“I never shook the hand of a gunfighter before.”
“What makes you think you have now?” Ward asked, flashing a grin of his own.
“I know. Plumb smooth, like satin. Can tell you don’t rope steers, mister. And I reckon it ain’t like that from wearing gloves.”
Ward hadn’t worn a glove on his right hand in six years. The man didn’t expect a reply, and none was offered.
“Younger and the girl left alone. The other men who worked special for him rode off a day earlier—heading for Morristown. They didn’t say that, but that’s the direction they always go. We hear ’em talking.”
“Much obliged.”
“My pleasure, Cantrell.”
Ward started to leave, paused. “When is your new boss taking over?”
“Reckon not for a week or so. Younger said she’s planning on marrying some hotshot railroad man in a few days—probably don’t know a cow from a gelding,” he ended disgustedly.
“So long, Slim, and thanks for your hospitality.”
Chapter Forty-Three
Sandra and Younger arrived in Morristown Wednesday afternoon. It was barely more than a settlement: a dozen buildings and a few shanties. From a distance, with gusty winds whipping up the dirt into sheets to throw against the weathered walls and a shutter banging insistently, it looked like a ghost town. Only the horses, standing patiently in the cold mountain air, added a touch of life.
Younger led her past gaunt buildings where she saw shadows of faces peering through the water-stained, dust-coated windows, to a wood-frame house at the northernmost edge of the village. They dismounted; she had to fend for herself. Dallas bellowed an order, and a raw-boned, slow-moving red-haired man ambled out and took the horses around back while they went inside.
There were four men inside, playing cards and drinking. A tired-looking woman in a shapeless gown was cutting vegetables for a stew.
Sandra felt her face flushing as every eye in the place roamed over her body, even the woman’s. Sandra was wearing the silk blouse and riding skirt, but no undergarments of any type. Dallas wouldn’t permit it. Said he didn’t like nothing getting between him and what was his. She had the feeling they all knew. A muted throbbing in her loins quickened her breath.
The men were seated at a table that someone had thrown a rough blanket over. Cards and money were scattered around. The blanket hung down crookedly, almost touching the floor where it wasn’t impeded by someone’s lap.
Dallas waved a careless hand at her. “Boys, meet my little sweetface.” He turned back to her carelessly. “What’s your name, sweetface?”
“Sandra.”
“That mean-eyed cuss thar is Cedar Longley. The man to his right is Pick Sitwell. His brother was the one who took our hosses when we came in. The sleepy one thar is Bass Wimer and the big burly lady’s man is Texas Jack Jones.”
Sandra nodded. Cedar Longley, she’d heard that name before. He was Younger’s second lieutenant. Pick Sitwell had sly, furtive eyes that made her want to see if her blouse was buttoned. He was lanky and raw-boned like his brother. Bass Wimer had a dull, listless look in his eyes that didn’t look like it would last. He might burst into some act of violence if he ever came fully awake. Texas Jack Jones had bold black eyes that made her belly feel strange and tight, like it did when Dallas touched her. Even when he resumed his lazy-lidded concentration on his cards she could still feel that stirring in her belly.
“Y’all be good to this little sweetface, ya hear?”
There were various comments, some lewd, as to exactly how good they would like to be, and Sandra reddened painfully. She had been raised a lady, and knew the exact degree of her own shame. No lady would be where she was now. Leslie Powers, who looked the epitome of a gentlewoman, except for the flashes of spirit that bespoke a fiery temper, would never allow herself to be paraded in front of such crude range bums. But Leslie Powers did not have her problems or her needs.
There was scraping and rearranging of chairs as Dallas sat down, and then the card game resumed. No one noticed that Dallas had forgotten to introduce the woman, Bass Wimer’s wife, who turned away in disgust. Sandra was forgotten as the men became engrossed in sporadic conversation. She wandered over and asked the woman if she needed any help.
Cold gray eyes flitted over her. “Don’t reckon the likes of you would be able to do anythin’ I’d find tolerable, much less helpful.”
