Karen Mercury

by Manifested Destiny [How the West Was Done 4]

  “Boys?”

  Both men whipped their heads around to face the doorway.

  This was how they were posed when Tabitha Hudson innocently poked her head into the bathroom, much to Foster Richmond’s chagrin.

  Chapter Seven

  Oh, how joyously silly men could be! Men never failed to amuse Tabitha with their antics.

  It was evident to anyone with even half a brain that they had been engaging in some sort of sexual play before she had entered the bathroom.

  Tabitha’s knowledge was enhanced because she’d been standing with her ear glued to the door for many long minutes. Foster was obviously frigging Worth because, in between the grunting and groaning, Tabitha heard him growl, “Your prick is so meaty and juicy in my hand.” This came directly after Foster had declared Worth to be “hung like a bull.”

  During all this patter, Tabitha had clung weakly to the doorknob, waiting for the opportunity to turn it. She certainly couldn’t barge on in right now and interrupt their orgasms. Men would contract some sort of penile gangrene if interrupted in the process of an orgasm. Their penises turned black and atrophied, or something of that nature. No, she couldn’t barge in now.

  So she clung to the door like a life raft. Her labia bloomed with moisture as she listened to the slap of flesh against flesh. It sounded as though Foster was the aggressor, and this excited Tabitha to untold heights. Her husband Parker had been a believer in “free love,” and this occasionally extended to inviting another male of their group to join in their antics. Tabitha would never allow another woman to join for fear of jealousy, but Parker seemed fine with adding one of his friends. Although the two men would never touch each other, it always made Tabitha randy to see how much more aggressive Parker became with the addition of another male. Like two battling elks locking horns, two men in heat elicited the most martial and barbaric behaviors from each other.

  That was probably the case now, as Foster apparently slapped the athletic Worth on his shapely rump—while buggering him? Tabitha couldn’t tell, but her active imagination filled in for her. She wiggled her hips with her thighs clamped tightly, creating friction in her labia. She had not seen Jeremiah yet today, and Ivy had gone back to her ranch in the Snowy Mountains, so Tabitha felt free to lift a hand to her breast, pinching the nipple through the bodice. She hadn’t realized she was so prepared to lock horns herself.

  Then she felt a bit of sorrow that these two he-men were obviously androgynes, men who preferred the company of other men. She would never get to enjoy a romp with the rough-and-tumble Foster Richmond, as he preferred the charms of the well-hung Worthing Ludlow.

  Why had he kissed her in front of the Cactus Club, then? He had told her to never go away! Perhaps he was just overcome with joy at finding his dog. Perhaps androgynes could sometimes bring themselves to kiss women, if overcome with joy.

  Yet something else was wrong with this image of the two bumfucking men. Tabitha had been having creeping feelings that perhaps she was in love with Foster Richmond. Last night after retiring, she had sat at her bedroom desk sipping her sherry, languidly musing on his soft, spiky ginger hair, the rounded globes of his ass, and his straight, aristocratic nose.

  She must have fallen asleep, for the next thing she knew, she awoke to discover she was holding a pen in her hand and had apparently written some highly disturbing things while sleeping. She had heard of sleepwalking before—she had once possibly mistaken a closet for the privy in the dead of the night—but…sleep writing? The most frightening aspect of what she’d written was that apparently it was someone named Bettina who had taken over the pen and was writing about her life in a place named Campeche.

  Campeche? It sounded Spanish, but Tabitha had never heard of it or anyone named Bettina. Even creepier, the rounded, elaborate handwriting wasn’t even her own.

  I miss my love, Tabitha’s sleeping hand wrote. All I do is pace along the beach with my eyes to the green sea. I feel my eyeballs must be saturated with saltwater, and then I realize I am crying. I do not remove Pierre’s ruby necklace even when I bathe and—

  “Keep your damned paws off her, Worth.”

  What? Why would Foster be warning Worth away from her? If they were happy androgynes, why would Foster even care? Tabitha’s ear plastered to the door pricked up, and she forgot all about the strange Spanish town apparently populated by French people.

  Worth retorted angrily, “She can make up her own mind! And you’re not even staying in town. You’re going back to the army.”

