Page 22 of Sweet Savage Love
22
D usty streamers of sun, touching her face, forced Ginny awake. For a moment, when she first opened her eyes, she had a feeling of panic, not knowing where she was. As memory came back, she turned instinctively in bed, looking for Steve, but he wasn’t there. Flinging aside the roughly-woven cotton blanket, Ginny ran across the room to try the door, and was surprised to find it unlocked. She stood looking at it for a moment, frowning thoughtfully. So he had decided to trust her, had he? Or was it only because he was very sure she would not have a chance to make good an escape? It was stiflingly hot in the room, and Ginny still felt drugged from her long sleep. Even thinking seemed too much effort at the moment. Shrugging, she turned away to the small washstand and began to scrub the trail dust away from her body, using one of Steve’s neckerchiefs as a washrag. She was unembarrassed by her own nudity now, and it seemed quite normal to stand there unconcernedly naked, washing herself. She had grown thinner. Except for her breasts, which had never been overly big anyhow, and the curve of her hips, she told herself that she could easily pass for a boy. There were hollows at the base of her throat, and when she surveyed her face in the small cracked mirror that hung above the washstand, it too seemed thinner; its gypsyish contours more pronounced.
A sudden commotion on the street outside made her forget herself and rush to the window, tugging at the heavy wooden shutters until they swung open. No sooner had she put her head outside than Ginny found herself looking into the barrels of at least five rifles, held by French soldiers who looked just as surprised as she.
Their smart red and blue uniforms made her feel homesick, and when a tall soldier wearing sergeant’s chevrons called out to her in broken Spanish, begging her pardon a thousand times for having thought that the sound of her window opening might have meant an ambush, some spirit of mischief made her answer him in French.
The soldiers, horses rearing and prancing in the dust of the street, cheered delightedly, pulling off their kepis to wave at her. But it was only when a young man, wearing the insignia of a lieutenant, came galloping down the street to find out what was keeping his men, that Ginny realized the precariousness of her position. She had forgotten her own nakedness, the hair tumbling loosely over her shoulders, until his eyes made her conscious of it.
Her cheeks burning, Ginny drew back hastily, trying to ignore the laughing, admiring comments being made by the Frenchmen. She banged the shutters closed and hoped that they would go away. And then she thought, contradictorily, that it could not possibly have been these same laughing men who had destroyed the Indian village. She had only Steve Morgan’s word for it, after all—it might have been the Juaristas themselves who had done it. And now—the thought struck her, driving away her embarrassment and mood of lassitude, that she was safe at last. Those Frenchmen would rescue her, she was sure of it! She could go to Mexico City with them, and let Steve try to stop her if he dared! Most likely, when she told them he was a Juarista himself, he would be shot….
Rummaging quickly in her saddlebag, Ginny had barely pulled a thin chemise over her body when the door opened and Steve came in. Whirling around, she faced him defiantly, her chin lifted.
He banged the door shut behind him and leaned against it, his face like a thundercloud. He had grown a beard during the weeks they had spent travelling, and she thought it made him look more like a pirate than ever.
“Your soldier friends are all downstairs,” he said sarcastically, his voice a cold drawl. “They’re calling for Madame Vera’s new French whore. Shall I send them upstairs to you, Ginny?”
Her face paled a trifle, for she hadn’t thought of that—that they would naturally jump to the conclusion she was one of Vera’s girls. But after all, and the thought was as bitter as gall, what else could they think?
“Ginny, you little fool! For all that they’re Frenchmen, don’t you realize that they’ve probably been without even seeing a white woman for months? Don’t you realize what they want from you?”
“What difference does it make? It’s the same thing you want me for, isn’t it?” Ginny snatched a yellow silk dress out of the saddlebags and held it up against herself protectively. “Don’t look at me like that! There’s not a thing you can do about it now, Steve Morgan! Besides, when I talk to their lieutenant, when I explain, he’ll protect me. I’m sure of it. And as for you…”
“Oh, for God’s sake!” He crossed his arms negligently as he stared searchingly at her with a disgusted look spreading over his face. “Is that what you really think? Are you still naive enough for that? It’s entertainment those men want right now—not some hard-luck story that might take months to prove—are you willing to provide their entertainment?”
“You always try to twist things around!” she screamed at him. “And if you think to frighten me, you’re mistaken. I’d rather go down and brave those French soldiers than continue to be your captive whore!”
To her surprise, he shrugged, hands dropping to his sides.
“Very well, Ginny. If that’s how you want it. But if I may, I’d advise you to dress first. There might be some misunderstanding if you went downstairs so scantily attired!”
It was hard to believe that he’d give in so easily, and Ginny stared at him suspiciously until a shout from downstairs made her jump.
“I think your friends are getting impatient,” Steve said softly. “You’d better hurry, before they come up here to look for you. Seeing you like this—the bed so conveniently in the background—they might not want to wait for explanations from you.”
“You bastard!”
He raised his eyebrows.
“You know what I’ve told you about swearing, Ginny. What’s more, they wouldn’t understand it either. Especially if you intend to tell them you’re a lady in distress.”
“Damn you, get out!”
Her fingers shaking with rage, Ginny slipped the dress over her head and shrank away as he approached her.
“I wouldn’t dare attack you, nina. Not with all those French soldiers downstairs, ready to come to your rescue! No, I merely meant to offer my help, your fingers seem very clumsy this afternoon.”
