by Tabor Evans
“If you don’t think your sister should be forced to return,” Longarm asked Leslie, “what are you doing here?”
“I came because I’m very worried about her, and it seemed the logical place to come. I came here, also, to make sure that if she is returned, Anson doesn’t harm her.”
“You think he would?”
“I know he would. He’s a bastard. You’ve seen that for yourself. Lucy has told me that he’s struck her more than a few times.”
“Ah, Jesus,” Longarm said. No man in his right mind would hit a woman. Especially not the woman he was married to, supposed to be in love with.
“Anson’s been cuckolded,” Leslie continued. “He is a prideful man. And now, if you’ll pardon my farm talk, Longarm, he is a very piss-burned cuckold. I don’t doubt that he’s capable of killing my sister.”
She sipped from the brandy glass, staring at Longarm over the brim. She swallowed and then slid off the desk and dropped to her knees beside the tub.
She handed him the glass and then, staring at him with dark eroticism, slipped her hand over the side of the tub and into the water. She found his cock that, during their serious conversation, was finally minding its own business.
When the girl wrapped her hand around it, however, it began sparking instantly to life.
Longarm winced as she fondled him under the water, sliding her face up close to his until he could feel the little puffs of her warm breath on his lips. Her own lips were perfectly shaped and cherry-pink.
“Miss Leslie, I don’t mean nothin’ by this,” Longarm said tightly as she continued to manipulate him, “but are you and your sister as alike in . . . uh . . . temperament as you are in looks?”
“No,” Leslie said softly, gazing into his eyes. “Lucy’s a romantic. That’s why it’s such a tragedy she married such an uncouth goat as Anson Belcher. Me . . . I’m more practical. Earthy.”
Longarm’s cock was now poking its swollen head above the water. She pumped it slowly, squeezing, running her hand over the top and down the other side.
“And if you bring my sister back and see that she is not harmed, Longarm, I’ll show you just how practical I can be.”
Longarm was watching her hand. His blood was rising, heating up. Her hand was soft as silk.
“Practical, did you say?”
“Practical. In other words, I know how to reward a man for his efforts . . . in the most practical way known to him.”
She leaned closer, pressed her lips to his. She kissed him gently at first and then more hungrily, groaning softly and flicking her tongue into his mouth. At the same time, she pumped his cock faster.
Then, suddenly, she rose and smiled down at him.
“I’ll see you at supper later, Longarm. It’s been nice getting to know you.”
She swung around, grabbed her umbrella off the desk, and, just like that, she was gone.
“H-hey!” Longarm growled indignantly, staring down at his throbbing cock.
• • •
An hour later, flanked by War Cloud and Magpie, Longarm rapped the wooden knocker in the shape of a lion’s head against the door of the Belcher residence. Longarm was a little surprised to see the Apache girl, Blue Feather, open the door.
She was dressed in a light blue Mother Hubbard dress, and she wore a matching ribbon in her black hair. To dress like a civilized white girl was doubtlessly one of the rules of the house. Longarm wondered how Belcher reconciled the civilized attire to banging the girl in his office. Apparently, one of her duties at Fort McHenry was to serve as the Belchers’ maid.
“Come,” Blue Feather said, her features nearly as expressionless as Magpie’s. There was a slight flush in her cherry-tan cheeks—likely from the embarrassment of knowing what Longarm and the other three visitors had witnessed earlier.
The girl turned and walked down the entryway, at the rear of which a narrow stairs rose to the second story, and into a door on the left. There was another door on the right from which the sound of a ticking clock issued.
Longarm looked through this doorway to see Leslie McPherson sitting in a carved walnut armchair near the small, brick fireplace, chin resting in the palm of one hand, a bored, sullen expression on her beauti-
ful face. She was shaking a crossed leg nervously.
She turned toward Longarm and arched a brow. “Long time no see, Marshal.”
Looking ravishing in a silk and taffeta gown of the same color as her eyes, her long, light red hair freshly brushed and glistening and partly secured behind her head in a chignon, she strode across the room and into the foyer. She wore a black silk choker adorned with an ivory cameo pin. She met Longarm’s gaze and then glanced at War Cloud and Magpie.
