Red Rock

Red Rock

by Willailla	

			

~New Mexico, 1870's~

Chapter 1: A Stranger Rides In

A dead Indian hung from the limb of a cottonwood over a dry creek bed. There was
a flurry of large wings as a rider slowly approached, and reddish-colored hawks
lifted their engorged bodies sluggishly into the air with a chorus of kreeing
sounds and began to circle leisurely overhead.

John Green clicked his tongue softly and the pinto he was riding came to a stop
at the edge of the shallow clay bank on the opposite side. It was past June when
most stream beds had dried up. He lifted his, wide-brimmed hat from his head and
wiped the back of his hand across his sweaty brow. His face was streaked with
grime. His blue shirt and tan buckskin pants were covered in a thin coating of
alkali from days of trekking up the Jornada del Muerto, a waterless waste of
blistering sand and sagebrush.

He wore a holstered pair of Colt .44-40s with the ivory butts pointed forward on
two criss-crossed cartridge belts. Hanging from his pommel by a shoulder strap
was a leather case. Inside was a Sharps .52 caliber buffalo rifle. The throat of
his shirt was open underneath a yellow bandana, and the sleeves were rolled up
deeply tanned arms to the elbows. He looked to be a man in his mid-twenties with
black, curly hair and piercing blue eyes.

He squinted against the hot glare of the noonday sun and, after a moment, placed
the sweat-stained Stetson back on his head.

The Indian, a boy, had been dead some considerable time. The body was bloated
with gas. The lower portion, from the hips down, was coal black where the blood
had settled. Decay had caused the torso to turn a reddish black. Clots of dried
blood hung in black strands from the nostrils. Shit had fallen to the ground
beneath, but it had long since dried, and no flies buzzed around it. The eyes
were gone from their sockets. The mouth hung open; the tongue was chewed away as
well as the lips by the hawks. The cock was missing, too. Either eaten . . . or
cut off. Whoever had hanged the boy had mutilated him; the belly had been cut
open. The uncoiled gut hung to the ground like a long, withered snake.

Green guessed he had been dead at least twenty-four hours. The rope used to hang
the Indian was a Mexican-made maguey, a light string good for calf roping. It
had been tossed over the limb of the cottonwood and, after the Indian had been
hoisted up, secured around the trunk of the tree. There were many hoof prints in
the sandy creek bottom around the boy. Maybe half a dozen riders.

Green wiped his sweaty palms on his thighs and took out a draw-string pouch of
tobacco from his shirt pocket and rolled a smoke, lighting it with one of the
few remaining matches stuck in the yellow band. He inhaled the smoke deeply
smelling sulfur fumes mixed with the faint stench of the Indian. He didn't want
to get any closer.

Whoever had hanged the boy wanted his body to be seen, for it was in plain sight
of the stage route Green had been following. He nudged his silver spurs gently
against the pinto's flanks and continued on across the creek bed avoiding the
body by a wide margin; the hooves of the horse clopped on a bed of sandstone
near the center. Green knew that the circling hawks would draw attention from
far off, and he didn't want to be around when the boy's relatives showed up, for
he had, most likely, been killed by whites; the hoof prints he had observed near
the body had been those of shod horses.

He moved on off and after awhile came to the top of a rise where stretched out
before him was a panorama of red-cliffed mesas and deep canyons interspersed
with wide, open plains. Scraggily pinons and other various pines and junipers
clung to the nearby slopes, surging up through cracks in the reddish rocks.
Prickly pear and sagebrush dotted the landscape. Below on a stretch of open
ground, he could see a small cluster of twenty or thirty buildings mostly of
adobe. A few of two stories. He looked around at the low outcroppings of rocks
on either side of the road. Several hundred feet to his right was a rocky
overhang adjacent to a wide-spreading juniper. He guided his horse toward it and
dismounted. The tangy odor of the juniper itched his nostrils. Behind the tree,
he inspected the outcrop. Near the bottom was a narrow fissure running several
feet horizontally and several inches wide vertically. He got down on his hands
and knees and peered into it; after a moment, he stood back up and took the
leather case holding the Sharps rifle off the saddle and fitted it into the
fissure. It went back far enough to be out of sight.

Mounting up once more, he returned to the stage route and headed down the gently
sloping rise toward the small cluster of buildings. On the outskirts he passed a
cemetery on a hillock and a pine marker leaning into the ground with a panel
nailed to the top that read 'RED ROCK'. An Apache arrow was stuck in the post.
The sign had several bullet holes in it.

The first building to his left, a barber shop, had a 'closed' sign hanging in
the window. In a lot next to it were some hay stacks of grama grass and a corral
behind a gabled livery of pine logs. Next to this a general store of adobe, with
a doctor's office above, according to the sign over the porch walkway. On the
slightly inclined roof sat a man holding a Winchester rifle in his lap. At the
bottom of some side stairs that led up to the doctor's office was a buggy with a
yellow canvas top. A black medical bag was sitting on the seat. Farther down,
another sign on a small adobe building proclaimed it to be the jail.

In front of the general store, two men were loading a buckboard with supplies.
Green noticed that both were heavily armed with pistols and knives. On the seat
of the buckboard leaned two Winchester rifles. He also noted that the walls of
the adobe buildings were pitted with bullet markings. As well as the logs of the
livery which were splintered and punched full of holes. A few arrows stuck out
just beneath the roof.

To his right, across from the barber shop, was a two story adobe. The 'Loomis
Hotel' according to the sign. A vacant lot sat next to it; farther down was a
hardware store. All the buildings had small windows and heavy shutters that
could be closed in a hurry if need be. Typical of western towns periodically
besieged by Indians.

Continuing on he passed another adobe building to his right. A pretty woman with
blonde hair braided up in coils on the top of her head was leaning in the
doorway observing him without expression, her arms crossed over her breasts, one
foot extended out in front of the other on the plank walkway. On the front of
the two-storied adobe an arch of black letters stated that it was the 'Red Rock
Lantern'. A few buildings farther down was a cantina, also of adobe with bright
red shutters on its two front windows, one on each side of the door. A canvas
awning overhead held up with poles served as a porch. A drunk, with his
wide-brimmed hat pulled down over his eyes, was kicked back in a chair against
the wall next to the door sleeping one off.

As he dismounted in front of the livery, a strongly built man with close-cut
gray hair beneath the brim of his black fedora stepped out of the alleyway. He
was puffing on a curved pipe and pushing a wheelbarrow full of manure. The
pitchfork handle stuck out in front like the jib pole of a ship. His shirt was
blue and white stripped underneath a dark-gray vest. The sleeves were rolled up,
revealing muscular forearms. His trousers were of blue denim.

When he saw Green he sat the wheelbarrow down and tipped his hat back.

"What can I do for you, mister?" he asked, taking the pipe from his mouth and
cupping it in the palm of his dark-brown hand.

"Need to put my horse up for a day or two," Green replied.

The liveryman's narrow eyes sized him up, glancing at the makeshift rope
hackamore on the pinto.

"Indian pony, huh." He lowered his eyes. "Not shod."

Green nodded. "Couple of bucks jumped me a few days back." He spoke slowly,
softly, meeting the man gaze. "Killed my horse. I caught this one . . .
afterwards; the other spooked and got away."

"Un, huh," the liveryman said, He glanced at the ivory handled Colts on Green's
hips. He didn't feel a need to ask what happened to the two Indians. The eyes of
the stranger were cool and watchful like a rattler before it strikes.

"Probably some of Gray Wolf's renegades," the liveryman said. "They've been
hitting us pretty hard lately. Last stage through was two weeks ago. Indians
killed a passenger and the guard. Hasn't been one since."

Green nodded slightly.

Pocketing his pipe the liveryman stepped off to the side of the pinto and cupped
it's muzzle in his hand. The horse didn't shy off. He stuck his finger in the
side of it's mouth and pushed up the lip to examine its teeth.

"About four years old," he said. "Tall for a paint, a ripper, good sixteen
hands." He patted it shoulder. "Good slope but not too much. Good cow pony;
large chest, healthy lungs and a big heart; holds his legs nice and straight
under him; he'll be clear-footed. Got a short back, won't ride as comfortably as
the long back, but he'll be stronger and quicker. Firm looking hooves, no
cracks." He glanced at Green. "Probably need to shoe him if you plan on doing
much riding. Lots of rough ground around here."

He straightened and took his pipe back out of his vest pocket. "I'd say the
Indians did you a favor with that'un."

"Could've been worse," Green replied. "Got a blacksmith in town?"

"You're lookin' at'm." "OK. How soon?"

"Won't take long. I'll put him in the paddock, let him cool off some, and have
at it as soon as I finish loading that wagon." He nodded toward a nearby work
wagon. "Won't take more than an hour." Then he added. "Taking a load out to the
Widow Holbarth's place tomorrow. She puts it on her garden."

The woman's name meant something to Green, but only a slight flicker of his
eyelids gave notice under the shadow of his hat brim.

"No hurry," Green said, handing him the rope reins of the hackamore. "I won't be
needing him until tomorrow." He untied the apron strings and retrieved his
bedroll, saddlebags and canteen.

Walking back toward the Loomis Hotel, shouldering his gear, he saw the blonde
woman still watching him from the doorway of the newspaper office. His spurs
made a chinking sound as he crossed the hard packed clay of the street.

Chapter 2: The Woman Behind The Desk

A tinkling bell on a spring above the door announced his arrival. To his right,
as he entered, was a square arch way and beyond a small dinning area with an oak
table and half a dozen chairs placed around it. Upon the table cups and plates
had been placed face down. A kitchen area could be seen through an open door. In
front of him a sofa, just past the archway, and beyond a reception desk with
several keys hanging from hooks on the adobe wall behind. At the left was a
stairway to the second floor. In between was a curtained doorway.

After the tone of the bell had died down, the curtain was pulled aside and a
petite woman with brown hair fixed in a bun came out, one hand smoothing back a
loose strand over her forehead. She was wearing a blue and white plaid gingham
dress with a full skirt. She moved behind the desk, her manner unhurried,
collected; her face was smooth and tanned, set with sparkling hazel eyes; her
figure shapely. She gave Green a calm, friendly smile.

On top of the desk beside the register was a short-barreled, pearl-handled .38.

"The six-shooter is for the Indians," she said, in a voice that was soft and
charming with a trace of southern accent followed with a faint smile. "Not for
guests."

She turned the register so he could sign it, then turned it back around.

"Welcome to Red Rock, Mr. Green," she said, after glancing at his signature. A
hint of irony played in her voice, her lips pinched in a wry smile.

"Thanks. Maybe I'll live long enough to see some of it."

"Um hmm," she replied.

She turned to the side and slowly reached up to take a key off one of the hooks;
the fullness of her breast was accented under the soft cotton bodice.

"I'll give you one of the center rooms. Not as many shutters to close when the
bullets begin flying."

"Appreciate it," he replied.

"By the way," she said, handing him the key, "my name is Abigail Crane. Everyone
calls me Abby. If there is anything you need just let me know."

"Need a bath, but the barber shop had a closed sign."

"Yes. Mr. Ames, our barber, was shot in the arm two days ago during the last
Indian raid. His shop won't be open for awhile, I expect.

Green nodded, finding it difficult to keep his eyes from ranging over the
shapely figure of the woman.

"But we have a bathing room upstairs at the end of the hall. I could heat some
water for you, if you like."

"That would do it. I haven't had a hot bath in a long time."

"Well then. Your room is to the left at the top of the stairs. First door on
your left."

The room was small with one narrow window facing the street. A bed to his left.
Opposite it, to the right, was a chest of drawers with a japanned wash bowl and
pitcher on top and next to it a pocket mirror with easel back. He hung his hat
on one of the coat pegs next to the door and removed his gun belts. He sat down
wearily on the bed, unstrapped his spurs and pulled off his boots. He was asleep
as soon as his head hit the pillow. One of the nickel plated .44s lying by his
side.

A light tapping at his door woke him. His gun was in his hand and cocked before
he was fully aware.

"Yes?" he said, when he realized someone was at the door.

"Your bath's ready," a woman replied. It was the voice of Abigail Crane.

In the bathroom was a steaming foot tub full of soap suds. A faucet connected to
a metal pipe that ran to a cistern on the roof provided the cold water. A bucket
of hot water sat next to the tub. On a stool nearby was a sponge and an oval bar
of coconut oil soap. A towel hung from a rack on the wall.

He laid his pistol, shaving gear and a fresh change of clothes on the stool and
stripped off the sweat-stained shirt and dusty buckskins he was wearing. When he
was settled in the steaming, wet warmth of the tub, he heard a tap on the door.

"If you would like," Abigail said, sticking her head around the half-opened
door, "I can have my servant, Maria, wash your dirty laundry."

Her face was impassive, but her eyes didn't fail to notice the broad, sloping
shoulders and muscular chest of her guest.

His eyes held hers as he nodded.

After she was gone, he found himself becoming hard as he fantasized holding her
naked body in his arms, melting her cool, efficient facade with a raw, unbridled
fuck, for he knew it was only a facade. He had seen the heat in her eyes when
she had looked at him, and he was equally certain she had seen the heat in his.

When he left the hotel, she wasn't in sight, but he could hear movement and
voices coming from the kitchen area.

He stepped off the porch and started down the street toward the general store.
The sun was farther to the west now. The air was still and hot after the
relative coolness of the thick-walled adobe hotel; the heat from the sun
penetrated his clothes; he felt sticky beads of sweat already forming on his
freshly scrubbed body. Beyond, a pale, earthshine moon hung its ghostly rim over
a purple range of mountains in the distance. Hawks swirled far off with majestic
leisure on an uplift of air as they had done since the beginning of time. Barn
swallows flitted about the loft of the livery. Below the liveryman was bent over
shoeing the pinto, the necessary tools stuck in the top of his boot for easy
access, his curved pipe hanging from the corner of his mouth, gray smoke rising.

The men who had been loading their buckboard were gone now. The guard who had
been posted on top of the doctor's office was still there, idly watching him as
he crossed the street.

Inside, the store was deep and high-ceilinged. The floor was hard-packed clay
swept clean. Long glassed-in counters ran the length of it on both sides
offering a wide assortment of goods, as well as the walls which had shelves
packed with the luxuries and necessities of life.

The proprietor, a fat man with a cigar in his mouth and a sweat-stained white
shirt, was standing behind the left-hand counter scribbling something on a piece
of paper, beads of sweat trickling down his cheeks. When he noticed Green he
paused in his scribbling and wiped his face with a wet hand towel that was lying
on the counter next to him. Gold rings glinted on his fat fingers.

"This heat's something else, ain't it? I'm gonna halfta find me a cool cave
somewhere and crawl in it till winter." He turned leisurely to a bucket of water
setting on a stand behind him and dipped the towel in it, rung it out and placed
it around his fleshy neck.

Green stopped in front of a rifle rack on the wall. The fat man moseyed up still
wiping his fat neck with the towel.

"Don't have much left," he said, eyeing the rack. "Folks just been buy'n'em up
purt' heavily since we started having Injun troubles. Alls I got left is that
ten gage and the saddle carbine, only twenty inch barrel though if you're
lookin' for a long shooter. The gage is used but in real fine shape; the
Winchester is brand spankin' new. Got a real purtdee burl stock and cleaning rod
trap; it's a forty-four."

Green nodded.

"I'll need a couple of boxes of cartridges to go with it and a saddle sheath and
a box of matches too," Green said, reaching in his pocket for some money.

The fat man took the rifle down from the rack and laid it on the counter along
with a pale orange scabbard which he placed it next to the rifle. Out of a
drawer nearby, he took out two cartridge boxes and placed them on the counter
also.

"Box of a hundred each." He took a box of matches from the shelf behind and
jotted down some figures on a piece of scrap paper.

"Yes, sir, that'll come to fourteen dollars and eighty-three cents. Get you
anything else?" he added with obsequious rapaciousness as Green paid him.

"Nope, that'll do me," Green answered. He slid the rifle in it sheath, picked up
the boxes of cartridges and matches, nodded curtly and walked out.

Chapter 3: A Friendly Drink

The small lobby of the hotel was still empty as Green went back to his room. He
loaded the rifle and put the boxes of cartridges in his saddle bags from which
he took out an empty soap powder tin. He filled it with matches, snapped the lid
shut and stuck it in his shirt pocket, putting the rest of the matches in his
saddle bags. He took the Winchester with him when he left.

The bartender had a twelve gage lever action lying on the bar. A dozen square
tables filled the room. Green took one facing the doorway in the darkened back,
away from the front windows, and ordered tequila, laying the rifle on the table.
The bartender, a bald-headed man with a neatly trimmed mustache, lost some
height as he stepped from behind the bar. Green saw that his legs had been
amputated just above the knees. For walking he had padded leather cups around
the stumps. He wore a red and white vertically striped shirt without the collar.

"Most folks are surprised when they first see me do that -- steppin' out," he
said grinning as he placed a glass and bottle on the table. Standing on the
stumps he was about four feet tall.

"Got a plank sittin' on some old powder kegs to walk on." He nodded toward the
bar. Lost 'em in the war. Didn't have the three thousand dollars Lincoln wanted
to get out of serving, and since they shot you if you didn't serve, I didn't
figure I had much choice. Didn't reckon on losin' my legs though or I'd of
hightailed it for parts unknown."

He dipped his head and raised his shoulders as if to say it was all in the past
-- what the hell.



"Anything else?" he asked.

Green hesitated. All he wanted was a few drinks to mellow out and relax, but he
hadn't had anything to eat since early morning and only beans and jerky, at
that, washed down with a cup of bitter, hot coffee made from re-heated grinds.

"Got anything to eat?"

The bartender nodded.

"Elena," he called out toward a curtained doorway in back. "Tostados, por
favor."

"Si, si, Raymond," a woman's voice replied.

Green could hear chair legs scrapping on the hard clay floor and presently the
light clatter of metal ware. He rolled a cigarette and smoked while waiting. The
tequila burned all the way down, but it did the trick. He poured himself
another, and it went down better. For the first time in many days he was
beginning to feel relaxed.

Elena was a shapely Mexican wearing a white blouse and green skirt. She smiled
at him and sat down a steaming plate of beans and melted cheese on open-faced
tortillas and a steaming cup of coffee.

Green, despite his hunger, ate with a moderate amount of deliberation and, when
finished, slowly rolled another smoke as Elena poured him a second cup and took
up the empty plate.

"Ease tare anyteeng else I you can do, senor?" Her eyes were making sultry
bedroom promises.

Green glanced at the bartender, Raymond, who was reading a newspaper at the bar
and paying them no mind. Green wondered if the woman was his wife or a whore or
both.

He shook his head. A flicker of disappointment registered in her dark eyes
before she turned and disappeared through the curtained doorway.

As Green poured some tequila in the second cup of coffee, the front door opened
and a huge, broad man with a beer belly entered. He was wearing a gray shirt and
trousers and a Colt forty-five on his hip. A silver badge was pinned to his
deerskin vest. He had black stubble on his face as if he hadn't shaved in a
couple of days. A thick, walrus mustache covered his upper lip.

He paused just inside the doorway, letting his eyes adjust to the dim light,
picking his teeth with a toothpick. He fixed his eyes on Green but spoke to the
bartender.

"How's it going, Stubs?"

The bartender glanced at him with a look of loathing but didn't reply.

The big man with the badge chuckled.

"Who we got sittin' over there?" he asked, addressing the bartender again but
kept his cold eyes fixed on Green. His cheeks were raised as if he were smiling,
but it was hard to tell because of the thick mustache.

"Why don't you ask him, marshal?" Raymond answered.

The marshal chuckled again, lowered his hand and hooked his thumb in his vest
pocket. He moved the toothpick around slowly with his tongue for a spell before
addressing Green.

"You got a name, mister?"

Green let out a small sigh. He didn't have much use for lawmen. Most that he'd
known were corrupt, and a corrupt man with a badge is dangerous.

"Yep."

"Well, let's have it."

"John Green," he answered, rolling another smoke, fingers deft and steady. When
he finished, he stuck it between his lips and flared a match off the edge of the
table and lighted it. He returned the marshal's hard stare without flinching and
blew a cloud of blue smoke into the air between them.

