by Jake Logan
His hips arched and he discovered the restraining ring inside her. She hunched her hips toward him to help, and the third time he tried, he entered the constraining circle.
She cried out and clutched him. “Oh, yes. Oh, yes.”
They were lost in a whirlpool of need and spellbinding pleasure. Her legs wrapped around him and she humped against his every thrust. Her head tossing on the pillow and her moaning only added to the excitement. It could go on and on forever.
His heart pounded against his ribs. His wind grew shorter. He scrambled on his knees to keep getting into her as deep as he could. The sharp nail of her clit dragged over his sensitive shaft with each effort—then he began to realize the end was near. Both of his legs were cramping, and the explosion in his testicles flew out the end of his cannon in one last drive.
She fainted, and he had to stiffen his arms to keep from crushing her. He rolled off to the side. His eyelids weighed a ton as he hugged her small form to him. He drifted off in sleep.
When he half-opened his eyes, she was rolling him over on his back and climbing to straddle him. She inserted his half-erect dick in herself and slid down on it. Then she sprawled on top of him and whispered in his ear, “Hyrum, no matter how hard he tried, never got past that ring. Oh, Slocum, it felt so good.”
He mumbled something to her, hugged her, and started back to sleep, half-dreaming of himself, Red, a packhorse, and her going to Mexico.
In the predawn, he shaved at the dresser mirror. She sat on the high-back chair and watched him.
“I want you to cut my hair,” she said. “Short.”
He looked back at her. “I don’t have any shears.”
“You can do it with your razor.”
Ready to slice another soapy swath, he paused and frowned at her.
“No problem. I don’t want to be bald. Just cut it off short.”
“Why?” He turned back to shave.
“Because in a man’s pants and shirt and with short hair, I won’t be a distraction hanging around with you.”
He studied the notion and swirled the blade in the pan to remove the foam and whiskers. “You’re sure?”
“Yes, this dress is not the clothes to wear riding in the saddle. I know that well. Second, I figured the less distraction I am to anyone, the easier it will be for you to take me along.”
“That could be so.” He watched close in the mirror as he shaved away from his ear.
“Good. Let’s find the clothes after my haircut.” She gathered the sheet off the bed. “This will keep the hair off me.”
He rinsed the soap off the razor and shook his head. “I hope to hell you know what you’re getting yourself into. It’s liable to be really bad down there.”
“Do I look like a coward to you?”
“No, ma’am.”
“I can shoot a pistol.”
“Oh.”
Her blue eyes narrowed to slits. “Today, I’ll show you how good a shot I am.”
“Where did you learn how to shoot?” He finished washing the extra soap off his face.
“My father taught me.”
“Good.”
“You’ll see. I can tell you don’t think this little girl can shoot. But I can.”
Slocum shrugged. “Let’s get breakfast—your new clothes.”
“After you cut my hair.”
“I may slice your ear off.”
She tied the sheet around her throat and took a seat as she spread the long sheet out to cover herself. “You may start.”
He took a pinch of hair and sliced it off.
“Slocum. You will have to take more in your hand to ever get done.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Then he bent over and kissed her. When he straightened, he began to slice away at her curls by the fistful. “I have roached several mules in my day.”
“Never a claybank one, I bet.” She laughed.
“No, they sure weren’t your color. Only saw one or two of them in my whole life.” Her hair was fast becoming much shorter under his effort.
He finished under her direction while she stood in front of the mirror. Then he pulled back and looked. She’d make a boy in the right kind of clothes. But he noticed her chewing on her lip a lot as he put up the razor.
“You regretting this deal?”
“No.”
“Then why the long face?”
“I’m still a woman.”
He hugged her shoulder and put his head against hers. “I ain’t forgetting it.”
“Just so you don’t.”
The young store clerk took one look at her when she asked for canvas pants and said, “My, ma’am, you’ll sure take little britches.”
In boy-sized underwear, denim waist overalls, suspenders, and a long-sleeve pullover blue shirt, she took on a new image. They rummaged through the store’s boot stock for a pair to fit her, and they finally found some square-toed black ones with high vamps that fit over her wool socks.
Slocum selected a new .38-caliber Colt from the glass case for her, and a new cartridge belt and holster that they had to cut down to fit her narrow waist. Then, while he and the fresh-faced clerk filled the loops with new ammo, she tried on new hats. Finding a good lightweight straw, she slid the chin strap up and posed in the mirror.
“How does it look?” she said.
“Fine,” Slocum said, loading the pistol and not looking up.
“I’m over here.”
“Oh.” He glanced at her and nodded. “You look swell.”
“What’s missing?” She made a face in the mirror.
Slocum walked over and took a gray silk scarf off the rack. He fitted it around her neck and held out his hand for the clerk to give him the silver ring. He drew the kerchief’s tail through the ring, tightened it, and nodded. “Now look.”
“Yes. Thank you.” She admired the addition.
He handed her the gun belt to strap on. “Now that should complete your outfit. Wait—she needs a knife in a sheath on that thing.”
