“Who are you?” she asked, patting the head that was soft as a rabbit’s. The feathered ears were slinky between her fingers. Tabitha knew it was a female dog, although covered as it was by rippling fur, one couldn’t easily tell.
The dog woofed once. Tabitha interpreted it as trying to tell her something, so she stood and put her hands on her hips. “Do you want to show me something?”
Woof.
Now Liberty was on the front porch, calling out, “Caleb? Is that you, Caleb?”
Had her sister gone off her head? “Why are you calling this dog Caleb? Isn’t Caleb a person?”
Liberty leaped down the front stairs and came toward them while Jeremiah lingered, clutching a pillar in fear. “It’s hard to explain. I don’t suppose I could convince you that Caleb has the ability to enter the bodies of animals?”
Tabitha chuckled. “No, I don’t suppose you could.”
Liberty was on her knees holding the serene dog’s head in her hands. “Caleb? Is that you? Father has seen Caleb do it. I’ve seen it with my own eyes.” She sat back and told the dog, “Caleb. If that’s you, lift your paw.”
The dog sat immobile, smiling.
Tabitha laughed and ruffled the dog’s head. “I’m going to follow this giant puppy. Maybe she’ll lead me back to her owner. Come, girl. Come!”
The dog did stand then and trotted off toward Ninth Street. Tabitha shrugged and followed. Her sister Alameda lived a block away at Tibbles House. She wanted to go there anyway to see if Rudy was available for some more trick riding and shooting. It was her only thrill in life anymore, going onto the prairie and honing her skills to shoot an apple off a fake Indian’s head from underneath a horse’s flank. It was all a widow was allowed to do outside of her home, mainly because no one ever saw her do it.
On the front porch, Jeremiah shaped his hands into a cone and shouted, “Maybe the dog is named Phineas!”
“Oh, how silly!” Tabitha said under her breath. But it wasn’t any sillier than following a giant fluffy black dog down Ninth Street.
Chapter Three
Bam! Horatio Ross had just ordered them to “make this a good clean fight,” someone squeezed off a round from their revolver to signify the start of the round, and that lowdown scout Foster Richmond had already slammed Worth in the gut with his stupid skull!
Taken by surprise like this, Worth was shoved stumbling back against the feeble ropes of the makeshift ring the soldiers had cordoned off. Instantly, all the soldiers who had bet on Foster were roaring with glee, and the ones who had apparently staked their gold dust on Worth were crying foul.
“That scout’s a lowdown toad!”
“He’s not hitting below the belt at least.”
“Now he’s kicking Worth!”
Foster had fucked him and betrayed him with that move, and Horatio Ross, who was Foster’s partner in a gold claim and was acting as umpire, made no move to disallow it. This was no fair stand-up fight! Weren’t they fighting by the London Prize Ring Rules?
When Foster kneed him in the vitals, that was the final straw for Worth. He went at his opponent with all barrels. He landed a series of lightning-fast jabs to the toad’s jaw and shoulders. Foster had oiled his bare chest and arms with bear grease, most likely, and the jabs made satisfying resounding smacking sounds.
Foster was a terribly light-skinned ginger fellow who always went about covered in his buckskin leggings, fringed shirt, and leather slouch hat to keep the sun off his fair Scottish face. Now that he had stripped away all that leather and was clad only in a pair of red knee-length drawers, Worth could see that Foster possessed quite an athletic figure. No wonder his prowess had been threatened when the boys suggested Worth as a formidable opponent. Foster cut quite the well-built figure from years of riding, climbing, and scouting, his skin luminous and creamy, the pectorals rippling as he smacked Worth in the jaw with a powerful uppercut.
But he obviously hadn’t spent much time in organized prizefighting bouts. While powerful, he lacked the finesse and the grace Worth possessed as he landed several hooks that nearly knocked Foster to his ass. Horatio cried “time” on the thirty-second round, and the men separated to their corners.
“That fellow’s a devious jackleg,” growled a private who was acting as Worth’s second. “Butting with the head is foul!”