Longarm cleared his throat. “War Cloud, Magpie, meet Miss Leslie McPherson. Miss McPherson is the sister of Mrs. Belcher.”
Leslie dipped her chin cordially and smiled warmly. “How do you both do?”
“Pleased to make your acquaintance, ma’am,” War Cloud said, doffing his hat and then hanging it on a wall peg.
Leslie glanced at the doorway through which Blue Feather had disappeared. “My brother-in-law doesn’t stand much on ceremony, I’m afraid. I believe dinner is ready without preamble. Shall we?” She gestured toward the door.
“You first,” Longarm said, pegging his snuff-brown Stetson.
As he followed Leslie into a small but well-appointed dining room, Leslie said over her shoulder just loudly enough for Longarm to hear. “Almost didn’t recognize you dressed, Longarm. You clean up right well.”
Longarm’s cheeks warmed. “Why, thank you, ma’am.”
“I hope I didn’t injure anything earlier.”
“Oh, I’ll be fine,” he said, stopping beside the girl as War Cloud and Magpie walked up to stand to his left.
A ten-foot, cloth-covered table lay before them. It had been all set up with plates, silverware, and water glasses. From behind a curtained doorway rose the clatter of pans and the squawk of a stove door.
“I’m sure we can sit anywhere,” Leslie said. “Longarm, why don’t you take this end? I’ll sit here. War Cloud, why don’t you and Magpie sit there, to Longarm’s left? Blue Feather will want to be close to the kitchen, and she’ll want me to be as far away from it as possible.” Leslie chuckled. “Smart girl. I’d burn the water.”
Longarm looked around. “We’re the only guests?”
“Yes,” Leslie said as Longarm held her chair out for her and sagged into it. “Anson decided that in light of everything it might be best if our conversation be private. He didn’t even want me here, but . . .”
“Nonsense, my dear, Leslie,” the major said as he walked in from the foyer. “I simply didn’t want to bore your pretty head with these somewhat rough-hewn affairs and trivial details.”
Longarm had heard the man’s footsteps growing steadily as he’d marched down from the second story. Now, freshly scrubbed, his thick, longish hair combed wet, and wearing a crisp blue, gold-embroidered shell jacket over a white linen shirt with a string tie, Major Belcher stopped beside Leslie’s chair and leaned down to place a kiss on his sister-in-law’s left cheek.
She turned her face away and his lips grazed her jaw.
He rose, flushing slightly, scowling down before recovering and saying, “Welcome, Marshal Long. War Cloud. Miss Magpie.”
Longarm now saw the slight cut and swelling on Belcher’s right cheek where Longarm had laid him out. It looked tender as hell.
Magpie, staring stonily across the table at Leslie, of course said nothing. War Cloud dipped his chin to the major and said, “Thanks for having us, Major.”
“I take it you’ve already met my beautiful and charming sister-in-law.”
Leslie rolled her eyes slightly. The major chuckled.
“Yes,” Longarm said, shooting an ironic glance at Leslie, “I’ve
had the pleasure.”
“Wonderful. She’s the spitting image of my wife. I’m sure that will be handy to know.”
“It will at that,” Longarm said.
War Cloud said, “We’ll be off tomorrow. First thing.”
“I was hoping you would be. I’d like my wife back as soon as possible. You have a long, rough ride ahead. You’d best eat heartily,” the major said, glancing at Blue Feather entering the kitchen and carrying a large, cast-iron stew pot.
As she set the pot on the table near a basket of bread and a bowl of buttered peas, the major slacked into the chair at Longarm’s opposite end of the table. Belcher rubbed his cheek as he said, “That’s a strong right hook you have there, Marshal.” He flexed his jaw.
“I’d like to apologize, Major,” Longarm said, unable to contain his frankness. “But you had it coming.”
Leslie glanced in surprise at Longarm and grinned delightedly.
“I did for a fact,” Belcher admitted. “And I myself would like to apologize. I was completely out of line. Drunk on duty, and out of line. I’m terribly ashamed.”
