Over the Andes to Hell (A Captain Gringo Western Book 8)

by Lou Cameron

  He chuckled and said, “No. You’d have to put away an awful lot of that stuff to feel it.”

  “It tasted rather refreshing. What does it feel like to be drunk and abandoned to the temptations of Satan, Dick?”

  “Beats me. Usually, by the time I’ve gotten drunk enough to do anything all that interesting, I’ve just wanted to lie down and sleep it off.”

  “Really? I’ve always been taught that one sip of Demon Rum can lead straight to ruination. How do you account for all the drunken brawling and sinful behavior if it’s only supposed to make you sleepy, Dick?”

  He said, “I guess you have to start out feeling ornery to begin with. I’ve never seen a really decent cuss get fighting-mean on liquor. It just brings out the devil that’s already in you.”

  Gaston nudged her and said, “If M’selle would permit me, I have a raging thirst and a certain curiosity about my own devils.”

  Susan handed the bowl to him, but not before she’d taken another, rather heroic gulp. She repressed a belch and said, “I was thirsty, too, and the Prophet teaches that if one sins once, one may as well sin twice, for there is no evading the All-Seeing Eye and it marks the fall of the sparrow. Amen.”

  Gaston took a swallow and passed it on. Another bowl was following the first around the circle faster than the dancers shuffled. Captain Gringo took a swig and passed it on sans comment as he eyed the roast monkeys dubiously. He knew he really ought to put something in his gut if this was going to be an all-night beer bust. But some of the others had torn off bits and pieces to nibble now, and the only thing more gruesome than a monkey roasting whole on a spit was a mutilated monkey doing the same thing. He remembered he had some parched corn and jerky in his roll, over by the guns. The last time he’d looked, it had been covered with a sort of gray fuzz, but at least it didn’t have tiny hands. He’d wait until things settled down a bit and fetch it. He wanted Susan to eat something, too. Diablilla and Gaston were used to alcohol. He didn’t know what effect even weak booze might have on a what … virgin?

  He chuckled to himself as he wondered if virgin was the right word for a novice drinker. He wondered why he found that so funny. Then he wondered if the blonde was the other kind of virgin and why that seemed so funny, too. Then he frowned and warned Gaston, “Watch it. This chichi has more of a kick to it than I thought.”

  Gaston said, “Oui, the sweetness masks the alcoholic content. Sherry wine can sneak up on one the same way. But never fear, my old and rare, I can drink a Russian under the table.”

  “I’m not worried about you. Keep your eyes on the other folks in our party. Some of the Indians are already sloshed and it’s early yet.”

  The dancers had been passing chichi around and some of them were smoking funny cigars that looked like cornhusk tamales and smelled like burning hemp. They were dancing faster now, although, like every American Indian dance he’d ever seen, the choreography was pretty uninteresting. They seemed to think shuffling one step one way and two steps the other was inventive as hell, though, because it made them giggle a lot.

  Diablilla nudged him and passed him the Indian cigar going around in the wake of that last bowl. She was exhaling through her nose with a dreamy look in her eyes as he took it from her. As he took a polite puff, Diablilla murmured, “God, I’d like to suck your cock.”

  He choked and inhaled more than he’d intended before passing the smoke on to Susan without thinking. Then he blinked in surprise as the cannabis hit him and said, “You’d better pass on that, Susan, it’s marijuana.”

  But the missionary had already inhaled a deep drag, coughed, and was saying, “Wheeee, so it is! What’s marijuana, Dick? I thought it was tobacco.”

  He said, “It’s not tobacco, it’s dope,” and she looked relieved and took another puff before passing it on to Gaston. He frowned and asked, “Weren’t you listening?” and Susan said, “Yes, you said it wasn’t tobacco. The Prophet never said anything about marijuana in the Book of Mormon, so it must be all right. Ye shall name and gather the fruits of the earth and have dominion over something or other. Amen.”

  He shrugged and turned back to tell Diablilla to take her hand out of his lap, for Chrissake. She said, “I wish for to be vile,” and he said, “Later. I think they’ve gotten over their first fear of ghosts and in a little while we’ll be able to slip away and tear off a quickie.”

