by Jake Logan
“We can make a lean-to!” The woman took the tarpaulin and draped it over a fallen beam, then fastened the ends with broken furniture. She pointed. “There’s a mattress. Drag it under the tarp. Hurry or it’ll be soaked through.”
Slocum struggled to pull it along. It had been in the earlier rain without a chance to dry out. He found another tarp and dropped it over the mattress, then sank down as the rain began pelting down harder. The sound of the rain hitting the wood all around reminded him of battle, of constant barrage. Only these bullets were watery and not leaden.
He stretched out and felt his entire body protest. Riding bareback most of the day had taken its toll on him, yet he was hesitant to fall asleep.
Then there was reason not to. Beatrice sidled up and pressed close, her hand on his chest.
“Your shirt’s damp,” she said. She began pushing back his coat and vest and the shirt underneath until bare skin was revealed. She bent over and kissed him, her tongue swirling about in the chest hair. She worked lower, down to his belly. Tugging more insistently now, she opened his shirt to the waist and kept kissing. Her lips touched lightly, teasing him and causing a reaction he wanted to deny but couldn’t. He was getting harder as she settled down toward his crotch with her mouth.
“Yes,” she said, her breath hot as she unfastened his gun belt and then popped the buttons on his fly. She pounced on his burgeoning manhood, sucking the bulbous tip entirely into her mouth.
Slocum lay back and let her work him over orally. The rain pattering down on the tarp was as soothing as her mouth was arousing. He lifted his head enough to see the top of her head bobbing up and down as she took him ever deeper into her mouth. He groaned as his manhood slipped along the soft inside of her cheek and then lodged deep in her throat. She made gobbling sounds and slowly pulled back, letting him slip from between her lips with a wet pop!
“You taste so good. But I want more of you. Lots more,” she said.
Slocum didn’t say a word as she moved to straddle his waist. Her head brushed against the tarp but Beatrice didn’t notice. She was too busy reaching down to take him in hand and guide the plum-tipped organ to her sex lips. He groaned again as she rose up, positioned herself, and settled down. Slocum couldn’t see where he’d buried himself because of her full skirts but he felt it. Along every inch of his cock he felt her warmth and wetness.
When she tensed, he felt velvety pressure and heard lewd sucking sounds as her woman juices leaked down his shaft.
She closed her eyes and began rotating her hips, stirring him around within her as if he were some fleshy spoon. When she rose and fell, heat built from the friction. Slowly at first and then with more determination, she moved. Her hips began a combination of movements. Rotating and lifting and falling until he was sure she would break him off inside her.
“Oh, yes, so big, you fill me so!” She leaned forward, her hands pressing into his chest as she continued her deliberate movements.
Then her hips exploded in a frenzy of activity. Slocum felt as if she would burn him off, break him off. But he only did the impossible. He grew harder inside her tight fleshy tunnel.
Beatrice shoved herself away and lifted her feet on either side. With an agile twist, she turned sideways while keeping him inside her. She repeated the move and faced away from him. Leaning forward, she bent him at a new and thrilling erotic angle. Then she began moving more frantically.
Slocum half sat up and reached around her hips, fumbling under the rolls of skirt, until he found bare flesh. She sobbed out when he found the tiny pink spire at the top of her sex lips and began pressing his finger into it. The slippery little spike eluded him when she lost control entirely and thrashed about atop him.
He had to lie back and concentrate on not losing control. But he fought a battle he could not win. The pressure all around, the slickness and the movement, robbed him of his spunk. He blasted forth, spilling his seed until he went limp and slid from her churning slit.
Beatrice spun back around, still straddling his waist, but this time she wasn’t a wheel spinning on his fleshy axle. Kicking out her legs to press outside his, she lay down with her cheek against his bare chest.
“You are so good, John, so good. Better than anyone else. Anyone . . .” Her voice trailed off as she went to sleep. Slocum heard more in her words than she uttered.
He had expected her to say, “You’re a better lover than anyone else except . . .” Who would she have named?
He didn’t know and that was why he found it so difficult to trust her or anything she said. Still waters ran deep, and none were so secret as Beatrice Sampson.
15
Slocum rode, uncomfortable with the way Beatrice held him so close and pressed in from behind. The paint wasn’t happy carrying two riders either, even if Beatrice wasn’t that heavy. Step by slow step the horse wended its way across the drier sections of countryside, avoiding the puddles and mud holes left by the rain from the night before.
“I like this, John. I hope it never ends.”
“Fort Stockton is only a day’s ride off, if I have my bearings.” He had worked out his location at the Gallagher farm when the stars appeared in a cloudless sky just before dawn. Whether following Joshua or trying to deliver the mail, he had ridden in a circle with the fort at the center. The best he could tell, he had never been more than fifteen miles from the fort and maybe twenty from Gregory when he had ventured south of Fort Stockton trying to deliver the package to Justin Framingham.
That thought caused bile to rise in his mouth. From the time of the stagecoach holdup to Bonnie Framingham’s murder, he had locked horns with Joshua and had never come close enough to actually take the man by the throat and shake him.
