Mountain Manhunt

by David Robbins

  “So?” Leslie plunked down and leaned back, her body arched so her breasts were practically inviting him to touch them. “This is an old dress. I’ve worn it three times, so I don’t much care if it gets dirty.”

  “Three whole times, huh?” Fargo said, sitting beside her.

  “Poke fun if you want, but when you have a lot of money, you’re entitled to a few idiosyncracies,” was Leslie’s opinion. “One of mine is that I never wear the same clothes more than four times. Five, if I really like the outfit. Then it’s off to the dressmaker for new ones.”

  Fargo thought of all the women he had met who were so poor, they couldn’t afford more than one dress a year. “Do you have any idea how lucky you are?”

  “Luck has nothing to do with it,” Leslie said. “My father worked himself to the bone to build his fortune.”

  “How much work have you done?”

  Leslie pursed her ruby lips in disapproval. “I come all the way down here to be with you and this is how you treat me? If I want to be insulted, I can spend my time with Garrick.”

  “He doesn’t like you?”

  “Not since I dumped him, no. He was interested in me long before he switched to Shelly but I wouldn’t have anything to do with him. I’m choosey about my men. Now enough talk.” Leslie slid closer so their shoulders brushed and placed her warm hand on his. “I swear. If you don’t do something, and do it quick, I’m going to slap Shelly for lying to me.”

  Fargo grinned. “I wouldn’t want her hurt on my account.” And taking Leslie Synnet into his arms, he molded his mouth to hers.

  10

  It had been Fargo’s experience that when women were in the mood, it was wise to go along. They were funny that way. Let a man be too frisky and they would slap him for stepping out of line, but once they made up their own minds to tumble in the hay, they wanted it then and there, and the man be hanged.

  Leslie Synnet was a perfect example. Maybe she found him attractive, or maybe she wanted to see if Shelly had told the truth, or maybe it was just that she needed a man and he was handy, but once their mouths touched, she uncapped a wellspring of carnal craving that would put the highest paid dove in Denver to shame.

  Uttering a cross between a groan and growl, Leslie slid her tongue into his mouth and swirled it around and around. Her hands were everywhere, sculpting his shoulders, his biceps, his waist. The only spot she didn’t touch was between his legs. Saving the best for last, Fargo thought, and would have grinned except that she was sucking on his tongue.

  Fargo returned the favor while exploring the soft contours of her marvelously trim body. He stroked her thighs through her dress and kneaded her bottom until she was wriggling and cooing and breathing huskily.

  When they broke for breath, Leslie’s hooded eyes sparkled in the starlight. “My, oh my. You are good. Where have you been keeping yourself all my life?”

  Fargo licked her neck and nibbled an earlobe.

  “Yessssss,” Leslie whispered. “I do so love it when a man knows what pleases a woman most.”

  Fargo hoped to God she wasn’t going to talk the whole time. Few things irritated him more than a female who wouldn’t stop jabbering when she was making love. He stifled her next comment by covering her mouth with his while his hands rose to the swell of her full breasts and cupped them.

  Leslie made soft groaning sounds from deep in her throat. Her nails raked his shoulder and dug into his arms. Her legs pressed flush to his, and as her ardor climbed, she ground herself against him, lightly at first, then with increasing urgency.

  How long they sat stoking their mutual inner fires, Fargo couldn’t rightly say. But at last he eased her to the ground and took off his gun belt. She removed his hat and ran a hand through his hair, the whole time grinning a sultry grin.

  “Something tells me this will be a night to remember.”

  “Won’t your brothers be upset if you take too long getting back?” Fargo had enough problems to deal with as it was.

  “Teague and I have an understanding,” Leslie said softly. “I used to embarrass him to no end until he realized I’m no different than he is. As for Jerrold—” She laughed. “He’s never been with a woman. He has this idea he should stay pure for the girl he marries.”

  Fargo undid his pants.

  “Not that I think he’s being silly or anything,” Leslie had gone on. “He’s always held himself to a higher standard than the rest of us. Sure, he’s naive, but if that’s how he wants to live his life, I’m not fit to criticize.”

