The Southern Devil

by Diane Whiteside

  “Glad to, Evans,” Grainger accepted.

  A few minutes later, they were gathered to one side of the fire with the soft rich smell of tea flavoring the afternoon air. Below them, the sweet sound of the mules’ bells still rose from the valley below, marking their friends’ progression alongside the river.

  “You know we’re headed south into the San Juans,” Morgan began.

  Grainger and Little nodded. Little’s eyes touched Jessamyn’s face briefly before returning to Morgan.

  “Mrs. Evans inherited an old map, marking a trail…” He stopped, started again, and stopped. “Jessamyn, just show it to them.”

  She unscrewed the tube and began to ease the parchment out.

  “Do you believe in this trail, Evans?” Little asked, the longest sentence she’d ever heard from him.

  “I believe it will take us through the mountains,” Morgan equivocated.

  “It also shows a destination,” Little prodded. Grainger, she noticed, was not interfering between Morgan and Little. Instead he sipped his tea and watched the two calmly, his eyes assessing the interplay between them.

  She set the tube down and waited, with the parchment ready for display.

  Morgan hesitated before answering. “I believe that the map is a true one and the destination shown exists. But Ortiz’s gold is supposed to be there and I cannot believe that is true.”

  “Yet you continue to take this road.”

  “I will travel it to the end,” Morgan said flatly, “in order to deny it to my enemy.”

  That was something to hold on to. He’d fight to take her through, which gave her a chance of regaining Somerset Hall with her beloved horses. She had to get Cassiopeia and Aristotle and Socrates out of there. Dear God, may there not be yellow jack in Memphis this summer…

  “Then let us see this trail.” Little looked over at Jessamyn.

  Morgan and Grainger stretched the picnic cloth over the grass and Jessamyn carefully laid the old map on top of it. For all its stains and tears, most of the markings were still remarkably crisp. Vivid sketches of landmarks embellished it, mostly distinctive mountains and river bends. Mariners’ compasses bordered the edges, their rays aligning with those landmarks.

  At the southern edge of the San Juan Mountains, a circle with wavy lines surrounding it lay next to a waving line, probably a river. The circle was vividly unique so it had to be the gold’s location. Jessamyn’s heart stopped.

  “Very clear,” Grainger commented, tracing a spidery black line with his finger, clearly the Rio Grande River. Little was pacing around the map, studying its pictures.

  “The mapmaker was one of the best,” Morgan said flatly. “I immediately recognized its quality in Kansas City.”

  “Do you think the compass headings are accurate then?” Jessamyn asked anxiously. Both men looked at each other and didn’t speak.

  “The North Star has shifted slightly since this was made, Jessamyn,” Morgan said finally.

  “But if you found one of these landmarks and checked the bearing, then you could adjust all the others accordingly, correct?”

  “How much of a mapmaker are you, Grainger?”

  Grainger shot a look sideways at the other man. “Good enough but I’m no cartographer. I learned my skills on the battlefield, as a dragoon officer.”

  Jessamyn stayed focused on Morgan, willing him to create a miracle. “What about you, Morgan? Cousin George said you drew maps for Forrest, while you were one of his scouts.”

  Morgan traced the unmistakable sketch of the Three Needles, the landmark where they’d turn south, away from the known trails.

  “Morgan?” she prodded

  “Yes, I can update it.” He rose to his feet and began to walk around the map, closely perusing every inch. “The greater difficulty is that it’s been almost forty years since anyone followed this trail. Who knows if we can even find these landmarks?”

  “But we know the starting point!” she protested.

  “True. The map begins where the Rio Grande meets the Three Needles, but it doesn’t show the San Luis Valley.”

  “According to Aunt Serafina’s stories, that’s where Ortiz and his men lost their pursuers and felt free to turn south,” Jessamyn said, trailing behind him, trying to quell her excitement.

  Morgan spun to look at her. “Pursuers?”

