Slocum and the Big Timber Belles

by Jake Logan

  “So, you have us all figured out, do you?”

  She did not answer.

  Instead, she moved her body and threw her arms around his neck. She pushed her lips against his and crushed them.

  Slocum felt the heat rise through his body like a prairie storm. Then her hand was in his crotch and squeezing him. He felt his member engorge with blood and harden into a shaft that threatened to bust his buttons.

  “This is the gun I wanted to see,” she whispered and kissed him again.

  Slocum felt as if he were falling, falling into a garden of flowers where the wine was hot and the moon glazed him with a silvery frost. It was the next thing to paradise, he thought, and took her in his arms and kissed her with all his might.

  He felt her body soften against his.

  “I’ll blow out the lamp,” he said huskily.

  “Yes, do,” she said.

  He walked to the lamp in a half-daze, his mind racing like a windmill in a twister.

  He heard Jasmine walk to the door and drop the bar that locked them in. Then there was the whisper of her clothes when she walked back to the bed.

  When he saw her again, she was naked and as alluring as a siren. She began to undress him, and when she took off his boots, he slipped his trousers down and she could see for herself that he was ready, and that he was hers for the taking.

  20

  Slocum and Jasmine collapsed on the bed together, locked in each other’s embrace. They rolled to the center, peppering each other’s faces with kisses. He felt her hot breath on his face as she swarmed over him with her lips.

  “Oh, John,” she whispered in between kisses, “I want you, want you, so much.”

  He could not reply because her mouth was on his and her tongue was laving his own, swabbing and probing the recesses of his mouth.

  Her hand grasped his stalk and squeezed. Then she pumped her hand up and down, making his organ swell into a throbbing mass of flesh as thick as a man’s wrist.

  He probed the warm velvet chamber of her sex, inserting a finger. He found the tiny bud that was her clitoris and plucked it with his fingertip. Her back arched and she convulsed with pleasure, her mouth sliding down to his neck. She sucked until the blood rushed to his skin and then her hand was on his chest, her fingers threading through the wiry tangle.

  Her body bucked and thrashed as they wallowed atop the bed, each exploring with lips and hands, the crevices and valleys, the mounds and softnesses of their bodies. He gripped her buttocks and then her breasts. She slid her mouth down to his manhood and took his throbbing cock’s head between her lips, tickling the eyelet with the tip of her tongue. Then she slid his prick inside her mouth and he felt the warmth of her saliva as she slid his member in and out. She breathed heavily and made animal noises. He grabbed a handful of her hair and pushed against her face, and she gagged as the tip of his cock struck the back of her throat.

  She was ready. And so was he.

  He flipped her over on her back. She spread her legs wide and cocked them slightly as he rose above her, his arms stiff, his loins lowering to hers.

  “Now,” she breathed. “Take me, John. Put your hot cock inside me.”

  He said nothing, but he dipped to her and his swollen cock parted the portals of her vagina. He slid inside, into the warm, velvety inner sanctum of her pussy, and she let out a soft scream of pleasure.

  Her hands caressed his shoulder blades as he drove into her, plunging deep into the soft pudding of her cunt. He held her buttocks and lifted them until he pierced the very tip of her vagina and she bucked like a spring colt as an orgasm rippled through her body, one, and then another. Her legs wrapped around his waist and they were a single person, their bodies melded into one thrashing animal exuding sweat and bodily fluids that intermingled like two rivers in a confluence.

  He rolled over again until Jasmine was on top and he could see the contours of her face from the dim glow of the streetlamp. She pumped up and down on him, her hair falling over her face like a veil, her arms straight out. She breathed hard and loud as she moved her loins, screwing him into her and thrashing when an orgasm ripped through her body like a firestorm of supreme pleasure.

  “Oh, it’s so good, John,” she said, her voice breathy and low. “You’re so good.”

  “You are some woman, Jasmine,” he said. His hands grasped the globes of her breasts and his finger traced the outlines of her nipples until they hardened like tiny buds, pert and stiff as his cock.