“What’s that, John? It’s not a purr like a kitten. More like a growling dog.” She moved her hands up to press into his chest. Where she touched was warm but not as warm as where she’d placed those hands a few seconds earlier. That had made riding along mighty uncomfortable.
As much as Slocum distrusted her, she had a way of making him respond that proved both arousing and irritating. He had lived his life by taking what was freely given and letting what wasn’t go. Sometimes it had been necessary to take what was rightfully his, but for the most part finding a new horizon and riding for it had suited him well. He never ran from trouble, but he never sought it out either. That was too much like picking at a scab until it bled. There were plenty of ways to get new wounds.
“Just thinking of your brother.”
“Why? Don’t worry about him. Not right now.” She fell silent, and they rode on for a few minutes before she asked, “Are you still going to stop him? I mean, get him so he can be locked up and get help?”
“Madhouses don’t do much in the way of helping anyone but those outside. They take away men who would hurt others.” He didn’t add that a bullet to the head served the same purpose and probably gave everyone a better solution. Being locked up was as bad for him as letting a wildcat murderer ride roughshod over the prairie.
“From what you said about Joshua burning out those people, he needs to be locked away. He always had a fascination with fire. I remember as a boy he would light one match after another and watch it burn until it scorched his fingers.”
Slocum listened but nothing in what she said carried a ring of truth to it. And he didn’t know why.
He started to ask where she and Joshua had grown up when he saw movement along the hill to their left. The paint snorted and turned its head in that direction, too.
“What’s wrong?”
“Someone on foot.” He listened hard and heard a wailing that chilled his blood. “Might be hurt from the sound of that.”
“No, you don’t have to go. That’s not Joshua.”
“Not everyone out here is your brother, but damn near all of them need help.”
He v
eered from the direction of the fort and rode slowly toward the figure struggling along, crying out piteously. As he drew nearer, he saw it was a woman in a tattered wedding gown. She paid Slocum and Beatrice no heed, walking with her head down and her arms wrapped around her as she moaned in pain. The once-white dress was ripped and hung in tatters. Lace had turned yellow, as Slocum could tell through the splotches of mud. The woman’s face was covered with cuts. Squinting, he made out at least one new wound that trickled down to her shoulder and stained the fabric.
Kicking at his horse’s flanks, he got the paint to something more than a walk but less than a trot. The rhythm threw him from side to side and almost unseated Beatrice. She made a sputtering sound, which Slocum ignored. His complete attention focused on the woman trudging along.
“Ma’am,” he called. “Ma’am, do you need help?” He stayed back in case she hid a six-shooter in the folds of her wedding dress.
The woman turned and stared at him with wide eyes. Crazy eyes.
“You’re not Keith! Where’s my Keith?”
“He your husband?”
“I lost him. He lost me. Where is he?”
“Were you caught in the twister?”
“John, let her be. There’s nothing she can do to help us.” Beatrice slid her hands from his body and clutched at the cantle now, as if rejecting him. That was fine with Slocum.
“Ma’am, you’re bleeding. You want us to get you to Fort Stockton?”
“John, no! That’ll delay us far too long!”
Slocum wondered what Beatrice’s hurry was. Or did she simply not want to give whatever aid they could to this woman? The hollow eyes that turned to him were haunted by ghosts only the woman could see.
“He went off. Keith went off and never came back. I have to find him.”
“You from town? From Gregory?”
“No, no, that’s not him. His name’s Keith. Where is he?” She turned and started away, arms wrapped even tighter around her scarecrow thin body.
Slocum rode alongside, pacing her. She paid him no heed.
“What’s your name, ma’am? I’m delivering mail. Might be I have something for you from Keith.” That was a cruel thing to say because Slocum doubted the woman’s lover would be writing. She looked to have been out on the prairie longer than since the twister had roared through.
“A letter? You have a letter for me?”
“Depends, ma’am. What’s your name?”
“Amanda Zimmer,” she said, looking less haunted and more hopeful. “You have a letter from Keith?”
“Keith Zimmer?” To his surprise, it was as if she suddenly deflated. The woman sank down, then wrapped her arms around herself and began her journey to heaven knew where.
Slocum thought it was a trip to hell from the way she moaned and cried.
“Wait, I—”
“John!” Beatrice grabbed his shoulder and dug her fingers in until he winced.
“What?” He turned, ready to knock her off the horse. Then he saw what had caught her attention. A lone rider had stopped a quarter mile or so away and watched. The sunlight caught the man’s shirt.
“Gray,” Slocum said. “That’s your brother!”
“Get him. You can stop him from doing so many horrible things! Hurry!”
It proved easier said than done. The paint was close to the end of its trail and had only one speed left. That slow walk might get Slocum where he wanted to go, but it wouldn’t do it fast enough to overtake Joshua.
He gave up when they reached the spot where he had first spotted the man.
“Don’t stop. Go after him! We have to stop him!” Beatrice’s voice turned shrill, and she tried to shake Slocum. He sat as solid as a rock.
“There’s no way we can catch him,” he said. Looking down, he saw the distinct tracks in the soft earth. The rain had made the earth perfect for keeping the hoofprints—until the next storm erased them. From the look of the sky, it might not be anytime soon, but the season was ripe for afternoon showers.