Before she could protest, he turned her around impatiently, and she was forced to hold still, feeling his warm fingers brushing her skin as he hooked up her dress at the back.
“Your hair—I really think you ought to do something with it. Would you like me to brush it for you?”
Without waiting for her reply, he had seized her brush off the small washstand, and holding her in front of him, pinned uncomfortably between his lean, hard body and the table, he began to brush her hair in long downward strokes, ignoring her pained, angry cries as he tugged the brush through tangled curls.
“What—what do you think to gain by this?” she panted furiously. “You’ve admitted you cannot stop me from going downstairs, and you certainly cannot talk me out of telling that nice young lieutenant everything I know. If you are half as smart as you pretend to be you’d have made your escape by now!”
He dropped the brush and swung her around to face him, his hands suddenly rough on her shoulders.
“It’s too late for me to run, Ginny. And besides, I never have enjoyed running away from danger. As a matter of fact, querida, I intend to escort you downstairs—it might prove kind of exciting, at that.”
“You’re crazy!” The words came out as a whisper. “They’d kill you!”
“But I’d take several of them along with me. And it’s better than a firing squad, or torture, although I’m sure you’d be sorry to miss that.”
“I’m not going to let you blackmail me into silence, Steve Morgan! I’ve too many scores to settle with you!”
“Then settle them with me, damn it! Tell them I kidnapped you, that you’re here against your will—but you say anything about my being tied up with the Juaristas and there’ll be a half-dozen or more innocent people slaughtered, as an example to the rest of the town. You saw that village? You want the same thing to happen here? I’ll tell you how they do it, Ginny—they order everyone outside and start counting, and usually every fifth person gets it. But sometimes, they go berserk, your gallant Frenchmen—they find they can’t stop shooting. And when it’s done—you’ll be here to entertain them, won’t you? There’s a whole troop of them—seven Frenchmen and about fifteen Mexican Irregulars. They should keep you busy until nightfall, at least.”
“No, no, no! I don’t believe you! You’re lying—you’ve lied to me right along! They wouldn’t.”
A soft, nervous tapping at the door made Ginny fall silent, biting her lip to hold her anger in check.
“Esteban! For the Blessed Virgin’s sake! Those French soldados are getting too rowdy! They threaten to come upstairs and tear the place apart if the Senorita does not come downstairs.”
“You can tell them she’ll be down directly. She’s just fixing her hair so it will look extra pretty, aren’t you love? Don’t worry, mamacita —just tell them what I told you to say—remember, you are not happy at having us here!”
Ginny heard the fat woman’s footsteps recede, and found herself staring at Steve. He was dressed somberly, all in black except for his blue brocaded vest. The broadcloth jacket he wore was long enough to cover the holstered gun that rode low on his hip.
“You look as if you are dressed for a funeral!” she blurted out unthinkingly, and flushed with anger when he laughed.
“For my own, perhaps! And now, sweetheart, why don’t you hurry up and do something with your hair? Our would be conquerors obviously don’t like to be kept waiting.”
He took her arm when they walked downstairs, and Ginny, better attuned to his moods by now, could feel the tension—that high-strung, devil-may-care quality in his mood that usually went with danger. He was gambling on her, of course, but she was beginning to believe that he actually enjoyed the excitement of taking risks. She thought viciously that she intended to enjoy the afternoon too. She’d play a cat and mouse game with him; make him wait, wondering when the moment would come—and then she’d accuse him when he least expected it; just when he was beginning to feel sure of her….
The cantina was noisy with loud voices calling in French and in Spanish for more liquor and louder music, more women. Uniforms were everywhere—there were no civilians to be seen. In a corner a small mariachi band played furiously, as if their lives depended on it.
The Frenchmen had drunk enough to become boisterous. Their Mexican counterparts were more occupied with Vera’s selection of pretty putas.
“Hey, you fat old whore!” One of the soldiers called out in French as Ginny and Steve paused at the foot of the stairs. “Where’s the woman?” There was a raucous laugh from one of his companions.
“The old one has a good head for business, I’ll say that for her! Providing a little French poule especially for us…”
His voice trailed off as he looked up to see that the same little pigeon he’d been talking about had come downstairs at last, clinging tightly to the arm of a tall, bearded North American, who was staring coldly at him.
In the sudden hush that followed, Ginny could not, indeed, stop herself from clutching on Steve’s arm. She had heard the comments they were making about her, and now, she saw naked desire that they did not bother to hide in the face of every man in the room.
In a drawling, somehow affected voice that suddenly sounded very southern, Ginny heard Steve drawl, “I’m afraid there seems to be some mistake. This lady, gentlemen,” and he put the slightest sarcastic inflection on the word “gentlemen,” “happens to be my wife.”
Ginny sucked in her breath, anger blinding her for a moment so that she swayed. It was perhaps fortunate that Madame Vera chose the same moment to come bustling up, her arms akimbo, huge breasts quivering with every step under the bright red satin of her gown.
“There! What did I tell you? I did not want you here—I told you this was no place for a man with his wife. But gringos —” she turned to the table occupied by the slightly built French lieutenant and threw out her arms in despair “— ay di mi! What can one say to a gringo, tell me that? He forced his way inside—he said they were too tired to look further for accommodations—what could I do?”
