by Gem Sivad
"I have money to buy what I want, Miss Parker.” Missy Cotter was the product of intense spoiling and never missed an opportunity to brag about the money she came from.
"Go back to the dormitory porch, ladies. The peddler has nothing you would want.” She'd been firm, and Becky Johnson's snobbery had helped.
"Really, Missy, would you want anything that dirty old man is selling?” The silly child had raised her voice, intentionally insulting the merchant to impress Naomi with her superior social status.
Harvey Collins had shrugged and driven on down the road, leaving a final warning, “Your day's coming, Miz Parker.” He sneered the formal address. “You and all your prissy females will get your comeuppance."
She should have realized it had been too easy getting rid of him. She should have told someone about Harvey Collins.
Her stomach churned with guilt. My fault—Patrick dead and the others stolen; it's my entire fault.
After the outlaws had ridden away, carrying her students with them, Naomi had huddled in the crawlspace for a long time, afraid to move. Shame filled her at the memory.
Had she grown a backbone sooner, Patrick might have lived. She found him dying by the barn when she'd finally shimmied out from under the house, no worse off than a few bruises she'd suffered in her plummet from the window.
"Miss Naomi,” he wheezed her name, barely able to speak. “Tell sheriff—Comancheros.” She'd lifted him, trying to stop the wound with the fabric from her dress, but nothing slowed the blood as it leaked into the dust around them.
"Take the mule and go, Miss Naomi.” Before he died, even Patrick's last words were respectful. She might have sat longer in the wake of death, but he'd given her a direction to follow.
So, she'd ridden Patrick's mule to the town of Flat Rock, the nearest place that had a sheriff. The town she'd arrived in two weeks before.
She'd alternately cried, mumbled aloud, and slumped lifeless on the mule until she reached help. She'd been ready to hand the nightmare over to someone else. But, that didn't happen.
"No, ma'am. That's a sorry thing that happened. But if the Comancheros are stealing women from roundabouts and took them girls, we can't be leaving our own women folk unprotected. I'll wire the Eclipse Marshal, but I won't be asking the Flat Rock citizens to chase down and fight those devils."
It would take days for the territory law to put together trackers and a posse of men, weeks before there was any hope of catching the outlaws. It was only then that she had realized the girls’ rescue was in her hands.
Three men rode down the main street of Flat Rock, surveying their surroundings for danger. They were bounty hunters who led the evidence of their success behind them—two live prisoners cuffed, gagged, and mounted on horses, followed by the smell of death emanating from the cargo of wrapped bundles that poisoned the air of Flat Rock.
Judging the three riders by the dirt, dust, and sweat they wore, it would have been easy to mistake the men for saddle bums. But the well-groomed and sleekly muscled horses they rode, as well as the remuda of mounts they towed behind them, told a different story.
Naomi had stationed herself at the edge of the alley and watched the trio ride down the dirt path that passed for civilization in the county seat. The heat, flies, and filth that surrounded her in the narrow passage were temporarily forgotten as she watched the fierce men send most of Flat Rock's citizens scurrying to get inside.
The bounty hunters, cloaked in arrogance and savagery, were evidently avoided by the honest and respectable as well as the thieves and murderers in Texas.
By the time the three riders reached the sheriff's office, word had already filtered inside and a deputy stood waiting to unload the neatly wrapped bundles of tarp stacked on the back of the pack animals.
Naomi knew that what the hunters brought was this land's version of rough justice, but it made her stomach clench, remembering Patrick in death. The strangers seemed more like the Comanchero killers who had attacked the school than like honorable citizens doing a needed task.
As she listened and watched, a deputy unloaded the horses, his complaints filling the otherwise quiet street. He wore his bandanna wrapped around his face to block the odor.
"Jesus Christ, sheriff said to just bring in their gear next time. This pile of stink is smellin’ up the whole town."
"Tried that,” one of the bounty hunters nodded at the deputy grimly and chided him. “Sheriff didn't want to pay out on our word last time, remember?” Even through the dust of the trail, the man's shoulder-length hair gleamed golden under the noontime sun.
