breath, listening. A floor board creaked. She sat up in bed staring into the blackness. Silence. Then a soft sound of movement.
“Who’s there?”
More silence. The floor creaked again.
Connie groped for the lamp beside her bed, found it, snapped it on. She blinked at the sudden light. Before she could react, a hand clamped onto her throat, stopping her breath, choking back any outcry.
She clawed instinctively at the fingers gripping her throat. There was no give at all. Her strength drained. As her eyes grew accustomed to the light, her brain began to buzz with the approach of unconsciousness. She saw a dark, high-cheekboned face above her. The eyes were set deep in their sockets; the breath was foul with rotten teeth. Then she saw the knife.
The man was squeezing her throat with his left hand while holding a knife with his right. The point of the blade pricked the blanket above her stomach. The man’s bare torso was slick with sweat.
The bastard is going to kill me!
The thought made her more angry than afraid. The idea that some half-naked Indian should come into her room in this godforsaken corner of Mexico and stab her to death was not acceptable. She tried to scream but managed only a miserable squeak. At the same time, she realized the pressure on her throat had eased. Then she knew why.
The horny son of a bitch was looking at her body. One of the shoulder straps had slipped down, and a plump, pinknippled breast was exposed. The man stared at it like a kid at an ice cream sundae. He licked his lips. His tongue had an odd purplish color.
The man slipped the knife back under his belt and used his freed hand to squeeze Connie’s breast. The other hand still held her by the throat, but his attention was elsewhere.
Connie lay still, letting him have all the tit he wanted. She even shifted a little to make it easier for him. As long as his mind was in his pants, she had a better chance of staying alive.
He threw back the sheet and blanket that covered her. His little eyes widened at the sight of her body. The blue silk nightgown had hiked up around her hips, exposing the soft mound of dark blonde hair and the moist flesh beneath it. The fingers gripping her throat slackened even more. That was what she had been waiting for.
She twisted vigorously away from him to the right and rolled out of bed, hitting the floor with a thump. She scrambled to her feet, yelling every foul word she could think of as the intruder came around the bed toward her. When he reached her, Connie was ready. She brought her bare knee up hard into his crotch.
The man grunted and staggered back, holding himself, looking more surprised than hurt. Women did not do that to men in his world. Not even if they were about to be raped and murdered. Connie kept yelling. She was out of defenses, and the bastard was between her and the door. The knife was back in his hand.
• • •
Downstairs in the bar, the eyes of the two men jerked toward the ceiling at the heavy thump. Then a woman cried out, and they were on their feet, running.
Hooker raced out past the startled desk clerk and up the stairs, with Heinemann a step behind him. When he reached the hallway, he could clearly hear the woman. It was Connie’s voice, not screaming but shouting a steady stream of profanity. Hooker reached the door in three long steps. He shoved it open.
Connie stood with her back pressed against the wall. In front of her was a sweating Indian, naked to the waist. As Hooker hesitated, the Indian whirled and lunged at him. Only then did Hooker see the knife.
A pistol cracked close beside him. So close that he felt the heat of the muzzle blast on his arm. The Indian stumbled and went to his knees. He looked down at the blood pumping from the hole in his chest as though wondering where it came from. Then his eyes rolled up under the lids, and he pitched forward on his face.
For a moment, the three of them stood there in frozen tableau, the two men in the doorway
“Who’s there?”
More silence. The floor creaked again.
Connie groped for the lamp beside her bed, found it, snapped it on. She blinked at the sudden light. Before she could react, a hand clamped onto her throat, stopping her breath, choking back any outcry.
She clawed instinctively at the fingers gripping her throat. There was no give at all. Her strength drained. As her eyes grew accustomed to the light, her brain began to buzz with the approach of unconsciousness. She saw a dark, high-cheekboned face above her. The eyes were set deep in their sockets; the breath was foul with rotten teeth. Then she saw the knife.
The man was squeezing her throat with his left hand while holding a knife with his right. The point of the blade pricked the blanket above her stomach. The man’s bare torso was slick with sweat.
The bastard is going to kill me!
The thought made her more angry than afraid. The idea that some half-naked Indian should come into her room in this godforsaken corner of Mexico and stab her to death was not acceptable. She tried to scream but managed only a miserable squeak. At the same time, she realized the pressure on her throat had eased. Then she knew why.
The horny son of a bitch was looking at her body. One of the shoulder straps had slipped down, and a plump, pinknippled breast was exposed. The man stared at it like a kid at an ice cream sundae. He licked his lips. His tongue had an odd purplish color.
The man slipped the knife back under his belt and used his freed hand to squeeze Connie’s breast. The other hand still held her by the throat, but his attention was elsewhere.
Connie lay still, letting him have all the tit he wanted. She even shifted a little to make it easier for him. As long as his mind was in his pants, she had a better chance of staying alive.
He threw back the sheet and blanket that covered her. His little eyes widened at the sight of her body. The blue silk nightgown had hiked up around her hips, exposing the soft mound of dark blonde hair and the moist flesh beneath it. The fingers gripping her throat slackened even more. That was what she had been waiting for.
She twisted vigorously away from him to the right and rolled out of bed, hitting the floor with a thump. She scrambled to her feet, yelling every foul word she could think of as the intruder came around the bed toward her. When he reached her, Connie was ready. She brought her bare knee up hard into his crotch.
The man grunted and staggered back, holding himself, looking more surprised than hurt. Women did not do that to men in his world. Not even if they were about to be raped and murdered. Connie kept yelling. She was out of defenses, and the bastard was between her and the door. The knife was back in his hand.
• • •
Downstairs in the bar, the eyes of the two men jerked toward the ceiling at the heavy thump. Then a woman cried out, and they were on their feet, running.
Hooker raced out past the startled desk clerk and up the stairs, with Heinemann a step behind him. When he reached the hallway, he could clearly hear the woman. It was Connie’s voice, not screaming but shouting a steady stream of profanity. Hooker reached the door in three long steps. He shoved it open.
Connie stood with her back pressed against the wall. In front of her was a sweating Indian, naked to the waist. As Hooker hesitated, the Indian whirled and lunged at him. Only then did Hooker see the knife.
A pistol cracked close beside him. So close that he felt the heat of the muzzle blast on his arm. The Indian stumbled and went to his knees. He looked down at the blood pumping from the hole in his chest as though wondering where it came from. Then his eyes rolled up under the lids, and he pitched forward on his face.
For a moment, the three of them stood there in frozen tableau, the two men in the doorway
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