The Last Trail Drive

by J. Roberts

  “I heard somethin’ happened to Trevor.”

  “Like what?”

  Dirker shrugged.

  “Don’t rightly know,” he said. “Just heard there was some trouble.”

  “Well then, maybe we’ll have a chance to get back to camp before they notice we’re gone.”

  “Right now, I’m just thinkin’ about that steak,” Dirker said.

  “Me, too.”

  Debra decided that Roy Sobel was her last john for the day. She was going to go and have a hot bath and a meal, and then go to her place at the rooming house.

  She was the only whore who didn’t actually live in the same room where she worked. She’d spent too many years doing that, and she had saved enough money over the years to get her own place.

  As she passed through the front hall in her street clothes she heard from two of the girls.

  “The princess is leaving,” one of them said.

  “Yeah, she’s too good to live here with us,” the other girl said. “Goin’ to her rooming house.”

  Debra ignored them, and as she went out the door she heard one of them mutter, “Wish I could afford a rooming house.”

  “Shhh,” the other one said.

  Debra smiled and closed the door behind her.

  Clint went to the barber shop, which had bathtubs in the back rooms behind it. He paid for a bath, waited while the man brought buckets of hot water and filled the tub. He turned down the offer of a haircut and shave, ushered the man out of the room and then undressed and sank gratefully into the tub of hot water.

  In the room next door to his, Debra was sitting in her bathtub, wondering if Eddie the barber was peeking in at her through a hole in the wall. His wife wouldn’t let him come to the whorehouse, and she’d caught him peeking once before. She told him if she ever caught him again she’d poke his eyes out, and then he’d have to explain that to his wife.

  She luxuriated in the hot water, used a cloth and soap to clean any vestige of her clients from her body. The hot water felt good on her right thigh, where Roy Sobel may, indeed, have caused her to stretch a muscle.

  She was lying back, enjoying the last of the heat before the water began to cool, when she heard something bang against the wall on her left.

  She sprang up out of the tub, grabbed a towel, wrapped it around her, and went to catch Eddie peeking at her.

  Clint’s tub was close to the wall, so when he picked his gun belt up off the seat of the chair next to him and went to hang it on the back, the gun swung and banged into the wall before it settled into position, hanging from the back of the chair, within easy reach.

  THIRTEEN

  As the door to the room slammed open Clint’s hand streaked for his gun. He found himself pointing it at a blond woman standing in the doorway with a towel wrapped around her.

  She froze when she saw the gun pointing at her.

  “Wha—” she said.

  “That’s what I want to know,” Clint said. He holstered the gun. “What’s going on?”

  “I—I was taking a bath in the room next door, when I heard something hit the wall. I thought Eddie—the barber—I thought he was back here trying to peek in at me again. He, uh, he done it last time.”

  “I see,” Clint said. “Well, I think when I hung my gun on the back of the chair it banged into the wall. I’m sorry it caused you to get out of your tub.”

  “Oh, uh, it’s okay, I guess, but—”

  “Why don’t you go back and finish your bath?” Clint suggested.

  “Well, I would, but by now the water’s probably gone cold.”

  She looked at the steam that was still rising in Clint’s tub.

  Suddenly, he recognized her as the woman who had been smoking on the balcony of the whorehouse.

  “Well, my water is still pretty hot.”

  “I see that.”

  “I’d invite you to get in with me,” he said,. “but . . .”

  “But what?”

  “I saw you out on the balcony before, smoking,” he said.

  “Oh, was that you?”

  “That was the whorehouse, right.”

  “Right,” she said. “What’s wrong, you don’t like whores?”

  “I think whores are beautiful,” he said. “I think you’re beautiful—”

  “Thanks . . .”

  “—but I make it a practice not to pay for sex.”

  “Really?” She was fascinated, regarded him with sudden interest. “You’ve never paid for a woman?”

  “Never.”

  “I find that hard to believe,” she said. “Why is that?”

  “I just never got into the habit,” he said. “Besides, there are plenty of women out there.”

  “I see,” she said. “Well, I guess you’re in luck, then.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “I happen to be finished for the day,” she said. “That’s why I was having a bath.”

  “Well,” he said, “what do we do, then?”

  “Why don’t I feel your water and see if it’s hot enough for the both of us?”

  “Sure.”

  She approached the tub, knelt down beside it, and put her hand in. The towel was wrapped tightly around her, but he could see from her rounded shoulders and thighs that she was a woman with some meat on her.

  She dipped her hand in, sloshed the water around, and then pushed her hand down between his legs. She found his penis, felt it begin to swell in her hand. Oddly—given her profession—she found herself growing excited. Sex with a man who wasn’t paying was not a common occurrence for her.

  “Wow, it is very hot,” she said, stroking his cock.

  “Better make up your mind before it cools off,” he said.

  “Oh,” she said, “I’ve made up my mind.”

  “Better close the door, then.”

  She got to her feet, walked to the door, closed it, then turned and let the towel drop to the floor. Her breasts were pale, almost pear-shaped, with pink nipples. Her belly was nicely rounded, with a deep belly button. Between her legs was a heavy tangle of hair that was more golden than the hair on her head.