"Well, Sam, he sure as hell ain't the one out here dealin’ with rotten corpses. Maybe you could take ‘em on over to the undertakers,” the deputy bleated hopefully.
Unpleasant as it might be, it was the deputy's task to give each body a quick onceover and confirm its identity. But wrapped as each bundle was, he had to wrestle the dead to the ground in order to peek at each face.
A second of the riders settled wearily in his saddle, and after listening to the grumbling deputy, spoke. “The poster says, ‘Wanted Dead or Alive.’ They're dead ... job's done.” His voice indicated impatience that threatened to change to anger, and the deputy cast a hasty glance his way.
"I'm hurrying as fast as this shit allows, Deacon.” But the deputy quickened his pace, comparing the stack of wanted flyers with the corpses he'd unloaded, ticking them off one by one.
"Crawford Bank Robbery: $1,250 for the capture of the thieves and $1,250 for the recovery of the gold coin.” The deputy read slowly from the wanted poster. Then he looked up at the gagged and bound prisoners. “You got both of the bastards. I don't suppose they told you where they stashed the money?"
As Naomi watched, the Indian drew a heavy pouch from his saddlebags and tossed it at the feet of the deputy, who muttered, “Charlie Wolf,” acknowledging the receipt, without meeting the gaze of the third bounty hunter.
The deputy didn't offer insult by inspecting the content. Instead he kicked it over to the office door and moved on to the dead. There were six decaying murderers inside the heavy canvas wrappings. The deputy cursed, gagged, and whined, while the bounty hunters waited.
The horses twitched and stomped at the flies that were drawn by the smell of rotting flesh. Naomi peered at the crudely displayed bodies that had once been men.
"Henry Loco Miller, Thomas Wright, Juarez Sutter—payout for these is one thousand dollars each, wanted for murder.” When the deputy uncovered the next body, he cursed and kicked the carcass.
"Damn sonovabitch, I hope this one suffered before he died. Fifteen hundred dollars for murder, fraud, and theft, put up by the Texas Bank Association. He shot and killed the Austin Bank President's wife during the holdup."
The last two bodies, in the final stages of decomposition, were given a cursory glance before the deputy replaced the tarp. “Alsgood boys, five hundred each. They weren't worth much alive and didn't fetch much dead."
The third bounty hunter remained a silent, dark outline against the sun. Naomi looked speculatively at him as he sat facing the far end of the street, ignoring the caterwauling of the deputy. The blond-haired hunter mirrored his position, angling his mount to check for danger from the other direction.
When the count was finished, the deputy pushed the still gagged and cuffed prisoners through the sheriff's door, and two of the bounty hunters followed to collect their reward money. Naomi stared intently at the man called Charlie Wolf. He sat relaxed in his saddle, carelessly resting.
She knew better. He was a predator scanning the area for danger. Every other living creature within sight knew it too. The normal afternoon rowdy bluster that marked the streets in Flat Rock had quieted.
His animal snorted in the dust and scraped its hoof impatiently. Muscles rippled beneath the dark bay coat as the horse made its own protest at the stench permeating the air.
He patted the animal's neck and said something in a guttural language Naomi didn't know, “Eyaia
oyamossa,” and the horse quieted. She tucked herself deeper into the shadows as he glanced toward the alley where she stood studying him.
When the door to the sheriff's office banged open and the other two men emerged, business complete, the sound jarred her into awareness.
Without a backward look, the men headed across the street, leading the string of horses, now empty of their ghoulish burden. They left behind the dead bodies wrapped in tarp, flies buzzing loudly in the heat.
"Sheriff said he didn't have that much cash on hand,” The blond man spoke loud enough for Naomi to hear. She suspected he spoke for listeners like herself, who spied from corners and alleys. “Deacon tells him, ‘We'll take this voucher to the bank to get the rest tendered.’”
As Naomi watched, they crossed the street to the building there. The sign out front read: B and B~The Biggest Bank in the Territory. It had a false front glorifying a tin-roofed building smaller than the town's only saloon. Again, the third bounty hunter waited with the horses, while the other two took their voucher inside.
