by Jake Logan
The thief was no knife-fighting novice. He adroitly changed hands, his left now holding the knife. But he stopped when he found himself staring down the barrel of Slocum’s six-shooter.
“You don’t hafta shoot,” the thief said.
“See if your friend has any cash on him,” Slocum said, his eyes darting to the drunk and then back.
“Naw, he’s tapped out. Me and him been drinkin’ half the night. Took him forever to get that soused.”
Slocum hated sneak thieves but said nothing. He kept the six-gun pointed at the man’s face until he backed off. With a flourish, the man returned the knife to whatever hidden sheath it had been drawn from, then backed off, hands up and palms facing Slocum.
Slocum waited until the man turned and ran before lowering his pistol.
“Get in,” he told Valenzuela. “It’s not much but it’s better than hoofing it.”
“Not so much,” Valenzuela said uneasily. He held his head canted to one side as he listened. In the distance Slocum heard police whistles. “We might do better to leave it if the police are after him.”
Slocum knew the drunk on the ground might have committed some vile crime, possibly being too free with his money, and that had drawn the Specials. They traveled in packs like feral dogs and wouldn’t be satisfied until they were adequately paid off or had killed someone.
With a quick turn, Slocum got into the buggy and snapped the reins. The swaybacked horse snorted and began pulling.
“Wait, wait for me!” Valenzuela jumped aboard as Slocum pulled away. “You would not leave me! Not after you saved me from the prison. What would su novia say if you returned without me?”
Slocum didn’t have an answer for that. He wasn’t all that sure anymore what Conchita would say when he showed up with her brother.
He snapped the reins again and brought the horse to a canter to get the hell away from the policemen appearing like ghosts out of the fog at the far end of the street. Having a shoot-out with a platoon of them was the last thing he wanted.
He wasn’t too sure what the first thing he wanted was, though. He would just have to find out when he delivered José Valenzuela to his dying father’s bedside.
5
“I cannot wait to see her,” José Valenzuela said as they approached his home. He was shifting so much on the buggy seat that Slocum worried the carriage would tip over. Valenzuela swung out far and stared ahead. The sun was just creeping up and sent long shadows slanting toward them. Slocum had the feeling of driving into the sunset rather than into the rising sun of a bright new day.
Valenzuela jumped out and hit the ground running, disappearing into the front door without breaking stride. Slocum took a few minutes to drive the rig around back so it would be out of sight. The house was not far from the main road going north into San Francisco, and he didn’t want a casual passerby to see the buggy or the horse. Chances were slim anyone would recognize the horse and buggy as being stolen from a drunk in northern San Francisco, but he took no chances. Memory of the San Quentin walls rising around him turned him wary. To return there was not in the cards.
He went around and stood in the low doorway to see Conchita and José clinging to one another. As he went into the small house, they parted. Conchita looked flustered, and José looked like the fox that had just eaten the chicken. All he needed were feathers around his mouth.
“You see your pa?” Slocum asked pointedly.
“I was on my way. He is very ill and still sleeps. I took a moment to thank my sister for being so clever to get you to break me out of prison.” José stepped behind Conchita, who stood a little stiffer for a moment, then José went into the bedroom just off the main room.
“Oh, John, you did it!” Conchita rushed into his arms and smothered him with kisses that made the jailbreak and everything he had endured seem worthwhile.
“Did he make it in time?”
She pushed away and looked at him, puzzled.
“Your pa. He’s still aware of things around him?”
“Oh, yes, there is great pain, but he is not in a coma. José came in time.”
“How much longer do you think he has?”
“Papa?” Conchita laid her cheek on his chest. He felt her heart beating in her breast and smelled the perfume of her long, dark hair. She clung fiercely to him. “Not so long, but he wanted to see José. You have done a great thing, John. A boon. A favor that can never be repaid.”
“I’d like to look in on them. To see how they’re doing,” Slocum said, moving to push Conchita out of the way. He heard strange sounds from the tiny room where José had gone.
