The Lash of the Desperados
Chapter I The Dancing Girl
The shifty-eyed American sipped at his drink nervously as he stole
another glance at the dark beauty who moved gracefully among the tables in the
cantina. He'd been in Mexico for some weeks, riding slowly westward just south
of the border, trying to put some distance between himself and west Texas, where
he was in a little trouble with the law. The cantina was in Piedras Negras, a
dusty little crossroads southeast of Nogales, the border town of the Arizona
Territory. An old abandoned mission across the street was the only other
building in sight. Piedras Negras had definitely seen better days.
But, the stranger thought, the whole of the Arizona Territory had few
women who could compare with the seductive dark-haired creature who served
drinks at this cantina. He was in luck this late October night, the stranger
mused, as he adjusted his trail-worn cowboy hat. He'd been winning steadily at
poker all evening, the tequila was strong and smooth, and Teresa Maria Elena
Martinez was the nicest looking scenery he'd seen in Mexico by a long shot.
The American's furtive eyes darted continuously around the room taking
in the dozen or so Mexicans in the cafe, most of them in twos and threes at
small tables. A couple of loners were nursing their drinks at the bar. One old
fellow in a huge sombrero plucked idly at a guitar as he sat in an old but
well-cushioned armchair in one corner of the room. The customers were all male,
and while the pungent smells of frijoles and chili and carne asada that came
wafting from the kitchen were inviting, and the local tequila wasn't too bad,
it was young Teresa Martinez that drew the local farmers and miners to this
little joint.
The diminutive American looked at his cards, found a pair of tens and
told the dealer "Tres" as he discarded the three worthless cards. Teresa was
carrying a trayful of drinks to the next table. She was one of the most
striking women the American had ever seen -- the product of her complex
ancestry. She had the deep brown eyes of an Aztec princess -- so dark they were
nearly black; her long eyelashes, slender waist and full breasts bespoke a young
Castilian noblewoman; her masses of lustrous black hair piled high on her head
and her prominent cheekbones hinted at her Yaqui grandfather. And her ripe
lips, nicely curved backside, and a certain panther-like grace as she moved
across the room suggested an African ancestor a few generations back. She was a
goddess in the middle of nowhere. And she knew it, thought the American.
"Are you in, or ain't you?" the Texan asked the opponent on his left, a
brooding rancher who was down plenty of pesos. The rancher, understanding not a
word, but offended by the rudeness in the American's voice scowled back, and
threw some coins into the pot.
Teresa wore two or three strands of shiny silver chain around her neck
that magnetically drew every male eye to where they nestled in the dark valley
between her shapely breasts. When she bent forward to set the tray on the
table, the three customers there got a good look at her delicious breasts,
half-revealed by the low-cut white peasant blouse she wore. Teresa held that
position, her gold earrings flashing, letting each of the men stare deeply into
the inviting cleft between her mouth-watering melons, as she took her time
distributing the drinks to the three men at the table. A night of drinking at
Teresa's cost a few pesos more than at any other cantina in northern Sonora, but
there weren't too many men between fifteen and eighty who weren't willing to pay
the difference gladly, when they could afford it.
Teresa hated this backwater town, and these backwater customers; she
well knew that her beauty and her dancing, were her only ticket out of Sonora.
She had heard of far-off San Francisco, a city that gold and railroads had made
an El Dorado. She was determined to get there one day, confident that her youth
and her feminine charms could beguile some rich banker or railroader, who would
lavish gifts upon her in return for the occasional use of her delectable body.
Teresa snapped out of her reverie as she felt a male hand, callused by
manual labor, slide under her skirt. She forced herself to smile, as she
brushed the rough hand away, "Senor Montoya", she spoke to the oldest of the
three, "Your son takes after you."
The man whom she addressed, a heavy-set man in his late forties with a
bristling mustache, laughed and winked at his son. Montoya paid for the round
of drinks, tipped her well, and then said in Spanish, "Teresa, you haven't
danced for us tonight. Hector!" he called to the guitarist, "El Viejo! Play
something nice for Teresa."