In a short time, they returned and stood there on the sidewalk, dividing their blood money up, offering bait to the wicked and stupid. Each man received a stack of bills.
"Give you any trouble?” The third man spoke to the other two when they emerged, but his eyes remained trained on the banker who had followed them to the sidewalk. Whatever the paunch-bellied businessman had been going to say, he rethought it and retreated hastily.
"Figured on making us cool our heels until the territory Marshal wired in his approval. We discussed the situation and the banker changed his mind."
Deacon McCallister spoke mildly as he settled into his saddle. All three turned their horses toward Wallace's stock barn, and their conversation floated to her as they led the string of horses to the stable.
"I think we'll get a pretty penny for that roan and the buckskin, maybe a couple more,” the golden-haired hunter predicted. Naomi could see that he referred to the few horses in the string that weren't old, sway-backed, or lame. They led them down a street that had become eerily quiet, as though the entire town strained to hear the bounty hunters’ plans.
"You'd think outlaws would be smart enough to get themselves good getaway mounts.” Sam's comments were made to the other white man.
"Reckon smarts and outlaws don't fit together naturally,” was Deacon's answer.
Charlie Wolf checked the street, store-tops, and shadowed recesses for danger, ignoring the talk between his companions. Naomi studied the third man because the other two deferred to him and put their security in his hands. He was named well—Wolf—feral like a wild beast in human clothes.
From beneath the broad-brimmed hat, black hair fell below his shoulders. Strong legs hugging the sides of his mount were encased in deerskin leggings. His body swayed as though part of the horse, one animal flowing into another. When they reached the stable, he dismounted, removing his hat to beat the dust from his pants, before he settled it back in place. He turned and looked back down the street, his gaze stopping at the narrow passage where she stood in the shadows. Naomi knew he couldn't see her, but she stepped back anyway, feeling vulnerable.
Someone was watching them. Charlie felt the eyes of a stalker following their movements. Interesting... He checked behind them, bringing up the rear when he entered the stable.
"Gonna ride a whore all night long,” Sam called out what was on all their minds. Charlie thought about the trade that he'd almost had worked out, for a Kiowa female to use when he needed a woman. Sam's words brought his cock to life, want stirring in his loins.
"Ain't no use in the Indian going over to Jake's Saloon; he don't serve ‘em,” Wallace imparted his knowledge to the white McCallister cousins as though Charlie Wolf was deaf and invisible. “Redskins, I mean. Jake lost a brother and sister to the ‘72 Comanche raids. He holds on to his hate tight."
"I'll expect that trough over there half-filled with hot water when I get back.” Charlie deliberately stood in front of the old man and forced him to meet his gaze. Old eyes blinked rapidly, and then he nodded.
"You're a half-breed—can tell from your light eyes. I ‘spect I can wait on the American part of you. But it'll cost ya. That trough holds a lot of water.” Wallace grabbed a bucket and headed toward the pump.
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Chapter Three
Naomi found a shaded spot beside the livery stable and spent her afternoon watching for the men to emerge. When they finally did, she marked their direction and waited until they entered the town saloon. She followed, sneaking through the backdoor to crouch in a hidey-hole under the stairway. From there she observed the three bounty hunters belly up to the bar.
Piss and vinegar flowed in their veins and there wasn't a doubt in her mind a fight was in the offing as the town's regular drunks reluctantly made way for strangers. The newcomers looked to be the type to oblige if they were invited to a brawl.
Jake, the bartender, seemed determined to test her theory when he said, “We don't serve redskins here."
His words had chairs scooting away from the bar as those in the room, fell quiet, listening.
The uncomfortable silence was broken when the Indian named Charlie Wolf, peeled some bills from the wad of cash he carried, grabbed the bottle off the bar, and threw the money at Jake. “Now you do,” was all he said, as he and his two companions went over to a table.
The way the sheriff, deputy, and banker had eased around them, as well as the way the town's citizens had scattered earlier, Naomi wondered just how dangerous the men were. She settled down in her crawlspace, watching the byplay closely.