Worth gulped water from a bottle someone had handed him. “He’s obviously not fighting by the London Prize Ring Rules.”
The private said, “Then you shouldn’t either! He’s kicking you in the johnson. You should kick him in the johnson too!”
“Yeah!” roared another lieutenant. “Pick him up and toss him to the ground!”
“Kick him in the ballocks!”
Foster, his arms linked through the ropes in his own corner, glared at Worth with something decidedly more than pugilistic furor. Worth wished Foster would admire him just as Worth was admiring Foster. Worth didn’t take prizefights personally, even though a purse of a hundred dollars had been rounded up from the soldiers. He had always admired the hearty scout who was the first to rise and the last to sleep. Foster claimed to only need two hours of sleep a night, was immune to fatigue, and could hear an Indian three miles away while snoozing. Foster was a natural as a scout performing daring feats, although Worth had heard some odd gossip that he’d actually taken a law degree from Harvard.
At the start of the next round, they immediately fell into a clinch, and Horatio had to separate them. Worth could smell the bear grease Foster had used, and it was strangely stimulating to mash his bare chest against Foster’s smooth, nearly hairless one. Foster had been smart to use the grease, and now Worth’s chest was greasy as well, so when Foster dealt him what would have been a painful hook, his fist slid harmlessly off Worth’s slippery shoulder.
Now Worth danced and dodged the blows, landing many effective punches to Foster’s abdomen, not surprised to feel the ridged muscles firmly resistant to his wallops. But he’d knocked the wind out of his opponent, and Foster doubled over a bit, giving Worth the opening to thread the fingers of both hands into one solid block and whap the Scottish Jock in the back of the neck, bringing him to his knees.
According to the London rules, a fighter couldn’t hit a downed opponent. But since Foster had already made it plain he wasn’t adhering to those rules—and Horatio wasn’t doing a damned thing about it—Worth only felt a little compunction when he again bashed him on the back of the neck. Foster caved like an empty sack, falling smack on his face in the grass.
And Worth felt bad! Why was he feeling sympathy for this traitorous Jock? Maybe because Worth was such an honest, by-the-rules kind of fellow. Stooping to low measures had never worked for him, although it certainly worked for others. So he now yelled, “Get up, you cur! Get up so I can smack you again!”
Horatio, who also acted as Foster’s second, raced over and dragged the Jock to his feet. Now the fire was in Foster’s eyes, and he looked in a horn-tossing mood. He shook Horatio off and connected a fierce right cross to Worth’s jaw that had him seeing stars and staggering back a few feet. Now Foster was pummeling him in a fury, apparently determined to win the purse as well as show Worth up. Worth blocked most of the punches, but now Foster was feinting and dancing like an expert pugilist, and it would be impossible to deflect all the blows.
Worth only managed to land a few feeble jabs to Foster’s rigid abdomen, and they were in a clinch again, hugging each other, out of breath. But Foster had the presence of mind to grab a handful of Worth’s hair and jerk his neck back so he could stare at him with those cool green eyes and snarl, “You fucking tease. You think you can stand around showing off your thoroughbred physique and make all the men hot as monkeys.”
Worth frowned. “What are you talking about? You mean when I was bathing—”
Foster shoved him so unexpectedly Worth did take a tumble on his ass. He was so taken by surprise by Foster’s odd statements that he didn’t even try to stand, and in the flashing of an eye F
oster was straddling him, pinning his hands to the grass above his head. Worth made a nominal attempt to squirm free, but he was more interested in what Foster had to say than in winning any damned purse. As the expedition’s photographer, he made ten times what the soldiers made. Although with the bad voodoo that was bound to come from all this gold digging, he didn’t think he wanted to be a part of it anymore. Bloody Knife had succeeded in scaring him with all that taku-wakan talk.
“You just like to tease men’s cocks,” Foster now snarled as the company around them roared. “You’re one of those nancy boy poofs who take pleasure in making men hard.”
“I was just bathing!” Worth protested, though not so loud for any soldiers to hear. “I didn’t ask for you to come along and get all hot over my physique.”
