Slocum and Pearl of the Rio Grande Read online

  “You don’t know points. But you’d damn sure better learn them and quick.”

  Slocum shoved him backward with his free hand and holstered his Colt. “Now get the hell out of here and don’t come back.”

  “Who—” Ryan held his hands out to ward Slocum off. “I’m leaving.”

  “Good.” Slocum watched the two vaqueros fade out the door, and Ryan followed them.

  He paused at the door. “Slocum, you ain’t heard the last of this.”

  “They got a newspaper here?” Slocum asked.

  “Why?”

  “You better have your funeral notice written up if you ever try to charge me again.”

  Whatever Ryan said under his breath while going out the door, Slocum couldn’t understand.

  “He is a very bad hombre,” Casita said, looking concerned.

  Arturo came to the end of the bar. “He’s a big bully. Gracias, hombre.”

  Slocum raised his glass of whiskey to the man. “May he fall down and break his leg.”

  “Ah, that would be good for him,” Casita said, scooting close to Slocum again. “Poor Maria had to leave here last night, she feared him so much.”

  “Is there no law here?”

  “No,” she said. “The sheriff is on his payroll.”

  Arturo nodded.

  “Sounds to me like you folks have real problems.”

  She rose and squeezed his head between her palms to kiss him on the cheek. “Forget that bastardo. You and me, we have fun, no?”

  He put both hands on her slender hips. Their mouths met, and he imagined her short body under the thin clothing. Ah, Hispanic women often had few inhibitions.

  They drank his whiskey and slipped into a relaxed state. She spoke about her mother in Chihuahua and about the man she came up to San Juan to marry, how he had become ill and died before they could be blessed by the padre. Slocum figured that part was a fabrication that she used to justify being a puta.

  Soon, she was on her knees on top of the bench beside him, pressing her boobs into his arm and kissing him on the face and lips like a woman hungry for him or hungry for his attentions. Her small hands were like butterfly wings flitting over a plant. He was enjoying the attention, and the whiskey was releasing the tension of the past days.

  “Are you hungry?” she whispered, cupping her hand on his ear.

  “For what?” He blinked at her.

  “Food?”

  “No.”

  “Good,” she said, scooting off the bench. “Let’s go to my room.”

  “Can we drink back there?” he asked.

  As if caught off guard, she started to blush. “Sure.”

  Bottle and glasses in his hand, he unlimbered off the bench and, with Casita attached to his waist, started for the curtain door.

  The front door slammed open, and he turned back to see Perla standing in the shadowy light of the cantina. She blinked, then went to the bar and spoke to Arturo.

  “Who is she?” Casita whispered to Slocum with a frown of suspicion.

  “Señora Peralta.”

  “What does she want in here?” Casita whispered.

  “Señor,” the bartender called to Slocum. “This lady wishes to hire a guard. I told her about you.”

  He handed Casita the whiskey bottle and glasses, excused himself, then removed his hat. “Ah, Señora Peralta, good day.”

  “Señor. Oh, you are the man from the road?”

  “Yes.”

  “I would like to hire someone to guard the prize bull King Arthur.”

  “For how long?”

  “How long would you like to work?”

  Forever for you. “I mean, tonight or longer?”

  “The ranch is several days north of Española.” Her dark eyes looked hard at him like she expected him to open up to her.

  “Why hire a guard now?”

  “I don’t want anything to happen to him. He is a very expensive bull.”

  “You think the road beyond here is more dangerous?”

  “Yes, or I would have hired a guard sooner.”

  “What do you pay?”

  She nodded, looking as if she was about to dicker on the wages. “Thirty dollars to get me to the ranch.”

  “Pay me fifty and I’m your man.”

  “How do I know you can do it?”

  “Oh, he can do it,” Casita said. “He will be with you in one hour.”

  Perla swept off her flat-crowned hat and looked angrily at her. “Why?”

  Hands on her hips, feet apart, Casita glared at Perla. “ ’Cause he is mine for one hour.”

