Page 62 of The Promise of Jenny Jones
He held his gun at his side, against his leg. She twisted it out of his fingers and smiled when he swore. “Put your hands flat against the door,” she ordered crisply, tossing his pistol off of the train.
Already Verde Flores receded behind them and the train was moving faster. Hot wind blew across the platform, caught Jenny’s straw hat and snatched it away, fluttered her skirt around her ankles. She waited for the train to reach top speed, idly listening to Chulo swear and threaten and tell her what he and the Barrancases were going to do to her. She couldn’t steal their little cousin. They would kill her. They would take their pleasure on her first. And et cetera. Jenny liked the word, et cetera. It covered a lot of ground.
“All right, pig, here’s what we’re going to do.” She shoved the pistol barrel tight against the roll of fat at his waist. “You’re going to take one step backward, turn right, and you’re going to jump off this train. If you even think about hesitating, I’ll shoot.” She moved back, opening a space between them so he couldn’t grab her. “Move, you son of a whore.Jump.”
Wind whipped her hair and skirt, the platform swayed back and forth beneath her boots. And Chulo was fast.
He spun with a snarl and she didn’t see the knife in his fist until it had slashed across her waist and the bloodied blade flashed in the sunlight.
She staggered backward toward the door of the forward car, firing as she fell. Chulo doubled forward, grabbing his gut. Jenny didn’t see him fall off the train. She was frantically grabbing for a handle, trying to keep her hem from snagging in the coupling. When she felt safe, she looked up. The platform was empty. The son of a bitch had gone over the side.
Now she peered down at herself, inspecting a red stain seeping across her white blouse. Damn it. The wound didn’t hurt yet, but it would. Swearing between her teeth, she shoved her hot pistol into her waistband. Pressing a hand against the wound, she shrugged her shawl into place to conceal the blood, then jerked open the heavy door, walked through the passenger car, across the next platform, and into the following car.
Ty stood up beside Graciela and strode toward her, glaring and kicking chickens out of the aisle. He gripped her shoulders. “What the hell took you so long?”
“Do whatever it takes to move the people sitting across the aisle from us. We need privacy.”
When he lifted a questioning eyebrow, she opened her shawl enough to reveal a glimpse of blood. “Christ!” His eyes returned to her face. “How bad?”
“Don’t know yet,” she said through clenched teeth. The pain was beginning. “My guess is, I’ll need some stitching.”
“I’ll get that family moved.”
He managed it faster than she would have imagined, changing sullen resistance to smiling acquiescence with a handful of pesos. Jenny pressed her hand to the wound, feeling the blood well between her fingers, and hoped her weaving steps would be attributed to the motion of the train. By the time she reached the last seat, sweat gleamed on her forehead and her face was ashen. Dropping onto the seat, she closed her eyes.
“Jenny?” Graciela stared at her.
“Your son-of-a-bitch cousin Chulo knifed me.”
Leaning over her, Graciela tugged at the edge of the shawl, then gasped and covered her mouth. She twisted away, one hand pressed to her stomach, one hand against her lips.
Ty sat across from them facing forward, watching to make sure no one paid them any attention. “Let’s see how bad it is,” he growled.
Jenny swallowed, then removed her pistol and handed it to him. Clamping down a groan, she eased her blouse out of her waistband and raised it to a point beneath her breasts. “You tell me. How bad?” she whispered, watching his face.
He met her eyes. “About four inches long. Looks shallow at the ends, deeper in the middle. You’re right. You need stitches.” Reaching beneath the seat, he pulled up a set of saddlebags, then swept a look down the length of the car. “Any ideas on how we’re going to manage this?”
“How long before we reach Chihuahua?”
He shrugged. “Assuming a minimum of stops, probably not until midmorning tomorrow.”
It was too long to wait. She needed tending now. “All right.” Concentrating, she tested the pain for bite and depth, decided she could bear it. There wasn’t much choice. “You carrying any liquor in those saddlebags, cowboy? I could sure use a drink.”
He removed a bottle of tequila, pulled the cork with his teeth, then handed it across to her. “Obliged,” she muttered, before taking a long pull. Liquid fire roared toward her belly. “All right. Find Graciela’s nightshift. It’s probably the cleanest thing we’ve got. Tear it into bandage strips, and we’ll need a couple of mop-up rags.”
Graciela sat on her knees on the seat, staring at Jenny with tears running down her cheeks. “I forgot to tell God not to punish you.”
“God didn’t do this. Your fat pig of a cousin did,” Jenny spit. A look of satisfaction hardened her eyes. “He won’t do it again, that I can promise you.”
Graciela’s hands fluttered, reaching, withdrawing, wanting to touch but afraid to. “I’m sorry, Jenny. I’m sorry.”
“It’s not your fault, kid.” The tequila helped, so she took another long swallow, watching Ty rip the hem off Graciela’s nightdress. “What happened to the other bastard?”
“He’s lying in the desert somewhere between here and Verde Flores, waiting for the vultures.”
“Good.” She took the length of hem from him and wadded it, then soaked the cloth with tequila. “I need your help,” she said to Graciela. “Hold my blouse up out of the way.”
The wooden seat back shielded them from the rest of the car. Anyone looking in their direction would see only the back of Jenny’s head, would see Ty smoking and glaring at them.
