Page 21 of Sweet Savage Love
21
G inny had no remembrance, afterwards, of how many hours she was forced to endure in the brightly lighted, smoke-filled saloon. It seemed to her that an almost forced gaiety had seized everyone there after Steve had brought her back inside, seating her too politely at one of the small tables that were scattered throughout the room.
Lorena and her partner joined them, and she whispered to Ginny that Lilas had gone upstairs to soothe the man she had “entertained” shortly before. His aching head attended to he had been sent on his way to redheaded Patti, the girl he had been supposed to visit, with Lilas’ reassurance that it was “on the house” this time.
“He thinks you are crazy, cherie —and of course it’s just as well, hein? It was a crazy thing you tried to do…”
No one understood—not even Lorena!
Her color high, her eyes bright with unshed tears, Ginny sat stiffly at the table, sipping the drink that Steve had ordered for her. And he, on his part, proceeded to ignore her, except to remind her sharply to finish her drink—there was already another one set before her.
“Enjoy yourself, baby,” he said sarcastically, “it’s what you wanted, isn’t it? And be sure and act normally—flirt, if you like—you’re good at that, as I remember!”
The piano player had been joined by one of the guests who fancied himself a fiddler, and some of the girls who were still downstairs had begun to dance, laughing shrilly as they were whirled around by their partners.
A young cowboy, his hair slicked down unnaturally, his clothes obviously new, asked Ginny to dance. She would have refused, but when Steve nodded grimly towards the space they had cleared for dancing, she was forced to rise from her chair like a puppet on strings—to dance with the young man who held her too closely and listen dumbly to his clumsy compliments. She could not help noticing that Susie had slipped into the chair she had just vacated and was now leaning against Steve, whispering to him, her hand clutching possessively at his arm.
The young cowboy told her his name was Dan and said she was the prettiest girl he had ever seen at Lilas’ place. The sickly sweet smell of his hair oil made Ginny want to retch.
“I guess that lucky hombre back there has already booked you up for the night? Maybe next time I’m in town I’ll be just as lucky.” He paused and looked down at her. “Hey, you don’t say much, do you? You new at this?”
“Yes—” she murmured, “very new.”
Dare she tell him anything more? Would he help her, or would he be like the man George? It wouldn’t be any use—she knew that! And Steve would only think of some worse way in which to punish her.
Steve and Susie were kissing when Dan took her back to the table after buying her a drink she didn’t want. She drank it fast, trying not to notice the way that Steve was playing with the narrow bands of lace that were all that held Susie’s dress up. Why should she care? She was relieved when he got up to dance with Susie, who obviously had designs on him, judging from the way she molded her body against his as they danced. Maybe he’d take Susie upstairs tonight…but then, what would become of her?
Lorena, taking pity on Ginny’s white-faced misery, came to sit beside her.
“Poor Rafael—he is always so quick—lot of talk, but then, just like a rabbit, phhtt!”
She glanced at Ginny and her voice softened.
“ Cherie—cherie you must not look like that! He is angry now, but later, he will forget it. And that Susie—he only acts so with her to make you jealous. Smile, petite! Pretend that you do not care.”
“But I don’t care! Oh, God, Lorena, I wish he would keep her instead of me! Why couldn’t he let me go?”
Ginny felt hysteria bubbling up inside her, but Lorena, leaning forward, put her hands up and pinched Ginny’s cheeks hard, startling her into silence.
“There! I did not mean to hurt you, cherie, but you must not make him more angry, not now. And you need some color in your cheeks. Afterwards, you will see, it will be all right.”
Lorena was wrong, but it was only much later, in the privacy of the room upstairs, that Ginny learned the full extent of Steve Morgan’s anger.
By this time she was so tired, and half-drunk, in the bargain, that she could barely walk straight. Evading Susie, who had started drinking much earlier in the evening and now lay draped in a semi-stupor across the piano, Steve carried Ginny up the last flight of stairs; but there was no tenderness or consideration in the way he held her in his arms.
He slung her onto the bed as if she had been a sack of potatoes, and stood looking down at her with his thumbs hooked into his belt.
Ginny lay there sobbing, hearing his voice coming at her from what seemed like a great distance away.
“Don’t ever try it again, Ginny! I don’t intend to let you get away from me until I’m good and ready!”
“I didn’t—I didn’t do anything!” she heard herself sobbing. “I only wanted to escape, that’s all…”
Ginny raised herself on her elbows and looked over her shoulder at him, her eyes still blurred with tears, and he was still standing there, looking down at her with a strange, withdrawn expression on his face.
“I’m sorry, Ginny. How in hell can I blame you for trying to escape when I’d have done the same thing myself?” His voice sounded flat, and oddly bitter, and since she had never heard him make any kind of apology to her before she could hardly credit her hearing.
