Longarm and the Wolf Women

by Tabor Evans

  Longarm looked at the blonde lying on her side, facing him, her shocked eyes on the bear. Sand streaked her breasts, the water beading on them and reflecting the sunlight like jewels.

  Suddenly, he bolted to his knees, brushed his hand across his holster, and spewed water from his lips. The .44 was still there. He palmed it, aimed it first at the blonde, then at the mountain man sitting on the bank and staring appreciatively down at the water-logged grizzly. He held his Sharps across his knees.

  “Hold it,” Longarm ordered, blinking against the water still washing down his face from his hair. He thumbed the Colt’s hammer back. “Stay where you are—both of you.”

  The blonde and the big man turned to him dully, as if noticing him for the first time. He could have been a strange bird that had just dropped into their camp without warning.

  Longarm glanced around and stepped back to peer over a low ridge behind the big man in the buffalo coat—Magnus Magnusson, without a doubt. Blue camp smoke rose from a notch in the mountain slope, and Longarm spotted a black mule tied with Comanche John’s dun gelding and several horses between aspens.

  His gut twisted, and his heart hammered. If they had John’s mounts, John was most likely dead. Hardening his jaw, Longarm looked around once more.

  “Where’s the other woman?”

  In the corner of his right eye, a shadow moved behind him. A glassy murmur of water . . .

  Something hard slammed against the back of Longarm’s head. The world pitched. Black balloons danced in his eyes until one balloon grew larger than all the others, filling his vision as his knees buckled.

  His gun fell from his slack fingers, and he hit the river with a groan.

  Chapter 17

  Longarm floated up through deep, gauzy blackness to half-consciousness. He was aware of being wet and riddled with aches and pains, and of lying on a fur of some kind. The fur didn’t extend much past his knees, and his boots, when he moved his feet, scraped sand and gravel.

  Gradually, he floated up from a sticky slumber and opened his eyes. It was almost like being reborn in another world. Where in the hell was he, and how had he gotten here?

  After a few seconds, it all came back—the girl, the bear, the river.

  Magnusson.

  Instinctively, Longarm’s right hand went to his holster, but he wasn’t surprised to find it empty, the leather wet and gummy from the river.

  He lay staring up at a ragged round piece of sky, a single star winking to life just right of a high, bald mountain peak another thousand feet above him. Around the ragged hole, pale gray rock tapered down to steep walls falling in all directions around him.

  He was in a hole of some kind. Possibly an old mine digging. He could see the marks of picks and chisels in the crenelated granite. The opening was a good twenty feet above him.

  Somewhere behind him, water trickled. When he moved his left foot, a rat shrieked and scuttled across sand and rock.

  Bringing his gaze in closer, Longarm saw that he was lying on a deerskin. There wasn’t much else around—just the rock walls and a jumble of stones behind him choking what appeared to be the mine’s main shaft.

  He turned to his right, and his insides contracted.

  A human skeleton lay slumped against a low shelf protruding from the wall—a skeleton clad in a patched plaid shirt, denim trousers, and hobnailed jackboots. Nearby lay a black, knit watch cap, like those favored by miners.

  A scorched rock ring lay near the man’s boots, humped with old, gray ashes. The skull still had some skin and sinew left on it, but the eye sockets were black and empty. What few teeth the man owned were long, yellow, and crooked. One far back in his mouth shone silver.

  Recoiling, his heart pounding, Longarm got up slowly, noting the scrapes on his hands, arms, and knees. His damp shirt was torn in several places, probably by the brambles he’d rolled through. His right knee felt swollen, and that ankle was gimpy.

  A tiny man in his head was assaulting his brain plate with a ball-peen hammer. Amid the pain he wondered why he was still alive.

  What was the point of throwing him in a pit? What were they saving him for?

  Where was Magnusson and those crazy bitches?

  In spite of all his aches and pains, he figured he’d live—if he could figure a way out of the pit, that was . . .

  Staring up the sheer walls, looking for handholds, he caught a shimmering glow on one side of the opening far above his head. A campfire. The faint scent of burning pine and roasting meat brushed his nose.

