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This is a work of fiction, using characters from the film, “The Quick and the Dead". No insult or invasion of privacy or infringement of copyright is intended. The story is for readers over the age of 18 only, and contains adult language. The writer is not responsible for any "discomfort" caused to the reader by this language and these situations.
This will be a ROUND ROBIN series of episodes. Anyone who wants to continue the story with her/his own twist or turn, have at it! I'll start it out... Begins 5 years after "The Quick and the Dead" ended.
What Came Next
Episode 7 by: Mare ©10/2006
The Wilkinson family dinner – plus Garth – had grown into a musical event with as much drinking and dancing as dining.
Dave Kelly had used Alan’s tub to wash off the trail. Then the two of them had squired Mattie and Selma to the hotel restaurant, lugging their instruments.
Dean with Tree in tow was spelling Bones on jail duty. Catherine took her turn watching children. So Bones and Rosario with Sarita and Carmen Soldana, and Bones’ sister Irina joined the Kelly-Doyle foursome at their big table After a few pitchers with whiskey chasers, guitars rang out and drums started thumping. Mrs. Murphy, who had brought Susan, attacked the piano keys.
Stewart and Garth arrived. Garth and Tone Deaf added more strings and a harmonica. Eyed by Irina, Susan, and Carmen, and also by their mothers, Stew made the safest choice, passing all three of them en route to the band, trumpet tucked under his arm.
Alan and Tone-Deaf harmonized on Alan’s favorite song. “This one,” he explained, “wandered up to San Francisco from Australia. Tone-Deaf won’t admit where he learned it, but it’s taught in every bawdy house from here to the coast.”
“Sailor’s coming home again from over the ocean He’s been away so long he’s forgotten his name
Left it in a heart somewhere no one to remind him Sold it to a stranger She took it away
There comes a time when you understand Falling in love is part of the plan”
Stewart blew a lonesome solo, making the lasses’ eyes grow rounder and soft as he applied his lips to the mouthpiece. Then guitars and Ma Murphy’s piano Garth and Tone Deaf added more strings and a harmonica. enlivened the piece.
“And you can stay away tonight thinking up a dozen names I can only sleep in your arms So when I stay awake I’ll sail those same oceans again.” At the tables and on the dance floor folks swayed and expressions grew dreamy.
Jenny, who had been fondly grooming Peanut and the carriage team, washed up, donned her best dress and followed the music. She hoped that Dean would let Tree loose, presently.
With so many of the men performing, women got busy discussing them at both the Wilkinson and the Kelly-Doyle tables. These tables soon merged.
To amused gasps Selma shared the “goat-meat marinade recipe” – “and it’s good on goats of any species!” Selma couldn’t wait to tell Cathy about it.
Ramona remarked, “So your Marshall Cort and that gun-totin’ Ellen rode off alone? What will come of that, I wonder?”
Mattie tittered, “More like WHO will come. Or who FIRST.”
Rosario mused, “It’ll either be murder or one helluva mating. The way he devours her with those eyes!”
Sarita added, “And she stares at him like a puma stalking a jackrabbit.”
Tree, as ordered, had stayed at the jail to talk with its prisoners. But as his former fellow felons fell asleep, he left Dean reading a dime novel and went to the hotel. As he was a hard man to miss, his arrival launched a surge of murmurs around the room. Nervously he took a chair next to Jenny. The women quizzed him on his questionable past. He stressed the artistic part of it, particularly his sculptures.
“You ought to carve something for the church,” Rosario suggested.
“Yeah, sure, I was looking at a couple of big chunks of wood in the wreckage. I was thinking a Madonna and Child.”
Theresa volunteered to aid this project with sketches. “Have you chosen your model?”
“Cathy and her youngest,” Selma decided the issue instantly. “Tree, I know you had Jenny in mind, but you can’t make a maiden a Madonna!”
“Oh, really? It happened to me, sure as shootin’!” Sarina Soldana waved her beer glass.
“You should’ve stayed away from that pistol he was shootin’!” Theresa chortled.
“Anyway, Tree, carve Jenny later – after you marry her.”
Jenny groaned. But Tree grinned. “It’s a deal!”
