The half-breed located the stage depot and dismounted. Inside the office a dark-haired man was checking a schedule, looking bored. He did his best to look efficient and welcoming as the two men walked in.
‘Gents.’ He ducked his brilliantined head. ‘What can I do fer you?’
‘Got one of your horses outside,’ said Azul. ‘Came from the Placeros stage.’
‘That was wiped out.’ The dark-haired man frowned his bewilderment. ‘Apaches killed everyone on board.’
‘Not me,’ Backenhauser corrected. ‘I got away when the horses ran loose.’
‘My God!’ The man stared at the artist. ‘We thought everyone was killed.’
‘No.’ Backenhauser shook his head. ‘I escaped and then Mr. Gunn here found me and brought me into Lordsburg.’
It was the story they had agreed on during the long ride through Paradise Valley. It was simpler than trying to explain the truth … and possibly safer for them both.
‘What happened?’ asked the depot manager.
Backenhauser explained, lying, that he had been thrown clear of the stage and found shelter in a patch of mesquite until a runaway horse came by, which he had taken. Then he had ridden away, wandering around without much idea of where he was headed until Azul found him.
The depot manager shook his head and said, ‘You gotta be one of the luckiest men I ever met. I’d be honored if I could buy you both a bottle by way of reward.’
‘What for?’ grunted Azul. ‘Staying alive?’
‘For bringing the horse in,’ grinned the young man. ‘Lotta folks would have kept the animal.’
‘We’re honest,’ said Backenhauser; sternly.
‘Wouldn’t do to lie about things,’ added Azul.
The artist’s gear was loaded on Azul’s horse, so they led the stage pony round to the corral and the half-breed accepted the manager’s offer of a free stable. Backenhauser decided to go on to Tucson and bought a ticket on the stage leaving the next morning. Then they allowed the manager to find them rooms in the hotel and went with him to a saloon called The Golden Slipper.
His name was Cutter Sutcliffe and he was new to his job. He was not far past twenty, and had held the Lordsburg post for only three months. He bought a bottle of good whiskey and then insisted on paying for a meal. He took them to a Chinese restaurant, where one course followed another in a bewildering succession of curiously-named dishes that were washed down with the rice wine called saki.
By the time they had finished both Azul and Backenhauser were feeling the effects of the liquor, though in different ways. The Englishman was relaxed; livening up and eager to continue the night. The half-breed was remembering his drinking bout back in San Jacinto. So when Sutcliffe suggested they go back to The Golden Slipper and then try the pleasures of the red-lit shacks behind main street, he shook his head.
‘Come on,’ grinned Backenhauser. ‘We come a long way together and I’m leaving in the morning. Let’s go have some fun.’
‘I can promise that,’ urged Sutcliffe, filling their glasses. ‘There’s a Mex girl at Rosa’s place can blow your brains out.’
He winked obscenely, and Backenhauser laughed.
Azul shook his head and stood up. ‘Thanks but leave me out. I’m heading for bed.’
‘So am I,’ chuckled the artist. ‘But not my own.’
Sutcliffe slapped him on the back and poured the last of the saki into his glass.
‘I’ll see you in the morning,’ Azul said, the words slurring a little. ‘Take it easy.’
‘It’s real easy when Anita takes it hard,’ grinned Sutcliffe.
Azul went back to the hotel and climbed into bed. The room was small, facing towards the red-light district from the upper level. It had a narrow bed and a rickety washstand with a dirty towel stretched over the chipped jug. There were three hooks nailed to the facing wall and the sound of snoring from the room beyond. The half-breed locked the door and turned up the kerosene lantern hung from the center of the ceiling. A moth began to beat its wings against the hot glass.
Azul slid the window up and stared out over the shanty town. There was the tinkly sound of badly-played pianos mingling with the laughter of men and the higher-pitched tittering of the girls. The air was cool, and redolent of horse sweat and sex. He left it open as he stripped naked and splashed water over his body, then – still damp – threw himself on to the bed and closed his eyes.
Cal Backenhauser and Cutter Sutcliffe went back to The Golden Slipper. They downed a second bottle of whiskey while Sutcliffe described the charms of the whore called Anita in flowing, glowing detail.
Backenhauser’s eyes got brighter with each new revelation, and by the time the bottle was empty he was pantingly eager to go.
Sutcliffe helped him to his feet and they staggered out on to main street, stumbling through the dust as the artist tried to remember a longwinded joke about a man and a woman and a dog. Sutcliffe held him upright as they tracked down a side alley that led to a flight of steps opening on to the brothels. Backenhauser was laughing at the punchline he couldn’t remember, hanging on to the depot manager and telling him what a good friend he was.
When they reached Rosa’s place he drew himself upright and straightened his suit, adjusting the derby on his black hair and brushing the wayward strands of his mustache in place.
Sutcliffe knocked on the door.
And it opened to reveal a grossly fat woman, whose scarlet dress bulged over the spread of her breasts and the slightly lesser spread of her stomach. Her hair was piled up in oily curls above an olive face that might once have been pretty. Now, the eyes were almost lost between the folds of fat and the mouth was blubbery rather than sensual. The heavy pendants drooping from her ears shook as she smiled, and her smile gave off the stink of rotten teeth and garlic.
‘Cutter!’ Her voice matched her physical appearance: it was big and soft and oily. ‘How nice to see you again. Come in.’
Backenhauser and Sutcliffe stepped into a room that was totally red. There was a thick carpet covering the floor, dyed the color of fresh blood. The walls were papered in some kind of plush velour that matched the shade of the floor, and the ceiling had been painted red, too. Around the edges of the garish room there were seats, banquettes covered in the same material as spread over the walls, with little tables set beside them.
‘Anita around?’ asked Sutcliffe. ‘I been telling my friend about her.’
‘She’ll be free in a few minutes.’ Rosa ushered them to seats. ‘Take a drink while you wait.’
Before Backenhauser got a chance to say anything there was a glass of whiskey in his hand. And he began to drink it; automatically.
‘How long will you be staying?’ asked Rosa. ‘Anita is much in demand, so I have to charge you twenty dollars if you want to stay the night.’
