Spur Giant: Soiled Dove

by Dirk Fletcher

  Spur wasn't sure how long he lay on the warm sand. He had pulled his legs out of the water at some point. He knew Chandler was still in front of him, sleeping or unconscious, he couldn't tell which.

  He tried to sit up, but fell, then tried again and made it. What he saw made him think the ants were still in his eyes. A naked girl, maybe 20, sat 10-feet from them on the downriver side of the sand bar. She had long hair wet from washing, and she grinned at him without any modesty.

  She waved a bar of lye soap and smiled. "Wondered if you two was agonna sleep all afternoon. Where you gents come from, anyhow?"

  "Upriver," Spur said, surprised that he could still talk.

  The girl looked at him, nodded and then splashed her chest, washing the soap off her full breasts and flat stomach.

  "You like what you see, big man?" the girl asked.

  "You're a pretty girl," Spur said.

  "Glad you think so." She pointed at Chandler. "He dead or something?"

  "We're both beat up by the river. Didn't know it was so rough through here."

  "Can get that way," the girl said. She turned and yelled. "Ma, they back to living. Y'all get down here."

  "You live nearby?" Spur asked, getting his breath back and starting to get some strength in his hands and his arms.

  "Here and there." The girl stood, washed soap off her crotch and her legs and turned toward him.

  "Is this a sexy picture?"

  "Damn sexy," Spur said. "What's your ma gonna say she see you like this with us?"

  The girl laughed and it made her breasts wobble and jiggle. "Ma will be fit to be tied she didn't wait and take her bath," the girl said. "Oh, I'm June. You got a name?"

  "Spur McCoy. This one is Doug Chandler."

  "Funnin' down the river, huh? You musta busted up your boat."

  "Right, hit a big rock."

  "Dumb. Shame to waste a good man like you in the damn river."

  A woman came out of the brush. At least Spur guessed that she was a woman. She was short, fat, and had hair that was dark and stringy looking as if it had never been washed. She wore a skirt and blouse that both were dirt-brown and would stand up by themselves if she wasn't wearing them. As she came closer, sloshing through the mud and water in a pair of knee boots, Spur could see that her face was pock marked and had six skin eruptions that showed purple and black.

  "Ma, look who I ketched. Got us a pair of them and I get my pick. You promised last time."

  The woman pulled a sawed off shotgun from a hole in her full skirt and aimed it at Spur.

  "Get his iron, you expect me to do it all?" the mother growled.

  "No, Ma. But I get to do this tall one. Ain't he a beauty? Not one you'd want to throw back."

  Spur had a rule about never giving up his sixgun. Anytime a peace officer did that he was as good as dead. In this case, the same could be true if he didn't give it up. The old woman would probably blow him back into the water with the shotgun. He was sure she had double-ought buck loads.

  He pegged them at last: rawhiders. The lowest of the low of prowling criminals who would kill a man for his horse and saddle. Who robbed and burned and raped and ruined anything they came in contact with. Fewer of them now, but they still roamed in the untamed parts of some states and a lot of territories and unorganized lands.

  He felt the girl come beside him. She bent over and pushed one of her breasts up to his mouth.

  "Kiss my tittie for good luck," she whispered. "I won't let the old bitch kill you. Least not right away. Chew on me."

  Spur chewed on the tender breast a moment, then let go. June took his six-gun and backed away.

  "Now, get them up to the camp and tie them hand and foot. Don't want nothing going bad this time."

  "Yeah, Ma." June said. She motioned to Spur. "Can you stand? You got to get your friend here up the bank to our camp. Ain't but about thirtyfeet downstream."

  Twenty minutes later Spur eased Chandler down on a blanket June had spread under the trees. A covered wagon of sorts harnessed to two sharp looking mules parked just of out of the shade.

  A man Spur guessed might be middle-aged tumbled out of the back opening of the wagon, staggered a step and then fell on his face. He rolled over laughing. "Damn me, but I'm swished. Can't even fucking walk."

  He looked at Spur from bloodshot eyes and nodded. "Damn me, but he's a young one. Looks strong as a billy goat after six she-goats in heat."

