Читать книгу The Third Western Megapack - Johnston McCulley - Страница 8

DESERT VENUS, by Lonni Lees

Caleb Crosby held tight to his poker hand as the floor shook and the overhead chandelier in the Crystal Palace Saloon swayed threateningly overhead. The whiskey bottles behind the bar clanked a staccato melody as they hit against each other, several of them breaking as they teetered off the shelf, spilling their golden liquid and scattering shards of glass across the floor. The other three players at the poker table fled to the front exit, leaving their cards and their wagers behind them. Caleb smiled, feeling the earth move beneath him as if he were on a wild bronco.

He was enjoying the adrenaline rush of the ride.

The surly bartender dove behind the bar and hugged the wood planked floor. Caleb heard him yell as the large painting above the bar came crashing down, its heavy frame splintering as it hit the bartender and the floor with a crash. They must’ve thought the world was coming to an end and they were all being cursed for their wicked ways. The piano player, who had been playing “Angels Without Wings” stopped abruptly, his eyes as big as serving platters as his fingers froze in mid-air above the ebony and ivory keys. The dance hall girls screamed, their painted faces distorted in fear. Their gaudy dresses rustled as they ran out to the street, leaving their customers and the best damn saloon in Tombstone in their wake.

Caleb held onto his cards with one hand, and his Stetson with the other and stayed put. He could see clouds of dust rising from outside the window and people scurrying like rats in all directions. He took a drag from his cheroot, lay his cards on the table, reached across and scooped up the pile of cash. Some folks, the more superstitious ones, might see an earthquake as an omen of doom and disaster. Caleb saw it as an opportunity. I guess I won that hand, he thought as he shoved the money into the pockets of his Levi’s. His poker partners were a bunch of sissies. They’d lost the game as soon as they’d run off like a bunch of skittish she-folk. He slowly rose from his chair, reached down and picked up his glass, gulping down the last few drops of his whiskey. He’d seen a hell of a lot of dangers in his travels and no blasted earthquake was gonna intimidate him.

He walked slowly out of the saloon to where his strawberry roan stood tethered at the hitching post. The horse was dancing back and forth like a four legged can-can girl, snorting and whinnying frantically as it pulled against its reins.

“Whoa down there Shenandoah,” he said in a calming voice, stroking its neck. “Tain’t nothin’ to get yourself all riled up over.”

He untied the horse, swung himself onto the saddle and rode calmly out of town, leaving the panic and bedlam of Tombstone behind him.

* * * *

Caleb Crosby and his horse took their time as they headed across the barren landscape towards Tucson. They’d come a long way since he deserted the Confederate army and headed westward. There’d been no set destination, nothing beyond escaping the chaos. He’d had enough killing and mayhem to last a lifetime. There was never a good enough reason for brothers and neighbors and strangers murdering one another. The whole fiasco wasn’t worth the acres of dead bodies. He’d looked into the eyes of the last Union soldier he’d killed, watched as the last flicker of life drained from him, a young lad barely in his teens. None of it made a stitch of sense.

He’d thrown his Enfield rifle onto the blood-soaked dirt where the boys body lay, tossed the bullets in the grass and walked calmly away. About a hundred miles down the road Caleb realized that he’d damn well better be armed. He was heading into wild, unfamiliar territory and only the good lord himself knew what he’d run into. He bought a Remington “Improved Army Revolver” single action and hoped to hell he’d never have need to use it. He’d been lucky, for the most part. But going through New Mexico, not long after Apache Chief Geronimo surrendered in Skeleton Canyon, his path crossed a couple renegade savages bent on killing anyone who wasn’t red. Turnabout was fair play he figured, but not at his expense. They were down and dead in the dirt before they knew what hit them.

That’s how it was supposed to be. You kill to defend your own skin. You don’t do it because someone else decides you oughtta, damned Washington politicians most of all.

* * * *

A long two days out of Tombstone territory, they moseyed into Tucson, dirty and covered in trail dust. He was travel weary and his life in the south was but a distant memory. Anyways, poor Shenandoah was likely a hell of a lot more worn out than himself. He might just call this place home, maybe start up a small rancho or something. Maybe even find a missus. It was time to settle into a new life and this place looked as good as any.

