Bullets Over Bedlam (4 page)

The heart-stopping, high-breasted, round-hipped body, clad in only a dusty trail hat and a flimsy chemise . . .

4.

NIGHT VISITOR

H
AWK blinked at the gorgeous, near-naked woman standing before his bed, her full red lips stretched back from her teeth, blue eyes flashing devilishly in the lamplight.

He had to be dreaming. His senses were as keen as a cougar's. No one could sneak into his room, light a lamp, and undress without him hearing.

Saradee Jones stepped toward the bed, putting her bare feet down softly, gently shoving his cocked pistol aside with the back of her left hand and then sitting down beside him, making the bedsprings squawk. She'd been reading his mind. Her tone was vaguely cajoling.

“You must've been riding hard, last few days. Didn't think I could sneak into your room, much less light a lamp while you snored like a drunken sailor.” She leaned down and kissed his cheek. “You're getting careless, Mr. Hawk.”

Hawk pushed her back with one hand, aimed the cocked Russian at her with the other. “What the hell are you doing here?” He scowled, brows beetling. “How in the hell did you get in here?”

“Skeleton key.” She hefted her magnificent breasts. “The old man downstairs went soft as fresh cow plop when I thrust these in his face.”

“I told you next time I saw you, I'd kill you.”

Chuckling, she leaned forward, her left hand nudging his pistol up into the deep crease between her breasts. The sheer chemise drew taut against the orbs, revealing their fullness and roundness, each separately defined, the nipples jutting against the fabric. She ran her fingertips along the gun's barrel, then down along his hand and wrist, tickling him with her nails. “Why don't you fire?”

Hawk glared at her, his trigger finger tensing.

He should shoot her. Her death would be no loss. She was a thief and a killer, her gang having wiped out nearly an entire detachment of an army payroll guard before Hawk had tracked her to Mexico last year. Everywhere she went, she piled up the bodies of men who fell prey to her charms.

A priestess as dark and cunning as Lorelei, she was more depraved than she was beautiful.

Hawk swallowed, eased the tension in his trigger finger.

But there was no denying that she
was
beautiful . . . and the most alluring, sensuous creature he'd ever known. As much as he wanted to squeeze the Russian's trigger, something stopped him.

His heart drummed in his ears.

He raised the barrel, depressed the hammer, set the revolver on the dresser beside the bed, and grabbed her arms, pulling her to him harshly. He kissed her. She drew back slightly, keeping her forehead pressed to his, stretching her lips back from her teeth, chuckling.

“I knew you couldn't do it!”

He brought his right hand up and wrapped his fingers around her neck. He stared into her eyes, the pupils contracting slightly with fear as the color rose in her cheeks.

He bunched his lips, his own cheeks flushing with anger, but then he loosened his grip and pulled her down toward him. She sucked a breath, closed her lips over her teeth, and, groaning, threw her arms around him, mashing her mouth down on his.

He reached behind her, took the back of the chemise in his hands, and ripped it with one, passionate thrust. He flung the garment to the floor, rose up on his elbows, and rolled Saradee over onto her back.

She cried out in ecstasy as he rose up on his hands and thrust himself between her legs. He stopped, stared bemusedly down at her. She moaned and wrapped her ankles around his back, bouncing her butt. “Please . . . please . . .”

He squeezed her breast with his right hand, leaned down, and closed his mouth over hers, kissing her savagely as he rose up then thrust down once more.

She convulsed and bucked beneath him, locking her ankles behind his back and sucking his tongue more deeply into her.

He placed his fists on either side of her head, leaning on his arms and pummeling her with his hips until the bedsprings sounded like a steam engine on a fast downgrade.

Later, he lay back on his pillow, one hand behind his head. Saradee lay naked beside him, resting her head on his shoulder, combing the auburn hair on his chest with her fingers, her breasts feeling soft and warm against his side.

“You got no cause to look so sour,” she said, glancing into his pensive green eyes fixed on the ceiling. “I have as much cause to kill you as you, me.”

“How the hell do you figure that?”

