John C. Horst's Blog, page 17

“He had nice curls, mister.”

Frederick Remington When the last child was gone, Allingham sat closer to the former prostitute. He had a difficult time believing it was the same young girl he’d run out of French Annie’s bordello; the child with the beaten and damaged face. It all seemed an eternity ago.

“Janie, Francis wanted you to have this.” He handed her a locket which opened to pictures on either side of Francis’s mother and father.

“I see Francis in both of them.” She closed the locket and held it tightly in her fist.

He took it back from her and opened another little door on the back. “Miss Rosario put some of Francis’s hair in here for you, Janie.”

She looked at it and then at Allingham. “He had nice curls, mister.”

“He did indeed, Janie.” He breathed in deeply and continued. “That locket was very special to him, and he wanted you to have it. To help you remember him.”

“Don’t need a locket for that, mister.” She sniffed and smiled weakly. “No one who knew him could ever forget Francis.” Allingham

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Next to her sat an austere and very dark Indian wearing a turban the color of saffron...

After settling into his room, he took the stagecoach to the little town. In the coach he sat across from a stunning young woman dressed appropriately for the wealthy. This he thought odd, as there was nothing, according to what he’d learned about the place, which would remotely attract such a woman to the horrible settlement of Canyon Diablo.

Next to her sat an austere and very dark Indian wearing a turban the color of saffron, with long moustaches and beard. He was dressed well, armed well, and with impressive posture; back straight, shoulders back and always, always vigilantly watching his surroundings.

Allingham liked Sikhs. He’d known a few in his long years of police service. He had never arrested a Sikh, never had any Sikh cause trouble of any kind. He liked their religion, which seemed much more straightforward than his own—at least the religion that he’d known growing up—the religion that he soon lost on the battlefields of the great rebellion. Allingham, unlike many men in conflict, was driven away from, rather than closer to his faith.

He was not remotely handy with the fairer sex. He liked women well enough, even had one brief love affair once and ruined it, but that was nearly twenty years ago. However, it did not stop him from looking and he snatched glances at the beauty when he could. He was careful in this. He had no interest in speaking to his traveling companions and did not want to suggest that he would.

 He was, additionally, not certain of the relationship between the woman and the Sikh. The man was significantly older than the lady and of another race. They could certainly not be a couple. But then again perhaps they were.  Allingham had heard that many strange people were attracted to the West. He considered the possibility that perhaps the woman and the man were together in more than a business way. It was abundantly evident to him that they were not blood relations. The Sikh could not have been her father, or an uncle, as she was simply not dark; she could not have been his blood relation in any way. Allingham

...her long hair, like Lady Godiva’s, strategically placed so that it covered her more intimate parts.

Collier ~ Lady Godiva She breathed deeply through her mouth; he was stinking up her room already. She swallowed hard as the idea of him on her made her want to gag.

“One hour.”

“Two.”

 “Don’t push your luck. One hour.” She held out her hand and he dropped the nugget into her outstretched palm. She looked it over, hefted it and knew it was rich, knew it was more than she made in months. “Plus, you have to get a bath and do something, anything about that rotting mouth.”

 He clamped his lips over his scum-covered teeth and looked on at the beauty standing before him. She gave him a little show, cocking a leg provocatively high on the edge of the bed. She watched him turn to jelly as she languidly climbed onto her bed and reclined in the middle of it. The Princess rarely wore clothes and now she lay, outstretched, her long hair, like Lady Godiva’s, strategically placed so that it covered her more intimate parts. The show was over for now.

“Deal.” He spit in his hand and held it out for the Princess to shake, to seal the bargain.

“You’ve got to be kidding.” She waved him off dismissively. “Go, go away, before I change my mind. Scrub, scrub like your life depended on it. Hire as many Chinese girls as you can. Get yourself as clean as possible and come back at five.” Allingham

“This isn’t your business, Mr. Singh.”

Sikhs “Mr. Allingham, may I suggest you and Francis get back to town. You will be needed there. You will need to help fight these men and your people will be outnumbered and taken unawares. I’ll go get the ones who’ve ridden north.”

“This isn’t your business, Mr. Singh.”

The Sikh looked at the corpses of the ladies lying nearby. Then he looked Allingham in the eye. “You know well enough that is not true, Mr. Allingham. This is all my business. To the very core of my being, this is my business.” He turned slowly and mounted up. He looked down on Francis and grabbed the young man firmly on the shoulder, giving it a fatherly squeeze. “Fight well, Francis. Fight well.” He kicked his mount’s sides and was gone. Allingham

Francis smiled at the Sikh and saw the Indian had blood on his clothes. “How many’d ya get?”

Photo from Vikingsword.com Mr. Singh appeared next to Francis on the rooftop of the livery stable, the highest building in Canyon Diablo. They picked their targets carefully, dropping man after man.

“How you doin’, Mr. Singh?” Francis smiled at the Sikh and saw the Indian had blood on his clothes. “How many’d ya get?”

“Two, Francis.” He fired his Winchester and put a bullet through a bad man’s eye. “Now three.”

“I’ll be go to hell. The captain warned us ‘bout you, Mr. Singh. Said you could cut our throats before we cleared leather.” Mr. Singh gave a just discernible smile. He did not like to be proud, or bragged about, but could not help feeling a little pleased.

Men finally saw them and began returning their fire. Francis ducked. “Mr. Singh, you should not be wearin’ a orange turban in a battle. My God, what a target!”

The Indian looked at Francis, now lying in a substantial pool of his own blood. He’d been hit low, the bullet nicking his liver and Francis was as pale as washed rice.

“Francis, take care.” He nodded toward the young man’s wound.

Francis smiled. “It don’t hurt none, Mr. Singh.” He got up and waved the Sikh on. “You go on, Mr. Singh, I gotta whore to visit.” He was gone. Allingham

This is a fairy tale for cowgirls. Read and ride away on a tall, tall tale. Yahooooooooo!

Jesus Helguera The Mule Tamer II, Chica's Ride, latest 5 star review:
What a ride!, September 24, 2012 By  picky lady   This review is from: The Mule Tamer II, Chica's Ride (Kindle Edition) This is a fairy tale for cowgirls. Love the story, love Chica. Read and ride away on a tall, tall tale. Yahooooooooo!

Please somebody in Hollywood do this right. It is just waiting to be an exciting classic western.

Jesus Helguera 5.0 out of 5 stars Loved it!!, March 20, 2013 By theodoreg - See all my reviews This review is from: The Mule Tamer (Kindle Edition) I agree with one of the other readers, this should be a movie making like McMurtry's Lonesome Dove series. Please somebody in Hollywood do this right. The Mule Tamer