Everything a man needs

Chapter 2

She couldn't have been surprised. She had the dollars he'd given her. It was her idea. Hell, any woman should have known what he was thinking, just by the timbre of his voice. By the look in his eyes. By the way he was breathing.

She wasn't a child; she knew. Her tiny little start when he tangled his fingers in her hair at the back of her head was endearing. It just made him want her a little more.

She opened her mouth for his tongue right away, he didn't have to coax. He didn't mind coaxing, either....but he was just as happy he didn't have to.

She tasted of something spicy, something good, and so he took his time. When he lifted his head, her eyes stayed closed for a few seconds. When she opened them, they were big and round and dark. She whispered something, sounded like a question.

He ran his hand over her bare shoulder, down her arm. Took her hand and put it on his neck. She put the other one on his neck on her own.

Wasn't too long before she was sitting on his lap and both her hands were in his hair. Her shift was unbuttoned, and his hand that wasn't clasped around her waist was inside....

"Sweetheart," he said against her neck. "We're gonna have to find a more comfortable place." She put her fingers on his Adam's apple while he spoke; seemed fascinated with the vibration.

His tongue in her ear made her squeak. He laughed a little and did it again, and she melted, right there in his arms.

"Something tells me you like that," he said. She whimpered in reply. Pressed herself as close to him as she could get. "I know you gotta have a bed somewhere, darlin'. Tell me you don't share it with your sister." He let go of her breast long enough to pantomime sleeping; she looked bewildered.

Her confusion cleared up when he put her hand over the buttons on his trousers.

It wasn't really a bed, it was a couple of thin mattresses on the floor, and Sweetheart had to kick her sister out of the room, but there was a door, which was solid enough once it was closed, and it looked like the bedclothes were clean.

Her shift landed on the floor first thing, and she trailed her hand down his chest and inside his pants. Lifted her face for his kiss.

He had to slow her down a couple times, felt like he oughta put a curb rein on her. He had a filly like her once, she'd take the bit between her teeth and run away with a man if you didn't keep her reined in.

A hell of a ride, though. She knew what she was doin'. She wrapped her arms and legs around him, and stopped those tired thoughts going round and round in his head; became that warm place he wanted to be. For a while, anyway.

He was already weary to the bone before he laid her down on her flat little bed; he was sure 'nough done in by the time she was ready to quit. And he fell asleep almost before she snuggled in beside him under the quilt.

He opened his eyes before sunup. Wondered what woke him....and then he felt the big restive lump near his hip shifting position. Poking him in the side. It muttered. Sweetheart was wrapped around his other thigh, her head on his stomach....she had the quilt pulled down around her neck, it was probably the draft on his chest that woke him up as much as anything. He touched the lump and realized he had his hand in another head of hair.

The sister. Had to be. Trying to sleep in her own bed.

"Hell," he said.

Thump, thump, thump on the wooden floor, and hot breath on his temple. He turned his head and looked into the muzzle of the ugliest redbone dog he'd seen in a long time. More tail thumping.

"Well. Got a whole family in here. Guess I oughta be getting on. Sweetheart---" He meant to jiggle her awake, so she could get his clothes. He needed to get up and go out in the cold....needed to leave the softness curled around him, and get back in the saddle. That's what he ought to do....meant to do....He jiggled her....the sister raised her head and fixed her big dark eyes on his face....Sweetheart moved her head, just enough....her breath on him was enough to rouse him again, even with the company in the room.

She spoke, her sister answered her, and then Sweetheart's mouth closed over him, and drove the thoughts of going out into the cold right out of his head. The sister got up, limped to the stove, opened it up and threw in all the wood from the box next to the stove. Poked it up good. The fire flared.

He saw the sun rise through the oiled paper in the window, the sister sleeping fully clothed under his arm, snoring to beat hell, and Sweetheart laying full on him, her head under his chin, the quilt over them all. The mutt was growling in his sleep.

