Once upon a time, or so begin the fairy tales, there was a
bluestocking spinster and a gin-sodden cowpoke. Sourly,
suspiciously, the two sat eyeing one another across a
smoke-hazed, liquor-stinking barroom. Each pondered the mad
quirk of foolishness that had brought them to that seedy
cantina on Calle de Noche Triste in Juarez, Mexico. . . .
“How ’bout a little night of love, querida?â€
“Beat it mister!†Her brown eyes flashed at him, and she
looked away, muttering, “I’m waiting for someone.â€
“So?†He winked lecherously. “This carcass doesn’t take long
to pleasure, sweetheart. Five minutes in the back room
oughta do it.†He could see he had rattled her, although she
was striving to cover it.
Her mouth curled contemptuously. “I’ve bitten a few rotten
coins, mister,†she hissed, “and don’t need to hook up with
the likes of you."
So began the acquaintance of the indomitable Roxana Van
Buren and the unconquerable Sam Brady.
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