The Quantro Story (6 page)

He was already past two of the dark houses when he heard scuffling and voices coming from the porch of the third. Unconsciously squinting, he could make out two shadows struggling in the darkness.

One was tall and wearing a hat, and the other was small, surrounded by swishing petticoats. Some husband and wife arguing. He smiled to himself, it was no problem of his. If a man had a wife, then…

“Will you leave me alone,” the woman said clearly, her voice rising.

“Aw, Come on Janey. A little kissin' d'int ever hurt nobody…” the man's voice slurred in the darkness.

“Get off me, you drunken pig. Go home and sleep with your cows.” The female's voice was even plainer this time, clear and shrill on the night air. Something about the husky timbre of her voice jarred Quantro's senses. Something familiar. He frowned, his feet halting, then he swiftly opened the gate and strode up the path. As he walked, a mental image of his mother lashed to the bed blazed into his mind.

“Okay, Mister. You heard the lady. Now go home and sleep it off.” His voice was harsh in the darkness. As he approached the porch the drunken cowhand released his hold on the woman and turned towards the intruder.

“Who the hell are you ? Beat it stranger, afore I lose my temper.” The light caught the cowhand's face twisted into an ugly grimace.

“Won't tell you again,” Quantro said quietly. “Don't tell nobody twice.”

The cowhand swung wildly, his drink soaked brain slow and clumsy. Quantro blocked the punch easily with his left arm and drove his right in a straight-arm to the cowhand's stomach.

“Goddam…” the man snarled just before Quantro's punch forced the breath out of his lungs and he began to double over. As his head came forward Quantro neatly rabbit-punched him across the nape of his neck and the falling man continued floorwards until he hit the wooden planking.

He didn't move.

Quantro tilted back his hat and the woman saw his face for the first time.

“Oh, it's you.” She seemed startled.

“I guess so,” he replied with a grin. “Them beefsteaks of yours sure do give a man energy. I hit him afore I knew it.”

She smiled at his modesty. “I'd like to thank you anyway, Mr.…? I'm sorry, even though I feel I know you already, I don't know your name.”

“Quantro, ma'am. Quantro Glad to be of service.”

“Well, thank you Mr. Quantro. I'm Janey Morgan.” She held out a small glove-covered hand. He took it hesitantly and squeezed. Their eyes locked for a second, then she lowered hers and withdrew her hand.

“Well,” he said gruffly to cover his embarrassment, “What do I do about him? I can't leave him asleep on your front porch. Kinda untidy. Some poor unsuspectin' person might just trip over him in the dark.” He thought for a moment.

“Is he a ranch hand?”

“Yes. He comes in every pay day with all the others. They all get drunk and then broke. In that order.”

“Figures. Then he's probably left his horse down at the livery. I'll take him down and leave him to sleep it off.”

Before she could speak, he stooped and pulled the cowhand upright, then hauled him up over his shoulder, apparently without effort.

“Thank you, Mr. Quantro.”

“Think nothing of it,” he replied over his shoulder as he walked through the open gateway and turned along the main street again.

The old man at the stable chuckled when Quantro dumped his load into the straw of an empty stall. He knew the cowboy and promised to see he was left alone to sleep it off. A silver dollar ensured the old man's co-operation.

A few minutes later Quantro was back out on the street, still with his woman problem. Not the problem of owning one, more the problem of satisfying his need for one. For the second time that evening he set out for the cathouse up the street. This time he would make it for sure.

As he drew level with Janey Morgan's house he glanced at the porch, then heard her calling out softly in the darkness. He turned in at the gate and walked up the path. She was standing by the door, her small hands held together in front of her.

“I just wanted to explain about Jimmy…”

“Nothin' to explain, ma'am. That's your business. Ain't nothing to do with me. I was only glad to be of help.” He paused and looked at the ground. “Any man'd do the same for a woman as sweet lookin' as you.”

He looked up and she appeared flustered by his compliment.

“No. I would like to explain. Really. It wasn't what it seemed…” Her voice trailed away, then in a fresh burst she carried on. “We can't talk out here. Come inside.”

“Well, Miss Morgan, er…”

“No buts, come inside.”

She didn't need to ask twice.