  Foster is going back to the army? He had told her he was perhaps not returning to the army, right after they had kissed in front of the Cactus Club. Apparently he had since then changed his mind. Without forethought, perhaps because she felt slighted, Tabitha peeled herself from the door and opened it.

  “Boys?”

  Oh, what a sight! All Tabitha’s anger fell from her when she saw Worth gripping Foster’s wrist in his powerful fist, Worth’s erection at half-mast, swelling the crotch of his crimson drawers. That they struggled was evident by the bulging of their naked biceps. Tabitha was heartened to see she had been correct in her assessment of both men as able-bodied bucks. But she was also disappointed to realize she would never be allowed to touch either one of them.

  It was humorous the way their fearful eyes regarded her. “Relax, boys,” she said, entering the bathroom tentatively. “Your secret is safe with me.”

  Although Foster was clearly the aggressor the way he pinned Worth to the table with his sinewy hips, he disgustedly shoved away from his partner, putting distance between them. But Foster’s luscious half-erect cock was cradled so tightly in his own drawers, Tabitha could make out the outline of the bulging glans. My, my. She would have to find her own beau soon, even if it were only some piddling or dubious fancy man. She needed to have an orgasm that wasn’t coaxed from the tips of her own fingers.

  “What secret?” Foster gaped.

  “There’s no secret here!” Worth agreed.

  “Don’t worry,” Tabitha said soothingly. “I just wanted to let you know. I just came back from Henry Zuckerkorn’s office at the Frontier Index, and he’s agreed to pay me to cover society events. There’s a fandango tonight over at the Elks Club, and I was thinking, if you still plan to be around, Foster, you fellows could accompany—”

  Foster apparently hadn’t heard a word she had said. Tugging a clean shirt over his head, he interrupted her before his spiky flaming hair even popped out from the collar. “Tabitha! I don’t know what ‘secret’ you’re referring to, but we have none. Now, what’s this about Zuckerkorn? I want you to keep your eyes skinned for that perverted fellow. He likes women to dress up in schoolgirls’ uniforms.”

  The men were yanking items of clothing on right and left. Tabitha sidled up to Foster and spoke suggestively. “I wasn’t born yesterday, Foster. Two he-men like you grappling like sexual wrestlers? And please. Your penises are still so erect you can’t even cover them with your pants and leggings.” In fact, Foster’s fervent efforts to cinch his leggings around his crotch only served to display his swollen prick even more enticingly.

  “You’re mistaken, Miss Hudson,” Worth said politely. He yanked his own shirt down to cover his crotch, not tucking it in as a civil photographer should have. “We’re no ganymedes. I certainly don’t want to start out in a new town with the wrong impression.”

  “It’s quite all right, Worth,” said Tabitha. She wriggled her shoulders seductively. “It’s actually quite stimulating. You fellows have given me a fresh surge of energy that I can dance off at the fandango later.” She dared to glance once more at Foster’s jutting prick, which he now decisively covered with his fringed shirt. “If I’m lucky.”

  Foster laughed nervously. “Tabitha, no. You’ve got the wrong idea. We are very much terrible—terrible, right, Worth?—terrible lady-killers. Just ask Harley. He was acquainted with this Orianna gal I was practically engaged to wed two years ago, here in Laramie. We have a son together
, so how could I be a ganymede?”

  Worth said from the side of his mouth, “Ah, you might want to stop there, Foster. Quit while you’re ahead.”

  A son! Of course, Tabitha wasn’t even courting Foster. Why should he have told her he had a son before? He had no obligation to tell her that. And now Tabitha knew who Orianna was. According to what Harley had said at the Cactus Club, Orianna had “left on the train for California.” Foster had termed her a “bitch” in a moment of anger over Phineas.

  Well. At least the bitch had left on the train for California two years ago. But Tabitha was irritated all the same to hear that Foster had constructed a life before meeting her, for she now snapped, “Then why is there semen dripping down the mirror?”

  The men’s faces turned both white and red at the same time. Their mouths hung open, and no sounds came out.

  It was Worth who leaped to the mirror and feebly wiped it clean with a handkerchief. Tabitha had expected he’d been the one responsible for the mess. She giggled while Foster hemmed and hawed and fidgeted with his gun belt.