  “According to her family’s legends, the trip started when Ortiz and his troop headed north from Santa Fe on patrol but were cut off by Indians. They were forced to keep heading north along the river, while gradually losing members of their party. There was only a handful left of the original party by the time they entered the mountains.”

  “They were still nervous,” Little commented. “This is a bad trail. It will take horses but there are better.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Little touched a mountain peak near the trail’s beginning. “I know this stretch is dangerous and I believe there is a better route here.” His finger traced a circle.

  “We’re not sure you’d come out on the right trail,” Grainger pointed out.

  Little shrugged. “In the end, it would bring you to this river, the Lizard. From there, you could travel upstream to the place marked.” He traced the line to the glowing circle, obviously the destination.

  “The Lizard?” Jessamyn asked, fascinated.

  Little beamed at her like a proud uncle. “See how it disappears without a trace into the desert, never joining another river? Lizards also dive into the sand, never to be seen again.”

  “Is there any need to leave the Spanish trail?” Grainger asked practically, his fingers walking compass headings. “A mountain can look completely different from a mile away and a different angle. If we lost the drawing’s perspective, we might not find our way back, even with a compass.”

  Jessamyn choked.

  Little was nodding agreement with Grainger’s logic. “No, we should stay on this trail, no matter how overgrown, but be cautious.”

  “How much farther ahead of us will Charlie be, given his six-hour lead?” Jessamyn asked anxiously.

  “It depends on how respectful he is of the weather,” Morgan answered. “Every wise man comes down off an exposed slope before noon.”

  “Much sooner if the day promises thunderstorms.” The three men shared looks of complete understanding.

  “Why?” Jessamyn demanded.

  “On the plains, you can travel until you see a storm then lie down when it begins. But here in the mountains, it seems that the storm is intent on transforming you into a lightning rod,” Morgan said slowly. “So you seek shelter before the storm appears.”

  Jessamyn shuddered. Torched by a bolt from the sky?

  “If nothing else, the sound makes the horses panic and run,” Grainger said practically. “We’ll have an easier time because our mules are calmer but Jones may have more problems.”

  Morgan chuckled wickedly. “Indeed he may.”

  The next afternoon, Morgan and Jessamyn looked across the Rio Grande Valley at the Three Needles, a trio of smooth black basalt spires rising from the valley’s base. They stood on a mountainside and were almost completely hidden from sight, thanks to the aspen and pine trees around them. Bells sang faintly in the distance as the mules made their way alongside the river, underlain by the roar of the river’s mighty waters. Waterfalls tumbled into the valley from every notch in the cliffs high above, roaring as they crashed against the rocks. The sharp tang of ponderosa pines was heavy in the air, mixed with the sweet vanilla scent of their sun-warmed bark. Over the past few minutes, a variety of birds had flitted across the clearing, their presence indicating Jones’s men weren’t using it for spying.

  Morgan scanned the rocks methodically, looking for another of those telltale glints. There were far too many possible hiding places for snipers in these cliffs. He might have been dragged into chasing after Ortiz’s gold but he didn’t have to be a fool about everything else. Lordy, lordy, he’d bet on long odds before. But findin
g Ortiz’s gold was a million-to-one shot—and in the roughest terrain imaginable to boot.

  He double-checked a particularly deep shadow before he moved on.

  “Are you sure we want to be up here?” Jessamyn asked, studying the landscape. Elk and mule deer were grazing near a fast-running stream, nearly hidden beyond one of the Needles. “I thought you planned to take a first look at the Spanish trail.”

  “Not until Grainger and Little come back,” Morgan answered, focusing the glasses on the easternmost Needle. “For now, I want to look at those spires, especially where the waterfall comes down beside our trail.”

  “Yes, the water could weaken the rock. Besides, the rock face is so sheer, it would take one of those bighorn sheep to examine it in person,” Jessamyn agreed.

  The Three Needles were almost as smooth as glass, projecting into the sky from the valley floor and rising higher than the mountain immediately behind them. The easternmost spire, just to the left of the Spanish trail, was the smoothest and the blackest except for one spot. Morgan scanned it carefully, looking for what had drawn his eye from below.