"That your real name?"

"It'll do."

The marshal chewed on the end of the toothpick as if deliberating his next
course of action, braking off eye contact.

"Give me some whiskey, Stubs; you know the brand."

Raymond took a bottle of Jack Daniels off the shelf behind him and placed it on
the bar along with a glass.

The marshal placed the glass over the neck of the bottle and picked it up with
his left hand, leaving his right hand free. He walked back to Green's table
shuffling his feet arrogantly on the clay floor.

"Can't stand that Mex shit," he said, glancing down at the bottle of tequila in
front of Green.

He pulled a chair -- thick with peeling green paint -- back from the table and
sat down.

"Hope you don't mind me joining you, Mister Green."

Spitting out the toothpick, he placed a broad hand flat on the table, fingers
spread wide. With the other he lifted the glass off the bottle neck, thumbed the
cork out and poured a couple of ounces into the glass and downed the amber
liquid with one quick swallow.

"Aaah, that puts everything right," he sighed. He poured another couple of
ounces out but merely played with the glass, turning it in his hands. He fixed
Green with a sly look.

"Got business in Red Rock, Green?"

"Nope. Just drifting."

This answer didn't seem to sit well with the marshal who shifted his square jaw
slightly forward, his mouth drooping open, baring the lower teeth like a
bulldog. He gave Green an insolent look through half-lidded eyes.

"Kinda rough territory to be drifting through what with renegade skins on the
warpath."

Green shrugged.

"Though what makes it doubly rough, pilgrim, is that this is Loomis territory.
Three million acres as far as you can see in any direction all belong to Mr.
Loomis, and Mr. Loomis he don't like no strangers hanging round on his property.
And that goes for Red Rock, too. He owns the town lock, stock and barrel.

"Does that include you, marshal?"

The marshal sneered.

"A smart man savvies how the game is played and either goes along with it or
gets his ass reamed. Get my drift?"

"Like I said, marshal, I'm just passing through minding my own business. Soon as
I rest up for a day or two I'll be on my way." He took a final draw off his
cigarette and dropped it in a brass spittoon setting next to the table. It made
a faint hiss.

"I'd do just that, if I were you," the marshal replied. "Ain't healthy round
here."

He tossed the rest of his whiskey off, sat the empty glass down hard on the
table and scrapped back his chair, standing up.

"Well, Mister Green, nice talkin' to yuh," he said with a slight bob. Enjoy your
stay in Red Rock." He put his hand casually on the butt of his pistol. "Just
don't enjoy it too much." The eyes were as dead-staring as those of a fish in a
pescaderia.

"Put the whiskey on my tab, Stubs," he said, chuckling as he swaggered out.

"On my tab my ass!" Raymond blurted irritably after the marshal was gone.
"That'll be the goddamned day whenever that cocksucker ever pays for something.
If I wasn't fucked up, I'd show the bastard a thing or two!"

"I take it you don't like the marshal," Green said calmly.

"You take that goddamn right! Fuckers not even a marshal, just a constable -- if
even that. The high sheriff never even appointed him. The self-satisfied asshole
thinks he's God. Takes anything he wants and never pays for it. And I don't mean
just me. He does it to everyone. Clothes, shave and a haircut, a woman; you name
it, he gets it free. And all because he's Loomis' man. Old Cordel Loomis is the
most powerful rancher in the territory and he appointed Harry Tibbs, our
so-called marshal, to keep an eye on things in this part of the county.
Son-of-a-bitch is just a hired gun . . ." The bartender paused, shaking his head
as if aggravated by a fly, "but, much as I dislike him, I'll have to give him
this: he knows how to handle a six-shooter. He's fast and he's deadly."

Raymond turned and pointed to a playing card -- a three of clubs -- stuck
beneath the edge of a large mirror on the wall above a rack of bottles.

"You see that," he said pointing to three bullet holes in the card. A silver
dollar would have almost covered them.

"He did that at twenty paces. Sounded like one shot. That's how fast he was. Man
don't want to mess with him when it comes to shootin'. And old man Loomis's got
a bunch more of them just like Tibbs working for him. Not cow punchers but
shootists. Men he hired to keep the settlers and small ranchers in their place.
He's got the biggest spread around. Besides his hired thugs, he's got maybe a
hundred and fifty to two hundred legitimate cowpunchers working for him. Like
Tibbs said , the greedy, old bastard's got over three million acres, but he not
satisfied with that. He won't be happy till he has driven off all the squatters
and taken their land too."

Green nodded. It was an old story. Greed was the fuel that drove the human race
as far as he could tell.

While Raymond cleared Tibbs' side of the table, Green rolled another smoke and
stared at the bottle of cactus juice as if its ancient fluids -- brewed down
from countless eons of shifting desert sands, heat, cold and emptiness -- could
whisper a sage solution. He'd drunk too much. He would have one last drink and
hit the hay. He was tired but floating on a peaceful cloud.

Chapter 4: The Newspaperwoman

Green heard the door of the cantina open, and when he looked up he saw the
blonde woman who had been watching him from the doorway of the newspaper office.
She was wearing a white blouse, brown skirt and tan boots.

"Elena, traigame unos cafe solo, por favor," she called out briskly as she
entered.

Green could hear Elena's laughter from behind the curtain.

"Si, senora, al momento.

"Que pasa, Raymond?" she said, slapping her palm on the top of the bar.

Grinning, Raymond replied, in a bantering tone, "You shouldn't be in here Faye.
People will think you're not a respectable woman."

"Hell, Ray, I'm not. I'm a newspaperwoman. You can't be that kind of critter and
be respectable too."

Raymond chuckled.

"How 'bout a shot of aguariente and one of those stale cigarillos you have on
the shelf?"

She stood with her hands on her hips while she waited for Raymond to pour her
drink and glanced about feinting casualness but, out of the corner of her eye,
was observing the stranger sitting near the back of the room facing her.

When she had her drink in hand, she walked with a casual swagger back to Green's
table.

"Hi, got a light, hombre?"

She leaned over the table as Green struck a match for her.

"Thanks," she said when the cigarillo was lit. She straightened and blew a cloud
of smoke toward the ceiling, nodding her head sideways at the empty chair
opposite him.

"Help yourself," Green said, raising a hand palm up.

"I'm Faye Morgan," she said, crossing her legs and hanging one arm over the back
of her chair. "I'm the editor of the Red Rock Lantern. Largest circulation west
of the Pecos," she added playfully. "I saw the marshal leave just now; I assume
he gave you the same welcome he gives to all the occasional strangers who happen
upon Red Rock."

"Yep, nice fellow. I told him I was just passing through and he indicated the
sooner the better. Name's Green, by the way, John Green." He noted a smudge of
printer's ink on her cheek.

"Well, he doesn't speak for everyone in Red Rock. We're not all assholes around
here. Pardon my French. It's just that he works for Loomis --"

"I already told him," Raymond cut in, polishing a glass behind the bar.

"Well, then, you know; it's not just you but everyone. That old bastard Loomis
doesn't want anyone on his land. Acts as if he had a patent on the whole goddamn
earth."

She lightly hammered the table top with the side of a fist.

"He's placed a bounty on any Indian caught on his land. Imagine that! He kills
off all their buffalo -- the Indians' main source of food, shelter and clothing
in these parts -- to make room for his cattle. Then along comes the soldiers to
throw the poor bastards onto reservations, and Loomis makes a fortune selling
his downers to the government-run reservations at wildly inflated prices. Half
the stock listed on the books never even make it to the Indians and as a result
many of them starve to death. So out of desperation, what do the Indians do?
They raid the ranchers stealing the cattle they need to survive; and, sometimes,
to show their hatred for the white man, they slaughter a hundred head of cattle
just for the hell of it. And who could blame them?"

Faye paused waiting for a response, but the stranger was impassive, his somber
face unreadable. She sighed.

"You'll have to overlook me," she said concealing her annoyance at his lack of
response. "I tend to get real riled up over life's little injustices. It's in my
blood, I guess. My views don't tend to be popular with the majority of whites
around here. To them the only good Indian is a dead one. I didn't mean to bore
you."

"There was a dead Indian hanging from a tree west of here," Green said, calmly.

She was not sure she had actually heard him speak. His lips barely moved. He
tilted his head down. The brim of his hat hid his eyes from view. She stared at
his hand as he laid it on the stock of his rifle and stroked it absently. It was
the hand of an artist: beautifully shaped and dexterous.

Her shoulders sank slightly as she let her breath out.

"There'll be trouble again, for sure, when Gray Wolf finds out," Raymond, who
had been listening, said.

"You can count on that," Faye agreed. "No doubt some of Loomis' men are behind
it.

At back the curtain moved aside and Elena came to their table with Faye's
coffee. The two women spoke in Spanish, and even if Green hadn't known the
language, he could have told by the sudden worried expression on Elena's face
that Faye had been warning her of possible reprisals over the murder of the
Indian.

"Como hay Dios," Elena exclaimed.

Faye poured a shot of the brandy in the cup and tasted it.

"Bueno."

Green noticed the Mexican shake her head a little sadly as she watched the
pretty gringa take another drink before turning and disappearing behind the
curtain.

"Well," Faye said, "did you mention the dead Indian to our distinguished
marshal?"

"Subject didn't come up," Green replied.

"So . . . well, I guess I'd better inform him so he can warn people to expect an
attack. Maybe earn some of that hundred and fifty dollars a month he gets for
doing nothing. Nice to have met you, Mr. Green."

She finished her laced coffee and stood, turned to go, but paused, wondering why
she did so. He obviously didn't care. He was like all the rest. Totally
indifferent to the injustices of the world. Yet she felt attracted to him on
some level, for some reason. He was a mystery and a mystery is always
intriguing.

"Perhaps, if you're not busy," she said, assuming a business-like tone, "you
could stop by my office before you leave Red Rock and give me an eyewitness
account of your discovery of the dead Indian for my next week's edition."

Green looked up at her with cool, contemplative eyes and nodded. When she was
gone, he finished his drink, picked up his rifle and followed.

Outside the harsh glare of the sun had softened to a subdued hue of
reddish-orange as it nestled above a plum-colored horizon of snow-capped
mountains. Soon the desert would begin to cool and the coyote would start his
nocturnal hunt giving voice to the thin night air as the world, once more,
turned its darkened face into the void.

Chapter 5: The Night Visitor

It was around midnight when Green was awakened by a light tapping at his door.
The light of a lamp shone beneath the bottom crack wedging back the darkness of
his room. Naked, gun in hand, he stood behind the door and opened it halfway.
She stood there holding a lamp with nothing on but a sheer, white nightgown
which did nothing to hide the well-developed body underneath. He could see the
dusky circles of her areolae and the tips of her nipples pressed against the
thin fabric and the dark, enticing shadow between her thighs. Gone was the prim
look given by hair fixed back tightly in a bun. Now it hung sensuously over her
shoulders in liquid, wavy red sheens in the lamp light.

Nothing was said. Nothing needed to be. She merely gave him a look and that was
all. She entered the room as he stepped back. She set the lamp on the nightstand
next to the bed, dimming the flame, took the gun from his hand and laid it next
to the lamp. She stepped up against him until the heat of their bodies mingled.
He felt the firmness of her breasts and the hardness of her nipples against his
chest. She pressed her mouth against his at the same time taking his hardening
cock in her hand, squeezing it, stroking it up and down.

He pulled the gown down off her shoulders, and she let it drop to the floor.
Easily, he picked her up and laid her on the bed. Her thighs were trembling as
he entered her. She gasped softly and with more intensity as he pushed farther
into her. Her fingernails scrapped over his muscular neck and back. Her breath
was hot in his ear, her tongue wet as it explored.

He moved down her neck kissing and sucking. He teased her nipples rolling them
between his teeth, nipping them. She arched her back bringing them up to him for
punishment. She wrapped her legs around his ass pulling him deeper into her.
There was pain. He was large, but it was a pain that excited her. Breathing came
in short, shallow, labored gasps. She came uncontrollably and instantly felt
herself building toward an even greater intensity. Her heart hammered against
her rib cage. It would explode if she couldn't find release; yet she didn't want
it to ever end.

She moved her hips beneath him, grinding them up against his, making circular
movements, touching the velvet softness of her belly against his solid hardness.

His thrust quickened jarring her body. The slapping together of their flesh
resounded off the walls of the small room. Her own motions increased until their
hot bodies, slick with sweat, were moving in a groping, agonized frenzy. Flesh
pounding against flesh until need found release in a burst of groaning ecstasy.

Green put the lamp out and turned on his back. In the dark she turned to him and
placed her head on his shoulder, the palm of her hand resting lightly on his
chest like a child's.

* * *

The jail had two cells enclosed with latticed bars riveted together. In front
was a small open area that served as an office. In the center of the room was a
potbellied stove. To the right, as one entered, sat an oak desk behind which was
a small square table. On top sat a coffee pot, a small bag of sugar rolled down
half way, and a blue bag of ground coffee -- some spilled out -- on a white
cloth holding utensils.

Marshal Harry Tibbs was seated behind the desk rolling a smoke. When he was
done, he leaned over the yellow glow of a lamp sitting on the desk, lit his
cigarette and settled back in his chair, he took out a stack of wanted posters
from a side drawer in the desk and placed them on top. Slowly he begin to thumb
through them, stopping occasionally to study one and, as if unsatisfied,
impatiently continued on to the next. Some of the posters had photographs
followed by brief physical descriptions and what-fors; some were merely
drawings, others were blank and offered only a brief summary of attributes, the
alleged crime or crimes and the amount of the reward, if any. It was one of the
last that finally caught Tibbs' attention.

He moved the poster closer to the lamp rubbing his wide-set jaw as he studied it
carefully. The name at the top of the poster was Jack McGee. Ex army officer
turned gambler. "Wanted in Texas for the murder of 'Fast' Eddie Purvis a known
desperado and cow thief and for questioning in connection with several other
homicides occurring over the past few years."

There was a caveat at the bottom. "Is to be considered a dangerous, cold-blooded
individual and an expert marksman; should be approached only with extreme
caution."

The physical description given was of a man "five-feet ten or eleven inches
tall, black hair, blue eyes, in his early twenties."

But the reward offered was only five hundred dollars.

Not much if he was truly such a dangerous individual, thought Tibbs. He smiled.
He knew how law officials loved to exaggerate the cleverness and dangerousness
of a wanted person. That way if they caught the person it only added to their
glory and if they didn't . . . well, who could blame them? The guy was clever
after all, wasn't he?

		

Tibbs held the poster up and leaned back in his chair. He drew in deeply on the
cigarette and blew out a cloud of bluish-gray smoke toward the viga-and-latia
crossed ceiling. He rubbed a thick paw over the bald patch near the back of his
head and stood up shuffling around to open the front door. He leaned against the
frame smoking, his broad body nearly filling it. Bats circled in the star-filled
sky and would until all the insect had settled in for the night. When the bats
were gone, the mosquitoes would come out and aggravate hell out of anything that
moved. But that hadn't happened yet. The night was peaceful. The hot air had
cooled down into a pleasant warmth, balmy with the faint odors of desert plants,
the clean medicinal smell of creosote. Far off across the flat, immense desert
plain, he could see faint streaks of lightning building to the northwest and
hear the all but inaudible rumble of thunder. For a moment it brought back the
war, the sounds of distant canon fire and the gut-wrenching knowledge that enemy
troops were approaching behind it. He didn't like to recall the war: the horror,
the dead bodies lying mangled and broken everywhere. The blood. Puddles of it.
Rats drinking it from the lips of dying men. He shook his head to get the images
out.

Green. That was who he must focus on. Faye had come into his office earlier,
looking as beautiful as ever and with that wise-ass aloofness she always assumed
around him. He knew she didn't like him because she knew he worked for Loomis,
backing him against the interests of the townfolks, small ranchers and
homesteaders. But for all her fancy book learning back east, she didn't seem to
grasp the politics of things. She lived too high up in the clouds. She needed to
come back down to earth where things were not always as wholesome and pure as
she might like them to be.

Life was a process of give and take, of get-along to go-along. She don't seem to
understand that a man has to compromise a little if he wants to better himself.
You don't get anywhere bucking the system.

He sighed. She just don't understand how things are, how they're done.

She'd told him about the Green fellow seeing the dead Indian, and he had done
his duty. He'd gone around warning everyone to expect another attack. He'd had
several more men posted along the perimeter of town. All had their guns ready by
them. It was getting to be old hat what with the continual raids day or night.
He'd done his job. Didn't she realize that was all any man could do?

Tibbs sighed and flicked his cigarette into the street. His eyes vainly scanned
the dark reaches of the desert beyond town.

Tenderfeet from the east thought Indians weren't supposed to attack at night
according to some nonsense about their sacred beliefs, but someone must have
forgotten to tell Gray Wolf that. The last two raids had come at night. Could be
another one tonight. But without a full moon, he didn't think so. He didn't want
to think about Indian attacks and other shit, but life had a way of making a man
think about things he don't want to think about.

His thoughts drifted back to Green. There had been no picture of the man called
Jack McGee, but the description sure as hell fit John Green to a T. But that
description also fit a helluva lot of men.

He recalled Green's hand as he poured his drink made from that pulque Mex shit.
Those weren't the hands of a working cowboy. Maybe a gambler, yeah, maybe on his
way to one of the mining towns where the pickings are easy. Maybe. And maybe,
just maybe, John Green is Jack McGee, and if he is, maybe I'll find out somehow.
And maybe, just maybe, I'll pick me up five big ones.

Tibbs stared across the way to the office of the Red Rock Lantern. A light was
shining dimly through a window curtain. Faye would be busy as usual getting her
weekly columns arranged and ready for her printer. Farther down he saw a light
suddenly illuminate an upstairs window in the hotel. Green's room no doubt since
he was the only guest staying in the hotel at present. But it wasn't Green he
caught a glimpse of in the lamplight. It was Abigail Crane, and suddenly Tibbs
knew how he was going to collect five hundred dollars.

Chapter 6: Old Man Loomis

Cordel Loomis sat in his reddish-brown armchair made of tufted cordovan smoking
a dark-brown panatella, his booted feet propped up on a matching ottoman.

He was a stout-looking man with thick bushy eyebrows and snow white hair that
hung to the base of his neck. His ancient, clean-shaven face had a deep mahogany
tan that had become permanent after three score years spent in the out of doors
in all kinds of weather. Deep lines were etched into the aging flesh like
ravines sloping off a snow-capped mountainside. Two steely-gray eyes glared out
over prominent cheeks and thick jaw bones that gave the face the look of
something built to take punishment, a face naturally fixed in a hard scowl that
was an intimidation to most everyone.

The lacy-blue smoke of his cigar wafted through the large study to double-wide
doors in the four foot thick adobe walls. Outside a hot desert of sand and
cactus stretched endlessly into the distance where jagged-toothed peaks, capped
with snow -- that would last far into summer -- rimmed the horizon.

Just above the doorway of the study was a deer's head with an eighteen point
rack. A panther snarled on the wall behind the large, rosewood desk. He had
killed it just as it had been about to leap from a boulder onto the buck. And
instantly, in a remarkable feat of shooting, he had killed the buck, too, before
it could bound away.

Some stock reports lay in his lap and he was busy making notations in the
margins with a flat, yellow pencil when he heard the sound of hooves
approaching.

He lay the reports aside and went to the double-wide doors, stepping out onto a
verandah.

Coming in from the east on her morning ride was his daughter-in-law, Mona
Clevemont-Loomis, the dark-haired wife of his only son, Patrick. Three Mexican
vaqueros were riding guard with her. Not only were they excellent cowhands but
also among the best of his pistoleros, especially the youngest, nicknamed Chili,
who was reputed to have 'killed his man'. His real name was Jose Aguilar. The
unofficial leader of the three was Jorge Mendoza, a heavy set man with a thick
mustache and potbelly who wore heavy silver rings and necklaces. The other man
was called Luis Amundo, a thin man who carried a razor-sharp bowie knife in his
boot and knew how to use it.

All of the men were heavily armed with six-shooters and rifles with a crisscross
of bandoleers over their chests. Dressed similarly they all wore short chaquetas
and leggins with silver conchos and, around their waists, belts with large
silver buckles.