  “I do not wish for to fuck later. I wish for to fuck right now. What is the matter with you? Have you forsaken me for that blond pig? You men are all alike. You get a girl to be vile with you and then you want another.”

  “Knock it off. I told you she’s a Bible-thumping missionary and, even if she wasn’t, you’re my adelita.”

  “Prove it. Be vile with me in front of her.”

  “Jesus Christ, you’re hopped up. What’s the matter with all of you? Neither the booze nor the smokes are all that powerful. I hardly feel a thing.”

  Then he reached out, tore an arm off a monkey, and began to gnaw it like a chicken leg. He was hungry as hell all of a sudden, and it tasted better than he’d expected. Sort of like veal with a pork aftertaste.

  Someone got their signals mixed and now bowls of chichi and cornhusk reefers were being passed around both ways. Diablilla passed him a smoke, he took a cautious drag and handed it to Susan, who, in the meantime, had gotten one going the other way. She put both in her mouth before he could stop her and inhaled deeply as he muttered, “You’re going to damage your lungs.”

  Her lungs looked pretty good as she leaned back in his loose shirt, expanding her chest. She smiled owlishly and said, “Oh, hello,” as she handed him both smokes. He sat confused, with one in each hand, and said, “I think one of these is supposed to be going the other way.” But Diablilla took them both away from him and said, “I can do anything she can do, and better. Watch this.”

  Then Diablilla put a tip in each of her nostrils and inhaled furiously. For some reason it struck him funny as hell, and as he laughed she did it some more. Then he took them away from her and passed them in opposite directions, saying, “Come on, quit kidding around.” He might have known Susan would stuff hers up her nose before passing it to Gaston, who handed it on to the Indian on the other side of him sans comment and received a bowl of chichi in return. Captain Gringo reached for more monkey. He was okay, he was sure, but feeling sort of lightheaded and hungry as a bitch wolf. When Diablilla put her head in his lap, it didn’t seem as embarrassing as he knew it should have. She fumbled at his fly and then she snuggled down and went to sleep. He was a little disappointed. He had a raging hard-on now. But he decided it was just as well. He remembered it wasn’t polite to screw in public. He’d forgotten the reason.

  Susan didn’t seem to notice Diablilla’s actions. She’d been staring up thoughtfully at the dancers. Suddenly she muttered, “You call that dancing?” and then she was on her feet and doing a Cakewalk around the fire.

  The Indians loved it. They laughed like hell. Captain Gringo laughed, too. For a missionary, she gave a pretty good imitation of a saucy music hall gal. They’d have raided the show in Frisco or even Paris, though. The Cakewalk was a daring dance wearing a flounced skirt and tights. Susan only had his shirt on, and as her long bare legs flashed in the red firelight you could sure see she had nothing on under it. The Indians had already seen her bare-bottomed. So had everyone else, come to think of it, but Pancho and some of the other guys were clapping their hands to keep time for her as they shouted “Ole!” and other things he didn’t think he’d ever translate for the American girl if she asked.

  She didn’t ask. Born and raised more soberly than even the average Victorian miss of her generation, Susan was like a kid in a candy store, or maybe a runaway convent girl, as she forgot her inhibitions for the moment. A couple of Jivaro girls broke out of the dance line and tried to cakewalk behind her, squealing with delight. They were both stark naked, of course, and now that a guy had had time to settle his nerves, they looked a lot nicer and a lot nakede
r in the sensual flickering light. One of them kicked too high and fell on her rump with a laugh. An equally naked Indian nearby rolled over on her and proceeded to screw hell out of her with no further ceremony. Captain Gringo looked over at Gaston and muttered, “Jesus, how do we cool things down?”

  “Merde alors, who wants to? This is turning out to be a better party than one might have anticipated, non?”

  “Yeah, but we can’t let our guys start an orgy with these natives.”

  “Why not, if the natives are friendly? Relax, Dick, our people are heavier than the Indians and it takes more to affect them. Besides, I have been watching and the muchachos have been nursing their refreshments.”

  Captain Gringo pointed across to Quico, holding a young Jivaro girl in his lap, and growled, “Like hell. Look at Quico!”