He put his roan up in a livery stable on Main Street then walked up to Congress and checked into a small hotel, took a hot bath and flopped onto the squeaky mattress for a nap. It was a might more comfortable than the desert floor. He awoke to a night time sky outside his window and a screaming stomach. After dressing in his Sunday best and holstering his gun, he filled up his empty gut in the hotel dining room, then walked out the front door to check out his new surroundings.

The light inside Madame Eleanor’s damn near blinded him as he walked into its parlor.

“Gotta leave yer gun at the door,” came a voice from his left. “Don’t need no trouble here.” He adjusted his eyes to the light, then reluctantly handed over his gun before entering the room. It was a right pretty place with dark green wallpaper and lush oriental rugs. There were real crystal chandeliers like in his plantation back home, before the Union soldiers had burned it to the ground. He looked around the room, at a fancy bar and poker tables. A darkie was playing a fine piano off in the corner. Soiled doves lounged on sofas, with rouged cheeks and redder lips, as they waited for customers looking to scratch their itches. There were blondes and brunettes and redheads, skinny ones and curvaceous ones and fat ones. And there was a Chinese girl with long black hair and tiny bound feet who couldn’t have been more than fourteen. And a high-yellow negress in a bright red silk dress.

Off in a far corner was a woman who had to be Madame Eleanor. Not even the most desperate of men would have bedded her, not even for free. Ugly as a javelina she was, but dressed in Paris’s best with fancy jewels and a feather boa wrapped around her fat neck and a toothy smile on her face.

But it was the woman sitting with her that caught Caleb’s attention. She was the most beautiful creature he’d ever laid eyes on. Her hair was the color of midnight with eyes just as dark and mysterious. Perfect white teeth contrasted with a complexion as burnished as the desert landscape. She didn’t need that one lone feather in her hair to tell what she was. She was a half-breed for sure, but the prettiest damn injun he’d ever seen.

Before the night was over, that was the lady he wanted to take upstairs!

Caleb headed off for a poker table, sat down, and joined the game. Those games kept his stomach full and Shenandoah in oats through their long journey and his wallet needed some fattening. He kept looking over at the exotic woman, distracted, knowing he’d gladly empty every last penny from his pockets just to be with her close up and naked. She had a face that promised she was as wild on the mattress as she looked.

“And I heard the rocks were falling from Picket Post Mountain,” said the man sitting across from him as he toyed with his handlebar moustache.

“Biggest damn quake ever,” said another.

“The earth was shakin’ from Mexico to all the way up past Superior,” said the first man.

“I heard that the top of Picket Post Mountain fell right off,” said the scrawny third guy in his squeaky voice. Awed, he was, like it was some kind of magic instead of merely nature doing what she does best. Just when you start thinking things are gonna be easy nature comes along and slaps you alongside the head with an earthquake or a flood or whatever else she can muster.

“I saw fissures on the desert floor,” said Caleb. “All the way from Tombstone to here.”

Name’s Caleb,” he added. “Deal me in gentlemen.”

They played their hands and exchanged their stories. Caleb won enough for what he needed, careful not to win so much as they’d suspect he was playing with something hidden up his sleeve. These men would likely be his new neighbors, after all. Finally, he stood and scooped up his conservative winnings.

“I’m thinking it’s time to go upstairs,” he said with a wink and turned in the direction of the raven haired beauty. The man with the moustache caught him by the arm.

“I better fair warn you,” he said. “That there is Mrs. Wembly and she’s hands off unless you want to get yerself shot.”

“She ain’t one of the girls,” said another with a snicker, “Not no more anyways.” The other men laughed as they held their cards, shaking their heads like they were in on some inside joke.

Caleb didn’t understand.

“She comes here to hide away from her husband,” said the man with the moustache. “And he’s the most powerful man in these parts. Rich as a sultan he is, and deadly as a scorpion. He ain’t nobody you want to mess with, if you know what’s good for you.”