“Hold on here!” Steve’s voice sounded annoyed. “I paid you in advance, didn’t I? Good ol’ American dollars, too. This goddam country! Rent a room for a night in some fleabag place and my sweet li’l wife gets insulted! Well, sirs, let me tell you—”
“ Monsieur! If you please—a moment—”
The lieutenant had risen hastily and was making his way towards them, bowing to Ginny as he came closer. He was the one, of course, who had first made her conscious of her nakedness by the way he had looked at her, and now, against her will, Ginny found herself blushing when she encountered his long, assessing look that took her in from head to foot.
“ Monsieur, you must excuse my men—we have been travelling hard and long, you see—a natural mistake, when we saw madame at the window—well—” he spread his hands out, palms up, in an apologetic gesture, although the shooting sidewise glance he gave Ginny was insolent in its implications.
“I beg you, monsieur, to accept my apologies. We intended no disrespect, you’ll understand how it is, I’m sure! Perhaps you’ll join me at my table for a while? Some champagne?”
“Well, now, sir—that sounds like a mighty kind offer, but I don’t know if my wife—”
The stumbling hesitancy of the big American’s speech made the lieutenant dismiss him almost immediately as a stupid oaf. A typical Americaine, of course! But the wife—ah, she was too pretty to be a wife. His mistress, more likely, and judging by how quickly the man’s bluster had died away in the face of his tact—who knew? Perhaps some arrangements could be made…
While he was thinking swiftly, the Frenchman brought his heels together and bowed gracefully to Ginny.
“If madame will permit me? I have been away from France for two years now, and I crave the soft, pretty speech of a countrywoman—the champagne is good, I assure you—” he spoke in quick, idiomatic French and Ginny hesitated looking up at Steve. He was glancing down at her, a strange, half-smile pulling at his mouth.
“I can’t understand the half of what the feller’s saying, of course, but if you wanna drink champagne, my love, then I see no harm in joining the lieutenant.”
What was he up to now? What was he planning? Whatever it was, she would take care that it did not succeed! What an actor he was—she’d like to teach him a lesson; show him that she could act just as well!
Ginny smiled archly at the young soldier, and then bit her lip in mock-confusion.
“Well—well as long as you’re sure you understand, and your men too, that I’m not—not—”
“Ah, Bon Dieu, madame! Do not think it! Again, I beg your pardon a million times…”
“Are we gonna have a drink or aren’t we?”
Rather annoyed at having his speech cut short the Frenchman bowed curtly.
“But of course, monsieur! And permit me to introduce myself—Lieutenant Francois d’Argent—at your service, monsieur et madame! ”
“Name’s Gray. John Gray. And this little lady here is my wife Virginia.”
Again, Ginny sucked in her breath, rage almost choking her. He was going too far! But she permitted the Lieutenant to lead them to his table, set slightly apart from the others, and smiled her acknowledgement of true French gallantry as his men all rose to their feet, bowing as she passed.
Before a half hour had passed, the bottle of champagne had become several bottles, and the rest of the Frenchmen had also crowded around, annoying their lieutenant. A stocky, rather sour-faced sergeant kept refilling the American’s glass, and he, dolt that he was, seemed happy enough to drink all he pleased and smoke his cigar, smiling indulgently as the swift, laughing conversation in French flowed around him.
D’Argent noticed that the woman’s face was flushed with pleasure and excitement, although no doubt the champagne had something to do with it as well. He took care to keep her glass full as well.
But they were certainly a strange and ill-matched pair, these two! He had already found out, by clever, off-hand questioning, that the big American was from Texas. He was a cattle buyer, and actually admitted that he was poor, since the war. He was in Mexico trying to buy cattle with what money he had left—planning to have them driven all the way to some outlandishly named town in Kansas where he thought to make an enormous profit.
“Gotta keep my babydoll here in silks and pretty gewgaws,” he’d chuckled in his crude way, and catching the glance that the woman threw at him, Francois could have sworn he read dislike in it.
Ah, he thought to himself with satisfaction, so all is not well here! Madame—if she is Madame Gray—is bored. Who can blame her? And her husband as much as admitted, later on, that his wife had insisted on accompanying him on this foolish journey.
“My little Ginny is kinda jealous, I guess,” he said with a foolish laugh. “Thought I’d be out chasin’ pretty Senoritas an’ not attendin’ to business unless she came along.”
The pretty little Ginette had choked on her champagne at that moment, and her rough idiot of a husband had made matters worse by thumping her unfeelingly on the back.
“Now, babydoll—you always do drink that stuff too fast. An’ come to think of it, you do look kinda flushed. Mebbe we should find someplace to eat—I’m feeling plumb starved myself!”
Thinking quickly, d’Argent had managed to avert a domestic crisis by suggesting they should do him the honor of dining with him—no, but he insisted! Sergeant Pichon was an excellent cook—he would go ahead immediately and begin to prepare the meal. Madame Gray had begun to smile at once, saying sweetly that she would just love it—he was the kindest man; and when d’Argent, who had contrived to sit next to her, pressed her foot meaningfully under the table, she had continued to smile.
Ginny felt heady with the champagne and the excitement of the game she was playing. She hoped Steve was sweating it out. Let him! It was his turn now, and at any time she pleased she could turn the tables on him by telling these people who he was and what he was. And in the meantime she was enjoying being able to speak French again, to ask questions about her beloved Paris, and above all to be flattered and treated as a beautiful woman should be treated.