  He tried to identify the meat.

  He grunted. Bear.

  Wincing at the pain in his head, he moved along the hole, squinting against the gathering darkness, trying to find a way up the wall. Of course, if there were one, the hombre moldering nearby would no doubt have found it.

  Longarm drew a deep breath, fighting back panic as the sheer walls closed around him and the darkening sky quickly filled the opening, like a lid being nailed down on a casket.

  He cursed and drew another breath.

  Deciding that climbing the walls wasn’t an option, he turned to the rocks strewn around the low shaft opening. Kneeling, he removed a few rocks, and stopped. He smelled no fresh air seeping through the tiny gaps between the stones, which meant he’d find no escape route there, either.

  Besides, he sensed there were a couple tons of rubble between him and the shaft . . .

  “Hello down there!”

  The woman’s voice echoed flatly.

  Longarm jerked around, peered up. A head was silhouetted at the hole’s lip.

  “Hello?” the female voice echoed again.

  Longarm stood. “Get me outta here!”

  The girl chuckled. The head disappeared.

  For a time, there were scuffing and creaking sounds, and then a rectangular object was lowered over the side of the hole. It descended quickly, the squeaking sounds bespeaking a winch at the top of the pit.

  The rectangular contraption slid down the side of the hole to the floor. It was a heavy basket made from willow branches, with a rope secured to each end. The contraption was probably how Magnusson and his wolf women had gotten Longarm into the hole without killing him. Inside the basket someone had piled about ten lengths of split pine logs, a box of matches, some kindling, a folded wool blanket, and a dented plate on which sat a chunk of roasted bear.

  Beside the plate, wedged into a corner of the basket, stood Longarm’s bottle of Maryland rye and a tin cup.

  “If you’re expecting a tip, forget it. Why don’t I crawl onto the basket, and you pull me outta here?”

  The only response was a tug on the rope, shaking the basket. Longarm got the message.

  He removed the plate and the bottle, set them aside, then tipped the basket to remove the wood and the blanket. He held onto the basket, reluctant to release his only means out of here.

  An irresistible impulse hit him, and he leaped at one of the ropes. He clutched it in both hands and began drawing himself up hand over fist, pulling hard and fast, using his feet to walk himself up the sheer, uneven wall.

  His heart pounded as the opening grew. He stared at the girl’s head silhouetted against the pale sky, willing her to stay there, to not turn and release the winch.

  He grunted and cursed, flailing at the rope, kicking at the wall . . .

  The girl laughed.

  This was crazy. A sure way to get himself killed.

  Longarm’s heart beat hopefully as he came to within six feet of the opening. Another four, and he could reach up, grab ahold of the lip . . .

  He cast another glance toward the opening. The girl was extending something into the hole. It flashed and barked.

  Longarm jerked his head down and stopped climbing as the bullet whistled over his right ear and plunked into the floor of the cavern. Another shot echoed, the bullet spanging off the walls.

  “You fuckin’ bitch!” Longarm grated and began lowering himself back into the hole, glowering up at the girl who kept
the pistol aimed at him. He couldn’t see her face, but something told him she was smiling.

  He leaped the last few feet to the floor of the pit and released the rope. Above, the girl laughed again.

  In a husky voice, she said, “You’re gonna be fun!”

  Then the winch squeaked and the basket began rising up the wall.

  “So are you, you fuckin’ bitch!” Longarm’s voice resounded around the chamber, sounding far away beneath the ringing the pistol fire had set up in his ears. “You’re gonna be a whole lotta fun when I get my hands around your neck and start squeezing!”

  That maddening laugh again. The basket disappeared. The winch fell silent.

  Then there was only the faraway trickle of water and the hollow sound of the night wind blowing over the lip of the hole.

  Wan firelight flickering above, Longarm stood in darkness for a long time, trying to get his rage in check. He’d never felt so frustrated.

