Free City of Widows by Loren D. Estleman Page B

Eille MacNutt says when he came to town there was twice this many, and three times that many twenty years before that. This is what’s left from the last vendetta. Any town that is running out of widows can’t be all bad.”
    â€œI’d feel better if I didn’t think someone probably said the same thing just before the last vendetta.”
    No sooner had he mentioned Eille MacNutt than two women came out the door of the Mare’s Nest, tying on head scarves as they followed the widows. Their dresses were more subdued than what they would wear for work and cut for the parlor, but they seemed as bright as plumage against the group that had passed ahead of them.
    â€œIt’s a sad day when a whore gets religion,” said Junior. “Next comes married and babies and then the Wednesday League to stamp out the things that bring them here to begin with.”
    â€œThat’s civilization.”
    â€œNow you sound like the old man. And every time he said it he jacked the ranch house up on rails and moved it farther back toward the mountains.” He tipped his hat back with a knuckle. “If that’s civilization, what do you call this here?”
    I followed the slant of his chin. Another woman had come to the corner from the side street that led to Señora Castillo’s boardinghouse, paused to check for traffic, and turned in behind the women from the Mare’s Nest. She was dressed in blue gingham and had a lace scarf tied under her chin, concealing her hair completely. If it hadn’t been for that brief turn of the head I might not have recognized Colleen Bower. Just in case she was bound somewhere else I went on watching as she crossed the bridge over the dry creek and entered the mission behind the others.
    â€œI’ll be damned,” I said.
    â€œWhat kind of odds you giving?” Junior asked.
    *   *   *
    Three Apaches mounted on slat-sided ponies trailed me most of my first day at a distance of five hundred yards, not even bothering to conceal themselves when I turned in the saddle to look back. That meant either they were just curious or had enough reinforcements nearby to make any action I might take a topic of conversation that night while they were waiting for my brains to come to a boil. Since they knew where I was anyway I built a fire after dark and cooked my supper, but when I turned in I led the claybank a hundred feet away from the embers and spread my blanket there. In the morning they were gone. Frightening the water out of lone white travelers is an Indian sport as old as Montezuma.
    The streets of Socorro were crowded even for a town that size of a Monday. I threaded my way between the buckboards and buggies and stepped down in front of the livery, where Ole, the white-haired youth with the tired bones, was sitting on his bench in the shade of his flop brim.
    â€œGive him oats and rub him down.” I held out the reins.
    He tipped his head back carefully, as if it might fall off its hinge, and screwed up his face against the sun. “I thought the sheriff run you out last week.”
    â€œI ran back. Oats. Rubdown.” I jiggled the reins under his nose.
    â€œWell, I ain’t certain we got the room. Lots of folks in for the hanging. I’ll tether him out here for a dollar, though. Feed’s extra.”
    I chewed on it a second, then reached inside my pocket. His tongue bulged his cheek as he watched.
    â€œMaybe two dollars,” he said.
    Without taking my hand out of my pocket I hooked the heel of my right boot under the edge of the bench and shoved. He showed me two soles in need of repair and went right on over in a creditable somersault. Lying on his stomach on a patch of ground past due for shoveling, he spat out gravel. “I’m going to the sheriff!”
    â€œSave the leather, Ole. I’m on my way there now.” I came up with a cartwheel and flipped it. It landed in front of his nose.