Chapter 5: The Night Visitor
It was around midnight when Green was awakened by a light tapping at his door.
The light of a lamp shone beneath the bottom crack wedging back the darkness of
his room. Naked, gun in hand, he stood behind the door and opened it halfway.
She stood there holding a lamp with nothing on but a sheer, white nightgown
which did nothing to hide the well-developed body underneath. He could see the
dusky circles of her areolae and the tips of her nipples pressed against the
thin fabric and the dark, enticing shadow between her thighs. Gone was the prim
look given by hair fixed back tightly in a bun. Now it hung sensuously over her
shoulders in liquid, wavy red sheens in the lamp light.
Nothing was said. Nothing needed to be. She merely gave him a look and that was
all. She entered the room as he stepped back. She set the lamp on the nightstand
next to the bed, dimming the flame, took the gun from his hand and laid it next
to the lamp. She stepped up against him until the heat of their bodies mingled.
He felt the firmness of her breasts and the hardness of her nipples against his
chest. She pressed her mouth against his at the same time taking his hardening
cock in her hand, squeezing it, stroking it up and down.
He pulled the gown down off her shoulders, and she let it drop to the floor.
Easily, he picked her up and laid her on the bed. Her thighs were trembling as
he entered her. She gasped softly and with more intensity as he pushed farther
into her. Her fingernails scrapped over his muscular neck and back. Her breath
was hot in his ear, her tongue wet as it explored.
He moved down her neck kissing and sucking. He teased her nipples rolling them
between his teeth, nipping them. She arched her back bringing them up to him for
punishment. She wrapped her legs around his ass pulling him deeper into her.
There was pain. He was large, but it was a pain that excited her. Breathing came
in short, shallow, labored gasps. She came uncontrollably and instantly felt
herself building toward an even greater intensity. Her heart hammered against
her rib cage. It would explode if she couldn't find release; yet she didn't want
it to ever end.
She moved her hips beneath him, grinding them up against his, making circular
movements, touching the velvet softness of her belly against his solid hardness.
His thrust quickened jarring her body. The slapping together of their flesh
resounded off the walls of the small room. Her own motions increased until their
hot bodies, slick with sweat, were moving in a groping, agonized frenzy. Flesh
pounding against flesh until need found release in a burst of groaning ecstasy.
Green put the lamp out and turned on his back. In the dark she turned to him and
placed her head on his shoulder, the palm of her hand resting lightly on his
chest like a child's.
* * *
The jail had two cells enclosed with latticed bars riveted together. In front
was a small open area that served as an office. In the center of the room was a
potbellied stove. To the right, as one entered, sat an oak desk behind which was
a small square table. On top sat a coffee pot, a small bag of sugar rolled down
half way, and a blue bag of ground coffee -- some spilled out -- on a white
cloth holding utensils.
Marshal Harry Tibbs was seated behind the desk rolling a smoke. When he was
done, he leaned over the yellow glow of a lamp sitting on the desk, lit his
cigarette and settled back in his chair, he took out a stack of wanted posters
from a side drawer in the desk and placed them on top. Slowly he begin to thumb
through them, stopping occasionally to study one and, as if unsatisfied,
impatiently continued on to the next. Some of the posters had photographs
followed by brief physical descriptions and what-fors; some were merely
drawings, others were blank and offered only a brief summary of attributes, the
alleged crime or crimes and the amount of the reward, if any. It was one of the
last that finally caught Tibbs' attention.
He moved the poster closer to the lamp rubbing his wide-set jaw as he studied it
carefully. The name at the top of the poster was Jack McGee. Ex army officer
turned gambler. "Wanted in Texas for the murder of 'Fast' Eddie Purvis a known
desperado and cow thief and for questioning in connection with several other
homicides occurring over the past few years."
There was a caveat at the bottom. "Is to be considered a dangerous, cold-blooded
individual and an expert marksman; should be approached only with extreme
caution."
The physical description given was of a man "five-feet ten or eleven inches
tall, black hair, blue eyes, in his early twenties."