From the shade of the verandah, Loomis watched the Mexicans dismount and help
the senora from her horse, not that she needed their help. She was an expert
rider, coming from a grand southern family were equestrianism was an art.

Being young and beautiful had its perks, Loomis mused wryly. The Mexicans were
like eager children, each one trying to outdo the other to be rewarded with one
of her smiles which she parceled out among them with regal grace. When she
caught sight of Loomis, she held the tip of her thumb and forefinger together
and brought them to her lips. Loomis nodded curtly. They had established a
ritual of taking coffee and cakes together in the inner courtyard after her
morning rides, a little over a month now since she and Patrick had arrived from
back east where they had married two years previously.

She was wearing a tan riding outfit with a narrow-brimmed, flat-topped hat and a
black scarf around her neck. Her thick, black hair hung halfway down her back.
Loomis watched her until she reached the front door to his left and entered.
Immediately, he turned his attention back to the Mexicans and called out.

"Jorge, un momento."

"Si, patron," Jorge answered and tossed the reins of his horse to Luis who with
the youthful Chili, moved the horses into the corral next to the barn. Loomis
turned and went back into the study. Behind him he could hear the chinking sound
of Jorge's jingle bobs as he stepped onto the tiled walk of the verandah and
entered the study.

"Si, patron?" Jorge said when he was inside, sombrero in hand. The dust of the
desert covered his sloping shoulders.

Loomis didn't answer right away but went to a side table and filled two crystal
jiggers with whiskey from a decanter and handed one to the Mexican. He sat down
behind his desk while Jorge took a seat in the armchair facing, hanging his
sombrero on one knee and taking in half the whiskey with a gulp. Loomis ignored
his for the moment, drawing deeply on his cigar and exhaling a cloud of blue
smoke.

"Did you stop by the Preston place like I asked you?" Loomis finally asked.

"Si, patron. I told them you wanted their land. That no one had to get hurt if
they just fill the papers out no causing trouble."

"You talked to Preston personally?"

"Si, patron."

"What did he say?"

Jorge hesitated, looked down at his knees then back up.

"You not going to like this."

"What'id the son-of-a-bitch say?" Loomis asked, his voice rising slightly, his
jaw muscles flexing.

"He say he no can give land to you; that he already sell eet."

"Sold it! Who the hell to?"

"La Senora Holbarth."

"Susan Holbarth?" Loomis had a puzzled, surprised look on his leathery face.
"That fucking bitch! What's she up to?"

Jorge shrugged. "I cannot say, patron, but eet ees strange. Preston he say to me
she give him only fifty dolares for the place, but that she tell him that ees
fifty more dolares than you give; so he sell her eet."

A sudden look of comprehension crossed Loomis' face. He sucked heavily on his
teeth and settled back in his chair, examining the gray ash at the end of his
cigar thoughtfully for a moment.

"The little widow bitch is clever," he said finally.

"How so, patron?" Jorge asked. "Eet make no sense."

"Ah, but it does. My guess is she is buying up all the homesteads that have
received their titles for a twentieth of what they're worth to keep me from
taking them. Afterwards she will control one of the most fertile valleys around.
And getting it for a price that is practically robbery. She knows that as long
as I take the land for nothing, the homesteaders will sell to her -- better a
little money than nothing but a bullet or a boot in the ass from me."

"What will you do, patron?"

"There's only one thing I can do."

Loomis smiled, but it was more like a snarl.

He stood up and ground his cigar out in a silver ashtray.

"Manana we pay the Widow a visit."

* * *

Loomis stepped through the open patio door into the inner courtyard. Mona Loomis
was waiting for him at a round, glass-topped table surrounded by a colorful
variety of red, blue, yellow and gold flowers set in large, earthen vases on the
tiled yard. Above, through a lattice work, climbing vines spread their leafy
tendrils providing shade from the harsh glare of the sun fixed overhead above
white, fluffy clouds drifting aimlessly in a sea of blue.

She smiled as he took a seat across from her and poured coffee from a silver pot
into his cup. Loomis noted that she had taken off her riding jacket and changed
into a fresh, white blouse but still wore the same brown skirt. He dipped out
two spoonfuls of sugar from a glazed bowl and poured some cream from a small jug
when she was through.

"Did you ride far today?" Loomis asked, as he settled back in his chair,
crossing his legs.

"Out to the bend in Clear Creek," she answered. "That's where Patrick was riding
circle today. He said that it was a good place to hold them for branding."

Loomis smiled. Mona was new to the west and its ways, but she was smart and
learned quickly. Patrick had made a good choice selecting her for his wife.

"Yes," Loomis said. "With water on three sides you only have to deploy a few
hands on the open end to keep the cattle from straying. Leaves you more men for
rounding up."

"Aw, well, see there," she said playfully, "I'm learning something new everyday,
am I not?"

"Yes, indeed," Loomis grinned.

He removed a cloth cover from a basket of ginger snaps and took one. They were
still warm from the oven.

"I can't get over the beauty and the vastness of this land," she said after a
moment.

Loomis narrowed his eyes and clenched his hand tightly, but his face remained
impassive. "Yes, it's all of that, but you can't let it fool you. It's a
treacherous place, indifferent and unforgiving of mistakes. And if the desert
wasn't bad enough there's the Apache. Goddamned heathens! I have fought them for
forty years to get what I've got and lost many good men and friends in the
process."

Loomis' voice dropped as he lowered his head slightly. "Even my wife and two
sons, Patrick's older brothers. All killed by those bastards!"

"Yes," Mona said softly, "Patrick told me about it." She recalled the horror and
outrage she had felt when Patrick had confided to her what the savages had done
when he was still just a small child. How a band of them had ridden into their
homestead, whooping and yelling, while the men were out riding circle. How his
mother had hidden him in the fireplace. How he had heard the screams of his
mother as the Indians raped and tortured her, skinning her alive, dragging her
body and his two brothers behind their horses through cactus beds until they
were ripped to pieces.

"They usually take women and children captive," Loomis said, "but the Apache
hated us for taking their hunting grounds from them, so they killed everyone
hoping to make my father give up. But he didn't; and they only increased my
desire to stay and fight them. And I'll kill every damn last one of them before
I'm through! They'll never defeat me!"

Loomis lapsed into a momentary silence before continuing.

"It's a dangerous land; that's why I have Jorge, Luis and Chili go with you on
your daily rides. The Apaches aren't fools. If they see a group of well armed,
experienced men, they aren't likely to attack, not if they think they might
suffer casualties. They're nomads, scavengers; they live by thievery. They'll
avoid all conflict unless they have the distinct advantage. Ten Apaches won't
attack one well-armed man if they know he is aware of his surroundings and is
ready to defend himself and his property to the death."

"But surely there's little danger of attack out on the open plains where one can
see for miles --".

"Not true," Loomis cut in harshly, then softened his tone. "Although they do
usually hide out in canyons and rough country. And you're always sure to find
them on mountain tops were they can keep a sharp eye out on the surrounding
plains and any unsuspecting travelers that happen by. But don't be fooled;
they're masters at concealment; you can be standing ten feet from one of them on
flat, open ground and not see him. They can bury themselves in the sand like a
rodent in a matter of seconds and grab you by the ankle as you pass. They can
conceal themselves behind a bush no more than a foot tall and you'll never know
it until you feel their razor-sharp knife across your throat. You can never
relax your guard in the desert if you value your life. And mark my words . . .
when you see no signs of Apaches that's when you can be damn sure they're
around."

Mona was silent with a thoughtful look on her face and seemed to be taking in
what he was saying, but he knew it wasn't likely. To understand the Apache and
the desert, one had to experience both first hand over a period of many years.
Easterners who have been raised in a sheltered environment found it hard to
grasp the harsh realities of life in the West. Experience, he knew, was the only
teacher -- and a hard one.

The conversation shifted to lighter matters by degrees: how Mona was managing
with the servants; a baile Mona was orchestrating for the following month in
which everyone of note would attend from miles around; a shopping trip to San
Fransico planned for the following year . . . and on and on. To all of which
Loomis listened politely with half an ear. Until she picked up a copy of the Red
Rock Lantern and tapped at it with a long, glazed fingernail.

"This is really outrageous," she fumed.

She pointed out an article on the third page entitled "Are You One of the
Chosen?" and laid it before Loomis.

"It seems that Miss Morgan thinks that I'm a 'pretentious snob' -- I use her
words -- because I invite only a select sort of people to my social gatherings."

There was a time in his past, when he had been a struggling cowboy, that Loomis
would have agreed with Faye Morgan and would have said so with a few well-chosen
coarse epithets. But now the social atmosphere he moved in was stylish and full
of superficial posturing. In his struggle for dominion, over the years, he had
been forced to concede that such posturing was necessary when money and power
became ends in themselves. One's acquaintances and friends, on the high end,
eventually became one's enemies, greedy hypocrites hiding their true ambitions
-- as he hid his -- in a social charade -- sincerity something cultivated with
deceit. And one found that he was forced to play the game -- no matter how
tiresome and silly, or be crushed. For although he was powerful there were still
men more powerful than he, and if he wanted to rise above them -- which he
surely intended to do -- he could not afford to reveal his hand.

He realized that his daughter-in-law was indeed a pretentious snob, but as his
daughter-in-law she had become an important player in his legacy of power, and
he couldn't afford to alienate her. The children she and his son would give
birth to would create his dynasty, a dynasty that would never die and would keep
the name of its founder alive forever. It was the closest to immortality a man
could get.

It was ironic, he thought. He had spent his whole life achieving power only to
find out that in order to hang on to it he had to concede it to others.

He looked up from the paper and studied her face with eyes as keen as any
Apache's from his mountain top, and he found himself wondering how it was that
his son Patrick had not gotten her pregnant after two years of marriage. They
surely had to know, he reasoned, that he hadn't spent forty years building up
his empire just to give it back to a bunch of greasers and blanket Indians. He
made a mental note to bring the subject up the next time he saw Patrick. He
wasn't getting any younger, and he damn sure wanted to see grand kids on the
Rocking L before he cashed in his chips.

"I'll have Marshal Tibbs speak to her," Loomis said.

"That woman has to be taught her place," Mona said, with a sugary-sweet smile.
She leaned over to pour him another cup of coffee, and her ample breasts moved
provocatively beneath the soft fabric of her blouse. Cordel Loomis felt his cock
becoming stiff.

Chapter 7: The Ride Out

"My husband was a hard-rock miner," Abigail said over the breakfast table the
next morning in the hotel dinning room.

"He was killed setting a charge. After the funeral his fellow miners took up a
collection to tide me over. I decided to go back east, but when the stage
stopped here at Red Rock, I was offered the job of managing the hotel for the
owner, a Mr. Simms, who suffered from consumption and had to move to Glenwood
Springs to take the cure. When his health worsened, he sold the place to me, and
I've been here ever since -- about five years now."

She watched Green eat his eggs and bacon as she sipped her coffee. He didn't
scarf down his food like most men. He ate heartily but methodically. There
seemed always an air of calm calculation about him that she couldn't recall ever
having encountered in another person before and a distinct impression that he
was dangerous. He looked steadily at you when he talked and there was no
flinching in him. He was serious business. But despite the feeling of intense
concentration that he projected there were moments--when he was quiet and to
himself--that she sensed he wasn't really 'there', that his mind was far off,
that he wanted to be elsewhere. She couldn't define it consciously, but she felt
it.

		
	

Are you staying in Red Rock long?" she asked, as he poured himself a second cup
of coffee.

He looked at her thoughtfully, leaned back in his chair and began to roll a
cigarette.

"All depends. I wanta get me a homestead somewhere and raise cattle. Just
haven't found the right spot yet. But I'll know it when I see it."

"Maybe you'll find something around Red Rock. There's plenty of free land to the
east -- valleys full of grass and water."

"Well . . . I intend to ride out today and look around. Never can tell; might
just find what I'm after." He smiled, but his eyes were like ice.

* * *

As Green stepped out on the covered walkway of the hotel he was wearing a serape
and carrying his carbine in its scabbard, canteen and saddlebags and two colts
girded around his lean waist.

A storm was building in the west. Black clouds covered the horizon. Faint sounds
of thunder reached his ears. Lightning flashed in the distance. It wasn't a good
day to be packing so much iron on one's person, but he didn't have much choice.
He had business to take care of, and he didn't want to put it off for another
day.

As he approached the livery, he saw the liveryman finishing hitching a team of
horses to the manure wagon, which he had covered with a sheet of canvas. A
double-barreled shotgun rested on the seat.

"Nice day for a ride," the liveryman grinned, taking his curved pipe from his
mouth for a moment to spit on the ground.

"It may hold off for awhile," Green said. "There's a good cross breeze between
us and the storm. I'll be back later tonight."

"Good enough. Got him all shoed up for yuh. We'll settle up whenever. No hurry."

Green drew out a smoke while he waited for the liveryman to get his horse. Then
fixed his gear to the saddle and mounted up.

"He wasn't a bit shy about going in the stall. Must've been a white man's horse
before the Apaches got hold of him."

Green nodded, flipped the reins and cantered off down the street to the east.

As soon as he was far enough out to be unseen from town, he turned off the road
and moved up into hill country and circled around behind a boulder out of sight
and waited.

Soon the liveryman passed by on the wagon, the shotgun lying across his lap.
Green waited ten minutes until he was out of sight and followed.

Hours later, toward noon, the storm finally caught up to them. Rain began to
fall, and the wind picked up. Green pulled his hat down more snugly on his head.
The tight weave of the wool serape made it waterproof. Thick drops plummeted
onto the dry, desert floor making miniature craters; dry sage brush and grass
crackled from the sudden onrush of moisture. The air smelled of damp earth. A
lone magpie -- it long tail streaming out behind it and its white wing patches
flashing -- raced across the sky before the storm. Thunder grew loud and flashes
of lightning came closer.

As Green came to a rise he saw the liveryman pulling up in front of a log cabin,
and scurry down off the wagon onto the cabin's porch as a woman came out to
greet him.

Green sought shelter among some boulders where he could keep an eye out on the
cabin and waited, grateful that he didn't have to be out in the open as
lightning struck nearby with a loud report.

* * *

A few hours later the storm let up long enough for the liveryman to shovel off
the muck into a compost heap a few hundred feet back of the cabin. Green watched
as he headed the work wagon back toward town. The rain had turned the desert to
mud, but the wagon being empty proceeded easily. When the liveryman was out of
sight, Green mounted up and rode down to the cabin. The woman must have seen him
coming, for she stepped out onto the porch cradling a double-barreled shotgun.

She was attractive, well-shaped in her gray, flannel dress, with dark-brown hair
pulled back in a bun. The eyes that observed him were brown and intelligent.

"What can I do for you, mister?" she asked.

"Name's Green. John Green. Are you Susan Holbarth?"

She nodded. Her grip tightened around the stock of the shotgun.

"A man I met in Las Cruses said you were having trouble with a rancher who
wanted to drive you off your land."

Susan Holbarth didn't say anything. But her expression became wary. Her brown
eyes bore into him.

"And just who was this man you talked to?" she finally asked.

"A former hand of yours by the name of Ike Walters."

Her eyes didn't stray from his for an instant.

"Yes, Ike worked for me awhile back. What did he have to say?"

Green crossed his hands on the pommel and began flicking the ends of his reins
casually.

"Well . . . we were playing a few hands of poker -- he'd had a lot to drink --
and he began talking about how a man could make some quick, easy money if he had
a mind to. Now I've lived long enough to know there's no such thing as quick and
easy getting together with money as a rule, but being a person with some time on
his hands I thought I'd drop by just on the off chance he was telling it
straight."

"He's a damn fool for talking about it." She relaxed her posture. A shrewd look
replaced her former wariness. "But I'm probably a bigger fool for thinking he
was man enough for the job."

She seemed to mull something over and shrugged.

"What the hell; why don't you light down off your horse and come inside for some
coffee."

Green tossed his wet serape on a log bench by the door.

The furnishings of the cabin were mostly utilitarian. To the right was a
fireplace in front of which was a crudely made table and two chairs and two
boxes set on ends for chairs. The smell of stew cooking came from a Dutch oven
hanging in the fireplace over a bank of glowing embers. One quarter of the cabin
had been blanketed off to make a bedroom. A clay floor was covered with canvas.
In the corner by the fireplace was a makeshift cupboard of planks for storing
supplies.

She nodded for him to sit down. Holding on to the shotgun with one hand, she
placed a tin cup in front of him and filled it with coffee then filled one for
herself. Outside the rain began to fall softly again. She sat down in the other
chair across from him and cradled the shotgun across her lap.

She studied Green cautiously and sighed, brushing back a loose strand of hair
from her forehead. Her voice was tinged with bitterness as she spoke.

"Cordel Loomis owns all the land around here except for my place and about forty
other homesteads and small ranches tucked in this valley -- and he wants all of
them. As soon as someone gets title to their land he comes in at the point of a
pistol and forces the landowner to give him the title or get a bullet through
the heart. And he means business. A few have resisted, and they're all lying in
Sandhill Cemetery at Red Rock."

"What about you? You haven't sold out?"

"I'm a fighter. I'll never sell out to that arrogant bastard, but the rest are
like sheep. I've tried to organize them. Together we could resist Loomis, if
they weren't all a pack of cowards. Afraid to stand up for what's theirs . . .
but, much as I hate to say it, by myself I'm helpless. He's given me an
ultimatum and it's only a matter of time until he shows up again on my doorstep
demanding that I leave. I can't fight him alone . . . but . . ."

"But?" Green prompted.

Susan Holbarth lowered her eyelids, raising them slowly.

"If you cut off the head of the dragon the body dies too." Her brown eyes were
hard and cold, determined.

"In fairy tales some dragons have more than one head."

"That would be Patrick, his son," she answered. "But rumor has it that he
doesn't have his father's ambition. He just returned from the east with his
wife. So I don't know much about him, but I'll take my chances with him over his
father -- nobody could be a bigger bastard than he is."

Green crossed his legs and began making a cigarette.

"Ike mentioned a thousand dollars."

There was a long pause while he filled the paper with tobacco, rolled it and
licked it. When he was done he struck a match on the underside of the table and
calmly lit the cigarette, shook the match out and tossed it in the fireplace.

"When the jobs done," she replied.

Green chuckled softly.

"Well, now, I don't plan on hanging around after it's done."

"I can't give you that much money upfront."

Green was about to reply when the sound of horses sloshing through the mud could
be heard approaching.

"Wait here," she said, and carrying the shotgun moved to the door.

It was Cordel Loomis and half a dozen of his men. All of them were wearing
yellow slickers, their wide-brimmed hats wet, and slouched from the rain. Susan
recognized the only three Mexicans in the bunch as the ones who constituted
Loomis' personal bodyguards: Jorge Mendoza, Luis Amundo and the young pistolero
called Chili. They had a reputation as 'los malos, the evil ones', and Susan has
no desire to find out if they deserved their reputation.

Cordel was sitting a sleek, black stallion. His blue eyes took in the pinto tied
to a porch post; he glared at her. His long, white hair dripped water.

"You been thinking over my offer, Susan?" He wiped his hand across his face.

"Why, I don't remember any offer, Cordel. Unless you mean telling somebody to
get off her property is an 'offer'."

Cordel cast aside a snide grin at a couple of his men.

"That's the best offer you're gonna get, little lady. This is my land by rights,
by God! I ain't about to let you damn sodbusters march in here after all the
fightin', killin' and dyin' is done and take over what I spent forty years
building up!"

"You don't own the Earth, Loomis. Other people have a right to their fair share,
too."

"Bull crap! This land belongs to whoever can take it and hold it, and that, by
God, is me!"

Loomis took his hat off in exasperation and slapped it against his thigh causing
his horse to start. He cursed softly and ran his fingers vigorously through his
mane of white hair and settled the hat back on his head.

"I've been hearing that you're buying up homesteads that have received their
titles. That's a dangerous game you're playing, little lady. No way in hell you
want to get between me and what I want; if you do you can be damn sure you're
gonna get hurt -- bad. Now I'm gonna make one offer to you, and this is gonna be
it. If you were a man I'd have shot you by now and been done with it, but I
figure you being a woman I'll cut you some slack -- if you get the hell out'a
here by nightfall."