“Let Papa enjoy José’s jokes,” she said, gripping him harder. “He could always make Papa laugh. It is good for both of them.”
“I won’t be a second,” Slocum said, not sure why the laughter bothered him so. That Conchita had verified it was laughter made him certain he wasn’t imagining things.
“I know you won’t, John,” she said, her hand pressing hotly into his chest, holding him where he stood. The hand worked slowly downward until it cupped his crotch. She began squeezing gently, then pressed her palm into the growing bulge.
She turned her beautiful face up to him, closed her ebony eyes, and pursed her lips, waiting. She didn’t wait long. Slocum had gone through hell for this moment. He kissed her. She returned the passion with more ardor than he could have hoped for. Her body moved against his and her legs parted so she could wrap her thighs around his upper leg. Conchita began moving up and down, like a cat rubbing against a table leg.
She broke away breathlessly, then stood on tiptoe and licked along the line of Slocum’s stubbled chin until she got back to his earlobe. She nibbled gently and whispered, “Outside. To the shed in back. It is ready for you—for us!”
Conchita pulled him behind her like a child pulling along a wagon. Slocum had to duck fast or he would have hit his head on the lintel as they went out into the morning sun. It felt hot and fine against his face. He felt renewed and happy that he had been able to help the Valenzuelas.
“Hurry, hurry, race you!” she cried. As Conchita dashed away from him, she began shucking off her clothing. Her blouse was the first to land on the ground. She stumbled and spun and got off one shoe and then the other before she reached the shed. For a moment, she fumbled with the latch. Then she had the door open and stood outlined by the doorframe.
Conchita dropped her shoes inside and began moving her shoulder sinuously to work out of her undergarment. Slocum had picked up her blouse but now slowed to watch the show she put on for him. A final shimmy brought the camisole down around her waist. She stood gloriously bare to the waist. Slocum caught his breath at the sight of those apple-sized breasts, each capped with a brown circle. In the middle of those targets grew hard little nubs betraying her arousal.
“You like what you see, my hero?” Conchita spun about, then bent over and hiked her skirt. She wasn’t wearing anything under it.
Slocum had gotten so hard watching her that he felt pain in his crotch. He began unbuttoning his fly as he went to the doorway, where she waggled her bare butt in his direction. He sighed as the final button popped open, and he snapped out, fully erect. Two quick steps took him to the curvy ass presented to him. He put his hand on the sleek, warm flesh and felt the woman quivering.
“Yes, John, yes,” she whispered. Conchita reached out and grabbed the top of a crate stored in the shed. Her stance widened, inviting him to do more from behind.
Slocum stepped up to do his duty. He felt the warm half-moons on either side of him, and then he moved lower. The plum tip of his manhood touched her nether lips. He felt the moisture leaking from her. She wanted him as much as he wanted her. He had gone through hell for her, and this was his reward. Part of it.
His hips levered forwarded, and he sank an inch into her heated core. He paused, relishing the feel roiling up into his groin. He was becoming fully alive now. His hardness turned to steel and began to ache with real need.
>
He lightly spanked her mahogany-hued butt and heard her delighted yelp. He reached around her waist and pulled her back powerfully. For a moment he thought he would pass out. The tightness around him, the heat, the slickness, all worked on his senses. His loins blazed hotter than any prairie fire. When she began rotating her hips and stirred him about deep within her, he knew he couldn’t simply stand still to fully enjoy this delight.
He began stroking with sharp, quick strokes. Friction mounted between her inner walls and his fleshy stalk. He gripped her hips even more firmly, and they fell into a rhythm, crushing together, stimulating one another, getting the most out of this carnal coupling as they could. When it felt as if he would explode within her like a stick of dynamite, Slocum slowed the frantic pace and caught his breath.
“No, no, don’t stop. Oh!”