  She was talking her fool head off again. Fargo lowered his chest to hers and was about to kiss her when she put a finger to his mouth.

  “One thing. You’re never to say a word about this to anyone. Agreed? What we do here tonight is strictly between the two of us.”

  “You’re not going to brag about it like Shelly?” Fargo could not resist asking.

  “First off, even though you’re handsome as hell, I don’t know yet if you’re worth bragging about. Second, I’m not her. I keep my dalliances to myself. No one will ever know we did this unless you tell them, and if I hear you’re spreading rumors behind my back, I’ll stick a knife between your legs some night when you’re asleep.”

  “I don’t like being threatened,” Fargo said, rising onto an elbow.

  “I didn’t mean it like that,” Leslie said, placing her hands on his shoulders. “It’s just that, once, in Africa, a big game hunter took it into his head to tell everyone who would listen that I had slept with him. I went to him and asked him to stop, and do you know what he did?”

  Fargo didn’t know and didn’t care. He was admiring how her breasts filled out her dress.

  “He laughed in my face. He said that to him, I was just another trophy, and he would do as he damn well pleased. Can you imagine? Nothing I could say would change his mind. I offered him money and he swatted me on the fanny and told me to run along and go play with the other ladies.”

  Fargo went to kiss her but she wasn’t finished.

  “So do you know what I did? The very next day he took us out after water buffalo. It was his job to back us up when we shot, and to bring the buffalo down if we missed. So right before it was my turn, I unloaded his rifle when he wasn’t looking, and when we went out together and flushed a bull, I waited until it was almost on top of us, and dived flat.” Leslie paused. “I can still see that bull tossing him on its horns.”

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  “I don’t know,” Leslie admitted. “I’ve never told anyone else. I shouldn’t have done it, I suppose, but I was mad and hurt. He was a Russian, a minor duke or something before he came to Africa and fell in love with the place and stayed on. I just assumed he would have a shred of honor and decency and—”

  Fargo pressed a finger to her mouth. “If all you want to do is talk, we might as well head back.”

  “Oh. Sorry.” Leslie grinned, then pecked his cheek. “It must be this mountain air getting to my head.”

  Rather than point out they weren’t all that high up yet, Fargo silenced her with a kiss. He rimmed her gums and her teeth and entwined his tongue with hers. His hands were busy lower down. When he started to unfasten the tiny buttons at the back of her dress, she started to sit up.

  “I’ll do that.”

  “No, you won’t,” Fargo said, pressing her back down. He ran his lips across her throat and then down over her dress to her right breast. Her nipple was hard as a nail. Even through the fabric he could nip and tweak it.

  “Mmmmmm,” Leslie breathed. “I can’t wait.”

  Those tiny buttons were a challenge. They had to be twisted just right to undo them, and it didn’t help that Fargo couldn’t see what he was doing. But the prize was worth the persistence. After a while the dress parted, and he peeled it over her shoulders, exposing her underthings. Most women wore white undergarments; hers were pink.

  Leslie grew bolder. She caressed his inner thighs in small circles, commencing at his knees and
rising slowly but inevitably higher until, of a sudden, she put her hand on his rigid manhood. “Mercy me!”

  A constriction formed in Fargo’s throat. Hiking at the hem of her dress, he slid his hand underneath and probed higher. She had on cotton drawers and knee-high stockings but no petticoats and no crinoline, which would hamper her when riding. Her drawers were loose enough at the bottom that he could slide his hand under them to well above her knees, and the garters that held up her stockings. He left them on; he liked their sheer silken feel.

  Leslie’s raven hair smelled of lavender, her neck of perfume. When he nuzzled her ear, she shivered deliciously. “Shelly wasn’t exaggerating. You sure know how to pleasure a woman.”

  “It’s not a great secret,” Fargo said before he could stop himself.

  “Tell that to all the other men on this planet. Most want to get it over with much too quickly. They prod and poke and it’s over. Men like you, men who take their time and pleasure a woman, are rare.”

  “You don’t say.” Fargo kissed her to prevent her from babbling on, and while his tongue was busy with hers, he pushed her dress up around her waist and pulled her drawers down around her knees. A last tug, and they were all the way off. She shivered again, this time from the chill night air, and broke out in goose bumps.

