‘Hell!’ Backenhauser fumbled in his pockets and spread bills over the table. ‘This looks better’n the hotel, so I’ll take a night.’
‘Thank you.’ Rosa counted out twenty dollars and tucked the remainder back in the artist’s vest. ‘And you, Cutter?’
‘I ain’t stayin.’ The depot manager shook his head. ‘Wish I could but I got paperwork needs clearin’ before the stage leaves.’
‘Hey!’ Backenhauser emptied his glass. ‘I thought we was making a night of this?’
‘You don’t need me where you’re goin’,’ grinned Sutcliffe. ‘You bought your ticket to ride, so enjoy the trip.’
The Englishman began to protest, but just then a Mexican girl entered the room and stoppered the words on the way out of his mouth. She was tall in her spike-heeled shoes, with stocking-clad legs that emphasized her slender build all the way to the café-au-lait expanse of thigh below the black silk of her corset. The garment was cut high over wide hips, exposing the dark bush of her pubic triangle, curving up over her flat stomach to cup and expose her breasts. Her nipples were erect, dark thimbles of tempting flesh that jutted from breasts almost too large for her body. Her hair was loose, tumbling in long waves as blue-black as midnight, around an oval face that shouldn’t have been beautiful, but was. Her eyes were huge, the whites startlingly so, throwing into contrast the large, brown pupils. Her nose was straight and wide, curving up at the tip so that her full lips, gleaming bright scarlet with a fresh application of make-up, seemed even wider and fuller than they really were.
Backenhauser gasped.
And Rosa said, ‘You like Anita? Most men do.’
Sutcliffe said, ‘Wish I could join you, friend. Enjoy yourself.’
Backenhauser went on staring.
Rosa beckoned the girl over and explained that the artist had hired her for the night. Up close it was possible to see that she wasn’t as young as she looked, and the color of her hair came from a bottle. But Backenhauser wasn’t looking that close: he was mostly concentrating on the breasts and that enticing triangle of hair.
He followed Anita up the corridor like a little lost dog seeking a home. Just for the night.
Cutter Sutcliffe went back to his stage depot and made himself coffee in the little room at the back. Then he sat down in the chair and waited.
After a while there was a knock on the door. He picked up the cut-down Colt from his desk and turned the key.
Fritz Baum and Amos Dumfries came into the room.
‘Where are they?’
It was the German who spoke.
‘The half-breed’s callin’ himself Matthew Gunn,’ said Sutcliffe. ‘He’s in the hotel, I think.’
‘You think?’ Baum’s voice was cold as winter snow. ‘You was paid to spot them.’
‘He’s booked into the hotel,’ said Sutcliffe. ‘I got them rooms myself. I tried to set them both up like you wanted, but he said he wanted to sleep. I guess he’s there now.’
‘An’ the other one?’ said Amos Dumfries. ‘The artist?’
‘Like I promised.’ Sutcliffe smiled nervously. ‘He’s in Rosa’s place. With Anita.’
‘What do we do?’ asked the rancher. ‘Which one first?’
Baum thought for a minute, then: ‘How was the ’breed when you left him?’
‘Sleepy,’ said Sutcliffe. ‘Looked like he’d taken a might too much likker.’
‘So he’ll sleep, most like.’ Baum was speaking mostly to himself. ‘An’ if we take him now, the artist could invite the marshal in.’
‘So let’s take the artist,’ said Dumfries. ‘I want to see that bastard die, anyway.’
‘Yeah.’ Baum nodded. ‘We’ll find him and then Breed.’
Suddenly, like a rabbit jumping clear of a magician’s hat, his gun appeared in his hand. The hammer clicked back and the barrel ground hard against Sutcliffe’s face.
‘You been paid for this, feller.’ His big hand clutched the depot manager’s wrist, twisting the Colt down and away. Applying enough pressure that Sutcliffe groaned and let the Colt drop to the floor. ‘You been paid well. Enough to forget it. You understand? You never seen us. Not ever.’
Cutter Sutcliffe nodded. ‘Sure thing, Mr. Baum.’
The German scraped the pistol over Sutcliffe’s teeth, ripping up the lip.
‘You never heard of anyone called Baum, feller. You never even seen me.’
‘Nossir. Sorry.’
Sutcliffe slumped back against the desk as the pressure went away from his wrist. When he looked down, there were bruises below his cuff, and thin droplets of blood falling over his shirt where his lip had been cut.
The door slammed closed.
Sutcliffe found his whiskey bottle and took a long drink
Naked of the corset and stockings, Anita was beginning to spread out around the waist. Her belly was soft, starting to fold, and her breasts drooped.
Backenhauser didn’t notice because she was the first woman he had enjoyed in a long time; and she was very professional.
He lay back on the bed, mind still fuggy from the whiskey, and let her go to work on him. And forgot about time and danger and everything but the mounting warmth in his groin. The whole journey was worth this, he decided; everything: from the long trek west to San Jacinto to the hazardous crossing of the mountains; capture by the Apaches; running from Dumfries. All of it, for this moment of expert pleasure.
And then the window shattered inwards and Anita raised her head with her mouth opening even wider as she tried to scream.
