potent than the threat he felt of all the obvious killers now surrounding him and pummeling him with their dark, belligerent gazes, infuriated by the interruption in their revelry.
Mangham stared suspiciously at James, his nose working like some separate living thing on his face. “Brother? You sure about that, Mary?”
“Don’t look like her brother,” said a short, stocky man in a shabby bowler hat, sneering.
“Shut up!” Mangham shouted. “If Mary says he’s her brother, he’s her brother!”
The short, stocky gent in the bowler hat took one step backward.
“I’d like to speak to my brother in private, Red,” Vienna said softly, gray eyes staring up at James.
Red snorted and scowled skeptically at the stranger, then jerked his head toward the stairs. “All right, I reckon. Since he’s your brother an’ all.” As the girl began leading James through the crowd by his hand, Mangham grabbed James’s other arm. “Don’t be upsettin’ Mary, now, ya hear?”
James glanced at the man without expression, pulled his arm free, and followed Vienna through the crowd, feeling angry looks being hurled at him like razor-edged bowie knives.
As the murmurs of discontent rose behind and below him, he followed the long-legged, high-busted, raven-haired beauty up the stairs, wondering how in hell the beautiful young Southern belle he knew as Vienna McAllister had turned up here, half-naked and singing bawdy songs in this nest of human rattlesnakes, going by the name of Mustang Mary….
Chapter 11
James moved up the stairs more slowly than Vienna, aka “Mustang Mary,” for he turned around a couple of times to make sure no bowie or Green River knives were being hurled at him. When he gained the second-story hall, which was lit by a single bracket lamp beside a faded oil painting of a naked woman on a settee, James headed for an open door on the left. He went inside, doffed his kepi, and held it against his chest.
Vienna sat on the small room’s rumpled double bed strewn with clothes of both sexes. A long duster hung from a peg on the wall. A pair of faded denims hung over it from the same hook. A fire glowed in a little monkey stove in the far corner, a stack of dead branches beside it. The room smelled of burning piñon, man sweat, perfume, and talcum. She looked up at him, long ivory legs crossed, one slippered foot hooked behind the other, wringing her hands together. Her gray eyes glinted worriedly. “It’s Willie….”
“Yes.”
She sucked a sharp breath through her nose, pursingher lips. Her face paled, and she turned her head to one side. “How?”
He sighed. It was mixed with a groan.
She looked at him, eyes widening a little with surprise.
James saw a chair in the corner to his left. He walked over, slacked into it, the dry wood creaking under his weight. His heart thudded heavily with the sorrow that lived in him, but even to his own ears his voice sounded dull, toneless, without any hint of emotion. “It was a dark night. Georgia. My outfit was trying to blow a bridge. Willie was there.”
She stared at him, her lips opening slightly now, eyes skeptical, dreadful.
“I killed him,” James said. “It was me, Vienna.”
Her eyes widened as they bored into his.
“It’s a long story, but I killed my brother in the darkness of Snake Creek Gap. Didn’t know it was Willie until…” James let his voice trail off, drew a long breath. “He lived for half a night, wanted me to give you this.”
He reached into the pocket of his buckskin tunic and extended to her the gold watch with the long chain of gold Confederate coins and the gold-washed fob at the end of it. She reached out and took it, drew it to her, and flipped the lid. Instantly, the tears came, and she sobbed, clutching the watch to her chest. She closed her eyes, lowered her head, and cried quietly for several minutes.
James felt heavy and weak. He sat back in his chair, knees spread, and listened to her. It felt like a
Mangham stared suspiciously at James, his nose working like some separate living thing on his face. “Brother? You sure about that, Mary?”
“Don’t look like her brother,” said a short, stocky man in a shabby bowler hat, sneering.
“Shut up!” Mangham shouted. “If Mary says he’s her brother, he’s her brother!”
The short, stocky gent in the bowler hat took one step backward.
“I’d like to speak to my brother in private, Red,” Vienna said softly, gray eyes staring up at James.
Red snorted and scowled skeptically at the stranger, then jerked his head toward the stairs. “All right, I reckon. Since he’s your brother an’ all.” As the girl began leading James through the crowd by his hand, Mangham grabbed James’s other arm. “Don’t be upsettin’ Mary, now, ya hear?”
James glanced at the man without expression, pulled his arm free, and followed Vienna through the crowd, feeling angry looks being hurled at him like razor-edged bowie knives.
As the murmurs of discontent rose behind and below him, he followed the long-legged, high-busted, raven-haired beauty up the stairs, wondering how in hell the beautiful young Southern belle he knew as Vienna McAllister had turned up here, half-naked and singing bawdy songs in this nest of human rattlesnakes, going by the name of Mustang Mary….
Chapter 11
James moved up the stairs more slowly than Vienna, aka “Mustang Mary,” for he turned around a couple of times to make sure no bowie or Green River knives were being hurled at him. When he gained the second-story hall, which was lit by a single bracket lamp beside a faded oil painting of a naked woman on a settee, James headed for an open door on the left. He went inside, doffed his kepi, and held it against his chest.
Vienna sat on the small room’s rumpled double bed strewn with clothes of both sexes. A long duster hung from a peg on the wall. A pair of faded denims hung over it from the same hook. A fire glowed in a little monkey stove in the far corner, a stack of dead branches beside it. The room smelled of burning piñon, man sweat, perfume, and talcum. She looked up at him, long ivory legs crossed, one slippered foot hooked behind the other, wringing her hands together. Her gray eyes glinted worriedly. “It’s Willie….”
“Yes.”
She sucked a sharp breath through her nose, pursingher lips. Her face paled, and she turned her head to one side. “How?”
He sighed. It was mixed with a groan.
She looked at him, eyes widening a little with surprise.
James saw a chair in the corner to his left. He walked over, slacked into it, the dry wood creaking under his weight. His heart thudded heavily with the sorrow that lived in him, but even to his own ears his voice sounded dull, toneless, without any hint of emotion. “It was a dark night. Georgia. My outfit was trying to blow a bridge. Willie was there.”
She stared at him, her lips opening slightly now, eyes skeptical, dreadful.
“I killed him,” James said. “It was me, Vienna.”
Her eyes widened as they bored into his.
“It’s a long story, but I killed my brother in the darkness of Snake Creek Gap. Didn’t know it was Willie until…” James let his voice trail off, drew a long breath. “He lived for half a night, wanted me to give you this.”
He reached into the pocket of his buckskin tunic and extended to her the gold watch with the long chain of gold Confederate coins and the gold-washed fob at the end of it. She reached out and took it, drew it to her, and flipped the lid. Instantly, the tears came, and she sobbed, clutching the watch to her chest. She closed her eyes, lowered her head, and cried quietly for several minutes.
James felt heavy and weak. He sat back in his chair, knees spread, and listened to her. It felt like a
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