She curled her lip and gave a couple of his chest hairs a tug. “You used me, you bastard. Pretended to throw in with me and my boys. You stole back the payroll money, foiled our attempt to take the Mexican gold, and . . . hmmm, hmmm, what else? Oh, yes, now I remember . . . you
killed off my entire gang
!”

“Butchers, all. Including you.”

“Don't be uppity. You're not exactly an altar boy.” She snugged her cheek against his neck, ran her hand, fingers splayed, across his flat belly, stretching the tips of her fingers below his waist. “You and I could raise hob, if we threw in together.”

Hawk chuffed. “Forget it.”

She ran the hand lower and canted her eyes up toward his. “We could have all kinds of fun . . . make a ton of money. I've got a new gang startin' up. Old friends, you might say. Those boys could use a ramrod to give 'em some direction. I could use a good ramrod, my ownself.” Her hand tightened around him. “Come on, Hawk. You're more like me than you think. You could have shot me a few minutes ago. Instead . . . well . . . you know . . .”

Her hand was doing what she'd intended. Hawk cursed, flung the quilt and her hand aside, and crawled out of bed. Naked, he padded over to the chair where Saradee's two Colts were wrapped in their cartridge belt.

He shucked one of the guns. Reclining on an elbow, her rose-tipped breasts slanting toward the bed, Saradee watched him uncertainly.

Hawk opened the loading gate and emptied the cylinder onto the floor. The bullets clinked and rolled. When he'd unloaded the other gun in the same fashion, he shoved both back into their holsters.

“Don't trust me?”

“Your reputation precedes you.”

She'd brought a bottle. He grabbed it off the washstand, popped the cork, and took a long swig. He set the bottle back on the stand, walked back to the bed, and sat on the edge.

“How long you been trailin' me?”

She shrugged. “A couple days.”

He reached out, slid a lock of copper-colored hair away from her face with the back of his hand, hooked it behind her ear. His voice was at once soft and firm. “You keep doggin' me, I will kill you.”

Holding his gaze, her eyes flashed with tiny javelins. “I wouldn't blame you,” she said, just above a whisper, keeping her eyes on his. She turned slowly onto her right shoulder, pulled the pillow down to her hips, and turned onto it, lying breasts-down against the sheets. She lifted her head, threw her hair back, adjusted the pillow with her thighs, and stuck her round, pink rump in the air.

“I wouldn't blame you a bit.” She sighed and lay her cheek on the sheet. “Kill me once more tonight, lover. Then we'll see who kills who next time we meet.”

 

United States Territorial Marshal D.W. “Dutch” Flagg strode along the south side of the main street in Cartridge Springs, hat pulled down over his forehead, boots pounding the boardwalk, arms swinging stiffly at his sides.

Flagg's gray brows were furrowed over his wide-set eyes, and his cheeks above his thin, gray beard were brick red—a product of the chill morning wind and a lifelong weakness for brandy.

As a particularly cold gust whistled between the false fronts, Flagg winced and raised the collar of his corduroy jacket against his neck. Snagging an empty whiskey bottle with his boot toe, skidding it off down the walk, Flagg stopped before the St. Louis Hotel.

The main window was dark, but a light shone in the back. The St. Louis didn't look like Hawk's kind of digs, but it was worth a try.

Habitually brushing his hand against the walnut-gripped Remington holstered under his jacket, the lawman reached for the door handle. Someone whistled, barely audible beneath the breeze.

Flagg stopped and peered up the street. Three men stood in the middle of a crossroads one block west, facing Flagg, all wearing dusters, two holding Winchesters across their chests, the third with a double-bore shotgun. Their copper badges flashed in the faint, predawn light.

One of the deputies canted his head toward a cross street and beckoned to Flagg.

Flagg glanced over his right shoulder. A half block away, on the other side of the street, three more deputies were walking along the opposite boardwalk. Flagg beckoned to the men, then stepped off the boardwalk and headed for the three at the crossroads.

“What?” Flagg said as he approached deputies Miller, Villard, and Tuttle.

Miller spat a tobacco quid. “A freighter told us he seen a man matching Hawk's description headed for the Saguaro Hotel yonder.”

“Saw,” Flagg said with a self-righteous sneer.

Miller slitted an eye. “What?”