  The two flipped places again and he stayed deep inside her. She thrashed and squirmed under the energy of his love assault, mewling and purring with pleasure at each thrust and retreat.

  “I never . . . I never . . .” she sighed, breathless from the exertion and the ecstatic pleasure.

  “Never what?” John asked, a deep huskiness in his voice.

  “Never had anything like this. Never felt like this. Never had so much . . . pleasure.” The last word out of her mouth was a barely audible whisper that was almost like a prayer on her lips.

  “I feel the same,” he said, knowing that he could not match her words. There was just no way to describe the way he felt. It was as if he was only half a person and now, with her, he felt whole and complete, as if a lost part of him had returned and given him all that he had ever longed for since childhood.

  She was sweet, and her kisses were hot and wet on his face and his mouth. He held his own pleasure back, keeping the seed locked in its pouch so that she could climb to the heights again and again, could soar over the earth like an eagle until she plummeted from the skies into that warm pool of ecstasy that was beyond measure, beyond explanation.

  They made love for the better part of an hour. Finally, she let him know that she was ready for the final thrust, that last exquisite moment when all the stars in the sky exploded in her head and flooded her body with warm silver.

  “Now, John, now,” she urged and he picked up the pace with his thrusting. He dove deep into her loins and her back arched like a Roman bridge, like a ballerina bending backward as her partner grasped her waist and threw her high into the air.

  He felt her body relax and then buck as if a spring had been released. He held her tight as the pleasure spewed through his body like warm milk laced with bourbon. He spilled his seed inside her womb and she gripped his shoulder blades like a drowning woman, holding on to him as her own body released all its energy, and sailed to the heights of a mountain where the air was cool and fresh and the breeze like a thousand tongues caressing every inch of her flesh.

  “Oh, yes, yes,” she sobbed at the height of her ecstasy.

  John rose with her to the farthest reaches of the universe, into that godlike realm where all was peace and contentment, weightless as a feather, drained of all energy, but pulsating with an indefinable substance that seemed to fill his mind and caress his body with the hands of an angel.

  It was all beauty and harmony as he floated back down to earth, where all was serene and the darkness was like an embrace.

  They did not speak for several moments. He tumbled from her and they lay side by side, floating still, even though both were earthbound.

  Her breathing returned to normal and so did his, as if they were a matched pair of runners who had just finished a race.

  She patted his stomach with a limp hand. But he could feel the calluses on her fingertips. That was her left hand, the one that held the guitar strings down tight between the frets. They were rough, but he loved the feel of them. They were like a badge of her profession, proof that she was a woman who worked, not at washing or ironing clothes, but at something creative and beautiful, which brought joy and happiness to those who heard her play and sing.

  “You’re a wonder, John Slocum,” she said after a time.

  “And so are you, Jasmine.”

  “You got there,” she said. “And so did I.”

  He knew what she meant. They had both gotten there, and they had returned from a holy place denied to most mortals.<
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  “I’ve never had such pleasure in my life,” she said. “Not even singing can match what we had together.”

  “That’s very sweet of you to say so,” he said.

  “I mean it. I feel safe with you. I feel loved. And that’s the greatest feeling in the world.”

  He said nothing. Just the sound of her soft voice was pleasurable in the aftermath of their lovemaking. Her speaking voice, especially now, was every bit as beautiful as her singing voice. He felt lucky to have been with a woman like Jasmine, a woman who did not demand more than he could give, and gave more than she was given. She was the kind of woman who could grow on a man.

  “I think I’ll finish the rest of my drink,” she said, “and then I’ve got to go back to my room. Lydia will wonder where I’ve been.”

  “Will you tell her?” he asked.

  “No, silly. I don’t want her to know that her mother is a loose woman.”

  “You’re not a loose woman, Jasmine.”

  She patted him on his belly, then rose from the bed.

  “Thank you for saying that, John. I don’t feel loose or immoral. I just feel complete.”

  “And so do I,” he said, marveling once again at the contours of her naked body, the lines and curves that were as classical as a nude painting by a master.

