The stubby woman took another puff from her cigarette as she strolled before Karla and the other girls still sitting their horses, dusty hair hanging in their eyes. While the three guards waited in the shadows of the adobe wall, she strolled back over to Bontemps, planted her fists on her hips, and glared up at the man.
“I told you not to run the damn fat off of ’em. They’re skinnier than the last bunch you brought in. These Germans and Micks like their women with a little tallow. I done told you that, Edgar.”
“It’s a damn long ride, Sister.”
“And what is that smell?”
“What smell?”
Sniffing, Sister Mary Francis turned to the horse of the man sitting just behind and to the right of Bontemps. Scowling, she pointed her cigarette at the scalps hanging from the saddle. “Jesus H. Christ!” the woman exclaimed, her shrill voice echoing off the church’s stone walls. “You took scalps again!”
Bontemps said nothing.
“I thought I told you not to take any more scalps when you were trailin’ girls. You know how hard it is to get that stink from a girl’s hair? The miners may not mind, but the high-stakes gamblers don’t pay for stink. They getta whiff o’ that just once, and that’s all they smell—ever!”
“Mr. Ettinger pays just about as much for scalps as he does for wimen.”
“I told him like I told you.”
“Well, he didn’t tell me,” Bontemps said, leaning out from his saddle and giving the woman a caustic glare. “And he’s who I work for. Not you.”
Sister Mary Francis balled her fists at her sides and returned the renegade’s glare. Karla could hear her labored breath, but the woman said nothing.
“Come on, boys,” Bontemps said, reining his horse around. “Let’s get us a drink.”
When the eight slavers had turned back toward the saloons, their horses clip-clopping down the hard-packed street, Sister Mary Francis stood scrutinizing the eight captive girls, fists on her hips. Her cigarette smoldered in her right hand. Flanking her was the man with the rifle. He was tall and balding, with curly hair tufted above his ears.
“Lyle, cut these girls free of their saddles.”
“You got it, Sister Mary Francis,” the man said slowly, his words slightly garbled.
As he plucked a knife from his belt and ambled over to the girl on Karla’s right, the stout woman announced, “I’m Sister Mary Francis. You girls have been brought here to pleasure the miners who work for Mr. Ettinger. Pleasure means whatever they want you to do, you do it. You don’t do it willingly and act like you’re enjoyin’ it, you’ll get your skinny asses sent down to Hermosillo or Mexico City.” Sister Mary Francis nodded. “Take my word, you’ll like it a lot less down there.”
The man with the knife had cut Karla’s ropes, then stepped over to Billie. Stiffly, Karla climbed down from the saddle and turned to the woman called Sister Mary Francis, rage steeling her spine and making her voice tremble. “Who are you? And what in hell gives you the right to bring us here against our wills?”
The broad woman turned to her. As far as Karla could tell in the dim light, the woman’s face was expressionless. She stepped toward Karla. “You got spunk. I like that.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
The woman’s right hand came up so fast that Karla didn’t see it before it connected with her right cheek—an ear-ringing blow that knocked the girl back against her sweat-lathered horse. Her legs were so weak from the long ride that her knees buckled. She fell, clutching her cheek. Hating herself for showing weakness, she sobbed.
“I like spunk, but I’ll have no truck with backtalk.” Sister Mary Francis raised her voice to the others. “Let that be a lesson to you all. You’ll be treated right if you do your jobs. But I don’t cotton to back-talk. Never have, never will.” She turned to the three armed men ushering the other girls out in front of the horses. “Bring ’em on upstairs so we can get ’em cleaned up and in bed.”
When the woman turned and disappeared into the courtyard, Billie appeared at Karla’s side. “You all right, Karla?”
Karla nodded as Billie helped her stand. Her right cheek was aflame but the ringing in her ears was subsiding. The stout woman packed a punch. “I’ll be all right.” Her voice was thin, quaking. She had to get ahold of herself.
“You two shut up and get movin’,” one of the armed men growled, taking both Karla’s and Billie’s arms in his big hands and shoving the girls forward.
One man led the way through the wrought-iron gate and into the stone courtyard, while the two others brought up the rear, making sure none of the girls broke and ran. A few seconds later, Karla found herself standing beside Billie inside the church.
Only it was no longer a church.
All the pews had been replaced with square tables and Windsor chairs. Here and there, plush sofas and coffee tables had been arranged in isolated, intimate sitting areas complete with brass spittoons, silver ash trays, and bear, wolf, or panther rugs. Bawdy paintings lined the thick walls between the arched stained-glass windows. Chinese lanterns hung from square-hewn joists and the low wainscoted ceiling.
“Get movin’, honey,” urged one of the men behind Karla, giving her a brusque shove.
As she moved forward, following Billie and the man with the rifle, she turned her gaze left, where a black-haired, black-mustached man in a dove gray uniform sat on a dark blue couch, a young girl on his knee. The brown-eyed redhead, dressed in a low-cut cream gown, was leaning back against the man’s right shoulder, nuzzling his neck and fingering the gold buttons on his tunic.
When he’d spied Karla and the other captives moving down the room’s center, he glanced at the other men in the room and yelled something in Spanish. Several others cheered and clapped. Eyes glassy from drink, the man with the redhead raised the goblet in his right hand. “Salud!”
The redhead turned to Karla and smiled, then turned her head sideways on the man’s chest and resumed talking in his ear and playing with his buttons.
Karla regarded the back of the room, where the original church altar served as a bar, with heavy plank extensions winging out from both sides. Several other dark, uniformed men stood at the bar, drinking, smoking, and regarding the girls lewdly as they turned and followed the man with the rifle up a red-carpeted staircase.
Karla was so tired and sore from riding that, with each step, her legs shrieked with pain.
“Two to a room,” the man with the rifle said dully, when they’d all reached the dimly lit, second-story hall.
Doors opened off each side. Kerosene bracket lamps, shaded by deep red glass to make the hall even dimmer, guttered and smoked, revealing the shag carpet runner beneath their feet. The girls just stood there, hesitating. Like Karla, they sensed that once inside those rooms, they were doomed.
“Two to a room, damn it,” boomed one of the two men marching up the stairs. “Come on, pair off, damn it! We ain’t got all night.”
A door opened to Karla’s right, and she was thrust inside. Because Billie had been standing beside her, Billie was thrust into the same room.
“Strip down and get ready for baths,” ordered the man, closing the door behind them. From the outside, a key clicked in the lock.
On the door hung a small placard:
GENTLEMAN, PLEASE USE THE SPITTOON
AND ASH TRAY.
Wearily, Karla shuttled her gaze from the door, looking around the room, with its big brass bed, mirrored dresser, washstand, and armoire. Small containers of face paint sat in a silver tray atop the dresser. There were two chairs positioned on either side of a small table, and a scroll-backed fainting couch along the wall right of the door. A copper tub lay on the floor near the bed and a glistening brass spittoon. On the bed itself were towels and nightgowns.