  Fargo stroked her legs and she obliged him by parting her thighs to grant him freer access. He lathered her other ear while sliding his hand to her nether mound and pressing two fingers to her moist womanhood.

  “Ohhhhh!” Leslie gasped.

  Lightly running his finger along her slit, Fargo touched her where it would arouse her most. Her nails bit deeper than ever. He inserted his finger to the knuckle, and swore he could feel blood trickling down his back.

  “Yes!” Leslie exclaimed. “There! There!”

  Fargo inserted a second finger. Suddenly she was writhing and groaning. Her inner walls contracted and she spurted. He had not expected her to gush so soon. Her lips were fiery coals, her body gave off heat like a stove. He began sliding his fingers in and out, in and out, and at each thrust she cried out and her eyelids fluttered.

  “Don’t stop! Don’t ever stop!”

  With his other hand Fargo bared her breasts. They were superb: full and round and heaving with desire. He nipped one nipple and then the other, then squeezed both until Leslie squealed in ecstasy. He placed his face between them, savoring their wonderfully soft creamy smoothness. Dipping lower, he licked a path to her navel, swirled it with his tongue, and sat up to work his pole free of his pants.

  “Let me,” Leslie said, and tugged his pants low enough for her to take him in her fingers and stroke it as she might a bar of gold. “Shelly didn’t exaggerate about this, either.”

  Another constriction in Fargo’s throat nearly choked off his breath. He let her position him, let her rub him across her opening, let her insert the tip of him into her velvet sheath. Then, his hands on her hips, he levered up into her.

  “Ahhhh!” Leslie panted, her body a bow. Her mouth opened and her eyes closed and for a few seconds she was completely still.

  Fargo commenced the ages-old rocking motion that came as second nature to all men. The forest grew hazy and the stars blurred and nothing was of consequence now except the two of them joined as one and the pleasurable sensations their joining produced. Her teeth sank into his shoulder and she rocked harder and faster, her thighs tight around him. She reached the summit, and Fargo helped her over the edge by sliding his hand between them and stroking her swollen knob.

  “I’m there! I’m there!” Leslie cried.

  It was like riding a bucking mustang. Fargo held onto her hips and weathered the storm of her unfettered passion until she slowed and lay still and quiet in near exhaustion. Then he resumed thrusting into her, with vigor.

  Leslie’s eyes widened. She groaned and clung to him, letting him do it all now, her senses overwhelmed by bliss.

  The moment Fargo had been building up to came with a rush. He thrust and thrust and thrust some more, until his body was spent and all he could do was wearily sag on top of her, his cheek pillowed by her breasts.

  “Marvelous,” Leslie whispered. “Just marvelous.”

  Rolling onto his side, Fargo fought an urge to doze off. He would dearly love to rest but they had a long ride ahead. Just then the Ovaro whinnied and he sleepily raised his head. He had not heard anything so he was startled fully awake by the sight of a rider in the trees. Not below them, as he might expect, but above them, bordering the rise. Lunging for his gun belt, he drew the Colt and rose onto his knees. “Who’s there?” he demanded.

  The rider gigged his mount forward and Fargo could see it was a white man, could see a hat and a vest and a belt buckle that glinted dully in the dark.

  “What’s going on?” Leslie asked, clutching her dress tight and looking this way and that.

  At the sound of her voice the rider abruptly hauled on his reins and applied his spurs. “Wait!” Fargo hollered, but the rider vanished into the undergrowth and soon the woods were still again.

  Leslie was swiftly dressing. “Who was that? I didn’t get a good look so I couldn’t say whether they were white or an Indian.”

  Fargo was about to tell her when she said something that changed his mind.

  “Teague would never allow anyone to leave camp without permission. And he certainly wouldn’t want anyone to learn what I’ve been up to.”

  “Whoever it was, he’s gone now,” Fargo said. “We should light a shuck, too. As it is, we won’t get back until one in the morning, or later.”