It was perhaps because of the champagne that Ginny did not realize that Lieutenant d’Argent was growing more and more puzzled as their conversation continued.
So Madame Gray had lived in Paris for many years and was, in fact half-French. From his carefully thrown-out questions he had already learned that she knew almost nothing about the more popular bistros, such as he and his friends had frequented. She talked of an uncle and aunt—named a quiet residential street whose houses were owned by the very rich and very influential—it could not be possible that she had actually lived in one of these houses, unless, of course she had been a maid or a governess! And if she’d been the latter it would account for her ladylike manner of speaking. It had to be that, of course. A rich young woman of gentle birth would certainly not be careering around a country at war with an obviously boorish American. Nor would she sleep in a shabby cantina run by a madame of rather dubious repute.
As the wine continued to flow the Mexican Irregulars began to get more and more boisterous. Some of them had already retired upstairs with the Senoritas of their choice. D’Argent noticed, with contempt curling his lip, that the American seemed to be falling asleep. It was clear he wasn’t used to champagne, and indeed, that the good wine was wasted on him. But madame was a different matter—madame was growing quite gay, and prettier by the moment. Even the cheap and rather garish dress she wore did nothing to detract from her beauty. A lovely discontented woman—a husband who was too stupid to notice what was going on beneath his nose—what could be more perfect? And he, Francois, had not had a woman for over a month, if you did not count the few he had taken by force—dirty Mexican sluts who had screamed insults and struggled. This woman would not fight against him, he was more sure of it with every minute that passed!
Smiling, leaning closer to her under the cover of the conversation tactfully engaged in by his men, Lieutenant d’Argent let his compliments become more ardent, his innuendos more daring. Once or twice Madame Gray, or Ginette, as he had already begun to think of her in his mind, actually blushed. He became bolder, positive now that her uncivilized brute of a husband knew no French, and her beautiful green eyes dropped under his—he noticed that she glanced doubtfully at her husband, and smiled.
“He’s falling asleep—your husband,” he said softly in French. “Although me, I cannot understand how he could do so, with such loveliness beside him. Ah, if I could only show you how much I appreciate your presence here…!” Again, his foot pressed against hers under the table.
“You become too bold, monsieur! ” she said sharply, adding in an undertone, “and if I were you I would not underestimate him. It could be dangerous.”
Did she mean that her husband was jealous? Certainly it did not seem so. But perhaps she was only playing coy.
“Madame,” d’Argent said earnestly, “I cannot blame any man for being jealous of such a precious possession! But if you’ll permit me, as an admirer of your beauty and elegance, to ask an intimate question—what do you really do here, with such an unappreciative man? This is no place for a woman, this crazy country, and particularly not for one as lovely as you. In Mexico City, now—”
As he let his voice trail away suggestively Ginny thought confusedly that perhaps this was her chance to explain. The young lieutenant would surely be only to eager to help her, although she did not particularly care for his overly bold manner. But when he understood—
“ Monsieur, ” she began haltingly, trying to choose her words, “perhaps I should explain…”
“My love, it’s getting late. Perhaps the good lieutenant’s cook wasn’t able to find anything to fix for supper. In any case I think we oughta leave these gentlemen to their warlike duties and find ourselves some place to eat. You know how sleepy I always get when I drink on an empty stomach!”
The lieutenant’s face had darkened at the unfortunate interruption. And something in the tone of the big American’s voice set his teeth on edge, although it was nothing to put one’s finger on. But the man was a dolt, of course. One could not mistake it. D’Argent contemptuously dismissed the gun that the man wore. All American cowboys wore guns—to them, it was a part of dressing up. And besides, what could one gun do against a troop of French soldiers? He forced himself to smile and speak soothingly.
“ Monsieur —no need to worry, I assure you! Pichon will be here in a few minutes, or better still, let us go now to my quarters—I have an excellent brand of champagne myself that I would love to have you try. And I am sure the meal will be to your liking, and madame’s.”
His glance at Ginny was languishing, and she flushed, although she was still puzzled and angry that Steve had interrupted when he did. She caught him looking at her with that infuriatingly mocking smile, one eyebrow tilted slightly as if to say he left the decision up to her. And even Lieutenant d’Argent was watching her expectantly.
“I haven’t had a decent meal in months, as you very well know!” she said rather sullenly to Steve. And then, with a sudden smile she put her hand flirtatiously on his arm and looked up at him, fluttering her eyelashes in a deliberate parody. “Please—you cannot refuse me!”
He caught her meaning, of course, as she had meant him to do. Only she noticed the slight tautening of his lips, and she gloated inwardly. Let him walk the tightrope for a while longer! She could betray him at any moment she pleased, and he knew it. The thought gave her an intoxicating sense of power.
“My love—how well you know that I can refuse you nothing! And our thanks again, Lieutenant.”
Steve stood up, pushing his chair over clumsily as he did.
He saw Ginny wince, and smiled amusedly at her. The little bitch, she was enjoying herself! But he had to hand it to her—it was her turn to be on top, and she was taking it.
D’Argent was explaining hurriedly to his men that he was going back to his quarters and the Americans would be his guests. Some of the men gave him sly, congratulatory smiles that he pretended not to notice.