"I guess you girls don't do this for a living," he said, in a soft voice, as much to himself as anybody. "The accoutrements leave a little to be desired for a really first-rate cat-house." He stroked the glistening black hair spread out over his chest, and smiled at the ceiling.

A good fuck always made him lazy. He could lay here half the day, with his hands in the girls' hair, and not mind it a bit. Even the mutt didn't bother him. He thought about sketching the dog, laying on its side on the bare planks, but his paper and pencil were out in the saddlebags, and he didn't feel like going to get them right this minute.

He couldn't say he was contented. There was contentment to be found in smooth flesh and soft lips, sure there was, but only for an hour or so. He didn't know if he'd ever been content beyond that; or if he'd recognize the feeling if he was.

He didn't need more. This was enough. A warm bed and some slap and tickle; a good horse and a trail south. A gun that shot straight. Money enough to buy what you needed. That oughta be enough to satisfy any man. Anything else was a conceit, something made up by other people who tried to convince you you ought to want it. And most of them didn't believe it themselves.

The world turned on money and power. He'd come to his through the back door, but he had both of those things. He didn't know what else a man could want.

That was a lie. There were other things, he supposed. Other things that a man might think were important. But those were for other men, not him; and damn few others at that.

He'd told himself he wasn't gonna think about Dan Evans anymore. Not gonna waste any more time on him. Nothing to think about--he wanted to be a hero, and it got him killed. A lesson there, and right plain, too.

But he couldn't just forget him. Didn't seem like it would be right.

A wry chuckle--he didn't think there'd be any use for him to take up doing the right thing at this stage of life. That was his mistake in Contention. He'd got a taste of that, a taste of what it feels like to do a thing for somebody else, to make somebody else happy....but it turned sour so quick, so quick....

He got sidetracked. Let himself get sucked in to something he ought to have avoided like the plague, just because the rancher intrigued him. A man that actually believed what he said he believed. And did what he said he would. He'd not met many men like that, and he'd been all over the West at one time or another.

Maybe all the honest men are in Massachusetts. He smiled up at the ceiling again.

It was time to get over it. So the rancher had interested him. Not like he had anything Ben needed. And he was dead now, and the dead are some of the most uninteresting people there are. No reason to keep thinking about it--he'd find somebody else down the road somewhere just as interesting. Maybe.

Maybe not. He just didn't run with the right people anymore. The fellas that wanted to ride with him were a damn boring lot as a general rule. No imagination. No hygiene. Dirty and boring. Except Charlie. Charlie was a different story altogether. But he sure as hell didn't need another Charlie.

No, he needed to quit brooding about it completely. Dan was on the road to hell already by the time he met him, and woulda got there on his own one way or another. As tough as he was, he just didn't have the killer instinct it took to get along out here. Probably he shoulda stayed back East. But then he wouldn'ta had the mouthy little fella very long, and he seemed kinda fond a' him.

Life is a hard proposition, and there ain't always good answers to things. All that talk about decency notwithstanding.

He shoved the mutt away from his armpit, and stuck his arm behind his head. He oughta be getting up. Find his clothes....

He dozed, he didn't know how long.

The crashing and screaming woke everybody up; the girls sprang up and then crouched down, started chattering at each other, and then wailing, and covering their heads with their arms.

His pants were tangled up in the quilt, it took him precious seconds to find 'em and get 'em up. And then he realized....his gun wasn't in here with him. He'd left it by the tubs after getting all het up about the girl.

Cursed himself up one side and down the other while he poked his head out the door, and then headed down the empty hallway toward the ruckus. Baskets of railroad spikes sat next to the back door, and he grabbed one as he went past.

The ruckus was in the room with the tubs. The door to the outside was busted open and hanging crooked on the hinges; a frigid draft swirled into the room. The gunhand from last night had his hand around Little Mother's throat, and was banging her up against the wall. She was limp; she might already be dead. The other bucket carrier from last night was the one doing all the screaming.

The damn kid looked like hell, one side of his head was swollen; he mighta been a bastard to start with, but he was probably crazed from the pain now. And he had Ben's gun in his free hand.