Teresa gave him a pretty pout, still leaning over him. "Pero, Senor
Montoya, it is late and Teresa is tired." She wiggled her upper body back and
forth teasingly, and playfully stuck her tongue out at him. Letting every man at
the table guess at how that moist pink tongue, those full lips might taste,
might feel.
The American looked at an ancient clock that stood against the wall
facing the doorway that led from the kitchen. It was past 11:00; the evening
had gone by quickly.
Montoya picked up a bill from the table. "Teresa, " he began as he
slowly tucked the bill between the two tasty-looking mounds of copper-colored
flesh in front of him, "you are not yet eighteen, mi bonita. How tired can you
be?"
Montoya pressed the bill further down between her splendid breasts than
was necessary, and he let his big hand linger for a moment, enjoying the
pressure of her warm breasts against his fingers. Montoya never failed to take
such liberties; but he was the wealthiest rancher around, and every tip brought
her a little closer to San Francisco.
Montoya repeated his request -- "Dance for us, mija." Montoya used the
affectionate endearment 'mija', but there was nothing fatherly about the way his
dark eyes lingered on the generous curves of Teresa's voluptuous young body.
"Dance for us, querida. Por favor. It's been three weeks since I have seen you
dance."
"Bien," said the raven-haired temptress coyly, "if you insist. Hector!"
El Viejo, the old one, roused himself at this, sat forward in the
armchair, and began to play, strumming the opening chords of a ballad, as Teresa
kicked off her sandals and began to dance.
The American sat up alertly, licking his dry lips -- he had a feeling
that Teresa was going to put on quite a show. For once his eyes ceased their
incessant darting around the room; within moments his eyes, which seemed never
to blink, were riveted to the body of the Mexican beauty, wondering how such a
marvel of feminine architecture was to be found in this hick town a few days'
ride west of El Paso.
Teresa was still standing near Montoya's table, swaying gracefully to
the music. Her eyes were closed, and her feet were stationary, but her hips,
clad in a low-slung black skirt, had begun to undulate to Hector's slow, pulsing
rhythm.
Her short off-the-shoulder peasant blouse displayed her lovely rounded
shoulders, and also a few inches of cafe-au-lait midriff. Unlike so many
Mexican women, Teresa was very slim-waisted; she had the flat, well-toned belly
of a dancer. She undulated sinuously, sensuously, her hips swaying to the beat.
Teresa lifted her arms above her, removed a few pins, and let a glorious
cascade of jet black hair fall down across the tawny skin of her bare shoulders.
All of the men in the place had turned to watch, now. The card game was
put on hold as those with their backs to Teresa shifted their chairs to face in
the other direction. Even the sleepy-looking drunk at the corner of the bar sat
up to watch.
Teresa backed away from the men at the tables until she stood in the
doorway that led to the kitchen. Facing them, she reached up to touch either
side of the doorway, as she stretched languorously, her hips and belly moving in
time with the sensual melody emanating from old Hector's guitar. Then she
turned her back to the dining room, reached down for the hem of her skirt and
slowly, teasingly, lifted it, inch by lovely inch, to reveal her beautiful legs.
The black skirt rose until the men could see the thin wisp of whiteness beneath
that covered, but could not conceal, the ripe curves of her bottom.
The Latin temptress could sense the eyes of her audience burning into
her flesh. She made a quarter turn, so that her back was against one side of
the archway, and then slowly descended into a crouch, her buttocks describing a
series of arcs against the wall as she slid, first to her haunches and then to
her knees. Her body never stopped undulating as she knelt, knees apart, and
lazily reached once again for the dark skirt, and lifted it, baring plenty of
tantalizing thigh-flesh.
The room felt ten degrees warmer than it had less than a minute ago; the
American's cock stiffened in his dingy trousers. He glanced at Montoya at the
adjoining table -- the big Mexican's fat fingers were opening and closing
slowly, as he watched Teresa's performance.
The tall, raven-haired, ebony-eyed beauty began to glide around the room
now with a feline grace; she could feel the lustful eyes of the men upon her as
she danced. And she welcomed the stares. They were proof, not that she needed
any, of her splendid beauty. Proof too, of her power over them.