Slocum glanced back over his shoulder and saw that the woman in her shredded wedding dress had disappeared. Finding her again would be easier than tracking Joshua, but it seemed as pointless. Joshua would lay another ambush. Unable to do more than walk the tired old paint horse, Slocum could never escape. And why ride into a crazy man’s rifle sights?
“We’ll get ourselves on to Fort Stockton.”
“But Joshua . . .” Beatrice subsided when Slocum turned the horse in the direction they had been heading and resumed the steady, slow trek toward the Army post.
Slocum insisted they both dismount after another hour of travel to give the horse a rest. Beatrice slid off the back of the horse with ill grace, muttering darkly to herself. If the horse had been up to it, Slocum would have galloped off and left Beatrice where she stood. They weren’t far from the main road into Gregory. And beyond the town lay the fort. She could be safe and sound before sundown.
But he didn’t try. The horse wasn’t up to the effort of trotting off faster than Beatrice could run. He stretched, then stood in the stirrups and took a good look around. A glint of sunlight off metal caught his attention. He reached for his six-shooter but stopped before he drew. The light reflected from something flat and was not a rifle barrel.
“What is it?”
“I don’t know.” Slocum looked harder and then got his bearings. He sat and simply stared. They were about three miles from the road, and he knew he had spotted his salvation.
The only trouble with that was not wanting to share it with Beatrice.
“Well, are you going to walk, too, or do you just want to torture me?”
He dismounted and walked toward the road, memorizing landmarks as he went. Long after the paint had rested from carrying its double load, Slocum remained on the ground. When they came to the double-rutted road into Gregory, he turned and looked behind.
“Is it Joshua? Has he been following us?”
“No sign of him,” Slocum said, making sure he could find this section of the road easily.
Later. After he made sure Beatrice was secure at Fort Stockton.
“We can go into town or push on to the fort. I’d prefer to get to the fort.”
“All right, that’s suits me,” she said. Hands balled on her hips, a determined look on her face, Beatrice might have been a statue dedicated to stubbornness. “I am tired of your attitude and want nothing more than to see you on your way.”
“You’re keeping me from delivering the mail,” he said. Slocum almost laughed at that. He didn’t have to deliver the mail. It would be easy enough to leave the mail with the stationmaster in town and simply ride away—to a destiny rich enough to make the tornado and its aftermath worthwhile. No matter that people had died. He knew how to make it all worth his while.
But Underwood would demand the return of the horse, and Slocum didn’t have money enough to buy another horse and gear, even with the greenbacks he had picked up back at the Gregory stable after Beatrice had been spirited away. He regretted letting the stray he had caught get away, but without a bridle it had been hard to ride and impossible to keep.
“We can ride. Mount up.” Slocum stepped up into the saddle, reached down, and pulled Beatrice up behind him. As he did so, he looked along their back trail and then at the sky. Storm clouds built swiftly.
He urged the paint to as much speed as possible. He had spent too much time being wet and cold and miserable from the weather. Even sleeping in an Army barracks was preferable to huddling under a tarp with Beatrice for one more night.
A slow smile came to his lips. He ought to have enjoyed himself more, but having her making love as she had, he had kept one hand near his six-shooter, just to be sure. But sure of what? He had no idea other than he had the feeling deep in his gut that she’d lied to h
im. He had played enough poker to learn to read his opponents over the green felt table. Women were harder to read, but Beatrice wasn’t good at lying.
But what was she lying to him about? Nothing made a great deal of sense to him. That meant his best course was to drop her into the arms of Captain Legrange, deliver the mail, dicker with Underwood for the paint, and then . . .
And then he would be done with West Texas. Almost.
The horse tired the later in the day it got. Slocum wanted to walk alongside the paint to give it a rest, yet he wanted to reach the fort, too. Rather than let the horse recuperate, he pushed on since he thought that would be faster.
“To our right. Do you see him? It’s Joshua. I know it’s Joshua!”
Slocum jerked around and saw a solitary rider so far away that he couldn’t make out any features—or even what the man wore. It might have been a cowboy hunting for strays or someone on an innocent trip. Not everyone on the prairie had to be a crazy brother intent on doing whatever Beatrice thought he would do.
“What does he want from you?” Slocum asked. “He kidnapped you. Why?”
“He—we—he’s very jealous. He doesn’t want me to be with any other man.”
“He’s your brother,” Slocum said. “What do you mean that he doesn’t want you with another man?”
“That’s why he gunned down my husband. He never approved of Fred. Said he wasn’t good enough for me. Joshua thinks he’s my father, that he ought to take care of me. He’s crazy!”
Slocum got a crawly feeling in his gut that Beatrice was close to the truth—but still didn’t tell him everything. That made him all the more eager to drop her off in the captain’s arms.
“I can’t do anything about him now,” Slocum said. The rider had halted and watched their slow progress toward the fort. “Can you get the captain to send out a patrol? They can track him down mighty quick. We’re not more than a mile or two away.”
“Captain Legrange might do that for me,” she said carefully. “Since you won’t.”
