Western Hospitality

Western Hospitality

Harper loped up the clay mountainside with a bloody muzzle and wagging tail. Even under moonlight, the mutt avoided every cactus, burr and stinging insect.

Tess crept out onto a stony perch to see what harm her dog had done to the man. She dropped to her belly and placed her hands on the ledge. The sandy stone that had scalded her feet earlier, felt like a block of ice at night. She blew warm breath on her hands and peered over a sharp drop.

Thirty-or-so-feet down, the Accomplice lay wheezing. His rent throat produced puffs of steam with each attempted breath. He held his neck together, eyes bulging, body rolling side to side. Tess couldn’t spot the gleam of a weapon, not that he could use it well in his state anyhow. The Accomplice didn’t even bring a pack for food and drink.

Tess patted Harper’s shaggy, chocolate-brown head and tied her leash to a marooned hackberry tree, dry and leaning with exposed roots like tentacles. She doubled the rope to insure the mutt wouldn’t venture over the ledge and hang herself.

“Tess,” the Accomplice said. He followed with a fit of violent, wet coughing.

“Damn you, Wyatt.” Tess spoke coldly. She knelt beside him and pulled ringlets of bloody hair away from gruesome gouges on his neck. Trying to clean the wound made a worse mess. “Why did you follow me?”

“You...left me,” the Accomplice said. His voice caught in his throat.

“Same as you'd have done if you thought of it first.”

The Accomplice’s eyes closed.

Tess slapped him. “Pay attention.”

The Accomplice's eyes opened lethargically, looking sadder than before. “I wasn’t coming for the money Tess. It's not like that.”

Harper barked viciously and challenged her leash, as if to say, don't believe him! Don't trust him!

“What am I supposed to do now? If I help you, you might catch up with me later.”

The Accomplice—a nickname she gave Wyatt to keep their dealings impersonal—hyperventilated with that wet, sick sound. He didn't beg for his life or make bold promises. Tess wouldn't have cared if he did.

“My horse…” the Accomplice pointed toward the open desert where his horse had run off. “If you get me on my horse I'll ride for Fort Berwick and never look back to see where you've gone. You can keep your money.”

“Your horse won’t be coming within a mile of my dog,” Tess lectured, “The Mare’s gone.”

The Accomplice reached his hand up to her face. Tess flinched away at first, but then let him touch her, as she had the night before. His hand—covered with sand and sticky blood—felt feverishly hot.

Tess had the tips of her fingers on her boot-knife. One slick move from Wyatt and she'd do him in.

“You are a beauty,” he said.

“Now I know you're a liar.”

Tess thought about herself vainly. A thousand men had made a pass at her, but none on their deathbed. The Accomplice fought his eyelids to look at her. She saw his body relax and go slack. His ragged breathing continued to confirm he hadn't died.

From a slit in her boot she pulled free the knife—long enough to reach a man's heart but short enough to conceal easily. She raised it above his chest. She had no accomplice to do the nasty work this time.

Just then, his eyes flicked open. Tess flicked the blade into her sleeve. “I can make it,” he said, oblivious to the knife.

“Good.” Tess said. “Don't sleep on your back.”

He nodded, and then fell asleep lying on his