The dancing girl smiled sensually at her admirers. She ran her graceful
fingers up and down her ripe thighs through the thin fabric of the skirt, as she
floated from one man to the other. She recognized most of the men as locals but
there was one man, a scrawny little gringo with a crooked grin, that she did not
recognize. But there were stacks of bills and gold and silver coins in front of
the stranger -- and that was all the introduction Teresa needed.
Undulating sensuously, she moved in front of him, smiling, her tongue
moistening her full lips, her hands stroking her bare arms, her flanks, and then
coming together in a V at her golden belly, and slowly inching downward,
lingering for just a moment at the juncture of her legs.
The American could feel his prick pressing even harder against his grimy
pants. Teresa seemed to be dancing only for him, he thought, as she pirouetted
before him, as the music quickened, her dark skirt swirling high around her
long, luscious legs. Flashes of her white silk undergarment contrasted nicely
with the creamy dark caramel of her thigh-flesh.
Teresa studied the gringo as he held up an American bill; a big spender,
she thought. Like most norteamericanos he talked too much; his card-playing
opponents had been visibly irritated at the way he jabbered unceasingly. Unlike
his foes, Teresa understood, and spoke, some English. But she didn't like
Americans -- an American cannon had blown Hector's leg off at Vera Cruz in the
Mexican War. And in her own childhood in Texas she had experienced the cruelty
of the Anglo children to one who was darker than they, who spoke a different
language.
This American was homelier than most -- short, slight, ferret-faced,
with strands of long, greasy brown hair protruding from under his cowboy hat.
"El Raton" Teresa thought. The stranger had the sneaky look of a rat. He
sported a nasty scar on one temple that seemed to be of rather recent vintage.
But Teresa was sensible enough to realize that she didn't have to like a man, or
his looks, to take his money. All men weren't good-looking. The gringo had a
large pile of bills and coins, poker-winnings, in front of him. He had money,
and that looked plenty good to her.
She decided to give him something special, something to encourage him to
part company with some of his winnings. As she swayed in front of him, she
gestured for him to back his chair away from the table, so that she could stand
in between him and the table, with her back to the rest of the room.
The scrawny American complied eagerly. He grabbed the bills from the
table and started to back his chair up until it bumped into the large navy
knapsack that he'd set behind him when he came into the joint. Moving the
knapsack to the side, he edged his chair backward a couple of feet until it hit
the wall behind him. Teresa moved directly before him now, her tongue licking
lasciviously at her full lips. Her dark eyes seemed to smolder with lust as her
pretty hands slid sensually up her body, and cupped her voluptuous breasts
through the white fabric.
From up close the Texan was sure, now, that she wore nothing beneath the
blouse; her dark nipples were clearly discernible beneath their white covering.
Now that she was only inches away, the Texan was able to inhale the tantalizing
scent that seemed to linger lovingly around her. What was it? Coconut! Yes,
rich sweet coconut. For a moment he envisioned himself tasting and licking and
sucking that sweetness from her gorgeous body. Especially those delicous
breasts! The eager little man leaned forward, his crooked, tobacco-stained
yellow teeth clenched in a rictus of lust.
The men at the American's table shifted their chairs trying to get a
better look, as Teresa's thumbnails stroked slowly back and forth across the
white fabric that covered her breast tips. Out of the corner of his eye, the
American could see the player on his left furtively rubbing his crotch. But he
tried to focus on the dancer, watching greedily as those dark points slowly
swelled, becoming more and more apparent, until they made bold indentations in
the thin fabric. Teresa's dancing had caused her to perspire freely even on
this cool October night, and the American watched as one large bead of
perspiration leaked down into the rich golden valley between her delectable
breasts.
"You like Teresa, Senor?" she teased, as she played with his collar, her
tawny breasts only a few inches from his face.
"Yeah, honey, I like." The American took a dollar bill, as he had seen
Montoya do, and inserted it deep it into Teresa's mouth-watering cleavage. Her
breasts were at once damp and firm and warm to the touch.
"How about a private dance for me later?", the American whispered, as he
riffled meaningfully through the thick wad of bills. He liked a good show as
much as the next man; but the little man was in need of more than a show. A lot
more. It had been a couple of months since he'd had a woman. And this Mexican
cutie was hot as a firecracker.
