Bud leveled his rifle at the chief, but ten men already lounged around armed at the ready. And Huntley was irritated with Bud, so he ordered the shrimp, “Stand down.”
Huntley ceremoniously knocked the ashes from his pipe on a rock, but Tenaya spoke first. “What is the point to taking everyone to the plains of the San Joaquin Valley? My people don’t want anything from this ‘Great Father’ you’re always telling us about. The Great Spirit is our father, and he has always supplied us with all we need. Our women are able to do our work. Go, then. Let us remain in the mountains where we were born, where the ashes of our fathers have been given to the winds.”
Belle and Boling were the only two others present who could understand Tenaya’s words, and they looked to Huntley for a response. He told Tenaya, “If you have all you desire, why do you steal our horses? Why do you rob the gold digger’s camps? Why do your people murder white men, and plunder and burn their homes?”
“My young men believed the white gold diggers were our enemies. We now know they are not. We will stay here and be friends. My people don’t want to go to the plains. The tribes there are bad and will make war on my people. Here we can defend ourselves against them.”
Huntley said, “You must go to the commissioners and make terms with them. If you don’t, your people will again steal our horses, and kill and plunder whites. It was your people who robbed my stores, burned my houses, and murdered my men. If you don’t make a treaty, your whole tribe will be destroyed.”
Tenaya’s eyes watered with some conflict. “I’m old and you can kill me if you will, but it’s useless to lie to you who can beat us in your big hunts of deer and bear.” He sighed. “If I’m allowed to return to my people, I will try to bring them in.”
“To the Deep Grassy Valley?” Belle prompted, and everyone down to a man stared at her.
Tenaya nodded. “Yes. I have talked with my people and told them I was going to see the white chiefs sent to make peace. I was told that I am growing old, and it was well that I should go, but that young strong men can find plenty in the mountains, therefore why should they go? To be penned like cattle? My heart has been sore since that talk.”
Huntley, knowing the voluble capacity of Indians, concluded the talk by telling Tenaya he could take a few of his braves and go back to his people to give them his message. Huntley then called his company together for volunteers to go into the Deep Grassy Valley. They were drawn into line, and he asked for all who wished to go to the village of the Grizzlies to step three paces to the front. To Huntley’s pleasant surprise, each man stepped forward.
The entire Mariposa Battalion had volunteered.
* * * *
The next day, Major Ashbury decided to hold a footrace.
Because they needed a company to stay behind and guard the baggage, supplies, and captives, Huntley declared he’d choose the men best suited for the campaign by a test of fitness. Tenaya had represented the route to his village was extremely difficult, impassable for horses, so it would be prudent to select those who proved endurance and fleetness.
Whit joined in the general laughter, and even helped pace off a hundred yards for the course. He knew he could best most of these men. He’d always been in the forefront of modern fitness, participating in wrestling and calisthenics, and even some Hindu stretching exercises that could be done alone. He drank sassafras tea to thicken the blood, used wood ashes to stop bleeding, and he could think of few things more bracing than footraces.
An atmosphere of boyish hilarity imbued the air as men stripped to their suspenders and the goal was marked. Some men said the selection was merely a matter of legs and not brains. The Indians seemed alarmed until Belle told them the meaning of the preparations, and then some of them desired to participate. Huntley allowed them to, while some of the heavier Indians paid others to represent them in the race.
Whit imagined that Huntley would wait at the finish line to make notations of the speediest runners, but at the starting line he was perplexed to discover Huntley was running himself—he who could “run a hundred miles in a day over the mountains”! Why would he bother? Shortly before the starting pistol was fired, Whit had his answer. Belle was running right next to Huntley. They both snorted and whinnied at each other like two stallions champing at the bit, flirtatious and competitive in their stomping of the snow.
This was absurd! Huntley didn’t need to race—of course he would go to the Deep Grassy Valley! He was their major! He was—the pistol fired, and they were off.
In a mass of pumping limbs so speedy some men were blurs, Whit could quickly see that Belle and Huntley were at the forefront. They were faster than him! He had thought this contest would be clear sailing, but he had evidently underestimated the haleness of his fellow troops, the Indians—and the scout and their leader!