Then he unfolded himself and escorted Jenny out to the dance floor.
Tables were shoved towards the walls to expand that area. Footwork got friskier and betting bolder. Jenny found Tree a surprisingly skilled dancer, obedient to the rhythms. Tree (who had learned his footwork in a New Orleans brothel) was aware he had moved up a rung on her ladder. He knew how to hold a partner and swing her off her feet at just the right moment.
A wager was proposed at the bar: how many days before Jenny’s virgin status changed?
Jenny enjoyed the envy with which Carmen, Irina and Susan watched her. “Stewart had best get his behind out here soon,” she whispered up towards Tree’s ear. “It’ll take him a lot of light-steppin’ to satisfy those three. It’ll be a contest, who he dances the longest with.”
Soon a second wager circulated: Which gal would Stewart leave with? Behind the bar, Katie’s Pa recorded the bets and stacked the coins.
After another tender ballad, Susan Murphy marched to the band, snatched Stew’s trumpet out of his hands and hauled him out to dance. “Waltz!” She commanded, amidst applause from everyone but Carmen and Irina.
After Stew and Susan had turned gracefully nine times around the floor, Irina tried to cut in. Susan told her, “Not yet! It’s me until my feet get too sore.”
Irina stomped the heel of her dainty boot on the toe of Susan’s. In a flurry of fabrics and slim limbs they were instantly struggling, tumbling and wrestling on the floor. Mattie joined the fray intending to separate the two, but somehow she went down, too, petticoats flying. Mrs. Murphy left her piano at a charge but Dave restrained her. Rosario, trilling peacemaking sentiments, was ignored.
Carmen’s mother gripped her shoulders. But Carmen’s dark eyes kept flashing, aimed on Stewart.
Stew looked like a Maypole towering over a swirl of pink, green, blue and brown skirts and pale petticoats. Or a tree trunk above a riot of wind-blown leaves and blossoms. His expression evinced an inner war of his own: “O Lord, stop this!” versus “O Lord, I’m enjoying this!” For one instant his cheeks would rise and dimple, then fall the next when it occurred to him he should say something stern. He tried, but the girls’ shrill battle cries drowned him out. Along with cheers and laughter. Colorful skirts roiled around lovely legs a man never saw enough of, underwear at once frustrating and provocative, bare arms flailing gracefully yet dangerously. And hard-heeled boots that kicked Stew repeatedly. He needed to intervene – but that was increasingly risky. And not as entertaining as watching them wrestle... Couldn’t help anticipating a breast escaping a bodice!
A friend of Susan’s dove in with the sound of ripping cloth, and a fifth girl pounced on her, siding with Irina. Betting became complicated. Most onlookers gave slim, redheaded Mattie the best reviews. For one so delicately made, she fought like an Amazon. Yet no one was sure for whom she was battling. Susan showed more power but her poor aim wasted many of her punches.
Somehow the fight spread to a group of men – apparently disputing a wager made on Susan when Irina got the upper hand. Alarmed, the girls let themselves be pulled apart and to safety but not before sleeves, a petticoat and a precious lace fichu were in shreds.
The males who had intruded were soon ejected from the establishment. Stewart returned to his trumpet while the girls retired to rearrange corsets, pull up sagging hose and repair coiffures.
No permanent damage was done. And Stewart was no closer to his choice. With her pacifist spirit Carmen scored a point but in advertisement of physical assets the other two had scored more.
“Irina,” Bones murmured, “can take care of herself, eh? Fights like a bobcat.”
Stew nodded. “So does Susan. I don’t know as that’s good news.” He wondered if Carmen would turn wildcat, too, absent her vigilant mother. Glancing around he saw envy in men’s eyes. And when, as they filed back in to the party, he caught the eyes of the combatants, waves of heat beamed from all three pairs. From his, likewise, back at them.
But he knew he’d be leaving alone.
By and large, those attending agreed, this had been the best party in memory. They slept well.
Tomorrow night there would be an even bigger party with Cort and Ellen and – rumor had it – some Indians. And gossip also promised some confiscated explosives to detonate.
