El Paso Jack_Straw

A couple of months ago, my friend Jake Rivers put out a call for writers to participate in a story invitational based on three classic songs by Marty Robbins: "El Paso," "Feleena" and "El Paso City."

This is a follow-up on to our first invitational in the fall of 2006 with entries based on the Statler Brother's song, "This Bed of Rose's." If there is continuing support we might make this a regular semi-annual event

This is my interpretation of the El Paso saga.

^ ^ ^ ^

EL PASO, 2007

It was one of those crystal-clear desert days in mid-spring, not a cloud to be seen in any direction as far as the eye could see.

And I could see an awfully long way, seeing as how I was cruising at 30,000 feet in the sleek LearJet that my company uses for business trips. I was on my way, as I often am, from Houston to Los Angeles to meet with our main vendor on some new lines.

My family owns a successful drilling company based in Houston, and I'm head of the division that's responsible for buying and selling drilling equipment.

Our main thrust is petroleum, and we have oil drilling rigs all over the world, but we also drill for natural gas and even water in some especially arid areas. If it involves boring into the ground for whatever Mother Nature has produced down there, we're the best there is.

Over the years, my flight route has taken me over the acres and acres of dusty hills and empty deserts that make up West Texas and New Mexico. As my daddy used to say, there ain't much out there, but there's a lot of it.

On a day like this, I could see all the way to the ground, and I picked out the Rio Grande, flowing slow and muddy through the brown-clad landscape.

As I did, I felt it again, the strong pull, like some force was trying to drag me into something I couldn't understand, something to do with a long-buried murder that was a whispered part of my family lore.

My name is Ray Temple, and my roots are in the country over which I was flying, the area just west of Midland-Odessa in the Permian Basin. My people had been ranchers until oil was discovered on land my great-grandfather owned along the Pecos River.

He didn't quite hit it as rich as some other families that cashed in on West Texas oil, but he did pretty well and he was smart enough to plow his fortune into drilling.

But long before oil was discovered on family property, there was an incident involving some member of the family, a cousin or nephew or some such.

Supposedly, he had been killed in El Paso by a drifter in a jealous rage, and the man's friends and family members – my ancestors – chased the drifter down and killed him in retaliation. It sounded like a brutal little love triangle, settled Old West fashion.

When I was a kid, I used to love stories about the Old West – books, movies and television shows – and I immersed myself in the culture.

I read everything Louis L'Amour ever wrote, but disdained the likes of Zane Grey and Max Brand. Their Old West was the stylized, fictional West of pearl-button shirts and fancy boots made of patent leather; pretty to look at, but not the real deal.

L'Amour, though, told about the real West. His locales were right on the money, and so was the attitude. Oh, the good guys usually won in his novels, but they often paid a high price in the process.

I remember one of his Sackett tales, where Tell Sackett avenged himself against a wealthy rancher who had ruined his life. The man had ambushed Tell, shot him and left him for dead, stolen his new bride, then raped and killed her. You didn't find that sort of thing in Zane Grey.

It was a simpler time, with a simple code of honor; someone does you wrong, you right that wrong yourself, and life goes on.

As I watched the meandering river, and saw the sprawl of modern El Paso begin to take shape far below, I found myself thinking about that incident. I wondered how and why it affected me, only that it did somehow, some way.

It was almost like I was reincarnated as one of the principals, the wronged lover or the dashing stranger.

It was giving me a headache, so I leaned my seat back and closed my eyes just for a second, it seemed. Instead of rest and a welcome sleep, though, I found myself falling into an abyss, like I was uprooted from reality.

I saw in my mind clear as day, the dusty streets and weathered buildings of the Old West, and somehow I realized that I was seeing a glimpse into the past, to the old West Texas town of El Paso...

^ ^ ^ ^

I came around to find myself in a dusty saloon, seated at a rough wooden table on a searing hot Texas day. I looked down at myself and saw I was still wearing my business suit, only now I was sweating to beat the band.

What the fuck was going on here? How did I get here out of a jet airplane streaking 30,000 feet in the sky?

Suddenly, I heard the sound of boots coming down the wooden staircase, boots that had to have a man filling them.