"And if I don't?"

Loomis chuckled.

"Then the same thing that happened to that fool husband of yours might happen to
you." He shrugged his shoulders and pouted as if to say, 'who knows?'

"Be a real waste, too," he continued, ". . . an attractive woman like yourself."
He glanced openly at her breasts.

"You bastard!" she cried and started to raise the barrel of the shotgun.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," a calm voice said.

Startled, Susan glanced back over her shoulder. The man who called himself John
Green was standing in the doorway. His pistols were out and aimed at the young
Mexican, Chili, who had been reaching under his slicker for his pistol.

A look of surprise crossed the young Mexican's face; his hand moved up and away
from his pistol.

"Who the fuck are you?" Loomis demanded.

"He's my . . . new foreman," Susan answered falteringly.

Loomis stared at the stranger as if thinking things out.

"Bit late in the season to be taking on a new foreman, isn't it?"

"That's none of your concern," she answered.

Loomis sucked audibly on his teeth, his eyes never leaving the stranger and the
unwavering cocked pistols in his hands.

"Wha'cha name?" Loomis asked.

"John Green."

"Well, Mr. Green, you're job as foreman is gonna be short-lived cause Mrs.
Holbarth is packing up and moving out, and if you're smart you'll get on that
Indian pony and hightail it out'a here before you thoroughly piss me off. Cause
all I have to do is nod my head and -- boy howdy -- you're history."

"If that's the case, then," Green responded, "I wouldn't nod my head. I might
take you along for company and that greaser sittin' next to you."

"Cho! In my pants I fuckeen sheet," Chili cried out disdainfully, but he was
careful to keep his hand clear of his weapon.

"OK, have it your way, Susan," Loomis said hotly. "I've given you fair warning.
I'll be back, and you'd better be ready to sign over this miserable scrap of
nothing and get!"

Saying his piece, Loomis glared at Green one last time, jerked the stallion's
head around and spurred him into a gallop. His men followed in his wet wake,
soggy clumps of mud flying up from the hooves of their horses.

Green deftly rolled his pistols forward around his index fingers and flipped
them up into the palms of his hands so that the butts were facing forward as he
slid them neatly into his holsters.

"I'll give you two-fifty upfront," Susan said.

"Five hundred," Green replied.

"Done."

Chapter 8: The Marshall Visits Abigail

Marshall Harry Tibbs woke up that morning with a slight whiskey head. He could
hear the rain splattering off the roof and thick sides of the mud red adobe
jail, see it pelting at the blurred, barred windows. His dry mouth felt grainy
with sand. Reluctantly he sat up on the side of the narrow bunk bed across from
his office desk, his large bare feet feeling the cool of the wood floor. He ran
his fingers through his thinning hair and wiped at his thick, black, walrus
mustache. Yawning, he walked to the rear door, opened it and pulled out his
large, erect cock from the slit in his underpants and pissed into the rain.
Going back to his desk he took out a bottle of whiskey from the top drawer,
uncorked it and downed several deep swallows.

It put things right. Soon his head began to clear.

He shaved at the wall mirror behind his desk and got dressed in the same clothes
he had worn yesterday, the same he'd worn all week, in fact.

He checked his vest pocket watch, saw that it was still early on, so, after
strapping on his pistol and throwing on his slicker, he went across the street
to the cantina and had Elena fix him breakfast. His business with Abigail --
five-hundred dollars worth -- could wait awhile longer, weren't no rush.

An hour later, hunched against the rain, he strode past the Red Rock Lantern.
Through the front window he could see Faye Morgan bent over her desk discussing
something with her printer, Pete Miller, a bald, tall, thin man with wire-rimmed
bifocals.

He nodded up at a rifleman perched on top of Doc Greely's second floor office as
he stepped up onto the porch of the hotel.

Inside it was quiet, except for the steady cascade of rain drumming down on the
roof. Since the Indian attacks against the stage line there hadn't been any
travelers staying at the hotel. The dining room was empty. Plates and cups were
neatly placed upside down around the table for the few locals who came in for
meals. But today no one was around, no sounds of pots being scrapped or pans
banged; no smell of cooking food wafting through the kitchen door that opened
onto the dining room. The rooms were gloomy and depressing in the pale
fluorescent light coming through the windows.

Softly, behind the curtained doorway to the side of the reception desk, Tibbs
heard a woman humming. On the desk he saw a pearl-handled .38 and wondered at
such carelessness. What if he were an Indian?

Quietly, walking to the doorway he pulled the curtain partially aside. Abigail
was seated in a highback tub taking a bath in the center of the room. She was
facing him; he stared openly at her firm, round breasts. He had to give it to
her; most women would have panicked and raised their hands to cover themselves
-- either with genuine or faked modesty, but Abigail Crane was a self-possessed
woman -- always had been as far back as he had known her. She merely returned
his hungry stare quietly, the only indication of unease a slight widening of her
brown eyes.

"You don't believe in announcing yourself, marshal?"

Her right hand held a soapy sponge.

Tibbs grunted. "If I did that I might miss something worth seeing."

"Well, now that you've seen 'it' why don't you leave?"

Tibbs stepped forward and let the curtain fall. His wet slicker dripped on the
clay floor.

A wood-burning stove sat to his right; a faded oak armoire to his immediate
left, that reached almost to the ceiling, and a brass bed farther to the back,
stuck in the corner.

The scent of lavender filled the air.

"Can't," he said. "I'm here on official business."

Abigail gave him a derisive smile.

"And what business might that be?" she asked, taking up a towel off a nearby
chair and covering herself.

"Concerns that guest of yours, John Green."

"What about Mister Green?"

"I want to know who he is."

"Why?"

"Cause I think he's wanted"

"For what?"

"Murder. Maybe several."

"I don't see that it has anything to do with me, marshal."

Tibbs' eyes focused on the towel wet against her breasts; he could feel his cock
becoming hard.

"All you have to do is find out who he really is," he said ignoring her refusal.

"And just how do you expect me to do that -- not that I would?"

Tibbs smirked.

"I know you got close to him. I saw you through the upstairs window last night."

He saw her cheeks reddened and her eyes flash.

"I'm not on your payroll, Tibbs. Do your own dirty work."

"That's no way to talk, Abby," Tibbs mocked. "Especially not for a widow woman
all on her own. All you've got is what the town of Red Rock gives you, and
Mister Loomis owns Red Rock. And he don't like strangers hanging about. All I
have to do is tell him you're not being cooperative and you'll be on the
street."

"Go to hell, Tibbs!" she answered.

"Aw, now you're being foolish."

She watched, suddenly apprehensive, as his thick fingers began to unclasp the
ladder catches of his slicker.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" she asked, as he took the slicker off
and tossed it aside.

He ignored her and took off his vest and pulled his shirt over his shoulders
casting both aside. His thick chest and swollen stomach were covered with coarse
black hairs, even his shoulders.

She watched his thick pistol hand fumble with the buckle of his cartridge belt
then with the buttons of his pants.

"No, damn you!" she gasped.

He untied the drawstring of his drawers and let them drop to the floor. His huge
cock swung up slowly jerking with tiny spasms as it grew harder and harder. A
long, clear strand of cock fluid dripped from the swollen, purple head.

His legs were thick and muscular and covered with a coat of coarse hair like the
rest of his body. He kicked his feet free of his pants which caused his cock to
swing heavily from side to side.

He stepped to the tub and yanked the towel from her and stared down, letting his
eyes devour her naked flesh. She turned her head away, but he stuck his index
finger into her mouth against the inside of her cheek while pinching the outside
of her cheek with his thumb. He pulled her face around until it was level with
his cock.

Her eyes stayed riveted to the massive organ; trembling, she glanced upward
toward his face. She mumbled something indistinguishable as saliva dripped from
the side of her mouth.

"No sense in fighting it, Abby; you might even find you'll like it."

She squealed and tried to pull away from him, but his thumb and index finger
held her cheek as if clamped in a vice.

"Never had me anything but whores before. Mostly Mex whores. Always wondered
what it would be like to fuck a decent woman. Now I aim to find out. Course
after last night, you and that Green feller, maybe you've been a whore all
along, and I just didn't know it. Huh?"

He yanked her cheek. Her foot splashed in the water.

"Or maybe you're sweet on him for some reason. Maybe you ain't been puttin' out
till now. Could be. But it don't matter. Cause after you get a taste of this --"
he rubbed his cock against her face, "-- you're gonna forget all about anyone
else."

		     	 	

He let go of her.

"OK?" He made a fist.

She nodded.

"Don't bite -- cause I'll hurt you really bad if you do."

The head of his cock slid between her lips filling her mouth.

"Aw, yeah, that's right. Easy . . . easy . . . nice . . . aaaand . . .
eeeeassssy. Ah, yeah, that's got it. You've done this before, haven't you? Be
nice," he chuckled softly.

He pushed the head forward into the warm wetness of her until he felt it lodge
against the back of her throat. He pulled his hips back. Rhythmically he fucked
her back and forth until his cock had swollen to its full hardness. Her mouth
could barely take it in . . . .

The tip of her tongue prodded his pee hole sending tiny electric shocks up and
down his spine causing his legs to quiver like a stallion before it covers a
mare. The quicker she made him cum the quicker it would be over. She laved her
tongue around its circumference slipping the tip under the foreskin pushing it
back past the flange, pulling it back up over the swollen head and gripping the
lip of foreskin stretching it taut, pushing it back down over the head,
repeating the process over and over in rapid succession. She took the base of
his cock in her hand and began running her tongue up and down the undersides
popping the head into her mouth while twisting her hand wrench-like around the
base then jacking it back and forth rapidly. She could taste ejaculatory fluid
in tiny pre-cum squirts across the surface of her tongue, and she knew he was
ready.

The thought of swallowing his cum nauseated her, but she doubted she would have
any other choice.

Soon it would be over.

She thought about taking his cock out of her mouth and jacking him off. Better a
face full of cum than a belly full, but he ended that hope by grabbing the back
of her head in his thick paws ramming his cock deep into her throat causing her
to gag violently. His warm cum shot down her throat. Pulse after pulse. She had
to swallow to keep from gagging further. His cock was all the way down her
throat. Her nose was bent against his hairy belly.

She was going to be sick.

He withdrew his cock, slippery with cum and wiped it off in her hair.

At least it was over, she thought.

But it wasn't; not by a long shot.

He suddenly picked her up and tossed her wet and naked onto the bed.

He spread her legs, before she could gather her thoughts, and positioned himself
between them. He forced his cock into her; she resisted. Her soft, small hands
beat futilely at his massive chest. Her cries only made him laugh.

"You'll learn to like it, Abby," he whispered hoarsely in her ear.

His tongue found her lips and forced its way into her mouth. He smelled and
tasted of whiskey.

Did he honestly think she would ever let him touch her again after this?

Never! Never!

He worked his cum-slick cock back and forth, each time delving deeper inside
her. She felt as if she were being ripped apart. She struggled, but he grabbed
her wrists and held them over her head with one hand while he kneaded her
breasts with the other.

His mouth found her nipples and sucked and bit harshly at them until they became
taut and swollen. Despite her disgust, her body responded to his coarse probing.
Tingling sensations prickled her flesh.

It waited for his crude touch.

She arched her back as he entered her. She murmured slight protests while her
hips moved to meet him. She became wet. He entered her fully, completely.

"No . . . no . . . no," she whimpered, her heart racing.

She tightened around him. Not once, not twice, but again and again until she was
moving frantically beneath him.

Everything suffused suddenly. Bright colors filled her mind, exploding within
her. Her body racked with sensations too intense to resist. She cried out
loudly, gasping, pleading. Unaware of all around her except for the concentrated
and overwhelming disorder of her senses.

After what seemed a long time, she was aware of Tibbs pulling out of her. A
sudden feeling of shame overwhelmed her. As if in a disjointed dream sequence
she was next aware of watching him dress, of him standing over her by the bed.

"Just remember," she heard him say, fully dressed now, adjusting his hat. "I
want to know who he is. Don't disappoint me. Cause you don't wanna do that."

When he was gone the room seemed darker, seemed to close in upon her: a naked
woman alone.

Chapter 9: The Money Shot

Susan Holbarth lay on her side naked on the crude feather bed next to Green. Her
work-hardened palms played over his hard-muscled chest tanned to a chestnut
brown. She stroked the rock hard abs with the tips of her fingers down to the
tuff of wiry hair at the base of his semi-erect cock.

She had never been fucked by a man who had made her cum so hard, and not just
once but three times in the space of two hours. Her late husband, Jim, had made
her cum occasionally -- but mostly through her own efforts and imaginings rather
than through any effort on his part. He had been a good provider, a decent man,
as far as things went -- however, a lousy lover. But there was nothing lousy
about the way Green had fucked her. He had taken her like a savage, holding
nothing back. He had been hard and brutal, demanding, bringing the animal in her
out, a side she hadn't known existed. It had been wild and exciting, terrifying.
She had cumed like crazy. She studied his face. It held a lethal, unknown
quality. He was dangerous. She sensed that immediately when she first laid eyes
on him. But for a woman like herself that was exciting. Most men were dullards.
And that was all right, she guessed. They had to be to get the ordinary,
day-by-day affairs of living solved, but it was nice that there were still men
about who could makes a woman's blood boil, who could fulfill her secret
longings -- even if only for a moment. And that's all it could be, for a man
like Green could never be claimed by any one woman. It would be like putting a
wild animal in a cage. You would destroy it. She was certain that he belonged to
no one and nothing. And never would. A lone wolf -- and they never hang around
long . . . .

"After round-up Loomis always treats his men to some entertainment," Susan said
quietly, stroking Green's chest.

"He has some whores brought in from Sackville. There's always a wagon and armed
guards. The wagon's used to load up all the hungover cowboys the next morning
and bring them back to the ranch. They go by the stage road. Loomis stays at the
ranch with a skeleton crew and has his special whores brought in. That's when
he's most alone and vulnerable, but, even so, he always has at least a dozen men
hanging around for protection. It'll be next to impossible to get close to him .
. . ." Susan droned on, but Green only half listened. Green lay on his back
staring at the ceiling listening as much for the soft sound of her voice as for
what she was saying.

Then his mind slipped back in time.

His father was lining up tin cans on a fence rail forty feet off . . . .

"Remember, son, always shoot from the hip. Takes too long to sight down the
barrel. Instinct is always a surer shot. Point with the barrel as if it were
your finger and aim with your eyes. Look directly at what you intend to shoot
and the barrel of your gun will automatically follow."

He handed the boy the light .22 revolver.

"OK. See if you can hit the first can on the right."

The small boy took a deep breath and held it. Looked hard at the can his father
had indicated. He brought the gun to bear without glancing at it and fired.

The sharp crack of the pistol echoed over the countryside, but nothing happened.
The can remained sitting on the fence rail undisturbed.

A crow complained from a nearby tree and took flight, cawing until it became a
tiny dot in the distance and disappeared.

What had gone wrong? He had done just like his father had told him, but he had
missed. Three weeks and he still couldn't hit anything -- except occasionally by
luck. He was beginning to think he was a failure.

"Well, what are you waiting for? Try again," his father said, in that calm voice
he always used. He had never heard his father raise his voice in anger.

He tried again and missed.

He tried again for half an hour with little result. His small shoulders slumped
in defeat.

"Don't let it get you down, son. Nothing worthwhile comes easily."

"But I'll bet it didn't take you this long to learn," the boy said, on the verge
of tears, feeling worthless.

"Took him lots longer," a voice said from behind. "Course he wasn't the pick of
the the litter either."

The voice of the stranger belonged, Johnny learned shortly, to his Uncle Henry
who had come to visit from up north and see his nephew whom he had not met
before.

The father grinned slyly.

He took his forty-five out and suddenly in a loud burst of fire all the cans on
the fence rail sailed off into the tall meadow grass beyond. It happened in an
instant, faster than the eye could follow, and the ears heard only the sound of
one shot that had been six.

They walked back to their house, farther up the meadow, where his mother was
waiting with supper.

Later that evening the boy asked his Uncle Henry if he could shoot like that
too.

"Shit, can't nobody shoot like that but your daddy."

* * *

Susan put her hand around the base of his softened cock and massaged it slowly
up and down. She bent over and nibbled the foreskin between her lips, pulling
gently, easing it down over the head. She took more of the cock in her mouth,
pulling, stretching it, pausing to relax the tension. She could feel the cock
becoming hard again, feel the inner core stiffen while the silky, outer layer of
skin moved over it.

Soon she would have his hard cock in her again. The thought made her heart beat
quicker, her breathing more shallow, more labored.

As his cock swelled into an erection, she gripped the base of it in her hand
holding the head in her mouth tightly and began bobbing up and down, slow at
first then faster. Saliva flowed from the corners of her mouth down the length
of his cock. She took increasingly more of it into her mouth, jacking at the
base of it until it was fully hard. Straddling him she placed the wet head of
his cock at the entrance of her cunt and pushed downward.

She was fully aroused and wet. The thick shaft of his cock slid into her easily.
She took half of it and paused as a sudden climax shook her. Her body dropped,
his cock fully impaling her as she writhed helplessly on top of him. As soon as
the first climax was over another even more powerful one built within her. She
gasped out loud and slapped the palms of her hands against his chest, crying out
and moaning. She thought she would die, the sensations were overpowering.

His hands slapped against her asscheeks, his fingers dug into the soft, smooth
skin, gripping her to him, holding her cunt down on the thick base of his cock,
his testicles like two large stones between her thighs.

One of his hands moved up the arched curve of her back and grabbed her by the
nape of the neck and forced her head down until her mouth was joined to his in a
hot, wet kiss. She came a second time as his tongue slid into her mouth. His
hand wrung a handful of hair and wrought her head from side to side as he ground
his mouth against hers, reaming his tongue into her mouth, and ramming his cock
into her cunt, as if he wanted to penetrate not only her body but her very soul.

Her body shook uncontrollably as a series of quick climaxes coursed through her.
She was powerless to move or think. She had become only sensation without will
-- a leaf swirling down a stream.

He rolled her over suddenly onto her back, while he remained in her, and assumed
the top position. Like someone crazed he worked his cock in and out of her
rapidly, his hard belly smacking against the firm softness of hers. Her tits
jiggled with the force of his thrusts, her body limp, her head lolling, her eyes
wide, unseeing, as another overwhelming cum shook her.

She saw his hard-muscled body tense, his back arch, his face grimace; his
clenched teeth were almost phosphorous in the gloom of the cabin. He pulled out
of her with an audible sucking sound and grabbed his cock whacking it back and
forth until spurts of milky cum shot out onto her belly, her tits and her face.

Breathing heavily, beads of sweat on his tanned forehead, he squeezed out the
last drops on her cunt hairs where they lay like bubbles of pearl. Moving from
between her legs, he turned her over onto her belly and spread her legs again.
He positioned himself back between her thighs. She knew what he intended to do.
No man had ever taken her that way before. She was sure it would hurt, but she
didn't care. She was so aroused that even the thought of pain became exciting.

She tensed as the wet head of his cock touched the taut, rubbery hole of her
ass. She felt it press, felt the extension of the sphincter muscle, felt the
entering slide of his large cock, felt the swollen head as it spread her wider
and wider.

The pain cut into her like a knife but, after a moment, dissipated into warm,
radiant sensations of pleasure that tingled and spread throughout her body. The
warm palm of his hand slid under her belly and moved down to her cunt. While his
cock moved slowly in and out of her ass, his hand stroked the flue of her cunt,
his first two fingers sinking deeply into the hole, moving up to tweak her
engorged clit.

The sensation of his hand working her cunt while his cock plumbed the depths of
her ass was like nothing she had ever experienced before. Her whole being reeled
within vibrant flesh consumed with delicious waves of unrelenting ecstasy. She
beat her hands against the feather mattress, her wet mouth gave muffled sighs
against the pillow, her teeth bit into her full lower lip.

He moved faster and harder, his hard belly slapping against the firm, round
cheeks of her ass. Her whole body jerked forward rapidly with each powerful
thrust,sinking back as he withdrew from her, like a piston over and over again.
The sheet became wet beneath her jiggling flesh.