She opened the front door and led him into a neat and tidy living room. He busied himself lighting the hurricane lamp as she removed her gloves and shawl. He sat down and watched her with open admiration as she bustled about the room, drawing the curtains and adjusting cushions. He accepted her offer of coffee, then waited while she disappeared into the kitchen for a few minutes.

Finally, when she seemed to have overcome her awkwardness of the situation, she sat down opposite him and poured out two cups of the best coffee he had ever tasted.

“Now,” she said, her mouth determined. When Quantro opened his mouth to speak she silenced him with a deft gesture of her hands. “What happened out there wasn't what it seemed to be. Jimmy is a ranch hand who comes into town a few times a month. Sometimes he eats in my restaurant.” She sighed audibly. “The trouble is you smile at a man a few times and well, when he's had a few too many drinks he remembers those smiles and he reads something into them that wasn't there.” She sighed again and fluttered a hand. “Tonight I was coming home and when I got to the front door he was waiting. Well, you heard what he wanted. Things were just beginning to get difficult when you came along.” She shrugged. “That's all there was to it. He got the wrong impression…”

“I told you it didn't matter to me, ma'am…”

“Please call me Janey,” she said, looking straight into his blue eyes.

“Okay,” he promised, “as long as you call me Shag.”

“It's a deal,” she smiled. “Anyway, tell me about yourself. It seems that you already know all my troubles. What with tonight, and earlier this afternoon.”

As he nursed his second cup of her coffee he began to tell her of his travels across the States, the prairies and the deserts, the towns he'd seen, and his winter up at the cabin in the snow-capped Colorado peaks with Tom Galloway. Before he knew it, he had been talking for an hour. She listened to his stories, her coal black eyes twinkling in the lantern light, smiling as he recounted his hunt of an ornery old elk that had kept him out all day, and each time he got close enough to aim the old elk just started moving again. He remembered the stupid things that had happened to him and they laughed together over them.

But for all he told her of his life, he did not mention the reason for his travels, just that he had business to attend to with certain men. By the end of his stories they were friends, relaxed, the rigidity of their strangeness to each other forgotten as they enjoyed each other's company. He had come to respect this black-eyed woman who had the grit and determination to rebuild her life in pioneer country when her husband had run out on her. Many men could not stand up to the odds, let alone a beautiful woman. Her looks alone would cause enough trouble, as tonight had proved.

She too, had developed a liking for this blonde-haired, blue-eyed, modest cowboy who had saved her from a nasty situation. He was the kind of man she was drawn to, even though there were one or two things that marred the impression she had acquired of him. One was the obvious fast-draw rig he wore, but then a man often had good reason for those things, and she could not blame him for keeping the reasons to himself.

It was the way of The West.

A man told another as much as he wished. That was his right. A man had to look out for himself.

But the more she watched Quantro talk, the more he unsettled her with his masculinity. In passing, he had mentioned he must leave for the Arizona border the next day, but she had pushed it aside. There was enough time to worry about that tomorrow. She thought only of the present; take what you can while you can, and, she conceded she had been a long time without a man. He awoke something within her, a warmth that spread from the base of her stomach to envelop her whole being. It was all she could do to restrain herself from reaching out to touch him. Suddenly, she was nervous.

She stood up, facing him, hoping he could not detect the nervousness within her that seemed to swell and grow as she slowly smoothed her hands down her dress. She drew strength from his appreciative gaze.

“Where were you going when you were passing? I thought you were staying at the hotel?”

Quantro turned his head away from her searching gaze. “Just along the street for a little air,” he mumbled.

She moved to stand next to him, a hand tentatively reaching out to his shoulder. “I know where,” she said softly. “Two houses further along the street.” There was no derision in her voice, just a quiet understanding. He turned to look up at her and saw her gentle smile.

“Well…” he stumbled.

Her hand pressed a little harder on his shoulder then she touched his freshly shaven cheek. Her fingertips were like fire as they brushed his skin.

“I understand,” she said quietly. “You've been up in the mountains all winter.” Her voice dropped even further so that he could barely hear her. “It's been a long time for me too.”