  Finally, he set to work building a fire in the stone ring, keeping well back from his amigo moldering in the shadows. When the fire was going well, filling the dank cavern with at least as much light as shadow and fighting off the night chill, Longarm sat down on the deer-hide mat and leaned against the wall. He lifted the plate onto his thigh, poured the Maryland rye into his tin cup, corked the bottle, and held the meat to his nose.

  Bear, all right. Probably a rump steak. Not bad. It wasn’t the Hotel de Paris in Kansas City, but it wasn’t bad.

  Tomorrow, he’d find a way out of here. To do that, he’d need his strength.

  Longarm dug his teeth into the steak and chewed, imagining what he was going to do to those two wolf women and Magnusson.

  Longarm slept, waking a couple times in the first few hours to feed wood to the fire and snuggle down deeper in his blanket.

  He wasn’t sure how much time had passed before the fire blazed up suddenly. He lifted his head.

  Flames leaped several feet in the air. Beside the fire, the blonde stood staring down at him, wrapped in a deerskin blanket. Her greased hair was pulled back from her face and a red-and-white beaded bandanna adorned her forehead.

  Her blue eyes glinted like diamonds in the firelight.

  Longarm sat up, letting the blanket fall away from his chest. Instinctively, his right hand grabbed a log. His first impulse was to smash her head in. She seemed to read his mind, and her full lips stretched a knowing smile.

  Then she let the deerskin fall.

  “What the hell . . . ?” Longarm said, fully awake now but not sure he wasn’t dreaming.

  Her naked body was long and pale in the firelight, the full breasts taunting him, nipples lifting even as he watched. She must have rubbed herself with bear grease. He could smell it. It glistened over every inch of her body.

  Standing before him, she placed her hands on her thighs. Slowly, she ran her hands up her hips and across her belly, then cupped the full breasts, lifting them toward her neck until they looked like two round loaves of fresh bread dough. The areolas stretched wide as saucers, the pink nipples jutting.

  She groaned as she grinned down at him, the need fairly dripping off of her.

  Longarm felt sweat running down his forehead and into his eyebrows.

  Slowly, she knelt before him. She reached forward, picked up his hands in her own, and set them on her breasts. She mashed his hands against the heavy orbs, squeezed her eyes closed, and rolled her head back on her shoulders, moving his hands slowly, sighing heavily, and cooing.

  Longarm glanced at the wall of the pit. A rope hung down, billowing slightly out from the wall, a couple feet coiled on the floor.

  He looked up at the blonde, her neck stretched as her head lolled on her shoulders. He set his jaws and squeezed her breasts. She cried out with ecstasy.

  He began sliding his hands up her breasts toward her neck.

  There was the sharp, metallic rasp of a rifle being cocked.

  The blonde chuckled huskily as he glanced around. The black-haired girl sat on the other side of the pit, cloaked in shadows, her back against the wall, her bare knees raised. A Winchester was propped on her right knee, the barrel aimed at Longarm. In her left hand she held a brown bottle by the neck.

  There was a flash of white as the black-haired girl stretched her lips back from her teeth, then lifted the bottle to her mouth, took a long pull.

  Longarm curled his lip and lowered his hands. The blonde leaned toward him and, breathing hard, began fumbling with his belt. He shoved her away.

  “Get away from me, bitch.”

  She glared up at him. Then she slapped him—a good swing that bit him deep. His cheek burned. He curled his lip and slapped her back. She grunted as her head swung sharply right, her breasts bouncing.

  When she turned back to him, a half smile stretched her lips and challenge percolated in her flashing blue eyes. Longarm slid his eyes slightly to peer over the blonde’s right shoulder. The black-haired girl was still smiling.

  The blonde’s open right hand again flashed toward him. He grabbed it and twisted her arm back slightly. She groaned. Her chest heaved. She leaned forward.

  He could feel her hot breath on his chest.

  Lust and rage welled in him, and he didn’t push her away as she straddled him, pressed her lips to his, and caressed his shoulders and arms through his shirt, grunting and cooing. She opened her mouth, and her tongue stabbed between his lips—hot, wet, and probing. He ran his hands along her bare, firm thighs, the bear grease slick and alluring under his skin.