The front door flew open and a man entered the parlor. Nobody asked him for his gun as he strutted into the room. Caleb could see from the man’s clothes and his badge that he was a sheriff’s deputy so he expected all hell to break loose. But everyone just glanced at the man then went about their business. The whores just smiled and whispered in each others ears. The deputy was a tall one, a good six foot three at least. He appeared even taller and more intimidating as his eyes scanned the room before landing on the beauty who sat in the corner conversing with Madame Eleanor.

“Venus!” The deputy called out. “Venus Wembly, get yerself over here! Roscoe’s looking for you and he’s spitting nails.” He stomped across the room and grabbed her roughly by the arm, jerking her up from her chair.

“Leave me be,” she protested, then looked over and straight into Caleb’s eyes. It was like a jolt of lightening stabbed through him and time froze. Her expression was pleading but there was something else in the way her mouth turned up in the corners as she faintly smiled at him. Something stirred deep inside of him and damn near made his heart stop.

The deputy yanked her arm and escorted her to the door.

“Don’t you dare tell Mr. Wembly where you found me!” she protested.

And they were gone.

The men at the poker table laughed.

“The deputy won’t tell Wembly nothing.”

“Hell, everybody in town knows she comes here.”

“Everybody but Mr. Wembly hisself.”

“I’ll wager she’ll be back within two days.”

“That ain’t no bet. You know well as the rest of us that she always comes back.”

And when she comes back I’m gonna be here waiting, Caleb thought to himself.

* * * *

The next three days in Caleb Crosby’s life was filled with images of the beautiful desert Venus. Every day he walked down to Madame Eleanor’s bordello and sat at the end of the bar, sipping whisky and listening to the piano and waiting for her to walk through the door. On the evening of day two one of the fallen angels caught his eye. She was a cute little thing named Miss Dixie, with bright blue eyes that sparkled and a line of freckles that marched across her turned up nose like fire ants. But it wasn’t her sweet good looks that had attracted him. It was the soft southern accent that reminded him of home, evoking memories of the genteel world he’d left behind.

He’d watched her backside wiggle to and fro as he followed Miss Dixie up the stairs and into her room. She undressed, exposing a pert little bosom with nipples as pink as a newborn babies lips. She was delightful and charming and tight as a virgin, but the whole time he was rutting her he was haunted by the face of the beautiful half breed.

He didn’t bother taking another girl upstairs after that.

By day three everyone greeted him when he came through the door, just like he was an old friend. He was liking Tucson and found it downright friendly. He took his place at the end of the bar and the barman set down a bottle of his favorite whiskey. By early evening the sin palace was alive with laughter. It was in full swing as patrons crowded in and music played and the poker tables filled to capacity.

And then she walked in, holding her head high and proud. She stretched her arms outward as she walked across the carpeted floor to where Madame sat on a velvet couch. Sitting next to her she immediately leaned into the older woman’s shoulder and began to cry. Caleb wanted to run to her, hold her in his arms and comfort her. But he also didn’t want to end up with a bullet for his trouble. To feast on her beauty would have to be enough. Then Venus turned and looked directly at him, her dark eyes burning, and he knew nothing would ever be enough.

He held his breath as Venus Wembly rose and walked in his direction. And he saw the dark blue bruises along her cheek and the swelling around her eyes. She slowed her gait as she neared him, and as she passed him she whispered softly.

“The alley out back. Ten minutes.”

And she was out the door.

* * * *

The stars shone like a million fireflies above the two figures who stood in the shadows. The full moon’s filtered glow softly touched her face as Mrs. Wembly looked up at the handsome stranger who stood before her.

“I saw a kindness in your face,” she said. “And I haven’t seen gentleness in a very long time.” She leaned in close, letting her shoulder brush against him. Sympathy and lust fought a battle within Caleb as he looked into her beautiful, bruised face and the tears that welled in her eyes. He wanted to protect her. He wanted to ravage her. He didn’t know what to say.

“Perhaps sir, we could go somewhere and talk?” she said.