He reached up and caught at her dangling breasts. Firm in his hands, they barely overflowed each of his palms. He had big hands, but Conchita was ample enough to give him something to work with. He squeezed and stroked and finally caught the brown nubbins between thumbs and forefingers. Rolling the nips around brought cries of even more intense joy to her lips.
And then he started driving his fleshy spike back into her. Caught between the two regions of stimulation, Conchita went wild with need. This spurred Slocum on until there was no holding back. The fierce tide rose within him and edged upward, burning and giving intense pleasure until he erupted within the tightness she so avidly offered him.
He heard her cry out as she shoved her rump back into the circle of his body. She shivered and shook and cried out again, then sagged forward, catching herself on the edge of the crate until he slid limply from her heated interior.
“You are so good, John, so very good.” Conchita turned and flaunted her breasts, cupping them and offering them up to him. He couldn’t resist such a treat. He bent, suckled first on one and then the other. She gasped with the sudden intrusion of his middle finger into her tightness again. Between his oral ministrations on her teats and his delving finger, he got her off again. This time she staggered back and perched on the edge of the crate. Her face was flushed and her eyes wild with lust.
“Never have I found such a lover. Not even . . .”
“Not even who?” Slocum asked. “I want to know my competition.”
“There is no one who can compete with you, John. You are perfect. Absolutely perfect.” She threw herself forward. Her arms circled him and pulled him close. Slocum wasn’t going to complain but thought something was wrong. She purred like a contented kitten, and he certainly had no complaints, but something wasn’t right and he couldn’t figure out what it might be.
“We’d better get back and see how your brother and pa are getting on.”
“Why? José can do well on his own. You should know. Was he not capable helping in his own escape?”
Slocum had nothing to say about that. Both Doc and Murrieta had sacrificed themselves for him and Valenzuela to escape. Valenzuela had contributed little and would have brought down the guards if Slocum hadn’t convinced him to keep a low profile rather than shooting anyone who moved. Valenzuela was a hothead and had ended up in San Quentin for a reason.
Still, Slocum had ridden with worse in his day. Bloody Bill Anderson and his commander, William Quantrill, had been conscienceless killers. Anyone wearing a blue uniform was fair game, no matter their age. That had gotten Slocum gut-shot and left for dead when he refused to kill Yankee sympathizers in Lawrence, Kansas, who were as young as eight years old. But compared with the killers serving with Quantrill’s Raiders, José Valenzuela was a babe in arms.
“Something’s wrong,” Slocum said. The uneasy feeling grew. “Where’re the horses kept?”
“On the other side of the house, but do not worry about that, John. Come, let us—”
Slocum shook his head as he drew his six-shooter. Something felt wrong. He had survived during the war by listening to this inner voice. Sometimes it whispered; other times it screamed. Slocum was almost deafened by it now.
With Conchita trailing behind, struggling to get her blouse pulled up over her shapely shoulders, Slocum rounded the house and saw the crude corral.
Empty.
“José’s gone,” he said.
“There is nothing to worry about. He will be back soon. I know it.”
Slocum ignored her and went to the house. He pushed open the front door with the toe of his boot, then edged into the dim interior. Calling out wasn’t too smart; Slocum went to the bedroom door where the elder Valenzuela had been on his deathbed.
Had been.
The room was empty. The bed was neatly made and might not have been slept in recently.
“Both José and your pa’re gone,” he said. Slocum turned to face Conchita, who stood with a curious expression on her face. It was a mixture of anger and confusion. “Where’d they go?”
“I . . . I cannot say. Perhaps José took him to a doctor. Our father. To a doctor.”
“Why’d he do something like that if the old man was dying? The time’s past for giving him a tonic or some other medicine.”
“José knows so much more than I do, than our papa does. He might have seen and known the right place to go.”
“You’re lying. Where are they?”
“You cannot call me a liar! I will not stand for it. You get out. Now. ¡Con veloz!”