The man bowed his head. He said a quick table prayer and then nodded to Blue Feather sitting beside him. “Blue Feather will fill your bowls with her hearty and succulent rabbit stew. This young lady has been cooking for my wife and I since we came to Fort McHenry two years ago, and I don’t think I’ve eaten better food in the finest New York restaurants. Quite a remarkable feat, given what scant and often poor provisions the girl is supplied with.”
As the stew bowls were passed around the table for Blue Feather to fill, Longarm sat in amazement at Belcher’s gall. He’d been caught screwing his young housemaid only a few scant hours ago by Captain Kilroy, Longarm, War Cloud, and Magpie, and didn’t look one bit chagrined.
And still he wore his self-righteous indignation over his young wife’s indiscretions with Black Twisted Pine on his sleeve!
Longarm wondered—hoped—that the man would whistle a different tune this evening about wanting Longarm and War Cloud to haul not only his wife but her lover back to Fort McHenry for punishment. That he’d softened his stance on the undignified matter. If not, the two men weren’t going to get along much better than they had earlier.
Chapter 13
Very little was said over the simple meal of stew, fresh bread, and wild peas roasted lightly in butter. As Belcher had promised, everything was delicious.
For dessert, Blue Feather served peach pie and whipped cream. The peaches were not fresh, of course—they came from airtight tins—but still the pie was just as tasty as the rest of the meal.
Blue Feather filled everyone’s coffee cup for a second time—everyone except Magpie’s, who apparently did not indulge in the White Eyes’ drink, Longarm was not surprised to see. She drank only water.
Then, when Blue Feather had cleared the table and was busy washing dishes in the kitchen, Belcher set a bottle of brandy on the table. When Leslie, Longarm, and War Cloud had laced their coffee with the liquor, Belcher added a jigger to his own. He slid his chair a few inches back from the table and to one side, and crossed one leg over the other. He sipped his coffee and stared down into his cup for a time.
Suddenly, he said, “Well, gentlemen, it’s time I got down to brass tacks. If you talked at all to my sister-in-law, you’ve probably gotten a somewhat skewed perspective on the troublesome state of affairs here at McHenry. Uh . . . regarding my wife and that savage, that is.”
Leslie shot a riled look at her brother-in-law. “Anson . . .”
The major waved her to silence and slid his gaze between Longarm and War Cloud. “Let me tell my side of it, Leslie. You’ve obviously had your say. I can tell by the expression in these men’s eyes that they’re somewhat perplexed.
“Perplexed?” Longrm said with a mirthless chuckle. “Yeah, I guess you could say I’m perplexed.”
He stared hard at the major so that the man would know exactly what he was talking about—the man’s dalliance in his office earlier with his young Apache housekeeper when he was supposed to be pining for his wife. And then Belcher’s insistence on bringing both his wife and her lover back to the fort whether they wanted to come or not.
“Let me clear things up for you, Marshal Long and War Cloud.” Belcher sipped his brandy-laced coffee, stared down into the cup, and chuckled as though he saw something funny there. He set the cup down and ran a hand through his hair, grinding his back against his chair with a grunt, as though massaging weary muscles.
When he was done, he drew a deep breath and leveled a vaguely ironic gaze at Longarm. “I assure you that I am not a good man. No, far from it. But then, you already know that.
Belcher looked at Leslie, who held his gaze obstinately. The major grinned and shifted his gaze to Longarm and War Cloud again.
“Be that as it may, I can also assure you that I love my wife. And that she, despite the fact that she’s run off with that . . . that Black Twisted Pine . . . still loves me.”
“Then how can you explain what’s happened?” Longarm wanted to know.
“My wife is a frail creature. Not so much in body but in mind. And, just like her sister here, she is amazingly beautiful. You can see how she would be an easy target for a strong man. A strong, lustful man. You see, she tends to romanticize the savages.”
He glanced at War Cloud. The Coyotero narrowed his eyes.
Belcher sipped his coffee and stretched his upper lip back from his teeth as he swallowed. “Gentlemen, I submit to you that Black Twisted Pine brainwashed my dear Lucy into believing not only that he loved her, but that he could give her a better life than I can. He coerced her into believing that she should run away with him into the mountains of Mexico and live a pure, raw life out in the open air.”