Stewart intended to rise early and resume work on Cort’s church. Taking his bedroll out behind the church, along with a near-full bottle of whiskey, he stripped to his skivvies and stretched out beneath the moon and stars. The wind had died and the air was warm enough.
Just as his eyelids drooped and his mind prepared to dream, the moon seemed to fill his vision with a glowing, palpable beam. It took the pale form of a woman.
Irina knelt beside his bedroll. Her moon-colored hair shone like a halo. Her arms and shoulders were bare except for thin lace straps, and as she leaned down to kiss him her breasts escaped her linen nightgown. They were like two waxing moons, creamy ellipses with nipples for mountains. Stewart gasped. “Did you walk down the street like that?”
“No, you galoot. I had my long cape on. Nobody saw me. Now make room under that blanket.”
Stewart, as she wriggled in on top of him, caught a nipple between his lips and gave it a tug. Irina squealed with delight. She lowered her head and drew her body slowly down his, kissing and tickling with her tongue, bosoms bouncing on him, moans and squeals issuing from under the blanket as she found his ready cock.
But someone HAD seen her.
“What’s that gawdawful noise?” Another female voice piped up from the night. “That a coyote attackin’ you, Stew?”
Now Susan loomed upside-down over Stewart’s head. And Irina’s head emerged from the blanket.
“‘Coyote?’ Who are you to call me a coyote? You’re the one sneaking up on us, you snake!” “‘Snake?’ Not me who slithered in to his bed!”
Diverted for a moment by Susan’s bare legs exposed in the opening of her cloak, Stew now assessed the situation and groaned. Lunging out of his grasp Irina pounced like a puma.
Still buzzing with the evening’s alcohol content, inhibitions shed, the girls went for each other, tooth and nail. This time, getting between them was much more rewarding, however. Stew waved the bottle under their noses and suggested they finish it off like friends. Before long he was back on his back and they were devising a clever, very appealing way to finish him off as well.
Until a decidedly not-female voice boomed, “You three are UNDER ARREST! I’m not sure exactly what for, but it sure as hell looks illegal!”
It was Dave Kelly, trying his best not to laugh, holding forth his deputy’s badge. He had just left Mattie sound asleep. It had taken a lot of calming her down and massaging her bruises.
He was damn glad she hadn’t come here with him.
~*~
In the wee hours a cloudburst created temporary brooks and waterfalls. Ellen and Cort filled their canteens and washed their faces in the cool rapids.
“Some times,” Ellen conceded, “it’s beautiful here, I have to admit.”
“Yep. This time of year, the air seems to be saturated with something; there’s stuff floating in the air.” Cort slipped his arms around her and kissed her hair, her ear, her cheek, then fully and deeply her lips. “Won’t be long now.”
She giggled softly. “I’m not holding my breath. Considering our luck, your house is on fire as we speak.”
Rain clouds had gone northeast when Cort and Ellen escorted the Zunis in to Big Bell.
Cazique Zeke was amazed by the growth, cleanliness and bustling positive air of the town.
“Good people here now. Busy. Now you get busy with YOU, Preacher. Stop chasing sinners.”
“I was a sinner myself, Zeke. I’ve been chasing grace; grace ain’t so easily found.”
“Who is Grace?” Zeke chuckled at his own double-entendre. “Chase Ellen now. Strong legs, good for chase!”
As Zeke and his two Tenientes admired the townswomen in their complex clothes, the women eyed them back. They were deemed right fine specimens. Sitting their mounts well, hair gleaming straight and blue-black, self-consciously curious, returning intrigued glances with the slightest of smiles.
The party stopped to explore the damaged church. Tree was there looking for likely lumber fragments. His stature caused comment among the natives. Their dignity impressed Tree. “Where they gonna bunk?” he asked Cort.
“My house. It’s the safest.”
Tree, eyeing some big, nicely aged and smoke-hardened fragments of church rafter wood, asked Cort if he could carve them. “I could make you a fine Madonna and Child,” he volunteered. “Made my living sculpting.”
Cort raised one eyebrow. “I’d forgotten that. Back to a legal living, eh? And good penance. Fitting use of the wood, too. You got the tools you need?”
“Most of ‘em, and Giamatti has some I can borrow.”
