by J. Roberts
He knew she was watching him. She stood confidently, and if he was in the habit of frequenting cathouses he would have gone right in and asked for her. But he didn’t pay for women, so that wasn’t going to happen.
She flicked her cigarette into the street. It arced, leaving a trail of sparks behind it, and then landed in the street. By the time he looked up again, she was gone from the balcony.
FOUR
Flood and Jack Trevor each had two beers, despite the fact they weren’t cold. The saloon was empty, another indication of how Doan’s Crossing had fallen on hard times.
“This place used to be alive all the time,” Jack Trevor remembered. “Now it just seems dead.”
“I know how it feels,” Flood said.
“What does that mean?”
Flood shrugged.
“Just that I know what it means to feel dead inside,” Flood said.
“What are you talkin’ about, Boss?”
Flood leaned both elbows on the top of the bar.
“I’m tired, Jack,” Flood said. “Tired and just about done.”
“But we got a drive, Boss,” Trevor said. “That’ll make ya feel alive again.”
“It probably will, but it’ll end, too,” Flood said. “This could be my last trail drive, Jack. It might also be the last trail drive ever.”
“Well, that may be okay for you,” Trevor said, “but what about me and the other boys?”
“You’re all young enough to do somethin’ else with your lives, Jack,” Flood said. “Hell, you boys are gonna be alive to see a new century.”
“It ain’t that far off, Boss,” Trevor said. “You’ll be around, too.”
“Christ,” Trevor said, “I’ll be near seventy. Don’t know that I ever wanna get that old. I’d rather just die on the trail.”
Trevor straightened up and stood square to his boss, facing him.
“Is that was this is about, Boss?” he demanded. “You lookin’ ta die on this drive?”
Flood looked at the younger man and said, “Hell no, Jack! What the hell are you talkin’ about, boy?”
“You’re the one talkin’ about how you’re gonna die,” Trevor shot back.
“Yeah, but not for a while,” Flood said. “I still got some life left in me, boy. I just don’t think I’ll be spendin’ a lot of what I got left on the trail, that’s all. Jesus, I ain’t lookin’ to die!”
“Well,” Trevor said, “that’s good to hear.”
“Finish that beer,” Flood said. “We got work to do.”
Trevor made a face.
“It’s too warm. We gotta get some cold beer.”
Flood called the barman over.
“Any cold beer in town?”
“Sorry,” the barman said, “not a drop.”
Flood looked at Trevor, who frowned.
“Hey,” the barman said, “are you Henry Flood?”
“I am,” Flood said. “What’s it to you?”
“Feller was in here earlier lookin’ for you.”
“Who’s that?”
“Said his name was Clint Adams,” the barman said. “That’d be the Gunsmith, right?”
“That’s right,” Flood said. “We’re supposed to meet up. Where’d he say he’d be?”
“Said he’d be comin’ back here later, and that you should meet him.”
“See?” Flood said to Trevor. “He’s here?”
“So what?” Trevor asked. “Still say he ain’t no good on a drive.”
“He went on his first drive when you was still in knee pants, boy,” Flood said. “Lemme tell you, sometimes you need a good gun on a drive.”
“Yeah, well, right now there’s other things we need,” Trevor said.
“You’re right.” Flood looked at the barman. “If Adams comes back in tell ’im to stay put and I’ll find him here.”
“Sure thing,” the barman said.
“Let’s go, Trevor.”
As Flood and Trevor left the saloon they were being watched from across the street. The man watching was sitting in a wooden chair, his foot up on a post so he could rock back and forth on the rear legs. He was chewing on a toothpick, and as Flood and Trevor came out he stopped chewin’ and rockin’.
He dropped his foot and leaned forward, squinting. He’d seen the two men go in, wasn’t sure they were who he thought they were. But now he had a better look at them, and he knew.
The Flood outfit had made it to Doan’s Crossing. The herd had to be somewhere outside of town. As Flood and Trevor split up and went separate ways, the man spit the toothpick out and stood up. He waited a minute, made up his mind, and then went in the same direction as Jack Trevor.
FIVE
Halfway through his walk of Doan’s Crossing, Clint decided it was just too depressing. He decided to head back to the saloon to await the arrival of Henry Flood. When he turned he saw Flood walking toward him. He decided to wait for the man to notice him, and Flood was almost in front of him before recognition dawned on his face.
“Clint!”
“I was wondering if you were going to walk right by me,” Clint said.
“I’m sorry,” Flood said, grabbing Clint’s hand and pumping it enthusiastically. “I was thinkin’ about somethin’ else. When did you get to town?”
“Earlier today,” Clint said. “I left a message for you at the saloon.”
“I got it!” Flood said. “I just rode in with my ramrod, Jack Trevor.”
“Trevor?” Clint asked. “The kid?”
“Not such a kid anymore, Clint,” Flood said. “He’s been my second for a while, now.”
“As I recall he didn’t like me very much,” Clint said.
“Still doesn’t,” Flood laughed. “Listen, there’s no place in Doan’s Crossing to get a cold beer anymore?”