Leslie said, “How can you be so sure that she was brainwashed into believing this, Anson?”
“Because I found out from Kilroy . . . only after the incident,” Belcher added disgustedly, “that Black Twisted Pine is a member of a secret religious sect inside the Chiricahua band of Apaches. A sect whose . . . uh, mecca, if you will . . . is a mountain inside the Shadow Montañas known as Blood Mountain.”
Sitting to Longarm’s left, War Cloud made a barely audible sound. It was like a single organ chord emanating from deep in his chest. Magpie must have heard it, too, because she turned her own questioning gaze to her father.
“Heard of it?” Longarm asked his friend.
War Cloud said nothing.
Belcher said, “I’m told that the Chiricahuas don’t speak of it. A very secret thing. Quite private. Kilroy heard about it from an old medicine man who, in his later years, got a loose tongue . . . especially when he overindulged in tiswin. The captain told me that Blood Mountain is said to house the spirit of an Apache witch who, during a special ceremony, bestows certain magical powers upon young women taken there. Powers that turn them into sorceresses. Witches.”
Leslie said, “Anson, you never told me this.”
“What would be the point?” Belcher shrugged. “It’s all rot. A bunch of Apache hoodoo nonsense, though having thought about it for a while now, I realize that it’s probably the same rot that Black Twisted Pine probably filled Lucy’s head with.”
“It’s not nonsense to the Chiricahuas, Major,” War Cloud said tensely.
Belcher ignored him as though he weren’t there. “It’s just the type of fanciful gibberish that would appeal to her imagination and foolishly romantic sense of the world. I’m sure this Blood Mountain is a place my wife would find quite fascinating. A place where she thinks she can confer with the spirit world and find the . . . enlightenment . . . she’s been looking for her entire life. And I’ve no doubt that that’s where Black Twisted Pine has taken her . . . to commune with this Chiricahua witch. She no doubt believes she’ll finally find the meaning of life, peace, and happiness there.”
Face flushed with anger, Belcher sipped his coffee and brandy.
War Cloud turned to Longarm, said, “I’ve heard enough of this man’s shit for one night, brother. I’ll be heading back to the bunkhouse.” He glanced at Magpie, who slid her chair back and rose, casting her cold stare at the major.
“Leaving so early?” Belcher said. “But the night is young, my Indian friends!”
War Cloud said, “You got no respect for the Apache way, Major. No respect for your wife. No respect for any woman. You don’t even respect yourself, Major.” The scout thrust an arm and an angry finger at his not so gracious host. “Men like you die hard deaths in Apache country!”
He barked something in his own Coyotero tongue to Magpie, and the two strode angrily toward the door leading to the foyer.
Belcher rose from his chair. “How dare you speak to me in that tone, you fucking heathen!”
War Cloud stopped and wheeled back to face the room. His eyes were wide and bright. He’d wrapped a hand around one of the Colts on his hips but managed to keep the weapon in its holster. His jaws were hard. Longarm could tell he was really talking with himself about not triggering a .44 round through Belcher’s forehead.
Longarm had gained his feet, as had Leslie. He held his hands out, palms down, placatingly, and said in a soft, even tone: “Easy.”
Belcher was glowering at War Cloud from beneath his knit brows, the soldier’s face beet-red. War Cloud stared back at the man. Unlike most Apaches, he didn’t mind meeting the gaze of a white man dead-on. He’d always been like that, Longarm knew. Even before he’d left the Apache world to mingle with the White Eyes. If this were anywhere except on a cavalry fort, and if he hadn’t agreed to accept a job, Longarm knew that Major Belcher would be roughly one ounce heavier about now and as dead as a fence post.
War Cloud removed his hand from the walnut grips of his Colt, turned, and strode out into the foyer, Magpie close on his heels. The girl cast a quick glanced toward Longarm.
The front door clicked open and slammed closed. Longarm turned to Belcher, who had slid his angry gaze to the lawman.
