by Jake Logan
Perfect for what Slocum intended.
He dismounted, took his rifle, and found the proper spot. This was no time for mercy. Barely had he settled down, his rifle resting in his hands and his elbows on a rock, when the carriage rattled into view. As he had known, the driver stood, braced himself, and pulled back hard on the reins to slow down. At the precise moment, Slocum squeezed the rifle trigger. The firm pressure against his shoulder went with the satisfaction he had of a good shot. The guard wielding the shotgun grunted and bent over, collapsing into the driver’s box.
Slocum stood and yelled, “Stop or you’re a dead man, too!”
“You’re crazy, man. Don’t you know who’s inside?”
Slocum fired again, winging the driver. The man had only played for time so he could get his own shooting iron out. He dropped his six-shooter and flopped flat on his back on the carriage roof.
“What’s happening? Fredericks? Johnson? I say, what—”
Slocum vaulted the rock he had used as a brace and got to the carriage door as the man thrust out his head. Helping things along, Slocum opened the door and unbalanced the man, who tumbled headfirst to the ground.
“Damnation, I’ll have your head for this!”
“Not before I fill you full of holes,” Slocum said. He thrust the rifle muzzle against the man’s neck and held him down. A quick glance into the carriage showed Etta cowering in the far corner. When she saw what was happening, her attitude changed from passivity to a human cyclone.
She spilled out of the carriage compartment, carrying the chain around her neck. Etta swung the chain over her head and lashed out at the man on the ground.
“Don’t kill him, John. I’ll do that. He . . . he was going to use me! Sexually! They gave me to him!”
He stood back and let her whale away with the chain. The well-dressed man protected his head with his arms and curled up into a rotund ball. He jerked in pain every time she landed the chain on him.
“Hold on,” Slocum cautioned. “Don’t kill him. I need to know what’s going on.”
“What’s the difference? They—they!” She began sputtering, but the first rush of anger had passed and weakness assailed her. After all Etta had been through, he was surprised she had enough energy to lash out even once with the chain, which was still fastened around her neck. She held the other end of the six-foot length in a weak grip and sagged back against the carriage.
“She wants to kill you. Beat you to death. Can’t say I much blame her,” Slocum told the man, glancing at Etta and marveling at how good she still looked in spite of her dirty, matted hair and the coal soot covering half her body. She was still naked to the waist, but her firm breasts had somehow been kept clean. They gleamed whitely in the faint starlight. The wild, exhausted, frightened, determined expressions flashing across her face made her all the more desirable. She was not giving up.
“Don’t, don’t.” The man curled up into an even tighter ball.
“Answer fast,” Slocum said. “What’s your deal with the Schuylkill Butchers?”
"O’Malley and his men? They’re from Pennsylvania but—”
“Answer me or I’ll just put a bullet in your head.”
“No, John, no! That’s too fast!” Etta’s eyes locked with his. She was going along with him, enjoying the man’s discomfort. Slocum wondered if her desire to kill the man had died now, or if she was only recovering her strength before lashing away again. It didn’t matter. If it came to it, Slocum would kill the man and lose no sleep.
“Speak up,” Slocum said, poking the man with the rifle.
“My railroad. The Montana Northern. We’re going all the way to the coast and beating the Northern Pacific. Our costs will be less—”
"O’Malley is selling you cheap coal,” Slocum said.
“Yes, yes, we can cut costs by half. He’s promised no holdups on construction. We get right-of-way, we—”
“I get the idea,” Slocum said. “In exchange for a sex slave, what are you giving him?”
“Land. He wants to forge his own state. Hell, his own country! The man’s crazy as a loon, but what do I care if I get my right-of-way and beat Jim Hill?” Slocum poked the man with his rifle. He curled up a tad more and chattered on. "O’Malley even promised to make things happen to Hill’s feeder line, the St. Paul & Pacific. I can be the first and best railroad north of the Platte.”
