"She ever ...I mean, is she friendly with anybody here?"
"Nope. Friendly, but not like you mean. She had a gentleman friend once, but I hear he left town sudden. I figure shell be married inside of a year, before school's out next spring."
The men finished their smokes and some drifted upstairs. Two headed out for a card room. Knute excused himself and took a walk around a couple of blocks. When he came back, no one was downstairs. He went to the kitchen and pushed the door open.
Uta turned and grinned when she saw him. "You look a lot better all cleaned up," she said.
"Getting some new clothes tomorrow."
"Good. Those are getting ratty."
"You still have your three rooms in back here?"
She grinned and she glanced down at his crotch. "Still do. Why you asking?"
"Do your bed springs still squeak?"
She laughed softly. "Does your pecker still go soft so damn quick after you get him shot off?"
"Yeah, but he's just resting, waiting for the next go-round."
She turned back toward the stove and fumbled with her hands at her chest a minute. When she swung around, she had opened her blouse showing him both her naked breasts.
"Like my little friends?"
"Oh, yeah. Right now?"
"No." She turned back and buttoned the blouse. "About ten o'clock after everyone is settled down. In my place, where it don't matter a fuck if the bed springs squeak or not."
Knute chuckled and started toward her, but she held up her hands. "Not now, about ten. You got a watch?"
He pulled out a battered pocket watch tied to the belt loop of his pants with a leather thong.
"Good, see you there about ten. Now scoot before somebody comes. I got my reputation to preserve."
He left and realized he had the start of an erection. Glory be, it hadn't been that long. He rubbed it gently and went up to his room. It was a little after 7:30. He had two-and-a half hours. Idly, he wondered which room the school marm lived in. No way to tell. Now there would be one good one to get all bare assed and waving them tits at him. Oh, yeah, nice.
He lay on the bed and remembered Uta. She liked it best when she got to be on top. Hell, didn't matter to him. What he needed was a short nap to get his strength up for a wild fucking night. He laughed and closed his eyes. He'd wake up well before ten o'clock.
It seemed only a few seconds later when Knute opened his eyes. The room was dark. He found a match in his pocket and struck it on the wooden floor. His Waltham pocket watch showed nine P.M.
He held the match and lit the lamp on the dresser. An hour more? Things seemed quiet in the place. He opened the door and could hear nothing. Knute walked softly down the hall and then back to his door. The only sound he heard was someone snoring in room four.
He went back in his room and sat on the bed for a moment. All he could think about was Uta's massive breasts. They were as big as small watermelons. He'd never seen such big tits in his life. She wouldn't mind if he was a little early. He'd slip down there and surprise her. Yeah. Some women he'd had liked to pretend that he was raping them. They'd wail and scream and run away, and then when he caught them, they'd wind up practically raping him.
He slipped down the hall and took the steps one at a time, stepping on the part near the wall where they wouldn't squeak as they used to do.
Knute eased through the kitchen without a sound and went down the short hall to the door that led to Uta's back apartment she had built so she could rent all the rooms upstairs. He put his hand on the knob, wondering if he should knock.
He shook his head and turned the knob. It was not locked. Knute eased the door inward and saw that a light was on. It was burning low on a table next to a soft, new looking couch. He knew where the bedroom was.
Knute paused. Should he go in and surprise her? Maybe she was having a bath or something. No. She knew he was coming. She'd be ready. He was just a little early.
He grinned and walked the dozen feet to the bedroom door that opened off the parlor. Just before he reached for the door, he paused. A sound came from inside. He didn't know what it was. A low cry? Maybe a moan? He frowned. Had she started without him?
It was a door that had a keyhole and a lock. He bent and looked through the keyhole. Knute couldn't remember ever doing anything like this before. He adjusted his good right eye and focused on the other side of the room.
He could see the bed. Someone lay on top of it. He saw naked legs. Then, to his surprise, he saw another set of naked legs. She was screwing somebody else? Couldn't she wait for him? He was about to push the door open when a woman's back, shoulders and head came up from the bed so she was in a sitting position. It wasn't Uta. He looked closer.