Ben ran, but not fast enough. The kid put the barrel up under Little Mother's chin and pulled the trigger. He seemed surprised by the mess; dropped Little Mother and the gun and looked at his hands, like he couldn't figure where all a' that came from....Wiped at his clothes....turned around and looked up just as Ben got to him....and so he took the spike full in the face.

Ben stepped back and let him drop to the floor. He paid no attention to the clawing and the sounds; the kid was dead, his body just hadn't give up yet. He picked the Hand of God up off the floor with two fingers.

He grabbed a towel off the shelf, and wiped the gun off in a hurry. It wasn't too bad; didn't look like the blood had gotten inside at all. He might need it to get out of this town-he didn't need it gumming up on him in the cold. Wiped the trickles of blood off his arm. He could use another bath right about now.

A fresh scream---Sweetheart just now coming from the bedroom. She looked at him like it was all his fault. He supposed it was. If he hadn't been here, the kid wouldn't have been here either. Ever. At all.

He felt a vague regret....he hadn't known the woman, and people died all the time; it was the way of things....but she'd seemed like a good sort, and Sweetheart was wrought up now....

He'd thought of asking the girl to come with him. A whim, much as it had been with that skinny girl in Bisbee; he hadn't really thought it through....they seemed to get on, she was good in bed, and she didn't talk much. And she didn't have much here, she might have come with him. Now it was probably out of the question.

His clothes were in the kitchen, draped over the rope stretched from one end of the room to the other. The old man from last night was sitting crosslegged in the corner by the cookstove. While Ben shrugged his shirt on, and then his vest, the old man slowly lowered his head into his hands. Ben stopped dressing and watched him. Silent misery. Ben had seen a lot of misery in his time, but there was something about this....he shook himself, and put on his coat. Not his problem. He had to go.

His longjohns were over a chair in front of the oven. He cursed under his breath, rolled 'em up and carried 'em out to stuff 'em in his saddlebag. If he was gonna sleep on the trail again for a while, he'd need 'em. Kneeling next to the body of her mother, Sweetheart watched him as he walked toward her, her face streaked with tears. She spoke to him, broken words interspersed with sobs.

"I still got no idea what you're saying." He found his money pouch, plucked two dollars out to put in his pocket, and tossed the pouch on the floor next to her leg. Those two would last him till he made it to the strongbox of cash he'd hidden a couple of years ago. "If they give you any trouble, you tell 'em it was Ben Wade that made this mess. You understand? Ben Wade." He pointed at himself. She nodded, and hung her head.

He stepped over the body of the kid-the jerking hadn't quite stopped, but it wouldn't be long now. At the door, he hesitated. "I was gonna ask you to jump up behind me and ride till we get to someplace warm....but I reckon you got other things to think about now."

Her head jerked--the way she looked at him, desperate through her tears--made him think for a minute that she'd understood what he said....but that was crazy. If she understood him, she'd have said something before now.

"I'm sorry for your loss, ma'am," he said, and settled his hat on his head. Walked out into the cold morning. Down the street toward the sorry excuse for a livery stable.

If he'd tarried another minute or two, he'd have missed the prosperous-looking, heavyset fella riding out of the stable door, headed west on his horse. He whistled; Ribbon stopped in his tracks and turned. The man riding him cursed and tried to force him to obey, but it couldn't be done. Ribbon whinnied and reared against the hands on the reins.

"That's my horse," Ben called.

Ribbon galloped back the few feet to where Ben was standing.

"By God, it is not!" the man said. He and Ribbon were going around in circles, the horse refusing to follow the commands he was being given. "I paid for this horse, and it's mine!"

"You might have to see about getting your money back. That horse ain't going nowhere without me. And the saddle's mine, too. Come on down now."

The fella didn't have much choice, Ribbon crowhopped a couple times and bounced him off. He hit the ground hard, pretty close to Ben's feet. The gelding trotted out of reach. "Goddammit! I'm gonna see you strung up, Jake Atwell! You ain't no better'n a horse thief!"

"Shoot him!" Jake yelled.