  Perla looked at the ceiling for help and tapped her hard boot sole on the packed dirt floor before she turned away for the door. Stopping, she spun around and cut a hard glace at Casita. “One hour is all you get. Then send him to me at the stables.”

  “Gracias, señora.” Casita bowed to her.

  Slocum gave Perla a hard nod of approval and she left.

  “Ah, cowboy, now you have work, no?”

  “And so do you.” He laughed aloud and caught Casita’s arm in his elbow.

  Halfway down the narrow hallway with her, Slocum could smell woman’s musk and cheap perfume. She showed him into her small room, which contained a bed, a chair, and a cross on the wall. Under it on a shelf, two candles in red glassware flickered. A black Sunday dress hung on the opposite wall. All of her earthly goods.

  She placed the whiskey and glasses on the small stand with the mirror. He began to toe off his boots, and she started to unbutton his shirt. Her small fingers worked swiftly as he undid his gun belt and hung it on the ladder-back chair.

  “Do you know that woman?” he asked.

  She smiled up from undressing him. “They own a large ranch.”

  That didn’t make sense to him. Why was a big rancher hiring a guard at the last minute? There was something there he’d have to learn all about. When his shirt was open, she kissed the trace of hair that ran down his middle over his flat belly. He undid his pants, and let them fall to his ankles as her mouth moved lower.

  Her short fingers closed around his shaft, pulling gently on it, and her lips began to nibble at the head. He clutched her ears. His fingers were busy teasing them. As his erection rose, she became caught up on in her own enthusiasm and took on more of the shaft. The hard roof of her mouth scoured the head while she sucked hard on it—in and out.

  Finally, he pulled her to her feet. Bleary-eyed and gasping for breath, she stripped her blouse off over her head. Then she wiggled out of her skirt, the red light of the candles reflecting off her cocoa skin as she stepped free of it. He fondled her small breasts and bent over to kiss her. She locked her arms around his neck, and her hungry mouth locked on his. Her tongue tasted salty.

  They floated to the bed in one fluid motion. With her legs wide apart for his entry, she pulled him down on top of her. His erection slid through her gates with a soft “Oh” that escaped from her mouth. He probed her in short strokes while his hips ached to pound her to the very depths.

  With her legs stuck in the air, her back was arched to accept him. He soon was bumping against her pubic bone, and the stiff hair was rubbing hard between them with each plunge in and out. His breath raged through his throat like a fiery torch, and his heart beat in double time, his back and butt driving with each rise and fall and his balls slapping her butt.

  Like a clamp being screwed down, her contracting walls soon made each drive harder and harder for him. It strained the tight skin on the throbbing head, until at last he felt the volcanic force rise from deep in his scrotum. Two red-hot needles speared the halves of his butt—then, buried to the hilt, he came.

  The world spun him dizzy and his strength flew away like a released quail. Stiff-armed over her, he savored the moment as he looked down at her compact sensuous body.

  “Gracias, Casita.”

  She pulled him back down and kissed him, squirming her lithe form underneath him. “Ah, you can’t leave me yet, hombre.”r />
  He nodded numbly. “I was only getting my breath.”

  A smile crossed her face, half hidden by her disheveled hair. “Sí, we have much more to do. That rich bitch will just have to wait. Besides, I bet she is cold as ice in bed.”

  Slocum winked at her. Perla would not be a Casita. Oh, well, he’d probably never find that out.

  3

  An hour later, going out of the cantina’s front door, he turned up the collar of his jumper against the gusts of wind laden with stinging grit and dust. He undid the reins wrapped around the rack and led Heck up the street to the stables. In half a block, he saw the carreta in front of the building marked LIVERY. With his hard calloused palm, he wiped his mouth, and considered the past hour of pleasure in the arms of Casita. It was time for him to go to work for the lovely señora and protect her prize white-faced bull.

  He fought the large door open against the wind, and at last led Heck inside the stables. In the shadowy darkness of the building, he reset the door, grateful to escape the biting wind. He turned and saw someone bringing a candle lamp.

