Slocum Giant 2013 : Slocum and the Silver City Harlot (9781101601860)

by Logan, Jake

  “You’ll get cauliflower ears doing that.”

  “Are you complaining?”

  “Yeah, I am,” she said. “Because I want something bigger.”

  He thrust his middle finger into her. She gasped, closed her eyes, and got her voice back.

  “Bigger. I want bigger.”

  “Greedy bitch,” he said. He added a second finger and began moving in and out. His hand was soon drenched in her slippery inner oils.

  “S-Still not big enough. Or long enough.”

  He stared at her. Her chest rose and fell as she sucked in short, quick breaths while her desires mounted. The tiny buttons atop her breasts had turned rock hard and pulsed visibly with every beat of her frenzied heart. He longed to pop them into his mouth, gnaw on them a little, suckle, then move on, but his own needs were intruding.

  Reaching around, he grabbed a double handful of ass and used these sexy handles to pull himself up between her wantonly spread legs. She reached between them, captured his manhood, and tugged insistently.

  “There, John, there!”

  She guided him to the spot where his tongue had already explored. The wetness, the heat, his urgency, all conspired against him. He slid forward quickly, entering her fully. The fast thrust released another flood of sensation in the woman. She clung to him, her fingernails clawing at his back.

  He began pistoning in and out until a lewd sucking sound filled the tent, almost drowning out the woman’s joyous cries. He thrust into slick, hot, moist female silk that began squeezing down all around his hidden length. Pulling back, never hesitating before he launched into her anew, they quickly found the rhythm that excited them both the most.

  As she cried out in a third release, Slocum lost control. He felt the heavy pumping and electric explosion in his body. He slammed forward and remained buried, riding her as she bucked about under him. All too soon, he began to melt in her inner heat.

  “I . . . I’m glad I had you put up the tent,” she said in a husky voice.

  “Why?” A warm afterglow filled him. They lay with their arms circling each other, sweaty bodies close.

  “We’d’ve scared the birds. And the deer. And the mountain lions, and who knows, we might have even scared the earthworms with all our thumping around.”

  “Were you scared?”

  “I was satisfied,” she said, snuggling closer. She ran the instep of her foot up and down his leg.

  Slocum laughed, but the thought flitted through his brain that it might have been scary for him. He had been with a passel of women, but never had it been quite like this.

  “The last thing Jack said before we left here the last time was how rich we’d be because of this tent. That made me wonder. He was like you. Not all that poetic.”

  “Rich?”

  “We had each other. Of course, he had found that rich silver strike but never told me about it. I think he wanted to keep it a surprise. A wedding gift.”

  Slocum’s muzzy feeling evaporated as she talked about Texas Jack. He rolled over and stared up at the tent. Bright sunlight burned against the outer surface. A few tears let the light through atop bright spires of dancing dust. His mind disconnected from rational thought. Could the holes form a map? If he lined them all up with nighttime stars, could the tent be the map Bedrich had hidden, that Frank sought?

  “You went away, John,” she said.

  “No, I’m still here,” he said.

  She pushed up, hands on his chest. He tried to read her expression and couldn’t.

  “I’ll fix some food,” she said suddenly.

  “Don’t get dressed just for me,” he said. This brought a new smile to her face. She left the tent, and he imagined that the smile melted once she turned away. He lay flat on his back, the heat building inside the tent. Outside it would be cooler, even if he was in the sun.

  He worked his way to the mouth of the tent, gripped the huge tent pole, and used it to pull himself to his feet outside. Watching a naked Marianne putting out the food caused a new jumble of thoughts he didn’t want to sort through at the moment. He went and sat on a log near the cold fire pit.

  “That looks like it’s rough,” she said. “The grass is better.” She patted the patch next to her. Slocum wasn’t sure why he found himself reluctant to sit close to her, but he did.

  Giving in, he swung his long legs around and stretched out beside her. She handed him a roast beef sandwich on thick bread. There was something about eating naked that pushed away all his earlier worries.