The Indians being fleetest were understandable. They were nearly naked, and some ran barefoot in the snow. They were accustomed to being hearty, out-of-door men. But for him, Dr. Whitman Whitney of the University of Glasgow, to be lagging behind with the worst clods and dunderheads of the battalion? Dumb oxen who rolled about on streambeds to pick up large gold lumps, too lazy to shake a rocker? Dandies who went about the diggings with whalebone walking sticks and kid gloves, feet encased in patent leather shoes? Dodos who—oh, that was rich! An oiled dough-head who had fallen headfirst into a mud hole not long ago at Loafer’s Retreat was setting to pass him! This was too, too much!
Putting life and limb into his frustrations, Whit succeeded in overtaking most of these hefty laggards, leaving even the polished Broadway dandy behind in a flurry of snow. He was so certain he’d meet Belle and Huntley at the finish line, but he didn’t see them among the winners slapping each other on the backs. He even queried Bud Pennington, but Bud was too exhilarated to have noticed much. Then Whit saw the two figures, who had continued running past the finish line, flit across the meadow and dart into a snowy canyon.
What was this all about? How dare they map out a plan without him? What sort of devilish smoke was this? Whit stomped back and forth in anger. Maybe he never should have allowed Hunt to fuck the sweet Miss Belle—but wasn’t she more of a slatternly Judy, a bit too warm in the tail, if she’d follow that lunkheaded swell up a snowy canyon? Women! Is this why he’d avoided them for so many years—with great success?
“Hey, Dr. Whitney!” An out-and-out fathead headed his way, raising a welcoming arm, and Whit didn’t want to hear about it. “Do you have any more of that aguardiente that you—”
Holding out a strong arm stiff as a board, Whit slammed it against the fellow’s chest and continued on by, heading to the canyon. The fellow went flying like a comical jack-in-the-box with splayed limbs, but Whit didn’t stop, like a motoring steam engine now in his zeal.
As he furiously climbed the canyon, his anger reached the boiling point. How dare Hunt spirit his woman away the moment he turned his head? Weren’t they partners, friends, more than friends? Whit had so rarely failed at anything in his life, he was practically blind with rage at this apparent betrayal. The only thing he’d failed at was the subject of women, and now? When he’d just been dallying with the first and only woman who had seemed receptive to him? Oh, this was just beyond the pale! He would…he would…why, he would—
When he saw them, he was stunned silly. What were they doing? They were just standing there! They were standing on a rocky outcropping overlooking the canyon, laughing, breathless. Belle even leaned onto a boulder, so weak was she with laughter.
The momentum of his anger propelled Whit to reveal himself. Striding forward with as much dignity as he could muster, seeing as how he, too, was out of breath, he shouted, “I see! I see that the moment I turn my back how the two of you sneak off!”
They turned their laughing and somewhat bewildered faces to Whit. Belle even said mildly, “Oh, Whit! Huntley here just bet me that I couldn’t follow—”
“Oh, I’ll just bet that he bet you!” Whit knew he wasn’t making any sen
se, but the mood had already changed from one of an angry mix-up to something different. Something a bit more lewd. Whit felt on more solid ground playing aggressive, lascivious games. He yanked Huntley violently by the arm, forcing him down onto his knees. Getting down behind him, Whit snarled in his ear, “Thought you could steal Belle away from me without my knowledge?” He tore Huntley’s fringed jacket from his shoulders, pleased with the passive way Huntley was taking all of this. When the truth was, the experienced mountain man could have easily flipped him over and picked him off with his revolver, if he had wanted to. It was delicious, pressing his erection against that meaty ass, only two layers of leather separating them. A thrill flowed up the front of Whit’s torso to recall their first meeting in San Francisco when he had gripped Huntley so thoroughly he could feel the fleshy ass stimulating his stiff prick.
“I swear, Whit, I was doing no such thing!” Huntley protested, and Whit was pleased he was playing the game, too.