He stood up slowly, her fingers still resting on his cheek, then looked down into her coal black eyes. His arm circled her trim waist and his nostrils savored the sweet woman smell of her, the cleanliness of her lustrous black hair and the subtle cologne that rose from her milky skin.

He bent a little and kissed her. The joining of their lips was hesitant at first, as if they were both frightened to give of themselves, then as confidence and need replaced their shyness, the kiss became the declaration between them of each's passion and desires.

When the kiss ended she opened her eyes and gazed up into the pools of ice-blue that were his own. Her lips moved, not quite pouting, as she formed the most inviting smile he had ever seen.

“I can do a lot more for a man than just cook,” she promised as she took his hand and led him to the stairs.

The next day he ate his steak for free.

CHAPTER 4

A tear wrestled its way from the corner of Janey Morgan's eye and ran fitfully down the smooth skin of her cheek. Out in the street, his back to her, Quantro sat astride the big buckskin stallion, touching his spurs to its flanks. The springiness in the horse's step gave the illusion it was dancing as it threaded between the wagons, heading west. Janey stood in the doorway of her restaurant, one hand on the doorjamb, her knees trembling slightly beneath her petticoats. She gazed at the wide span of his shoulders with despair. Her stomach muscles knotted and she felt as if his leaving was draining all of her strength, her heart aching, her chest full of nothing but emptiness.

Two hundred yards from where she stood Quantro turned in his saddle and looked back. There was no smile on his face and she could not be sure of his expression at that distance, but he raised a hand in a brief gesture of farewell. As she waved back, the full pressure of the salt tears came up behind her eyes and she let it go. The emotion brought back the memories of the night before, and she ignored the streams that coursed down her cheeks. Her lips tasted their saltiness and her heart, too, tasted their sadness.

It had been a night to remember.

The vision of her own soft white skin covered by his hard and tanned body. His lean frame stretched across her bed, knowing hands exploring the secret places of her body, the urgent need for release, and the blistering heat of it. After the first insistent passion they had taken their time, giving love and taking love through the long hours of the night, until the grey sky crept into the window, and they acknowledged the forerunner of the dawn.

When she had cooked his breakfast, each time she turned to look at him, she had found him watching her, his blue eyes expressionless. She wondered at the thoughts that crossed his mind. She knew only too well the thoughts that crossed her own.

Quantro had enjoyed the sight of her tousled black hair, carelessly pinned, and her soft dewy eyes, fresh from sleep. He appreciated the way she moved, economically and yet with the hint of a flourish, perhaps for his benefit. She was almost too much of a woman to be real. She had everything he wanted, the ability to have love and share it with him. But for the one thing that would drive him away from her.

Revenge.

He wanted to stay, to turn the buckskin around and come back and enjoy for ever the good food she would serve him. He wanted to stir in the night and feel her soft warm flesh as she lay beside him. He wanted to savor the scent of her each time he was near, to enjoy the sheer womanliness of her. If he turned back now the days would be warm and pleasant and they would move together through life building a private place of their own.

But each time he contemplated these things, the picture of the cruel destruction, the inhuman torture and wanton lechery that he had witnessed in his parents' house came back to haunt him. Two faces, whose names he knew, two men, were yet to be called to account for their doings.

There would be no peace for him until he had done what he had to do.

When she asked the question, as he knew she would, he had not been able to answer her, and she had read her own reply in his clear eyes. She did not understand what, but she understood there was something that drove him, and all she could do was watch in silence as he saddled the buckskin stallion and swung up on to its back. He had leant down and gently touched her cheek, then he clucked his tongue to the horse and turned away.

Maybe, she thought, when he had been where he had to go he would return.

Her parting gift was a pack of supplies. She hoped that as he ate, somewhere out on the prairie, he would remember what had passed between them and feel the need to come back.

She would wait.

***

He rode continuously through the day, stopping only briefly to water the stallion at noon, and to sit in the shade of a Pecan tree. In the saddle, his eyes kept a constant watch on the land and occasionally he turned to familiarize himself with the scenery behind him, just in case he would want to ride back this way again. He knew you could often ride the same trail in the opposite direction and not recognize the terrain at all. It was another scrap of information that he had gleaned from his father's lips.