Slocum took his eyes off the prone man for a moment when Etta shuddered and coughed. This was all it took for the railroad owner to unwind like a compressed spring and kick Slocum in the leg with both feet. Slocum twisted to keep from falling, but did anyway. He clung to his rifle. If he dropped it, the railroad magnate would be on it in a flash.
“He’s running, John.” Etta took a few steps, swinging the length of chain still fastened to her neck, but her resolve faded after only a few steps in pursuit.
Slocum stayed on his knees, whirled around, and snapped off a shot at the fleeing man. In the dark he had little chance of hitting him. After the report died down, Slocum heard no whimpering or cries of pain. He had missed. Although he might have killed the man outright, the quick shot did not have the feel of a killing shot.
“We’ve got to get out of here,” Slocum said, getting to his feet and grabbing Etta. “Can you ride bareback?”
“I never tried.”
“Time you did,” Slocum said, working to unharness the two horses in the carriage team. He helped her astride one horse and vaulted astride the other. Using his knees, he guided the horse around, and then walked it away from the carriage to where his gelding looked askance at him, as if saying, “But I’m your horse.”
He scooped up the reins and then headed for the small camp where he had left the mare. With four horses, they could make even better time.
“Where are we going?” Etta asked. He told her. “I want to get even with him—with Norris.”
“The worm I had on the ground?” Slocum saw how the chain dangled from around her neck, riding between her ample breasts, bouncing gently as she rode. It was not polite to stare, but he could not help himself in spite of everything.
“That’s what he called himself. He told me his name was Norris but I had to call him Master.” Etta spat. “I’d’ve clawed his eyes out if he had so much as touched me.”
“We can hunt him down,” Slocum said dubiously. “This close to the fort and the Butchers, though . . .” He let his sentence trail off so she could finish it in her own way. Too many times he had invaded the gang’s territory and come out alive. He had failed to rescue Etta from them repeatedly, and if they got stirred up enough, a hundred murderous gunmen would be on his and Etta’s necks. Getting away this one last time didn’t look like it was in the cards.
“I want them all dead,” she said venomously. “All of them. Every last one of them!”
“There’s no call to treat a lady like they did,” Slocum said. Etta looked sharply at him, as if angry at his words. Her face softened a mite.
“You mean that, don’t you? You are a true Southern gentleman. ”
“I mean it,” Slocum said.
“Nobody’s ever called me a lady before. I like it.” She looked down at her bare chest. The cold night air caused her nipples to harden. Or was it something else? Slocum could not interpret the look she gave him.
“How far’s your camp?” she asked.
“Not much farther. We can—”
“Is it safe there? For a while?”
“You need to rest?”
“I need to forget what they were going to do to me— how they treated me.”
Slocum frowned, not sure he followed what she meant, but once they reached the grassy expanse near the maple grove where he had staked the mare, he found out. They dismounted. When he turned, Etta stood directly in front of him.
“Here,” she said, holding up the loose end of the chain. The other end was still secured around her neck.
“I had a hammer and chisel to free you, but I used them for
something else.”
“I don’t mind it—if you’re the one holding the other end of the chain.” She stood cloaked only in starlight when she reached down and unfastened her skirt. It fell softly around her ankles. Naked, she stood waiting for him.
“You don’t mind what?” Slocum asked. He held the chain, still not sure what she meant. Then he understood. He began reeling her closer, as if he were pulling a fish onto the bank of a river. Every link that slid through his hand brought her a pace closer, until there was no more room between them. Slocum felt the chain dangling between them, and was dazzled by the sight of her breasts crushing into his chest.
“I’m getting you dirty,” she said, rubbing against him and scraping off the coal dust. Her leg curled around his so she could rub her crotch up and down on his thigh.
“I wouldn’t want to get these fine garments dirty,” Slocum said seriously. His own clothes were as filthy as could be, but he went along with what she wanted because he wanted it, too. Bit by bit, he stripped down until he was as naked as she was—except for the chain around her neck.