Just as he uttered these words, it became very apparent that Foster’s prick was bulging in the crotch of his tight drawers. Was Foster one of those fellows who became stimulated when they had the upper hand, by being the aggressor? Just feeling the stiff penis rub against his own flaccid cock was exciting. Worth enjoyed besting other men, too. What would be the outcome when one he-man stallion butted heads with another, both determined to be the victor?
Worth squirmed his hips some more, just to see the effect it would have on the scout. He had heard Bloody Knife call this ginger fellow “Fireball.” He certainly was a powerful barbarian. Most of the time he loped about silently, dignified and noble, watching for Indian or buffalo sign, Worth presumed. The man was some sort of songwriter as well, constantly fiddling around the fire and bleating out tunes he’d composed. And why had he given up his lawyerly life? There was some deep mystery behind that.
Foster Richmond had always been an intriguing, mysterious character, and now he was rubbing his prominent erection against Worth’s expanding cock. And he called him a tease? Every time Foster humped his massive prick against Worth’s, a delicious shiver went down his spine straight to his ballooning balls. It was all Foster’s fault that now every last man-jack in the company would be laughing and pointing at his rigid johnson the second he got to his feet.
If Foster ever let him up. Now he growled, “Like you don’t know how built you are. I’ll show you. I don’t need to lift any damned dumbbells to beat you.”
Indeed, Horatio was counting the seconds Worth had been flat on the ground, and he was nearly down for the count. Foster’s randy nature was riling Worth, and perhaps it was that jolt of lust and anger combined that gave the strength to his lunge that tossed the scout entirely off his body.
Worth leapt to his feet, uncaring that several men were already laughing at his bulging erection. “Get up, you slimy toad!” he shouted, putting up his fists at the ready.
Foster looked so stupid sprawled there. His green eyes appeared dazed, and his own erection was already flagging. Foster was like a dominant feral dog, determined to pin down his enemy by brute force. He seemed shocked that he was currently losing. He shook his head and came at Worth swinging.
It was just a lucky blow, actually. But Worth actually heard the crack when his fist connected with Foster’s jaw. He almost felt bad again—what was such emotion doing in a boxing match?—when the mountain man collapsed in a pile of virile limbs. Worth loomed over him victorious, fists up, prepared to knock him down again.
But Foster didn’t move this time, and Horatio had no choice but to count him down.
Gleeful soldiers piled past the ropes and into the ring. Surrounding Worth, they lifted his feet off the ground as they put him on their shoulders. From up here, Worth saw a crowd of milling men around the fallen scout, and he truly worried. Of course most men preferred Foster—Worth worked alone, was usually in his dark wagon or up on some bluff making a photograph.
He accepted the glory and even drank some whiskey that was shoved at him. He was extremely gratified when Foster got to his feet, feeling his jaw but otherwise unharmed. Bloody Knife was there, too, helping Foster walk out of the makeshift ring.
Worth made a decision right then and there.
Maybe it was true that the Black Hills gold had brought bad voodoo to white men—or was it the taking away of the gold from the hills that had rained misfortune down on them?
Either way, he wanted no part of it any longer.
* * * *
That irritating Worthing Ludlow was right—available maps for the Black Hills showed practically nothing of creeks or the dark pine forests. But Foster had been roaming these hills going on two years now, master of all he surveyed, slave to no one. Darn the settlements. That was his good old motto.
He traveled on his reliable bay through coulees and ravines, through nearly impenetrable walls of hills defended by regiments of lofty pines. The first night there was frost, but today was becoming too warm for comfort, and he had to keep pausing to drench the kerchief around his neck to stay cool. He longed to bust out his fiddle because some tunes were entering his brain that needed to be played, but he didn’t dare draw attention to his lone self. He was up to Indian ways, and he’d seen plenty sign of them and wasn’t in the mood to have his hair raised by one.