"Si," she whispered softly, "in one hour."
He wondered, as he watched one of her hands slide up underneath the
blouse to caress herself, whether she liked to play rough. Course it didn't
much matter, he thought to himself. One he got this Latin lovely alone he'd get
his money's worth. One way or another.
Teresa's eyes were on the American stranger's, but her brain was
counting his money. It was going to be a profitable evening, she thought to
herself, as she removed her hand from her breast and lifted it to her mouth,
drawing her index finger all the way in, sucking on it, and then rolling her
tongue around it lovingly. But there was something unsettling about this little
man and the way he looked at her. His gray-green eyes seemed to burn holes
through her clothes, so intent was his stare; but there was more than lust in
his eyes -- she was used to lust. There was something else. Something deeper.
Something darker. Something dangerous?
During the minute or two that she had been dancing in front of the
stranger, Teresa was cognizant of the fact that she was ignoring the other men
to some extent. She had kept her hips moving, though, giving them all a good
look at her churning buttocks as she moved to the music. Now, having made her
assignation with the stranger, she moved away again, gliding from table to
table, spinning, twirling, baring long stretches of satiny legs, as she danced
with more and more abandon. She did a deep dip in front of Montoya; who almost
choked on his drink as he devoured the deep valley between her breasts with his
eyes. He was sure that he'd caught a glimpse of the dark crests of her breasts
this time.
There was one table in the corner of the cantina, near Hector the
guitarist, for whom Teresa did not dance. The American stranger pondered that
briefly. There were two men at that table, unshaven, poorly dressed, and each
had a surly expression. The younger of the two, by a few years, was perhaps 25,
and wore a patch over one eye, which gave him a somewhat menacing quality. The
other one sported a ring that could be seen from clear across the room -- a big
heavy setting and a worthless stone, the American figured -- just like a stupid
Mexican. The two clapped along with the others as Teresa completed her dance
with a seductive shimmy to Hector's closing crescendo.
Teresa, breathing heavily from her exertions, stopped and whispered to
Eye-patch for a moment. Moments later, Eyepatch, apparently rebuked, spoke to
his compadre, "Vamos", and the two men rose and left, exchanging adioses with
the men at Montoya's table.
When Hector stood and waved to acknowledge the applause, the stranger
noticed that the old one had only one leg; the other ended in a stump above his
knee. Hector packed up his guitar, gave Teresa a friendly smile and, with the
aid of a sturdy looking cane, slowly made his way out the door.
In a few minutes Montoya and his companions got up to leave; the
stranger watched the big mustachioed Mexican make a grab for Teresa's butt, but
she evaded his groping, and told him to go on home to his wife.
That left only the four poker players at his own table. The stranger
was up about fifty bucks, he reckoned, which was a lot of money in the year of
our Lord 1885. His opponents appeared to be prosperous farmers from the area;
the harvest was nearly all in, now, and they must have had a good year. But
they were lousy poker players, the American thought gleefully to himself.
Better yet, they weren't very vigilant.
Several times, when it had been his deal, he had stalled for time until
Teresa was moving around the room; when her luscious young body was in motion he
could have dealt from his left boot, and his opponents wouldn't have noticed.
As it was, dealing a few well-timed seconds and bottoms could make all the
difference in a poker game. Most of his winnings had come on three big pots that
he had dealt -- an hour or so apart, so as not to attract suspicion -- and his
sleight-of-hand with a deck of cards, which would never have fooled a pro, was
plenty good enough to work on these dumb Mexicans.
Speaking of that luscious young body, the stranger was anxious to end
the game now. He watched Teresa as she leaned over the bar to wipe up a spill,
most of her generous tits offered to his view. Christ! he couldn't wait to get
his hands on them! And his mouth.
The stranger folded the next three hands in quick succession, and his
opponents, seeing that they had little chance of winning their money back that
night, rather disgustedly began to put their money away. And then, wishing
Teresa a good night, they slowly filed out into the darkness.
Within a few minutes the little Texan's palms were itching as he watched
the Mexican beauty finish sweeping the floor before closing up; he was as randy
as a rooster.
