Ralph Compton - The Alamosa Trail

Clay looked over toward her. She was not a small woman, and as she lay on her back, her large breasts looked like giant folds of flesh. She was pockmarked and hairy. He had never had any problems before with her, but perhaps he had never really looked at her before, as he was looking at her now.

“Damn,” Clay said. “You are one ugly woman—do you know that, Hazel Lee?”

“What?”

“How the hell is a man supposed to get it up with someone like you?”

Hazel Lee sat up in bed, then pulled the bed cover to shield herself against his cold glare.

“You, sir, are no gentleman,” she said, mus tering as much dignity as she could under the circumstances. “And I would appreciate it if you would leave my room.”

“Hell yes, I’ll leave your room,” Clay said, resolutely. “The longer I look at you, the uglier you get.”

Clay put on his hat, then sat on a chair and pulled on his boots. After that, he strapped on his pistol. Except for the hat, boots, and pistol belt, he was totally naked.

“I will go now,” he said with a belch. “By your leave, madam.”

Hazel Lee pointed to his shirt and pants and started to mention to him that he had forgotten something. Then, with a small smile, she let her hand drop.

“By your leave,” Hazel Lee replied.

All conversation in the saloon stopped as Clay Allison tromped down the stairs. Everyone looked at him with horrified expressions on their faces, wanting desperately to laugh, but terrified to do so.

“What’s the matter with everyone?” Clay asked. “Have I suddenly gone green?”

“No, Mr. Allison,” the barkeep replied.

“Why are you all lookin’ at me?”

Instantly, everyone looked away.

Clay pushed through the front door and stepped out onto the boardwalk outside. Two men were coming into the saloon at that moment, and they looked at Clay with their mouths open in shock.

“What are you looking at?” Clay demanded.

Without answering him, the men pushed through the batwing doors to go inside.

When Clay stepped into the middle of the street, he saw that several people were now looking at him, pointing and laughing. Angrily, Clay pulled his pistol.

“By God, the next son of a bitch who looks at me is goin’ to get hisself shot!” Clay shouted. He began firing his gun, shooting holes through signs, shooting out the windows in Dr. Chidister’s office, shooting holes in a couple of watering troughs so that the water began gurgling out into the street.

Not until he was out of bullets and looked down to his cartridge belt to punch out some more shells did he see that he wasn’t wearing any clothes. Then, slowly, he turned and walked back into the saloon.

“I forgot my pants,” he said, trying to make the words as nonchalant as if he had walked out of the saloon without his hat. He started up the stairs, got about halfway to the top, then felt an overpowering tiredness overtake him. “I’ll just take a little nap,” he said. Lying down right there halfway between the ground floor and the upper landing, Clay Allison passed out.

Chapter 15

Shardeen climbed up onto a rock from which he could see for nearly two miles back across the Sonoran Desert. A small rise hid everything beyond that point.

“See anything?” Whitey asked.

“No,” Shardeen answered. Shardeen took the last swallow from a whiskey bottle, then tossed it against a nearby rock. The bottle shattered into several pieces.

“Dammit, Shardeen, what the hell did you go and break that bottle for?” Whitey complained. “We coulda sold that bottle for three or four centavos.”

“Three or four centavos?” Shardeen snorted. “If I wanted to sell something that cheap, I’d sell that gold tooth of your’n.”

“You ain’t never goin’ to get your hands on my tooth,” Whitey said.

“It’s prob’ly not even real gold,” Shardeen answered. “But it don’t matter none, ’cause once we get them womenfolk back, we’ll sell ’em to the Mexican bandidos, just like we started out to.”

“Yeah, well, we ain’t got ’em yet,” Whitey said.

“We’ll get ’em. They can’t get far, not on their own, anyhow.”

“I don’t know ’bout that. They’ve done pretty good on their own so far. They got away from us and they spooked our horses so that it took us half a day to get ’em back. Besides which, they also kilt Red.”

“Red getting kilt ain’t no big loss, believe me,” Shardeen said. “If they hadn’t kilt him, I most likely would done it myself. That boy was just too damn stupid to live.”

“Hey, Shardeen, lookie there,” Whitey said, pointing off in the distance. “I think they’re a-comin’.”

“No, it couldn’t be,” Shardeen said. “There’s too many of ’em.”

Whitey shielded his eyes with his hand and squinted off into the distance.

“The hell it ain’t them,” Whitey said. “Take a good look.”

Studying the distant party of riders, Shardeen saw that it was, indeed, the three women who had made good their escape. He saw, too, that they weren’t alone, for they were in the company of four men.

“What the hell?” Shardeen said aloud.

“Who do you reckon them men are?” Whitey asked.

“Like as not, someone who’s wantin’ to do what we was goin’ to do,” Shardeen said.

“What? You mean someone who’s plannin’ to sell the women?”

“Yes,” Shardeen said. “ Our women.”

Whitey studied the approaching riders for a moment longer. “I don’t know,” he said. “You ask me, them women don’t look captured. Looks to me like they’re ridin’ with ’em by choice.”

Shardeen spit out a stream of tobacco juice. “Yeah, well, it don’t matter none whether they stole ’em or the women went to ’em. All that matters is, they got the women and we don’t.”

“Sons of bitches,” Whitey said. “And they’s four of them to only two of us.”

“Yeah, well, get your rifle,” Shardeen ordered. “We’ll take ’em out ’fore they even know we’re here.”

“Two of us against four of them? That don’t make too much sense if you ask me.”

“Just don’t miss with your first shot,” Shardeen said as he moved into position with his rifle.

Jim heard the angry buzz of a bullet sizzling past his ear even before he heard the sound of the shot. He knew instantly what it was, and he shouted at the others as he spurred his horse to get off the trail.

“What’s up?” Barry asked.

“Someone’s shootin’ at us!”

The other men reacted instantly to the warning, for they were trail-wary and knew the danger of hesitation. But the women were less responsive and they paused for a moment, unsure of what was going on or what to do. They were spared only because Shardeen didn’t want them hit. The women would be worthless to him dead.

When a second bullet kicked up dirt nearby, then whined on beyond them, Katie jumped into action. “Follow the men!” she shouted, kicking her own horse. Her two daughters followed suit.

A short, quick gallop brought them to a ridgeline that was extended by an outcropping of rocks. All seven of them dashed behind the cover, putting the ridge between them and the shooters.

Jim swung down from his horse, his rifle in hand. Frank, Barry, and Gene joined him. The girls dismounted and also sought safety behind the rocks. Katie grabbed the reins of all seven horses.

“What are you doing? Get down!” Jim shouted when he saw her.

“You want these horses to bolt?” Katie asked. “I have no intention of being left afoot.”

With a nod of assent, Jim waved her on up the ridgeline, even as bullets were whistling overhead. Jim crawled up to the top of the ridge and looked across the draw to the rocks on the other side. As he was looking, he saw two flashes as their assailants snapped off another couple of shots at them.