  He said, “So about this fandango! Why, of course I intend to stay in town. I need to find out who killed Phineas. If your offer is still there, I’d be glad to accompany you to this fandango.”

  Tabitha’s chest was flooded with pleasure. How swiftly her emotions were changing lately, as though she merely bobbed on an ocean of constant ever-changing waves! Now she was reminded of the ocean that lovesick Bettina had been scanning for god knew how long, and for some reason it reminded her of Caleb. “That would be lovely. I admit I’m glad you’re staying in town, if only for a little while.”

  “Perhaps longer,” Foster murmured, running a hand through his brilliantly flaming hair.

  Tabitha was even more pleased. “Some messenger just came with a note from Caleb Poindexter. Remember, that master conjuror I mentioned to you?”

  Worth asked, “Is that the fellow who lives out in a tepee and sleeps with cats?”

  Tabitha made her mouth a thin line. She had a feeling she’d be hearing stories like the one about the cats any time she brought up the name Caleb in Laramie society. “Yes, he lives in a tepee with a band of Sioux, and no, he doesn’t sleep with cats.”

  “What did the message say?” Foster asked, thankfully uncaring about the cats.

  “That he’d be here later today. So try and stay close to Vancouver House, could you? I really feel, Foster, that Caleb can help find out what happened to Phineas. How she died in the river.”

  “If he was really psychic,” said Worth, “wouldn’t he be able to send us a psychic message instead of coming in person?”

  Tabitha smiled secretively to herself, thinking about Bettina and Pierre. “Maybe he already has. I’ll leave you two men to your…your washing,” she said and left the bathroom.

  She shut the door behind her, as it led onto the main downstairs hallway where Jeremiah or anyone else was liable to wander. But the last thing she had a good eyeful of was Foster smiling brilliantly at her, dignified, his forest green eyes shining.

  * * * *

  Worth fingered the photographic plate Tabitha had handed to him. Tabitha said it depicted her sister Ivy, Laramie’s telegraph operator, and her husband Neil, Laramie’s marshal. Yet there was a third, sort of transparent fellow, much shorter than Neil and sporting a derby. He was translucent, as though he had moved during the exposure.

  “This is what I mean about Harley’s photography,” said Tabitha, pointing to the derby fellow. “This fellow wasn’t even in the room when he made the photograph.”

  Worth looked at her with wonder. “How…”

  Tabitha nodded curtly. “I know. How can that be, right? Now look at this photograph Harley made.”

  The photograph was of the interior of a saloon. A fellow stood behind the bar proudly, showing off his rows of gleaming bottles. A dour, sharp-featured woman stood next to him, brandishing a jug of booze as though about to brain him with it.

  “And?” Worth prompted. “Was one of these people not really there either?”

  “Right,” said Tabitha. “The woman. She was a spirit from beyond the grave, helping them to solve a murder.”

  Jeremiah shuddered. “Looks like she was about to commit a murder.”

  Tabitha smiled. She looked like an angel when she smiled—an angel with pretty little beaver teeth. “I think that was her intention.”

  Jeremiah spread out his hands. “Well, I’m having no part in this. I haven’t seen anything ghostly since I stopped taking that whiskey-root cactus, and I intend to keep it that way. Well, up until I saw your ghost dog, Mr. Richmond. I am going to return to Tibbles House to assist Derrick Spiro with his legislative—oh, jumping Jupiter!”

  Worth laughed. The giant dog had suddenly appeared behind Montreal Jed. It looked as though she poked him in the seat with her nose, he leaped so vigorously like one of his marionettes. Clutching Foster’s arm, Jeremiah squealed, “Git! Go on, git, you ghost dog!”

  Worth shook Jeremiah by the shoulder. “We need her for the photograph. Now, I want you all to pose over by that window.” He pointed at the parlor window where squares of bright direct sun would not obliterate their figures. Bouncing instead off a bookcase, the sunlight would only light up their faces. “Stand to the side of the window, since I won’t be including it in the photograph.”

  Worth inserted the sensitized plate into the camera’s plate holder while his friends arranged themselves stiffly next to the window. Worth racked the lens back and forth until it focused on the ground glass. He wasn’t too worried about having been caught by Tabitha in a compromising position. Unlike Foster, who seemed to worry about everything, Worth was a carefree fellow.

