This is the first part of three stories based on the Marty Robbins trilogy of songs, "El Paso," "Feleena" and "El Paso City." Randi has written the first, Cagivagurl, the second and Stev2244, part three. The stories should be read in this order. Readers may find the other two stories here: Readers may find the other two stories here:
El Paso : Feleena
and here,
El Paso City
This story is a tragedy, and the readers must follow the stories to find anything like a happy ending. These are linked by the songs, but they are not chapters of the same story. We are different writers telling parts of the story from our own perspective. This was quite a challenge, I thank Cagivagurl and Stev2244 for accepting a challenge so far outside their experience and I hope the readers enjoy a Western themed trilogy. I thank my hommies over at Secret Imperatives for their reading of our stories with critical intent. Randi.
Every step the cattle took sent a puff of dust into the heatwaves rising shimmering from the mirage of water-covered plains, combining into a dust cloud that made Sinclair thankful for the bright red handkerchief covering his nose and mouth. It also reminded him how thirsty he was.
Thankfully, El Paso was just over the horizon, and the drive would be done. He took a drink from the tepid water in his canteen and poured a little over his face. The dusty gritty feeling vanished, temporarily, and he felt better. He would sell his small herd, and he would finally have enough to get that shorthorn bull he had been coveting.
Evening was coming on when he got them into the corral, he paid off his two trail riders and headed for the hotel. He knew the man working the desk, and arranged for a hot bath. Stowing his gear in his room, he went to the tubs and felt a great sense of relief at washing away the grime of the trail. Squeaky clean, he dressed in his "town" clothes and went to look for food.
The small restaurant was one of his favorites, and he had steak and eggs. Eggs were a commodity in short supply, and he was thrilled to get them. A drink was next on his agenda, and he wandered down the street, stopping at the first saloon and ordering whiskey. It was awful, and he grimaced at the taste. Having paid for it, he finished, but decided to move on.
Music was coming from a little cantina down the street, and someone was playing a Spanish guitar. He passed through the doors and it was cool inside the adobe building. He noticed the sign over the door said, "Rosa's."
He went to the bar and got another drink, wincing in anticipation of the burn as he sipped. To his surprise, this was good, tequila, and he looked around. There were card games going at two tables, and one had an empty chair. He walked over.
"Gentlemen, mind if I sit in?" he asked.
The men at the table glanced up, and waved him to a seat. The hand played out and they dealt him in. They were playing seven-card stud, and he checked his cards. It looked good: pocket sevens, a club and a diamond.
The player to his right, a cowboy Sinclair had seen before, raised aggressively, and Sinclair called. The Jack of spades didn't help his hand, but he called again when the cowboy raised. At that point, he would have preferred to check and almost folded, but he decided to call at the last minute. He figured the cowboy had a high pocket pair, and unless he got some help, he would throw in on the next card.
His next card was the seven of diamonds. The cowboy bet again, and feeling good about his three sevens, Sinclair raised. The cowboy called, and the hand played out. Sinclair had been right. The cowboy flopped a pair of kings, but Sinclair's three sevens were good.
Sinclair had enjoyed the hand, and he played for about an hour, winning some and losing some, while drinking just enough to feel mellow. There was a little stir, and the guitar player picked up the volume a bit, playing something a little faster.
The doors at the back of the bar opened, and Sinclair was a little stunned. A vision came through those doors, long black hair flowing in billowing waves down her back, a white blouse and a bright red Spanish style wrap-around skirt flowing down to trim ankles and pretty black shoes.
The blouse was tied up in a knot, showing the slenderness of her waist, brown skin looking incredibly soft as it showed above the dramatic swell of her hips as they moved inside the skirt. She danced her way among the tables, hands, arms, body and feet moving gracefully among the tables.
She swayed closer, and Sinclair realized this was a real beauty. Her features were finely formed, huge very dark eyes, high cheekbones, cheeks a little hollow, a thin little elegant nose, full luscious red lips and a little pointed chin. He watched as she danced closer, and it seemed she felt his eyes on her, because she met his look with one of her own, sending him a flashing smile, the whiteness of her teeth lighting up her dusky features.
He held up a dollar bill, and she shot him a grateful smile, dancing over to him and allowing him to tuck it into the band of her skirt. She raised her arms, her alluring curves swaying, turning to bounce a firm round butt inside that skirt in front of him, shooting a sultry glance back over her shoulder at him before dancing away to another table.
He exhaled the breath he didn't know he'd been holding, and the man to his left slapped his shoulder.
"Now you see why we come in here," he said with a laugh. "Feleena. She dances every night. She'll tease anyone who'll tip her, but we all go away with broken hearts. She's a good girl with a body that says she isn't."
Sinclair moved back to the bar, sipping his drink and watching Feleena. She danced for maybe fifteen minutes and came to the bar, sitting two seats down from him.
He got the bartender's attention and nodded at Feleena. "Give the lady what she wants," he said.
She shot him a grateful smile. "Thank you," she said. Her voice was soft, low pitched for a woman, and he wanted to hear more.
"I'm Sinclair Davis," he said.
"Me, I am Feleena Mendez," she replied. "Are you from El Paso, Mr. Davis? I have never seen you before."
"No, I have a place out toward Santa Teresa," he said. "I drove in a little herd and just wandered in here."
"Ah, on the river," she said. "Feleena was born in Las Palomas."
"I've been there," he said. "Quaint little town."
"Yes, but very dull and sleepy," she said. "I came here to El Paso. Feleena does not admire boring."
Sinclair chuckled. "No, I can imagine you don't. I doubt anything around you is boring for very long."
She smiled again. "No, I liven it up. It was very pleasant to meet you, Mr. Davis. I must dance, lest people find Rosa's boring."
She was away with a giggle, and Sinclair finished his drink and went back to his hotel. He was enchanted with Feleena. She was a little gypsy, and very nice to look at. He thought he'd stop in and watch her dance again before he left for home.
It was another hot dusty day in El Paso, and Sinclair went to the stockman's office to see what he could get in the way of an offer on his cattle. He kept up on the prices pretty well, and he met with Miles Calhoun. He was a stocky fellow, always with the stump of an unlit cigar clenched between his teeth.
They walked down to where Sinclair's steers were being held and Calhoun looked them over. "Well, they're fat, Davis. You got some good grass out there. What are you thinking they weigh?"
"I'm just guessing, but I'd say they'll average somewhere around 1000 to 1100 pounds," Sinclair said.
"I'd guess that's close," Calhoun said. "I'll be making a drive to Abilene next week. These steers will probably bring $40 per head. I have to pay drovers and rail costs. I can give you $18."
Sinclair was thinking. He could make the drive himself, but he'd have to hire a hand. "I'll take $19," he said. "If you find me a good young shorthorn bull I can buy, I'll take $18.50."
"Deal," Calhoun stuck out his hand. "I know a man who raises shorthorns over at Odessa. I'll see what he's got."