“I ought to take that off,” he said.
“Leave it,” she said. “Use it. I want you to use it, John.”
He tugged downward on the chain, forcing her to her knees in front of his groin. With only a small pull, her face neared his already hardened manhood. Her lips touched the very tip of his stalk, and he felt a surge of pure fire flash through his loins. Then her lips parted, and she took a bit more of him. An inch. Two. More.
Using the chain, he gently guided her back and forth until her lips and tongue made him weak in the knees. Then she began sucking and kissing the sensitive underside of his manhood.
“No more,” he said harshly. “I want more, and you’re getting me off too fast with your mouth.”
She looked up, her eyes bright in the starlight. Her lips parted slightly, but she did not speak. She wanted him to tell her what to do. She was his slave—his willing slave.
Slocum stepped away and pulled downward on the chain until she was on all fours. He moved behind her and knelt so that her curved ass fit perfectly into the semicircle of his body as he leaned forward. Never releasing the chain, he pulled backward now. She snuggled closer, and he slid easily into her from behind.
They both gasped at the intrusion. Slocum dropped the chain, but neither noticed. Their bodies were filling with stark pleasure and the need for release after all they had endured. Slocum reached around her and fondled her dangling breasts. Etta moaned softly. With his other hand, he stroked over her heaving belly, and went lower until he came to the upper vee of her nether lips. Finding the tiny spit there already popped up and throbbing, he pressed down into it as he thrust a little deeper.
“Oh, John, you fill me up to overflowing. You’re so big. Oh, oh!”
He continued to stroke across her breasts and the hard nubs capping each. But the way he flicked his other finger back and forth until it was damp from her inner oils set her off. Etta half-rose, pushed back with her hands, and caused him to sink balls-deep into her.
She began tensing and relaxing her strong inner muscles, and Slocum knew he was reaching the end of his endurance. He wanted this to last, but they had both been through so much. Getting off fast mattered more than all-night love-making.
He began stroking with short, quick moves that built carnal friction rapidly. He had to abandon one position around her body to run his forearm across her belly to hold her close. He pumped with increasing power and need until he could no longer hold back the fierce tide within him.
He spurted out his seed. Seconds later, Etta tensed and cried out like a mournful coyote. They moved together a little while longer, and then he sank forward, the woman beneath him.
“Didn’t mean to crush you to the ground,” he said, rolling to the side. She got up on her knees. Her blue eyes were like twin stars. Much of the coal soot had rubbed off her body, but patches remained, making her breasts appear whiter than marble in the dim light. But he could not keep from staring at the chain dangling between those fine breasts.
Etta threw one leg over his waist and straddled him. The chain coiled downward onto his belly.
“Go on,” she said softly. “Use the chain again. I like it when you’re the one holding the other end. I do, John, I do.” She reached around behind and ran her hand up inside his thigh until she found his manhood. Clever fingers and a constant rocking motion got him hard again.
He took the chain in his hand and began gently pulling this way and that, moving her around on him, finding new positions, giving them both added pleasure and release.
And then there was nothing left for either of them. They clung to one another as the Montana cold settled down, forcing Slocum to get a blanket. She snuggled close, her arms around him, and was asleep within minutes. For Slocum, sleep took longer. The chain between them made him angry all over again at the men who had locked it around Etta’s neck.
Then he joined her in deep, exhausted, dreamless sleep.
12
"Stop Norris, and O’Malley will be stopped,” Slocum said, swinging his saddle onto the gelding’s back.
"O’Malley is the real criminal,” Etta said. “He ought to be hung!”
“I’m not disputing that,” Slocum said slowly, looking over his shoulder at her. She wore his spare shirt and filled it nicely. Her skirt hung in tatters, but there was nothing that could be done until they reached Sharpesville. “What is the easiest way to stop O’Malley from getting what he wants? Norris is going to give him money and a hint of being lawful.”
