A Congregation of Jackals

Chapter 3

“Women says things they don’t mean. I know it.” The talker looked over at Arthur. “You accept her apology?”

There was a glimmer of light as the silent man thrust his right hand beneath the table. His gun holster was suddenly empty. Terror like the flames of a brushfire leaped across Jessica’s features; Charles better hid his fear, though his palms and forehead glistened with sweat.

“He don’t accept it.”

Charles pushed back in his seat, and a metallic click sounded near Jessica’s knees.

“You ain’t got his permission to go.”

The gentleman looked at his wife, whose eyes coruscated with tears that would soon overflow her lashes and spill down her cheeks.

“Arthur wants to make a point.”

The Arizonians looked at Arthur, as if expecting him to grow a new tongue and speak. The mute sibling did not move or blink, and his steady pistol was unwavering beneath the table. With reptilian eyes, he just stared forward.

“What’s your name?” asked the talker.

“Charles.”

“You got more names than that.”

“Charles Alan Lowell.”

“And hers?’

“Jessica Parcedes Lowell.”

The talker cleared his throat. “Mr. Lowell.”

“Yes?”

“Open up your mouth.”

“What do you intend—?”

Jessica yelped, and Charles looked over at his wife.

“Arthur poked her with the barrel,” explained the talker. “You ain’t supposed to ask questions while making him your apology. Open up your mouth.”

The gentleman swallowed dryly, parted his lips, and lowered his jaw.

The talker looked at Jessica. “Put the tip of your little finger in Mr. Lowell’s mouth.”

Charles would have traded his mansion in Arizona and both of his prized stallions for a pistol at that moment. Jessica raised her trembling right hand toward her husband’s mouth and extended her pinky finger.

To the husband, the talker said, “Bite down on the knuckle just below the tip. Don’t hurt her though—just hold it there with your teeth.”

Charles carefully closed his jaw; his upper and lower incisors pressed into the soft skin that covered the last joint of Jessica’s pinky. Her hand and arm dangled from her husband’s mouth like the tongue of an amphibian.

The talker surveyed the Arizonians, seemed pleased with what he saw, and looked at Arthur. “That to your liking?”

The mute sibling nodded, his prickly chin moving up and down less than a quarter of an inch.

“Mr. Lowell. I’d advise you—strongly advise you—not to let go of your wife’s little finger.”

Charles nodded minutely. The talker looked over at Jessica. His eyes surveyed her swollen chest, her long pale neck, her full lips, her upturned nose, her cheeks that were smeared with rouge (and tears), and ultimately fixed upon her leaking eyes. This appraisal was like a cold wet hand.

“You love your husband, don’t you Mrs. Lowell?”

Without hesitation, Jessica nodded her head.

“But I bet he wasn’t the first one you laid with, now was he?”

Jessica stared at the talker, but did not respond, and Charles’s face reddened. His wife’s long fingernail pressed into the wet flesh of his tongue.

“You was with other men before you was with Mr. Lowell, wasn’t you?”

Jessica opened her mouth, hesitated, and then looked over at Charles, from whose mouth her hand hung ridiculously.

“Don’t do no fibbin’. Arthur’s hard to fool and don’t at all care for fibs.”

The gentleman nodded to his wife, who then returned her gaze to the twin. “I have.”

“How many others you been with, Mrs. Lowell? Lots?”

“No.” Jessica’s face shone bright red. “One other.”

“What was his name?”

“Burt.”

“Did you love Burt?”

“I was just a girl. I didn’t know anything then.”

“Did you tell him you loved him?”

“I did.”

The talker eyed Charles and said, “You hear this? Watch out.” He pulled an errant twine of oily hair from his prickly beard, set it behind his right ear, and looked at the woman. “What was Burt’s prick like?”

Jessica cried out and yanked her pinky from Charles’s mouth. Frightened, she turned to her husband. and said, “You bit me.”.

“I did not mean t—”

The empty whiskey bottle flew at Charles and smacked loudly as it connected with his right cheek. In the instant that he tumbled from his seat, he saw that the saloon was deserted. He impacted the floor; his unbalanced chair hesitated on two legs and then fell beside him.

“Get up,” ordered the talker.

Charles righted his chair and reseated himself.

The talker eyed Jessica. “You put your finger back in his mouth or my brother’s gonna lose his temper. He’s an angry one.”

Aloof and inscrutable, Arthur stared out.

Jessica raised her right hand; Charles clamped his teeth to his wife’s pinky; her long fingernail settled against the tip of his tongue. His cheek smarted where the bottle had struck him, and his entire face stung with the heat of his embarrassment. Her heart throbbed within the soft flesh of her fingertip and that pulse was as quick as his own.

“What did Burt’s prick look like?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t look at it.”

“Afraid, huh? You one of them that just lies there, eyes shut, feet to the ceiling, and takes it like cough syrup?” The talker looked at Charles, shook his head dolorously, said “Sorry,” and then returned his gaze to Jessica. “So you just lie there with your eyes closed, huh? Maybe a buncha fellows was on top of you, takin’ turns and you didn’t even know it?”