Catch a Shooting Star jd edit 03 12 2012 html (17 page)

As the days turned into weeks, and then into months, Maddie, as she would be called after the first day these people had met her, began to turn back into the person that she had been before she had met Diego.  She became more confident and more self-assured again.  Word of her courageous trek across the desert had made her an instant heroine and her pride was reflected in her face when she heard the encouraging compliments from the townspeople.  Visitors came into the Lucky Dollar Saloon, which was a part of the hotel and where she had gone to work the minute Doc Randle had given her permission to, just to get a glimpse of the gutsy girl who had spit in the eye of the Devil and had come out the victor.  A celebrity, she had become and along with her notoriety came patrons and the cash they carry to Jake and Margaret Olsen’s border town hotel.

            Madeline, Margaret and Jake became fast friends and when Margaret let it slip to her husband that Maddie intended to go back to Mexico to kill her husband, Jake scoffed at her, telling her that in these parts, there was no army that would go up against a man like that, whether she was a celebrity or not.  Of course, Maddie had been disappointed at first, but still relished the idea of heading a large squadron of cutthroats over the desert and into the courtyard of the home of El Diablo.

            Now, many months later, as she sat up in her bed after such a frightening nightmare that echoed with the crying of her precious Benito, she wondered if Jake had been right to point out her inability, army or no, to seek revenge on her husband.  Thinking back to that awful day when he had taken the baby back and then had cut her arm asunder with a smile on his wicked face, she shivered in fear and trepidation.  Her anger at him had softened to apprehension again as the months drifted by and her life had become complacent once more. 

            Still, she missed her baby, who would be almost two years old now and probably walking.  Would he recognize her if she came stampeding into his home and snatched him up like a rag doll and whisked him away into the night?  Would he forgive her for killing his father, or would he eventually thank her for the deed? 

            She went to the dressing table and began to brush her brilliant black hair and as she did so, she looked at the face in the mirror.  That woman was not the same girl who had died in the desert, she saw as the face looking back at her, callously called her a coward.  That single-minded rage-driven, revenge-crazed woman who screamed through the glass to stand up and grow a backbone, glared back at her as if she could reach through the mirror and shake some sense into her.

            And this reflection on her own negligence toward her vow to rid the world of the man who had caused so much pain for so many people, herself included, gave her the incentive to twist her hair into a braid and go outside to practice her shooting.  She put down the brush and nodded satisfactorily at the woman who nodded back at her and then she stomped outside to start yet another new life, the life of a killer.

            As she loaded the pistol that she had purchased, along with a new horse and gear enough to get her down to Mexico and back, she deliberately set the bullets into each chamber as if she was marking each one with Diego’s name on it.  One, Diego, two, Diego, three, Diego, and all the way to the sixth and last bullet, she called out his name, her voice seething with fury and resentment at the man in question.  Then, she aimed the gun at the bottles and cans that she had balanced on the fence and squeezed the trigger.

            Six times, the pistol blasted out a bullet and six times, the bullet raced passed a target and pierced the cactus plants that lined the fence. 

            “Damn!” she said under her breath.  “How can I shoot Diego if I can’t even shoot a can?”

            She reloaded the gun and remembered that she had originally thought that she could hire an army, but had been rebuffed by Jake’s conflicting comment that no one would go up against the devil.  Sure, she had enough money now, for she had saved every cent that she had earned from working at the hotel, but how could she get an army to take her side in the matter and risk losing life and limb? She pondered that question as she pointed the pistol at her targets once more.  Missing again and disappointed again, she let her arm drop at her side.  I used to be so good at this, she thought as she tucked the gun into her skirt waist.  My big brother Richard would be so disgusted with my marksmanship now!

            She stomped to the fence and with one devastating swipe, she flung all of the bottles and cans onto the ground and then nodded her head once with a heartfelt ‘harrumph!’ before she turned to go back inside the hotel and sulk.

Chapter Eleven

Madeline stood in the doorway of the kitchen waiting to pick up a plate of food that a customer had ordered.  She conversed cheerfully with Margaret despite her anger at herself for being such an appalling shot that afternoon.   She took the plate that was handed to her and she walked to the table where the man, who had folded himself into a chair and, without looking her way, had ordered his meal.  She set the plate in front of him and eyed him for a second or two before moving on to the next table.

This man was a stranger, of that, she was aware, for she knew everyone in these parts and she didn’t know this one.  He was a gunslinger, too, she could surmise by the twin revolvers on his hips and the grim look on his face.  She wagered with herself that he could shatter a bottle or two off that fence lickety-split and immediately, she became jealous of his obvious prowess with a pistol, or two in his case.  He was sort of handsome too, in a desperado-like way with his dark countenance and his cocky posture as he sat straight and proud in that chair.  And, for some odd reason, he seemed familiar, as if long ago, he had troubled her dreams. 

But, no matter, she told herself as she started toward the next table.  He would be gone after he finished his meal and she would never have the chance to even wonder who he was or where he was going.  That was the way it was in the small border town of El Charro: people came and then they went without as much as a ‘how-do-you-do?’ and she was not concerned with the frivolity of small talk with strangers, so she pointed her toe in the direction that would carry her away from him.

But, just as she took that step, a hand shot out and grabbed her arm, pulling her down onto the table.  She gasped in surprise and reached with her free arm to ward him off, but the stranger held her fast as he examined the gash on her forearm.  Then, as abruptly as he had grabbed her, he let her go, the force of his strength sending her crashing into a neighboring table.

Madeline rubbed her arm, remembering the pain that once burned there and the reason why it was her mark of championship over the Devil and she stood to her full height and bellowed at the stranger with all her angered might, “How dare you handle me in that way!”