As he rode, he tried to shrug off the longing to return to Janey Morgan and instead settled his mind on the task ahead, falling into his familiar traveling routine. Absently, he placed the sun behind him in the morning and headed west. Gallup was only fifty miles ahead, and that was where he intended to resume his search. A half-breed who had a mean way with a gun shouldn't be all that hard to find.

He was wrong.

There was no trace of Zeb Cole in Gallup. The sheriff's office yielded no clues either. The upholder of the law in Gallup turned out to be an ornery man, not in the least eager to impart any information, however meager. He took one look at the tall, blue-eyed cowboy who was dusty and travel-stained and took him to be a bounty hunter. The proffered flyer on the outlaw, Zeb Cole, only added to the illusion.

If there was one thing that Sheriff Dan Thomas could not abide, then it was a bounty hunter. Although he agreed they did a job that needed doing, owing to the lack of US Marshals, it barely put them on the side of the law and only made them one step away from being outlaws themselves. He had met plenty; hard, mean, cunning, and usually very fast to resort to using the muscle of their gun hands.

The man who called himself Quantro looked no different. He wore a low holstered fast-rig, and the eyes under the brim of the dusty Stetson were hard and piercing. He wore the assurance of being fast with a gun indolently. Another punk kid too fast with a gun to do himself any good. Another would-be gunslinger out to make himself a reputation as a hunter of men.

Yes, Dan Thomas could read all the signs; he too had been an ambitious kid, many years ago. But now the hardness had mellowed and the lean, tough body had grown a paunch through too many good meals and too many nights slept in a comfortable bed. He had lost the hunger.

But that didn't change anything. He did not like bounty hunters.

Quantro, on the other hand, was not so fast to make up his mind about a man. He had already learned that people are often not what they appear to be. On this occasion he read the sheriff correctly. A man in his fading years, content to take regular pay for bringing in a few drunks as he saw out the rest of his days, hoping to die with his boots off in the comfort of his own bed.

Well all right, if the sheriff wouldn't help him, then he would just have to manage alone. It might take a while longer, but if a man knew where he was going, and used his brain as best he knew how, then he would get there sooner or later. Of that he was sure. He stuffed the flyer on Cole into his pocket and turned on his heel.

Behind him a tight-lipped Dan Thomas glowered at the scarred paneling of the office door.

Out on the boardwalk Quantro leaned against one of the posts, thumbs tucked in his gun belt as he studied the dry, dusty street. If Cole and the others were out on the range somewhere, then surely as God made buzzards they would have to call into town sometime or another. Even if it was only the need for a woman. The saloon. He pushed back his hat and clumped along the planking.

The bartender nodded agreeably and set up a whiskey bottle in front of him. Quantro tossed a silver dollar on to the counter.

“Any women upstairs? I got me a hankering.”

The bartender shook his head. “No. Not a woman to be bought in this town. More's the pity. All the good honest wives of the town council've got tight reins on their husbands, so each time a madam comes into town with her girls to set up a business, the council all get together to drive her out.” He shrugged and picked up the dollar. “That's the way it is. Not even one tiny cathouse on the outskirts. I think all the wives are too frightened their husbands might get their fun elsewhere. That was,” he added, “if they had a choice.”

Quantro threw back the last of the whiskey and placed the glass back on the bar top.

“Well, I guess I'll have to find me a town that's a mite more hospitable.”

The bartender laughed. He knew it was always best to laugh at the little jokes these men made. Some of them, like this one, could be real mean at times. He'd seen it happen. A laugh cost a man nothing.

Quantro made his way back out on to the street. The buckskin was standing at the hitching rail, bored, moving his weight from one hoof to another. His master leaned over the rail and patted his neck. The stallion jerked his head, pleased at the attention.

“Not long now, boy,” Quantro smiled. “I know you don't like to be tied up.” He glanced up and down the street. “At least not in a one horse town like this one.” The buckskin snickered and dipped his head sideways.

Quantro studied the street again. If it wasn't for a woman, then what else would they come into town for? Supplies? Ammunition? Food could always be hunted, but coffee and bullets had to be bought. A wooden shingle a little further along the boardwalk caught his eye.
Horace Bradley-Provisions
. It was the only store that would carry what Cole would need. Three men night hawking stolen cattle would drink their way through a whole heap of coffee.

