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A Man, a Horse, and a Harlot
Author's note: When you play Red Dead, your horse is definitely your best friend. John lived on a ranch; I'm sure he knows how to treat horses well. So why so little horse love in the game? That poor beast carries you around everywhere and never fails to come to your aid when you whistle! It never tries to shoot at you and only bucks you off when you press x like a maniac! So I wanted to see a softer, more horse-appreciative side to John Marston. :) Plus I thought, John's a nice good-looking guy, he must have left some broken hearts behind during his travels. Thus some old-timey prostitutes were added into the mix. I mean, come on, they're awesome. And yes, the Highland Chestnut is my favourite horse in the game. It's so darned pretty!
Gun-smoke clouds trail across an orange sky, as coyotes scour the coarse and callous land below. Their yelps ascend easily, piercing, into the still air. Like everything else in this tortured landscape, they recall far too well the scorching heat of hours passed, and each night they seize the chill respite which dusk brings like an unwrapped present. The dark silhouette of a man astride a horse, ignorant to the coyotes who scatter in his wake, casts a elongated shadow onto the parched shrubbery. The sun dwindles above the cusp of the earth. The man guides his steed at a gentle trot into the weather-beaten settlement of Armadillo, and the shabby, hardy buildings seem to turn their faces from him, curling in on themselves, living up to their name. He has a rifle on his back and a cattle rancher's hat on his head, and hard glinting coal for eyes.
His horse ambles into town, weary from a long day's riding, lowering its head to the ground to graze. Its rider dismounts outside the saloon. He takes the time to fasten his charger firmly to the hitching post, pausing to place a thick-skinned hand on its neck. He feels the beads of faithful sweat. It is an entirely handsome horse, lean and well-built, chestnut orange in colour like the dying sunlight washing over them both, with dark smokey legs and a mane tinged with charcoal. The stranger whispers something out of the side of his mouth and then moves off. The horse paws the ground, glances at the sky carved into great sombre swathes and aged by sundown, and understands.
The saloon pays no attention as the man walks through the swing doors. Strangers are regular here. A drunken patron continues to play the honkey-tonk piano with some gusto, and sorrows continue to be drowned by various sorts of disgruntled men. But one girl, leaning against the wall in the corner, sees him through a haze of tobacco smoke and smirks. Her name is Clarabelle but she insists on being called Clara, for something she calls greater refinement. Twenty-two and freshly enlisted into a life of debauchery, she is gutsy despite her inexperience, not yet sickened by her circumstances. She breaks away from the gaggle of painted ladies cavorting around the tables. As she leaves Clara winks at them as if to say, this one is mine. In return she receives an outburst of laughter from the women, the type of laughter which is too loud to not be spurred on by liquor and buried desperation.
Sidling up to the new arrival, Clara places her hands upon her hips and cocks her head to one side in a calculated display of alluring mystique.
"Hey sugar, you looking for a good time?"
An oozing voice, repeating words murmured time and time again in the dead of night and in front of dusty mirrors.
He appears not to notice her. She furrows her eyebrows and he walks straight past her, purpose guiding his long stride. As he passes she can take a good look at his face, and she sees he is ruggedly attractive, and it frustrates her even more. She hears titters from across the room. This just won't do.
Clara turns and takes his forearm, snaking herself beside him so he can feel the warmth of her body. He smells acrid, like bullets shot from a pistol. "Come on now honey, don't be playing hard to get." Her voice is shriller than intended, but she can't help that. She remembers to bat her blackened eyelashes.
This catches his attention. He looks down at her; sees her inky hair, crudely rouged cheeks, low-cut dress in a gaudy shade of green. More kindly than she'd expected, he withdraws his arm from her grasp. "Sorry, ma'am. There's already a lady in my life."
"Oh, I've heard that before, and I think we both know -"
"Her name is Jenny." He speaks louder now, so it carries across the saloon, and with a firm finality. "She has long hair just like yours and beautiful brown eyes. Now if you'll excuse me, miss, if you'll let me do my business here, she's waiting just outside for me. I shouldn't keep her waiting."
Clara is left standing in the centre of the room, arms hanging limply now. She watches the stranger speak to the barman. After an exchange of nods and tight-lipped words he tips his hat in acknowledgement and makes to leave. She moves herself out his path as he exits, ignoring the other harlots who either snigger behind their fingers or are too veteran to be interested in the happenings of a showy novice.
Some of her friends call to her, but Clara is too shamed to remain on the main floor. She darts upstairs, bubbling with frothy irritation. On the upper storey more women are lounging outside rooms, colourful and flashy, like a flock of tropical birds with broken wings. They are touching up their powdered faces or telling the lewd jokes they have heard, ready to tempt men so inebriated they have more whiskey inside them than sense.
Here resides the woman known only as Missy. Although their clients seem strangely oblivious to the fact, there is a pecking order amongst ladies of the night. Missy is the queen of whores. She is the eldest of the prostitutes in Armadillo, a woman so accustomed to the forces of vice and depravity that nothing can surprise her any longer. She looks closer to forty than thirty, but she swears she's twenty-seven. Missy is a living inspiration for women with nowhere else to go: she has her own room at the saloon and can afford to buy cosmetics that most of ladies can only dream of. Because of her maturity and her renowned talent, and because of the whispered stories passed around of her husband's mysterious death and her arrival in Armadillo some decades ago, it is to Missy the younger girls come with their problems. Tonight, like most other nights, she is leaning against the landing rail, staring down into the saloon below with vulture eyes, her many tattered skirts floating around her in a weak imitation of sophistication.
Clara stands with her eyes fixated upon the man who rejected her. As he paces away, past the swing doors and into the night, she rushes out onto the balcony. She doesn't know why she's so interested or why she's so infuriated. Perhaps she wants to lay eyes upon this lovely wife of his.
As her eyes adjust to the velvety gloom she sees the man walk back to his horse and wait there for a moment. Clara waits too, her skin clammy against the night air. Twilight has since passed, and now the world is enveloped in a fluid black which melds together the ground and the sky and the mountains far away. The moon is slowly rising, casting an ivory gleam onto the buildings of Armadillo. Where is this Jenny?
But no woman appears. The stranger kisses the neck of his mount roughly, patting down its coat. The chestnut horse ruffles its mane and the man laughs, low and quiet. Is he speaking to it? Then he is adjusting the saddle and horse's bit, then feeding the beast something from the palm of his hand, then bending its long legs to check its hooves.
Suddenly Clara realises.
"Missy!"
The older woman comes outside as if she was just waiting for an invitation. Her long skirts make it seem like she's hovering above the ground.
Clara is open-mouthed. She gestures wildly, and it is quite unbecoming.
"Missy! That man there! He just… he just snubbed me for a horse!"
There is no way Missy could miss him. Amidst the drunkards and good-for-nothings stumbling on the street, he is calm and still. He rubs his hand on his horse's side, seemingly happy to wait for it to finish feeding. She clucks her tongue on the roof of her mouth.
"I know, honey. Some men're odd like that. There ain't a thing you can do to sway 'em one way or another. Theirs minds are just set that way."
Missy offers the required condolence and an assurance that she did nothing wrong, but Clara is not listening. The moon is flooding the town with ashen light, and it lands most softly on the stranger and his horse. It catches somehow upon his eyes. She sees him stroking that charcoal mane, gazing at the mare with more appreciation and tenderness than she has ever experienced in her entire life, and in a moment of sublime weakness she wonders what she would have to do for him to look at her in that way.