  “Oh my,” Leslie said, buttoning one tiny button after another. “In that case, what are we waiting for? I didn’t realize it was getting so late.”

  The rode in silence. Fargo kept one hand on his Colt and avoided darker patches of vegetation to forestall an ambush.

  It was Leslie who finally spoke, whispering urgently, “What are all those lights up ahead?”

  Torches, Fargo guessed, three or four, moving among the trees close to camp. He had figured most everyone would be asleep but they were all on their feet, some of the men with rifles at the ready.

  Since he did not care to be mistaken for a hostile and shot, Fargo hailed them with, “Hello the camp! It’s Fargo! Miss Synnet is with me. We’re coming in!”

  “At last!” were the first words out of Teague Synnet’s mouth, before they could so much as dismount. “Where the hell have you been, sister?”

  “Don’t snap at me like that. I went for a ride, just like I said I would,” Leslie replied none too cheerfully.

  “What happened?” Fargo nipped their argument.

  “A mountain lion scared off most of our horses,” Teague said. “The damn cat screeched like a demon, and off they went, tether rope and all. Most of us had turned in and there wasn’t anything we could do.”

  “How many have you found?”

  “Four came back on their own. We’ve recovered another three. Jerrold and several men are still out searching.”

  “Call them back,” Fargo said. “They can’t do much stumbling around in the dark. We’ll round up the rest of the horses in the morning.” Once the sun rose, he could easily track them.

  “Are you sure that’s wise?” Teague asked.

  “If I wasn’t, I wouldn’t say to do it,” Fargo responded.

  As if to prove him wrong, another fierce screech rent the night, followed by the scream of a man in mortal terror.

  11

  Fargo reined into the trees, ducked under a limb, and galloped toward several torches thirty yards away. Jerrold was there, a torch high in one hand, a revolver in the other. With him were Horner and Gus, turning every which way as if in imminent fear of being attacked. On the ground lay a fourth man, his hands clutched to his blood-streaked face.

  Gus spun toward the Ovaro as Fargo drew rein, and for a second Fargo thought he would fire. But he jerked his revolver down and blurted, “Some guide you are! All hell has broken loose and you wer
en’t anywhere around.”

  “Stay calm,” Jerrold said. “It’s not as bad as all that.”

  “Isn’t it?” Gus snapped, and indicated the man on the ground. “What about poor Vern here?”

  At that, Vern let out a howl of agony and rolled back and forth, blubbering, “It cut me! Cut me bad! I think I’m blind in one eye!”

  Fargo swung down. Deep cuts ran from the victim’s forehead to his chin, narrowly missing his nose. “The mountain lion did this?”

  “It struck so fast, none of us could get off a shot,” Jerrold said. “It leaped out at Vern and was gone, just like that.”

  Sinking onto a knee, Fargo grasped one of Vern’s wrists. “Let me see how bad it is.”

  “I’m blind, I tell you!” Vern wailed, and started thrashing again.

  “Lie still.” Fargo seized both of Vern’s arms to pull them apart but Vern resisted, whining and struggling.

  “Let me be!”

  “Show some grit,” Fargo said, and pried Vern’s arms far enough apart to see his face. Claw marks ran from the temple to the chin but the cougar had missed both eyes and the nose. Blood from the deepest cut was trickling into the left eye, which accounted for Vern’s claim of being blind.

  “Is that all the mountain lion did?” Jerrold asked.

  Horner broke his silence by kicking Vern in the ribs. “Get up, you yellow jackass! All this blubberin’ over nothin’!”

  “What?” Vern bleated, and wiped a sleeve across his cheek. “Wait! I can see! I can see!”

  “Idiot,” Horner said, and kicked him again.

  Fargo rose. “Let’s head back. We’ll go after the horses at first light.” If they lost one to the cat it would be an inconvenience but not a calamity. They had plenty to spare. He held to a slow walk, enabling Jerrold to keep pace.

  “I’m glad you’re back. I don’t mind telling you that the cries the cougar made about froze my blood in its veins. I’ve never heard anything like it.”

  “It screamed to scare off the horses,” Fargo said. A favorite tactic that often rewarded the big cats with enough fresh meat to last a week or better.