Bushwa by Ron Schwab

Author:Ron Schwab [Schwab, Ron]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: .ISBNincl, Western
ISBN: 9781943421695
Publisher: Uplands Press
Published: 2023-12-03T05:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twenty-Three

When Win saw the mass of men roaming the dusty streets of Mesilla, he decided to switch the order of his visits. The Yellow Rose saloon appeared to be overflowing, and he was uneasy about the way several men eyed his horse. He did not like the odds of having Buddy stolen along with all his gear and the food Martina had sent with him. Under no circumstances would he hitch the horse outside the saloon or anywhere else along this section of the street. He would not be helping the cause if he were left afoot.

He nudged the gelding down the street away from the crowds and toward the dead-end Renata had told him about. The end of the street took him to a large adobe church—Saint Paul’s, according to a sign framed by adobe brick off to one side of the entrance stairway—Catholic, he assumed, the dominant religion of the territory. Win had been raised and baptized Methodist but had not visited a church since meeting up with Bushwa some five years back. He supposed he would find his way back someday but did not dwell on it.

The dead-end was essentially the top of a tee, where the traveler must choose to turn right or left. He chose left, welcoming the quiet hillside area he was riding into. He had suddenly entered what appeared to be a residential area if it were not for the signs in front of the five houses that formed a cul-de-sac and rose on the gentle slope of a hillside above the street. There were horses tied to hitching posts here and there, and he saw two men entering one of the houses, but there was no one outside milling about.

The properties were all well-maintained, and he gathered that this was the neighborhood of upper-class bordellos where the price of a poke might be significantly more than the single dollar establishments Bushwa always claimed was his limit. Two of the adobe houses had the appearance of Spanish haciendas, but the one that drew him was a frame plantation-style structure at the furthest end. He rode toward that one, and as he neared, saw the sign that read “Mary’s Manor.”

There were two hitching rails out front that would easily hold a dozen horses, although there were presently only three mounts tied there. He felt much less concerned about horse thieves here and dismounted and hitched Buddy onto the rail. He removed his rifle from the scabbard, however, and carried it with him up the half dozen stone steps that led to the manor’s yard and from there took the brick walk that led to the front door of the house which was set back almost fifty feet.

There was a metal door rapper shaped like a deer’s head adjacent to the ornate door and he rapped several times. Soon the door opened, and a pretty blonde woman peered out, her eyes perusing him before she spoke. “May I help you, sir?”

“I am here to see Mary.

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