“Oh yeah? What else am I supposed to believe when you go chasing her up a canyon like that without my permission?” Locking both Huntley’s wrists in the small of his back with one hand, with his free palm he gave the shapely ass a resounding whack. He knew from experience it probably stunned Huntley, but also aroused him. Using his knees to scissor Huntley’s thighs farther apart, he whacked the rump again. “Did I give you permission to steal her away?” Smack. He triumphantly humped the sinewy hip while sliding his hand between the leather-clad globes of the impudent, pert ass. His palm was filled with the burgeoning balls, so he gave those a few slaps, too, pride swelling his cock even further every time Huntley flinched and gasped.
However, Belle was not so easily swayed—or was it fooled? “Whit!” she cried, falling to her knees in front of Huntley. “Honestly! Huntley told me if I could make it up the canyon he’d let me go to Tenaya’s village! Otherwise, he wouldn’t allow a woman to continue on foot!”
Huntley already panted from the exhilarating pain of being spanked. “It’s all right, Belle. Whit is right—I was trying to sneak you up here alone.”
Whack. “So you admit it!” Whit had to stop smacking the rounded ass to snake his hand round the front of Huntley’s crotch and cradle his bulging erection in his palm. “I can feel what your intentions were. Your cock is so stiff you’re leaking semen out the tip.” Scrabbling for the broadfall buttons, Whit was rewarded with a handful of the thick, hot pole. “This is what you wanted, isn’t it? To display to the beautiful Belle your admirable tool?” He had to let go of Huntley’s submissive wrists, but an even more delicious reward was to grip the bulging cock at the base and give the length of it a resounding smack with his other palm.
“Ah!” Huntley gasped and winced but only made a nominal struggle to get away, rotating his curvaceous ass against Whit’s pulsing erection.
Whit smacked the drooling prick again. In between slaps, he stroked his hand down to alternately caress and slap the full balls. They jiggled with a nice bounce, exciting Whit to even greater heights. Huntley remained kneeling, only propping himself up by leaning on a boulder. “All right. You want to impress Belle with your luscious prick? Tell me, Miss Belle. Are you impressed?”
The change in Belle’s demeanor was palpable. Whereas at first she had been obviously fearful that some violent change had come over Whit, now realization swept over her face. Sitting back on her heels, she calmly folded her hands in her lap, her eyes round and appreciative. “Yes. Very impressed.”
Huntley dutifully gripped the back of his own neck with his free hand to display his obedience to Whit. Whit was overwhelmed to have this gorgeous exhibit of masculinity at his beck and call, and in between slaps to the purpling penis, he rubbed the glans with the drips of jism that dribbled out the slit. “Major Ashbury! I see I have your attention now. Tell me you enjoy having me paddle your prick.”
Huntley arched his back, jutting his delightful ass into Whit’s erection. “God, yes. Don’t stop slapping me, you bastard.”
His buckskins had now slithered so far down, his rounded white ass was exposed to the wintry air, and Whit couldn’t resist returning one hand to paddle that exquisite expanse. The meaty globe jounced enticingly with each swat, and Whit could resist it no more. He practically popped his own broadfall buttons in releasing his cock, laving the glans with the blobs of semen that had trickled there. He pressed the urgent head between the uplifted globes of ass, nudging it against Huntley’s ruffled asshole.
Belle’s jaw had dropped so far she seemed to be drooling idiotically. She unbuttoned Huntley’s shirt, exposing his athletic chest to the freezing air. Tossing her bear robe from her shoulders, she plastered her torso to Huntley’s and kissed him voraciously, muttering things Whit couldn’t hear. Huntley remained in his submissive posture even when Belle bared her own tits to the frigid breezes, squiggling her small, well-formed breasts in a shuddering shoulder dance, such as Whit had seen performed in Paris. Her hand joined Huntley’s at the back of his neck as she kissed him insistently with large sucking sounds. She lifted her skirt so she could trap his prick between her thighs, writhing like a nautch girl to stimulate Huntley’s penis even further.
Whit took this opportunity while Huntley was distracted to nudge the first inch of his bursting glans into the snug hole. Spitting into his hand, he corkscrewed it around the remaining length of his own cock. He waggled Huntley’s cock between Belle’s thighs and demanded, “Miss Belle! Are you so selfish you don’t wish to pleasure Major Ashbury?”