  He pulled on his trousers and fished a cheroot from his shirt pocket. He watched her dress, the dainty way she pulled on her pink panties and slid into her cream slip. He lit the cheroot and sat in the darkness at the table.

  “You won’t light the lamp,” she said. “I’m sure I look a fright.”

  “No, I won’t light it,” he said. “The darkness looks good on you.”

  “Mmm,” she said, and put on her dress, arranged it as she sat down on the divan. She slipped into her shoes and then drank the rest of her bourbon, a small amount that only covered the bottom of the glass.

  “I hope you and the sheriff are successful tomorrow,” she said as she stood up to leave.

  He walked over to her and took her in his arms.

  He kissed her.

  She broke away after a few seconds.

  “We mustn’t do that too much or I’ll never get out of here,” she said.

  “You’re beautiful, Jasmine. Inside and out. You’re a beautiful woman.”

  “Oh, you make my poor heart flutter. Good night, John. And good luck.”

  He walked to the door with her and lifted the wooden latch. He watched her walk down the hall to her room and tap softly on the door. It opened, and a flaring cone of light spilled into the hallway. She stepped gracefully through it and then the door closed and the darkness returned.

  John closed the door and latched it. He walked to the window and looked out at the street, over the buildings at the Absarokas, their peaks white and shining in the moonlight.

  It was the end of a perfect evening, and tomorrow he and Jenner would go after a man who once had something he never deserved and would never have again.

  With luck, Jasmine and Lydia would never have to worry about Bruno Valenti again.

  He drew a breath and pulled the shade. He crushed out his cheroot in an ashtray, pulled the covers back, and slipped into bed. The beauty of the evening was complete and he was tired.

  He fell asleep thinking of Jasmine, her aroma still in his nostrils like the fragrance of a fine wine or a lovely rose.

  21

  Bruno Valenti awoke from a stuporous sleep while silver stars were still winding across the night sky. He had stayed up late, waiting for Angus Macgregor to show up and tell him he had killed the two hunters who had gotten away. He had eaten too much roast lamb, lamb that was not fully cooked, and he had made many trips to the squatting ditch.

  The whiskey smell still clung to him and his mouth tasted of rusted copper, his throat raw as a rope burn from too many cigarettes.

  “Where in the hell is Macgregor?” he asked aloud and his words bounced off the logs in the small, dingy, rat-shitinfested cabin as if he were talking inside a dank cave.

  “Huh?” Jake Pettibone stirred in his bedroll, startled by the booming question. He sat up and opened his eyes. A rat scuttled across the hem of his woolen blanket and made ticking sounds on the log wall with its tiny feet, which were all bone and talons. His vision was blurred, but he could see the watery stars through the openings in the door, the cracks where the wood had weathered and shrunk over the years.

  “Get your ass up, Jake,” Valenti said. The cigarette in his mouth glowed as he took a puff.

  “Hell, it’s still night, Bruno.”

  “Not much it ain’t. We got things to do.”

  “What things?” Pettibone asked, scratching at the lice on his scalp. His eyes still watered as if he’d dunked his head in the creek. The smoke curled through the dark air and assailed his nostrils. He sneezed.

  “I want you to be real quiet and go get the other men. Bring ’em back here for a powwow.”

  “Them Injuns, too?”

  “No, just the white men, you stupid bastard. I don’t want them Injuns to wake up.”

  Pettibone tossed his blanket off his body and turned to face the shadowy bulk of Valenti. His hands groped for his boots. He found them and started pulling them on over dirty woolen socks.

  “Them redskins drunk enough whiskey, they’ll sleep till noon,” he said. “Even if you marched through their camp with a brass band.”

  “They’ll sleep longer than that,” Valenti said cryptically.

  Pettibone was still half-asleep and failed to discern the irony in Valenti’s statement. He finished putting on his boots and stood up. His head nearly touched the low roof of the cabin. As it was, he was aware of the nearness and felt claustrophobic.

  “Jesus,” he said, “who built these cabins? Midgets?”