The clerk handed him a small antler-handled knife in a sheath. “Here,” Slocum said, and slipped it on the belt, then passed gun rig to her. “Now you look ready.”
She smiled and nodded while strapping it on.
“I must warn you, there is a gun ordinance in Tombstone these days,” the clerk said.
“We won’t be here long,” Slocum assured him.
“Fine. They do enforce it.”
“I can understand why. Silver, if you’re ready, let’s go get the horses. This young man will help us load the packhorse when we ride back up here.”
“Oh, certainly, sir.”
“Thank you,” she said, and smiled at him. “You have been most helpful.”
“My first time.” His face turned a little red.
“What’s that?”
“First time I ever turned a lady into a boy.”
They all laughed.
Twenty minutes later, they were loading the panniers with their needs and supplies on the packhorse. A young marshal was picking his teeth, looking them over with his shoulder against a post.
“Guess you two boys know we got us a gun ordinance in this town.”
Silver looked at Slocum and they nodded at each other. Slocum turned and spoke to the lawman. “We’re leaving.”
“Yeah, but wearing a gun in the city limits is against the law.”
“I think you heard me. We’re leaving town. Right now.” Silver mounted her horse and he did his.
The marshal threw down his toothpick. “See you obey the law next time.”
They were hardly thirty feet down the street when the young store clerk lit into the lawman. “Wylie, you are plumb stupid. That wasn’t no boy with him, that was a lady.”
“Huh? A lady?”
“I give up on you.”
Down the street, Slocum winked at her. “Little Britches, you had him fooled.”
9
Mexico was a faint line in the sand. The two of them crossed the border and
headed southwesterly. It was a dry land of cactus, greasewood, bunchgrass, and purple sawtooth mountains. Heat waves distorted Slocum’s vision of the horizon, but his partner looked fresh in her new uniform. Their horses were rested as well and held a good trot.
At mid-morning, they stopped at a small well beside the dim road they traveled, and drew water for the horses and themselves. While he pulled up water for the horses, she found some discarded brown bottles and stood them up on the far bank of the arroyo.
When she climbed out, she pushed the new hat to the back of her head. “Now, Slocum, watch this.”
She drew the small handgun, cocked it, took aim, and fired. The glass bottle busted into shards, and Slocum spoke to the startled packhorse. “Go ahead,” he said to her, holding the packhorse firmly.
Numbers two and three went to fragments, she busted a piece off the top of the next one, and smashed the last one. Her gun hand dropped to her side and she turned slowly to face him.
“Well?”
He took off his hat and scratched his head. “Why, you’re plumb full of surprises, Little Britches.”
She gave him a smug nod and holstered the gun.
He reset the hat and handed her the reins to her horse. “All right, don’t forget to reload it.”
In the saddle, she nodded. “All right.”
“Shooting a man ain’t like shooting a bottle, but if it’s your life or his, you learn how,” he said, and booted Red out in a trot. Maybe she’d learn that. He hoped she never needed to, but where they were going anything could happen. And probably would.
That evening, he bought them food from a woman vending in the street of Enterado, a dried-up village at the base of the Madres. The hot and spicy meat-bean burritos were wrapped in fresh-made blanket-size flour tortillas. He nodded to her as they squatted beside the adobe wall in the twilight. “What do you think now?”
“Woo, that’s hot!” she said.
“You’ll get used to it.”
With her free hand, she fanned her mouth, then she winked at him. “I’ll be fine.”
He spun on his toe at the sound of a horse coming down the street. The vaquero came by ignoring them. A gun butt stuck out of his holster in the dimming light. By the grade of the fine horse he rode, there was no doubt he was a pistolero. Many haciendas kept pistoleros on their payroll. They were peacekeepers, assassins, and the final resolvers of any problem the patrón needed taken care of.
“You know him?” she asked, no doubt seeing Slocum’s obvious interest in the rider.
“No. I wondered why he’s here.” He turned to the old woman and spoke in Spanish. “You know him?”
She shook her head. “Never see him here before.”
“Gracias.”
“What do we do now?” she asked.
He rubbed his upper lip as he cupped his mouth in consideration. “If he’s out of work, we could use him.”
“How will you find that out?”
“Go ask him.” He looked off down the street at the silhouette of the barb horse standing at the hitch rail. The animal’s dish face and small pin ears were on alert in the light coming from behind the batwing doors.
“Isn’t that dangerous?”
“Ain’t much in this land won’t sting or bite you.”
She handed him the last of her burrito for him to eat. “I’m ready.”
“I was thinking you could tend the horses.”
“I’m with you, big man.”
“All right, Little Britches.”
She held her hand out to stop him. “I like Little Britches much better than ma’am.”
He nodded.
They led their horses down the caliche street and hitched them beside the barb. Slocum shifted the Colt on his hip, nodded to her, and led the way through the creaking batwing doors. Once inside in the flickering candlelight, he motioned her toward a booth. She slid in first.
The bartender came over.
“Dos cervezas,” Slocum ordered.