"What?"

"Shoot him! That there's Ben Wade!" Jake was out of sight inside the stable. "Put a bullet in him and you can keep the horse!"

The man raised himself to his knees. It's tough for a big man to get up off the ground, it was gonna take some effort. "I ain't gonna gun down anybody! And if you shoot him in cold blood, you'll hang. What's the matter with you?"

Sound of a rifle cocking. Ben hit the dirt an instant before he heard the shot. The fella already on the ground yelled, a wordless cry of pain first, and then, "You damn fool, you hit me!"

The outlaw rolled, and was up again running toward the building before the second shot silenced the man on the ground. He was planning on working his way around, staying tight to the wall; figured Jake would have to come out after him, and he'd rather be behind him....and then he heard her....

"Rade! Rade!" She was running toward the stable with a bundle in her arms, running from the wrong way, the way Jake would be looking for him. Damn. "I come!" she called. "I come!"

He shouted at her to stop, he told her to go back, but she didn't hear him. Another report from Jake's rifle, and she crumpled forward, falling on her bundle, then sliding to the side.

The hell with strategy. Wade ran along the side of the barn, till he reached the corner, where he hesitated just a moment, before rounding it with his pistol blazing. He was lucky, Jake was outside, running back toward the door, and took the second bullet in the shoulder, the third one in the hip.

He dropped his rifle when he fell. Ben kicked it out of the way before he ran to check on Sweetheart.

Her eyes were open. Ben didn't close them. It didn't make any difference. Her bundle had fallen open; a brilliant fabric peacock spread his tail in the gap. Her fancy dress, he guessed. Every woman wanted a fancy dress to wear for her man.

He walked over to the frightened liveryman sprawled in the dirt.

"Don't--don't--I'll give you the money," Jake babbled. "For the horse. Don't kill me, I'll give it to you." He rolled onto his back, moaning with pain. "I thought you were dead. That's all. I thought Davy probably killed you. Hey--" he tried to smile, '--I'm pretty good with a rifle, I could--"

Wade didn't let him finish. The shot from the Hand of God echoed like thunder on the prairie....in his own ears, in his mind....

He could see heads popping out of doorways down the street. Just a few. Most people were probably smart enough to stay inside; there's always a few that have just gotta see what's going on.

Ribbon's eyes rolled; he worked the bit nervously with his tongue, and sidled away as Ben walked toward him. The outlaw patted his horse's neck, and spoke to him. Calmed him. Swung up into the saddle. Ribbon walked past the woman's body; Wade turned to look at her again.

Down at the end of the street, there was a fella-probably the nearest thing they had to a lawman here--pulling on his boots as he came out his door. He ran toward the stable, settling his hat on his head.

"Should we wait for him?" Ribbon nickered and pricked his ears forward. "I don't want to either." Ribbon tossed his head and cantered to the west before turning around to the south. "I'm tired of shivering, what about you?" He urged Ribbon to the gallop.

When he got far enough south, he'd have everything he needed. It was just too cold up here. He had a house there, and money enough to last him for a while. Hot sun, plenty to eat and drink, plenty of women, and nobody trying to put you in jail. A man didn't need anything else.

Still....at the top of the rise, he stopped to look back. The bodies on the ground....the townspeople, cautiously moving toward the stable....the peacock dress being blown out of the sack by the wind....

A woman grabbed the dress before it could blow away, and then pressed it to herself. Wade suppressed a momentary urge to ride back down and rip it out of her hands. It didn't matter. It wasn't his dress, and Sweetheart didn't care anymore.

The appropriate passage came to him. "The voice said, Cry." His words were whipped away by the wind almost before he was done speaking them. "And he said, What shall I cry? All flesh is grass....and all the goodliness thereof is as the flower of the field."

Ribbon stamped his feet, wanting to run. The outlaw looked up at the morning sun. It was gonna be another cold one. "Isaiah."

He turned up his collar, and rode along the ridge, heading south, where all the things that a man needed were to be found.

No one pursued him.

Finis