Damnit, it was the school teacher, Priscilla. She was naked and bouncing around, moaning, and had her head thrown back. He saw hands come up and caress her breasts. Then Uta sat up beside the schoolmarm and they kissed, mouth to mouth. Open mouth to open mouth.
My God! He'd heard about women who made love with women, but he'd never seen it before. What did they do? How did they do it? Rub each other off? Finger fuck each other?
He watched as the two women sat on the edge of the bed side by side with their legs spread. They pushed their hands down to each other's crotches.
Hey, he could solve their problem in a rush. He could do two of them. He stood, knocked, pushed the door open. He grinned at the two naked women.
"Ladies, looks like I arrived just in time. I'd say you have a real need here, and I'm the man who can fill that need in both of you. Oh, one at a time, of course. But in days like these, don't you agree that people should share with each other?"
"Get the hell out!" Priscilla snarled. She held her hands to cover her breasts.
"You big, dumb ox, I told you ten o'clock," Uta said, a small grin on her face.
The school teacher looked at Uta in shocked surprise. "You mean you were going to... to... with him?"
"Sure, Pris. You knew I went both ways. You're fun, but I miss a real good poking now and again. You never had one?"
"Of course, I just prefer the gentler, softer approach of another woman." She stood. "Well, it doesn't matter. I'm entirely out of the mood now. You two go ahead and have your games. I'll just slip into my clothes and go back to my room. I am disappointed in you, Uta. I didn't know that you'd ever been unfaithful to me before." Big tears streamed down her cheeks.
She didn't turn around, just stood there letting Knute stare at her naked breasts and the swatch of black fur at her crotch. Then she pulled on a skirt and a blouse and shoes and hurried to the door.
"We'll have to talk about this, Uta. I never let anyone else share my partner. I thought you knew that." She didn't wait for a reply. She turned and hurried out the door which she closed softly.
Uta shrugged.
"Silly little bitch. She never said anything about not fucking anybody else." Uta shook her head. "I guess she just assumed that she could have me all to herself. I know she doesn't fuck men anymore. Too bad, really. She's a good looker. Could have all the men in my place here the same night if she wanted them. I've seen them watching her. She flaunts those tits of hers every chance she gets. Nicely formed, ain't they? Course, they're not as big and beautiful as mine. Maybe she likes to tease men a little, just so she can tell them `no' when they ask her."
"Maybe," Knute said. "Sorry I busted in. You and her were...."
"Making love, yes. Not the way you and I do. More gentle, a lot of rubbing and talking and feeling and touching."
"Yeah, I saw a little through the keyhole. Is kissing her different than kissing me?"
"I don't remember. Come here."
Knute sat down on the bed beside her and bent in and kissed her lips. They came open and he parted his. Before he knew it, he was panting and so was she.
She had his shirt off the minute after their lips parted and then knelt in front of him and pulled open his pants.
Neither of them heard the bedr
oom door open. They looked up to see Priscilla standing there, a big revolver in both hands aiming it at them.
"Damn both of you," the woman screamed.
Before Knute could move she pulled the trigger. He had been about to rise when the heavy slug hit him in the shoulder. It spun him half around. He regained his balance and leaped up and rushed the woman with the gun. She cocked the hammer and pulled the trigger again. This time the round caught Knute full in the chest from four-feet away, drove him back on the bed, covering Uta who crouched half under him.
The woman with the gun fired once more, this time at Uta but she missed wide. Then Priscilla turned and fled out the door as Uta heard voices and sounds from the other tenants coming to see what the shooting was all about.
The moment Spur left the side of the Arkansas River where Amy Hellman's body lay, he knew he had a nearly impossible task. Little Rock was in no way a small place. How could he find one man in this town of probably more than 10,000?