  “Pickle?” She teased him with the thick dill pickle, brushing it over his lips. Just when he started to take a bit, she pulled it away, only to drip a bit of brine into his mouth as he pulled back.

  He finally got a good chomp, setting free Marianne’s bright laughter again.

  “I wish this could go on forever,” she said. She lay half across him, her cheek on his bare chest.

  A cloud passed across the sun, followed quickly by a rising wind that caused the tent to flap and snap loudly.

  “At least the tent pole’s not going to break,” Slocum said. “It’d take a tornado to snap that.”

  “As much work as Jack put in on it, it ought to support the sky itself.”

  “What work?” Slocum asked.

  “He whittled and carved and shaved it. Took him the better part of three days. Never saw a man so pleased with himself when he finished it.” She sighed. “That night in the tent was . . . special. Never saw him so aroused, and Jack was a man of intense passions.”

  Slocum stared at the tent, wondering what Texas Jack had been doing. The bark had been stripped and the wood polished down a bit. That wouldn’t take a man with a dull knife an hour to do. Less. Lots less.

  “He was whittling on it?”

  “Why the interest? You—oh!” Marianne looked up at the sky as another raindrop smacked her in the eye. She turned her face down and blinked hard. “That blinded me.”

  The rain began falling heavier. She wanted to retreat to the tent, but Slocum prevailed. They stayed out in the warm shower and made love again. Only when they had finished did he suggest they return to town, using the tent to keep the rain off them. Marianne didn’t even think it was odd when he insisted on taking the thick tent pole with them, too.

  23

  The silence between them had been good as they rode out, but Marianne found it uneasy as they slowly made their way back to Silver City. She still glowed from the lovemaking, but an apprehension built to push it away. Trying to pin down the reason worried her more than anything else. It wasn’t anything Slocum had said but more what he hadn’t.

  And she didn’t know what she had wanted. Words came to her lips that might change everything between them, then she bit them back. Right now she felt whatever bond there was between them was too fragile to risk with a truth she had lived with far too long.

  “There’s Randolph,” Slocum said. “See? He hasn’t gotten into any trouble while you were gone.”

  She waved. Her son reluctantly waved back. He was at that age where any attention by his mother in public was a curse worse than anything an Apache medicine man might put on him.

  “I’d better go see how he’s doing. Since Billy is nowhere to be seen, he might be the one getting into trouble.”

  “I’ll put the tent in the stable with the horse,” he said.

  She barely noted the way he clung to the tent pole as she dropped off and went to see what Randolph had been up to.

  “You’re walkin’ funny, Ma,” he said. “Kinda bowlegged.”

  She blushed. To cover it, she ran her sleeve over her face to clean off some of the trail dust.

  “Riding double on a horse can do that,” she said. “What did you do while I was gone?”

  “Not a whole bunch.” He hiccuped loudly, then covered his mouth guiltily.

  Sh
e stepped closer and took a deep whiff.

  “Randolph Lomax, have you been drinking? That’s whiskey I smell on you! Did Billy McCarty give it to you? I’ll have his ears on a string for this!”

  “Ma, wait, no, don’t go blamin’ him. Ain’t Billy’s fault.”

  “How’d you get whiskey? Who gave it to you?”

  “I was moanin’ and feelin’ poorly. My leg was all swole up and felt like somebody was hittin’ it with a hammer. Mr. Gallifrey had a pint with him. Carries that silver flask in his coat pocket. He tole me it was medicinal.” Randolph hiccuped again. “Did help. Pain went away for a while.”

  “Tom Gallifrey gave you liquor? You’re twelve years old! I swear, I’ll start a WCTU chapter here if he really did that.”

  “He did. Ain’t Billy’s fault, so don’t go blamin’ him.”

  She heard bare feet slapping on the boardwalk. Without turning, she said, “Is that true, Billy? Did Mr. Gallifrey give him whiskey?”

  “Yes, ma’am, he did. Wouldn’t give me none. Said it was for Randolph’s leg. Almost made me want to have a broke leg, too. Only Randolph says it hurts like a million ants are always gnawin’ on his flesh.”

