by Jake Logan
Jeter wiped his face. No fat-bellied deputy would ever come out in this heat. He mopped up more sweat from his forehead, then settled the bandanna so it hid his nose and mouth. He knew it wasn’t much of a disguise after he had worked this road so aggressively for the past couple months, but he liked to do things all proper-like. It wouldn’t do to have a road agent hold up a stage and not wear a bandanna.
He chuckled to himself. The instant any of the passengers saw his face, they’d panic. It had to mean one of two things. Either he was out to build a reputation or he would gun them all down. Jeter had all the reputation he wanted and had fought off lawmen in three different states. And cutting down the passengers depended a whole bunch on how well they obeyed him. But not wearing the mask complicated the robbery, and he wasn’t in any mood for that today. Too hot.
“Giddyup,” he said to his horse, kicking his heels and getting the powerful black stallion moving after the stagecoach. The driver had about tuckered out his team, and all because he had seen a solitary rider on a rise near the road. Jeter trotted along in the heavy cloud of dust kicked up by the team and the stage wheels, vowing to come up with a new plan for his next robbery. Eating dust like this was a pain in the ass.
The trot turned into a gallop when the stage suddenly slewed to one side and stopped. One of the doors popped open and a tall passenger with the look of a gunslinger fell out onto the sunbaked road. Instinctively Jeter knew he had a passel of trouble on his hands if he didn’t take charge right away. He swung his double-barreled shotgun around and trained it on the dark-haired man with the cold green eyes.
“Don’t reach for that hogleg, mister, not if you want to keep on keepin’ on,” Jeter warned. He had to keep the driver in plain sight, but the passenger would give him a bellyful of lead if he was distracted for even an instant. Jeter trained his shotgun squarely on the man.
“No argument,” the passenger said. He slowly moved his hands out to either side of his body until they were level with his shoulders.
“Grab some sky,” Jeter said, still tense in spite of things going slick as silk so far. “It’s a real purty blue. You’ll like it. You’ll like it even more when you get to brag about not gettin’ killed.”
“What does this mean?” cried a second passenger. As the man moved to the stage door, his coat flopped open to reveal a six-gun hung in a shoulder holster. Jeter kept the shotgun aimed at the gunman, who was still doing as he was told but looked like a coiled spring ready to explode in some unexpected direction.
“It means you’re addlepated,” Jeter said, wanting to be done with the robbery as soon as possible. Things were under control, but felt as if they might slip away at any second, and all because of the gunman. “. . . and that you’re gonna be dead if you don’t lose that pistol you’re fondlin’ like you would your dick.”
Jeter watched as the man dropped the gun and then jumped out to the ground, followed a third passenger, who pushed him out of the way. This one had the look of a worldly gent who had seen and done it all. He was perfect for what Jeter intended.
“It’s too hot out here to spend the livelong day in the sun,” the third man said. “Why don’t you get on with it so we can go get a beer. If you’re inclined to leave us the price of a brew, that is.”
“You won’t find any cold ones at San Esteban,” Jeter said, appreciating how businesslike the man was about the robbery. He wouldn’t give any trouble. But trouble could spring up unexpectedly unless he got on with it and stopped lollygagging. “You. Up there in the driver’s box. Climb on down and bring the strongbox with you.”
“Ain’t got—”
Jeter fired one barrel to shut the driver up and get him moving. The driver flinched and put his hands up as if he wanted to cover his face and make the world—and robber—go away. He wasn’t going to be that lucky. When it became obvious to the driver that the second barrel would be centered on his belly, he started making all the right noises.
“It’s bolted in the rear. In the boot, under the luggage.”
“Why don’t you start workin’ your way down to it then, while I relieve these gents of their possessions?” Jeter reached up with his left hand, grabbed the brim of his dusty hat, and tossed it to the one most likely to help things along. The man snared it and stared into the sweaty interior.
“You’re the only one with good sense. Put ever’thing in the hat. Rings, wallets, bankrolls, watches, ever’thing.”