Finally she was done, the bar cleaned up, the shutters closed, the doors
locked. She turned toward him, her dark eyes bold, inviting. "Would senor like
his private dance, now?"
'Senor' choked out, "Yeah, sweetie, that would suit me just fine." And
the American held up a handful of bills. He'd cashed in most of the coins with
her earlier, so he'd have less to carry.
"Then come with me; I have a room in the back, where we can be more -
how do you say it - comfortable." And with a flounce, Teresa turned away, and
walked through the doorway into the kitchen. When he hesitated, she turned to
face him, long-nailed fingers undoing one of the last two buttons of her bodice,
displaying even more of her delicious breast flesh. "What is wrong, senor?" she
pouted, "Don't you want Teresa to dance for you?"
"I'm right behind you, baby." The little Texan was on his feet now, his
cock as hard as wrought iron. The rat-faced man grabbed his knapsack and
followed Teresa into the kitchen, still aromatic from the pungent aroma of carne
asada and frijoles.
His eyes never left Teresa's hot little butt as he followed her. Her
oh-so-spankable ass seemed to have a twitching, teasing life of its own. He
couldn't wait to get his hands on it.
He was only dimly aware, as he passed through the kitchen, of the great
wood-burning stove, the barrels of flour and corn meal in one corner, the large
burlap sack filled with onions, and the one with a finer mesh that held pinto
beans, all propped up against a series of cupboards where pots, pans, and other
utensils were stored. Small baskets on a rickety old table near the stove held
tomatoes, cloves of garlic and an assortment of chiles.
But the American wasn't hungry just now; at least not for food.
Teresa carefully opened a door that led into a dark room beyond. In the
dimness, her guest could see that it was clearly Teresa's room, furnished in red
and gold; the fresh scent of aloe hung in the air. A sturdy looking bed with
massive iron framework butted out from the wall on his left. There were two
large windows open on the far wall, which was somewhat surprising given the
coolness of the night.
But the Texan gave that circumstance little thought as he stood in the
doorway, mesmerized as Teresa began to hum the tune old Hector had played.
Standing at the end of the bed she began to sway slowly, sensuously. Only one
last nipple-high button held her breast-filled blouse together.
"Would you like to help me with this, senor?" she said teasingly, as she
danced. "I'm having trouble with it."
"You bet I'll help, honey..." the American moved toward her hungrily.
As he did so he sensed something or someone standing in the corner
behind the door. But only for a moment, as his head exploded in pain. Stunned,
he fell to one knee, only half-conscious. His vision hopelessly blurred, he
thought he saw a man with two eye-patches on the same side of his face behind
him, while on his left lurked a sullen two-headed man wearing a big ring on both
of his right hands.
"Carlos," Teresa was speaking to Eyepatch, "Can you believe that this
Yankee pig thought I would let his filthy hands touch me?" Teresa sneered. "You
look like a rat, bastardo, and you steenk like one, too!" Dazed, the Texan
tried to push her away as she grabbed for the wad of bills in his hand. At a
signal from Teresa, the empty tequila bottle descended again across the side of
his face and the American fell face forward, losing consciousness, blood pouring
from his scalp, as he felt Teresa's hands tear the knapsack from his shoulder.
"Bueno, Pepe, Bueno!" she said gleefully, as she rifled the knapsack,
retrieving his money. And then, turning to Carlos, "Take el hijo de puta out
the back window, where you came in, so no one will see; you know where to take
his body." She rummaged through the knapsack quickly, but its only other
contents were clothes badly in need of washing. "Basura!" She handed the
'trash' to Pepe to discard.
"Si, Teresa; we know. To the arroyo seco -- como los otros. Vamos,
Pepe!" And Carlos and his companion from the table earlier in the evening lugged
the American's body to the window. Outside, a burro and a cart were waiting.
'Si, like the others," Teresa mumbled to herself. "Vaya al diablo,
norteamericano!' the dark-haired beauty muttered as her brothers pulled the
gringo's skinny body through the window. "Well done, my brothers," Teresa
whispered to herself, as she counted the proceeds. One less gringo in the world,
she thought to herself, and a few dollars more for her journey to California --
it had been a rewarding evening.