Of course he thought about that obnoxious photographer. There was something about that fellow that had just riled Foster to unimaginable heights. Foster was a believer that there was chemistry in people’s brains and blood that either attracted or repelled one, and that photographer seemed to do both at once. Foster had been a sucker to think he could best that athletic buck. It had only been a last-ditch attempt to pin him like that and straddle him, sensuously yet with the domineering power he loved to exert over others. And darned if that protesting buck’s cock hadn’t stiffened when Foster had rubbed his own erection against the enticing breadth of his tool. Worthing Ludlow could protest all he wanted. The fact remained it had made him hot as monkeys to have his horse’s cock stimulated like that.
When Foster delivered this tomfool message from Custer, he would be directly on his way to that sporting house near the Elkhorn Livery in Laramie City. A few romps would tide him over until he could rejoin Custer’s command.
The valley below was too marshy, so Foster ascended some bluffs. He picked his way through timber that had recently burned, riding around the blackened snags that stuck up everywhere. In a canyon at the top of the ridge, Foster found an excellent spring that burbled into a deep pool, so he picketed his horse and quickly stripped for a swim.
The icy water refreshed him and nearly froze his brain, so after a bit, he hauled himself up onto a warm rock, legs still dangling in the current. An abundance of semen still saturated his balls after the run-in with that photographer, so he gripped his cock and pumped it thoroughly. Giving in to the lascivious thrills that rushed down his abdomen, he nearly spurted immediately.
He tried to slow it down to make the pleasure last longer, squiggling his fingers down the length of it, squeezing the cockhead sensuously. He couldn’t get the image of that strapping buck out of his mind. How debauched it had been, gripping those sinewy hips between his thighs, Worth’s bulging prick massaging his own.
Foster was glad he had been ordered to leave the camp. It never worked out well when he reacted that violently to another person. The last time that had happened, the gal had ripped out his heart and stomped on it. It was far better to just consort with prairie flowers or random, faceless men he would never lay eyes on again.
Quickly he was on the verge of spending again, and he knew he could not stop it this time. It was unfortunate that just as he shot a vigorous healthy load that glittered like a necklace of diamonds into the pool below, a little shower of rocks cascaded into the water to his right, from where the spring emerged. Beautiful, just beautiful. Here he was with his cock in his hand, and an Indian was about to raise his topknot.
Seed still spurted from his cock as he was forced to release it and scrabble for his revolver. As a scout, he kept it close at hand. Within a flash he was on his feet and ready to put a ball into the silhouette standing atop the prominence. Although the s
un was directly behind the fellow, giving the image a kind of holy aura, Foster was instantly aware this was no Indian, but a white man. The body shape and the outline of boots gave it away. So he refrained from letting a ball fly while he circled around to the right, advancing upon whoever had been moronic enough to confront him.
“It’s me!” cried Worth Ludlow, raising his hands in surrender. “Don’t shoot, Mr. Richmond!”
Awash with relief, Foster lowered his piece but kept his finger on the trigger as the two men approached each other. His first reaction was to feel like a chowderhead for letting this jackass get the drop on him. What kind of scout was he that he would let a greenhorn sneak up on him, especially while frigging himself to completion?
So the next emotion to sweep over him was anger, and he waved his revolver around. “What’s the meaning of this, you damned greenhorn? You followed me up here from French Creek?”
Worth’s hands were still in the air. “I know, I know. It was sneaky of me. But I knew if I asked you if I could come you would’ve said no.”
Foster frowned. “Why did you want to come? You’re not leaving the expedition, are you?”
Worth finally lowered his hands. His boyish look softened Foster’s heart. “I am. I know you don’t agree, but I’m not kidding when I say that taking all that gold from French Creek was bad taku-wakan. It put a voodoo hex on all of us.”
“Yeah, well,” scoffed Foster. “You won the pouch of gold dust from our boxing bout. I don’t suppose you put it back into the creek.”
“No, sir,” Worth said sincerely. “I need that gold to make my way to Laramie, where I intend to set up a photography studio. And to pay the teamster to drive my dark wagon there, too. I may seem like a stupid jackleg at times, but I’m not stupid enough to put all that gold back into the creek.”
Karen Mercury Page 3