Outside the sun blazed down hotly, and Ginny shuddered, shrinking from it. With a perfunctorily apologetic glance at Steve, the lieutenant offered her his arm. Lagging slightly behind, pretending to look around curiously, Steve noticed the wrinkled Mexican peasant sitting dolefully on the edge of the cracked wooden sidewalk, huddled in his serape. The man, a refugee or a beggar by all appearances, appeared to be dozing, and yet Steve caught the white gleam of an eyeball as the man’s look slipped sideways and away.
“Hey, that pore old guy looks like he ain’t had a square meal in years! Take this, amigo, buy yourself some supper—”
The man scrambled in the dust after the carelessly tossed coin, his thanks a gabble in some obscure Indian dialect.
D’Argent and Ginny had stopped, and the lieutenant sounded annoyed.
“Really, monsieur! You should not encourage this kind of scum! Give them a peso and they expect it—and they’d turn around and put a knife in your back the next moment.”
“Ah shucks—can’t see a man looking as skinny and starved as he does,” Steve said mildly. “We’ve seen too much of that since we been here, haven’t we my dearest?”
“I prefer not to discuss unpleasant things,” Ginny said sharply, refusing to play his game, whatever it was. Although she was unpleasantly aware of his presence at her elbow as they continued to walk up the street, she pretended to ignore him, saving her smiles for the Frenchman instead.
The French had set up their makeshift headquarters in the only sturdy-looking adobe structure, which happened to be the local jail. But, as d’Argent explained quickly, he was occupying the jefe’s quarters next door, and he had seen to it that they were clean and comfortable.
“Jails always did give me a funny kinda feeling,” Steve commented conversationally. “Got yourself any prisoners locked up in there?”
“Only one,” d’Argent said, a trifle impatiently. “In fact, we think the man we have may be a Juarista spy—he did not seem to have any particular business here. Tomorrow we shall question him and find out.”
“Oh?” The American actually seemed interested. “Think you’ll get anything out of him? From the talk I’ve heard, these—whatever you call ’em—they’re tough customers.”
“We have our ways, monsieur. Believe me, if the man we have in jail is one of those filthy Juaristas, he’ll be happy to confess when my men are through with him.”
“I guess your laws out here are different from the law back home. Suppose he ain’t a spy after all?”
D’Argent shrugged, his eyes bright. “We all make mistakes, monsieur. And this is war. The man’s explanations did not satisfy us, and after a while, one has an instinct…” he ended his sentence with an expressive shrug, but all the same, he felt almost relieved when the cigar-puffing American did not persist with his questions. He had been in Mexico two years, and yet the torturing of a man was not something he enjoyed. He had seen French soldiers, often mutilated before they were killed, and had no compunctions about carrying out Marshal Bazaine’s orders to execute any suspected Juaristas without the formality of a trial. This was war, after all! But although the firing squad was one thing, torture, even though it was sometimes necessary, was hard on the stomach. He could order it, if he had to, but preferred not to watch it.
Fortunately, he had two American mercenaries standing guard over the prisoner right now—hardbitten gunmen from across the border who would rather earn big money for fighting the Juaristas than take their chances with the law in their own country. One of them, a tall, pale-eyed Texan who called himself Tom Beal would do the “questioning” of the prisoner. The lieutenant had seen Beal work before, and Beal enjoyed this kind of thing. He and the other man, who was known only as Blue, worked well together. They were both fast with their guns and completely ruthless; and they had already proved their worth as scouts, tracking down roving bands of Juarist “guerillos” who came and went like shadows, preferring to strike at the French soldiers from ambush rather than face them in battle.
The faithful Sergeant Pichon had done his best with the rather shabby quarters formerly belonging to the jefe. The floor had been polished, and the addition of a few handwoven rugs of local manufacture added color. As for the meal, there was no need for apologies here. Pichon had excelled himself—adding his own special touch to what had been available. Proudly, d’Argent served a dry white wine with the chicken, and was flattered when Madame Gray agreed with him that the vintage was one of the finest for that particular wine.
The American, her husband, ate stolidly and concentratedly, drinking down the wine as if it had been nothing but water. A waste, on such an undiscriminating pig, d’Argent thought to himself with a grimace.
But Madame Gray—Ginette—she was different! Such beauty and elegance was all too obviously wasted on her husband, and Francois d’Argent found himself growing more and more intrigued as the meal progressed. He made a perfunctory apology to the American for speaking in French, but the big man had merely waved his cigar expansively and told him to “go right ahead.” What kind of a man was he? The kind, no doubt, who would stoop to using his wife to further his business ambitions, using her as bait. And just as obviously, all was not well between them.
Once for a short while, the conversation turned to politics, and it appeared that madame, like d’Argent himself, had hoped that the southern states would win the recent civil war in America. Her husband, on the other hand, had merely raised an eyebrow and advised her that politics was not a woman’s province.
“Oh—but you’re insufferable!” she had burst out angrily, and her husband had grinned condescendingly, looking across at the lieutenant as if for support, with a shrug of his broad shoulders.
Hastily turning the conversation to more personal matters, d’Argent discovered, by dint of careful questioning, that the young woman was well-read, to add to her other accomplishments. Her French mother had died when she was young, but her father, also an American, was still living.
“You’re from Louisiana then, surely?”
“Alas no, monsieur! I’d hoped to stay there longer, especially in New Orleans, but Papa was in such a hurry to reach Texas…” Here she paused rather thoughtfully, as if unwilling to continue.
“Oh, and that is no doubt where you met your husband?” d’Argent said encouragingly.