The man nodded. Slocum motioned for him to come closer. “If that hombre standing at the bar needs work, send him over.”
“Ah, Señor,” the man whispered. “He must be a pistolero.”
“I know. Do it.”
The bartender went for their beers, and Slocum watched him tell the man. The vaquero looked over in his direction and Slocum nodded.
The barkeep rushed over, set down their beers, and left as if he was scared.
“Here he comes,” she whispered, pulling the mug toward her side.
The vaquero carried his glass over and stopped, standing above them.
“Slocum is my name. That’s Little Britches.”
“My name is Vegas.” He tossed down some mescal from the glass, but made no move to join them. “What work do you have for me?”
“Pays fifty American.”
“What must I do?” He shifted his weight to his other boot and the spur rowel rang.
“Be sure the gold train gets through.”
“You have a mine?”
“The one I work for has the mine.”
“There must be bandidos.” The man looked reflectively at the finger of mescal left in his glass.
“You know Henry St. John?”
“I have heard of him.”
“Scare you?”
“No. Where do you go now?”
“In the morning we ride to the mine.”
He closed his left eye to stare hard at Slocum out of his right one. “Why does he have a gringo in charge for his security?”
“Not a he. They killed her husband. Have a seat. Your glass is empty. I’ll buy you a good bottle. We can talk of the men we know.”
The man swept off the heavy sombrero and hung it on a hook. Then he scooted into the opposite bench and looked hard at Little Britches. “What do you do for this woman?”
“Whatever she needs.”
Vegas chuckled in his throat at his discovery. “A woman disguised as a man. I wondered who you were.”
“She’s not the point,” Slocum said. “Lucia Valenta is the woman I work for.”
“Oh, my, yes. She is some woman. I have seen her at the hacienda. They killed her husband?” He spread his hands out on the table. His wrists were wrapped in stiff cuffs. His dusty leather clothing fit him well. A silver cross swung from around his neck.
“A short while ago, she asked me to return and help her. I quit him three weeks ago because I told him he needed to hire more guns to protect his interests and he refused my request.”
“And got himself killed?”
Slocum nodded. “Where have you worked?”
“I was born on the Aquares Hacienda. Like all good children, I grew up there, learned all the skills that I have there. But the patrón died a year ago and the senõra remarried— this man she married had his own pistoleros. She called me to the house and paid me in gold. She gave me the fine horse and she hugged me. Then she told me I must leave.
“I left, but there was no work for a pistolero wherever I stopped.”
“Where were you going tonight?” Slocum asked.
A slow smile spread over his handsome face. “To look for work.” He nodded toward the mountains. “They said Henry St. John would hire me.”
“Oh, damn . . .” Silver sucked in her breath.
10
The three of them rode alongside the noisy rushing stream. Giant gnarled cottonwoods followed its course. The air was cooler and junipers dotted the hillsides above them. At midday, they took a meal break in a small village. On the narrow street, they found an old woman selling meals and she made them corn tortillas filled with some meat and sauce.
Her face was as wrinkled as a dried whole apple and she talked nonstop.
“Where do you go?” she asked.
“To see some amigos in the mountains.”
“Hmm.” She sniffed. “Two pistoleros and a young boy. I know where you go.”
“Where is that?” Slocum asked, not listening to half the things s
he said.
“Ha. You go to Valenta’s mine where the friends of Mexico’s poor people have taken over the mine.”
Slocum frowned at her words. Mexican poor people have the mine? “When did they do that?”
“Maybe two weeks ago. They are in charge and will share the riches of the mountains with workers now that they have it.”
“Who says they will share it?” Slocum asked.
“St. John. He told everyone when he got in charge he would share it with all the people.”
“What have they done to the señora?”
The old woman cackled. “They have shipped her ass to Mexico City. Sold her pussy to the slave market. I hope lots of dirty stinking dicks poke her cunt every night.”
“You know this to be the truth?”
“They brought her by here two days ago.”
“Who?”
“A man called Freddie Fine. He and some horny pistoleros were taking her to Mexico City.”
“You know this to be so?”
She cackled some more. “I saw the one they called Tigre stick his dick in her ass right here in the street. She cried and I laughed. That bitch beat her last maid.”
“She beat you?” Slocum asked.
“No, but she beat my cousin.”
“What for?”
“She said she stole jewelry.”
“How much did she sell the jewelry for?”
“Not enough for the beating she got.”
He simply nodded.
When they left the old woman and went to water their horses at the stream, Slocum looked back. “We must see if we can get her away from Freddie Fine. Vegas, you know this man called Tigre?”
“He is a mean man who cares for no one. Who is this Freddie?”
“A worthless gunrunner who makes slaves out of women.”
“I wonder who is the other pistolero,” Vegas said.
“We’ll find out. We must go after them.”
“Can the three of us handle them?” Silver asked.
“Sure.” Slocum wasn’t worried about those three men being any threat to them. The treatment of poor Lucia at their hands before he found her worried him much more. Tigre screwed her in the street—he shuddered at the thought.