  "Have a nap, Daddy, I'll take care of him. Ma gets the other one."

  June sat down beside Spur. She hadn't put on any clothes yet. She picked up one of his hands and put it on her breast. "Pet me a little first, then I got to tie your hands together so you won't run away."

  "Why would I do that with a sexy, naked woman like you asking to get herself fucked?"

  June grinned. "Oh yeah. I like your way. I'm ready just anytime you're ready. Guess we should get your pants off first."

  "What about the others?"

  "Hell, let them watch. Ma wants to get your friend into her bed inside. I'll help her, then we'll be out here in the sunshine. Pa's passed out again. I'll be back in a minute. Don't try to run. I've got your six-gun and I can use it."

  The two women tugged Chandler into the trailer. He was conscious again but not in very good shape. Either that or he had heard it all and was faking it, planning something.

  So was Spur.

  June was in and out the wagon so fast Spur didn't have time to do anything. She held his borrowed gun as she came out and grinned. "Now, lover, I tie your feet together. Won't hurt your performance at all. And your hands will be tied and staked over your head. Yeah, that'll work. With me on top. I love the top."

  She tied Spur's hands but didn't stake them down over his head. She forgot to tie his feet after she had pulled off his pants and his underwear. June grinned when his erection popped up.

  "You're hot to go already?"

  Spur snorted. "Woman, you running around buck naked, flipping them great tits around, making me eat them, tying me up while your tits swing, what do you expect?"

  "Yeah, nice, huh. I don't have to get you all hot and ready to pop." She lay on top of him, then moved up and fed her breasts into his mouth one at a time. "I'd like to have you spank me the way my boyfriend used to. But they killed him. The old man did about a month ago."

  "I thought he was your father?"

  "Him? Nah... They killed Freddie and told me they would kill me if I didn't come with them. Since then the old man does me once a day. The old woman is the worst."

  "Why do you stay?"

  "No way to get out safe. They'd track me down and kill me for sure."

  "Maybe not. I could help. Don't tell them but I'm a Federal lawman, that Doug is a killer I'm chasing."

  June grinned, lifted her breast away from him and lay beside him playing with his erection.

  "Sure, sure, and I'm the Queen of the May." She frowned. "You think you could help me get away free?"

  "Absolutely. Play along with me. Untie my hands so it just looks like they're tied. Then let's not waste this tender moment."

  She undid his hands so that with a quick pull he'd be free. She moved down and lifted off him, then lowered her delicious body toward his and he impaled her until she screeched in delight. She began at once to lift and fall on his erection. The pressure built and built and before he was ready, June bellowed out a scream and climaxed, jolting and trembling and crying, ending it with a long high keening sound that chilled Spur.

  Spur waited for her to recover a bit. "Where's that six-gun?" he asked.

  She shook her head.

  "It's the only way. Can the old woman drive the wagon?"

  "Yep, usual she's the one."

  Spur looked over and the old man had come to and sat up. He looked at June.

  "The gun, now," Spur whispered. She had it on the side where the old man couldn't see it. June hesitated, then she groaned.

  "Oh, God, anything to get out of here." She pulled the six-gu
n toward Spur.

  He jerked his hands free of the loosened ropes, grabbed the revolver and turned toward the old man who was on his knees now watching them. He snarled when he saw the weapon aimed at him and dove to one side toward his shotgun.

  Spur fired three times. The second round caught the rawhider in the chest and flopped him backwards three-feet where he skidded on the grass and dirt and lay still.

  June had rolled away and crawled as far as she could get from Spur. She came up running and darted into the brush. Spur heard screams from the covered wagon and looked for cover. He found a tree ten-feet away and ran bare assed and bootless toward the tree.

  Another scream erupted from the front of the wagon. Spur glanced at her just as he stepped behind the foot thick tree. The shotgun in the old woman's hands exploded once, sending a rain of buckshot into and past the tree that shielded Spur. He started to look out, then pulled back just as the second barrel exploded.

