Authors: Desconhecido(a)
Waiting, Silk asked in a complaining voice, “So what's she look like? Is she pretty like Joe said?"
"Mm-hm.
I see she can ride and I'll just bet she can shoot, too."
"Well?" demanded Silk.
"Well what?" Bo asked without taking his eyes off her.
"’How's she look’, I asked?"
Bo laughed and then hesitated as he continued spying on her. "She's...better
lookin
' than he said. A lot better. Nice."
"Go on," said Silk frustrated, removing his hat to mop his brow.
Bo touched a finger to his chin. "Oh...I'd say she comes to about here on me. Yes sir, she's hell of a woman it looks like." Teasing Silk, he said, "She has long light yellow hair that's brushed neatly back into a bun of some sort at her neckline. Wish I knew what color her eyes were, but I'd bet my bottom dollar they're green as summer trees. Nice big bubs; the kind you can get your hands on and enjoy.
A nice ass on her--damned nice.
The kind a man likes to get hold of when he brings her to him. You know what I mean?" She was definitely a woman Bo wanted to get to know better. "A man can ride a lot of country and not come across a woman like that one there."
"I'd say she's been without for many months."
“I wonder if Joe was
joshin
’ that
time?
”
“Joshin’? About what?” asked
Silk.
“About her
workin
’ in a place called the Blue Moon south along the
Mississippi
?”
“It don’t matter none.
People’s
gotta
do what people’s
gotta
do. How else is a woman
goin
’ to make money to live?”
“I don’t rightly know.” Bo added, "But just
remember
, she is Joe's widow. We need to respect that if you're
gettin
' ideas of
tomcattin
' around when we get down there."
"I'm not
lookin
' to disrespect Joe," Silk fairly shouted.
His exhaustion and hunger getting the best of him.
"Not at all.
Let's ride on down there and do what we come to do."
Silk reached back and untied the small leather thong that had been holding his long hair. He held the piece of leather in his hand as they slowly went down the trail from the mountains. Awkwardly he reached down into his saddle bag and brought out a hairbrush. If he was going to see a handsome woman at least he wanted his hair tidied up. He probably looked a sight and needed a bath. He caught his hat on the saddle horn and drew the brush through his hair a few times as he felt Bo's aggravating eyes, watching. The air seemed unbelievably still; the sun beaming down over them. Bo and he should have stayed at the hotel in
Sheridan
. Silk should have said something. He put the brush away and tied his hair back, while his nag continued the trek downhill. Silk set his hat back on his head, vaguely aware that Bo again noticed him sprucing up.
"You
doin
' that for the woman?"
"Just never you mind," Silk rolled his eyes skyward.
Back in
Sheridan
they had played a few hands of poker at the saloon and decided to hold off on renting a room until after they rode out to the Carver Ranch. If he slapped his shirt, dust would rise from it. Damn if it wasn't going to be a heart wrenching job to tell Joe Carver's widow her husband wasn't coming back. That he had been murdered. Just what the hell
was he
getting himself in to this time around, he wondered as he brought a hand to his unshaven chin.
He'd love to settle down in one place. Riding aimlessly around the west with Bo wasn't his idea of living a good life. He liked his buddy Bo, but a good life would consist of living with a beautiful, loving and sexy woman. At one time he thought he had a lady friend, but she up and ran off with a blacksmith from
Alabama
. Then, after floundering between jobs in
Calgary
, Silk was suddenly struck with wanderlust. He met up with Bo in
Texas
. Now, for Silk, the world was a lonely place. Maybe someday he'd also get a ranch like the one he viewed: the Rocking C. He didn’t know when that day would come, but he wished it'd hurry.
Reflecting further, Silk brought a harmonica from his shirt pocket to his lips and began blowing a song that he wrote himself.
Bo asked, "What's that?"
Silk brought the harmonica down an inch from
this lips
. "What's what?" he said in his tenor voice.
Bo brought the cigar from his lip and said, "That song. What's it called? It's pretty."
"I just thought it up. I'm
wantin
' to Settle
Down 's
its name, I guess," he said as they neared the blonde haired woman who sat straight and strong on her horse.
