by Jake Logan
“No,” he said, reaching up and pressing his fingers against her lips. He didn’t want to hear what she thought of his bloodied body. His finger moved along the line of her jaw, and then slid down the front of her blouse. One by one the fancy bone buttons came free. Her breasts tumbled out to bob about slightly, delightful mounds of quicksilver in the night. Gripping them, stroking, squeezing, Slocum roved over them until Rachel moaned with pleasure.
She bent over and their lips met again. Then Rachel arched her back and presented her breasts to him for oral attention. Slocum licked and kissed and suckled until the woman’s body trembled like a frisky filly.
He shucked off her blouse entirely and dropped it beside them. She took a few seconds to get free of the rest of her clothing while he wiggled free of his jeans.
“Is this the Stone Needle?” she asked, reaching down to his groin. “It’s hard enough. But it’s so warm.”
“No, no, it’s not made out of rock,” Slocum said. “And it’s cold. I want it to be where it’s warm and damp.”
“Here?” Rachel stepped over him and settled down over his waist again. Her naked crotch brushed against his erection until she reached down and took him in hand. Rachel guided the thick stalk to her nether lips and positioned it. She wiggled back and forth and fitted him perfectly into her most intimate recess. Slocum sighed in pleasure as he was surrounded by clutching female flesh.
Rachel arched her back and began undulating, moving above him, letting his manhood slide back and forth within her. Slocum reached up to her breasts and squeezed down hard. He caught the rock-hard nubs and pressed down on them. This drove Rachel wild with need.
“Yes, John, yes. It fills me with such desire! I need it all. I do, I do!”
She gasped and moaned and began moving faster and faster. Slocum felt warmth mounting in his loins, spreading and threatening to explode at any instant. She sobbed, and pressed down on his chest with her hands to get better leverage.
Her hips slammed down hard into him, and they both approached the point of no return. When Rachel erupted, so did Slocum. The woman sank down and laid her cheek against his, their bodies still pressed together intimately. Then Rachel shivered.
“It’s going to be a cold night,” she said.
“Not if we’re together,” Slocum said. He moved over and made room for the woman in the folds of the blanket. The ground was still hard, but he didn’t think he would mind. Rachel was warm and soft against him. Between lovemaking and all the rest that had happened to him, Slocum fell asleep quickly and deeply.
He awoke with a start a few hours later. Rachel murmured at the way he jerked about, but remained asleep, her hot, regular breath gusting gently against his bare shoulder. Slocum rolled so he could hold her and study the stars above them.
He found the summer stars he used to tell time. He reckoned that it was three or four in the morning. The race in Scorpion Bend was only about four hours off, but he felt better for the short nap—and Rachel. He was hungry and his body hurt as if he had fallen into an anthill and been repeatedly bitten, but he felt better, especially with Rachel beside him under the blanket.
His belly growled in hunger, forcing him to get up. He made sure Rachel was under the blanket as he went to her horse. If she had brought along a box of cartridges and a bedroll, she might also have some jerky or something else he could eat. It bothered him a little that they had not taken off the saddle to give the horse a rest, but Slocum wasn’t going to wrestle with it right now. Not until he found what he was hunting for in Rachel’s saddlebags.
He soothed the skittish horse as he rummaged through the left saddlebag. All that was in it was some dusty clothing. He looked through the other bag, finally finding a strip of jerky so old it was growing mold. To him it looked better than a fine Delmonico steak. Slocum’s mouth puckered when he bit into the salty, moldy meat. He looked for Rachel’s canteen.
The horse reared and shook all over, causing some of the clothing from the saddlebags to fall to the ground.
“There, there,” Slocum said, soothing the horse. He went back around and picked up a floppy, big-brimmed hat. And a bandanna. And a tan duster.
Slocum stepped back a pace and stared at the horse, studying it carefully for the first time. He finally realized what had been eating away at him and what he had not realized until this moment. Slocum tried to pass it off as being wounded and hungry and bone-tired. Then he knew the truth was a lot simpler. He had simply denied what he probably had known for a long time.
The horse shied away from him again.