The stranger merely stared at her with his dark and menacing eyes before he turned his head back toward his plate and he said without remorse, “Sorry, Ma’am.  My hand slipped.”

“Your hand slipped?” she railed, sashaying toward him in a fit of rage and raising her good arm to strike him.

Jake’s palm stopped her in mid-air and shook his head at her, whispering, “You don’t want to tangle with that one.”

She lowered her hand and then wiped both palms on her apron as she said to Jake, “Very well.  I’ll not confront him.  But you tell him to keep his hands off me, Jake.”

Jake nodded solemnly, and then smiled as he said, “Take the rest of the evening off and cool off a bit, huh?”

Realizing that she needed a respite to relieve her unpleasant mood, she agreed, “Alright, Jake.  I’ll be in my room if it gets too busy.”

“Don’t worry.  It won’t,” he said with a chuckle.

She left him to smooth things over with the stranger and headed upstairs for a much-needed bath.

 Madeline went to her room and gathered the things that she needed for the bath and then went down the hallway to the bathroom and closed the door behind her.  She turned the handles on the tub and smiled as the pipes popped and groaned before giving up their possession of the water that finally gushed out of the spigot.  As it filled the bathtub, she poured a few drops of lavender oil and some powdered soap to make the bubbles that she so enjoyed relaxing in.  Then, she peeled off her clothes as the bubbles grew in the tub until they threatened to spill over the edge.  She turned off the water and stepped into the tub with one foot and then the other, easing into the steamy liquid, breathing a tranquil sigh of relief, “Ahhhh.”

Looking down at the stranger, Jake wanted to twist his fingers around the man’s neck for treating Maddie that way.  But, knowing that the stranger, who was probably mighty handy with those two pistols, would most certainly be the winner in that scuffle, he sidled closer to him and cleared his throat to say, “We don’t treat ladies like that in this town.”

The stranger pushed his black Stetson farther back onto his head and peered up at him, holding his fork midway to his mouth as he asked in a confused voice, “Like what?”

Sighing heavily to ward of the sudden surge of fear that the stranger somehow had instilled into him, Jake gained the courage to explain, “The way you pulled her down on the table like you just did and hurt her.”

The man at the table shook his head and said in an apologizing voice, “I didn’t mean to hurt her.  It’s just that I’ve seen a scar like that before and I wanted a closer look at it.”

“Couldn’t you have asked her to see it?” Jake asked, almost angry now.

The stranger saw the irritation in the man’s face and he quickly apologized, “I’m sorry.  I should have been more polite with her.  I’m just not used to being around people, especially women.”

“Well,” Jake started as he leaned on the table with his palm inches from the man’s plate.  “That’s no excuse.  But, if you’re sorry, you can apologize to the lady the next time you see her.”

“I sure will,” the stranger said with a nod.  “Now, is there any chance that I can get a room for the night?”

Changing his attitude, Jake put a smile on his face before he answered, “You sure can.  And if you are finished with your plate, you can follow me over to the counter and we can get you set up with one.”

“Thanks,” the man said as he pushed his plate forward and then stood up to look down on Jake’s amazed face.  “Is it possible to get a bath also?”

Jake turned toward the counter where the hotel information desk was stationed and motioned for the man to follow as he said, “Sure, the bathroom is right at the top of the stairs and around the corner.  Your room will be three doors down.  Number seven.”

The man nodded and touched his hat in response and then his face mirrored his confusion as he asked, “You have indoor plumbing here?”

“Yep,” Jake said with a nod.  “The wife insisted on it when we built this hotel.  She’s from the East and is used to the modern frills of the city.”

“I see,” the stranger said as he took the key that Jake offered him and then winked as if he understood the other man’s desire to fulfill his wife’s every whim.

Jake let the key drop into the man’s hands and shoved a book towards the stranger as he asked, “Would you like to register?”

“Is it required?” the stranger asked with one brow raised in question.

Jake cleared his throat and stammered, “We like to keep a record of our guests, so if you don’t mind…”

“Alright, for the record,” the man said as he took up the pen and wrote into the book and then shoved it back to him.

Jake turned the book around and read the name as he told the stranger, “I hope you have a pleasant stay, Mr. Corbett.”

He looked up to see the man’s back as he ascended the stairs and waved a hand into the air without looking back.  Then, he placed the pen back into the holder and folded his hands in front of him.  Well, now, he told himself.  That wasn’t so bad.

Travis Corbett rounded the corner and passed the bathroom on the way to room number seven and when he unlocked the door, he peeked inside as if someone was waiting to ambush him on the other side.  Satisfied that the room was empty, he stepped to the iron bed and sat down.  He wriggled out of his vest and started to unbutton his shirt when his hand touched his shirt pocket, which caused him to pause.  Slowly, he dipped two fingers into the pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper and, as he began unfolding it and started to read it for the umpteenth time, his anger began to rise.

The letter was from a friend of his, a half-Mexican who had saved his life right after Melody was killed.  Travis had been drowning his sorrows in a saloon down south of Houston, where he had stopped on his way to Mexico to kill the murdering bastard who’d taken his wife from him.  The liquor had made him feel invincible and ready to take on any foe and his state of mind had made him unconcerned whether he won or lost, lived or died.  And one angry gunslinger had been obliged to take him up on the offer of a shootout in the streets right then and there.  Luckily for Travis, Tito Sanders had stepped between them and had talked the gunslinger out of it while talking some sense into Travis, who had been Hell-bent to take on Tito and the gunslinger, too.  But, Tito had been patient and calm and he’d pulled the gunslinger aside and soon, the other man had left.  He then had sat the drunken man down and finally had convinced Travis that the gunslinger had turned tail and run.