I stared at the apparition that approached my table, then sat down in a chair across from me. He sat a dusty bottle of whiskey on the table, and I noticed for the first time that two glasses sat on the table, one in front of each of us.

The man was fairly tall and lanky, handsome, but with a hard look to his eyes. He was dressed after the fashion of the Old West: dungarees, worn boots, plain cotton shirt covered by a leather vest, beat-up hat and a holster with a shiny revolver inside.

Still not saying a word, he pulled the cork out of the bottle, poured some of the amber liquor into each glass, then replaced the cork and picked up his glass. He seemed to be waiting for me to pick mine up, so I did. He nodded to me and we each drank.

Being a true-blue Texan, I know my way around liquor, but the stuff that came out of that bottle was serious business indeed. It was tart and had a kick like moonshine, which I had tasted a few times during my college days at SMU.

"I suppose yer wonderin' why you been brought here," the man spoke finally.

"Pretty vivid dream, I have to say," I said, trying to keep the hysteria out of my voice.

"Ain't no dream," the man said. "You been brought here so's you can hear a story. See, my name's Martin Claymore, but folks always knew me as Marty."

"Pleased to meet you... I think," I said. "I'm Ray, Ray Temple."

"I know who you are," Marty said. "It was your'n that put me out there in boot hill back around 1875. Course, that was after I killed their buddy. But he was fuckin' around with the wrong woman and he drew on me, or at least he started to. Shoulda never done that. I been wanderin' around in purgatory ever since. Now, I got me one chance to get outta here, and that's to make amends, settle the score with you Temples. Ain't somethin' I like doin'. Far's I'm concerned, all you pissants can go rot in hell."

Just then a look of intense pain crossed the man's face, and he quickly uncorked the bottle, poured another glassful and downed it quickly.

Then he sat back and told a sad tale of love, betrayal and revenge.

^ ^ ^ ^

EL PASO, 1875

Folks in El Paso always said that Feleena Menendez was trouble, but they never said it where Marty Claymore could hear. Marty was a lanky Scotsman who didn't say much unless he was riled, then he could be a terror.

At the time, nobody knew much about Marty's background, only that he arrived with some cattle train and stayed on. He never talked much about himself or where he came from.

It was only later, after it was all over, that it was learned that he was originally from South Carolina, from the high country, and that he had fought for the South in the War Between the States, as a scout for Jeb Stuart's cavalry regiment.

As a youngster, he'd developed a dead eye with a rifle and the skills of an accomplished outdoorsman. After the war, he'd gone west, and had spent some time as a civilian scout for Custer.

Since leaving Custer, Marty had done a series of odd jobs, working on cattle drives or on a railroad gang. He was never too proud to do any kind of honest work, and during his short time in El Paso he'd worked at the livery, taking care of horses, with which he had a natural affinity.

He was handsome in a rustic fashion, with a head full of red hair and a thick moustache. He was a little taller than average and lean, with long legs slightly bowed from so many years in the saddle.

About the second or third night he was in El Paso, he wandered into Rosa's Cantina and suddenly everything changed.

Rosa's was a Mexican-style tavern on the main drag in El Paso, where most nights a small group of musicians would play the traditional love songs. It was a place where the whores and other women of ill repute plied their trade and where men of all ages went looking for illicit romance.

There had been nothing to distinguish it from dozens of other honky-tonks until about a year earlier, when Feleena Menendez blew into town.

No one was quite sure where she'd come from originally, but she came to El Paso from Santa Fe, where it was rumored she'd been in the middle of some sort of scandal.

Rosa's was the perfect place for Feleena. She showed up one night in a tight black satin dress that displayed her assets in a most enticing manner. She danced and laughed and flirted with every man there, stirring their lust and inviting the envy of the other women who were there.

She was average in size, but lithe in her figure, with a suppleness that left men weak in the knees. She had full lips, but a narrow nose and two luminous brown eyes set perfectly in her face, capped by a thick mane of shimmering raven hair. Her skin was smooth and fair, suggesting a heritage that was more Spanish than Mexican.