First he jogged to the river landing where the passenger boat docked. He found out the next boat downriver would leave in two hours. The next boat upriver was four hours away. There were two city police there watching the ticket window and they would be on hand for the next boat departures.
There was a train spur up to Little Rock, but not on to Fort Smith. The train that came in here was a part of the Union Pacific network of rails that went to the Mississippi River and eventually all the way to New Orleans.
The killer could leave on the train. He could also rent a horse and ride downstream and get on the boat at another dock, or at the next train stop south.
Spur checked at the train station and found two deputies and Little Rock policemen patrolling the ticket office and the train about to leave. They had checked the train for any suspicious passengers.
"You don't know him," Spur said. "I do. Let me take a look."
Spur hurried through the three passenger cars but agreed that none of the people on board could be Doug Chandler unless he was a wizard at costuming and makeup.
By the time Spur McCoy hurried back to the sheriffs office, the county's top lawman stood there shaking his head. "I don't know what's happening in this town. The governor's own daughter cut up that way, slaughtered. We want to find that bastard, if he's the one who did it."
"Chances are mighty good he did. If you had just killed the girl, how would you try to get out of town? Train, boat? How?"
The sheriff hooded his eyes with heavy brows and scratched his cheek.
"Wouldn't try the boat or the train. Too easy to check them. If this is Chandler, no chance he's going upstream back to Fort Smith and his troubles there. So, I'd hire myself a horse and ride downstream to the next boat stop or train station."
"Good. Yes, sounds reasonable. How far is the next boat stop downstream?"
"About five miles. Little village that has a big sawmill back in the timber. Ships logs and lumber out of there. Place is called Bayview."
"How far is it to the first train stop down river?" Spur asked.
"Tougher there. There's a flag stop long 'bout seven or eight miles. But for that he'd have to go in and buy a ticket and make himself conspicuous. First one with a station and platform and all is near fifteen-miles east and south along the river."
"So it looks like the boat. How many livery outfits in town?"
"Four. Yes, I'll send a man to each one to hang around and wait for a guy who looks like this Chandler."
"Give me a list of them and where they are. I want to check all four for the next few hours. If I were Chandler, I'd get out of this town as soon as I could. He should have enough cash on him, something like fifty-thousand dollars."
Spur walked to the first livery, the closest one. There was a sheriff's deputy there talking with the owner. No one had rented a horse all day. Spur rented one with saddle and all set to ride.
"Watch for anybody who wants a mount. Check them out good. But remember that Chandler could have a belly gun by now, or a .45. Be careful."
Spur rode the bay mare out of the barn and a quarter-of-a-mile north to the next livery. They didn't have saddle horses to rent there. He got instructions to the third one and found it on the other side of town. A city policeman was already there. Spur waved him over as he talked to the merchant.
"Yep, rented four single mounts today. Two to women, one to a barber who thinks he's a wild west cowboy, and the last one to a guy about half an hour ago. Seemed nervous and in a hell of a rush."
"Can you describe him for me?" Spur asked, an eagerness in his voice.
"Not too tall, maybe five-four or so. A little on the heavy side, but not, you know, real fat. Clean shaven. Maybe twenty-five to thirty."
"Sounds like my man. How did he pay for the rental horse?"
"Said he'd need it for a week, so I charged him for a week. Two dollars a day. Fourteen dollars. He gave me a twenty."
"You know where it is? You didn't get it mixed up with the rest of the cash?"
"Mister, I only took in one twenty-dollar bill in the last week. Know it's the same one. Just a second."
He went into a small office and came out with the bill. It was brand new. Spur checked the serial numbers. It was one of the stolen new bank notes.
"This is a stolen bill, sir. I'm giving it to this policeman, he'll turn it in and ask his chief what to do with it. Officer, also tell your chief and the sheriff that I'm sure that Chandler is mounted and heading down river." Spur turned back to the livery man. "Did the rider you described say where he was going?"
"Not a word. Talked as little as possible."
"Which way did he start out when he left here?"
"Took off to the east and some south. Only road down there is the old river road that we used before the railroad went in."