  “I see him. She’s pretty, in a droll way. What is the problem? She sat down in Quico’s lap. He did not sit in hers. If any of her tribesmen did not approve, they would have said so by now, non?”

  “How could they? The whole tribe seems to be drunk as a skunk.”

  “Oui, they have little tolerance for drugs or liquor. Perhaps this is just as well, when one has only limited quantities at one’s command, hein?”

  “Oh, shit, you’re not listening either. Before they started this brawl they handed us a whole mess of taboos, remember?”

  “Oui, Obviously they have forgotten them, along with any other rules of the house they may have had. Regardez, is that not a boy buggering a boy, over there in the shadows?”

  “That’s their problem. They’re both Indians. I can see they’re getting too sloshed to give a damn about ghosts and stuff, but they’re going to remember them in the morning, and everyone’s likely to have one hell of a hangover. I think we’d better get our crew together and retreat gracefully to some empty huts.”

  Gaston shrugged and suggested, “Wait a few minutes. It could be as dangerous to offend their hospitality as it might be to abuse their sisters.”

  Before the American could answer, Susan Reynolds was shaking him by the bare shoulder. She said, “Hey, let’s dance. I’m lonesome.”

  He hesitated. Then he gently lowered Diablilla’s head from his lap to her crossed arms and left her there, face down, as he rose. At least he saw a way to keep Susan from flashing her blond snatch at everybody. He took her lightly in his arms and began to waltz her around the fire. She giggled and said, “Oh, nice. ‘The Blue Danube’ has always been my favorite.”

  Since the only music was the rhythmic grunts and clapped hands all around them, she was either kidding or she’d been smoking some reefer.

  The outer dance ring had broken into trios and quartets of Jivaro, sort of staggering in step with locked arms. At least half of them were on the ground, either out like lights, coupled in casual sexual embrace, or, in one embarrassing case, jerking off.

  As he tried to whirl her past without comment, Susan asked, “Why do men do that, Dick? I’ve noticed a lot of that since I’ve been here among these Indians. When they’re not abusing one another they seem to be abusing themselves.”

  “Yeah, well, they don’t have an opera house or library. Let’s sort of move out of the way. The party seems to be getting rough.”

  He waltzed her to the edge of the clearing and let go of her. It wasn’t just to spare her feelings. He had some feeling of his own to worry about. He was naked above the waist and all too aware that she was naked everywhere under the thin cotton shirt he’d given her. Her nipples against his chest as they’d fooled around hadn’t done a thing for his erection and he’d been worried about her feeling it. She tended to dance pretty close, for a missionary.

  She took his hand calmly and said, “Well, we could sit this dance out, if there was a place to sit.” Then she giggled and said, “Oh, I know this hut. I have a hammock inside. Lesh go sit in my hammock, huh?”

  He eyed her dubiously. She was tight as a tick. He looked over to where Diablilla lay by the fire. Gaston was seated beside her, quietly smoking marijuana. He knew Diablilla was safe. But was anyone else around here?

  Susan was tugging at him. He let her lead him into the thatched hut. It was pretty dark, but he could see enough to observe she’d been right about the shrunken heads hanging from the rafters. The quickly erectable Jivaro roofs of thatch were held up by saplings driven into the earth. Four hammocks of hand-spun wild cotton hung around near the outer walls of interwoven twigs. Susan said, “This one’s mine,” and leaped into it, exposing her bare behind as she did so. She rolled over, the shirttails up around her waist and her long shapely calves dangling over the edge as she added, “Come and sit by my side if you love me, like the song says. Do you love me, Dick? The cowboy loved the girl in the Red River Valley and you sure look like a cowboy to me.”

  He remained standing over her as he said, “I know you’re feeling gaga, but try to listen anyway. I’m a soldier of fortune, a bum. Love is just another dirty word to guys in my business. No offense, but—”

  “Oh, hell, let’s just fuck platonically then.”

  He blinked and gasped, “I beg your pardon, Miss Missionary?”

  “Whash the matter? Don’t you like to fuck, cowboy?”

  “It’s always been one of my favorite hobbies, but for a girl who doesn’t smoke or chew—”

  “Oh, you Gentiles always think we Latter Day Saints are some sort of fanatic Puritan sect, don’t you? I’d forgotten.”