No one wanted to rile the three anymore than Jake already had.
"Get your ass moving, Molly. I don't pay you to sit around,” Jake snarled at the saloon girl who had eased onto one of the high bar stools. Everyone knew that he was venting his anger on her for lack of courage in bracing the newcomers, but that didn't help her.
"Molly, come over here,” the Indian ordered, deliberately ignoring the bartender. The English words spoken in a Texas accent seemed strange coming from his lips.
The saloon's fancy woman answered the call reluctantly, slowing her pace as though waiting for someone like Jake to intercede. No one did, and when her mincing steps brought her to the table, the Indian pulled her onto his lap, fondling her breast as he fumbled one hand under her skirt.
"Hey, who said you got first dibs?” the blond-haired member of the trio protested.
"Why don't we flip for it?” The third man tossed a coin as the Indian sucked the whore's nipple, cloth and all, into his mouth.
Mouth full of cloth and breast, the Charlie Wolf mumbled, “You'll give us a good ride, won't ya, sweetheart?"
Naomi's heart raced, and she stiffened in shock watching the dark head press against Molly's fullness. She knew she should look away from the indecent display of crude roughness, but couldn't. Instead, her breath felt constricted, and her body pulsed the same way it once had when she'd come upon a stallion covering a mare.
That day, she had stood frozen, mouth agape, breath a harsh pant, as she'd watched the magnificent animal service the female. She'd known that this was the coupling that she'd heard whispered about in furtive discussions. Her body had reacted scandalously, fevered loins aching for something yet unknown.
Watching the Indian suckle the woman through her dress, Naomi unconsciously pressed her palm against her tightly constrained bosom, mesmerized by the scene before her. The finely chiseled lips moved against the softly swelling mounds, and then his teeth flashed, scraping the fabric and pulling taut the nipple, so that everyone in the room could see the whore's arousal. He laughed and released his hold on her.
The fancy woman tumbled to the floor from her captor's lap and then scrambled to her feet, backing away. Her loud denial belying her flushed cheeks and pointed breasts could be heard all over the bar, as the other saloon girl bobbed her head in agreement.
"Sorry, mister, I hav
e to make a living. If it got out I let an Indian have a poke, I'd have to lower my price.” Her hasty look at the saloon owner said she'd have to endure more than a drop in wages if she went up the stairs with the dark bounty hunter.
Behind the counter, Jake pulled out a shotgun and aimed it in the general direction of the Indian. “My whores don't fuck redskins. I'm telling you to leave."
"To hell with it.” In one fluid motion, the Indian grabbed the bottle from the table, knocking his chair over as he stood, and threw it straight and sure into the side of Jake's head. The glass hit its target with a loud thunk, and then broke, showering Jake with alcohol as the shotgun fell from the bartender's hands and he dropped like a stone.
"Don't threaten me, Jake, or you'll end up dead,” the Indian grunted to no one, since he'd knocked out his target.
"One of these days, Charlie, you're going to get your ass blown off doing something like that,” the blond stranger said.
"Hell, Sam,” the one they called Deacon, growled. “One of these days he's going to get our asses shot off doing something like that."
Naomi organized her information. The Indian is named Charlie; his companions—who had drawn their guns and stood eyeing the customers in the bar—are Deacon and Sam. No one seemed inclined to challenge the trio.
The one named Sam walked behind the bar, nudging the body of the bartender aside and reached underneath the counter. “Good stuff under here,” he grinned bringing two bottles up with him.
"I'm done here,” the man who had just knocked out the bartender stood with gun in hand. When no one challenged him he started backing toward the saloon exit, all the while pointing his gun steadily at the bar's occupants.
"Hell, take this to keep you company,” Deacon passed one of the bottles to the retreating man.
The three spoke playfully as though it was all a game, but Naomi noticed none of them holstered their weapons until the swinging doors closed behind the Indian. Just as quick as that, the two remaining turned back to the whore, Molly, who, free from the watchful eye of Jake, seated herself gratefully at their table.