Suddenly, he was cuming -- the hard and fast beat of flesh against flesh. With a
cry sounding almost like anguish, he collapsed on top of her.

They lay still for a long time, their wet mouths almost touching, their breath
hot and quick.

Chapter 10: Target Practice

In the steady downpour, Bear Claw saw the two stray beeves near the flooded
arroyo. His heart lightened. There would soon be food for the members of his
small tribe and plenty of pussy for his cleverness -- an Apache never does
anything for another without an ulterior motive. The squaws would stroke his
lean, young body with their soft, brown hands and make him shoot enough juice to
fill a gourd. They would no longer think of him as a child, ish-kay-nay, but as
Bear Claw, the provider, un hombre muy listo. For among his people it is
cleverness, listeza -- not bravery -- which is valued. A warrior may be honored,
but it is the clever man who is esteemed. A man who acted strictly out of noble
purpose was considered a fool and would be laughed at. A selfish motive must be
at the heart of every action or there would be no respect.

Stealing cattle was dangerous, especially the cattle of the white rancher,
Cordel Loomis. If he, Bear Claw, were caught on Loomis land he would be gutted
alive and hanged, and it wouldn't matter if he were stealing cattle or not, he
would be killed simply for being an Indian. It was also known among the Apaches
that Loomis had a standing offer of a bounty of thirty dollars for every Indian
scalp brought to him, but Bear Claw was young and saw only the two beeves before
him and the vast, empty plains and low-lying hills and the envisioned glory that
awaited him. The risks of being caught seemed small in his eagerness.

He was wearing only a loincloth and moccasin boots with the handle of a knife
sticking out and seemed as impervious to the rain as the two beeves. He held a
rifle in a buckskin sheath across his saddle-horn and a cartridge bandoleer over
his shoulder. A red headband held his long, black hair away from his eyes which
were as dark as a cougar's lair. A leather quirt hung from his right wrist.

He circled around behind the two cows and began herding them toward a purple
range of mountains in the distance.

Youth, inexperience and the pounding of the rain kept him unaware of the
approach of riders just beyond a low-lying hill.

* * *

Loomis was still smarting from his encounter with the Holbarth woman and her
'champion' when he and his men galloped to the top of the slight hill. Suddenly,
he raised his hand, reining his men in.

"Well, I'll be Goddamn! Lookee here what we got. A fuckin' redskin stealin' some
of my Goddamn beef!"

Rain dribbled from the brim of his hat as he unsheathed his rifle.

"Let's have a little target practice, boys."

The first shots were kicking up wet sand before Bear Claw heard the reports. A
sudden, sharp pain in his belly caused him to double over. Blood gushed from a
large wound.

Glancing up he saw horsemen galloping toward him yelling and whooping, firing
their weapons. Bullets whizzed all about him.

"I'll use his Goddamned tool bag for a purse!" Loomis shouted.

"He's doubled-up; we've got his stinkin', red ass!" one of the men called out.

Bear Claw struck the quirt on the mustang's flank, causing it to leap forward
into a gallop, kicking up a wet spray of sand.

"We're losing the son-of-a-bitch!" Loomis cried.

And it was true. They had been galloping their mounts since leaving Holbarth's.
The Indian's pony was fresh and feisty. Soon it left them in the distance.

They pulled up and fired a few more volleys at the disappearing image of the
Indian; laughing, they headed back the way they had been going.

* * *

With five hundred in gold in his pocket, John Green ambled his horse back toward
Red Rock. His wide-brimmed hat and the tightly-woven serape protected him from
the rain. Beyond the gentle hills and flat plains before him, a chain of purple
mountains hid their snow-covered peaks in a bank of gray clouds. A magpie, with
its long, black tail streaming out behind it, flew overhead, calling out in a
rapid cheg-cheg that became a fading dirge. Mist hung in the lower places like
gray veils; mounds of sage veered in every direction around him; sand-covered
buttes and rocky crags, in a rainbow of colors, hid ravines, winding down from
the higher reaches, bordered by mesquite and juniper growing higher up even
still.

As he topped a rise, he could see the stage road about a half a mile off. But as
he started down the slope past an overhang of rock something caught his
attention out of the corner of his eye. A slight movement, a glimpse of red.

Drawing a pistol, he dismounted, looping his reins around a yucca stalk, and
crept cautiously toward the spot under the overhang where he had seen the
movement.

Rain splattered loudly on the selves of rocks leading up to the overhang, which
jutted out from the surrounding slope about ten feet and was high enough
underneath for a tall man to stand upright.

Curled up in a tight ball near the back of the ledge was an Indian. His hands
were pressed against his belly and blood had seeped out between the fingers onto
the rock.

Green saw a knife in one of his moccasin boots, but there didn't seem to be any
other weapons about.

"Quien es?" he said softly. The Indian remained still and silent, either dead or
unconscious, he figured, but he was taking no chances. He nudged the Indian with
the toe of his boot keeping his pistol cocked and ready. When he got no
response, he shoved against the shoulder flipping him onto his back. The Indian
gave a brief show of life, a faint grimace and a flash of white teeth. The eyes
opened for a moment , but they were feverish and unfocussed. Green took away the
knife before he might reach for it.

				 		

							

He stretched the Indian out on his back and examined the wound. He was gut shot.
Green could see part of the gut protruding. He figured the Indian had a
day--maybe two--before he died. And it would be a painful death.

He could do nothing but try to make him as comfortable as possible. He took off
his serape and taking the Indian's bandana soaked it in the rain and cleaned as
much of the blood off of him as he could; he staunched the wound with it and
wrapped his serape around him for warmth. He gathered up a bundle of desert
grass and placed it under him for bedding and pillow. With some dead yucca
stalks, sage and snake wood, he made a small fire.

He went to check on his horse and put the Indian's knife in the saddle bag. As
he turned to go back to the ledge, he saw a buggy, with a yellow, canvas hood,
heading at a walk toward Red Rock on the stage road. Green recalled the
yellow-topped buggy in the alleyway below the doctor's office.

Quickly, he mounted up and galloped down the slope to intercept it.

As he drew near he could see a man beneath the hood, lying down in the seat on
his back with his legs drawn up, feet cocked against the arm rest.

He seemed oblivious to everything as Green reached out to lay hold of the reins
of his horse and bring the buggy to a halt.

Green could hear the man snoring loudly as he dismounted and jerked at the cuff
of his trousers.

He looked to be in his early sixties: wire-rimmed glasses and a gray, untrimmed
mustache under a full, unkempt head of hair with white sideburns. Underneath an
unbuttoned slicker he had on a rumpled gray suit with vest; a silver watch chain
hung from a button hole. The black shoes were muddy, but the uppers still show
signs of a high gloss.

"What the hell --" the man muttered groggily, as he sat up slowly, taking off
his glasses to rub his face with his hands.

"If you're planning on robbing me you sure as hell picked the wrong person," he
said squinting up at Green.

"No," Green replied. "You the Doc?"

"Doctor Greely," the gray headed man answered, nodding.

"I've got an Indian gut-shot up in the rocks. I don't guess there's much anyone
can do for him, but I thought maybe you could take a look."

He cast a tired glance up the slope Green had come down. His eyes were red
veined as if he hadn't slept for days.

"Indian? Gut shot?" He shook his head and rubbed his face some more. Then . . .
"Ah, what the hell . . . Might as well take a look -- since I'm already awake,
maybe give him something for the pain."

He sighed and got out of the buggy, his feet sinking into the mud, and hobbled
his horse.

"I have to follow you up on foot, too rough for a buggy."

He took a hat and a black, leather bag out from underneath the seat and followed
as Green led him up to the ledge.

He spent some time examining the Indian for vital signs; after he was through he
asked Green to bring him some prickly pear from higher up the slope.

When Green returned, the doctor burned off the stickers in the fire, cut a pad
in half and coated it with jelly.

"This is an Apache remedy," he explained. They use buffalo grease, but this
oughta work; he'll never know the difference."

He placed the prickly pear on the open wound and wrapped it with cotton bandage.

"Will it do any good?" Green asked.

The doctor shrugged.

"Who knows. The Indians claim it works; I've known it to work. Something in the
juice that keeps a wound from festering, I expect. They're a wise and hardy
race. If anyone can recover from such a wound it'll be an Apache."

Night came and the rain continued to fall.

Green and the doctor sat with their backs against the rear of the ledge, in the
flickering light of the fire, drinking from a bottle of whiskey the doctor had
in his medicine bag and smoking cigarettes.

"Just a boy," the doctor said. Probably trying to rustle some beef and got
caught."

He lowered his head and ran the fingers of his hand through his hair, his
wire-rimmed glasses glinting in the firelight.

He glanced at Green, drew some smoke into his lungs and blew it out.

"How is it that you stopped to help an Indian?"

"Don't know to tell you the truth," Green replied. "I don't make it a habit. My
father used to tell me most men weren't worth a damn, and I've lived by that
most of my life."

The doctor nodded thoughtfully.

"I've been a doctor for almost forty years, and I've met all kinds of people.
Some good, some bad. But, good or bad, they're just pathetic bastards trying to
figure out why God is always punishing them or their children with this or that
hideous infirmity. And I've spent my life trying to save the poor bastards -- I
no longer kid myself, though. It's a losing battle. But if there's one thing
I've learned it's that you can't give up on people. Sure, your daddy was right,
most people are guided by their own selfish concerns, and most haven't crawled
very far out of the mud from which God made them; but, eventually, if you lose
your faith in others you lose faith in yourself. You become a soulless bastard.
In time I've learned that just when you think it's all pointless, you sometimes
find something that'll restore your hope in the human race. What it was meant to
be. Not always but sometimes. If it wasn't for that, I don't think I would have
anything to hang onto. Someday we'll be better than we are. That's my faith."

Green took a swig and passed the bottle to the doctor. "Here, you'd better have
some more of this."

.

Later as dawn began to lighten the east, the doctor stood and stretched with the
palms of his hands pressed against the top of the rock ledge.

Well, I've done all I can here. I guess I'll be heading into town, if you plan
on sticking it out with him."

Green nodded.

"Shouldn't be long, but a word of cautious. If he wakes up he'll do his best to
kill you. The Apaches hate white men only a little less than they hate Mexicans.
And they have no word in their language for mercy. They're raised from childhood
not to trust anyone -- so be careful, Mister Green."

"Then we have something in common," Green said shaking the doctor's hand.

Before leaving the doctor gave him a small bottle.

"Give him a couple of nips of that if he's in pain. It'll help some."

Green watched the doctor down the slope until he was hid from view by boulders
and shrubs.

He had left the whiskey, so Green settled back and took another drink.

Chapter 11: The Discovery

Abigail took a key from her waistband and unlocked the door to John Green's
room. Dusk was falling, and he hadn't come back yet. She had debated whether or
not to search through his things, but she finally decided that she had no
choice. She had no money. The hotel was her only security. Without it she would
literally be on the street. Tibbs had her over a barrel, and he wasn't a man to
show mercy.

She went to the rain-streaked window and looked out. She would be able to see
him if he came back. She had a clear view of the livery.

His canvas bedroll lay on the foot of the bed. The catch rope had been left
untied so that all she had to do was unroll it.

Inside were two gray and black Navajo blankets of thick wool and a war-bag. She
pulled open the drawstring and emptied the contents onto the bed.

There was an assortment of items: a tin of salve; some tobacco; a small metal
coffee pot and cup; knife, fork and spoon; a small skillet; a small bag of
coffee; some beef jerky wrapped in cloth; a half bag of flour; a bag of beans; a
bag of pinon nuts; tooth brush and powder; and a razor and wet stone in a worn
leather case with a mirror of polished nickel inside the lid. An edge of paper
stuck out from the back of the mirror. She pulled on it and as it came out she
saw a faded photograph of a woman, in a full-skirted outfit, sitting in a lawn
chair, holding a small baby and a man, in a dark suit, standing next to her with
one hand on a finial of the chair back with the thumb of his other hand stuck in
the pocket of his vest. A star was pinned to the vest.

They were in a yard next to a tree, a mailbox by a road off to one side and part
of a new looking, white-framed house on the other side.

There was a name on the mailbox, very small and difficult to read.

* * *

When Loomis got back to his ranch he had his servants prepare his bath. After
this was done he stripped off his wet clothes and reclined in the brass tub for
an hour or more puffing on a cigar and sipping from a pint bottle of whiskey
while re-reading the article by Faye Morgan in the Red Rock Lantern. The more he
read the madder he became. These damn women! Who did they think they were!
Goddamn'em! He felt his cock becoming hard under the soapy water creating
libidinous images in his mind as he begin to contemplate what he would do to
them. He would teach them their proper place!

His hand found his cock and began to manipulate it. He envisioned their firm,
naked, young bodies writhing on the ground beneath him as he stomped his boots
into their soft flesh. Marking them with the imprint of his heels.

Oh, what he would love to do to them!

He thought of the squaws and mujeres he had raped and tortured as a young man
building his empire. Those sordid memories inflamed his flesh like an unclean
thirst that darkens one's veins and can never be subdued nor put off.

The head of his cock rose twitching above the surface of his bath water like the
prow of a sunken ship shuddering up from its watery grave. Loomis squeezed his
fist around the quaking shaft just below the swollen, red head where the
foreskin had slipped back. This was the progenitor of his dynasty, his
immortality. The fluid that seeped from its mouth would create living memorials
to his genius and keep his legacy alive.

But only if his offspring survived, and that was beginning to look doubtful now.
He couldn't afford to wait around on Patrick to sire children. He had to know
now, before he died, that there would be grandchildren to carry on for him --
and only one sure way existed to do that.

The thought made his cock pulse even harder.

He got out of his bath, dried quickly and slipped on a flashy, silk, Turkish
bathrobe that glinted with gold filigree and scimitars. He went to the head of
his bed and picked up a silver bell, ringing it.

After the servants had come and emptied the bath water and removed the tub,
Loomis told one of them to tell Conchita that he wanted to see her.

Several minutes later there was a faint knock at his bedroom door and a
withered-looking crone entered.

"You wanted to see me, senor?" the stooped, skinny, old woman whispered
hoarsely.

"Yes, Conchita," Loomis replied, stroking his chin. "I wanted to know if la
senora has had her evening chocolate yet?"

The old Mexican shook her head. "No, senor; mas tarde."

"Bueno," he said moving close to the old woman, staring into the dulled, gray
eyes, smiling, still stroking his chin thoughtfully.

"I want you to give la senora something special, something to make her sleep
soundly, very soundly, si? Un sedante muy fuerte."

A faint, knowing grin crinkled the parchment at the corner of her mouth. The
eyelids narrowed slowly, the ashen eyes becoming intent with a dusty
lasciviousness.

"Si. Eet I do, senor," she whispered, her eyes widening as she gave emphasis to
the word 'do'.

She nodded slightly and moved back out of the room with the hesitant, unsteady
gait of the ancient.

* * *

She made her way slowly down the tiled hallway until she came to the cocina.
Soon she was bringing milk to a boil on the stove and pouring boiling water into
a mix of cocoa, sugar and salt to make a paste; she poured in the scalded milk
and added several teaspoons of brandy, milling it for a couple of minutes. From
a small clay bottle she added several drops of a grayish liquid, and stirred
this into the mix.

Mona was brushing out her long black hair at a vanity when Conchita brought the
hot chocolate to her. Mona thanked her and had the old servant continue to brush
her hair while she sipped her drink. Inwardly, as she glanced into the mirror,
she shuddered to think that someday she would become as old and ugly as the
woman. That her firm, full body would become a withered sack of skin stretched
over a crumbling frame of rotting bones. That her beautiful white teeth would,
one day, fall out, one by one, until her mouth and cheeks caved into her face.
After that who would want her? What a horrible fate, she thought, awaits even
the best of us, the luckiest.

But she was young and did not pursue these morbid thoughts long. Instead she
sipped the warmth of the brandied chocolate into her body enjoying the luxurious
feel of the old servants hands stroking the brush through her hair. Outside,
through the open patio doors, she could hear the rain splattering on the tiles
of the inner court. The sound, with it constant rhythm, was soothing to listen
to, and soon she found herself nodding off.

She was vaguely aware of the old woman guiding her to bed, but she remembered
nothing more as her head touched the soft, scented pillow.

* * *

Loomis watched Conchita leave Mona's bedroom and cross the inner court, bent by
age and a desire to avoid facing into the rain. He stood at his patio door and
smoked. Waiting. The front of his robe had come open and his hard cock stood out
in front of him angled up forty-five degrees from his belly.

When he was sure enough time had passed he put his cigar out in the silver
ashtray on his desk and slipped out of the robe. Naked he walked out into the
rain of the inner court, enjoying the feel of the cool drops on his naked flesh,
the sensuous feel of the wet tiles beneath his bare feet. He was more alive than
he had been for a long time. He was as excited as he had been when he was young
and had the whole world before him. Like a voyager or explorer seeking new
worlds. Where no laws existed except what a man made for himself. Where he was
free to do anything he wanted that was within his strength to do -- and to hell
with the consequences. A long time had passed since he had experienced such a
feeling of omnipotence, and he savored it.

How he wondered had he managed to let himself become old -- not just old but
civilized too. Civilized behavior was for weaklings who didn't have balls enough
to take what they wanted. He couldn't let that happen to himself --not Cordel
Loomis. He must recapture his old fire. Be the man he used to be. Instead of
some dandified flop like the hanger-ons and social sycophants that spawned like
vermin in the upper reaches of western high society. Only a man deserves this
land. And, by God, he was a man still! Nobody was ever gonna say Cordel Loomis
died anything less.

When he entered Mona's bedroom his pulse was racing. His whole body was alive to
the slightest sensations. Tingles raced through his spine stiffening his cock to
the point of being painful.

Mona lay on the top of the covers in a sheer chemise, her face turned slightly
toward him in the yellow glow of a candle on a nightstand. Shadows played over
the outlines of her body caressing it as with phantom hands. He could see the
rise and fall of her breasts and make out the naked flesh beneath the thin
chemise, the full tits heavy against the thin fabric, the dark areolae and
nipples visible.

He stood unable to move for a moment staring down at her. His son's wife and
what he was going to do to her made him giddy with anticipation. The immorality
of it overwhelmed his senses with intense surges of excitement that so
overpowered him he almost fell to his knees. No noble action could ever reward
one with the same level of intensity.

Carefully he moved to the side of the bed and sat down. He reached out and moved
her head from side to side slowly. Her eyes remained closed, her face impassive.

He could do anything he wanted to her. Anything.

He parted her lips with his thumb and forefinger and with the tips pulled her
tongue out as far as he could. He stared at it, then let go.

It slipped slowly back into her mouth.

This is what it would be like with a dead woman, he thought, and the thought
excited him.

With trembling hands he untied the drawstring at the neck of the chemise and
pulled it down off her smooth white shoulders. He placed one hand behind her
back and lifted her slightly so that he could pull the top down uncovering her
breasts. As he lifted her, her head fell back baring the graceful curve of her
throat. Her thick, glossy hair brushed coolly against his forearm and shoulder
with the liquid silkiness of a soft caress that caused the head of his cock to
twitch against his rain wet belly.

He stared hungrily at the fully revealed tits. They were round and firm, taut.
He laid her back down and took one of the brown nipples between the tips of his
thumb and forefinger and rolled it as if it were putty to be shaped. Soon he
could feel it harden and expand. Lowering his mouth to the other nipple he began
sucking on it until both were fully extended.

Loomis' breath came in short, labored gasps now. He could feel a tightness in
his chest. Sweat began to bead his white-haired chest in place of the droplets
of rain water. His whole body was electric, trembling. With nervous fingers he
drew the cotton fabric farther down. He had to see the pussy, her hairy center,
the future abode of his cock and progeny.

The navel was deep and shadowy, set in a firm, flat belly. He pressed his finger
next to it. Poked. Beneath the skin and muscle, he could feel the liquidity of
gut smoothly subsiding. He recalled an Apache woman he had raped years ago. She
had had a firm, flat belly too. He remembered how he had gutted her with his
knife and rolled the bloody intestines around in his mouth, licking the blood
from their slick surface.