Flagg shook his head with disgust. “He
saw
a man headed for the hotel. You're senior deputy, Miller. Please learn to talk like one.”

Flagg wheeled, jerked his head at the three approaching deputies, and headed up the cross street. Behind him, Miller glanced at Villard.

“Contrary cuss, ain't he?”

Villard snorted and started after Flagg. “A man who's set his hat for the governor's office can't 'sociate with men who say
seen
when they shoulda said
saw.
” He glanced over his shoulder. “Dummy.”

“Yeah,” Miller sneered, half a step behind Villard. “You Cajuns talk
real
good.”

At the head of the pack of deputies, Flagg approached the Saguaro Hotel. He mounted the stoop, and, hand on his pistol butt, opened the front door. Flagg stepped into the misty-dark lobby, boot thuds cushioned by a thick rug, and looked around cautiously as he headed for the front desk.

To his left, flanked by a potted palm, a wizened oldster with thin gray hair sat in an overstuffed easy chair, head thrown back, lower jaw sagging. A big, tortoiseshell cat slept on the old man's left thigh, sphinxlike, while silver-framed spectacles rested on the man's other knee.

The oldster snored softly. A clock ticked woodenly, accenting the predawn silence.

Flagg crossed to the man, looked down as the other deputies ranged out in a semicircle behind him, holding their rifles and shotguns in both hands and glancing at the stairs.

The cat leapt to the floor with an indignant trill, then disappeared through a door flanking the front desk. The old man's eyes snapped wide. He opened his mouth, but before he could say anything, Flagg pressed a finger to his lips.

The man stared bug-eyed at the gray-bearded lawman, his rheumy eyes warily sweeping the well-armed deputies behind him.

Hand still resting on his pistol butt and stretching a cautious gaze toward the staircase, stray light glistening on the varnished mahogany, Flagg spoke softly. “You have a man registered here—big man with green eyes and dark-brown hair. Wears a black hat and a sheepskin vest.” Flagg arched a silver brow at the old man. “Correct?”

The old man donned his glasses, folding the bows back behind his pouch-lobed, red ears. “The man sure gets a lot o' company.”

“Who else?”

“Woman came in last night. Said she was a friend.”

“Whore?”

“Wasn't painted up, but then, I don't keep up with the fashions.” The old man snorted. “Wore two guns on her waist, like Calamity Jane Canary. Rather . . . uh . . . bold young lady.”

“She still up there?”

“Far as I know. I reckon I nodded off.”

Flagg glanced at Villard and Miller on his left, then switched his gaze to the stairs rising into the second-story shadows. Without looking at the old man, he said, “Which room?”

“Six.”

Flagg drew a breath and moved toward the stairs. “Obliged.” At the bottom of the stairs, he stopped and, stooping to grab the heel of his left boot, turned to the others. “Take off your boots.”

J.C. Garth grunted, “Huh?”

“The man has eyes like an eagle and ears like a wildcat. Off with the boots. Once we're on the stairs, no talking. Not even whispering. Communicate by gesture only.”

The men struggled out of their boots, each grunting and stumbling around on one foot. Garth set a boot down beside the newel post. The spur chinged softly.

Flagg shot him a hard look. “Shhh!”

Garth froze, wincing. “Sorry.”

When they were all out of their boots and had quietly levered shells into their rifle breeches or eared their shotguns' hammers back, they mounted the stairs behind Flagg. The lead lawman moved slowly, lifting one stockinged foot at a time and pointing his cocked pistol straight up the dark stairs.

They crabbed along the dim hall to room six. Three deputies flanking him on each side, Flagg listened at the door, then stepped back, nodding at the largest deputy, Avery “Hound-Dog” Tuttle. The deputy, who weighed nearly two thirty in his birthday suit, hefted his shotgun and stepped three feet back from the door.

He looked at Flagg. Flagg nodded.

Tuttle lowered his head, dug his thin white socks into the rug, and bulled ahead, throwing his right shoulder forward.

The shoulder smashed into the door with a crunching boom.

Wood splinters and the iron latch flew from the frame as the door burst inward, and Hound-Dog disappeared inside.