  There. He focused the glasses and stared. What the hell was a single, fist-sized piece of quartz, sparkling like a diamond in the afternoon sunshine, doing in the black basalt? He’d only noticed it when a chance gust of wind had blown the waterfall’s spray to one side. He hadn’t had to think long to realize that a chunk of white quartz wouldn’t occur naturally in a big mountain of basalt, like the Three Needles.

  He considered the rock around the quartz again. The waterfall was running fast and free, given the wet winter and spring. Other than whatever loose rocks lay underneath it, there was no easy way for a man to approach that piece of quartz. Still, a bighorn sheep wouldn’t wedge a rock into a mountain.

  Maybe one of the few prospectors to pass through here had done so to pay off a drunken bet. In a dry year, the quartz would be more visible, after all.

  Or—maybe a desperate Spaniard, traveling in a very dry year, had wanted to mark the point at which he turned off the main trail. So he climbed up the waterfall, which would have been only a trickle if it existed at all. Then he carved out a niche and wedged that chunk of white rock in. Only a rockfall or an extremely determined man could shift that blaze.

  A shiver ran down Morgan’s spine.

  He knew damned well he’d look for similar quartz along the trail ahead, although it would be hell to see a similarly sized chunk of rock, barely larger than a brick, in those gray mountains ahead.

  Ignoring the aberrant chunk for the moment, Morgan handed the glasses to Jessamyn and began to pace, considering tomorrow’s trail from various angles. It was steep and narrow but the horses and mules would have no problems with it, at least during the beginning stretch. He was glad he’d brought mules and horses who liked mountains, though. Days of traveling over hard rock, especially when canted at an angle suitable for sledding, would make most horses turn fretful.

  In addition, this journey was too peaceful by far, with no dirty tricks from Jones or his thugs. He’d feel a damned sight better if they were behaving in their old ways; politely racing to the gold was far too well behaved for that bastard.

  Morgan snarled at himself. It was time to stop being distracted by trifles and face his real problem: Jessamyn, who continued to treat him as a useful rogue—but no gentleman. After all these nights of hearing her beg for more of his attentions, he feared he was the one in danger of begging for more of hers.

  “Jessamyn?”

  She lowered the glasses. She looked the perfect lady in her dark gray riding habit, with those crisp boots, and her broad-brimmed hat cocked jauntily over her braids. “Yes, Morgan?”

  “We’ve been practicing for accuracy but now it’s time to work on speed.”

  Her green eyes widened. Could she have grinned? Surely not. What woman’s speed could match a man’s, especially given her Sharps carbine’s heavy recoil? That rifle was a horse killer, plus she’d have to lever in rounds extremely smoothly. “What did you have in mind?” she asked cautiously.

  Something easy to begin with. “See that dead tree branch across from the empty bird’s nest? Put ten shots into it in less than a minute.”

  She considered the target before looking back at him. “May I name my own reward if I succeed?”

  His eyes narrowed. What was her fertile brain up to now? “If you do so twice in succession, both times in less than thirty seconds.”

  She nodded meekly. A chill ran down his spine. “Very well. Do you wish me to fire from a prone or standing position?”

  “Prone, of course.”

  She lay down, taking up position behind a fallen pine near the edge, and emptied out cartridges onto a patch of sand. While Chaco and Starshine grazed contentedly behind them, Morgan sat down a few feet away on the grass with the field glasses and took out his pocket watch, ready to begin timing her first attempt. A moment later, his eyes widened in disbelief.

  Jessamyn was slipping cartridges in between the fingers of her left hand, an old cavalry trick. Her gun could be very rapidly reloaded with cartridges held that way, an advantage that could prove critical on a battlefield. But nobody who hadn’t frequently fought in combat learned that habit. Or had she been taught by someone with that experience, Cyrus perhaps?

  What was he risking if she won? “What did you have in mind for your reward?”

  “Pleasuring you with my mouth,” she answered simply and lifted her carbine.