“So I get your brother out of San Quentin and you run me off?” Slocum reckoned he had gotten paid out in the shed, and there had been so many times prior to him agreeing to carry out her crackbrained scheme, but it hardly made up for a week in solitary confinement in the bowels of the prison. He had been tricked before and likely would be again, but he felt angrier at himself for letting this pretty muchacha dupe him so easily.
Rather than leaving as he was told, Slocum went into the bedroom and began rummaging about. He had no idea what he was hunting for. There wouldn’t be any money to recompense him for all he’d been through, but he wanted more to find something that would tell him where José and his father had gone. They had left almost immediately after Conchita had lured him out to the shed, so they had been planning something. He wanted to know what it was.
“Get out!” Conchita cried. “You cannot rob us!”
“Wasn’t planning on that. I want to know what you and your family are up to.” He found a small metal box. Using the butt of his pistol, he knocked off the small lock and dumped the contents onto the bed. A few coins and a sheaf of papers comprised the entire contents. He left the coins and pawed through the papers. There were maps and scribbles in Spanish that he didn’t understand.
“Tell me what this means,” he said, holding out one map for Conchita, but she had disappeared. He stuffed the paper into his pocket and strode into the main room. The sound of a horse got him moving outside in a rush. He saw Conchita riding bareback on the horse that had so reluctantly pulled the buggy. He took a couple steps in her direction, but the dust cloud obscured her direction when she got to the nearby road.
He took off his hat and slapped it a couple times against his leg to dislodge some of the dust. Then he began walking, fuming as he went. He hadn’t even come out of this ridiculous failure with a horse, even a swaybacked nag hardly up to carriage duty.
Slocum reached the road, looked once in the direction of San Francisco, and began walking the other way. There was nothing for him to the north. For that matter, he knew there was nothing southward either. He had come this way to escape the heat and drought and saw no reason to return to it. Mostly, he needed to find a horse so he could range due east, circle around San Francisco Bay on the Oakland side, and then ride as hard as he could for the Pacific Northwest. Oregon had to hold better circumstances.
Barely had he gone a mile when he heard the thunder of hooves behind him on the road. Whoever rode down on him was in a powerful hurry. He considered stepping aside and seeing who was intent on killing his horse under him, then got the prickly feeling at the
back of his neck that he ought not indulge this curiosity. He left the road and went to a dry acequia. The drought here wasn’t as bad as down south, but it was enough to make the irrigation ditch little more than a mud puddle.
He slipped over the edge and flopped down, waiting.
The riders approached, then slowed, and finally stopped about the place he had left the road.
Sunlight glinted off badges pinned on the riders’ vests. He slid his Colt Navy from his holster when one of the lawmen pointed to the tracks he had left, then slowly traced along his trail to where he hid in the irrigation ditch.
Slocum knew he was in for trouble when the posse dismounted, fanned out, and started toward him.
6
“You lift that iron and you’re a dead man,” shouted the man Slocum took to be the leader. “Boys, get ready to shoot. He don’t look like he’s the surrendering kind.”
A quick glance left and right confirmed Slocum’s worst fears. He was already caught in a cross fire. The deputies on either flank had a clean shot at him. He might take out one, but the other would ventilate him in the span of a heartbeat. And that didn’t even take into account the two gunmen flanking the leader. One held a rifle like he knew how to use it, and the other’s grip was steady on his six-shooter.
“Don’t get itchy trigger fingers,” Slocum said, holding up his hands. He felt exposed and about ready to die. All it would take was a single deputy to get a tic, and lead would fly.
“Come on over here, and keep your hands up in the clouds. I swear, we’ll shoot if you don’t!”
As Slocum got closer to the lawman, he saw a sheriff’s badge.
“Look, Sheriff, I—”
“Shut your face,” the lawman snapped. He snared Slocum’s six-gun and tossed it to the nearest deputy. Even then, the sheriff kept a keen eye on Slocum’s every move.
“He matches the description, Sheriff Bernard.”