“That’s what I heard.”
“What about a decent cup of coffee?”
“Coffee, or trail coffee?”
“I like your trail coffee,” Flood said, “but only on the trail, where it keeps me alert.”
“Didn’t there used to be a café—well, down here some place. Let’s walk. We can get some coffee and something to eat.”
“Suits me.”
“What about Trevor?”
“He’s got work to do,” Flood said. “He can eat when he gets hungry.”
They fell into step together and went looking for a café.
Roy Sobel grabbed Debra’s legs and spread them while he drove himself in and out of her. It had been a long while since he’d fucked her, but it felt just like he remembered—damned fine! She was as hot as ever, inside and out. On the trail he often thought about her burning hot skin to keep him warm on cold nights.
Her pussy was so wet they were making wet sucking sounds as they strained against each other. He slid his hands from her calves so that he could grip her ankles and spread her even farther.
“You’re gonna split me in half!” she complained.
“Shut up, bitch!” he snapped. “I’m payin’, ain’t I?”
He was paying, and he could do any damn thing he wanted with a whore he was paying for.
Debra could feel the strain in her thighs. If he spread her legs any farther she wouldn’t be able to walk—or work—until those thigh muscles healed.
Roy was one of her more aggressive clients, but she made sure his aggression stopped short of actually hurting her. One time he had spread her so wide she thought her pussy was going to rip, and she had kicked him in the chin to get him off of her. He had come right back to her, mouth bloody but smiling, and finished what he’d started without hurting her. He was a dangerous man, because that violence was just barely controlled. When Roy came around Debra kept a knife under the pillow, just in case.
But she had to admit, he was more exciting than most of her clients. She never knew when she might have to cut him to get him off of her.
Clint and Flood found the café. Actually, they found a café, not at all sure it was the same one, bu
t by then they were hungry.
They entered, found all of the six tables empty, and chose the one they wanted—in the back. A bald, sweaty man took their order, and started them out with a pot of coffee. They both ordered steaks, and the man went off to cook them—or burn then, judging from the smell that came from the kitchen a littler while later.
“Not as strong as yours,” Flood said, when he tried the coffee. “Thank God.”
“What’s on your mind, Hank?” Clint asked. “Why’d you ask me to meet you here?”
Flood put his cup down and looked at Clint.
“I’m goin’ on a drive, Clint. Maybe my last trail drive.”
“That’s too bad,” Clint said. “What do you want me to do?”
“I want you to come with me.”
“On a trail drive?” Clint shook his head. “I haven’t been on one in years.”
“Didja hear what I said?” Flood asked. “This might be not only my last trail drive, but the last trail drive.”
“To tell you the truth,” Clint said, “I thought the last trail drive had already happened.”
“Not if I have anything to say about it,” Flood said. “I got a thousand head, and I expect to pick up half that again between here and Montana.”
“I remember when you drove three thousand head.”
“Those days are gone,” Flood said, glumly. “A thousand was all I could muster but, like I said, there’s more out there roaming free.”
“What about barbed wire?”
“We’ll go around it,” Flood said.
Portions of the famed trails—the Chisum, the Goodnight, and others—had since been blocked off by barbed wire. What was formerly open range was far from open, these days.
“How many men you got?” Clint asked.
“Ten,” Flood said. “Some of my regulars. Enough to do the job, by far.”
“With Trevor as your segundo?”
“That’s right.”
“He’s not going to like this.”
“Too bad.”
“Why do you want me, Hank?”
“You ain’t gonna like the answer.”
“Try me.”
“You’re a legend,” Flood said. “If this is my last—the last—trail drive, I want it to be remembered.”
“When it comes to trail drives, Henry Flood is the legend, not me.”
“Maybe with the two of us on this drive it’ll be remembered.”
“Hank . . . are you all right?”
“Whataya mean?”
“I mean is there something you’re not telling me?” Clint asked. “You’re not dying or something, are you?”
“We’re all dyin’, Clint,” Flood said, “but me no sooner than you, I hope. Naw, I ain’t dyin’, I’m just gettin’ old and tired. And like you said, the beeves ain’t there to drive anymore. Not with folks shipping them by rail.”
“So this is on the level?” Clint asked. “This ‘last trail drive’ business?”
“Of course it’s on the level, Clint,” Flood said. “Why would I lie to you?”
Clint gave his friend a long look.
“Okay, that time I really needed you as an extra man.”
“You just about shanghaied me.”
“Not this time,” Flood said, as the waiter came with their steaming plates. “This time I’m askin’. Whataya say?”
SIX
“You haven’t changed,” Debra said, pulling on her dressing gown.
Roy laughed. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, still naked, his penis flagging just a bit.
“I thought you was gonna kick me in the chin again,” he said.
“I thought I was going to have to,” she said. “You’ve got to learn there are certain ways a lady just doesn’t bend.”
“Don’t mean I can’t keep tryin’,” he said.
“What brings you back to town after all this time?” she asked.
“Trail drive.”