  “So you have arrived,” Perla said with an edge to her voice.

  “Yes,” he said, and began to undo his latigos on the saddle. With the girth undone, he lifted the saddle and pads off the buckskin and turned to face her with his hands full. “I guess there is a rack for this?”

  “Yes.” She blinked as if taken aback, then reached out and took the bridle reins. “Follow me.”

  I’d follow you to the end of the earth. He fell in behind Heck as she led them through the cobwebbed interior to where the bull was contained in a pole-sided stall. Their shadows from the lamplight danced on the walls and hay. The two oxen were tied at a rack by ropes from their nose rings, and were munching on the hay in front of them. He could hear the nearby snort and pawing of the gray stallion in an enclosed box stall as Perla showed him to a tie stall for Heck.

  “This should be satisfactory?” she asked.

  “Mighty fine. What time do we leave in the morning?” He nodded to the padre who was coming down the center aisle toward them.

  “Oh, Father Malloy, I shall be right there,” she said, and turned back to Slocum.

  “Very well, Señora,” said the priest.

  She spoke to Slocum. “I would think we should be on the road by daylight?”

  “You’re the boss. Where is the ox driver? Will I need to check on him?”

  “Perhaps. His name is Diego Santiago. He is asleep in the office. I am staying at the rectory this evening.” She handed him the lamp and seemed ready to leave with the padre.

  Slocum nodded. “Diego and I will be ready. One more thing before you leave.”

  “Yes?”

  “Do you know of anyone who wants this bull or you bad enough to take either one of you by force?”

  She shook her head. “There are many evil men in this world.”

  “I mean you specifically.”

  “No one in particular.”

  “Fine. Have a good evening.” He touched his hat brim for her.

  “Thanks, Father,” she said to the priest. “I am certain I could have walked to the rectory by myself.”

  “No, Señora, I wanted to escort you personally.”

  “That’s very kind . . .” The sound of her voice trailed off as Slocum watched the two disappear in the building’s darkness and considered finding himself an evening meal. Where was her carreta man? He’d better look for him. The lantern in his hand, he went toward the front, finding the office empty save for the sleeping driver.

  “You want some food?” he asked, shaking the man awake.

  “What?”

  Slocum smiled at the man’s surprised face. “I am her new guard. You want supper?”

  “Sí.”

  “My name’s Slocum.”

  “Diego, Diego Santiago.”

  “I got that. You know a place we can get some food?”

  “There is a woman—”

  Slocum shook his head. “I’ll buy. Is there a place serves good food?”

  “There is a café, but I never eat there. It costs too much.”

  “I’m buying. Come, we eat at the café.”

  “But I am not dressed—”

  “If you have the money, dress is unimportant. Come on, we need to be up and loaded by daybreak.”

  “Sí, she is in a big hurry this time.”

  After he blew out the candle lamp, he glanced over at the man. “How often do you do this?”

  “Other times it was furniture, and once two new doors for the hacienda.”

  “You and her went for them?”

  “Sí.”

  “What about the patrón? What does he do when she is gone?”

  “Oh, the patrón has been dead for three years. Bandidos shot him when they raided the ranch.”

  “I see.” So there was no señor alive. That was interesting, too. “Let’s get some food. You can tell me about the raid.”

  “It was a very bad time . . .”

  Slocum heard about the band of masked outlaws that swept down and killed the patrón and even children. Over the supper of fire-roasted cabrito, he learned how they had raided the ranch, raped the women and even young girls, forced the patrón to open the safe, then shot him and taken the money, Perla’s jewelry, and many good horses when they fled.

  “Who were they?”

  “We never knew. They all wore masks. The law made WANTED posters for them, but none were ever arrested and I don’t know who they are. It has been very hard for the señora. All the money was stolen and the best workers were shot, or they quit in fear the bandidos would come back again.”

  Slocum’d heard there were outlaws all over the land. He looked up from the forkful of tender goat and met the man’s sad gaze. “Did they rape her?”