  It was double-ought buck that jolted through the brush and trees and into his protection this time. Eleven or thirteen slugs as big as a .32 caliber bullet.

  When the rain of death had swept past, Spur stepped out and aimed the six-gun at the old woman.

  "Drop it, woman, or you'll join the old man in hell," Spur called.

  The woman wavered, then opened the breach and extracted the two spent shells. She had just reached for more rounds in one of the pockets sewn into her skirt, when a fist from inside the wagon powered down on the woman's hand holding the shotgun. It tumbled out the back opening of the wagon to the ground.

  Then the woman was pushed from behind and she half-climbed, half-fell, out of the box that sat three-feet off the ground. A moment later, Spur heard sounds from the front of the wagon. By the time Spur ran where he could see the front opening, Doug Chandler waved a six-gun at Spur and darted into the heavy growth.

  Spur felt naked and defenseless. He ran back to the blanket and pulled on his clothes, hoping that Chandler wanted to run rather than come back and get in range to shoot at him. He jerked on his boots and June came up. She had dressed.

  "I'm going with you."

  "You can't. I'm on a manhunt. He'd kill you to get at me. Not a chance. Can you handle the old woman?" She shook her head.

  The girl looked up in terror. "Look out!" she screamed.

  Spur dove to the left, the girl fell to the right. The old woman had reloaded the shotgun and fired from ten-feet away. The pattern of the double-ought buck hadn't had time to spread out much yet and Spur felt only one slug that clipped the heel of his boot. He rolled and knew there would be a second shot. He had reloaded the sixgun after using it and drew it as he rolled and came up shooting.

  His first round startled the woman, and even though it was unaimed and missed her, it kept her from pulling the trigger for that vital half a second. Before she aimed and got her finger back on the trigger, Spur had fired twice more. Both rounds slammed into her chest. She powered backwards, a look of shock and disbelief on her dirt caked face. She looked up at the trees, then gave a long sigh and died.

  "Oh, damn," Spur said. He hated killing a woman, even an evil, murdering, ridiculous excuse of a woman like this one. June came back and stared at the body, then she turned away and threw up.

  Spur took her by the shoulders when she stood and stared at her.

  "June, it's up to you now. Drive the wagon out of here, back on the river road and turn north. There's a little town up there that has a steamboat landing. It's maybe three or four miles. You can go by boat on up to Little Rock. You don't need to say anything about these two. Just get out, sell whatever you can from the wagon and get back to your home. You must have some relatives."

  "A brother, up by Little Rock."

  "Good. Get some money and go up there. I've got to go find a killer."

  He reloaded the revolver as he spoke, then ran into the woods and looked for the trail that he knew Chandler had left in his haste.

  He found the trail five minutes later. Chandler was trying to find the river road. They were still on the Arkansas side of the river. Ten minutes later, Spur found where Chandler had walked into the road and moved south. His footprints were plain in the dusty road. Spur began to jog to catch up with the fugitive.

  He had been counting on Chandler not having a long range weapon, only the six-gun he must have taken from inside the wagon. He'd jogged on the far side of the river road in and out of the small brush to get out of the best range for a revolver. He could pull into the brush at any point and set up an ambush.

  Chandler must still have the bonds and the cash. How? An oiled paper envelope or wrapping with oil paper to protect the bonds and money from the water. Maybe.

  Spur stopped and stared ahead. A quarter-of-amile down the road he saw a horse and two men. Were they arguing? Was one of them Chandler?

  Spur dug down and drew on all of his energy as he ran forward. He shot his weapon in the air once and saw both men turn and look at him. They stayed in the road and went on talking. As he ran forward, Spur thought that the talk ahead of him looked like an argument.

  Both men stood on the ground near the horse. Spur thought he could see one man reach in his shirt for something and give it to the other man.

  By the time Spur was 50-yards away the men shook hands and the shorter of the two stepped into the saddle. The man on the ground shook his head and now Spur could hear some of the talk.

  "No, no. I've changed my mind. I can't part with Marybelle here, not even for the two-hundred dollars. I'll give it all back to you. No deal." The man on the ground grabbed the mount's bridle and hung on.