Chapter Two
The log home that she and Joe had built was located at the mouth of Crazy Woman Creek--beautiful country. She wished her mama could see it, but
she
and all her kin were killed by the fever and other bad diseases. Hired carpenters rode in from
Cheyenne
and helped them build most of it. The land boasted straight lodge pole pines that had grown up everywhere near the house, saving the ranch from heavy snows of the winter. Cottonwoods and chokecherry trees dotted the area. It wasn’t anything at all like south on the
Mississippi River
.
I just wasn’t cut out for
bein
’ a whore. I’m plenty thankful Joe come and got me out of the Blue Moon. I love my life on this ranch but I wish Joe would come on home.
Aila
Carver rode south to cull some cattle out of a canyon on her property. While locating a couple of strays that took a notion to wander, she suddenly heard something rustling in the brush. Birds whooshed as they flew skyward.
"What the..?"
Turning her head sharply,
Aila
looked toward the trail on into the ranch. Her heart stopped beating as she reached for the loaded rifle. Call it women's intuition, but she knew someone was watching her. Then she heard music...harmonica music.
"Damn it."
When she saw the two men on horses, her breath caught in her tight chest. Someone had come onto the Rocking C.
Are they friend or foe?
Her heart beat double-time as she watched two drifting cowpokes coming in off the west trail onto her land in
Central Wyoming
. Wearing their cowboy hats high and proud, riding their nags slowly, their upper bodies looked as if they bounced above the tall, rolling grass.
What in hell do they want?
Behind the Rocking C stood the majestic high pastel mountains which were her home, the home she'd fight and die for.
Sioux and
Cheyenne
rode in the area; they seemed peaceful enough, so
Aila
wasn't too worried. But these riders were definitely not Indians. She hoped they were peaceful sorts; she sure didn't need any trouble.
"
Git
up," she said then made a clicking sound with her mouth, while making her horse trot faster, heading toward a clearing then toward the corrals that lie beyond a small ridge. Dust rose behind her and the horse.
Aila
waited and frowned, preparing for the worst as she glared at them. To be safe, keeping her eyes on them, she pulled out her Remington, made sure it was loaded and carefully touched the trigger like Joe had once taught her.
She held it steady on them as they continued coming closer. Some drifters were good and some weren't in these parts. She'd heard gory rumors and believed that a woman could never be too careful. Though the more she saw of them, the less they looked like mean cusses. But, she could be wrong. She didn't want to make a mistake and shoot an innocent man.
The harmonica music grew louder--a pretty song he played.
She figured they'd been riding for a long time, perhaps days, and were tired, hungry and in need of a place to sleep.
Her view of them lightened by the second.
Since
Aila
was a God-
fearin
' woman, she didn't mind being a little neighborly, if the need arose. But she prayed to the Lord above that they wouldn't take advantage of her, a solitary woman who lived alone and way out in the middle of Wyoming, if she gave them food and shelter.
She cocked the rifle. "Hold it there, boys. If you come any closer, I'll shoot you straight through the heart." They stopped; one of the cowboys drew the harmonica down from his mouth and slid it into his pocket. "You see, I got dead aim and
ain't
afraid to pull the trigger. State your business or turn those horses around and head back into
Sheridan
." It had better be good for their sake, she thought.
The man to the right, the one who seemed dark-skinned like a Mexican pirate, frowned. He had a stubby cigar parked in the corner of his mouth. Under different circumstances, he probably could be rough as a grizzly that just came out of hibernation. He took off his black ten gallon hat and used his sleeve to wipe the road dust and sweat off his forehead. The cowpoke said a friendly, "Hi there Ma'am. You wouldn’t be
Aila
Carver, Joe Carver's wife?" He reached down and patted his horse.
“Maybe I am and maybe I
ain’t
.” A man who was good to animals appealed to her, though his greeting took her back.
How do they know my name?
A brow rose. “Just who are you?" she asked in a neutral tone.
"Well, Ma'am, I'm Bo Rodriguez," said the man as he put his black hat back on his dark mane, "...and this here's my sidekick, Silk
Bennnett
." He grinned and took the
stogey
from his mouth. "We don' aim to hurt you none, Ma'am."
"Oh. Of course you won't. I have this." She raised her rifle.
"I'm originally from down
Mexico
way.
Northern Mexico
. My friend here's from
Canada
. It's nice
ta
meet you, Miss."