After about a week of men clamoring for her charms – and spending their money on drinks and dances – Rosa knew a good thing when she saw one and quickly hired Feleena to dance.

Rosa's quickly became the place to go in El Paso, and Feleena became the talk of the town. She wasn't exactly a prostitute, but it was common knowledge that if a man was willing to take a little time and spend a little money on her, she was very willing to do anything he wanted.

She would weave her seductive spell as she danced, twirling her skirts and showing just enough cleavage to entice the patrons without actually showing much of anything.

Between dances, she would drink and flirt with the men who had the money, and she had a keen eye for the ones willing to spend it on her.

The first time Marty Claymore went to Rosa's when Feleena was dancing, he was spellbound in a way he'd never been before.

Oh, he was no innocent, not even close. Even before going off to war, he'd had tumbles with the girls from his area. He seemed to have a nose for the ones who were promiscuous and a knack for getting them on their backs.

But Feleena was different. She stirred in him something animalistic, something possessive. He wanted her like he'd never wanted a woman before in his life, and he was willing to do whatever it took to get her for himself, and only himself.

Late that night, in the bed at the boarding house where he was staying, he thought about Feleena and his groin began tingle with the onset of intense arousal.

He thought back to what had up to then been the most exotic, erotic sexual experience of his life, and he seemed to sense that a night with Feleena would match that and more.

Just thinking about it made him hard, and with a sigh, he unbuttoned the fly to his long johns and took himself in hand...

^ ^ ^ ^

CHARLESTON, 1861

Marty was just 18, and a kid from the country, but he and his fellow soldiers were no longer innocents. They'd seen combat; they had killed and had seen their brothers killed in turn.

The war had hit a lull, as Lincoln pondered what to do about the rebellion that had divided the country. In Charleston, there was a sense of excitement that maybe, just maybe, the Confederacy would survive, that the South would win the war and achieve its independence.

Charleston was where it had all started, and rebel fever ran high, so when Marty and four of his fellow troopers got a couple of days leave, they were welcomed enthusiastically at the brothel where they had gone to get their wicks dipped.

After paying the madam, the soldiers stood in the parlor while the available girls were brought in for display. The whores ranged from quite young to fairly mature, from reed-thin to voluptuous. Marty picked a pretty young blonde named Elizabeth, who was slim and fair, and they retired to one of the upstairs boudoirs.

When she got Marty stripped and on her bed, Elizabeth did a seductive show of shedding her clothes and was gratified to see a healthy cock standing straight and strong, with an angry red crown jutting out of the foreskin.

When she was naked except for her French-style stockings, she leaned over the end of the bed cupping her smallish breasts.

"Well, soldier, what can I give you in appreciation of your service to this fine state?" she drawled.

Marty pondered the question for a few seconds, then he smiled. He wanted something he'd heard some of the other soldiers talking about but had never experienced himself.

"I want you to take me in your mouth," he said.

Elizabeth was a little taken aback by the request, because it wasn't something commonly done in that day. But she had been trained well, and she knew how to do it.

"I suppose so," Elizabeth said. "But first, I need to make sure you're good and clean."

Marty had no problem with that, and he stared as the young whore poured some water from the pitcher on the dresser into her little wash basin.

She took a soft piece of cloth, dipped it in the water, wrung it out, then carefully washed Marty's cock and balls. She even went so far as to clean his anus, even though there was no way she was going to get her mouth anywhere near his asshole.

When she had him cleaned to her satisfaction, she returned the basin to the dresser, then climbed onto the bed. Her hands were softly massaging Marty's raging-hard cock, and she used her index finger to spread a fat dollop of pre-cum all over the crown.

Very carefully, she pulled the foreskin all the way off the head of his cock with one hand, cupped his balls with the other and bent her head down toward his crotch. She swirled her tongue over the slick crown and slowly drew him into her mouth.

Marty groaned as he felt the young whore's soft lips caress his cock, while her tongue circled his shaft. He'd never had sensations like that coursing through his body as Elizabeth began to work her mouth up and down on his iron-hard cock.

She could only take about two-thirds of his length in her mouth, but that was more than enough to send Marty on a trip to ecstasy. He squeezed his eyes shut, willing himself to hold back the pent-up load of cum that threatened to blow the young blonde's head clean off.