But the reward offered was only five hundred dollars.
Not much if he was truly such a dangerous individual, thought Tibbs. He smiled.
He knew how law officials loved to exaggerate the cleverness and dangerousness
of a wanted person. That way if they caught the person it only added to their
glory and if they didn't . . . well, who could blame them? The guy was clever
after all, wasn't he?
Tibbs held the poster up and leaned back in his chair. He drew in deeply on the
cigarette and blew out a cloud of bluish-gray smoke toward the viga-and-latia
crossed ceiling. He rubbed a thick paw over the bald patch near the back of his
head and stood up shuffling around to open the front door. He leaned against the
frame smoking, his broad body nearly filling it. Bats circled in the star-filled
sky and would until all the insect had settled in for the night. When the bats
were gone, the mosquitoes would come out and aggravate hell out of anything that
moved. But that hadn't happened yet. The night was peaceful. The hot air had
cooled down into a pleasant warmth, balmy with the faint odors of desert plants,
the clean medicinal smell of creosote. Far off across the flat, immense desert
plain, he could see faint streaks of lightning building to the northwest and
hear the all but inaudible rumble of thunder. For a moment it brought back the
war, the sounds of distant canon fire and the gut-wrenching knowledge that enemy
troops were approaching behind it. He didn't like to recall the war: the horror,
the dead bodies lying mangled and broken everywhere. The blood. Puddles of it.
Rats drinking it from the lips of dying men. He shook his head to get the images
out.
Green. That was who he must focus on. Faye had come into his office earlier,
looking as beautiful as ever and with that wise-ass aloofness she always assumed
around him. He knew she didn't like him because she knew he worked for Loomis,
backing him against the interests of the townfolks, small ranchers and
homesteaders. But for all her fancy book learning back east, she didn't seem to
grasp the politics of things. She lived too high up in the clouds. She needed to
come back down to earth where things were not always as wholesome and pure as
she might like them to be.
Life was a process of give and take, of get-along to go-along. She don't seem to
understand that a man has to compromise a little if he wants to better himself.
You don't get anywhere bucking the system.
He sighed. She just don't understand how things are, how they're done.
She'd told him about the Green fellow seeing the dead Indian, and he had done
his duty. He'd gone around warning everyone to expect another attack. He'd had
several more men posted along the perimeter of town. All had their guns ready by
them. It was getting to be old hat what with the continual raids day or night.
He'd done his job. Didn't she realize that was all any man could do?
Tibbs sighed and flicked his cigarette into the street. His eyes vainly scanned
the dark reaches of the desert beyond town.
Tenderfeet from the east thought Indians weren't supposed to attack at night
according to some nonsense about their sacred beliefs, but someone must have
forgotten to tell Gray Wolf that. The last two raids had come at night. Could be
another one tonight. But without a full moon, he didn't think so. He didn't want
to think about Indian attacks and other shit, but life had a way of making a man
think about things he don't want to think about.
His thoughts drifted back to Green. There had been no picture of the man called
Jack McGee, but the description sure as hell fit John Green to a T. But that
description also fit a helluva lot of men.
He recalled Green's hand as he poured his drink made from that pulque Mex shit.
Those weren't the hands of a working cowboy. Maybe a gambler, yeah, maybe on his
way to one of the mining towns where the pickings are easy. Maybe. And maybe,
just maybe, John Green is Jack McGee, and if he is, maybe I'll find out somehow.
And maybe, just maybe, I'll pick me up five big ones.
Tibbs stared across the way to the office of the Red Rock Lantern. A light was
shining dimly through a window curtain. Faye would be busy as usual getting her
weekly columns arranged and ready for her printer. Farther down he saw a light
suddenly illuminate an upstairs window in the hotel. Green's room no doubt since
he was the only guest staying in the hotel at present. But it wasn't Green he
caught a glimpse of in the lamplight. It was Abigail Crane, and suddenly Tibbs
knew how he was going to collect five hundred dollars.