  “Get your ass out of here,” Valenti said, and the glow from the cigarette cast a golden shine on his face, a face that made his skin look purple and waxed.

  “Yeah, I’m goin’, Bruno, just keep your damned britches on, will ya?”

  “And don’t sass me, Jake. Real quiet, like I said.”

  The door made a whining noise when he opened it and sagged as it swung out on its worn leather hinges. He closed the door and stared around him, shivering in the chill from a breeze that blew down from the high country like whispers from a glacial cavern.

  He walked to the nearest cabin and opened the door. Two men inside snored loudly, out of synchronization, and at different pitches. He walked to one man’s hulk on the dirt floor and toed his stockinged foot with his boot. It was Crowley, he knew.

  “Wake up, Ben,” he whispered as one snore cut off in a loud snort. “Boss wants to see you. Be real quiet.”

  “Huh? Christ, Jake, you scared the living shit out of me.”

  “Find yourself a wipe, then, but get on over there pronto.”

  “What about Harry?”

  Harry Wicks snored in his bedroll a few feet away, his bedroll crammed against the wall.

  “I’ll get his ass up, too, Ben.”

  “I got to get my boots on,” Crowley said. “Hell, it’s still night out.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Jake said. He took a step toward the other sleeper and poked him in the side with the toe of his boot.

  “Harry, I’m your morning rooster,” Pettibone said. “Cocka-doodle-do.”

  Wicks stopped snoring as if a guillotine blade had chopped his head off. He sat up and bumped his head against a log.

  “That you, Pettibone?” he whispered, rubbing his head with one hand, his one eye with another.

  “Yeah, boss wants us all over at his cabin and he says to be real quiet.”

  “Now? Shit, it’s dark as pitch outside.”

  “You’ll think darker than that if you don’t get over there real quick. Bruno’s in a foul mood.”

  “When ain’t he?” Wicks said, and crawled out of his bedroll, his blanket rustling like windblown leaves. He pulled on his boots. He and Crowley stumbled from the cabin.
Their teeth chattered as they stepped into the predawn chill.

  Wicks looked back at Pettibone, who came outside and left their door open.

  “Mac get back?” he asked.

  “I don’t rightly know, Harry. If he did, he’ll be bunkin’ with Cochran, I reckon.”

  “Yeah, he will,” Crowley said.

  Pettibone walked across the dim expanse of flat toward another cabin, his boots squashing grass and grinding pebbles into the dirt. He rubbed his arms against the cold.

  The sky was beginning to pale faintly in the east when Pettibone entered the last cabin. There was only one lump on the floor and snores came from beneath the blanket pulled over Jimmy Cochran’s head. These were thin, squeaky snores that sounded somewhat like a squealing pig, with whistles at the end of each whining phrase.

  Pettibone looked around just to make sure. Macgregor’s bedroll was laid out, but it was as flat as a flapjack. Nobody in it.

  He toed Cochran in the side once, twice, then put more pressure behind his kick and Jim boiled out of his bedroll like a bass exploding from a quiet pool at the end of a barbed hook.

  “Jesus, the Christ,” Cochran exclaimed. “What the hell?”

  “Get your Irish ass out of bed, Jimmy. Bruno wants to palaver with all of us right quick.”

  “Now?”

  “Yeah, now, goddamn it. And don’t make no noise. He don’t want to wake them redskins.”

  Cochran grabbed like a blind man for his boots. He snatched the floppy top of one and dragged it toward him.

  “Hell, them Crow was all drunker’n seven hundred dollars last night. A cannon couldn’t roust them this mornin’ .”

  “Now, well, just be quiet. Somethin’s up and I don’t know what.”

  “Whatta you reckon?”

  “I don’t reckon, but I don’t think Mac got back last night. Look.” He pointed to the empty bedroll. “Valenti is plumb pissed off about it.”

  “Bruno say anything about it?” Cochran pulled on his other boot and grunted from the effort.

  “Nope, but I been with him enough to know when somethin’s eatin’ at him. And when I seen Angus wasn’t in his bedroll, I figured that’s what’s stuck in Bruno’s craw.”