  “Hey, that’s not all you’ve forgotten, doll. I tried to read the Book of Mormon one time. Couldn’t really get into it, but I do know you kids have the same Ten Commandments as the rest of us.”

  She giggled and said, “We break them as often as the rest of you, too.”

  “Even missionaries?”

  “I know, I’m being awful. But for some reason, tonight it doesn’t seem to bother me. What are you waiting for, Dick? I haven’t had sex since our camp was raided and I’m really hurting!”

  He started to climb into the hammock. Then he grinned and started to unbuckle his belt as he said, “Hell, I thought you were a damned virgin.”

  She laughed and said, “The Prophet Joseph teaches that all virgins shall be damned indeed. The body is the fleshy temple given to us by the Lord. Amen. Thou shalt not defile it with artificial stimulants. Neither shalt thou abuse it by jerking off.”

  He dropped his pants and said, “Amen!” as he climbed into the swaying hammock with her. He fought for balance on his knees, gripping the rope edges on either side of her as she hooked one calf over either side, presenting her open thighs to him as she unbuttoned the shirt demurely. He gingerly lowered himself and as his turgid shaft touched the blond fuzz, she took it in one hand, murmured, “Oh, nice,” and guided it in for him.

  He realized as she hissed and arched her spine to meet his thrusts that she hadn’t been nearly as drunk as she’d been pretending. That made it even better. He’d set her straight that this was to be no more than good clean fun, and, since she seemed so surprisingly pragmatic, he’d be able to explain about Diablilla without the usual tears and recriminations. He knew he’d get plenty of those from Diablilla if he wasn’t careful! But they could sort out the details later. Right now, it was time for a good healthy orgasm with a beautiful woman who obviously wanted the same.

  So he gave her one, and then, since the crazy swaybacked position in the hammock was ruining his spine, he suggested they try it another way. She said she was game for anything that didn’t hurt.

  He climbed out and lay her crossways on the cotton strings with her tail bone and heels hooked on one side rope at the level of his hips. He stepped in and re-entered her at the new angle as she gazed up at him in wonder with the other rope against the nape of her neck. She gasped, “Oh, whee! It certainly feels deep that way!”

  “Am I hurting you?”

  “No. I said it felt deep. I never said I didn’t like it deep. Try swinging me, it feels deliciously wild.”

  So he did, and it did. Considering
it was the second time, it made for a fast as well as novel orgasm. Susan climaxed easily, too. And he wondered why that sort of bothered him.

  It wasn’t that she’d turned out to be more earthy than he’d imagined. Susan was, in fact, the sort of woman men always said they were looking for. A healthy, uncomplicated broad who just plain loved to screw and went at it as casually as any man. She didn’t say silly things about loving him and when he got around to telling her about Diablilla being his adelita, and what that meant, she just said, “We’ll have to be careful then. But don’t worry, I’ve handled jealous girls before. Let’s try something new.”

  She rolled over and lay face down, her legs dangling and her spine arched by the sag of the hammock to present her pale derrière at an astounding angle. He started to put it into her from behind and she murmured, “Shove it up my rear. It’s fun that way, too.”

  He hesitated. Then he saw she’d run her hand under the side rope and was fingering herself. He nodded, got his wet shaft into position, and gingerly entered her tight pink anus as she hissed and said, “Oh, that’s lovely. Swing the hammock, will you?”

  He did, and it felt good as well as strange. The strangest thing was the conversational way she went at it, as if she was sharing a meal with him. He put a palm on each buttock and as he moved in and out, enjoying the unusual view, he said, “You sure are full of surprises, for a girl who bitched about the way the Indians carried on, doll.”

  She said, “A little faster, please. I was hysterical when you met me, Dick. I kept expecting them to rape me, and, despite the way I seem to be shocking you, I am particular who I do this with. Besides, they really are rather disgusting little creatures. They don’t just indulge in normal sex. They seem to be bisexual child molesters and you have to admit that an old man doing, well, this, to a little boy is a bit much.”

  “It’s okay if we’re the same size and opposite sexes, huh?”

  “You kind of like it, don’t you?”

  “As much as you do. But, no shit, were you this friendly with those other missionaries coming up the river to save souls?”