“I—yes, I did meet monsieur in Texas,” she said shortly. She might have said more, having drunk enough to make her bold, but at that moment her fool of a husband stood up abruptly, his chair falling over with a clatter. D’Argent noticed that he swayed slightly on his feet.
“You gotta—gotta excuse me for a while. Damn good food that! But I think I need—need some fresh air—they got outhouses around here?”
Ginny blushed vividly, her face a mask of embarrassment and disgust and d’Argent, anxious to be rid of her husband, even if it was only for a little while, intervened tactfully.
“Ah, monsieur, my apologies! Let me show you.”
“No—no—wouldn’t dream of bothering you. Just you tell me where an’ I’ll find it—bet it’s out back, huh? Jes’ like home…”
Smiling vaguely, stumbling as he walked, the bearded American fumbled his way to the back door which opened onto a small courtyard where the house formed an ell with the back of the jail itself.
The dolt! Let him find a convenient spot to relieve himself. Perhaps, with luck he’d pass out. But at least he’d provided a golden opportunity for Francois himself, and he intended to make the most of it.
“I apologize, madame, for allowing your husband to drink too much,” d’Argent said softly. “But I must confess that I have longed to be alone with you from the first moment I saw you! You cannot imagine how your loveliness has captivated me—I could gaze for hours into your green eyes—admire the softness of your lips—”
The young woman seemed a trifle confused, but d’Argent caught her hand, pressing it urgently.
“I’m infatuated with you! I say this to you so suddenly, so soon, because we are at war, madame! I might never see another woman as lovely as you again—you’ve swept me off my feet.”
He was pulling her towards him when the shot rang out. D’Argent jumped hastily, guiltily almost, to his feet, while the young woman made a frightened smothered sound.
“ Mon Dieu! The Juaristas! ”
At that moment, the big American appeared in the doorway, a foolish, embarrassed grin spread over his face.
“Sorry. Sorry if I startled you, didn’t mean it to go off, y’know. All I was doin’ was checkin’ the loads, see, an’ the damn gun went off! Can’t unnerstand it.”
Before d’Argent could find words, Ginny said coldly, “And why, pray, did you find it necessary, suddenly, to see if your gun was loaded?”
“Huh?” The American’s glance went from d’Argent to his wife and back again. He looked puzzled. “But honey, you know darn well I always start to checkin’ my gun when I see the way guys look at you.” He glanced at the dumbfounded lieutenant, still smiling. “Real jealous son-of-a-gun I am—just ask Ginny! Men are always lookin’ at her, and I jes’ keep getting mad. Even though I know my little babydoll here wouldn’t give any of ’em the time of day. She hates makin’ me mad, don’t you angel?”
D’Argent had begun to look a trifle alarmed, his face reddening. Surely the man had not overheard? If he’d been a Mexican, he’d have had him taken out and shot, but he dared not meddle with an American citizen, especially one with such a pretty and well-born wife—if she were well-born, and not just a little governess who had married for security.
The woman was speechless with fury, her eyes flashing, but d’Argent managed to find his voice, and was ashamed that it sounded so placating.
“B-but monsieur! ” he said, stammering slightly, “you surely do not think that I—”
“Ah heck, of course not! No, you bin real nice to us both, hasn’t he, love? An’ you ain’t Ginny’s type at all. But I sure didn’t like the way some of your men back there acted—I tend to brood on things, and I got to thinking—an’ it made me mad, I guess!”
“ Monsieur —” d’Argent said a trifle wildly, “I have already apologized for my men! But if you wish it…”
An urgent knocking at the door, and Sergeant Pichon’s alarmed voice gave him the opportunity to break off and he straightened himself with some relief. “I’m afraid, monsieur, that your accidental shot has caused some alarm among my men. If you’ll excuse me for a moment, I will explain to them.” With a curt bow for the American and a languishing look at his wife, d’Argent opened the door quickly and went into the front room where Ginny could hear him complain in French that the stupid Americaine, the clumsy imbecile, was playing with his gun and—the closing of the door cut off the rest of his words, and Ginny, coming to her feet, turned angrily on Steve.
“Steve Morgan, I’ve had enough of this—this miserable imposture! I mean to…”
He took a swift step forward and gripped her wrist hard enough to bring an exclamation of pain to her lips; all the foolishness and drunkenness falling away.
“John Gray’s the name, and you’d better remember it! And as for what you mean to do, Ginny, then you’d best think carefully first. They’ve got Paco Davis in that jail. I know it’s him for sure now. He came to the window when I fired that shot, and I mean to get him out.”
She saw the old reckless light dance in his eyes and gasped.
“But that’s crazy! The town’s full of soldiers, as you know well enough. You’ll get yourself—”
He laughed suddenly. “Killed? But that should please you, love. Shouldn’t it? All I’m asking is that you don’t try to stop me from trying. If they do end up getting me, I’m sure it’ll prove very convenient for you.”
“I’ve no desire to be left at the mercy of a troop of soldiers who haven’t seen a white woman in months—especially if the man they think is my husband has just been executed as a traitor!” she retorted.
“Try to look on the bright side of things. Perhaps the handsome young lieutenant will keep you for himself,” he said softly. His eyes smiled down into hers, and for an instant she imagined that he intended to kiss her. But the moment passed, with the distant slamming of the front door. He released her and dropped into a chair, long legs stretched negligently before him as he reached for his glass.
