The Third Western Megapack. Johnston McCulley

Crosby and his horse took their time as they headed across the barren landscape towards Tucson. They’d come a long way since he deserted the Confederate army and headed westward. There’d been no set destination, nothing beyond escaping the chaos. He’d had enough killing and mayhem to last a lifetime. There was never a good enough reason for brothers and neighbors and strangers murdering one another. The whole fiasco wasn’t worth the acres of dead bodies. He’d looked into the eyes of the last Union soldier he’d killed, watched as the last flicker of life drained from him, a young lad barely in his teens. None of it made a stitch of sense.

      He’d thrown his Enfield rifle onto the blood-soaked dirt where the boys body lay, tossed the bullets in the grass and walked calmly away. About a hundred miles down the road Caleb realized that he’d damn well better be armed. He was heading into wild, unfamiliar territory and only the good lord himself knew what he’d run into. He bought a Remington “Improved Army Revolver” single action and hoped to hell he’d never have need to use it. He’d been lucky, for the most part. But going through New Mexico, not long after Apache Chief Geronimo surrendered in Skeleton Canyon, his path crossed a couple renegade savages bent on killing anyone who wasn’t red. Turnabout was fair play he figured, but not at his expense. They were down and dead in the dirt before they knew what hit them.

      That’s how it was supposed to be. You kill to defend your own skin. You don’t do it because someone else decides you oughtta, damned Washington politicians most of all.

      * * * *

      A long two days out of Tombstone territory, they moseyed into Tucson, dirty and covered in trail dust. He was travel weary and his life in the south was but a distant memory. Anyways, poor Shenandoah was likely a hell of a lot more worn out than himself. He might just call this place home, maybe start up a small rancho or something. Maybe even find a missus. It was time to settle into a new life and this place looked as good as any.

      He put his roan up in a livery stable on Main Street then walked up to Congress and checked into a small hotel, took a hot bath and flopped onto the squeaky mattress for a nap. It was a might more comfortable than the desert floor. He awoke to a night time sky outside his window and a screaming stomach. After dressing in his Sunday best and holstering his gun, he filled up his empty gut in the hotel dining room, then walked out the front door to check out his new surroundings.

      The light inside Madame Eleanor’s damn near blinded him as he walked into its parlor.

      “Gotta leave yer gun at the door,” came a voice from his left. “Don’t need no trouble here.” He adjusted his eyes to the light, then reluctantly handed over his gun before entering the room. It was a right pretty place with dark green wallpaper and lush oriental rugs. There were real crystal chandeliers like in his plantation back home, before the Union soldiers had burned it to the ground. He looked around the room, at a fancy bar and poker tables. A darkie was playing a fine piano off in the corner. Soiled doves lounged on sofas, with rouged cheeks and redder lips, as they waited for customers looking to scratch their itches. There were blondes and brunettes and redheads, skinny ones and curvaceous ones and fat ones. And there was a Chinese girl with long black hair and tiny bound feet who couldn’t have been more than fourteen. And a high-yellow negress in a bright red silk dress.

      Off in a far corner was a woman who had to be Madame Eleanor. Not even the most desperate of men would have bedded her, not even for free. Ugly as a javelina she was, but dressed in Paris’s best with fancy jewels and a feather boa wrapped around her fat neck and a toothy smile on her face.

      But it was the woman sitting with her that caught Caleb’s attention. She was the most beautiful creature he’d ever laid eyes on. Her hair was the color of midnight with eyes just as dark and mysterious. Perfect white teeth contrasted with a complexion as burnished as the desert landscape. She didn’t need that one lone feather in her hair to tell what she was. She was a half-breed for sure, but the prettiest damn injun he’d ever seen.

      Before the night was over, that was the lady he wanted to take upstairs!

      Caleb headed off for a poker table, sat down, and joined the game. Those games kept his stomach full and Shenandoah in oats through their long journey and his wallet needed some fattening. He kept looking over at the exotic woman, distracted, knowing he’d gladly empty every last penny from his pockets just to be with her close up and naked. She had a face that promised she was as wild on the mattress as she looked.

      “And I heard the rocks were falling from Picket Post Mountain,” said the man sitting across from him as he toyed with his handlebar moustache.

      “Biggest damn quake ever,” said another.

      “The earth was shakin’ from Mexico to all the way up past Superior,” said the first man.

      “I heard that the top of Picket Post Mountain fell right off,” said the scrawny third guy in his squeaky voice. Awed, he was, like it was some kind of magic instead of merely nature doing what she does best. Just when you start thinking things are gonna be easy nature comes along and slaps you alongside the head with an earthquake or a flood or whatever else she can muster.

      “I saw fissures on the desert floor,” said Caleb. “All the way from Tombstone to here.”

      Name’s Caleb,” he added. “Deal me in gentlemen.”

      They played their hands and exchanged their stories. Caleb won enough for what he needed, careful not to win so much as they’d suspect he was playing with something hidden up his sleeve. These men would likely be his new neighbors, after all. Finally, he stood and scooped up his conservative winnings.

      “I’m thinking it’s time to go upstairs,” he said with a wink and turned in the direction of the raven haired beauty. The man with the moustache caught him by the arm.

      “I better fair warn you,” he said. “That there is Mrs. Wembly and she’s hands off unless you want to get yerself shot.”

      “She ain’t one of the girls,” said another with a snicker, “Not no more anyways.” The other men laughed as they held their cards, shaking their heads like they were in on some inside joke.

      Caleb didn’t understand.

      “She comes here to hide away from her husband,” said the man with the moustache. “And he’s the most powerful man in these parts. Rich as a sultan he is, and deadly as a scorpion. He ain’t nobody you want to mess with, if you know what’s good for you.”

      The front door flew open and a man entered the parlor. Nobody asked him for his gun as he strutted into the room. Caleb could see from the man’s clothes and his badge that he was a sheriff’s deputy so he expected all hell to break loose. But everyone just glanced at the man then went about their business. The whores just smiled and whispered in each others ears. The deputy was a tall one, a good six foot three at least. He appeared even taller and more intimidating as his eyes scanned the room before landing on the beauty who sat in the corner conversing with Madame Eleanor.

      “Venus!” The deputy called out. “Venus Wembly, get yerself over here! Roscoe’s looking for you and he’s spitting nails.” He stomped across the room and grabbed her roughly by the arm, jerking her up from her chair.

      “Leave me be,” she protested, then looked over and straight into Caleb’s eyes. It was like a jolt of lightening stabbed through him and time froze. Her expression was pleading but there was something else in the way her mouth turned up in the corners as she faintly smiled at him. Something stirred deep inside of him and damn near made his heart stop.

      The deputy yanked her arm and escorted her to the door.

      “Don’t you dare tell Mr. Wembly where you found me!” she protested.

      And they were gone.

      The men at the poker table laughed.

      “The deputy won’t tell Wembly nothing.”

      “Hell, everybody in town knows she comes here.”

      “Everybody but Mr. Wembly hisself.”

      “I’ll