Jeter was pleased to see the man obey without a lot of foolish questions or protests. He dropped in a thin wallet, a ring, and fished out a key dangling on a gold chain and held it up just long enough for Jeter to get a good look at it. Jeter almost laughed. The man was a Freemason, but that didn’t hold any water with him. Jeter gestured for the man to get to work collecting the valuables from the other two.
The gunman reluctantly dropped a thick roll of greenbacks into the hat. Jeter considered asking him to drop his six-shooter, but didn’t want the gunslinger’s hands anywhere near the weapon’s trigger. Better that he kept his hands up high and away from the butt of that well-used six-gun.
“Keep on goin’,” Jeter said when he saw his unwilling accomplice hesitate.
“What do you mean?” asked the man.
Jeter motioned for the man to take the watch poking out from the gunman’s vest pocket. There wasn’t any reason not to pick them all clean, including the gunslick.
“It was my brother’s,” the gunman said. He turned his cold green eyes up. Jeter felt them boring through to his very soul and repressed a shudder. He had seen all kinds in his day, but none had this man’s intensity. That didn’t matter a whit to him, though.
“It’s all I have to remember him,” the gunman said. Jeter knew then and there he had to be ready for trouble. Big trouble.
“Get me that there watch,” Jeter ordered. “I don’t like sittin’ in the hot sun any more than you do.”
“I’m sorry, mister,” the man who had done the collecting just fine so far said. He reached for the watch in the gunman’s vest pocket.
Jeter reacted instantly because he knew what was coming—what had to happen after he’d heard the gunman’s words. He bent over and swung his shotgun as hard as he could. The gunman had spun the other passenger around to use him as a shield while he drew his six-shooter. That was what he’d intended. He hadn’t counted on the hard steel, strip-wound Damascus barrel smashing down onto the top of his head.
Jeter had to give it to the man. He was a tough hombre. Even the hard blow to the head didn’t take him out. Leaning down low, Jeter swung the shotgun a second time. This time the gunman went down and stayed there.
The other passengers and driver were too stunned to react. They stared at their fallen fellow traveler, mouths open, saying nothing.
“Keep on collectin’,” Jeter ordered the man who had helped him. “Be sure to take that watch he was so intent on keepin’.” He pointed the shotgun at the man he had laid out cold.
The one holding Jeter’s hat jumped to obey, then handed the hat up to the outlaw. Jeter made a mistake then, taking the contents and turning to stuff it all into his saddlebags. The passenger dressed in the threadbare coat picked up a rock and threw it. Hard. His aim was bad, and he missed his target, but did almost as well when the sharp stone hit the stallion’s haunch. The horse reared, forcing Jeter to fight to keep control. He was tossed off and hit the ground hard. The impact stunned him, but not so much that he dropped his scattergun.
Through a roar in his ears Jeter heard the driver yelp like a scalded dog.
“Git in. We gotta git outta here!”
The two passengers still on their feet jumped and crowded inside, leaving the third on the ground. Jeter sat up in time to see the driver grabbing the reins. His vision was blurry from the fall. He intended to blow the damned driver’s head off, but when the shotgun discharged, the muzzle pointed in a different direction. Jeter saw splinters fly when the load of buckshot tore through the side of the stageco
ach and then a mist of blood erupted. He had shot one of the passengers. Then it was too late for him to grab for his six-shooter. The driver snapped the reins and got the frightened team pulling hard.
“Damnation, it don’t ever get easier,” Jeter grumbled as he got to his feet. He checked to see that the passenger he had buffaloed with his shotgun barrel was still out like a light. The outlaw pulled down his mask, put his fingers into his mouth, and let out a shrill whistle. For a moment he was afraid the stallion would still be running, but the well-trained horse came trotting up, looking contrite at what it had done to its rider. He vaulted into the saddle and lit out after the stagecoach.
Jeter had no trouble overtaking the stage and its exhausted team. Their condition didn’t prevent the driver from brutally using his whip.