“You’d better get dressed—as quickly as you can. No point staying around here now that there’s a chance your friend George might start thinking about everything you told him. Once he’s sober, he could start talking.”
“But you’re still going to take me with you? Is that what you are saying?”
“Ginny—I’m not going to argue! Put your riding clothes on, we’re leaving in about half an hour.”
How quickly his moods could change! From black rage to what had almost been contrition, and now back to impatient harshness.
Wearily, Ginny dragged herself from the bed. How could he expect her to ride feeling like this? Wasn’t he capable of pity? Of anything besides anger and ruthlessness?
She began to understand him better in the weary, endless seeming weeks of riding, and hiding, that followed; and even began to build up her own reserves and strength and stubbornness like a shield against his unpredictability.
Supporter of Juarez or not, he was an outlaw, she knew that by now. And he was used to running, to being hunted. Sometimes, she’d taunt him with that—ask him if that was all life had to offer him and if that was enough. And perhaps in his own way he had begun to understand her better too, for now he hardly ever lost his temper with her, in spite of the gibes and insults she occasionally flung at him still—only laughed or shrugged and told her she was a shrew and he’d be glad to get rid of her some day.
Some day! But when would that be? Would he ever let her go?
Sometimes it was difficult for Ginny to imagine any other kind of existence—she rode now as if she was a part of her horse, and she had learned to light a fire that was virtually smokeless—even to skin and eat the occasional small animal that Steve shot.
“You make me feel like a squaw!” she told him once, sulkily. They were deep into Mexico again, somewhere in the foothills of the Sierra Madre, and he would not, as usual, tell her where they were.
“Squaws have other uses besides cooking and skinning game and carrying all of the heaviest loads—” he answered her obliquely, pulling loose her braided hair. “And besides, you’re not tame enough yet—your tongue’s too vicious. Any self-respecting Comanche brave would have taken two other wives by now, and traded you for a horse.”
She ignored his teasing, but it was impossible to ignore the demands of his lips and his hands on her bare, sweat-slippery body. There was no denying by now, even to herself, the strange, almost unnatural physical desire she had for him. She despised him, but she could not resist the power that his lovemaking had over her, even when she hated him most bitterly. And as for escaping, she had put that thought aside for the time being—ever since the morning she had awakened first, and seeing that he slept heavily and deeply, had taken his gun.
After that, the gun safely beside her, she’d made coffee, lighting the small fire very carefully as he’d taught her to do. She watched him, and when he opened his eyes she could see them narrow when he found himself looking into the unwavering muzzle of his own gun.
He was careful not to move—perhaps he had read the grim resolve in her own eyes. And finally he said, “Do I get any coffee first, or are you going to shoot that thing right off before you lose your nerve?”
“I’m thinking about it,” she said calmly, and then, with barely suppressed fury, “I could kill you right now! Or I could shoot you where it would hurt a lot, and leave you here to die very slowly. It’s what you deserve!”
She looked for any sign of fear in his eyes, but saw none. They measured her carefully, almost contemplatively.
“Guess that’s quite a decision you have to make, isn’t it? But if I were you, I’d think about a few other things too—like how you’re going to survive out here by yourself.”
“I’m quite capable of looking after myself!” she said sharply. “You’ve taught me well, Steve. I can shoot this gun without missing, and I can read signs. We can’t be too far from a town or a village, and the French soldiers…”
“We’re in Juarista country, my sweet,” he broke in. “Think I’d risk getting too close to the French? There’s nothing to prevent your killing me, of course, but have you thought about what could happen to you when they get you? They’ll hear a shot, and they’ll come to investigate. It isn’t pretty, the things those guerillos can do to a woman—after they’ve used her, of course.”
Deliberately, he stretched and crossed his hands under his head, ignoring the movement she made with the gun.
“Make up your mind, love. I’m getting real hungry.”
She felt like crying with frustration. Why hadn’t he been afraid? Was he so sure she’d never have the courage to shoot him? And worst of all—had he spoken the truth about the Juaristas?
“Oh—damn you, damn you! Why’d you sleep so hard then?” Half weeping with rage by now, Ginny threw the gun at him, barely missing him. Biting her lip she turned her back on him and began to pour the coffee.
Surprisingly, he chose to act as if nothing had happened. Having buckled his gunbelts around his waist and replaced his gun in its holster, he came to her, hunkering down on his heels beside her, and took the cup of coffee she held out to him silently.
But before they saddled up to ride on again, he surprised her once more by producing another handgun from his saddlebags and handing it to her. She took the small gun, a serviceable-looking, two-shot derringer, and stared at it unbelievingly.
“You can keep it in the pocket of your riding skirt,” he told her shortly. “Just remember, for God’s sake, that it’s loaded. Never can tell, in this neck of the woods, when you might need a gun. Even my friends the Juaristas could shoot first, if they caught sight of strangers, and not stop to ask questions later.”