  “Can you make Phineas stand?” Phineas seemed to hear him, and from her position sitting in front of Foster, she stood proudly in profile, gloating like a swell. “And stop looking like such stiffs. Montreal Jed, you look like a ghoul.” Jeremiah was pressing himself so far into the wall to stay away from the dog, he seemed intent on popping out the other side.

  “Well,” sniffed Jeremiah, “maybe I won’t show up in the final photograph either.”

  “Try to relax,” Worth advised. “Act natural.”

  This admonition only seemed to tighten up Foster, though. While Tabitha leaned into the much taller man and loosely crossed her arms in front of her abdomen, Foster grimaced like a bank robber having his photograph taken before execution. Well, well. This will be an interesting photograph, indeed.

  “All right. Don’t move.” Worth pushed the shutter release and held it for a count of ten seconds. “OK. You can move now.”

  “Oh, thank God!” Jeremiah cried and strode to the camera, shaking his hands as though he was covered with spiders.

  Foster exhaled mightily in a whoosh, as though he’d been holding his breath. When Worth looked back to their little tableau, the only figure remaining at the window was Tabitha. Phineas had disappeared, and Foster was at the sideboard pouring a whiskey. While Worth removed the plate from the camera, Tabitha cried,

  “Oh, look! Phineas is out in the garden playing with another dog!”

  Foster strode over without his whiskey, even putting a protective hand on Tabitha’s back. “That’s not a dog. That’s a wolf!”

  As much as Worth wanted to see the wolf, he had to get the plate into Harley’s darkroom to rinse it. He had taken stock of the darkroom earlier, so he poured and rinsed quickly, then immersed the plate in a tub of potassium cyanide before returning to the parlor.

  Worth looked over Tabitha’s head. “Yes, that’s a wolf,” he agreed.

  “And they’re playing!” Tabitha cried. “Isn’t that the craziest thing you’ve ever seen?”

  “Not really,” said Jeremiah, who had allowed himself to peek one eye out the window at the diabolical sight. “Once you’ve seen a bear wrestler throwing snowballs at a lynch mob, you’ve seen it all.”

  “And those jesters cavorting on your knees,” Foster reminded him.
>
  “Yes. Those were vexing. This wolf is really no big hill of beans compared to that.”

  Sure enough, out on the lawn, Phineas was romping happily with an enormous white wolf. The wolf’s fur gleamed richly in the full summer sun, and Phineas’s fur seemed to flow over her muscles as she got up on her hind legs and wrestled happily, drool flying.

  Tabitha opened the window and leaned on the sill. “Funny. Can you hear only the wolf gnarling? Phineas doesn’t seem to make any sound.”

  “Yes,” said Foster. “The only sound I’ve heard Ghost Phineas make is those woofs to alert us of something. She doesn’t snarl or burp or even seem to breathe. Her toenails make no noise on the floorboards.”

  Worth asked the scout, “Have you ever seen a wolf playing? With a breed other than its own, I mean. I haven’t.”

  “Neither have I. They seem to be having fun, though. And the wolf can hardly hurt Phineas when she doesn’t really have a body.”

  All at once, though, as though the wolf suddenly became aware it was playing with a human’s pet, the wolf froze, its tail puffy. A ridge of fur arose up its spine, and suddenly it turned tail and ran. Poor Phineas was left standing there, cocking her head in wonder.

  “What happened?” cried Tabitha. “It looked as though the wolf suddenly became afraid.”

  “Yes,” said a calm male voice in the room behind them. All four spectators froze, their eyeballs on the big black dog. The voice continued casually, “The wolf suddenly realized Phineas is no longer of this plane. He became afraid and ran off.”

  Jeremiah was the first to turn, petrified like a cigar store Indian, and face the stranger in the parlor. “Now who in the world—” he started, but immediately his eyes rolled up into his skull and he collapsed in a heap on the floor.

  Chapter Eight

  The fellow in the parlor looked like some albino Indians Foster had seen. His skin was white as china, almost translucent in its cadaverous, papery quality, as though you could see through it to bones. But his curly, shiny hair was a changeable mixture of red, brown, and silver streaks so bright it almost hurt the eyes.