Sandra flinched and wandered around the room, ending up behind Younger. She was an outsider; even that tired old hag had something that made her belong. She reached down and began rubbing Dallas’s shoulder. He responded, so she pressed close to his chair and let both hands rub his shoulders and chest. That took her mind off her loneliness, and he seemed to enjoy the attention. The stew smelled good, but Sandra had lost her appetite. The ache in her loins was throbbing insistently. She could see the men letting their bold eyes stray over her body. Part of her realized how crude these men were in comparison to the men her father expected her to associate with, but she was too needy to take her shame seriously. Shame was an almost necessary part of getting what she needed from men.
Lightheaded from the rush of events, Sandra started having visions of herself naked among these six rough-looking men, doing their bidding, being the center of attention, and by the time the old hag served the stew, she barely touched it. The playing seemed to go on and on. Sandra stayed at her post caressing Dallas and accepting the looks of the other men until she was in agony. She leaned down and whispered in his ear.
“Dallas, honey, can we go to bed soon?”
She ignored the derisive snort from the man next to Dallas.
“I’m winning, sweetface. I cain’t leave now.”
“Please, honey, I need you,” she whispered desperately. “Please.”
“Please, honey,” someone mocked her. “Please, Dallas honey.” Dallas cuffed him lightly, and they all laughed. Play stopped and the one across from Dallas swore crudely: “Hey, Dallas, take her in that room and give her what she wants, then come on back. We’ll still be here.”
“Hell, yeah! We’ll listen—yell if you need any help.”
They laughed. Dallas stood up and yawned elaborately, joining in the fun. Sandra didn’t look at anyone, especially the other woman, as she turned.
“Reckon I could use a nap. Come on, sweetface. We’ll give the boys a break. They been losing long enough.”
Sandra was on fire. She ignored the cacophony of crude remarks and followed Younger into the small bedroom that was separated from the main room by a curtain. Her hands trembled on the buttons and almost tore the skirt off. He only slipped his guns and pants off and they fell across the squeaky bed. She wanted him inside her—hard and big and rough—but he was teasing her, only pressing between her legs, refusing to go inside while he kissed her hungry mouth and squeezed her breasts. Soon she was groaning, pleading with him.
“What d’ya want, sweetface?”
“I want you,” she gasped, writhing beneath him.
“You want Dallas?” he prompted.
“Yes, yes, I want you, Dallas!”
“Say it, baby.”
“I want you, Dallas.”
“Say it louder, baby. I cain’t hear when ya whisper.”
“Oh, Dallas, Dallas! I want you!”
“Louder, baby, who d’ya want, sweetface?”
“I want you, Dallas.”
That was loud enough to bring a chorus of ribald remarks and a crude cheer from the other room, but she was too far gone to notice.
Dallas kept Sandra at fever pitch for twelve minutes while the men in the other room made bets about how long it would go on. Pick Sitwell won the bet when they heard her orgasmic gasps and cries exactly nine-twenty-three by Bass Wimer’s watch.
“Ride ’em, cowboy!” Pick yelled triumphantly while the others cussed, becoming even cruder with their remarks.
Younger came out in three minutes, and Bass won that bet on both counts: that it would be
under five minutes and that he would be alone.
Dallas took his place at the table amid back-slapping and more raucous remarks. The initial uproar died down slowly because the men were steamed up. About midnight the talk grew more serious.
“Heard anythin’ from the boss?” Pick asked Younger as he dealt.
“Naw. He’s keeping low for a while. We’re jus’ gonna round up all the steers we’ve got hidden in them ravines and drive ’em down to the pens so’s they can be loaded and shipped.”
“Hell, don’t sound like you need us for that,” Pick snorted.
“Probably don’t, but it’s something to keep you from drinking, gambling, getting on one another’s nerves, and killing one another,” Dallas said.
Pick looked to the others defensively. “We been gettin’ along fine, ain’t we?”
“You always get along fine for the first three days. Then the trouble starts. You’re worse’n a box full of locoed gnats! I cain’t leave you alone for longer’n that. You always get into trouble. Remember those goddamned Mendozas!”