D’Argent, apologizing for his delay in returning, poured more wine. He had noticed that Madame Gray looked flushed and rather sullen when he entered the room, and that she rubbed at her wrist almost absentmindedly. So! Had her clumsy ox of a husband dared hurt her? Perhaps the man really was jealous, in which case, would more wine only make his jealousy uglier, or would it put him to sleep?
The lieutenant made a point of trying to draw the man out, but he seemed to have no conversation, unless it was about cattle, and he found himself answered mostly in monosyllables. Certainly, the American looked sleepy. He had drunk an enormous amount of wine, and his eyelids seemed to droop, while he had not even the manners to smother his yawns. Even the young woman had become silent and rather thoughtful—perhaps she was afraid of her husband, although that had not seemed to be the case earlier.
“Gettin’ awful late—fall asleep right here if I don’t get to bed,” the American announced suddenly, his voice slurred.
“But, monsieur, another drink! See, the bottle is only half-empty, and I would hate to have to throw away good wine. Why, monsieur, I thought you Americans prided yourselves on being hard drinkers!”
D’Argent felt his cunningness at throwing out a challenge rewarded when he saw the scowl on the big man’s face.
“Whaddya mean, you thought—sure, we can hold our liquor better than anyone else, I bet!”
Triumphantly, d’Argent watched the American reach forward for the bottle, tilt it over his glass. He could not forbear stealing a glance at the woman, and was flattered when he found her eyes on him. The corner of her lips tilted upward very slightly in the beginning of a smile before she dropped her eyes demurely. So—she knew what he was up to, and she approved! He began to feel more hopeful.
When the sharp rapping came at the door, therefore, d’Argent was understandably annoyed; he was even more disturbed when the door opened abruptly, before he’d had time to answer. Americans! They had no idea of tact, of protocol!
The man who came in, closing the door carelessly behind him, was Tom Beal, one of the men who was supposed to be guarding the prisoner. How dared he intrude?
“Beal! What are you doing here? I thought I had told you—”
“You told me to let you know the minute our prisoner wanted to start confessin’. Well, it appears he’s in the mood to do just that. But he wants you to hear it.”
Beal was very tall and thin, with a high-cheekboned, rather cadaverous face. His hair was straw-colored and plastered down against his bony skull with sweat and hair oil.
His eyes were pale blue and expressionless, and Ginny could not help wanting to shudder when they touched her briefly.
Of them all, only Steve, his glass held to his lips, seemed completely unconcerned.
As a matter of habit, Tom Beal studied the room first, although he had been in here before. He was a killer by profession, and watchfulness was an instinct with him. He wore one gun, its holster tied low on his hip, and he set down the rifle he usually carried with him by the door, after he was sure how many people were in the room. It was the sort of pointless courtesy, he’d learned, that French officers insisted upon. And as long as it was safe, why not? They paid good money for his services, after all.
Beal had noticed the woman first—the minute he entered the room he had sensed her presence; knew right away that she was American, young and quite beautiful.
Like to get me some of that—the thought flashed through his mind. It had been a long time, too long, since he’d had an American woman, especially one like this, with the bloom not yet worn off.
Because he was in the French lieutenant’s quarters, and because of the woman’s presence, Beal made a mistake he would not normally have made. He let his guard relax, studying the woman openly while he spoke to the Frenchman. And because of it, he barely noticed her husband, who in any case was leaning tilted back in his chair sipping greedily at a glass of wine. He’d heard the French soldiers talk and had already dismissed the man contemptuously as a weak drunk. It was the woman—the woman that mattered.
D’Argent had not missed the way Beal’s eyes seemed to grow even paler as he let his lust show openly, and the fact annoyed him. The man had no right to walk in as he had, and he had even less right to stare.
“You interrupted me, Beal. You were speaking of the prisoner?”
With some difficulty, Beal brought his eyes back to d’Argent’s frowning, rather pompous face.
“Oh—yeah. Well, seems like he suddenly decided to confess, like I said—particularly when I started tellin’ him all the methods I planned to use to get him to talk.” Beal smiled wolfishly. “Says he knows where they hide out in the hills by here, but he’ll only spill it to you, personal. Guess he thinks you might give him a pardon.”
“I give no pardons to confessed Juaristas, ” the lieutenant began sternly. “But of course, the man need not know that until after he has confessed, I suppose! Yes, I think….”
Bored by the lieutenant’s self-important speech Beal let his eyes wander again.
They went past the woman, who was suddenly whitefaced and still, her head bent; and beyond to the bearded man who lounged so silently in his chair, the glass of wine still in his hand, as if he could not bear to let go of it.
Beal started to move his eyes away indifferently when something, some half-remembered spark of familiarity tugged at his brain, drawing his gaze back to the other American. Like most professional gunmen, Beal relied largely on his instinct, and the reason he’d stayed alive this long was that he believed in playing his hunches—messages sent like faint tremors from his subconscious mind. Instinct, more than memory, told him now that he’d seen this man before, and under different circumstances. And there was also the way the man was looking at him now, watching him steadily and coldly through very dark blue eyes that contrasted strangely with the black beard and hair.
That was it—those eyes! He’d seen them watching him before, over the barrel of a gun. Just once, and very long ago; but Tom Beal never forgot a man who’d managed to get the drop on him.
He cut sharply and rudely across the Frenchman’s speech, taking a step forward, with his hand dropping to the butt of his gun.