He laid his hand on its head and gentled it. “There, there, Pilot,” he said. “Don’t worry. You’ll make it to Scorpion Bend in time for the race.”
16
Slocum spun around when he heard movement behind him. Rachel, the blanket pulled snugly around her shoulders, eyed him and the telltale clothing that had tumbled from her saddlebags. The expression on her lovely face was unreadable. Then she smiled almost shyly.
“I wondered when you would figure it out.”
Slocum knew he should not have been going through her saddlebags. He held out the uneaten portion of the beef jerky. Rachel shook her head, then sat on a rock and simply stared at him.
“I’ve been busy with other things,” he said. “I owe you a thank-you many times over.”
“You should never have ridden into that rope trap. That was a real greenhorn stunt,” she said, smiling. “I’m not sure why I bothered freeing you. I’m glad I did.”
“I am too,” Slocum said. He sat beside her, their bodies pressing together for warmth. A quick swig of water from the canteen assuaged his thirst. Rachel took it and drank more deeply. He finished the jerky. It was hardly enough to keep his belly from complaining that his throat was cut.
“What are you going to do?” she asked.
“I don’t understand,” Slocum said. “What am I going to do about what?”
“About me being Pilot. I guess it was foolish for me to go by my horse’s name. When I paid my registration money, they asked for a name, and that was all I could think of. I was pretty scared then.”
“Where’d you get the hundred dollars?”
Rachel shrugged. The blanket fell off one white shoulder. He pulled it back up and moved even closer to her. Warmth from her seeped into his body and renewed him.
“I barely had enough money to eat on, much less use to register for the race,” she said. “And then Frank stole what little I had left for his drinking and gambling spree.” She gave a harsh laugh. “If he hadn’t squandered it, I would have bet the whole wad on me. That would have been a waste, I know, but—”
“Why a waste?” he interrupted. “You stand a good chance to win. Pilot’s a strong horse, and you’re a good rider.”
“Going against Quinn and his henchmen was a risk, but I reckoned I could beat them with a little luck,” she said. “But against you? I’ve seen you ride. You’re the best, and Black Velvet is the perfect horse for you. That’s an unbeatable combination.”
Slocum didn’t feel unbeatable at the moment. He didn’t ache as much as he had, but he still felt weak as a kitten. And hungry! He could eat a whole cow, moo and all.
“We’ll get to town in time to start,” Slocum promised. “I admire the way you’re doing this for your pa.”
“I don’t have any choice. If I don’t get the money to pay the mortgage, I lose the farm. Pa’s days are numbered, and I’ve about run out of people to ask to come in to stay with him while I’m out working—or racing.”
Slocum understood that. No one in the countryside would want to watch after an invalid during the biggest race of the year. Such excitement would draw the people like flies to honey.
“I’m leaving him by himself. He doesn’t get up, so if he’s got some food and water before I leave, he ought to be fine. But I don’t feel good about it.”
“We all do what we have to,” Slocum said.
Rachel stared at him, her brown eyes wide
and shining in the light of the setting moon. “You’ll beat me if you have the chance, won’t you?”
He nodded. To his surprise, she kissed him hard.
“I wouldn’t want it any other way.” She kissed him again. Then Rachel pulled back and said, “But you’re going to have to ride like the wind to beat me, John Slocum!”
“Maybe I should try getting you all tuckered out first.” He kissed her. They sank to the ground. Rather than wearing one another out, they fed each other’s energy and determination.
Slocum dropped to the ground outside the stable. Two men stared at him, not sure what to say or do. One finally turned and ran off. Slocum knew he was going to tell Miss Maggie both horse and rider were back.
“Get me some food,” Slocum ordered the other man. “And get someone to tend the horse. I need the saddle and other gear ready for the race.”
“That’s in an hour, Mr. Slocum.”
“Then you better get to jumping,” Slocum said sharply. He and Rachel had ridden into town. Every yard closer to Scorpion Bend he had become edgier and edgier, until he was ready to snap at everyone. He knew what the race meant to Rachel—and to Miss Maggie, and to the dozens of others betting on it. Letting Quinn win with no opposition wasn’t his way of doing things, but Slocum was realistic about his chances.