"How far away is that?"
"From here about two miles, maybe less."
Spur kicked the mount in the flanks and galloped down the street the way he hoped that Chandler had taken. The stolen bill tied it. Now all he had to do was catch up with the rider.
Spur pushed the mount for a quarter-of-a-mile at the gallop, then let her simmer down to a walk for a half-mile and lifted her to a canter. The canter would produce six miles in an hour. The next downriver boat wasn't due to leave Little Rock for another hour-and-a-half. It would take the boat a half hour at least to go downstream five miles. Should be plenty of time.
Twice along the way he checked the river road for hoof prints. He found several, but none he could identify. He had nothing to use for comparison. A mile out of Little Rock he found new prints. They were laid down over wide-wheel wagon tracks and seemed fresh, no bug marks across them.
The horse had been walking along here, but soon he saw the little puffs of dust at the back of the prints and where the front had dug in a little deeper. The animal was at least cantering.
Four miles later, Spur rode up to the small village of Bayview. He could hear a sawmill buzzing away in the distance. The whine of the big saw screamed through the otherwise quiet countryside. It was easy to find the steamer dock.
The town's one street led straight to the river and the dock with its piling driven into the Arkansas River mud bank and a small structure to serve passengers and ticket sellers. He checked out the area first. He saw a horse to one side that looked on the tired side, but no chance he could identify it as the one Doug had ridden here.
Where was he? Spur loosened the six-gun in his leather and walked the last quarter of a block to the steamship building. No one lurked outside. He glanced through a window but saw only two people inside, a woman and a young girl. He pushed open the door and went in. The man behind the counter said the boat would be along in about twenty minutes.
"That is, if she's on time and if that new pilot we got misses the Siwash sand bar. He hit it on his first trip down and it took them an hour to get unstuck."
Spur bought a ticket to the next stop and strolled outside to wait. If Doug Chandler was here waiting for the boat
, he was well hidden. Spur walked up the street half a block and sat down in a captain's chair in front of the hardware store. He leaned it backwards against the shiplap and pulled his hat down on his forehead until he could just see out under the brim.
Not much moved in the village. A man went from one store to another. Somebody rolled up in a farm wagon pulled by two ragged looking mules. When the driver stepped down, he looked about as tattered as the mules.
Five minutes later, he hadn't seen the fugitive. The whistle of a steamboat came then and he looked upriver and saw the small craft coming around the bend. It was no more than eighty-feet long, not the huge stern wheelers that plied the Mississippi. This one had an internal propeller of some kind, not showing a side or stern wheel for power.
The craft came along the dock, tied up and half a dozen people got off and three got on. None of them was Doug Chandler. Then as the crewman called for any last passengers and started to untie the boat, a man came out of some brush near the side of the boathouse and stepped on board.
Spur had been moving toward the boat since it had docked. Now he ran the last 50-feet and jumped on board just as the crewman let go of the last line. He gave the surprised crewman his ticket and looked around for the man he was sure was Doug Chandler. He was about the right size and he carried a small carpetbag.
The man wasn't in the main cabin where the other passengers were seated. It had benches and chairs fastened to the deck. Spur frowned. He went back on the deck and walked around the ship. Nowhere did he find the fugitive. The pilot house?
Spur retraced his steps to the ladder that led upward ten-feet to the door of the pilot house. Signs warned away passengers, indicating this was off limits and for crew only. Spur hurried up the ladder and looked through a small window in the door. He saw Doug Chandler standing beside the pilot who had the ship's wheel. Spur drew his Colt and eased the door open.
Neither man noticed him at first.
"That's right, the river is a little tricky here, but we stay in the middle channel and since we only draw ten-feet we have no problems. Now if we was one of them flat bottomed boats with a stern wheel, we could coast through three-feet of water and not even scrape our bottom. On down another 200-yards, we swing in close to the shore 'cause that's where the channel is."
Spur Giant: Soiled Dove Page 21