Belle looked over Huntley’s shoulder, all wide eyes and false innocence. “Oh, no, Whit! We certainly can’t have that at all, now, can we?”
He grinned back at her devilish face. “Then I suggest you get down on your hands and knees and give him some release.”
A fresh smile lit up her face, and she was down on all fours. Had she done this before? She seemed to need no instruction. Whit nudged his cock a couple inches further into Huntley’s tight bum as Huntley merely grunted like an aborigine, swiveling his hips to indicate his acceptance and pleasure at Whit’s penetration.
“You like this, don’t you?” he snarled in Huntley’s ear. “You like being fucked by a debased, lecherous red man.”
Huntley blurted, “By Saint Michael!” and swiveled his hips even more alluringly.
Whit slapped his cock several more times, his fingertips brushing the braids at Belle’s skull as she lapped away at Huntley’s balls. Listening to her devouring his laden balls like a wolf at a kill brought Whit nearly to the brink of orgasm, and he had to still himself, buried deep inside his friend’s heated channel. Smacking the delicious ass some more, he taunted Huntley, “Tell me you like this. You like being fucked by a red man.” He chewed on Huntley’s earlobe and lewdly tweaked his nipple.
Huntley chuckled with a barely restrained mania. “I…like it.”
“Say it louder. You like it!”
“I like it!” Huntley bellowed, his head lolling back against Whit’s chest. “Fuck me, you red bastard! Ah!”
Whit peeked over Huntley’s shoulder only to see Belle crouched on the ground with a handful of snow in her hand. She peered angelically up at the two men hovering over her. She was no angel, however—she was eating the snow to wet her mouth, then inhaling Huntley’s erect penis into her mouth!
Whit had to chuckle at such a heartless stunt, performed by such an innocent child of nature. Huntley’s entire body tensed and shuddered at the assault, and he even slapped a hand to the back of Belle’s neck—to rouse her to speed up her pace, Whit saw. Whit took this opportunity to seat himself deeper inside Huntley’s ass, paddling the delectable haunch even more ferociously and diddling Huntley’s nipple while the mountain man bucked and snorted under such an onslaught.
It was one thing to screw nan-boys whom one was paying in coin, but Whit had never had his cock inside one he desired on every level. He was fucking the King of the Tulareños, of whom people sang:
Hunt Ashbury was a frontier man
Pione
er, trapper, guide.
With pretty squaws, it was his plan
To take ’em for a bride.
This was no simple nan-boy. Whit was losing his heart to this arrogant, tough, and tender Rocky Mountain man, all because Hunt had allowed himself to become vulnerable, to allow Whit into his own body and heart. “That’s it, Huntley. Let Belle suck all the jism from you. I’m about to explode inside your tight, savory ass.”
Before he could even finish the sentence, Whit did explode. He plunged into an unconscious state where all was sensation, the exquisite eruption roiling up the length of his cock, capturing and holding a gasp in his lungs while he shivered and shuddered into his friend, pinching Huntley’s stiff nipple between his fingers.
When he could breathe and take in more of his surroundings, he saw Belle struggling to gulp down Huntley’s load, and Huntley’s ass contracted spasmodically around his cock.
“That’s right, Hunt,” he soothed. “Spew into her pretty little mouth. Good. Good.” Reaching down, he lightly massaged the balls while petting poor Belle’s disarrayed hair. He chuckled. “But don’t choke her now. Let her breathe.”
Indeed, poor Belle sat back on her heels, spitting and choking. As Whit slid out of his partner, both men collapsed onto their heels as well, weak hands splayed on their knees.
Belle wiped her nose with the back of her hand. Gulping heavily, she was finally able to cry, “It’s coming out my nose!”
Both men laughed, relaxed and at ease.
Whit pointed at her. “You can’t try and swallow too much at once, or that happens.” He pulled a handkerchief from his waistcoat pocket and handed it to her.
She blew into the rag. “I wish someone would’ve told me!”
Whit nodded with the education that came from experience. “It’s one of those things you have to learn the hard way.”
Chapter Fifteen
March 1851
Sure as Shooting Page 15