  His jaw fell open. God help him, all the blood in his body headed south. He scrambled to regain his self-control, certain he couldn’t have heard her correctly. “What did you say?”

  “I want to pleasure you with my mouth.” She brought the stock against her shoulder and nestled her cheek into the comb of the stock, easily settling into the curve so she could sight down the barrel. It was the same confident, graceful motion she’d use if he lay down while she pleasured him and she wanted to rest her head against his leg.

  His chest tightened. Fierce spirals radiated from his suddenly all too hard nipples, where they rubbed against his linen shirt. He fought back a groan. His voice, when it came out, was barely recognizable. “You don’t need to earn the right to do that, Jessamyn.”

  She racked the first round into the chamber, her fingers flicking the heavy gun’s lever forward and back. She was one of the very rare shooters whose hands and fingers were so shaped that she could do this with just her fingers, without needing to move her entire wrist and arm. But from Morgan’s perspective, the movement looked all too similar to how her hand would rapidly travel up and down his aching cock.

  His breath stopped in his throat. His cock swelled against his canvas trousers.

  “I’d like to do so exactly the way I want to,” she said quietly, her soft Tennessee drawl more pronounced than usual. Her finger rested on the trigger. “When can we start?”

  He spread his legs to give his cock a little more room and lifted his pocket watch. “Now.” He clicked it but watched her.

  Crack! Smooth as silk, her fingers swept the Sharps’ lever as if they were moving over his cock.

  Crack! Another round, another caress—and lust dived into his groin from his chest. Heat pooled at the base of his spine.

  Crack! Another round, yet another caress of her fingers to her carbine that also echoed through his aching flesh. A whiff of black smoke from her carbine teased his nose.

  Morgan gritted his teeth and brought up the field glasses. He needed to view the target to be sure she was firing accurately, although she’d always done so before. Maybe if he kept his eyes on that old tree, his shuddering body would stop imagining her fingers on…

  Crack! Another round. In his mind’s eye, he could see her strong, supple fingers fondle the big carbine as they’d fondle his aching shaft. His balls swelled and he closed his eyes, resolving not to leap upon a woman with a loaded rifle.

  He managed to watch the last two shots enter the dead branch, all ten having clearl
y entered the same precise little circle. He clicked his pocket watch.

  “Is my time satisfactory?” Jessamyn asked as she rapidly reloaded. A breeze teased the smoke away so he could see her clearly. Dammit, he would be able to watch her hands stroking her gun during the next round.

  He glanced down, wondered why his cock hadn’t burst out of his trousers, and looked at the watch. “Perfectly acceptable.”

  It was the truth, too, although he’d have said that no matter what the watch’s opinion was.

  He reset the pocket watch and waited, praying he’d survive until she finished shooting.

  “What’s my next target?”

  He pulled himself back from a vision of her long black braid teasing his balls. “The fork in the branch just above your previous target.”

  She brought her Sharps carbine up again and sighted down the barrel. She racked another shot into the chamber, caressing the heavy gun’s shaft.

  Morgan groaned silently. How would he survive another round of ten shots without any relief? “Ready?”

  “Ready.”

  “Begin.” He clicked his pocket watch and prayed she’d shoot quickly. He should pray that firing twenty shots wouldn’t hurt her shoulder too badly. Nonsense; her leather jacket’s shoulders were heavily padded to protect her.

  Crack! Her fingers flicked and every button on his fly seemed stamped on his throbbing cock.

  Crack! Her fingers flicked and his cock jerked. His balls were high and tight, desperate to release their contents. He closed his eyes.

  Only pure reflex had him click his pocket watch after her tenth shot. “Name it,” he groaned, throwing back his head. If he touched himself, he’d come in his pants like a teenager. “However you want, just do it now.”

  She smelled of gunpowder and lavender. “Look at me.”

  He blinked his eyes open, well aware they were frantic. “Yes?” he growled.

  She held up a piece of rope yarn, the kind used to hold a gun in its holster lest it fall out with a careless movement. The slightest intentional pressure would snap it in an instant. “I want to tie your hands with this first.”