” He looked around her fine house and felt helpless at what else to wrap the glass bottles with.

“No, they would work.” She rushed off to get some. A maid returned with her and they made quick work of wrapping the half dozen bottles of golden liquor. He didn’t want to even look at the whiskey as they tied the Turkish towels with string at the neck of each quart. Damn he needed a drink—powerfully bad. His molars nearly floated away thinking how good the rye would taste flowing down his throat. He used his index finger to pry some breathing room between his neck and the stiff collar.

“There, Mr. Jones, they should ride that way,” she said proudly as she repacked them in the cotton sack he intended to hang from the saddle horn.

He took the bag and then looked hard at the tile floor. “I don’t want you to get your hopes all up. I may not find a thing out there.”

Colleen shook her head violently. “I will not give up hope. My son is alive out there. I know it!”

“All right, Mrs. Swain.” He followed her through the house, not satisfied that her intuition was right.

He rode out of Tucson on the powerful sorrel horse; the whiskey bottles in the tow sack against his left knee, the 44/40 under his right leg in the scabbard. In his shirt pocket he carried a tintype, the one she’d given him. Teddy looked like a strapping boy. Somewhere out there someone knew something about the lad’s whereabouts or his demise. Cal’s half squinted eyes studied through the glare of the desert, past the saw tooth mountains he would find the answer about Teddy’s fate if he was lucky. His tongue grew thicker with each mile he rode, water never quenched the greater thirst.

Four days later, he still rode through the empty canyons. No wickiups, only a few old fire rings in the cactus forested hills where he had expected to locate some of them; he found no inhabited rancherias.

In late afternoon he crossed over a range and descended a narrow trail into a chasm. A hint of something teased his nose. When he drew closer, he spotted a grass wickiup under a palo verde. At last, he’d found a camp and the notion gave him new strength.

A bare-headed Apache male came out with a single shot rifle. Cal reined in his horse, his movement slow and non-hostile. He took a hard look at the man and surmised him to be a reservation deserter. The absence of black war paint was one clue; the other fact that convinced Cal was that the rifle was not cocked.

“You have come a long ways?” the Apache asked in his own tongue.

“Yes, but I am not the Army or the Indian police.”

The man nodded he heard and waved for him to approach. “We once rode together. I know you.”

Cal squinted to recall the man’s name. A teenage girl came outside and took the reins to his horse.

“My woman will care for it,” the Apache said regarding his horse. “My name is Billy Good and I remember yours, it is Jones.”

Cal nodded he’d heard the man as he took a small sack from his saddlebags to give to her, before he let her have the reins. When she led the sorrel away he stepped closer to Billy.

“It’s been a long time. Why aren’t you at San Carlos?”

Billy never answered as he indicated to Cal to enter the lodge. He knew when Indians did not wish to speak of something, they ignored the question.