  Apparently feeling his bulging crotch, she smiled as she kissed him, then knelt between his legs and unbuttoned his pants. He still wanted to punch her, hold her down, and strangle her, but at the same time she had such a hard, elemental hold on him that he couldn’t resist her.

  In fact, as she ripped open his denims, rubbed bear grease from her breasts onto her hand, then applied it to his cock, pumping him and groaning, he wanted her more than he’d ever wanted a woman.

  Chapter 18

  When the blonde had aroused him to the boiling point, Longarm shucked out of his clothes and pushed her down onto the deerskin mat. He mounted her, and in a few minutes she screamed as he threw his head back and thrust his hips forward, his shaft cleaving her, firing his seed deep within her.

  Her knees spread wide, hands around her ankles, she shuddered beneath him.

  When he’d finished spasming, he sagged on top of her, pressing his chest against her greased breasts. She cackled and raked her nails across his shoulders, ran her heels up and down the back of his thighs.

  He lay there for several minutes, breathing hard, exhausted, before he turned left to see the black-haired girl on one knee beside them, leaning on her rifle. She raked her gaze between Longarm and the blonde, her lips parted slightly, a dark, wanton look in her brown eyes, whiskey on her breath.

  Her deerskin vest was open, showing most of both large, amber breasts, the brown nipples jutting. Her soft, deerskin shirt was pulled up nearly to her waist. Her straight, jet black hair hung down over her shoulders, glistening with bear grease.

  Longarm stared at the Indian goddess beside him, her deep bosoms rising and falling sharply, and glanced at the rifle in her left hand.

  He doubted he could spring from his current position between the blonde’s knees to wrestle the Winchester away from her. These women were fast and strong, like Apaches or mountain lions.

  But if he could distract her . . .

  Longarm returned his gaze to her and lifted one corner of his mouth. “Feelin’ left out?”

  The blonde reached up and placed her hand on the black-haired girl’s thigh. The dark girl reacted instantly, sucking a deep breath through her nose and slitting her eyes. The blonde stroked her thigh for a time, then the dark girl stood, leaned the rifle against the far wall, and returned to the blonde and Longarm.

  She handed the bottle to the blonde, who took a long pull, barely reacting to the burn, then offered the bottle to Longarm. He tipped the bottle
back, his eyes on the black-haired girl.

  She shucked out of the vest, kicked out of her skirt, and knelt where she’d knelt before. She wrapped her arms around Longarm’s neck and kissed him hungrily, moving her head and groaning. After a time, she threw her other arm around the blonde and kissed her the same way.

  Longarm had been in a similar situation before—once in San Francisco, once in Dodge City. For some reason watching two beautiful naked women kiss and paw each other never ceased to arouse him.

  Only he’d never intended to arrest the other girls, or, failing that, kill them.

  He hoped these two would get so interested in each other, they’d forget him for a time, and forget about the rifle. But then the black-haired girl pushed Longarm over onto his back. His shaft had been hardening again inside the blonde, and now as he settled back against the deerskin, his cock gave a couple of nods before the head filled out and stood at attention.

  The rifle would have to wait, and he felt sheepish for not regretting it.

  The black-haired girl climbed on top of him and pressed his shaft against his belly for a time, nuzzling and licking, nibbling his balls. He ran his hands up and down her long, slender back. When she straightened, he kneaded her breasts, working her into a swoon.

  The blonde had been watching, propped on an elbow beside them, drinking from the bottle. Now, wanting into the game, she gave an eager, enraptured laugh and straddled Longarm’s belly, facing her sister. Before long, the two girls were kissing and caressing each other and nuzzling each other’s breasts while the black-haired girl impaled herself on Longarm’s rock-hard shaft.

  As she rose slowly up and down, her insides like a wet fire, Longarm lifted his hands around the blonde and played with her nipples.

  Rapturous groans, grunts, and keening whines echoed off the walls.

  Longarm lifted his head to see the blonde’s long, slightly curved back before him, her head lolling on her shoulders as he caressed her breasts and her sister nibbled her right ear between long pulls from the whiskey bottle.