  “When did this happen?” she asked suspiciously.

  “Right after you and Mr. Slocum rode out. Gave me the whole danged pint, too. Went down easy, but burned in my gut. Thought I was gonna puke, but he gave me somethin’ else.”

  “Brandy,” Billy piped up. “He didn’t give me none of that either.”

  “Gallifrey gave you a pint of whiskey and brandy?”

  “Didn’t like the brandy. Said it was peaches, but it burned like hell all the way to my belly.”

  “You shoulda seen him, Miz Lomax. He was drunker ’n a lord!” Billy laughed. “He tried to get up and dance on that bum leg.”

  “I hope Mr. Gallifrey had the good sense not to allow it. Randolph could have hurt himself even worse.” She thrust her face within inches of her son’s. “You could have. You know better.”

  “Wanted to dance and not let him keep on with all them questions. Didn’t know what he was askin’, so I kept drinkin’.”

  Marianne forced away her anger at the Lonely Cuss’s owner. Maybe Gallifrey thought he was doing the boy a favor, but getting him drunk solved nothing. Randolph would be hungover and in pain when the booze wore off. Unlike most of the saloon patrons whose pain came from long hours of work, her son’s pain would pass soon enough. He had to learn to tough it out.

  “You stay here. I’m going to have words with Mr. Gallifrey.”

  “Aw, Ma, he didn’t mean nuthin’ by givin’ me the liquor. He was tryin’ to help.”

  She forced herself to calm as she neared the Lonely Cuss. The rush hadn’t happened yet, but the silver fields would empty of miners soon enough as they rushed into town. Walking through the swinging doors, she first saw Gallifrey’s portly brother, Justin, behind the bar. Then she spotted the owner at his wonted table to the side of the main room. The stacks of paper in front of him had grown into a small mountain range.

  “Marianne,” he said, looking up at her. His thin face and dark eyes made him look furtive.

  Or was it the way he couldn’t—quite—look her squarely in the eye?

  “I know you were only trying to help, but you shouldn’t have given Randolph that whiskey. Not a drop.”

  “You’re no teetotaler. Why deny your son?”

  “He—” That argument got her nowhere. She suddenly asked, “What were you asking him?”

  “I—” Gallifrey began to sputter. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Randolph said you were asking a lot of questions. He didn’t want to answer so he kept drinking.”

  “Well, there you are. He admitted he was the one to blame for getting snockered.”

  “What questions?”

  If Gallifrey could have bolted and run, he would have. She repeated her demand to know what Gallifrey had wanted of Randolph.

  “You’re talkin’ the word of a drunk kid? He got confused. I asked him simple stuff like how he busted that leg. I’ve heard some wild stories, mostly spread by Billy McCarty. I wanted to know the truth.”

  “So do I,” Marianne said. Whatever Gallifrey had asked, that wasn’t even close. She knew when a man lied. Gallifrey did it a little better than most, but not enough to pull the wool over her eyes.

  “I wanted to know if you was comin’ back to work. My shiftless brother’s terrible behind the bar. If it’s not beer, he screws it up.”

  Again she heard an ounce of truth and a ton of lie.

  “When he gets over his hangover, I’m sure Randolph will remember everything. He’s not like most of the customers who drink ’til oblivion hits them like a sledgehammer.”

  Gallifrey looked past her toward the back room and made a shooing gesture. She glanced over her shoulder in time to see the door close.

  “Who was that?”

  “You want to work here or not? If you do, I can put you to work right now. I’ll boot that lazy jackass brother of mine out all the way back to Mesilla.”

  “I’ll let you know,” Marianne said. She left before Gallifrey answered. If he had a reply at all.

  Curiosity itched at her like a mosquito bite as she went around the side of the saloon hoping to catch sight of whoever had barged into the Lonely Cuss, only to be chased off by its owner. She went to the back door and nudged it open. Whoever had entered the saloon came this way and likely lit out without properly locking it behind him. She looked around the alley, wishing she had Slocum’s skill at reading tracks.