“Pull over, dammit!” Jeter shouted. The driver ignored him. He didn’t ignore it when Jeter drew his six-gun and fired. The slug caught the driver in the left arm. From the way he stiffened, the bullet had gone completely through his biceps and into his chest. He toppled over, dead.
The team, without the whip cracking above, lost all will to run.
Jeter slowed and peered into the blood-splattered interior in time to see the remaining passenger fumbling for something. Knowing he’d had a six-shooter before, Jeter had to remove any threat. He thrust his own six-shooter through the window and fired three times. One of the slugs killed the passenger.
“What a day,” Jeter said, slowing and then moving to the rear of the stagecoach. He pulled back the canvas flap over the boot. Some of the stashed cargo had fallen out as the stage tried to outrun him, but the driver had been telling the truth about the strongbox being bolted down. He aimed his six-shooter and fired a single round. The lead whined off the lock but broke the hasp.
Jeter bent low and flipped open the lid. A slow smile came to his thin lips.
“This makes it all worth it, don’t it, old boy?” He patted his stallion’s neck, then dismounted to better scoop out the contents. Over the past few months he had held up more stagecoaches than he could remember. The banks had tried transferring money in a variety of ways, but simply sneaking it past had been most effective since he couldn’t hold up every last stage, no matter how much he wanted to. This was a shipment to a bank farther along the Butterfield route, maybe in Fort Davis. He hefted the bag of gold coins and, from long practice, jiggled the leather bag and estimated more than five hundred dollars. So much would have kept a dozen businesses running.
Or it could keep Les Jeter rolling in clover for a year.
He tucked it away in his saddlebags next to the rest of the loot, then mounted again. Jeter was a cautious man, for all his boldness when it came to holding up stagecoaches. He rode around to the team of horses, whipped out a sharp, long-bladed knife, and slit the harness.
“You four, come on along with me for a little while. Ain’t nobody in this state, Texas Ranger or Indian, that’ll be able to track me if your hooves are all mixed with mine.” Jeter looked up in surprise as the two passengers he had thought to be dead lurched from the compartment and stumbled off into the desert. He started to use his shotgun on them, then decided there was no need to waste ammunition. They wouldn’t last long in this heat.
He led the horses in the direction of the Davis Mountains and his hideout there, but one got feisty. He let it run, knowing it provided another false trail for any posse to follow. As he rode straight for the mountains, he let another horse have its head. It bolted toward the Rio Grande. Jeter watched it disappear with some longing. More than a year had passed since he’d been in Mexico. With the money he had stolen during his reign of terror along the San Antonio-El Paso road, he could live like a king across the border.
Jeter wiped the dust off his lips, remembering the taste of tequila and lime. And the milky, fermented juice of the agave—pulque. And the soft kisses of lovely señoritas. That thought made him increasingly uncomfortable as he rode. Jeter rocked forward in the saddle to relieve some of the pressure, let the last two of the team race off northward, and kept up his arrow-straight trail for the mountains and what lay there.
It took two days for him to make his way through the mountains and into a grassy valley nestled between gently sloping hills. A couple of cattle lowed as he approached the small farmhouse. A barn stood some distance away, a large door partially open, hinting someone had passed through it recently. Jeter looked around for any sign of habitation, and smiled slowly when he saw a woman come from the cabin lugging a large basket of laundry. She went to a clothesline and began hanging up the wet clothes.
Jeter began responding as he saw what the young woman was hanging up. Simple dresses, frilly undergarments that must have ridden close to her most intimate flesh, other things he paid no attention to. The woman worked diligently and never saw him as he rode closer, then dismounted to advance on foot. He didn’t want to spook her. She was about the prettiest filly he had ever laid eyes on. Shoulder-length brunette hair swayed seductively as she worked. She lifted the wet clothes to the line and fastened them with wooden pins, giving Jeter a delightful view of her figure. Trim waist, firm, full, flaring breasts that would be less than a handful but more than a mouthful—
And those legs! Now and then a vagrant breeze whipped up the hem of her skirt and showed trim ankles and shapely legs. Jeter felt himself growing harder by the instant as he stared at the woman. He knew he had to have her. Now.