“Hell, that wasn’t our fault. We was jist doing what the boss wanted us to.”
Younger threw down his cards, a scowl turning his handsome face dark. “Wal, you done a damned sloppy job of it, too! I took the rap for that with Powers. That was about the stupidest piece of bad work—leaving that gunfighter alive and killing off the women, the old man, and the kid!” That had rankled for a long time. “Stupid goddamned bastards!”
Pick dropped his cards. “We didn’t know about the gunfighter. We’d a got him fust off if’n we did.”
“Stupid damned bunch!” Younger growled, letting his eyes rip over them. “We been fighting that bastard ever since!”
“Hell, you’re jist upset cause it’s you he’s after.”
“’Twarn’t our fault anyway,” Bass Wimer interposed. “We coulda handled that more convincin’-like, ’cept the boss was horny for thet gal. He likes it when they’re crying and scared. Things jist kinda got outta harness after that.”
“I reckon you could say that, all right!” Dallas growled, deciding to drop the subject. “I’m moving up to the camp at dawn. Y’all be ready to ride out.”
“Shucks, boss, we figured you was gonna leave us here with the filly,” Bass whined in pretended or real agony.
“Aw, hell!” Dallas growled. “’Sides, you got yourself a woman. Cooks a right good stew, she does.”
“Man don’t live by stew alone,” Bass grumped.
They played one hand in silence, then Texas Jack Jones, the big burly Texan, leaned back in his chair and eyed Younger. Texas Jack had a deep, sonorous voice and usually spoke slowly and carefully. Because of his reputation for a quick gun and a short temper, when he spoke, men listened.
“Wal, now, Dallas, I reckon if that hongry yelling went on much longer tonight you woulda had a problem on your hands.”
Dallas leaned back, grinning. “What might thata been?”
Texas Jack kept a straight face. “A couple more minutes of that pretty little filly yelling about how good you was and I was gonna go in thar and let you hump me,” he drawled.
They roared with laughter.
Chapter Forty-Four
Sandra was treated like a celebrity when she appeared for breakfast. The men made a big show of making room for her at the table and taking care of her needs. For the first time in her life she felt important in her own right—not just because she was Sam McCormick’s daughter. She didn’t mind the crude remarks. It was all part of belonging.
They left together in a cohesive pack just as the sky was turning from gray to pink. The cold was bitter, and frost was everywhere, covering the hills with white. As Dallas Younger’s woman, she rode at the head of the pack, beside her man. There was a new confidence in Sandra now. She had a man who was really a man, and he treated her like a woman. Two days’ growth of beard only added to his attraction. He was rough, and he looked it, but when he caught her look and grinned, there was a hint of pride mixed with the desire that burned between them.
They were going deeper into the mountains now. The sun slowly melted the frost that crunched under the horses’ hooves, and the ride became more bearable. Dallas had found her a coat like the men wore, and only her legs were cold. “We’ll fix that when we get to camp. Little Doug has some pants that should fit you right fine.”
They stopped at a wide, shallow stream. They dismounted and drank upstream from the horses. The men wandered off to relieve themselves, and Sandra did likewise.
Everyone came back except Bass Wimer, so Dallas yelled for him to get his butt back so they could leave.
“I found something,” he yelled, the booming voice that had earned him his nickname echoing and bouncing off the surrounding mountains.
Dallas shook his head in irritation. “Damn fool! He’s gotta be the stupidest son of a bitch west of the Pecos!”
“He’s hauling a short load all right,” Texas Jack drawled, spitting in disgust at a rock.
Bass Wimer came out of the trees, carrying a long slender pole. It was two inches thick and almost symmetrical, as if it had been planed by a carpenter.
“Ain’t that purty?” he asked proudly.
“What the hell you gonna do with a stick ten feet long?” Younger demanded, raising a disgusted eyebrow.
“Make things,” Bass said defensively.
“Shit, put that thing down and let’s ride.”
“Aw, dammit, Dallas, let me keep it. It cain’t hurt anythin’, and I need it.”