The storekeeper looked up, nervously fidgeting with his wire-rimmed spectacles when he saw Quantro. He had met enough strangers to know that a man who looked as calm and assured as Quantro spelt trouble.

“Box of .44 shells.”

“Yessir,” came the reply as the clerk began to bustle about. Quantro fed him a list of necessaries. If he figured it right, he'd be spending a while out on the range. When the clerk had filled the order Quantro laid the coins on the counter next to the unfolded flyer on Zeb Cole.

“He been in here lately?”

The clerk swallowed hard and reached for the money. “He don't look familiar, Mister.”

Quantro's left hand snaked out and caught the storekeeper's wrist before the fingers touched the coins.

“Think a bit harder. Then you might get your money.”

The clerk looked from the money to Quantro's hard eyes and swallowed again.

“Well… about a week ago.”

“Anybody with him?”

“Two men. One was a Mexican who stayed outside with the horses. The other one was white.”

Quantro nodded. “What'd he buy? Anything special ?”

The clerk shook his head. “No. Just coffee and suchlike. A couple of boxes of bullets.”

“Which way they ride?”

The storekeeper said nothing. He thought he had already said quite enough. Telling him they had been here would cause enough trouble if the Mexicans and the white man rode back this way. If they found out he had told about them, then…

Quantro read the clerk's eyes. He allowed his right hand to fall on the butt of the Colt .44. The clerk caught the gist of the movement and quickly stammered.

“Er… They rode south… Definitely south.”

For the first time since he had entered the store, Quantro's mouth broke into a lop-sided grin. He released the clerk's hand. The flustered man seized the money while he had the opportunity and turned to the till.

“Two dollars change, sir.” Quantro smiled inside at the tension in the storekeeper's voice.

“Much obliged. You can keep it. You earned it. I must have got at least two dollars' worth of sweat out of you.” Outside, he loaded the buckskin's saddlebags and mounted up.

When he headed out, he turned south.

***

That night he camped in a basin next to a stream of fresh clear water. There was plentiful grazing for the stallion, and ample wood for the fire. He slept with the sound of crickets buzzing in his ears, punctuated by the occasional hoot of an owl seeking out his supper.

Two days later he crossed the stage trail. A few miles along the rutted track stood the Relay Station, where he silenced the angry rumblings of his stomach with some thick stew dished up by the wiry old woman who lived there. Her husband was just as old, and for the price of a bottle of rotgut whiskey, he parted with the information that a half-breed had tried to trade horses with him three days earlier. Yes, there'd been two other men with him. One was white, and the other was a full-blood Mex.

Quantro rode away from the Station a wiser man, pointing the buckskin's nose at a trail that had become noticeably warmer.

It came together. A word with two cowboys who were searching for lost cattle, a brief conversation with a rancher riding a buckboard, and many tiring hours leaning over the neck of the stallion as he inspected the trail. He was closing the gap all the time between Zeb Cole and what he had coming to him.

***

Ten days later Quantro was circling a big rim rock just before dusk when the buckskin jerked his ahead, ears twitching. Quantro reined in and sat quietly, listening and watching. Then he caught it. The breeze carried a faint snatch of wood smoke to him. Fire. He tested the wind. It was blowing from the east. He nudged his heels into the stallion's flanks and walked him slowly forward.

They came out from behind the rock, both man and horse wary and attentive. Then he saw it. The telltale chimney of smoke boring up into the dimming sky. It was coming from the floor of a wide
barranca
, a valley that petered out into a box canyon from what he could see. He guided the horse down the shale incline that brought him out into the open, away from the skyline.

From where he sat, he could plainly see the mouth of the
barranca.
A narrow trail wound in through a gap in the mesquite and further in, the valley appeared to be almost clogged with vegetation. He guessed that it opened out and the lush trees and calf-deep grass at the entrance testified there was water in there. An underground spring perhaps.

He walked the buckskin to the fringe of the trees to wait until dark. While the horse grazed, he chewed on a strip of jerky that he washed down with water from his canteen. When his meal was complete he rolled a cigarette and watched the darkening sky. He checked the Colt and the Winchester, loading them and reloading them out of habit. It kept his hands busy.