Jeter moved on cat’s feet, coming up close behind the woman. He reached out and grabbed her around the waist. She let out a startled yelp, looked over her shoulder, and then twisted away hard, dropping her laundry and running for the cabin. Jeter staggered from the unexpected flight.
“So, that’s the way you want it, that’s the way you’re gonna get it!”
The brunette reached the cabin, grabbed the rough wood support holding up the porch roof, and looked back at him, eyes wide and breath coming in deep gasps. Jeter couldn’t take his eyes off the way her breasts heaved under her crisp white blouse. If she were any more out of breath, the buttons would pop.
He intended to do more than make a few buttons pop off.
“Don’t make it any harder than it is,” he called, advancing.
“You . . . you can’t!”
“Watch me. No, you won’t be able to watch me because I’m gonna take you from behind. I want to feel your milky white butt rubbing up against my crotch.”
She let out a gasp of disbelief and shot into the cabin. Jeter ran after her. The latch had been secured. He was too hot and bothered to take the time to open it any other way than kicking in the door. It slammed hard against the inner wall and rebounded. Jeter caught it and slammed it open again.
“This isn’t the way,” the woman gasped out. The top two buttons of that prim blouse had opened, giving him a hint of creamy white flesh heaving beneath. As the brunette turned, she gave him a glimpse of what awaited him when a third button came free and revealed almost all of her left tit.
“I want you,” Jeter said, “and I’m gonna take you. Here. Now. I can’t wait.”
She dodged left, but Jeter was ready for the feint and captured her as she tried to go right. His strong arms caught her up and swung her around. She recoiled, but he kissed her. For a moment she yielded, then fought back. He enjoyed the play of her skin across his, her muscles, the passion she showed him. He kissed her again, then spun her around so fast that she sprawled across the table, bent at the waist.
He grabbed at the hem of her skirt and pulled it up.
“You were ready for me,” he said, his hand stroking over the naked half-moon revealed. “None of them frilly things for me to rip off. This is better.”
She gasped as he thrust his hand between her legs and stroked over the deep cleft he discovered. A finger sneaked up into her moist tightness.
“All ready for me, are you?”
“No, yes, oh!” She gasped when he tugged at her hips and pulled her back into the circle of his groin. His heavy,
aching manhood penetrated her and slid easily upward—but only for an instant. With a deft twist, she worked her pelvis away and half-turned toward him.
Fingers snaking out faster than a striking rattler, she grabbed his jeans and pulled them down hard around his ankles. Shifting her weight, she shoved and sent him stumbling backward.
“You got to do better than that,” she panted. “You have to catch me!”
With that taunt, the brunette dashed from the cabin, her skirt swirling around her ankles. Jeter caught sight of those luscious legs as she jumped from the porch and ran full-out for the barn. Cursing, Jeter pulled up his pants, stripped off his gun belt and tossed it onto the table, and then went after her. She led him a good chase, but he was hurting something fierce now for the feel of her all around him.
He saw the barn door swinging slowly, showing where she had gone. He walked with a long stride to the door and peered into the dim barn. No horses were in the four stalls, but a goat in one let its displeasure be known. Jeter ignored the goat and looked around for the woman. He didn’t see her, but he heard her heavy breathing.
Spinning, he grabbed a bridle dangling from a hook and pulled away one of the leather straps.
“You’re gonna rue the day you ran from me. Come here and get what you deserve.”
He walked slowly toward the last stall, where he heard the heavy breathing. With a swift spin around, he confronted the woman. Her blouse had come entirely open, letting her milky white breasts tumble free. The sight of them momentarily mesmerized him, but not so much that he didn’t move fast when the lovely brunette tried to duck past him and escape.
With a nimble move, he swung the leather strap around and circled her wrists, fastening them together. Jeter took another turn, then tossed the free end up and over a hook above the stall so that she had to stand on tiptoe.