“That Theresa, she’s an artist, does real beautiful sketches. I’ll get her to draw Dean’s wife and their youngest, I’ll work from that.”
Cort nodded. “Go to it.”
At the stable next to Cort’s house the sledge and the burros were safely stashed. Several offers of trade had already been left in Cort’s office – not only for the produce but for the lovely shawls. Alan, Bones and Dean were among the bidders for those. They would make good gifts for lady loves.
Ellen’s horse took the stall opposite Peanut’s. She and he exchanged fond whinnies. Ellen checked the latch on Peanut’s stall door.
Ellen found that Rosario Hillman had straightened up, and discretely assigned Ellen to a small guest room opposite Cort’s bedroom. She had brought two dresses for Ellen to try on. “If you like them, I’ll help you fit them right. My sewing stuff is on the chiffonier, there. Dean’s wife Cathy sewed them, I just helped. Then she got pregnant again and they won’t fit since the baby came. We figured you’d need dresses for the party tonight and for the wedding. You’re not riding off right away, are you?”
Ellen smiled. “No. I’m staying a while.”
“Good. Cort will show you where the bath house is. I’ll get water heating.”
Wistfully, Cort wished aloud he could share the bath. Ellen performed a pantomime of measuring the tub. “The two of us couldn’t fit in this without displacing all the water.”
“We could,” Cort growled, “if we –”
”Don’t even think it! Go get your guests settled and fed.”
Cort allowed himself to linger long enough to help her undress.
Ellen was startled to find Herod’s Roman statue relocated in the bath shed, as Cort flung her clothes onto its outstretched arm. He made the statue a scarf with her bloomers. But he turned away as she sank into the tub, knowing that the gleam of her wet body would render him unable to go.
“Tonight,” he promised as he left. “House ain’t burned down yet.”
“Keep your fingers crossed. And keep an eye on Starr’s dynamite.”
The Roman had survived the explosions years ago with minor wounds. Ellen’s officer had read deeply on the Romans. From what he’d taught her, she tried to identify this dignitary. Emperor? General? Senator? Julius Caesar? Germanicus? Gaius Caesar, a.k.a. Caligula? Tiberius? Octavian? Marcus Aurelius? Commodus?
As she sat in the steaming water, she stiffened at the sudden sense of surveillance. Then chided herself, glancing at the statue, for being spooked by a hunk of stone. Still, the watched feeling persisted. Ellen eyed the silent marble face. A stone body couldn’t house dead Herod’s evil spirit, could it? She addressed the sculpture aloud: “I’ll assume you are Emperor Vespasian. I’m partial to you, at least the part of you that loved his wife, and when she died, enjoyed a lot of afternoon delight with assorted mistresses. That part won’t object to my unmentionables around your stalwart neck. But I don’t like the part that built that Colosseum and filled it full of butchery. That part of you was right at home in Herod’s town. Wonder what you thought of how we ended that? Seeing me and Cort facing down on the street, like we’d ever shoot each other...”
Spying through a chink in the wall, an admirer smiled at her soliloquy. This was the woman of his dreams.
~*~
Fascinated by the females in fancy frocks, the Zuni evinced further curiosity about what the restaurant and bar had to offer. The Wilkins family had got up early and cleaned, and cooked. They anxiously awaited the Zunis’ reactions to their dishes. Smiles broke out all round the room when Zeke pronounced the first entrée, “Damn good!”
The band had left guitars, a big bass, Stew’s trumpet and of course the piano from the previous night’s party. All of the instruments were thoroughly inspected, a guitar tentatively strummed. The natives’ excitement at the prospect of hearing these strange things played at the evening party was palpable, and contagious.
In the afternoon Cort took the Zunis to the jail to meet the young prisoners.
Respectfully greeting them, Dean was glad they had missed last night’s feminine fracas. Bones hastened out to offer his handshakes, too. Disheveled, he prompted an anxious inquiry from the Marshall. “What did the prisoners get up to?”
“Oh, they’re behaving. I was just up late writing a song – burning the midnight oil.”
Want to add the next chapter? Email it to me at darrinlee7@gmail.com!
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