Triangle of Desire
by 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 distract from the discoloration on her neck 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 strike 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 her 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 just as fast; he could be beaten. There was always someone who would be willing to go up against a fast gun to build up a reputation. She saw how the men looked at her, with passion, when she flashed her smile; with pity after they saw the bruises. Someone would be willing to dance with her as she went through her routine. That was the one she would choose to defend her. After tonight, Carlos would never abuse another woman.

She could hear a guitar tuning up in the next room; it was time for her to dance. She took a deep breath; 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 the 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, light dancing on her earrings, her hair rippling in ebony waves.

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 leftover beans and tortillas pushed aside. A half-full whiskey bottle sat 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 — and here in dusty jeans was everything she needed. A yellow cur dog sat at his side, 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 a big man but very drunk. 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 red scarf.

"Sure I will, little lady, but who did that to you?" he asked, tenderly touching the bruises. The dog stood near his leg.

"Carlos, the one with the mustache that is frowning at you. He doesn't like me to dance with anyone."

"Are you married to him? Are you his woman?"

"No, I am not his anything. He enjoys abusing anyone that won't stand up to him."

"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.

"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.

The drinkers and watchers, including the bartender, moved out of the way of what might become flying bullets, ducking down behind tables, chairs and the bar.

A gun went off — the sound shattered 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 the first shot, they only knew that the dog lay still on the floor with red seeping onto the floorboards.

At the sound of gunfire, the sheriff came hurrying into 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 light glittered on her earrings. The cowboy lay nearby, face up, with a hole in the middle of his forehead, dark 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 they all agreed 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 from the audience up on the floor," the bartender said.

The sheriff escorted Carlos to jail to be locked in a small dank barred room until the circuit judge arrived to pronounce sentence. There would be plenty of time for Carlos to reflect on his shameful actions.

No one knew the stranger's 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 pronounced him guilty of killing the stranger and Bianca, and he was to be hanged by the neck until dead.

The town folk believed he should be punished for the mutt also but there was no law about killing a dog.

Feeling no remorse for the evil he had done, Carlos stood at the barred window watching as the townsmen built the gallows where he would meet his maker. He knew that with each nail pounded, he was one step closer to hell.

The key made a rasping sound as the sheriff opened the cell door.

"Come on," he said, "it's time."

Carlos paled under his swarthy skin. His eyes began to water as he walked to the scaffold.