He had done it while she watched him.

The look in her eyes made him feel something he had never felt before. It was
not a look of disbelief in her eyes nor of horrified revelation, for she was an
Apache woman and Apache women were as sadistic as Apache men -- more so in some
cases. She had, no doubt, tortured many of her enemies to death in her life
time, for many Apache women were warriors, too, and rode alongside the men into
combat. And she knew what to expect if captured by a pin-dah-lickoyee, 'white
eye'. She had known she would be raped and tortured. So the look was not one of
astonished disbelief. But a look of submissive defeat cast from the closing
shadow of death. And that look was the greatest aphrodisiac he had ever
experienced. Her defiant look of scorn had vanished. He was the conqueror. And
from that moment on he knew that nature, that life, intended only for the strong
to triumph: to reap the rewards of living. And he pledged to himself -- and to
whatever dark gods ruled the universe -- that he would never be weak, that no
one would ever get the better of Cordel Loomis.

He yanked the chemise down over her hips, ripping it in his hurry to see her
dark triangle. It was thick and wiry, hiding the velvet slit. He buried his face
in it, sniffing the musky odor. The pussy hair scratched his face like a light
textured brush. The anticipation of what her bush would feel like against the
tender head of his cock was almost overwhelming.

He lifted first one of her long, shapely legs; then the other sliding the
chemise down the firm thighs, full calves and delicate ankles; drawing it off;
leaving her stark naked. The feet seemed small and childlike compared to his
own. They were well-shaped and high arched. The nails neatly trimmed almost
pearl-like in beauty. The toes graduated with perfect symmetry. He caressed each
foot kneading the heels and balls and the tender softness of the arches. He
separated the toes one at a time. Slowly. Feeling the slight resistance build as
he stretched them to their limits. The skin was a lighter white between them,
more tender. He could have easily snapped them like twigs they were so delicate.

He moved around to the foot of the bed and, lifting her bent legs up by the
ankles, placed the soles of her feet on his cock and balls. Slowly he moved them
up and down stroking his throbbing organ with them feeling the heels against his
tight scrotum and the toes half way up his shaft. He stared down at her pussy
and at the slight quaking of her thighs. Her beautiful face was impassive, the
lips slightly parted and glistening wetly where he had pulled her tongue out.
Her arms lay limply by her sides. Her palms up, the fingers curled over, the
long porcelain nails like daggers. He watched the steady rise and fall of her
stomach, the slight quivering rise and fall of her breasts. Dark locks of hair
covered her right eye.

He heard a sound and looking to his right, he saw the old bruja, Conchita,
standing in the doorway watching. She was naked except for a beaded medicine bag
that hung around her neck on a rawhide cord. Her long gray hair -- unrolled now
-- clung wetly down her back. Her old tits hung like half-empty sacks down to
her small, pot-like belly that stuck out from her skinny frame like a hillock
rising from a wasted, ravine-cut plain.

She had a gleeful expression on her wrinkled face and licked her lips
lasciviously with a long rapidly moving tongue like a starving dog licking honey
from its muzzle. A smacking, sucking sound came from her toothless mouth. With
one hand she fingered her sparsely-haired pussy and with the other tweaked her
nipples, alternating back and forth.

It wasn't the first time the old woman had come to witness her master engage in
fleshy acts of depravity.

Loomis could no longer stall his burning need for Mona's naked flesh. He had to
fuck her. His dark, twisted lust swelled inside him. It was either fuck her or
split apart, to burst open like a sun-baked melon on the hot desert plain.

His swollen cock arched before him like an Indian war club. Soon, very soon, he
would thrust it deep into her tight, warm, wet belly. He forced her knees back
onto her breasts, spreading her thighs. Her cunt was open before him. He leaned
to her feeling the brush of cunt hairs against the head of his purple-veined
cock.

He felt the soft, tender lips of her cunt spreading apart as his meathead
plumbed deeper into her. Resistance built as the tight ring of cunt muscle tried
to repel his onslaught but to no avail. He pushed the ball head of his dick past
the resistance feeling the tight ring of flesh grip his dick like a fist,
swelling up over the bulbous head as he moved on into her and sinking back down
around his thick shaft.

He couldn't believe how tight she was. It was only with a great deal of
straining that he could work a few inches of cock into her. He vaguely wondered
if his son had ever worked this pussy. He doubted it, wondering how any normal
man could let good pussy go fallow. A pussy was like a good bull whip. It needed
constant oiling and use to stay flexible.

Slowly he eased his cock into her, pulling back some and ramming forward until,
finally, sweating profusely, he was seated properly, his full cock in her to the
balls. Her soft, firm belly rose against and fell away from his own hairy one.

Something quivered in her that made his dick twitch. Her eyes opened and gazed
into his with a distant, puzzled look and closed. Her cunt muscles relaxed and
tighten.

To his right the old bruja moved to the bed and climbed onto it behind him. Her
wet tongue lapped his balls moving up to his asshole. The rigid point of it
entered his hole. Her old tongue was long like a serpent's and it entered him
fully three inches deep like a boneless finger. He had thought his cock couldn't
get any bigger, but he was wrong. It strained and swelled even more within the
tight confine of Mona's pussy like a gravity hose suddenly inflated under
pressure.

She worked the prehensile tongue in and out of his ass -- while he thrust in and
out of Mona's pussy -- and cupped his balls in her hand, toying with them,
scraping her nails along the wrinkled, variegated surface. She moved her hands
up his asscheeks, drawing her long fingernails slowly down while continuing to
ream out his asshole with her tongue.

Loomis' cum gushed from him before he realized what had happened. He came so
forcefully that it was painful. He cried out in agony, his whole body trembling
violently. The grizzled crone rammed her tongue deeper into his ass forcing even
more cum to spurt from his straining cock, shooting a gusher into Mona's pussy.

Flesh slapping flesh sounded amongst wet sucking, slurping groans and moans.

Loomis pulled out of the unconscious woman, her hips rising up as her tight cunt
clung to the thick, branch-like cock, sinking back as he disengaged and fell
over, collapsing onto the mattress.

He watched as Conchita turned Mona over onto her belly and spread her legs. She
took some white power from her medicine bag and mixed it with spit in the palm
of her hand until it had a paste-like consistency.

"Haremos a la senora como una zombi. Eternamente."

From the medicine bag she took a stick and a hollow reed which she filled with
the paste. She inserted the reed into Mona's asshole. The smooth stick she
fitted into the end of the reed and plunged it in forcing the paste into Mona.

She placed the reed and stick back in the bag, took out some blue chalk and
turned Mona back over face up. With the chalk she drew a circle on Mona's
forehead with a cross inside. She colored her eyelids and nose, drawing circles
around her nipples and navel. She rubbed the chalk over her cunt until the hairs
took on a bluish tinge.

Straddling her belly, she leaned close to Mona's ear and whispered something.
Suddenly Mona opened her eyes, vacant, devoid of life. Conchita held up a gnarly
index finger before Mona, drawing it down her forehead and nose, tracing a
circle around her full, sensuous lips with a long gray nail. Mona shivered
slightly.

Conchita moistened the tips of her index fingers and thumbs and tweaked Mona's
nipples drawing them up, stretching them to their full lengths, releasing them.
She repeated the process until the nipples were swollen and hard, turning a dark
purple.


She paused for a moment, moving her index finger from side to side in front of
Mona's face, muttering an unintelligible incantation. Mona's eyes followed the
finger unblinkingly.

"Si . . . si . . ." Mona whispered, as if in answer to some question.

She arched her back and began to writhe on the bed as if in a sexual ecstasy.

The old bruja munched and licked her breasts and suckled her nipples hungrily,
saliva dripping from her coarse lips. She kissed and slobbered down the firm
belly and buried her desiccated face in the cum-drenched pussy mound. Mona
sighed, half in pain as the long tongue buried itself in her pussy. A long, bony
finger was shoved up her ass. The tongue moved in and out of her pussy like a
big, thick slug while Conchita's nose prodded her clit.

Loomis got on his knees above Mona's head and, leaning forward, placed the head
of his dick on her lips. The old bruja spoke harshly in Spanish, and Mona opened
her mouth. His cock was taken in by the warm, wet tongue. His dick instantly
began to harden again; he could feel another load building in his taut balls.

He placed his hands underneath her slender neck and lifted up so that his cock
would have a straight course down her throat, for he intended to make her take
all of him.

The old bruja turned around so that her ass faced Loomis. While he pumped his
swelling cock down Mona's throat, he sniffed the old woman's asshole, running
his tongue up and down the perineum, licking his tongue through the pudendum and
back up to the puckered asshole.

The old whore greedily munched on the senora's cunt sucking up her juices mixed
with the pungent taste of cum. Together they worked their wiles on the young
woman desecrating her firm, full body with their old, tainted lust.

Loomis positioned the old woman's ass right above Mona's mouth so that he could
access the holes of both women and began fucking his cock first into Mona's
mouth then into the cunt and asshole of the old woman. The old woman sucked
greedily on Mona's cunt lapping her tongue up and down her hairy slit,
slithering the probing tip deep into its warm, wet channel. As Loomis slid his
cock in and out of her holes, she cried out and bucked her hips back against his
hairy belly.

Loomis' balls became taut against the base of his thick cock as they prepared
for a forceful blow. The old woman suddenly sat up straight, arching her back.
Loomis reached around her waist and pulled her to him, burying his cock in her
ass. Cum gushed from it into her old tight hole like steam from a sudden rupture
in the earth. He gripped her tits and pulled down on them, as spasms shook his
body, milking the slack bags like a cow's teats and bit her thin neck leaving
the bloody imprint of his teeth.

When all the cum had finally spurted from his organ, with one last quiver, he
pulled it from her ass and fell onto his back.

"Will she remember any of this?" he gasped, staring at the ceiling.

Conchita gave him a toothless smile over her boney shoulder.

"No. It will be as if it never happened."

"Good," Loomis said quietly. "Good."

He got up, after a few minutes, and walked outside into the inner court. Naked,
he stood in the rain letting it wash his body clean. Above, dark clouds roiled
ominously.

Chapter 12: The Photograph

Abigail tossed the photograph on Tibb's desk. He was sitting behind it with his
feet propped up on top.

"What the hell's this?" he asked, hands behind his head, chewing on a broom
straw.

She hadn't bothered putting on a raincoat. The cotton dress she was wearing
clung wetly to her breasts.

"You wanted to know who Green is."

He studied her face for a moment, the reddish-brown hair hung in damp ringlets
down her cheeks. Slowly, he drew his feet down and tilted his chair forward on
all its legs. He picked the photo up casually by a corner and stared at it while
flicking it with the index finger of his other hand.

"So, what's here?"

"On the mailbox," she said, contemptuous of his dullness.

From a drawer to his right he pulled out a magnifying glass. He squinted through
it moving the photograph back and forth until he got it right. He couldn't tell
for sure. It was a short name. But the lettering was too small . . . almost. It
could be McGee. He was almost sure it was. It was close enough.

"I'll keep this," he said, and started to put it in his shirt pocket. Then "On
second thought maybe you'd better put this back where you found it for the time
being. Don't want him to know we know just yet."

He held the photograph out for her to take, but when she reached for it, he
grabbed her wrist.

She looked at him steadily, but he could sense her fear, and that made his cock
start to stiffen.

"What are you doing, Tibbs? Let me go," she cried, trying to wrench her arm
back.

"What's you're hurry, Abby? I thought maybe you might like a little drink; maybe
we could have some more fun, like before."

"You're disgusting," she blurted out contemptuously.

Tibbs stood up and pulled her closer.

"Oh, yeah. And you're gonna tell me you didn't like it, bitch? Bullshit! You
were cuming all over yourself. You loved it. All you cunts are just alike. You
pretend you don't wanna be fucked, but down inside were no one can see, all you
bitches are begging for a man to take you -- any man."

He jerked her up against his chest. The feel of her warm, firm body in the wet
dress made his cock turn within the tight folds of his underwear. She tried to
twist her body away from him, but he was too strong. He forced her to bend over
the desk. From the top drawer he took a pair of handcuffs and clamped them on
her wrists behind her back. She made whimpering squeals as he held her down with
one hand on the nape of her slender neck while with the other he pulled up her
dress above her hips. She wasn't wearing any undergarments.

He ran his hand down the crack of her ass and buried his thumb in her butthole
while clawing, lightly but firmly, her cunt, letting his middle finger ride down
the groove of her slit. His fingers fueled her wetness. He smiled with a
domineering sneer.

"You like that I'll bet," he whispered coarsely in her ear as he bit and nibbled
at the soft, cool lobe.

Abigail whimpered weakly, her pleads and protests mixed with soft moans.

Quickly, Tibbs unbuttoned his pants, letting them fall to the floor and quickly
undid his drawers. The head of his cock brushed against the warm curve of her
ass. He began to quiver with excitement. He spread her cheeks with his big hands
and placed the head of his cock against her cunt hole.

He heard her draw in her breath sharply as he entered her. Her hands made fists,
the long nails denting the heels. As he shoved deeper, they shot open, the long,
slender fingers spreading straight and wide.

He reaved her nonstop, ramming in and out like a steam piston. He cupped her
tits through the thin, wet fabric of her dress. They were heavy and firm in his
tight grip. She made guttural sounds in a quavering voice as his thrusts jarred
her forward repeatedly.

Pulling out of her, Tibbs turned her around and lay her down on the desk face
up. She glanced away from him, her face and cheeks burned red with a feverish
look, her eyes glazed and moist. Her breasts rose and fell rapidly, her body
fidgety. He stared at the reddish-brown hairs of her cunt and the darker line of
her slit between the firm banks of her labia. Cruelly he shoved his cock into
her once more. Pounding her viciously, the sounds of slapping flesh and moans
filling the jailhouse.

Rapidly he unbuttoned the top portion of her dress and cupped the tits,
squeezing them, pinching the nipples, pulling and tweaking them. At the same
time forcing his tongue between her swollen lips and deeper into her hot, moist
mouth slithering his tongue over hers. She no longer resisted him but lay
quivering submissively beneath his unrelenting onslaught.

"Beg for it, slut," he said, pressing his mouth against her ear.

"No," she gasped.

"You will," he taunted, "before we're through."

"Never!" she cried, her voice breaking into a whimper as she came.

* * *

"I've got some business to take care of," Tibbs said, buttoning his pants back
up.

She sat on the edge of the desk and watched him strap on his gun and slip into
his yellow slicker. "When I get back we'll take up were we left off." He
uncuffed her. "And you're going to like it."

He placed her chin between his thumb and forefinger and squeezed her lips into a
pucker. She jerked her head aside and glared at him. He taunted her with a
laugh; smacked her hip with the palm of his hand and left, leaving her alone;
her dress still unbuttoned, his cum flowing from her cunt onto the desk.

* * *

"Why you help me, white man?" Bear Claw asked. "It is your people who shot me.

Green finished rolling a cigarette, lit it with a stem of sagebrush from the
fire and handed it to the Indian.

"They're not my people," Green replied. "They're assholes."

Bear Claw could not figure the white man out. He did not look like a fool, but
only a fool would help his enemy. He could not be deserving of respect. He would
kill the white man the first chance he got and steal his horse. But he would
have to wait until the wound in his belly healed some. He could do nothing now.
Unhappily he reflected that there would be no pussy for him now. He was still a
boy, ish-kay-nay, who could not even steal two cows. He was a failure.

"But why you help me?" he asked again, realizing that the white man had avoided
answering him the first time. "No Apache help white man."

"Can't say I blame them," Green answered.

Bear Claw remained silent this time. The white man didn't make sense; he was
crazy, a fool, tagoon-ya-dah. He put his hand to the side of the ledge where
water dripped down and moistened his lips. The white medicine man had told him
not to drink. But his whole body yearned for a long, cooling drink.

Bear Claw would not think about dying. He was young. Death was not something
that comes to a youth who is still not proven. The Great Spirit will not let him
die. He must become a great warrior first and die in battle after proving his
bravery and gathering many scalps . . . and having his blade sharpened by many
pretty squaws.

If only he could climb the hill and light a fire, he could signal his people to
come for him. But the pain in his gut was too much when he tried to move.

He watched the white man cook a jackrabbit impaled on a yucca stalk over the
fire. Bear Claw knew one could not live on rabbit long without other
nourishment; something white men did not seem to know. Normally the smell of
cooking meat would have set his stomach to growling, but now it only brought a
feeling of nausea.

"What is your name, white man?" he asked.

Green told him as the rain splattered off the boulders and on the flat shelvings
around them.

"I will get no pussy today because of your white brothers."

Green smiled. He had smooth, white teeth like an Indian.

"You wouldn't know what to do with it if you had it," Green answered.

"Humph." Bear Claw grinned slightly. "You ever have squaw pussy?"

"Nope."

"Best pussy there is -- like fuck wildcat; you hang on tight. Much better than
white pussy."

Green sidled over and took a look at his wound.

"You're lucky, Buck; the bullet passed clean through."

"My name not Buck," Bear Claw replied, managing not to grimace as Green
readjusted the bandaging.

"Well, what is it?"

"Apache not tell his real name."

"So what the hell do you want me to call you?"

"Bear Claw is my white man name," he answered and jerked his head dismissively.

"OK, Bear Claw, now that we've got that settled, how do I go about locating some
of your people so they can come and get you."

Chapter 13: Vengeance Declared

Gray Wolf remained on his white-faced roan and watched while two of his braves
cut down his son from the limb of the cottonwood.

"Yah-ik-tee."

He muttered the word meaning 'dead' and ignored the drizzling rain soaking his
vermilion shirt and beaded, leather loincloth and rawhide boots. Around his
waist, he wore two Colts and two more in saddle holsters hung from the pommel. A
Henry rifle in a rawhide sheath was fixed to the side of his saddle.

Two Mexican women slaves wrapped the body in a blanket and placed it on a
travois.

Gray Wolf's dark eyes glowed with hatred, hatred for the pin-dah-lickoyee, the
white eye. His chiseled face remained passive except for a tightening of the
thin lips.

From the top of a rise, a brave, by the name of Klo-sen, naked but for a
loincloth, motioned to him and he nudged his horse forward around the rock
ledges and boulders covering the hillside, and, in a minute or two, he came up
beside Klo-sen, who jerked his broad-jawed head toward the east. There Gray Wolf
could see a column of thick smoke rising from a hill top miles beyond Red Rock.
In a few moments the column became a series of confused puffs. The message made
no sense. Gray Wolf glanced at Klo-sen who merely shrugged his broad shoulders.

Only the Apache used smoke signals, but this was not the work of any Apache. It
would have to be investigated. Something was wrong.

He looked back over his shoulder at the thirty warriors waiting around the
travois that carried his dead son.

"The white eyes will pay," he swore solemnly.

Klo-sen nodded.

Chapter 14: The Fire Maker

Making fire had been a problem. Smoke hadn't been. Everything was wet: the pile
of grama grass, mesquite and sage. Nevertheless, Green got one going during a
lull in the rain. Now he stood back and watched as a thick, white funnel twisted
and writhed up into the sky, bending over like a bow as the wind caught it
higher up.



			

He didn't know how to send signals. It was an art he didn't have time to learn,
but he figured the Apache would investigate any smoke signal rising in their
territory.

He heaped more wet grass onto the burning pile until he could see no flame. It
would smoke for several hours like that, and that would be more than enough time
for the Indians to see it. They'd probably already seen it.

He made his way back down to the overhang. The Indian was still lying on his
back just as he had left him. When he heard Green, he opened his eyes.

Green knelt down beside him and checked the wound, putting more jelly on the
cactus pad. He rolled a couple of smokes, lit them and handed one to the boy. He
placed the bag of tobacco and papers with a tin of matches next to him.

"Mas tarde, amigo."

Bear Claw nodded.

With nothing left to say, Green made he way out from underneath the overhang,
mounted his pinto, and cautiously descended to the stage road and headed toward
Red Rock at a steady canter.

Chapter 15: Tibbs Arrives at Loomis' Ranch

As Tibbs left the hill country -- veiled in mist that resounded with the echoing
clops of his horse's hooves on wet sandstone -- and started down a slight
incline, the Loomis ranch -- lying on a wide, flat stretch of desert -- slowly
came into view. The mountains far beyond were shrouded in a low-lying bank of
gray clouds that clung to the desert like a giant slug.