“Jesus Christ!” Younger shook his head. “All right, but you see to it.”
“Thanks, boss.”
Sandra looked back several times to see how Bass and his stick were faring. He carried it like a lance for a while, then across his saddle like a tightrope walker she’d seen once. He did whatever he had to do to keep it.
As the trail grew rougher and narrower, Sandra fell back until she was riding in front of Bass. All went well until they broke out onto a wide grassy meadow. The group was in single file with Sandra and then Bass and his stick, carried across the saddle like a balance pole.
Dallas held up his hand and turned in the saddle. Did he see something? She couldn’t tell. He was too far ahead for her to read his expression. Bass stopped, pulled out his red paisley handkerchief to mop his brow, and was almost unseated when his horse reared. Bass heard the whirring rattle of the snake, but he never saw it. The horse came down and lurched forward into a dead run. There were too many things happening at once. The horse to control, the handkerchief in his hand, the stick across the saddle. He didn’t make it in time. The stick caught Sandra across the middle of the back. She screamed and fell to the side, one foot caught in the stirrup. Her horse caught the stick on the back of the head and bolted, dragging her along.
Pick Sitwell, the closest one to Sandra, lunged off his horse but couldn’t reach her in time. Texas Jack was on the wrong side of Sandra’s horse. If he thundered up beside her runaway mount, his horse would trample her. Dallas could see the problem instantly. He got into position and was there when the big speckled gray came by. He caught the reins and jerked the horse viciously until it stopped. He held the head down. “Get her foot outta there!” he yelled.
Cedar Longley reached her first, freed her boot from the stirrup, and dragged her out of reach of the horse’s hooves. Dallas turned the horse over to Pick and rushed to Sandra’s side.
She was unconscious but breathing. He made a hasty examination, his hands feeling for broken bones, crushed places.
Bass Wimer ran up, panting. “She all right?”
Dallas couldn’t remember later what happened then. Something snapped inside him, and the next thing he remembered, Texas Jack and Cedar Longley were pulling him off Wimer’s limp body. He vaguely remembered hitting him, and his fists were both scuffed and sore, but he had no recollection of Wimer’s response. Did he fight back?
Sandra came awake, groaning, and he went to her.
&
nbsp; “You all right, sweetface?”
“What happened?” She looked around in a daze. Wimer was limp and bloody; the horses and men were all scattered above her. Had they been attacked?
“Is everybody all right?” she asked.
“Bass and his damned stick! He hit you, sweetface, and then your horse. The horse bolted and dragged you.”
She looked around wonderingly. There was real concern in Dallas Younger’s eyes—in all their eyes. They really cared about her! She felt tears well up in her own eyes and saw the response in his eyes, and it gave her a sense of power she hadn’t felt since the time she had scarlet fever and everyone spoiled her because they thought they had almost lost her.
“Did you do that?” she asked softly, taking his hand and kissing the scuffed knuckles.
“I reckon. I thought he’d killed you. I musta hit him a hundred times, the way my hands ache.” He shot a grim look at Wimer, who was beginning to groan and roll over. “He ain’t going nowhere, though. I can get him again later. He’ll be around.”
Younger spoke so matter-of-factly that Sandra nearly beamed. He really cared for her! Now she rode the rest of the way beside Dallas. If she couldn’t keep up, they slowed down. She was in heaven. All she had to do was grimace and she could bring the tightening into his handsome face and the anger back into his eyes.
Sheriff Willie Slaughter opened the letter with the Phoenix postmark on it slowly. He read it and sat frowning, gazing out the window of the jail aimlessly. He stared at the livery wagon standing in front of Barnard Bros. Photo Graph Gallery.
“I’m going to King’s place,” he said to the deputy, who lounged in a chair across the narrow room, his feet up, reading the morning newspaper.
“Be gone long?”
“Naw.”
Slaughter put on his hat and walked carefully across the wide, deeply rutted main street of Dodge City, sidestepping a wagon and then a buggy with a man and woman perched precariously on the narrow seat.
The Lady and the Outlaw Page 40
