Triangle of Desire

Connie Vigil Platt238 Elm StreetSalem, Arkansas 72576  dice@centurytel.net  Triangle of DesireBy Connie Vigil Platt         

  It was time to get ready for her performance; Bianca tied a flame red scarf around her neck and arranged her long ebony hair so the bruises wouldn’t show. She knew the bright color would detract from the discoloration on her throat and cheek where Carlos had slapped her for not getting him a drink fast enough.  Never a day passed that Carlos didn’t find some reason to slap her. There were times when he hit her with a closed fist and blacked her eye. This would be the last time that pig Carlos would mistreat her that way. Today was the day. Today she would ask for more than money to be thrown in the tambourine. Today she would ask for blood.       

    She was sure that one of the cowboys drinking in the bar would be happy to defend her if she ever got up the nerve to ask him. Carlos was fast and deadly with a gun but there were others that were just as fast, he could be beaten. There was always someone that would be willing to go up against a fast gun and build up his reputation. She saw how the men looked at her, with passion when she flashed her smile, with pity after he saw the bruises. There was always someone that would be willing to dance with her as she went through her routine. That someone was who she would chose to defend her. 

         She could hear a guitar tuning up in the next room; it was time for her to dance. She took a deep breath, she began tapping her feet to the beat of the music, trying to overcome her anger and get in the mood for the dance she must perform, she picked up a tambourine, her body pulsating with the rhythm as she moved into the room. She could feel all eyes on her as she dipped and swayed, her skirts twirling around her shapely legs.       

     Out of the corner of her eye she saw a stranger sitting with his hat tipped back from his wheat colored hair, a plate with left over beans and tortillas pushed aside. A half-full whiskey bottle in front of him and an empty shot glass, a big six-gun in his holster, it looked as if there were notches in the butt, here in dusty jeans was everything she needed. A yellow cur dog sat at his side, a pink tongue lolling out the side of his mouth, waiting for any scraps that might fall from the table. As she made her way across the room she could feel eyes following her movements. She took all this in as she continued her memorized actions. She motioned for the stranger to get up and dance with her.    

       He wobbled slightly when he stood up and she realized he was not only drunk but a big man as he towered over her, long legs, broad shoulders and a little clumsy. His tied down holster rode easy on his hip in the manner of a gunfighter.   

       “I am Bianca, will you perform the dance with me?” She asked as she unwrapped the scarf.     

     “Sure I will little lady but who did that to you?” He asked tenderly touching the bruises. The dog came with him.    

      “Carlos, the one with the mustache that is frowning at you. He doesn’t like me to dance with anyone.” She answered.      

    The man she indicated sat alone at the poker table. His eyes half closed as he watched her movements. He smoothed his mustache with a manicured hand. He was careful with his hands he needed to be able to deal the cards he made his money with. Sometime honest and sometimes not so honest, a drunken cowboy couldn’t always tell if Carlos dealt from the bottom of the deck or from his sleeve. If there was any question Carlos was fast with a gun and didn’t hesitate to shoot to kill.   

     “Are you married to him? Are you his woman?” The cowboy asked looking at Carlos.    

      “No I am not his anything. He enjoys abusing anyone that won’t stand up to him.” She answered.   

       “Why don’t you—“ At that moment Carlos stood up and in two strides he was next to the couple, grabbed the cowboy’s shoulder, spinning him around.  

        “Get your hands off my woman.” Carlos said in a threatening voice.  

        “She said she wasn’t your woman.” The cowboy answered his hand reaching for his six-shooter.      

    At the sound of angry voices the dog started to growl.    

       “Get that mangy mutt away from me.” Carlos shouted kicking at the dog, his boot landed on his ribs. The dog yipped in pain.      

    “You don’t kick my dog!” The Cowboy shouted.    

      The drinkers and watchers including the bartender all moved out of the way of what certainly would become flying bullets. Ducking down behind tables, chairs and the bar itself.     

     A gun went off the sound shattering the quiet of the room. Another gun was fired, the shots ricocheting off spittoons, mirrors, upright posts and the wall. Afterward no one was sure how many shots were fired or who had fired first shot they only knew that the dog laid on the floor with red seeping through the floorboards.     

     At the sound of gunfire the Sheriff came hurrying in the room filled with the smell of gunpowder and the haze of smoke. Looking around he saw Bianca sitting on the floor leaning against an overturned table, her mouth open in a perfect “O” her white blouse stained with a bubbling pink flower, crimson dripping down to her skirt.  The cowboy lay face up with a hole in the middle of his forehead blood spreading and matting the back of his head. Carlos was the only one still standing.            

    “What happened here? Anyone know who this is?” The sheriff asked pointing to the stranger.       

   Everyone started talking at once. They all had different stories but one thing they all agreed on was that Carlos had started the fight.  

        “Carlos got mad because the stranger was going to dance with Bianca, I don’t know why he would do that. She always gets somebody up on the floor.” The bartender said.   

        No one knew the strangers name or where he came from. He would have to be buried in an unmarked grave without his relatives ever knowing what had happened to him.      

    Carlos stayed in the jail cell for two weeks until the circuit judge made his rounds. The judge had pronounced him to be guilty of killing the stranger and Bianca, now he was to be hanged by the neck until dead.       

   Carlos stood at the barred window watching as the townsmen built the gallows he would be hung from. Each nail pounded was one more step to hell. He would never abuse another woman.         

  The End         

by spurlady (Viewed 1991 times)