As he drew near he observed little sign of life. A few horses milled about in a
cedar corral next to a large red barn. Everyone was, no doubt, inside out of the
rain -- where Tibbs wished he was. An uncomfortable, cold, wet spot around his
crotch irritated him where the rain had sluiced down his saddle underneath his
slicker. He was sorely in need of a stiff drink.

As he dismounted and looped his reins over a hitching rail, one of a pair of
double doors opened and Loomis stepped out beneath the low-ceilinged portico and
leaned casually against the recessed, adobe jamb. He held a tumbler of whiskey
in one hand and a cigar in the other.

Tibbs stepped up onto the porch, his boots thick with mud.

"Take your boots off," Loomis said, "and your slicker." Dismissively he flicked
the ash from his cigar and turned back inside.

Cussing under his breath, Tibbs balanced himself against a column, grunting as
he removed spurs and boots. He washed his thick hands of the mud from the runoff
of the roof, took his slicker off and laid it down on a bench near the doors. He
didn't like Loomis. The arrogant bastard always made him feel like a peasant,
but he knew better than to show his anger. Old man Loomis was no one to fuck
with.

This was Tibbs' weekly visit to Loomis' ranch to take any orders he might have
for him.

The twin doors opened on Loomis' private lounge. He was seated behind his
hand-carved desk with his stocking feet propped up on top as Tibbs entered. He
didn't offer him a seat, so Tibbs stood, big and brutish before the desk,
hooking his thumbs in his gunbelt to keep his arms from dangling awkwardly at
his sides.

Loomis studied him with a slight smirk on his face and drew several leisurely
puffs on his cigar.

"What did you do, piss yourself?" he said after a moment.

Tibbs glanced down at the wet ring around his crotch. Loomis was the only man
alive who could poke fun at him and get away with it.

"Rain," he muttered, forcing his tongue into his cheek and turning his face to
the side to hide a sudden, flaring anger.

"Yeah, well that'll do it I suppose," Loomis said, chuckling, shrugging
shoulders as broad as the marshal's; Suddenly, turning serious, he gave Tibbs a
hard stare.

"I want you to pay a visit to the newspaperwoman."

"Faye Morgan," Tibbs said automatically.

"Yes. She's taking her little enterprise too seriously. Criticized my
daughter-in-law in the last edition. I won't stand for that."

"I'll take care of it," Tibbs replied. He shifted the bulk of his weight to his
left leg. He would enjoy this assignment.

"Also," Loomis continued, "the round-up will be over soon. I'll want you to see
that plenty of Lilly's girls are brought in from Sackville, same as before; the
boys will be going in for a little celebrating." Loomis blew a cloud of smoke
toward the panther. "And there's another matter. Know anything about a feller by
the name of Green?"

Tibbs felt a twinge of uneasiness. Why was the Old Man bringing up the name of
the drifter?

"He's stayin' at the hotel. I let him know he wasn't welcome on Loomis land."

"Umph!" Loomis grunted. "Obviously you didn't impress it upon him hard enough.
The son-of-a-bitch just got himself hired on by the Holbarth woman."

"What as?" Tibbs replied sarcastically. "He's sure as hell no cattleman."

"Yeah, exactly," Loomis said. "She's hired herself a shooter."

"Well, he's just one man, Mr. Loomis, "You've got an army."

"Yeah, I know. But that's why I made you marshal; you're supposed to take care
of problems like this."

"He's gone, Mr. Loomis; I'll see to it first thing."

"See that you do, Tibbs; I don't wanna catch sight of the bastard again."

Tibbs watched wistfully as Loomis finished off the whiskey in the sparkling
tumbler, jerking his silvery head back. His nostrils were cloyed with the odor
of the expensive bourbon; he ran a dry tongue over his lips unconsciously, his
mouth and throat parched.

On the ride back to Red Rock in a heavy drizzle, Tibbs leaned his head back and
caught rain drops on his tongue. He could think of only three things: getting a
stiff drink at Stubs' and putting the pretty newspaperwoman in her place. His
cock stirred against his wet crotch. He would enjoy that. Later, he would take
care of Green, and he would enjoy that, too.

Chapter 16: A bed warmer

Abigail had just finished slipping the photograph back behind the pocket mirror
when she heard the sound of voices coming from the livery. Moving cautiously to
the window she peeked out. It was Green handing his pinto off to the liveryman.
He was heading toward the hotel. Hurriedly she placed the mirror in his war bag,
placed it in his bedroll and rolled it up.

Too late.

She could hear the lobby doorbell tinkle and the scrap of boots across the floor
. . . .

As Green opened the door to his room he caught the odor of perfume. Abigail was
lying on her back naked on his bed, her brown hair fixed in a tight bun. Her
dress was hanging over the wrought iron foot railing . . . .

She was wet and tight. She bit into the hard muscles of his shoulder, moaning as
he moved within her. His unshaven face reddened her breasts, causing her nipples
to rise as if they were seeking -- relishing -- punishment. He moved down her
belly parting the wiry, brown cunt hairs with the point of his tongue moving
slowly down the furrow of her slit, faster and harder as she moved her hips up
off the bed forcing his probing tongue deeper into her.

She gripped the back of his head with both hands holding him tightly to her. Her
heart was ripping away in her chest. She didn't know which she was feeling the
most, pain or pleasure. One moment she cried in pure agony, the next in almost
unbearable ecstasy.

Soon his cock was in her again, going in deeper. His mouth eager, wet and hot,
found hers. She murmured a smothered, liquid sound as their tongues entwined,
his tongue and cock filling her simultaneously. Constellations of stars exploded
behind her clenched eyelids.

Their sweat-slickened bodies strained and rocked on the wide bed. Her hands
moved over the hard muscles of his shoulders and down the rippling back to the
taut asscheeks, as if in a frantic effort to 'see' him by touch. Her hands went
to his neck pulling him to her as she forced her tongue farther into his mouth.

She pounded the edges of her fist against him, driving him on; she wanted to be
punished for betraying him. She bit deeply into his lower lip; she could taste
blood. He slapped her, again harder. She gave a deep-throated laugh which he
covered with a forceful kiss that smothered her. Unrelenting she fought back
scrapping him with her sharp nails which only increased the vigor of his thrust
in her.

He pounded into her with the ferocity of a wild man, bringing her to the edge --
and over so intensely that she cried out, her long fingers locked in his thick
hair.

And afterwards there was only the rapid motion of firm breasts rising and
falling beneath sweaty palms, the sound of heavy breathing and rain pelting the
window, a distant murmur of thunder.

Chapter 17: Riders on the Storm

Old Man Loomis took the lead. Immediately behind him riding abreast were Chili,
Jorge Mendoza and Luis Amundo. Behind them rode twenty-five of Loomis' toughest
cowboys.

They rode at a trot breaking into a canter occasionally, hunched forward
slightly, their wide-brimmed hats slouched from the heavy downpour coming from
the northwest. Their yellow slickers glistened like glazed candy as their bodies
rose and fell rhythmically to the strides of their horses . . . .

Susan Holbarth rubbed Zeke's muzzle, patting his neck and shoulder. The big,
gray gelding had been her husband's. Since all her hands had deserted her after
her husband's death she hadn't been able to let the animal graze freely because
of the Apache. She held onto the halter and led the horse to the rear of the
barn and turned him loose in the corral. But he didn't like the idea of going
out into the rain, and she had to swat him on the butt.

She tramped back to his stall and began mucking it out with a long-handled
shovel. While she was about it Zeke stuck his head back in the rear entry and
cautiously slipped into the alleyway and shook himself.

When Susan finished, she filled a large bucket in the stall with rainwater and
forked some hay into the rack. Zeke hurried into the stall when she stepped out.

The rain on the roof drowned out most sounds. Susan took off her leather work
gloves and hung them on a nail by the front entry. She slipped on her black,
rubber coat, grabbed her shotgun leaning against the wall and started for the
cabin.

She was unaware of the two men, one on either side of the door, and as she
stepped out they grabbed her arms. The one on the right yanked the shotgun from
her and flung it off into the mud.

Everything happened quickly.

A man, wearing a sombrero and yellow slicker, stood on the porch of the cabin
watching. Susan recognized him. It was the one called Chili. The two holding her
were Mexicans also. She could smell whiskey and stale cigar. She struggled,
twisting this way and that, kicking with her rubber boots, her brown skirt
rising up revealing flashes of her thighs.

The man on the porch, Chili, raised his hand and motioned. On a nearby hillock
Susan saw a mass of riders approach. She recognized Loomis in the lead. His
white hair hung down to his shoulders in wet strands, his face hard-set. She
ceased struggling, hoping to retain some dignity.

A sudden fear drove her reasoning. He wouldn't hurt her, surely. If he wanted
the damn place that badly he could have it. But she sensed real danger; this was
going to be it. Whatever it was.

God help me!

They rode up, their horses flinging mud about amid the creaking of leather.
Almost two dozen of them -- or more, she figured. They formed a tight semicircle
around her. The corral fence was behind.

Loomis stopped directly in front of her and leaned forward, his hands relaxed on
his pommel. Rain sluiced from the brim of his white Stetson.

"Well, Susan, can't say I didn't give yuh fair warning. you're as hard-headed as
that husband of yours was. West ain't no place for a widow woman. Should've gone
back east." He sighed mockingly and shook his head. "Too late now though."

Susan tried to speak, but all she could do was stammer. Her knees trembled and
gave on her. Luis and Jorge held her up under the armpits.

"Strip her, boys! Tie her to that fence!"

A couple of men got down off their horses and helped Luis and Jorge pull her
clothes off amid crude laughter and lewd taunts.

Chili stepped off the porch and slowly walked toward her as the cowboys twisted
her out of her raincoat. One of them ripped her blouse open. They pulled off her
boots followed by her skirt. Their muddy hands smeared her naked flesh which the
rain washed clean.

They dragged her nude, kicking and screaming, through the mud to the fence.
While a couple of them held her, two others fashioned some rope around her
wrists and ankles and bent her over the second rail. They spread her legs as far
as possible and secured the ropes to posts on either side.

At this point Chili moved up behind her, opened his slicker and unbuttoned his
fly.

She squeezed her eyelids shut and began screaming as he entered her. She could
feel the cool, oiled canvas of his slicker against her asscheeks. She could feel
his thick cock spreading her.

He jerked her head up by the hair when he was fully in and whispered harshly in
her ear:

"Si no cierra la trompa, condenada, te voy a dar una galleta!"

The rape was over in seconds. Warm cum washed down the inside of her thighs as
he pulled out.

But others took his place; she lost count. Some came back for seconds and
thirds. It seemed to go on forever. Her belly was on fire. Cum pooled in the mud
between her feet. Her breasts were bruised and swollen were brutal hands had
gripped them.

Finally they untied her.

A thin Mexican led Zeke out into the corral. Susan watched in numb horror as he
pulled out a pistol and shot the horse in the head.

Zeke instantly dropped to the ground and tilted to his side. The man holstered
his pistol and took out a hunting knife and began cutting open the horse's
belly.

It was only the beginning for Susan Holbarth.

Chapter 18: Tibbs confronts the newspaperwoman

Tibbs watched two flies fuck by a wet ring on the table next to his bottle of
Jack Daniels as he scarfed down beef stew with dumplings. Outside the rain
hadn't let up. If anything it had increased. He stuffed his cheeks with chunks
of beef and dumplings, chewing vigorously; brown gravy trickling from the corner
of his mouth. Occasionally he washed it all down with a slug of whiskey.

Raymond sat behind the bar reading an old edition of the Lantern and smoking a
thin cigar. Elena was singing something softly in Spanish behind the antepuerta
amid the faint noise of metal pots and pans being washed.

When he was finished, Tibbs leaned back, belched and loosened his belt a notch.
He wasn't wearing his cartridge belt and holster. Instead, at the jail, before
coming to the saloon, he had discarded them and stuck a slip gun in his hip
pocket.

He smoked a cigarette and after awhile got up, scrapping his chair back noisily.

"Put it on account, Stubs," he said, with a harsh laugh, pulling on his slicker.
He picked up a broom leaning against the bar and plucked out a stem of heath for
a toothpick.

Outside the rain plinked the muddy street. Wind blew a cool mist against his
face, forming dew on his thick mustache. Fog concealed the desert beyond the
limits of town, and ghost-like drifted through the alleyways. Low, gray clouds
hid the sky. It was as if the world no longer existed except for Red Rock. He
glanced up the street toward The Lantern and, hunched over, began walking that
way . . . .

When Green woke, Abigail was gone. He slipped on his freshly cleaned buckskin
pants, blue cotton shirt and boots, strapped on his pistols and headed for The
Lantern. He no longer had his serape, so he stepped quickly to keep from getting
soaked.


He was thinking that the newspaperwoman wasn't bad looking. Maybe after he'd
given her his eye-witness account of the dead Indian hanging from the tree he
would invite her for a drink at Raymond's cantina.

The plainly furnished office was empty as he entered. To his left was a
Washington hand press and type case, an ink barrel and a stack of stock paper
piled on top of a wide desk. In a low book case were textbooks and on top piles
of religious tracts. To his right was a pot-bellied stove and a straight-backed
chair.

Suddenly, from the second floor, he heard a jarring thud and another in what
sounded like a struggle. Drawing a .44 he went back out and up a stairway fixed
to the side of the building. At the top landing, he found the door slightly
ajar. Rain had soaked his clothes by now, but he was unmindful; all his
attention was concentrated on what might be waiting inside.

He pushed the door open. Tibbs was holding a pistol to Faye Morgan's head.

"Well, lookee here. If it ain't Mr. Green," Tibbs chortled pulling the hammer of
the slip pistol back. "Shoot me, Green, and this slip pistol will automatically
go off. So if you don't want the lovely lady to die I suggest you drop your
hogleg."

Green gritted his teeth, but he could do nothing. He stooped and placed his .44
on the floor.

"Now unhook the belts."

Green lowered his cartridge belts to the floor, letting down his other .44 in
its holster.

"Now step back and face the wall," Tibbs ordered, turning the slip pistol on
him.

When Green was facing the wall, Tibbs flung Morgan onto a spool bed in the
corner and picked up the belts, holstering the loose .44 then slung the belts
over his broad shoulder.

"Well, looks like I'm gonna get me two birds with one stone," Tibbs taunted.
"You two really pissed off Mr. Loomis. And that's a no-no. Now I gotta take care
of you all cause that's what Loomis pays me for. You shouldn't have lied to me,
Green. Going out to the Widow Holbarth's was a real dumb-ass move. You got me an
ass chewing for that, and I don't like gettin' an ass chewing. You'll pay for
that." Tibbs paused for a moment,"Now turn around, Green."

He glanced back at Morgan. "Stand up, bitch. You gotta be taught a lesson, too.
Gotta learn what to print and what not to in that damn rag of yours. You don't
criticize the Loomises."

As soon as Morgan was on her feet Tibbs said, "Take your clothes off."

"Go to hell you son-of-a-bitch!" she exclaimed."

"Oh, I'm not kiddin', baby. You either peel or I start using Green for target
practice." He motioned with his pistol toward Green. "I think we'd both be
interested in see'n what yuh look like all butt naked, wouldn't we, Green?"

"You bastard!" Faye Morgan hissed between clenched teeth.

"It's up to you, bitch; what's it going to be?"

Saying this he leveled his pistol at Green.

"No, don't --" she blurted out. Her hands moved slowly to the top button of her
blouse.

When the blouse was off, Tibbs said, "Now the skirt."

She hesitated, glanced at Green; hands trembling, she unhooked the waist catch
and stepped out of the skirt after kicking off her slippers.

All that remained was a thin cotton vest that hung to mid-thigh. By now her face
was flushed and her blue eyes flashing.

Hesitating she finally pulled it off over her head dislodging blonde strands
from her neatly bunned coiffure.

Naked she stood before the two men, her firm, full breasts quivering slightly
with each rapid heart beat.

Keeping his slip gun on Green, Tibbs reached out suddenly and stuck his finger
in Morgan's mouth, hooking it in her cheek, and roughly jerked her against him
hanging her up on her tiptoes as if she were a large fish being shown off.

"Nice, ain't she, Green?"

He placed the gun barrel against her left nipple.

"Damn," Tibbs sighed, "nothing like knowing you can do anything you like to make
the old pecker hard. Go ahead and squeeze it, bitch. He yanked her farther so
that her toes were almost off the floor.

"Stuuufffit," she pleaded.

"No, bitch, not until you play with it."

Her hand found the swollen lump between his legs.

"That's better. That feels good, real good. Bet you'd like some of that too,
wouldn't you, Green?" He stroked her well-rounded ass with the barrel of his
gun. 					

"Tell you what, Green, I'm feeling in a generous mood. I don't normally share my
women, but I think I'm gonna make an exception."

He aimed the gun at Green. "Take your clothes off too."

Green remained motionless until Tibbs pulled back the hammer of his gun and
placed the barrel against her breasts. "Be a shame."

Green stripped slowly out of his rain-soaked clothes. Naked his tanned,
hard-muscled body glistened.

"Damn, boy, you're almost as hung as me. This is gonna be an evening the little
lady ain't likely to forget for a long time. Ain't that right, honey?" Tibbs
squeezed her ass cheek with his free hand, leaving the red imprint of his hand
there.

He grabbed a handful of hair and turned her head making her look at Green.

You see what the problem is, darlin', Mr. Green ain't got no hard-on; so that
means you're gonna have to help him out, right?"

Maliciously Tibbs twisted her hair until she was forced down on her hands and
knees.

"Now crawl over to Mr. Green, bitch, and get him hard, and you'd better look
like you're enjoying it cause it'll piss me off if you don't."

Tibbs laughed raucously and placed his foot on her ass shoving her forward.

She stopped in front of Green and raised up on her knees. She placed her hand
around the limp organ feeling it swell slightly against her soft palm. His cock
was big even soft. She'd had fantasies about the handsome stranger ever since
she'd seen him ride into Red Rock, but nothing this crude and vulgar.
Nevertheless, she could do nothing. She swore if she ever got the chance she
would kill Tibbs. And although she had always been against violence as a means
of settling problems, for once in her life she believed it would be justified.

She took the head of Green's cock in her mouth; his hard body quivered like a
stallion eager for its morning run. She could feel the softness of the skin and
a hardening inner core noticeably swelling as the foreskin retracted on the
surface of her tongue. Despite the degrading circumstances, a surge of
excitement enlivened her knowing that she was having a sensuous effect on him.

Soon the foreskin had slipped back behind the head; the cock, half-erect, was
beginning to fill her mouth. It was becoming difficult not to gag. Removing it,
she held the cock up against his belly and licked down the length of it, running
her moist tongue lightly over the taut balls, sucking first one then the other
into her mouth.

She placed her other hand against his thigh feeling the steel tension of
rock-hard muscles. She licked back up the length of the now stout cock,
realizing its massive thickness when she couldn't touch the tips of her fingers
to her thumb around it.

What would it feel like to have that in her, she found herself thinking, and
with a shock she realized she was becoming aroused. Wet. And suddenly she knew
she wanted him in her.

"OK," Tibbs said, hoarsely, "both of you get on the bed and fuck."

When Faye stood up and turned she saw Tibbs sitting in her ladder-back chair his
pants down around his ankles and his hand wrapped around his cock as he milked
it back and forth. His eyes had a crazed, far-off look.

The slip gun was aimed at her belly. Green's cartridge belts and guns still hung
from his shoulder.

"Don't try anything stupid; I don't miss."

Faye could feel the heat from Green's body as he stood close behind her. A
prickling sensation coursed over her skin like spiderwebs. She was numb, dizzy,
unable to concentrate. Her heart was raging in her chest; her knees seemed to
have turned liquid.

His hands were warm on her upper arms as he guided her toward the bed. In a
heartbeat she was on the bed looking up as Green loomed over her, positioning
himself between her legs. As he entered her she cried out. From the corner of
her eye she saw Tibbs masturbating furiously but still keeping the gun on them.