"O’Malley,” she said firmly. “There’s nothing the law would do against Norris. If anything, they’ll give that son of a bitch the keys to the city. Besides not having anything to charge Norris with, O’Malley is dangerous.”
Slocum saw this was a chicken-or-the-egg question that could be bandied back and forth endlessly. If Norris no longer provided a chance for O’Malley to grab the land and turn it into his own private country, the Schuylkill Butchers would move on. Right now, they were feeling their oats and thought they were invincible. They had wiped out a cavalry troop and seized its fort. They robbed with impunity over God knows how many square miles of Montana. Something had to be done to bring O’Malley down a rung or two. Slocum knew that, against O’Malley’s small army of cutthroats, more than a few companies of soldiers would be required.
“Better to find a lever and use that against O’Malley,” Slocum said, swinging up into the saddle. “A frontal assault on the Butchers isn’t going to work.”
“It must have worked back in Pennsylvania,” she said as she mounted. She sat astride the mare he had stolen, thinking hard. With a shrug of resignation that Slocum could not interpret, she looked straight ahead and fell silent. They led the two horses from Norris’s carriage, intending to swap horses if theirs tired out too soon. With Sharpesville only half a day’s ride away, Slocum doubted it would be necessary, unless O’Malley had sent out patrols to find them.
Norris had nowhere to go but back to Fort Walker. What O’Malley did when Norris squealed like a stuck pig remained to be seen.
They rode at a brisk trot toward Sharpesville, Etta pensive and Slocum alert for any sign of the Schuylkill Butchers. He worried that she might try to take matters into her own hands and foolishly—suicidally—go after O’Malley by herself. He was not entirely convinced that putting an end to Norris’s scheme would have any effect at all on O’Malley, but it was something that might be possible. He saw no way to tangle with the entire gang and come out alive.
“There’s the town limits,” Etta said, speaking for the first time since they had begun the ride to Sharpesville. “I hope you find what you want there.”
“It’s possible there aren’t any solutions,” Slocum said.
“That’s ridiculous. There is always a solution. You just have to find it.” She looked at him, and he almost believed.
“We can get a posse together. O’Malley won’t expect
an attack on his men while they’re at the fort,” Slocum said.
Her eyes widened. “You think I’m right?”
“There might not be a way out,” Slocum said. “But we have to try something.” He snapped the gelding’s reins and led the horses down the middle of the main street. The town was strangely quiet for this late in the day.
“Where is everyone?” Etta put his unspoken question into words. “I’m going to find out!”
“Wait!”
Etta was already on the ground and walking toward the dry-goods store. She tried to open the door, but it was locked. Rattling it hard, she finally got a frightened face to peer out at her from inside.
“What’s wrong? Where is everyone?”
“Go away. It’s dangerous. The marshal don’t like folks outside this time of day.”
Etta swung about and faced Slocum. They both knew the marshal and his posse—the one intended to bring back Slocum—were dead.
“What marshal?” Slocum called.
The door opened a little, and the frightened man peered out. He wiped his lips, looked up and down the street, then said, “The new marshal. Don’t know his name. He . . . he’s one of them.”
Slocum didn’t have to ask who that might be.
“Wait here,” Slocum told Etta. “I got some business to do.”
“John, don’t.”
He tossed her the reins and slipped the leather thong off the hammer of his six-gun. He had killed a few of the outlaws, but none of their deaths had been all that satisfying. He was not sure this one would be either, but he was willing to find out.
As he walked down the middle of the street hunting for the new marshal, he spotted a familiar face. He walked over to where Luther sat huddled, knees pulled up and head buried as if he could make the world disappear.
“Where is he, Luther?” Slocum asked softly. The boy looked up. His bloodshot eyes were the least of his marred appearance. Someone had beaten him severely. One cheek was swollen and blue with a bruise. The other sported a cut from his upper lip all the way back to his ear.