“You—I’ve seen you before someplace, mister. We’ve tangled somewhere, sometime.”
“Now Beal…” the Frenchman began as the big American looked up in surprise, as if he’d been startled out of his drink-sodden stupor.
“Did you say Beal?” The man’s voice was filled with sudden, drunken rage. But he didn’t reach for his gun, as Beal had sensed he might. The unexpectedness of his shout startled Beal just as much as it had startled the others, losing him the split second he needed to pull his gun. That, and the quick movement of the man’s hand as he flung the glass of wine at Beal’s face.
Steve Morgan’s body followed the movement of his hand as he lunged across the table, falling onto Beal as the table caught the surprised gunman across the belly, splintering like matchwood. Off balance, Beal had fallen backward, and now, before he could move, a fist crashed into his jaw—hands caught him by the hair, pounding his head mercilessly against the hard adobe floor.
“Beal, is it? You goddamn son of a gun—think I wouldn’t recognize any dirty bastard that tried to run off with my wife? Only reason I didn’t kill you then was she made me promise I wouldn’t, but by God, you’re still after her, and I’ll kill you for sure this time!”
It was the last thing Beal remembered before the blackness closed over him—a blackness laced with crimson streaks and agonizing pain.
When the table crashed over, Ginny screamed with real fear and sprang to her feet. D’Argent, completely astounded, stood with his mouth open, unable, for a moment, to comprehend what was happening.
“ M’sieur—m’sieur, stop! Have you gone mad? For God’s sake stop—you will kill him!”
He stooped, attempting to drag the infuriated American off the unconscious mercenary. The imbecile—he was obviously insane—what was the matter with him? Had he really recognized Beal, or was it the raving of a drunken maniac?
With a bellow of rage, the American swung his arm backward as D’Argent tugged at it, sending the Frenchman staggering. Before he could recover himself, the American had sprung to his feet and now caught his wife, who had been about to scream, by the shoulders. He shook her roughly as he swore at her.
“You cheating tramp! You led him on—flirting with him, smiling those sly smiles at him when you think I’m not looking, like you do with every man you meet. Like you were doin’ this evening with the lieutenant here, and don’t think I didn’t see what was goin on, you bitch!”
The woman was gasping with shock and terror, fighting for breath. The pins flew from her hair, clattering to the floor and her hair spilled down over her shoulders.
“No—don’t!” she managed to whimper, “please—don’t!”
D’Argent’s French gallantry was outraged. The drunken idiot! He had gone berserk. Mad with jealousy, he didn’t know what he was doing!
“Stop it! I insist that you stop it! M’sieur! ” He noticed with relief that the faithful Sergeant Pichon had come running from his quarters and now stood staring in astonishment.
“Oaf!” d’Argent yelled in French, “the imbecile American is out of his head—he will kill madame! Can’t you do anything but stand there gaping? Come and help me!”
Together, they finally managed to catch the American’s arms and pull him away from his sobbing wife. With a little shocked moan the girl dropped into a chair, hands up to her throat. D’Argent had expected to have difficulty in holding the big man still, as blind with rage as he seemed to be, but the moment they had him held fast he seemed to slump against them, swaying unsteadily on his feet.
“Not—not my fault—” he mumbled sullenly. “She always drives me to it—drink—only thing that helps—always men—”
“It’s not true! Don’t believe him, don’t believe anything he says!” the girl stormed, her eyes like green fire. “He’s a wicked, evil man. He hurt me!”
“Madame—madame I beg you not to upset yourself! Your husband is drunk, he is not capable of rational behavior. I am afraid I will have to put him in jail—for your own sake, of course, as well as for the sake of all the innocent people of the town—my men—”
Just in case the American decided to lose his temper again, d’Argent snatched the Smith his head hung abjectly. As he stood swaying on his feet, the man was almost pathetic.
“No—no more trouble—promise you—” he muttered, the words slurred. “Just wanna sleep, tha’s all—sleepy—”
“I promise you, monsieur, you will sleep well in my jail tonight! You will have a Juarista for company, and I’m afraid they all smell bad, but it will not matter—we will execute him very early in the morning, so you may sleep as late as you wish!”
D’Argent smiled conspiratorially at the woman, but she continued to look rather sullen. Anger had left color flaring along her cheekbones that only rendered her even more attractive.
“I must seem him safely in jail,” she persisted.
“Come along then, madame,” d’Argent said. “And you, m’sieur, it is only a short way. Walk slightly ahead of me, if you please, like so.”
He turned his head to look with disgust at the broken table and crystal—his best linen stained with wine. Beal lay on his back like a dead man, only his shallow, ragged breathing showing that he still lived. This drunken American would no doubt be very sorry that he had attacked Tom Beal. Ah, well—he deserved whatever Beal and his partner decided to do to him!
“Pichon—you will stay and clean up this mess,” the lieutenant instructed. “And do it swiftly, for I will be back as soon as I hear what this Juarista has to confess. And—you might as well see to Beal as well. Perhaps a cold compress for his head…”
“ Oui, M’sieur le Capitaine. At once!”
Pichon came belatedly to attention as the lieutenant glared at him—how dare Pichon presume to promote him? When his superior officer left Pichon could not help sighing as he gazed around the room he had tidied earlier.
Lucky Lieutenant d’Argent! He had the foolish husband at pistol point, walking ahead—and an arm about the waist of the pretty wife. A true Frenchman, that d’Argent!