  The ground was all kicked up and dusty. Making out one footprint from another proved beyond her skill and imagination. Marianne headed back to the hotel to find if her son had even a faint memory of what Gallifrey had been asking. Billy might know, too, since he acted as repository for all rumors and gossip in Silver City. He had to spy on everyone, see everything, think constantly about how to turn it all to his advantage.

  As she neared the hotel, she saw Randolph struggling to stand. She walked faster, intending to help him.

  The shot came from across the street. For a heart-stopping moment, Marianne thought she had been the one on the receiving end of the bullet. Then she cried out in panic. Randolph tumbled to the boardwalk and lay there kicking feebly. She skidded to a halt on her knees and bent over him, to protect him with her own body.

  “Randolph, Randolph! Are you hurt? Where did you get shot?”

  “Ain’t shot, Ma. Bullet hit my crutch.” He held up the end of the crutch. The slug had blasted the wood into splinters only inches below his hand grip.

  She reared up, keeping her body between him and the direction of the shot. It was getting toward late afternoon and twilight hid many doorways. Picking out the gunman’s location proved impossible.

  “Get into the hotel. Stay away from windows.”

  “What are you gonna do? You can’t go after a sniper by yourself. Get Mr. Slocum. He’s real good with that six-shooter of his, I’d wager. Leastways, Billy says it looks that way to him, and he knows.”

  “Inside,” Marianne said, half picking Randolph up and acting as a crutch until he got his good leg under him.

  Only when he was in the lobby did she turn and look for the ambusher. It was dangerous. But something felt wrong to her about the shooting. Missing the boy from a few yards away hardly seemed likely.

  “Miz Lomax, what happened?” Billy ran up, face flushed, and chest heaving from exertion. “I was down at the bakery and heard the rifle shot.”

  “Rifle?”

  “Sounded like it to me.”

  “Go tell the sheriff somebody shot at Randolph.”

  “Where is he? He all right?”

  “They missed. Now scat.”

  “Deputy Tucker’s in town. Sheriff Whitehill ain’t back from Santa Fe y
et.”

  “Get somebody who wears a badge. Go!”

  Billy lit out, gasping from exertion. Marianne stood stock-still, looking at the shadowy doorways. She caught her breath when a man holding a rifle stepped out and revealed himself to her. He carried the rifle so it rested in the crook of his left arm. When he was sure she saw him, he turned his back to her and walked away slowly.

  Marianne wanted to cry out in frustration. The gunman would be gone by the time Deputy Tucker got here, no matter how fast Billy was. And she had no idea where Slocum had gotten off to. Although she wasn’t armed, she ran after the man. He turned a corner and disappeared. She ran faster, swung around the corner, and crashed headlong into Jim Frank.

  The man shoved her back with his rifle. He reeked of gunpowder.

  “You tried to kill Randolph!”

  “I hit what I aimed at,” he said. “From twenty yards away, if I’d wanted to kill him, he’d be dead and on his way to the funeral home.”

  “Why’d you fire, then?”

  “I want it,” Frank said. “I wanted you to know I can kill your brat any time with a single shot. Give me the deed and I promise to let you and him go on your way.”

  “I don’t have it.”

  “Texas Jack didn’t have it on him in Santa Fe.”

  “You killed him.”

  “I’ll kill your boy and you to get that deed. I saw the assay. If it’s half as rich as the sample, I’ll be richer than anybody in this godforsaken town inside a year. Give me the deed.”

  “How will it do you any good?”

  Frank sneered, then herded her backward until she was pinned against an adobe wall by the rifle barrel. It was still warm from the potshot he’d taken at Randolph.

  “The deed’s in Bedrich’s name, but it gives the location of the mine. With the claims office here in town all burned to the ground and no official record, I can stake it out for my own.”

  “You’d stop trying to kill Randolph?”

  “And I leave you be,” he said. He leered. “Then again, you might want to take up with a rich man. After all, that’s why you and Texas Jack was together.”