Chapter 15: Tibbs Arrives at Loomis' Ranch
As Tibbs left the hill country -- veiled in mist that resounded with the echoing
clops of his horse's hooves on wet sandstone -- and started down a slight
incline, the Loomis ranch -- lying on a wide, flat stretch of desert -- slowly
came into view. The mountains far beyond were shrouded in a low-lying bank of
gray clouds that clung to the desert like a giant slug.
As he drew near he observed little sign of life. A few horses milled about in a
cedar corral next to a large red barn. Everyone was, no doubt, inside out of the
rain -- where Tibbs wished he was. An uncomfortable, cold, wet spot around his
crotch irritated him where the rain had sluiced down his saddle underneath his
slicker. He was sorely in need of a stiff drink.
As he dismounted and looped his reins over a hitching rail, one of a pair of
double doors opened and Loomis stepped out beneath the low-ceilinged portico and
leaned casually against the recessed, adobe jamb. He held a tumbler of whiskey
in one hand and a cigar in the other.
Tibbs stepped up onto the porch, his boots thick with mud.
"Take your boots off," Loomis said, "and your slicker." Dismissively he flicked
the ash from his cigar and turned back inside.
Cussing under his breath, Tibbs balanced himself against a column, grunting as
he removed spurs and boots. He washed his thick hands of the mud from the runoff
of the roof, took his slicker off and laid it down on a bench near the doors. He
didn't like Loomis. The arrogant bastard always made him feel like a peasant,
but he knew better than to show his anger. Old man Loomis was no one to fuck
with.
This was Tibbs' weekly visit to Loomis' ranch to take any orders he might have
for him.
The twin doors opened on Loomis' private lounge. He was seated behind his
hand-carved desk with his stocking feet propped up on top as Tibbs entered. He
didn't offer him a seat, so Tibbs stood, big and brutish before the desk,
hooking his thumbs in his gunbelt to keep his arms from dangling awkwardly at
his sides.
Loomis studied him with a slight smirk on his face and drew several leisurely
puffs on his cigar.
"What did you do, piss yourself?" he said after a moment.
Tibbs glanced down at the wet ring around his crotch. Loomis was the only man
alive who could poke fun at him and get away with it.
"Rain," he muttered, forcing his tongue into his cheek and turning his face to
the side to hide a sudden, flaring anger.
"Yeah, well that'll do it I suppose," Loomis said, chuckling, shrugging
shoulders as broad as the marshal's; Suddenly, turning serious, he gave Tibbs a
hard stare.
"I want you to pay a visit to the newspaperwoman."
"Faye Morgan," Tibbs said automatically.
"Yes. She's taking her little enterprise too seriously. Criticized my
daughter-in-law in the last edition. I won't stand for that."
"I'll take care of it," Tibbs replied. He shifted the bulk of his weight to his
left leg. He would enjoy this assignment.
"Also," Loomis continued, "the round-up will be over soon. I'll want you to see
that plenty of Lilly's girls are brought in from Sackville, same as before; the
boys will be going in for a little celebrating." Loomis blew a cloud of smoke
toward the panther. "And there's another matter. Know anything about a feller by
the name of Green?"
Tibbs felt a twinge of uneasiness. Why was the Old Man bringing up the name of
the drifter?
"He's stayin' at the hotel. I let him know he wasn't welcome on Loomis land."
"Umph!" Loomis grunted. "Obviously you didn't impress it upon him hard enough.
The son-of-a-bitch just got himself hired on by the Holbarth woman."
"What as?" Tibbs replied sarcastically. "He's sure as hell no cattleman."
"Yeah, exactly," Loomis said. "She's hired herself a shooter."
"Well, he's just one man, Mr. Loomis, "You've got an army."
"Yeah, I know. But that's why I made you marshal; you're supposed to take care
of problems like this."
"He's gone, Mr. Loomis; I'll see to it first thing."
"See that you do, Tibbs; I don't wanna catch sight of the bastard again."
Tibbs watched wistfully as Loomis finished off the whiskey in the sparkling
tumbler, jerking his silvery head back. His nostrils were cloyed with the odor
of the expensive bourbon; he ran a dry tongue over his lips unconsciously, his
mouth and throat parched.
On the ride back to Red Rock in a heavy drizzle, Tibbs leaned his head back and
caught rain drops on his tongue. He could think of only three things: getting a
stiff drink at Stubs' and putting the pretty newspaperwoman in her place. His
cock stirred against his wet crotch. He would enjoy that. Later, he would take
care of Green, and he would enjoy that, too.