  Diego swallowed hard and nodded. “It was a bad day. The worst one in my life.”

  “I can bet it was. Gracias for telling me. I know it was hard to do that.”

  Slowly chewing the tender meat, he realized why she had such a distant air about her. It was her reaction to the tragedy. Yet she still had to run the ranch. Damn, some folks were dealt a hard hand in their lives.

  4

  Overnight, the wind died down, but a light frost touched things. His breath made vapor clouds, and he wished for a thick wool-lined leather coat instead of the unlined jumper. He’d undo his sleeping blanket for an overcoat once they were on their way. Her gray was curried, saddled, and ready. Heck was set also.

  Diego led the white-faced bull out of the barn to the hitched carreta, parked in a depression so the rear end was close to the ground and the bull could step up into it. The young stud was frisky in the cool air. He wanted to run and play, but the man held him back by bracing his sandals and waiting for his foolishness to end. At last, with the soft purple light spreading over the land, the bull went into the wagon—he was obviously well trained—and Diego hitched him.

  Slocum and Diego squatted and chewed on hard pepper jerky. When Slocum looked up, he saw Perla coming. She wore leather leggings under her divided skirt and the polka-dot scarf around her throat. Her spurs clinked like little bells in the morning’s silence.

  “Good morning,” she said, and went to unhitch her gray. Leading him over, she nodded to Slocum and Diego. “I am ready.”

  When Slocum moved toward her to help her mount, she shook her head. “I can get on my own horse. Thank you.”

  He rubbed his calloused hand over his whisker-bristled mouth. She still had her armor. It was intact. Even looking as grubby as he did, he could usually break through. But not this morning anyway. He mounted Heck for the day’s slow journey, and the noisy wagon began to creak away, the young bull shifting around to brace himself against a fall.

  Diego and his oxen trudged along headed for the road. The village sat a good quarter mile from the Taos Road, as if it had no desire to be part of its activity. Women stared at them from the doorways of their jacales, protectively keeping s
mall children behind them.

  Two fighting cocks flew at each other in the center of the road, ignoring the oncoming entourage, busy in a flutter of bright feathers flying at each other for male seniority. When Perla drew close on the gray, they fled to restart their sparring again on the bare ground of a yard.

  A burro brayed and some goats answered, sounding impatient to be milked or fed. Slocum had unfurled his blanket and huddled under it seeking warmth, keeping an eye out for any sign of trouble. He jabbed Heck into a lope to move up beside her.

  “I will go ahead and check out anything I see.”

  She nodded in approval. “I think if we have trouble, it will be above Española.”

  “You have enemies there?”

  She gave a small shrug as if that made no difference. “It is a bad world we live in.”

  “I agree. I will ride on and survey the road ahead for trouble.”

  “Yes.” Her approval matched the sharp wind—cold.

  He sent Heck off in a short lope. The road skirted the fields where dry corn fodder was shucked. The golden leaves of the cottonwoods’ fall foliage had begun to fade. Winter would not be far away. How had he forgotten so soon those promises to himself—to spend winters in San Antonio, where the brown-skinned women hat-danced in the warm sun around the Alamo square. Where winter could be spent leisurely and with little chill.

  Up here, a dry country surrounded them. It was a land of greasewood and cactus that had survived the centuries with little rain. Not huge spiny cactus plants, but low-growing beds of prickly pear and cholla, with some mesquite, greasewood, and brown bunchgrass that was like stiff straw.

  He found little but freighters on the road and some pack trains of burros loaded with firewood. Dry sticks scrounged off the desert floor made small hot cooking fires. He pulled the blanket tighter, reminded of the cold penetrating his bones. A fiery blaze would go good at that moment for him.

  At Arroyo Seco, a small huddle of jacales and small stores, he found a cantina and stopped for a drink and information. The interior was dark and reeked of fermented pulque, a homemade corn product like beer.

  “Ah, Señor?” the short man with the tight twisted mustache said from behind the bar.