The Last Trail Drive (2 page)

She thought three months without hearing another woman's voice, or seeing another woman, would have been paradise. Debra was popular with men, but other women hated her, and it was mutual.

When she was younger they used to hate her because she was so pretty. Now that she was in her thirties, they hated her because she so obviously had distain for all of them.

In other words, she had an attitude.

She stood on the balcony smoking a cigarette, the wrap she was wearing barely hiding her opulent curves. Men rode by and stared up at her. Women glared.

The door behind her opened, and someone came out. “Got a fella for you.” It was Glenda, the madam, an old whore who had stayed around long enough to be put in charge. She was fat and fifty, and hated not only Debra but all the other whores who were younger than she was.

“Give him to one of the other girls,” she said. “I'm on a break. And my pussy's sore.”

“Yeah, all the girls got sore pussies,” Glenda said. “Mine's still sore from thirty years on my back.”

Debra grinned at Glenda and said, “I'm surprised you still have a pussy.”

“Smart mouth,” Glenda said. “How about you get inside and put your smart mouth to work?”

“I told you, give him to one of the other girls.”

“He don't want one of the other girls, he wants you,” Glenda said.

“He asked for me?”

“Yeah.”

“Who is it?”

“How do I know?” Glenda said. “Just some cowboy.”

Debra drew on her cigarette, then flicked it out into the street down below.

“If you don't want to work, Debra, why don't you pack up and leave town?”

“Don't worry, Glenda,” Debra said, “I will, and soon. This town's about a week from dead.”

“Get inside before your cowboy walks out the door with his money.”

“And goes where?” Debra asked. “Where else is he gonna go and get a poke in this town?”

“Maybe a friendly saloon girl.”

“The saloon girls in this town are hags.”

“That may be, but they got wet slits between their legs, just like we got—well, maybe not you anymore. You dried up a long time ago, didn't you, Glen?”

“Bitch!” Glenda said, and left Debra standing there.

Before Debra went inside she lit another cigarette and smoked it slowly. As she did she saw a man in the street stop and look up at her. Even at a distance she could tell this was not a man like other men. It was in his stature. This was not a man she was ever likely to meet while plying her trade. This man didn't need to pay for a woman. Women were drawn to him.

But not this woman, she thought, shaking her head and flicking another cigarette into the street.

This woman had work to do.

 

Glenda found the cowboy waiting in the hall.

“She'll be down soon, cowboy,” she said.

“Thank you, Ma'am.”

“You sure you don't wanna try one of the other, younger girls?”

“No, thank you, Ma'am,” the man said, fingering his hat in his hands, “I'll just wait for Debra.”

Glenda shook her head and said. “Suit yerself.”

 

Debra went back inside, walked downstairs, and found the cowboy waiting for her in the front hall.

“Hello, Deb,” he said.

She stared at him and said, “Sonofabitch.”

He grinned at her.

“Good,” he said. “You still remember me. Now how 'bout we go upstairs?”

“Fuck you, Roy,” she said.

“That's kinda what I had in mind.”

Henry Flood rode into town with his segundo, Jack Trevor. Just outside of town to the east was a herd of a thousand Texas beeves. His hands were busy branding them, getting them ready for the drive North.

“Just like old times, huh, Hank?” Trevor said.

“Not quite, Jack,” Flood said. “This town looks all but dead.”

“Yeah,” Trevor said, “I remember how it used to be. But still . . . it's Doan's Crossing, huh? Let's get a drink.”

“Okay, we'll get a drink, but then we got to find us a cook, and we got to find us a Gunsmith.”

“Hank,” Trevor asked, “what do we need with the Gunsmith?”

“The man's a legend, Jack.”

“Yeah, maybe, but he ain't a drover.”

“He don't have to be,” Flood said. “He's my friend. And this just might be the last trail drive. We need to have a legend along with us.”

“But Hank . . . you're a legend.”

“I ain't a legend, Jack,” Flood said. “I'm a tired-out old trail boss.”

Flood was probably sixty, but it was hard to tell. His face was lined, but that could have been from the sand and sun, not from age. He spent most of his life on the trail, at the mercy of the elements.

Jack Trevor had been riding with Flood for the past twenty years. He joined him as a very young man, learned his trade, and was now a top number two man—the best of the foreman—and maybe the last.

“You're the best trail boss there ever was, Boss,” Trevor said.

“So then, I must know what I'm doin', right?” Flood asked.

“Yeah, right.”

Flood reined in his horse in front of the Crystal Saloon.

“Let's get that drink, and then we can start lookin'. I wanna get that herd started tomorrow.”

They dismounted.

“You think we're gonna find us a cook in one day?” Trevor asked.

“We're either gonna find one,” Flood said, “or I'm gonna do the cookin' myself.”

 

Clint had been in the saddle for days, so a walk around town was good for stretching his legs. It was also sad, because a lot of storefronts were closed and boarded up. The once thriving Doan's Crossing had fallen on the same hard times as many other towns along the old Chisum and Goodnight-Loving Trails.

He passed one building that was not boarded up. Up on a second-floor balcony a woman was standing, slowly smoking a cigarette. She was wearing just enough clothing to cover her body, but he could tell from where he was that she was generously built.

He knew she was watching him. She stood confidently, and if he was in the habit of frequenting cathouses he would have gone right in and asked for her. But he didn't pay for women, so that wasn't going to happen.

