Crossing Fire River by Ralph Cotton

Author:Ralph Cotton
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group

In a dingy service room above the Red Dog Saloon, Booth Anson stood shirtless, a soiled and bloodstained bandage on his healing shoulder wound. He held a foamy mug of beer in his hand; his sweaty hair lay plastered to his wet forehead. Watching out the window as Shaw rode in leading the paint horse and the dead Mexican, Anson called out over his shoulder to Wilbur Wallick, who lay stretched out on a bare feather mattress spooning cold beans from an airtight container.

“Get over here, Wilbur,” he said. “You won’t believe this.”

Next to Wallick a naked whore cursed in a sleepy voice when she felt the whole bed squeak and bounce as Wallick got to his feet and walked to the window. Looking down beside Anson, Wallick saw Shaw step down from the speckled barb at a hitch rail. “I’ll be damned, it’s him, big as life! Look, he’s toting a body around with him.”

“It won’t be long before somebody’ll be toting his dead ass down the street,” said Anson. He pressed his hand to the bandaged shoulder as if gauging how much longer before it would completely heal. “Get your boots on, Wilbur. We’re going to follow him around some, see what he’s up to.”

“Right, Booth.” Wallick hurried and set the airtight container of beans on a nightstand, then reached for his boots. “Think we ought to wake Mean Myra and tell her we’re leaving?”

“If she doesn’t see us here, she’ll get the idea,” Anson said.

“But what if we still owe her some money?” Wallick asked.

“Jeez, Wilbur,” said Anson, just looking at him, not knowing how to answer.

From the bed the woman’s muffled voice said, “I already been paid, unless you both want to give me a little something extra.” She rolled onto her back and propped her back up against the iron bars of the headboard.

“Cover yourself, Myra,” said Anson. “You look rank as hell lying there like that.” He reached for his own clothes piled on the grimy floor.

“Oh, I look rank, do I?” Mean Myra Blount reached over beside the can of airtights, picked up a bag of tobacco and rolling papers. “I must’ve looked like a warm apple pie when I uncovered,” she said in a knowing tone as she rolled herself a thin smoke and ran it in and out of her red-smeared lips. “You sure couldn’t get your fill—”

“Shut up!” snapped Anson. “That’s not the kind of thing I like talking about.”

Mean Myra chuckled, reaching for a match and lighting her cigarette. “Throw me my dress,” she said.

Anson picked up her dress from a chair and pitched it over to her. She spread it over herself and continued smoking and watching Anson dress. “Who did you see ride in down there, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“The sumbitch who shot me,” Anson said, sitting down on the edge of the bed to pull on his boots, barely using his right arm beneath his sore and healing shoulder.

“So you’re going to kill him?” the dark-haired young woman asked.

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