Chapter 4: The Newspaperwoman
Green heard the door of the cantina open, and when he looked up he saw the
blonde woman who had been watching him from the doorway of the newspaper office.
She was wearing a white blouse, brown skirt and tan boots.
"Elena, traigame unos cafe solo, por favor," she called out briskly as she
entered.
Green could hear Elena's laughter from behind the curtain.
"Si, senora, al momento.
"Que pasa, Raymond?" she said, slapping her palm on the top of the bar.
Grinning, Raymond replied, in a bantering tone, "You shouldn't be in here Faye.
People will think you're not a respectable woman."
"Hell, Ray, I'm not. I'm a newspaperwoman. You can't be that kind of critter and
be respectable too."
Raymond chuckled.
"How 'bout a shot of aguariente and one of those stale cigarillos you have on
the shelf?"
She stood with her hands on her hips while she waited for Raymond to pour her
drink and glanced about feinting casualness but, out of the corner of her eye,
was observing the stranger sitting near the back of the room facing her.
When she had her drink in hand, she walked with a casual swagger back to Green's
table.
"Hi, got a light, hombre?"
She leaned over the table as Green struck a match for her.
"Thanks," she said when the cigarillo was lit. She straightened and blew a cloud
of smoke toward the ceiling, nodding her head sideways at the empty chair
opposite him.
"Help yourself," Green said, raising a hand palm up.
"I'm Faye Morgan," she said, crossing her legs and hanging one arm over the back
of her chair. "I'm the editor of the Red Rock Lantern. Largest circulation west
of the Pecos," she added playfully. "I saw the marshal leave just now; I assume
he gave you the same welcome he gives to all the occasional strangers who happen
upon Red Rock."
"Yep, nice fellow. I told him I was just passing through and he indicated the
sooner the better. Name's Green, by the way, John Green." He noted a smudge of
printer's ink on her cheek.
"Well, he doesn't speak for everyone in Red Rock. We're not all assholes around
here. Pardon my French. It's just that he works for Loomis --"
"I already told him," Raymond cut in, polishing a glass behind the bar.
"Well, then, you know; it's not just you but everyone. That old bastard Loomis
doesn't want anyone on his land. Acts as if he had a patent on the whole goddamn
earth."
She lightly hammered the table top with the side of a fist.
"He's placed a bounty on any Indian caught on his land. Imagine that! He kills
off all their buffalo -- the Indians' main source of food, shelter and clothing
in these parts -- to make room for his cattle. Then along comes the soldiers to
throw the poor bastards onto reservations, and Loomis makes a fortune selling
his downers to the government-run reservations at wildly inflated prices. Half
the stock listed on the books never even make it to the Indians and as a result
many of them starve to death. So out of desperation, what do the Indians do?
They raid the ranchers stealing the cattle they need to survive; and, sometimes,
to show their hatred for the white man, they slaughter a hundred head of cattle
just for the hell of it. And who could blame them?"
Faye paused waiting for a response, but the stranger was impassive, his somber
face unreadable. She sighed.
"You'll have to overlook me," she said concealing her annoyance at his lack of
response. "I tend to get real riled up over life's little injustices. It's in my
blood, I guess. My views don't tend to be popular with the majority of whites
around here. To them the only good Indian is a dead one. I didn't mean to bore
you."
"There was a dead Indian hanging from a tree west of here," Green said, calmly.
She was not sure she had actually heard him speak. His lips barely moved. He
tilted his head down. The brim of his hat hid his eyes from view. She stared at
his hand as he laid it on the stock of his rifle and stroked it absently. It was
the hand of an artist: beautifully shaped and dexterous.
Her shoulders sank slightly as she let her breath out.
"There'll be trouble again, for sure, when Gray Wolf finds out," Raymond, who
had been listening, said.
"You can count on that," Faye agreed. "No doubt some of Loomis' men are behind
it.
At back the curtain moved aside and Elena came to their table with Faye's
coffee. The two women spoke in Spanish, and even if Green hadn't known the
language, he could have told by the sudden worried expression on Elena's face
that Faye had been warning her of possible reprisals over the murder of the
Indian.
"Como hay Dios," Elena exclaimed.
Faye poured a shot of the brandy in the cup and tasted it.
"Bueno."
Green noticed the Mexican shake her head a little sadly as she watched the
pretty gringa take another drink before turning and disappearing behind the
curtain.
"Well," Faye said, "did you mention the dead Indian to our distinguished
marshal?"
"Subject didn't come up," Green replied.
"So . . . well, I guess I'd better inform him so he can warn people to expect an
attack. Maybe earn some of that hundred and fifty dollars a month he gets for
doing nothing. Nice to have met you, Mr. Green."
She finished her laced coffee and stood, turned to go, but paused, wondering why
she did so. He obviously didn't care. He was like all the rest. Totally
indifferent to the injustices of the world. Yet she felt attracted to him on
some level, for some reason. He was a mystery and a mystery is always
intriguing.
"Perhaps, if you're not busy," she said, assuming a business-like tone, "you
could stop by my office before you leave Red Rock and give me an eyewitness
account of your discovery of the dead Indian for my next week's edition."
Green looked up at her with cool, contemplative eyes and nodded. When she was
gone, he finished his drink, picked up his rifle and followed.
Outside the harsh glare of the sun had softened to a subdued hue of
reddish-orange as it nestled above a plum-colored horizon of snow-capped
mountains. Soon the desert would begin to cool and the coyote would start his
nocturnal hunt giving voice to the thin night air as the world, once more,
turned its darkened face into the void.