“I thought all the trail drives were done?”
“Not this one,” he said.
“What makes this one so special?”
“The trail boss is Henry Flood.”
She frowned.
“I know that name?”
“You should,” Roy said. “He’s as famous as Chisum and Goodnight.”
“To you, maybe.”
She lit a cigarette.
“We done?” she asked, blowing smoke.
He looked down at his dick, then back at her.
“I don’t think so.”
“Don’t you have to be someplace?”
“I do,” he said, “tomorrow mornin’.”
“You aren’t staying here with me until tomorrow morning,” she said.
“I would,” he said, “but I ain’t got that much money. I only got enough for one more poke.”
“Fine,” she said. “Let me finish this cigarette. You just sit right there like you are, and I’ll hop on.”
“Sounds good.”
“Stroke it a little for me,” she said, “while I watch. Make it hard.”
“Damn, woman!” he said. “Yer dirty.”
“And isn’t that why you come to see me?”
“It sure is.” He took his cock in his hand and started stroking it. Before long it was standing long and hard—mostly because while she smoked with her right hand, she played with herself with her left, getting herself wet and ready.
“Okay,” she said, stabbing out the cigarette, “here I come.”
She dropped her robe, straddled his legs, reached down for his cock, and then sank down on it, taking it inside.
Hard for him to try to split her in half from here.
SEVEN
Jack Trevor came out of the general store, stopped to light a quirley. He didn’t see the man watching him from across the street.
He had purchased what they needed and made arrangements to have it all picked up by buckboard early the next morning. Now all he had to do was find a chuckwagon cook, and they didn’t grow on trees. You couldn’t just go into a restaurant or café and grab a cook out of the kitchen. Cooking out of a chuckwagon for a group of drovers was very different.
If he didn’t find one, he and the other men were going to have to eat Henry Flood’s cooking the whole way. That was not an option for him.
Clint and Flood finished their burned steaks. It was still better than what they had eaten lately on the trail. Even burned meat was better than beans day after day.
Over pie—peach for Clint, rhubarb for Flood—the trail boss asked, “Well? Ain’t you given it enough thought, already?”
“I’m still thinking, Hank,” Clint said. “You’re asking me to give you three months of my life.”
“You got other plans for that three months?”
“Well, no—”
“Can you think of a better way to spend them three months?”
“I can think of a lot of ways—”
“Okay, never mind that part,” Flood said, waving his hands. “I know you’d rather sit at a poker table for three months.”
“That’s just one—”
“When’s the last time you turned down a friend askin’ for help?”
“The last time a friend asked me for three months—”
Flood sat back hard in his chair.
“Yer startin’ to rile me!”
“Okay, take it easy,” Clint said, laughing.
“Stop funnin’ me like that, Clint,” Flood said. “This is real important to me.”
“I know it is, Hank,” Clint said. “Look, I’ll have to send some telegrams today. I was supposed to be someplace in about two months, but I can cancel.”
“So you’ll come?” Flood asked.
“As long as nobody else on the drive objects,” Clint said.
“I’m the boss,” Flood said. “Nobody’s gonna say nothin’ if I tell ’em—”
“Hold on,” Clint said. “I’ve been on trail drives before where there was tension between some of the men
. It doesn’t make for a pleasant three months.”
Flood scratched the beard stubble on his chin.
“I guess you’re right,” he said. “Well, I’ll talk to the men. I don’t think anybody’s gonna say nothin’ about it.”
“What about Trevor?”
“I’ll talk to Jack,” Flood said. “I don’t think I’ll have a problem with him.”
“Where is Trevor anyway?” Clint asked.
“He had to go and buy some supplies,” Flood said. “And we gotta find us a cook. The one I had did a damn fool thing and now he can’t come with us.”
“What’d he do?” Clint asked.
“He died.”
“Well,” Clint said, “I might have somebody for you.”
Clint and Flood entered the Crystal Saloon, found Jack Trevor standing at the bar nursing a warm beer. Clint could tell the man wasn’t happy to see him.
“Adams,” he said.
“Trevor.”
“How’d you do, Jack?” Flood asked.
“I got the supplies,” Trevor said, “we can pick ’em up in the mornin’. I’ll have a couple of the men come in and collect ’em.”
“What about a cook?”
“Well, now, there I didn’t have much luck. In the old days we woulda found two or three of ’em sittin’ around the saloon, waitin’ to be asked.”
“Well, Clint actually thinks there may be somebody in this saloon who can do the job?”
“Oh? That so? Is Adams an expert on chuckwagon cooks, now?”
“Not an expert,” Clint said. “I just know there’s somebody here who’s done the job before.”
“Who might that be, then?” Trevor asked.
Clint pointed a finger at the barman and said, “Him.”
EIGHT
“You say this fella’s got experience?” Trevor asked.
“I don’t say it,” Clint said. “He said it earlier today when we were talking.”
“Why were you and him talkin’ about chuckwagons?” Trevor asked.
“We were just passing the time, Trevor,” Clint said, “and he mentioned it.”