She didn't bite at their friendliness...not just yet. "How come you don't talk like you're from
Mexico
?"
"Because of my mother.
She's from
Tyler
,
Texas
...a white woman. My dad's from
Durango
. He's from
Mexico
."
"What's his story?" She asked, frowning with gruffness in her tone.
His brow wrinkled; he touched his shirt pocket. "What's whose story?
My dad's?"
"No. His over yonder," she said bluntly then nodded toward the man with the straw-colored hair who looked rather handsome.
"He's Silk. Like I said, he's Canadian. He's like me.
Lookin
' around
tryin
' to make
himself
some money, I guess. Like me, he's a bronco buster out of
Calgary
. But I'm from
Texas
. His kinfolk all died of the fever here while back. We don' mean no one no harm to you or no one else. But we've brought some information you'd most likely want to hear." He frowned at the barrel of her rifle and tossed the cigar into the dust. "Can
ya
lower that rifle a bit, Ma'am? It's
makin
' my horse nervous."
"Your horse?"
She considered his plea and bit her lip, not wanting to smile.
"Yeah."
He paused thoughtfully; his tone changed. "It's not good, Ma'am. The news
ain't
...so you might want
ta
brace yourself. If you're
Aila
Carver...are you really her?"
“I'm her."
She raised a hand to her brows and studied the bronzed, obviously strong-backed men as they introduced themselves. They seemed her age--thirty years, or so. For better or worse she took her finger off the trigger and lowered the gun. The men looked instantly relieved.
These men can be swindlers, thieves or worse, killers. Are they being truthful?
She clucked her tongue. Men who looked like them probably had women friends all along the trail. They probably even made a baby or two.
Real scoundrels.
They looked decent enough, not like murderers or thieves. They talked in a kindly tone...soft. Right or wrong, she took a chance and invited them in for supper and to sleep in the barn overnight. That was the way her husband would do it. It seemed good having company, she guessed.
A woman can get a might lonely living out in
Wyoming
country.
She had no desire to look at them in any other way than drifters along the road who needed a bath, a bed and food before they went on their way, hopefully at sunrise.
Though she didn't say anything, she desperately needed a couple of men to help her with the chores. She thought about asking them if they wanted to work, though she didn't have any extra money. But, she could give them a place to sleep and food. Her regulars had taken off because she couldn’t pay them.
Aila
didn't blame them for going.
Her beloved husband Joe had traipsed off to God knew where to earn money--maybe out
California
way. He was supposed to return and pay off a couple of years' mortgage to the First National Bank in
Sheridan
. He didn't come back; damned if he didn't even write one lousy letter. Working the ranch took every ounce of strength she had; some chores didn't get done.
The cowhands couldn't seem to keep their eyes off her clothed breasts, and it was all she could do to not turn away. Probably they looked at her that way because they hadn't been near any women lately. Looking never hurt, she guessed.
"So where're you boys headed to?" she asked, keeping her voice firm. She pressed a hand over her brows and peered at the rifles sheathed on their saddles.
"Well, Ma'am I think we're
ridin
' toward
Nevada
after we leave here. Don't rightly know for sure. We're a-
needin
' to hole up somewhere for the winter
mebbe
."
"There or
Sante
Fe.
We don't know yet," Silk finally chimed in. "We were figuring it out as we rode."
"There's not much to see in
Nevada
,"
Aila
said, pausing thoughtfully. "Been there once and 'm sorry I went ever since.
Ain't
nothin
' but a bunch of tumble weeds and funny
birds.
You sure you
wanna
go to
Nevada
? There
ain't
much in
Sante
Fe either."
"There's gold we heard," the man called Silk mentioned. "I'd like to take some riches up to
Canada
and settle one of these days. Maybe have a spread, like you have here. Maybe
Bo'd
go up and help out."
The darker man raised a hand making a simple gesture. "Mind if we get down and stretch our legs a bit? We're kind of saddle sore. My horse needs water."
At least he asked permission. "I guess so. Help yourself."
"I'm rightly thankful Ma'am."
Bo Rodriguez, tall and obviously proud, dismounted and led his dun to a watering trough. "We came to talk."
"To me?"
"Yes 'm."
She peered at Bo skeptically as he led the horse to the water. "You do?" Their tones and attitudes seemed sincere.