Up and down, up and down, Elizabeth brought all of her considerable skills to bear on the teenaged soldier. She happened to glance up at Marty's face at the same moment that he opened his eyes and gazed down at her.

Their eyes met and the sizzle of lust passed between them. Marty was captivated by the combination of innocence and brazenness this whore displayed in her eyes as she sucked vigorously on his turgid meat.

He liked the way her little breasts jiggled and the way her hips swayed as she got her whole body involved in the act of fellatio.

And, in truth, Elizabeth was feeling her arousal begin to climb. There was something wicked, something forbidden about taking this handsome young soldier in her mouth that sent sparks of lust rushing through her body.

Oftentimes, she had to fake it when she entertained a client, but not tonight. She wanted to taste this young man's semen, wanted him to fill her mouth with his seed.

And that moment wasn't far off.

Marty was writhing and jerking on the bed as Elizabeth alternated her pleasure, working him hard at times, then slowing down almost to a stop, bringing him the brink of explosion that pulling him back.

"I need to ..." Marty gasped as he felt the agony of imminent climax come upon him, and he thrust his hips upward as if to drive as much of his cock into Elizabeth's mouth as he possibly could.

Elizabeth was ready for it now. She gripped the base of his cock with her hand and jacked him briskly while she sucked him hard, and her efforts quickly had the desired result.

With a strangled groan, Marty's body lurched upward and he felt the rusty sizzle of orgasm as he spewed his life-giving sperm deep in the whore's voracious mouth.

He emptied his calls of everything he'd accumulated over the past months in the field, feeling the catharsis that comes from a gut-wrenching climax.

Elizabeth swallowed quickly the way she'd been taught, as each spurt of thick, tangy cum splattered into her throat.

While her right hand was milking the soldier's cock of every bit of his cream, her left hand was wedged under her body, between her legs as she worked a finger over her little pleasure nub and she was gratified to feel a nice orgasm race through her body.

Marty finally finished coming and fell back on the bed, utterly drained. It had been an experience he would never forget, and one he would repeat several times over the coming months of war, wherever he happened to be.

But he never forgot that first time, with the young blonde whore, and he often replayed the experience over the ensuing years when the lust and loneliness became too much for him to bear.

It would be that way until fate put Feleena in his path.

^ ^ ^ ^

SANTA FE, 1874

Feleena was in trouble and looking for a change.

Ever since the incident with Claude and his friends a few days earlier, things had not been going well for her. Word of what happened had leaked out and was being whispered from one end of town to the other.

Suddenly, the men who had been happy to squire her around town turned and walked the other way when they approached her on the street, women in town – be they respectable or not – looked at her with disapproval in their eyes.

She needed some place new, some place where she could start fresh, some place where her frenetic dreams of riches and romance could be realized, some place a long way from Claude. some place like El Paso.

The bustling cattle town on the Rio Grande, tucked into the farthest corner of Texas, was alive with promise, where a fortune could be made if one knew who to meet and where to look.

Moreover, El Paso was more free-spirited than staid old Santa Fe, which had been the seat of colonial power in the area under the Spanish, then the northernmost outpost of Mexico and only now was becoming established as the center of government for the New Mexico Territory the Anglos had created from their winnings in the Mexican War.

Feleena had been a naïve 17-year-old when she arrived in Santa Fe a couple of years earlier with hardly anything to her name but her stunning beauty and sensual body.

She'd been born on a stormy, full-moon night when the desert sky was alive with the sound and fury of the lightning and thunder. The wizened old midwife from the nearby town who helped deliver Feleena spoke afterwards of a momentous future for a child born amid such tumult.

She was the first-born child of Juan and Christina Menendez, who managed to eke out a living growing corn and a few other hardy crops, along with a few goats and some sheep.

Juan and Christina had married for love, unusual in their culture, and her family had only accepted her choice of husband when he produced a dowry that left him virtually penniless.

He supplemented the meager yield from his crops by operating a little way station for travelers, and that was how news from the outside world made it to their isolated area. It also provided Feleena with an early stage for honing her flirty ways.