He had been battered, beaten, and starved. Black Velvet needed a rest. And Quinn would stop at nothing to win. Any trick, no matter how low-down, was possible.
The one good thing Slocum had gained by returning to Scorpion Bend with Rachel was finding out the passes across the mountain and back to the valley where the Arapaho had been hunting. Taking the Stone Needle trail cut miles and miles off the race. As long as he checked in with judges scattered sporadically along the way, and started and finished at the same line in town, no one cared what route he rode.
Slocum knew he would be fighting Cletus Quinn every inch of this trail.
“Slocum, you decided to show up. I thought you had gunned down Jed and hidden his body after stealing Black Velvet.” The saloon owner stood in the door of the stable, hands on her flaring hips. She had blood in her eye, and acid dripped from her words.
“It was Quinn’s doing,” Slocum said. He was in no mood to explain to Miss Maggie all he had been through.
“It’s going to be a real surprise for him when he sees me show up for the race—on Black Velvet.” Slocum patted the stallion. Black Velvet nickered softly, then returned to the bag of oats the stable hand had given the horse.
“So I should bet my life on this?”
“Why not? You already bet the saloon,” he said. This got a laugh from Miss Maggie.
“Jed hightailed it because he thought you wouldn’t get the horse back from Quinn?” She shook her head sadly. “I thought better of him. Unless he helped Quinn steal the horse.”
“I don’t think he had anything to do with it. The horse theft was Quinn’s idea. He sold it to an Arapaho named Big Stump for a single buffalo blanket.”
“Son of a bitch,” Miss Maggie said. Her lips thinned to a determined line. “I’ll see you get some victuals.”
“And have Doc Marsten stop by. I’m in need of some patching,” Slocum said.
Miss Maggie eyed his shirt, sniffed in disdain, and said, “Those puny little cuts? You’re turning into a cream puff, Slocum.” She left the stable, but the doctor bustled in less than ten minutes later, obviously summoned by the saloon keeper.
Slocum ate a good breakfast, winced as the doctor worked on his cuts and sores, then tried to convince himself he would beat Quinn in the race. He knew he wasn’t up against only Quinn. Zachary and Bloomington were his cronies, and would willingly sacrifice their chances at winning so their boss could win. Slocum wondered if anyone had bet on either of those men. If so, the bettor was probably drunk or didn’t have eyes to see how it was.
Quinn and his cohorts made up three of the five riders in the final. That made Quinn the odds-on favorite.
Slocum saddled Black Velvet, made sure he gave the horse a couple lumps of sugar he had not put into his black coffee, then mounted. Doc Marsten looked up at him.
“You get on out there and win, Slocum. I don’t want all my work going for naught.” The doctor wiped his hands on his pants legs, closed his case, and hurried off to get a good view of the start.
“I’ll win,” Slocum said softly, more to himself than to the doctor. He put his heels to Black Velvet’s flanks, and the powerful horse jumped forth, ready to race. Slocum cantered to the street and paused there, staring at the start line.
The canvas banner over the street flapped fitfully in the wind. A huge crowd had already gathered around Cletus Quinn. The man sat astride his horse, facing away from Slocum, boasting about how he was going to win.
“Bet heavy, gents,” Quinn cried. “Bet against me if you want to lose, bet on me if you want to get rich!”
Zachary and Bloomington were astride their horses a few yards off. No one paid them any mind. And at the far end of the dusty street Slocum saw that Rachel was ready to make another of her running starts. She tugged at her red bandanna and settled her duster. He had no problem now recognizing her for the woman she was. How he had missed it before, he still couldn’t explain.
But no one expected a woman to enter the Scorpion Bend big race, much less qualify for the final five.
“I’ll be back here ten minutes ’fore I start, I’m going to ride so fast,” bragged Quinn.
“Then you’ll be too slow by half and eating my dust all the way,” Slocum said in a voice that cut like steel. Deathly silence fell; then the crowd let out a huge cheer. They wanted a race.