She flicked her cigarette into the street. It arced, leaving a trail of sparks behind it, and then landed in the street. By the time he looked up again, she was gone from the balcony.

Flood and Jack Trevor each had two beers, despite the fact they weren't cold. The saloon was empty, another indication of how Doan's Crossing had fallen on hard times.

“This place used to be alive all the time,” Jack Trevor remembered. “Now it just seems dead.”

“I know how it feels,” Flood said.

“What does that mean?”

Flood shrugged.

“Just that I know what it means to feel dead inside,” Flood said.

“What are you talkin' about, Boss?”

Flood leaned both elbows on the top of the bar.

“I'm tired, Jack,” Flood said. “Tired and just about done.”

“But we got a drive, Boss,” Trevor said. “That'll make ya feel alive again.”

“It probably will, but it'll end, too,” Flood said. “This could be my last trail drive, Jack. It might also be the last trail drive ever.”

“Well, that may be okay for you,” Trevor said, “but what about me and the other boys?”

“You're all young enough to do somethin' else with your lives, Jack,” Flood said. “Hell, you boys are gonna be alive to see a new century.”

“It ain't that far off, Boss,” Trevor said. “You'll be around, too.”

“Christ,” Trevor said, “I'll be near seventy. Don't know that I ever wanna get that old. I'd rather just die on the trail.”

Trevor straightened up and stood square to his boss, facing him.

“Is that was this is about, Boss?” he demanded. “You lookin' ta die on this drive?”

Flood looked at the younger man and said, “Hell no, Jack! What the hell are you talkin' about, boy?”

“You're the one talkin' about how you're gonna die,” Trevor shot back.

“Yeah, but not for a while,” Flood said. “I still got some life left in me, boy. I just don't think I'll be spendin' a lot of what I got left on the trail, that's all. Jesus, I ain't lookin' to die!”

“Well,” Trevor said, “that's good to hear.”

“Finish that beer,” Flood said. “We got work to do.”

Trevor made a face.

“It's too warm. We gotta get some cold beer.”

Flood called the barman over.

“Any cold beer in town?”

“Sorry,” the barman said, “not a drop.”

Flood looked at Trevor, who frowned.

“Hey,” the barman said, “are you Henry Flood?”

“I am,” Flood said. “What's it to you?”

“Feller was in here earlier lookin' for you.”

“Who's that?”

“Said his name was Clint Adams,” the barman said. “That'd be the Gunsmith, right?”

“That's right,” Flood said. “We're supposed to meet up. Where'd he say he'd be?”

“Said he'd be comin' back here later, and that you should meet him.”

“See?” Flood said to Trevor. “He's here?”

“So what?” Trevor asked. “Still say he ain't no good on a drive.”

“He went on his first drive when you was still in knee pants, boy,” Flood said. “Lemme tell you, sometimes you need a good gun on a drive.”

“Yeah, well, right now there's other things we need,” Trevor said.

“You're right.” Flood looked at the barman. “If Adams comes back in tell 'im to stay put and I'll find him here.”

“Sure thing,” the barman said.

“Let's go, Trevor.”

 

As Flood and Trevor left the saloon they were being watched from across the street. The man watching was sitting in a wooden chair, his foot up on a post so he could rock back and forth on the rear legs. He was chewing on a toothpick, and as Flood and Trevor came out he stopped chewin' and rockin'.

He dropped his foot and leaned forward, squinting. He'd seen the two men go in, wasn't sure they were who he thought they were. But now he had a better look at them, and he knew.

The Flood outfit had made it to Doan's Crossing. The herd had to be somewhere outside of town. As Flood and Trevor split up and went separate ways, the man spit the toothpick out and stood up. He waited a minute, made up his mind, and then went in the same direction as Jack Trevor.

Halfway through his walk of Doan's Crossing, Clint decided it was just too depressing. He decided to head back to the saloon to await the arrival of Henry Flood. When he turned he saw Flood walking toward him. He decided to wait for the man to notice him, and Flood was almost in front of him before recognition dawned on his face.

“Clint!”

“I was wondering if you were going to walk right by me,” Clint said.

“I'm sorry,” Flood said, grabbing Clint's hand and pumping it enthusiastically. “I was thinkin' about somethin' else. When did you get to town?”

“Earlier today,” Clint said. “I left a message for you at the saloon.”

“I got it!” Flood said. “I just rode in with my ramrod, Jack Trevor.”

“Trevor?” Clint asked. “The kid?”

“Not such a kid anymore, Clint,” Flood said. “He's been my second for a while, now.”

“As I recall he didn't like me very much,” Clint said.

“Still doesn't,” Flood laughed. “Listen, there's no place in Doan's Crossing to get a cold beer anymore?”

“That's what I heard.”

“What about a decent cup of coffee?”

“Coffee, or trail coffee?”

“I like your trail coffee,” Flood said, “but only on the trail, where it keeps me alert.”

“Didn't there used to be a café—well, down here some place. Let's walk. We can get some coffee and something to eat.”

“Suits me.”

“What about Trevor?”

“He's got work to do,” Flood said. “He can eat when he gets hungry.”

They fell into step together and went looking for a café.

 

Roy Sobel grabbed Debra's legs and spread them while he drove himself in and out of her. It had been a long while since he'd fucked her, but it felt just like he remembered—damned fine! She was as hot as ever, inside and out. On the trail he often thought about her burning hot skin to keep him warm on cold nights.