She kept looking nervously over her shoulder as they walked through the darkened alleys to his hotel and entered through the back door. They tiptoed up the stairs to his room. He touched her cheek as they sat beside each other on the edge of his bed.

“Pray tell Mrs. Wembly, what happened?” he asked.

“Mr. Wembly finds pleasure in my pain,” she said. “He beats me. He does other, more beastly things, that I am forced to endure as well. Shameful things.”

“Why don’t you leave him?” he asked. “It seems a simple solution.”

“He would hunt me down and kill me.”

“It would appear that he’s killing you now. Only more slowly.”

“He’s a powerful man who gets what he wants.” Hesitantly, she confided in him. There were few choices for a woman. Especially a woman like her. She could have stayed at the reservation and lived a life of poverty. Or become a servant in a white man’s house. Or sell herself and maintain some modicum of control over her life. But she had found that life degrading and unbearable. Then Mr. Wembly had rescued her from her life of sin at Madame Eleanor’s and married her. He had given her social prestige and beautiful clothes. And broken bones and bruises.

Caleb didn’t judge her. He understood. Sometimes life deals a bad hand and we have to play it as best we can. He held her close. Before long they lay side by side naked and as he ran his hands along her flesh he saw the bruises and scars that marred her beautiful body. His heart went out to her. They made love with an urgency and fire he’d never known before. Her passion for him was as intense as his for her. They met clandestinely night after night, disappearing in each others embrace. He wanted this woman more than anything else in life.

“It was fate that brought me here, I know that now,” he said. “We were destined to be together.”

“I love you Caleb.”

“Let’s run away. We could go to Yuma or maybe out to San Francisco where he’d never find us.”

“Or you could kill him,” she whispered as she touched her lips to his.

* * * *

The next day Caleb was troubled by what Venus had suggested the night before. He stayed in his hotel room. He’d vowed that all the killing was behind him. That he’d never again pull the trigger. Could he do it for the woman he loved? For the woman who loved him? Surely her husband was a monster and was deserving of his wrath, but was that the only solution? This was a decision he didn’t want to make. He’d have to convince Venus Wembly that they could run off and be safe. Surely it would be safer than the possibility of facing the hangman.

That night, after they’d made love, they talked. And she agreed to his plan. She’d go home and pack and sneak out later. And they’d meet up to start a new life in a new place. Caleb walked her down the stairs and into the darkness.

A short, stout man stepped out of the shadows and walked toward them. “You whore. You harlot!” he said as he walked toward them. It was Roscoe Wembly and his face was distorted in rage. Venus took two steps backward as her furious husband raised his pistol and aimed it at her.

Before he had a chance to think, Caleb unholstered his Remington and pumped two bullets into him. They hit their mark and Roscoe Wembly fell to the ground. Dead. Caleb turned as the tall deputy that he had seen escort Venus from Miss Eleanor’s appeared from nowhere, his gun aimed straight at Caleb.

“Wait,” he said to the deputy. “He was aiming to kill Mrs. Wembly and I was defending her!”

The deputy smiled calmly as he pulled the trigger and shot Caleb just below the heart. Slowly he folded to the ground, his fingers slipping from Venus’s warm hand as he fell. He looked up as she walked over to the deputy, laughing as she tore her dress.

“I told Roscoe where to find you and he flew here faster than lightning, just like you said he would,” said the deputy.

“Perfect,” she said to him. “See, I told you Caleb was a sucker. I knew it the first time I laid eyes on him.” She sidled up to the deputy and kissed his cheek. “We’ve got it all now,” she said. “We’ve got Wembly’s fortune and we’ve got each other.”

A crowd began to gather and as Caleb lay dying he heard the deputy address them.

“The son of a bitch shot Mr. Wembly,” he said. “Damn good thing I showed up when I did.”

Venus was sobbing as she held her torn dress against her bosom. “I was walking with my husband and he came from nowhere and just shot him. Then he,” she wailed, “he attacked me!”

The crowd gasped in shock as Caleb Crosby breathed his last breath.