  “Well?” she asked. “Do you approve?”

  “Oh, yes, ma’am,” he said. “I approve very much.”

  “Enough to pay?” she asked.

  “Well, now,” he said, “I guess if I was ever going to pay for a whore it’d be you, here and now.”

  “So, should we talk price?”

  “Do you want to?”

  “Hell, no,” she said. “Right now I’m randier than I can ever remember being, and I think it’s because you don’t wanna pay.”

  “If that’s the case,” he said, “then get your beautiful, big ass in this tub!”

  FOURTEEN

  Luckily, Eddie believed in supplying large bathtubs for his clientele.

  Debra approached the bathtub and bent to step in, her full breasts swaying with the movement. The pink nipples had already extended themselves impressively, and Clint was reaching for them as she stepped in and sank down into the water. He leaned forward, cupped her breasts in his hands, holding their weight gently, thumbing the distended nipples.

  “Mmm,” she said, as he squeezed both breasts. She reached between his legs, took his hard cock in both hands, stroking it lovingly. Clint thought that if Eddie really did peek into these rooms he was getting more than he ever bargained for now.

  She scooched forward, sliding her legs atop his, and on either side of him, so that they were able to get very close to each other. Clint pulled her close and kissed her. Debra, who did not ever kiss her clients, melted into the kiss and groaned into his mouth.

  “Jesus,” she said breathlessly.

  “Yeah.”

  “I mean, Jesus, I’m a goddamned whore,” she said. “I’m not supposed to feel . . . feel like this.”

  “You were a woman before you were a whore,” he told her.

  “I haven’t been a woman in a long time,” she said. “A very, very long t
ime.”

  He pulled her close, crushed her wet breasts against his chest, and said into her ear, “You sure feel like a woman to me.”

  She leaned into him then, abruptly pushed away, and got to her feet, almost upsetting the tub and splashing water all over the floor.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  She got out of the tub, almost slipped and fell, but righted herself.

  “Not here,” she said, “not here, not like this.”

  She stood there then, as if confused.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Huh? Oh, Debra. My name’s Debra.”

  “Debra, do you want to go someplace else?”

  “Someplace?”

  “Like my room?” he asked. “At the hotel?”

  “I don’t—I don’t know what to do.”

  He got up, stepped out of the tub and went to her, taking her by the shoulders.

  “I have to leave town tomorrow,” he said. “If that helps. I don’t know if I’ll ever be coming back.”

  “That doesn’t help a lot,” she said. “I’m real confused here. W-what’s your name?”

  “Clint Adams.”

  “That means somethin’—wait, wait. The Gunsmith?” she asked.

  “That’s right.”

  “Oh, wow,” she said, “I didn’t know . . .”

  “Look,” he said, “why don’t we get dried off, go someplace and talk. Maybe that’s all you need is to talk about . . . something?”

  “Mr. Adams—”

  “Clint, please,” he said. “After all.” He gestured to the fact that they were both naked.

  “Clint . . . I really don’t need to talk,” she said. “But I do need to get out of here.”

  “Okay,” he said. “I have a few towels. Your clothes?”

  “Next door.”

  “Okay,” he said, again. “Let’s get dressed.”

  “And?”

  “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

  Debra rushed back to her own room, where she’d left her clothing. She dried off and got dressed. Her breathing had not returned to normal.

  This was amazing, she thought. She hadn’t been stirred by a man that way in . . . well, years, or maybe even . . . ever.

  What the hell was going on?

  Clint dried off and got dressed, strapped on his gun. He knew that something had happened earlier, when he and Debra had seen each other—he from the ground, and she from the balcony. Now, being this close to her, he knew it was special.

  But special wasn’t something a whore was used to, and she was confused. But since he was leaving town with Flood’s outfit in the morning, if he was going to help her through it, it had to be tonight . . . now.

  And if all she needed to do was talk—although she didn’t seem to think that was what she needed—he could do that for her, too.

  FIFTEEN

  “Mr. Flood?”

  Flood looked up from his seat in the saloon. Since Clint left he had slowly worked on the bottle until it was almost gone. He frowned now, trying to see who was standing over him.

  “What? Who’s that?”

  “Spud, sir,” Spud Johnson said. “Are you all right?”

  “Me? Sure, sure, I’m fine, just fine,” Flood said. “Spud, did you say?”

  “Yes, sir,” Spud said. “You hired me to be the cook.”

  “Right, right,” Flood said. “I, um, remember that.” Although he wasn’t really sure he did.

  “Mr. Flood, can I help you get back to camp?” Spud asked.

  “Um, yeah, that would be . . . um, good . . . Do you have a horse?”

  “Uh, no, sir.”

  “Well, that’s okay,” Flood said. “I got one for you. Used to belong to a friend of mine. His name was Jack Trevor. Did you know Jack?”

  “No, sir, I didn’t.”

  “Well, actually,” Flood said, “the horse belongs to me. Jack was just ridin’ it. Okay, come on.”

  Flood got to his feet, swayed, and would have fallen if Spud hadn’t grabbed him.

  “Whoa!” he said.