Slocum took pleasure in the way Quinn turned pasty white under his weathered tan. The gunman started to say something, but no words came out. He clamped his mouth shut and stared hotly at Slocum. If looks could have killed, Slocum would have been dead in the sun then and there.
It took more than Quinn could dish out to get rid of John Slocum.
“Any time you want to start, let’s do it,” Slocum said. This brought forth another cheer from the crowd. The starter raised his gun and fired.
Before the finger came back on the trigger and the blast cut through the morning air, Slocum heard Pilot’s hooves pounding hard. Rachel Decker blasted past the other four racers and headed out of town amid even louder cheers urging her on.
Slocum stayed neck and neck with Quinn and the other two until he saw they were killing their horses trying to overtake Rachel. He eased back on Black Velvet, letting the stallion fall into a steady run just shy of a full gallop. No horse could gallop endlessly. A mile, definitely. Two miles? Possibly. Three miles? Buzzard bait.
The dust cloud from the others’ hooves choked Slocum. He veered off the road and found a grassy stretch better suited to the steady pace he wanted to maintain. Black Velvet responded eagerly, giving Slocum the stride and power he wanted. By cutting off the road, he eliminated a horseshoe bend and found himself slightly ahead of Bloomington, but still lagging both Zachary and Quinn.
“You ... gonna ... pay for what ... you done,” Bloomington gasped out.
Slocum figured the man was referring to the gunfight up in the meadow while he was tracking the Arapaho hunting party.
“He was my brother!”
As Bloomington shouted, he swung a length of rope that whistled back for Slocum’s face. The attack took him by surprise, and the sharp pain in his cheek where the rope cut him almost knocked him from the saddle. As it was, he leaned to one side, putting Black Velvet off balance. The horse stumbled and recovered.
By then, Bloomington was a dozen yards ahead. The man swung his rope around and around as if it were a whip. Slocum even heard the crack as Bloomington snapped it hard. Getting past the rider would be hard because he would take out Slocum and to hell with any of the judges spotting it.
Bloomington would be disqualified—but so what? He would prevent Slocum from challenging Quinn. Bloomington was nothing more than an expe
ndable pawn in a bigger game.
Bending low, Slocum slowly narrowed the distance between them. At the side of the road he saw dozens of men, all wearing the yellow ribbons of judges tied around their arms. Many waved. Others made obscene gestures. It didn’t take much to know which were Miss Maggie’s supporters—and his—and which favored Cletus Quinn.
“Comin’ back for more, Slocum? Good. I ain’t finished punishin’ you!” Again Bloomington swung his rope. This time Slocum was expecting it. His hand moving like lighting, he reached out for it. A sharp pain lanced into the tough palm of his left hand and echoed all the way up to his shoulder.
Slocum grabbed tight and hung on. He shoved his heels forward and reared back on Black Velvet. The horse dug in its hooves, kicking up a cloud of dust.
Bloomington’s fall from his horse was hidden by the thick cloud. He had been dragged from the saddle, and lay stunned in the center of the road. His eyes had gone unfocused, and he gasped harshly as his lungs tried to recover a measure of the wind knocked from them.
Slocum flicked the rope and looped it around the fallen man’s wrist. Then he wrapped the end of the rope he still held around his saddlehorn.
“Giddyup,” he commanded Black Velvet. The horse started, balked at the weight it was dragging, then adjusted to be able to pull Bloomington along the road.
Slocum didn’t want to exhaust his stallion. He only pulled Bloomington a dozen yards before unfastening the rope from his saddlehorn and tossing it to the ground.
He picked up the pace then, knowing Rachel, Quinn, and Zachary were likely more than a mile ahead of him by now. They had been flying. Slocum worried they might do something to Rachel to take her out of the race, but she would be wary of any tricks. She had even avoided the snares that had almost doomed Slocum in the first race.
The knots of men checking to be sure the race was fair and square flashed by Slocum. He approached the trail over the mountain and hesitated. If he continued, the bend in the road would swing him out and back, adding miles to the racecourse. Or he could head for the Stone Needle and follow the path Rachel had shown him.