Not knowing what to think, Ginny dropped the gun into the pocket of her skirt. I’ll be damned before I thank him for it, she thought stormily, but he had already turned away from her.
As they travelled deeper into central Mexico Ginny could see that Steve became more careful. The country to their left appeared flatter, hotter, and more like desert than the foothills. But he told her it was the best cattle-grazing land in all of Mexico.
“But where are the cattle, then? And the people? I’m beginning to think Mexico is a land of ghosts and bandits—or that this is a nightmare I’m having!”
“With all the fighting that’s going on, I guess the people who aren’t directly involved try to hide themselves,” he reminded her. “And as for the cattle, I guess the hacendados in these parts are smart enough to see that they’re grazed close to home. Everybody’s hungry these days—even the French!”
Ginny remembered her comments about Mexico when they were surrounded, a few days later, by a small armed band of incredibly villainous-looking men.
She sat her horse frozen, terrified, while Steve engaged in a long and heated argument with their leader, and tried not to notice the leering, lecherous glances of the others. Finally, when Steve produced a small, folded and creased piece of paper from his boot top, the leader of the Juaristas began to grin widely, and the conversation became obviously more friendly, while the men who had been pressing closer to Ginny moved back reluctantly.
Some of her fear left her and she began to listen more closely to the conversation, understanding only a little of it.
They were discussing the French, and troop movements in the area. The French were retreating, they had evacuated Chihuahua already—General Escobedo was too clever for them—Ginny did not believe any of it!
Nor did she believe what Steve told her later—that on Bazaine’s urging the Emperor Maximilian had signed an infamous decree which ordered the death of all suspected Juaristas without trial. She had heard of torture and mutilation practiced by the Juaristas —to imply that the French would stoop to that and worse was an obvious lie! She told him so, and he shrugged carelessly, but only a few hours later he forced her to ride with him to a hilltop, from where they could see a small village.
“Just visited by your friends, the French soldiers,” Steve said grimly. “Take a good look, my love!” He handed her his field glasses, and what Ginny saw made her retch weakly, unable to stop herself. The tiny, doll-like figures scattered grotesquely in broken heaps in front of the thatched adobe huts resolved themselves into the bodies of men, women, and even children. She saw a tiny baby with no head—another with a pulpy mass where its head had been. Buzzards hopped clumsily over the carnage, their beaks ripping into flesh.
“Did you see how they had the women staked out?” His inexorable voice went on while her shoulders heaved. “Can you guess what agony they went through before they were killed? And you know why? Because those damned Frenchmen thought, only thought, mind you, that they’d given shelter to Juaristas. ”
The terrible scene he had forced her to look upon stayed with her that night and all of the next day, following her even when late the next night they rode cautiously into a small town.
Since it was dark, Ginny could not make out much of the town, such as it was. What amazed her most was the utter darkness and the stillness. There were no street lights—under their horses’ hooves the winding street appeared to be dusty and deeply rutted. What buildings there were seemed to crouch squatly against the velvet dark night sky, and there did not seem to be any planning in their placement—just a scattered collection of buildings with gap-toothed spaces between them.
Ginny was tired, but she had learned better than to complain. She dismounted when Steve signalled her to do so and followed him, leading her horse, as he stepped into the squalid darkness of an alley between two buildings. An odor of rotten garbage and decaying vegetation made her clap her hand over her nostrils. A good thing it was so dark—she daren’t look down to see what she was standing on. If only he’d hurry!
Steve had found the door he had been looking for and was tapping on it lightly, his fingers moving in a strange, off-beat rhythm which was obviously a signal of some kind. But the fat woman who opened the door was cautious. She lit no lamp or candle, and as the door swung rustily inward Ginny could barely see the faint gleam of metal.
“No need for a gun, Mama Vera—it is Esteban.”
“Esteban? Esteban Alvarado?” The woman’s voice sounded incredulous at first and then she broke into a soft chuckle. “Still a rascal—still full of surprises, eh? But who is this with you? You bring a friend?”
“You’ll see when we get inside,” Steve said briefly. Lamplight suddenly flared in the gloom behind the woman, and a small boy, grinning widely, ran past her.
“I see to the horses, yes, Senor? ”
“You take care of them, or I see to you!” Vera shouted after him.
Her feet dragging with weariness, Ginny followed Steve inside. Mama Vera’s cantina doubled as a saloon, a hotel, and a whorehouse. The rooms she rented upstairs were tiny, with no pretensions of elegance. The one small window that overlooked the street had wooden shutters, and the room itself contained only a bed and a rickety table that barely held a pitcher and a small basin. Even so, the narrow bed was like heaven compared to the rough ground, and the warped, clumsily made shutters let in the fresh night air.
Stripping off her dusty, travel stained clothes, Ginny only took the time to wash her face and arms before she collapsed onto the bed. She slept deeply and dreamlessly, not knowing when Steve came back upstairs.