  Spur charged faster, his weapon held ahead of him. He fired once more over the men's heads. Then he saw the man on the horse take out a sixgun and fire point blank at the one who held the bridle.

  It had to be Chandler. Spur tried a shot from 50-feet at the big target, horse and man. He could get lucky. He sprinted now, the revolver cocked and ready. At 30-feet he fired again and saw the horse take the round in the head and go down.

  Chandler spilled off the mount and Spur stopped running, waited until Chandler got to his feet and then fired the last four shots in his sixgun. He saw three of them rip into the killer, who was thrown backward by the force of the heavy lead slugs.

  Spur took in the scene with one glance. Chandler down, the horse kicking its way into death, the other man in front of the horse moaning and trying to sit up. Chandler hadn't moved since he went down. Spur thumbed out the spent rounds and put in new ones until he had six more shots.

  He was 20-feet from Chandler now and wondering why the man hadn't moved yet. He had seen one round hit Chandler in the shoulder and another buckle his right leg. The other round he wasn't sure of. Those two hadn't killed the man, Spur knew that.

  With a shrill scream, Chandler lifted up, the revolver in his hand and in one swift motion he aimed and fired at Spur McCoy.

  Spur's round left his gun slightly before Chandler's did, but there was no time to move or duck or dodge. Spur's round centered on Chandler's heart, drilled through it and dumped him dead in the dirt near the side of the road.

  Spur took Chandler's round in his left arm. He grimaced at the pain, pulled off his neckerchief and wrapped up the arm to stop the flow of red blood. The round had passed all the way through the flesh leaving two wounds.

  Spur heard a cry from the man behind him. He turned and saw one final feeble wave, then the man collapsed and died. Spur rested. The sprinting run had sapped what little energy he had left.

  Five minutes later, he lifted up and dragged the bodies both off the road. He couldn't move the horse. He sat down and examined Chandler. Inside Chandler's shirt front he found the bonds wrapped in oiled paper. They were dry but most had a bullet hole through them. The bulges in Chandler's pockets revealed the bundles of Federal notes, wet but still good. The money had been split into four bunches for his four pockets. Somehow it didn't look like enough.

  Spur pulled off one of Chandler's boots a
nd found another wad of money tied around his ankle. The other ankle produced more cash. Spur pushed the money and cash inside his shirt, made sure his shirt tail was tucked in well and then began walking north. He couldn't be more than five miles from that little town, Bayview, where they both had taken the boat for a short ride down river. He'd get there with time to spare before it grew dark.

  Nate Emerson rode into the Triangle T ranch and unsaddled his mount himself. He rubbed the mare down, gave her some oats and then put her out in the corral. He was stalling. He'd been stalling about having this talk with Father Teasdale, Louisa Mae and Emily ever since he found out that Doug was involved in the whole train robbery mess.

  He couldn't put it off any longer.

  At the kitchen, he opened the door and found Dylan Teasdale sitting in a chair at the table, sipping a cup of coffee. It was the first time he'd seen his father-in-law out of bed in the several days since his stroke.

  "Hey, you look to be feeling better," Nate said.

  Teasdale sniffed, sipped the coffee and put it down. He had a big cookie on a plate nearby. "Feeling better, yes," he said. The words came a little slow, but easy to understand.

  "That's great, I knew you'd whip this thing if we let you have some time." Nate poured a cup of coffee from the warm pot on the wood range and sat down at the table near the ranch owner.

  "Father Teasdale, you know how hard I have been working lately. I'm trying my damnedest to learn all about ranching. I think you know that now. It didn't start out that way."

  Nate shook his head. "Damn, I can't understand how dumb I was five years ago. You had me figured right. I liked Louisa Mae, she's a fine woman, but I also looked at who she was and what you had here at the ranch. I ain't never told nobody this before, but I guess I married Louisa Mae as much for the ranch as for her."

  Teasdale nodded. "Figured that," he said and looked up. "Don't matter now."

  The old rancher spoke slowly again, choosing his words carefully. He moved his right hand and warmed it on the cup.