  “I gotcha, sir.”

  “Yeah, you do,” Flood said. “Now, why don’t you walk us over to the livery, and we’ll get us those horses. You can come out to the camp and check out your chuck wagon. How’s that sound?”

  “It sounds good, Boss, but . . . can you ride?”

  “Sure, I can ride,” Flood said. “And the fresh air will do me some good, don’t ya think?”

  “Yessir, I do think.”

  “Then let’s go, Spud,” Flood said. “Let’s go.”

  Clint and Debra left the barber shop and stopped just outside.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to act like some spooked virgin.”

  “You didn’t.”

  She laughed.

  “Yeah, I did. Truth was, I didn’t know what I was supposed to do with what I was feeling. I mean, I’ve been a whore a long time. I thought I was pretty much dead inside.”

  “I don’t think that’s true,” he said. “Let’s walk.”

  She didn’t argue, and even allowed him to pick the direction. He headed them off toward his hotel.

  “I don’t live in the whorehouse,” she said. “I’ve got a room in the boarding house. Everybody thinks that’s strange. Do you think that’s strange?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “How many other people do you know who live where they work?”

  She laughed again, this time with more humor than irony.

  “That’s right, isn’t it?”

  “Yup, it is.”

  Clint looked ahead and saw the sheriff coming toward them.

  “Debra, you got any problem with talking to the sheriff?”

  “No,” she said, “but he’s got problems talking to me—or any woman, for that matter.”

  “That’s so?”

  “He just sort of blathers on. Doesn’t have the first idea how to talk to a woman. You know him?”

  “Just met him today.”

  “You watch. He’ll stare at me, but talk to you.”

  As the lawman reached them, Clint saw him lick his lips, take a quick look at Debra, and then fix his eyes on Clint.

  “Sheriff, can I help you?”

  “Uh, well, I just wanted to let you know the, uh, doctor didn’t find anything else unusual about the body of poor Mr. Trevor.”

  “I didn’t think he would,” Clint said. “Seems like a pretty straight forward murder.”

  “Yes, it does. Have you seen Mr. Flood?”

  “Not for a couple of hours. Why?”

  “I wanted to see what he wanted done about a funeral,” the lawman said.

  “I don’t think that’ll be necessary,” Clint said. “Trevor didn’t have any family or friends in town.”

  “But he had men who worked for him, right?”

  “I don’t think they’d be coming into town for a funeral.”

  “Probably not. Well, then, there’s still the matter of a coffin, and a grave . . .”

  Clint took out some money and pushed it into the sheriff’s hands.

  “Would you see that the undertaker gets that?” he asked. “I think it should take care of everything.”

  The sheriff didn’t look at the money in his hands.

  “I’m sure it will,” he said. “Thank you. Will you be, uh, leaving town?”

  “First thing in the morning, Sheriff,” Clint said. “You won’t have to worry about me being in town after today.”

  “Well,” the man said, “it’s not that I was worried so much as . . . you know, concerned.”

  “I understand. Well, good-bye, Sheriff.”

  “Good-bye,” the lawman said, then suddenly looked at Debra. “Ma’am.”

  “Sheriff.”

  He turned and crossed the street with a quickening pace.

  “That’s the first time he ever looked at me like I was a person,” she said. “You think that was
because I’m with you?”

  “Maybe,” Clint said.

  “What’s this about a murder?”

  “Why don’t you come up to my room, and I’ll tell you all about it?”

  “Sure,” she said. “Why not?”

  SIXTEEN

  Spud walked Henry Flood over to the livery, where he allowed his new boss to sit on a bale of hay while he saddled both horses, Flood’s and the one that used to belong to Jack Trevor.

  “Were these Trevor’s?” he asked, showing Flood two saddlebags.

  “Yeah, I guess,” Flood said. “Let’s take ’em back to the camp, and I’ll have a look tomorrow.”

  “What about buryin’ him?” Trevor asked.

  Flood wiped his face with both hands and, for a moment, Spud didn’t think the man had heard him.

  “I’ll come back tomorrow mornin’ and arrange it,” he said, wearily.

  Trevor doubted that. Flood was drunk and exhausted. Spud just hoped this trail drive was going to get going on time.

  Maybe, he thought, if he gave his boss a good breakfast it would improve his mood.

  “Okay, Boss,” he said, grabbing Flood’s arm, “let’s get you in the saddle.”

  Debra Moore was something she had never been before, and never thought she would be, especially in a man’s room.

  She was a nervous whore.

  “Have a seat,” Clint said.

  There were no chairs in the room so she sat at the foot of the bed. For the moment, Clint remained standing.

  “I don’t have anything to offer you,” he said, apologetically. “To drink, I mean.”

  “That’s okay,” she said. “I was just going to have a bath and then go to bed.”

  She blushed suddenly and thought, What the hell is wrong with me?

  “Debra, do you want to talk?”

  “No.”

  “What would you like to do?

  “Truthfully?” she asked. “I’d just like to get our clothes off and have sex. Usually, I fuck for money. It’s been a long time since I just had sex with a man.”

  “Well,” he said, “I guess we could do that . . .”