At first Green's thrust were slow and shallow but became deeper and faster until
their bellies were slapping madly together. She raised her hips to meet his
thrust, her hands locked behind his neck. His mouth found hers, his hot, wet
tongue wedged its way between her parted, eager lips. Her tongue fought with
his. They sucked deeply of each other.

His mouth moved down her slender neck, kissing and sucking, to the nipples,
moving from one to the other until both were painfully, deliciously swollen. Her
whole body ached for release. Sensation after sensation raced through her. She
couldn't think. She was only conscious of raging lust trapped in quivering
flesh. It was impossible to think, to focus. All she was aware of was his cock
in her cunt pumping in and out.

And suddenly she was coming. It was like falling into a deep well, as if the
earth had opened and swallowed her up. She came again. So intense it hurt. Her
legs jerked in spasms. Following this there was a gradual leveling off. The
climaxes became less intense, ecstasy gave way to a cozy, satiated state.

She wasn't even aware of what had happened when Green suddenly collapsed heavily
on top of her crushing her breasts between their hot bodies.

She saw Tibbs standing over them. Grinning. He was holding a pistol by the
barrel. Blood dripped into her mouth from Green's head.

Tibbs pulled Green off her and dumped him on the floor. He took a pair of
handcuffs out of a hip pocket and cuffed his wrists behind his back.

Morgan watched him go to her chest of drawers and jerk open the top drawer and
begin tossing out her underclothing. In the second drawer he found what he
wanted: a pair of cotton hose.

With the hose he tied her wrists to the posts of the spool bed.

He dragged Green to the door pausing to look back at her.

"When I take care of him I'll be back, and we'll get real acquainted."

Green came awake as the rain washed over him. Tibbs dragged him face down the
stairs by the cuffs which cut painfully into his wrists and placed all the
weight of his body on his shoulders.

When Tibbs saw that he was conscious he stopped in the middle of the muddy
street and placed his boot on the back of Green's neck forcing his face into the
mud.

"Green you should never piss me off; now you're gonna really pay."

Saying this he kicked him savagely in the ribs several times grunting loudly
with each kick. There was a cracking sound as bone gave way against the toe of
his boot. He jerked Green up by the cuffs' chain and continuing dragging him
toward the jail.

"No one's gonna help you, Green; nobody in this town has guts enough to face me;
your ass belongs to me."

He kicked open the door of the jail after twisting the knob and dropped Green
heavily near the center of the room next to a trapdoor. He pulled it open by a
metal ring.

Green raised his head slightly. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. He
tried to roll away from Tibbs but was in too much pain.

"Part of the old Mex calabozo; a hole in the ground," Tibbs said. "I haven't got
time to deal with you right now."

He grabbed hold of Green and shoved him into the dark pit. A long second passed
followed by a dull thud as Green hit the bottom.

"Sleep tight, Green," Tibbs chuckled. "I'm going back and have some fun with the
Morgan bitch."

He slammed the heavy wooden door shut and slid a heavy bolt across. From the
bottom of the pit Green stared up into the darkness briefly before his chin
dropped against smooth, cool clay.

Chapter 19: The end of the round-up

Patrick Loomis leaned against the trunk of a cottonwood next to Clear Water
Creek and watched young Wade Lewis, the wrangler, ambling his mount into camp
after being relieved by the nighthawk. It was near sunset and a few stars
already were sprinkled against the eastern sky. Low to the ground the west was
tarnished gold rising to a pale pink. A handful of thrushes darted above the
trees that bordered the creek flying toward some unknown destination.

He watched Wade Lewis dismount by the stove cart -- the boy's hard muscles
flexing and pushing against his cotton shirt as he tied his chestnut to a wheel
-- and head leisurely toward the chuck wagon where Cookie had saved him some
blanket steak and sourdough biscuits with plenty of hot coffee to wash it all
down.

Patrick tossed his cigarette to the ground and crushed it with the heel of his
boot. He walked toward the campfire where his men sat relaxing, some stretched
out on their bedrolls.

The round-up was over. The last of the reps from the smaller ranches had
gathered up all their strays and headed home. The cowboys remaining were all
Loomis men. Tomorrow they would head back to the ranch, clean up and ride into
Red Rock where they would let off a little steam. There would be plenty of
whiskey and plenty of Lilly's whore transported in from Sackville.

Patrick went to his bedroll lying in the chuck wagon and took out a towel,
washcloth and a bar of soap. As wagon boss he was just as tired as his men after
putting in a full day of riding circle, bringing in a herd so the calves could
be branded; but he didn't like the idea of curling up in his blankets at night
smelling like a polecat if he could help it. Living back east with a cultured
wife had made him more conscious of the social amenities. And besides it was
good to set an example. Men always respected a leader who was more disciplined
than they were. It set you apart from them. Told them that something in you was
better, finer, than what they had in them. And if they realized that, you could
exercise more authority over them. The wagon boss must be like the lead bull
that all the other cattle follow: better in everyway, stronger in body and mind.
Made of iron.

It was growing steadily darker as he stripped by the water's edge; a reddish
glow off the sand allowed him to see far out across the gradual sloping of the
vast praire to the dark, jagged line of distant mountains to the west.

He waded in up to mid-thigh and began soaping himself all over. The recent rain
had left the creek bed swollen. His hands passed over his cock creating a
noticeable stiffening. He squeezed his soapy palm around it. Electric tingles
moved up and down his spine. He squeezed more tightly feeling his legs quiver.

From somewhere on the bank he heard a sound. Glancing to his side he saw the
wrangler standing by a cottonwood. His face was hid in shadows, but Patrick knew
he had seen him.

Patrick moved into a calm eddy away from the swifter center current until he was
waist deep. He submerged himself rinsing the soap away and stood up. In the
shadows of the cottonwood he watched the wrangler shed his clothes, carelessly
dropping them on the ground and slowly wade into the water. His heart began to
beat faster as the naked, muscular youth swaggered toward him.

In the ruby glow of twilight the wrangler stopped close to him staring him
straight in the eyes. His hand went beneath the water and gripped Patrick's cock
tightly, milking it hard. Patrick gasped softly and gave only a feeble
resistance as the youth pulled him against him and forced his tongue between his
lips.

Still holding Patrick's cock, he moved around behind him and pressed the length
of his thick cock against the ass crack. With his free hand on Patrick's belly
he pulled him to him and began kissing hotly at the nape of his neck.

Patrick felt the heat of the kisses spread throughout his quivering body. His
knees grew weak and threatened to give out on him. The youth moved his cock up
and down his crack, the head touching his asshole, nudging and bumping. He
grabbed Patrick's wrists in his hands and guided him toward the bank. As they
reached it Patrick sank to his knees; Wade forced him to his belly in the mud
and brought his arms above his head, holding him pressed to the ground.

Wade got between his legs and Patrick felt the tip of the wrangler's cock touch
the puckered hole of his ass. A firm hand gripped his mud-slick cock and began
masturbating him; from behind the wrangler's thick cock slowly spread him apart,
sliding deeper and deeper inside until taut balls were hard against his
asscheeks.

Slowly the youth worked his cock in and out while pumping Patrick's cock between
his belly and the muddy ground. To Patrick the sensation of fullness in his ass
and the tightness around his cock was overwhelming. The youth rammed him, their
wet flesh slapping wetly in the now near total darkness.

Patrick knew it wouldn't be long now for either of them. He couldn't hold back.
The tight fist milked him harder and harder driving him into a frenzy. He
squirmed wildly beneath the youth who began hammering into him.

Suddenly cum was spewing from him and into him. Wade let out a strained cry
almost of agony, jerking violently on top of Patrick and collapsed with his full
weight on him. Patrick could feel the boy's hot breath against his ear and hear
the labored gasps as the last of his warm cum filled him.

Chapter 20: A little pot lickin'

For a week now Tibbs had kept her prisoner in her room subjecting her to every
form of degradation and perversion the sadistic bastard was capable of.

Would it never end? Faye Morgan found herself asking for the nth time. How much
more could she take? She wondered what had happened to Green after Tibbs had
dragged him out. Was he still alive or had Tibbs killed him? When Tibbs wasn't
entertaining himself with her body he would leave her with her wrists tied to
the bed posts. The burning pain in her upper arms was almost unbearable from the
constant, unnatural stretching of the muscles.

She wondered what more Tibbs had in mind for her. Was there anything left that
he hadn't done? She had a sinking feeling that she was yet to discover what
further horrors he was capable of . . . .

Tibbs was feeling invigorated that morning. The rain had ended. The sage had
greened up across the desert lending a pungent aroma to the morning's air.
Later, he told himself, he would hunt up some fat grouse and have Elena cook'em
up for supper. But right now something else was occupying his mind creating an
eagerness within him that could barely be contained.

After buckling his pants and pulling on his boots, Tibbs walked over to the
trapdoor and stomped on it.

"How we doing, Green?" he taunted. "Guess you're gettin' kinda hungry. I once
had a fuckin' redskin down there for two months 'fore he died of hunger. I've
got a bet on with some of the boys that you'll last longer; so don't disappoint
me. Course if'n you ever decide to tell me who you really are all this suffering
could end." Tibbs listened for a reply. "No, huh?" He laughed loudly then picked
up his slip gun off his desk and slid it in his hip pocket.

"Be see'n yuh, Green," he called out over his shoulder as he opened the jail
door and walked out. "I'm gonna have me some fun this mornin'."

Tibbs headed for the hotel. The liveryman was mucking out the stalls as he
passed the entrance way. The man glanced at him and turned away abruptly. In the
alley, between the livery and the general store Doc Greely stood on the
second-floor landing, leaning on the stair railing smoking and watching him with
a frown on his face. Ames, the barber, his arm in a sling, was sitting leaned
back in a chair against the front of his shop reading a copy of the Lantern. He
pretended not to notice Tibbs.

They all hated Tibbs and Tibbs knew it, but he didn't care. They were weak men.
Cowards, and such men didn't interest him. Their opinions about him didn't
matter. As long as they jumped when he said jump, shit when he said shit, that's
all he cared about.

He entered the hotel to the tinkling of the doorbell. Abigail was sweeping the
lobby floor. When she saw him she turned to leave, but he quickly grabbed her
around the waist with one arm and pulled her to him. The broom dropped to the
floor. With his free hand he stroked one side of her face and kissed her crudely
on the other.

Her body tensed as his hand moved down to her breast. He squeezed it, feeling
the soft give.

"I told you not to wear anything underneath," he crooned hoarsely.

"I'm not," she replied, her voice strained as she tried to free herself. Her
eyes were shut in a futile attempt to close out a world she no longer wished to
be a part of; she pressed her lips tightly together. She could feel his hardness
through her thin cotton dress. He rubbed against her ass lewdly.

"You sure?" he teased. He moved his hand farther down over the firm belly and
cupped his thick paw over her cunt. He made an indentation in the fabric
covering her crotch and ran a finger up and down feeling the lips of the slit
give beneath the padding of wiry pubic hair. "Just checkin' to make sure."

"Please," she murmured weakly, wanting to turn her face away from the wet kisses
his mouth was leaving on her cheek and neck. The palm of his left hand moved in
slow circles over her belly while the finger of his right hand moved deeper into
her slit stirring something inside her she didn't want stirred.

Suddenly he reached down and pulled her dress up over her hips, baring her from
the waist down.

"No!" she pleaded, her voice tinged with panic.

"Don't worry; nobody's gonna come in."

She could hear him unbuttoning his fly; she felt the swelling warmth of his
erection against her soft asscheek. He bent her over the back of a horsehair
sofa, knocking a white, lace doily onto the floor.

Tibbs stared at the white firm buttocks, enjoying the sight, reveling in his
anticipation. Her futile squirming only excited him more. Her soft, feminine
pleads were more intoxicating than whiskey. A man who has never raped a woman
has never experienced paradise on earth.

Tibbs spread the cheeks of her taut ass and stared down hungrily at the pink
asshole as the small soles of her shoes dug into his shins. Using him she pushed
up on the seat of the sofa, arching her back as she tried to wriggle out of his
grasp. But it was impossible. His huge hands encircled her narrow waist and held
her fast. Her petite body was frail and childlike clutched against his massive
chest and belly. Like an ape with a doll.

He positioned the head of his engorged cock against the pink button of her
asshole and pressed slightly feeling a tight resistance. Pressing harder the
tension increased as the purple head of his swollen organ began to slip into
her. With a farther push the bulbous head disappeared, swallowed by the puckered
lips, and slowly inch by inch his thick cock buried itself in her tight little
hole until his hairy balls were nestled against the peach fuzz of her perineum.

Gradually she sank onto her elbows, her hands moving to the edge of the sofa
where the long, pink nails clawed at the tough, unyielding fabric. Tibbs could
feel the tautness of her body begin to drain away. A crude smile twisted his
lips beneath his thick, drooping mustache. He felt wetness against his balls.

"You cunts are all alike," he smirked and repeated what had become his spoken
mantra: "You pretend that you don't want it but, boy, do you ever. Before I'm
through with you, bitch, you'll be begging me for it."

He withdrew his cock from her and placed the head lower down against the firm
lips of her cunt. Through the wiry cunt hairs he slid his pole into her. She
gasped softly, her whole body trembling. He shoved his cock in her fully,
withdrew and rammed it back into her faster and faster. Her cunt gripped his
cock tighter and tighter. He heard her moan from deep in her throat and
tightened around him even harder.

"Uh . . . oooooooh . . . uuuuuh."

She squeezed him so hard that his cum backed up in his cock until finally
erupting with such a painful intensity that his knees buckled.

Tibbs remained leaning into her for several minutes while catching his breath
and awaiting the ending of the tiny spasms in his cock -- each one belching more
cum into her sweet little cunt -- before he withdrew.

								

He picked the doily up from the floor and wiped off his massive, semi-erect
cock. Abigail remained bent over the sofa. Tibbs watched his cum glistening on
the inside of her thighs. She didn't move. Tibbs liked that. It showed she was
waiting for his permission. It was a sign that she had given up her will to him.
And she wasn't even aware of having done so. He knew it would only be a matter
of time before she would be his sex slave to do with as he wanted. The thought
excited him. And when he thought of what he had planned for her next he became
even more excited.

"Get up!"

Obediently, Abigail pushed herself up from the sofa and pulled her dress back
down over her hips. She kept her face lowered. Until Tibbs placed a finger under
her chin and forced her to look at him. Her eyes had little defiance left in
them now; it had been weakened by a body that she could no longer trust; a body
that had betrayed her. Replacing the defiance was a confused sexual need to be
dominated that crowded out the independent woman who had once been so sure of
herself.

"We're going for a little walk, Abby; I've got a little surprise in store for
you." He traced her delicate jaw line with a finger. "And I have a feeling you
might just like it; but if you don't like it at first I'm sure you'll learn to .
. . ."

.

When Abigail saw the naked woman tied to the bed she tried to back out the
doorway, but Tibbs pushed her on in.

"You two bitches have shunned me ever since you came to Red Rock, but all that's
changed now."

Saying so, Tibbs gripped the buttoned front of Abigail's dress and tore it
apart, yanking it down to her ankles leaving her naked.

"Now get over on that bed, bitch, and untie her!"

Dazed Abigail moved toward the bed in the corner like a sleep walker. The
newspaperwoman's wrists were tied to the head posts of the bed with what looked
like cotton hose. The hands were blotched purple where the circulation had been
cut off. As she bent over to untie the knot on the post nearest, Tibbs stopped
her.

"Straddle her first," he said, "then untie her."

Faye Morgan's belly was firm and warm against the inside of her thighs and
buttocks as she complied with his orders. Despite her revulsion at what Tibbs
was forcing her to do, Abigail felt a tingle of excitement, the faint flutter of
butterfly wings building inside her.

Leaning forward struggling to unloosen the tight knots in the hose, her nipple
grazed Morgan's lips. A shock of ecstasy coursed through her body. And instead
of moving her breast away she pressed it more firmly against the woman's soft
lips feeling such a surge of excitement that she became wet. As she glanced down
she saw Morgan staring at her with a strange expression on her face.

When she finally freed Morgan's wrists, she saw Tibbs drop his pants and sit
down in a chair facing them. He began masturbating.

"All right, ladies, you know what I want so don't disappoint me." Tibbs pointed
his gun at them with his left hand while continuing to stroke his thick cock
into an erection with his right.

Morgan tried to push Abigail off, but her hands were paralyzed from having been
tied up overnight. The circulation was beginning to return and they were burning
so badly that tears came to her eyes. The hands flopped uselessly against
Abigail's tits until Abigail grabbed her wrists and held them down on the bed.

Surprising herself, Abigail slapped Morgan's face, first with one hand then the
other. The action gave her a rush. She had never struck anyone before and she
suddenly realized she liked the sensation of not only being dominated but of
dominating someone else. What was happening to her? Tibbs was corrupting her.
What was she becoming?

The red imprints of her hands blushed Morgan's cheeks. The woman's eyes
glittered hotly.

A tiny whine sounded deep in her throat. Her ribcage rose and fell rapidly from
her effort to dislodge Abigail. The woman's cunt was wet against her belly.

Abigail struck her again. Harder this time.

"Be still!" she ordered.

Morgan let out a grimaced sigh and stopped struggling. She and Abigail were of
the same general build, height and all, but Morgan was weak after being
half-starved and confined to the bed most of the time except when Tibbs would
let her bathe or go to the outhouse. She lacked the strength to resist. And
maybe that was good. If she didn't resist maybe it would end sooner. And the
sooner the better.

She stared at Tibbs leaned back in the chair whacking his huge cock and recalled
with revulsion all the times he had shoved that huge thing in her over the last
week; she tasted bile rising in her throat.

Suddenly she was jarred out of her thoughts by the touch of Abigail's moist lips
moving back and forth over her breasts, sucking and nipping from nipple to
nipple.

She would let her have her way. Why struggle when she would be defeated anyway?
It was revolting enough to be raped by a woman, but better that than having to
endure another ravishing by Tibbs with his rough, probing hands and greedy, wet
mouth reeking of whiskey and stale cigar -- demanding things from her no descent
woman would ever dream of doing. She felt dirty and vile. He had taken her
innocence. Yes, he could take and abuse her body, but he would never make her
enjoy it! Never make her submit willingly!

Abigail was making tiny sucking sounds on her nipples. They were becoming hard.
Little ripples of warmth were emanating from them. Her pussy muscles were
flexing in sympathetic reaction.

With sudden disbelief she realized she was becoming aroused. She tried to fight
the sensations that were building in her. Wicked, lewd images began to fill her
mind.

It wasn't possible. Couldn't be. How could she be aroused by another woman? She
wasn't one of those women.

She writhed beneath Abigail, trying once more to buck her off, but Abgail only
returned a throaty laugh and murmured something incomprehensible while
continuing to suck on her nipples like a baby starved for milk.

Tibbs had achieved a massive erection by now and the sound of his flapping-off
filled the room.

Abigail slowly worked her way up Morgan's neck giving butterfly kisses, nibbling
at her tender earlobes, tantalizing her with probing fingers while whispering
lewd suggestions.

With her right hand she held Morgan's chin and drew the tip of her tongue across
her lips which reluctantly began to open under her insistent prodding. Soon she
was thrusting her tongue deep into her mouth, gripping it with her teeth,
pulling lightly, teasingly. While doing this she moved her left hand down over
the firm belly and raked her fingers through the blonde cunt hairs into the
tight slit which instantly began to swell under her administrations.

A shudder moved through Morgan's body and the legs parted slightly. Abigail
flicked the tips of her fingernails lightly over the clit and slowly inserted he
finger into her cunt hole.

While she worked the finger in and out of the pussy hole, she bit Morgan's
tongue tugging with her teeth, pulling and stretching her lips with her lips.
Soon Morgan arched upward to meet the thrust of the finger. Abigail vibrated it
quickly from side to side pushing deeper and deeper into her. She could feel
Morgan's breath hot on her face as she drew back, hear rapid gasps building. The
shapely body was quivering uncontrollably beneath her.

She withdrew her finger and inserted her thumb instead, placing the tip of her
index finger against the asshole. Slowly she worked it in rotating her wrist
slightly clockwise and counter clockwise as she drilled the finger through the
tight sphincter muscle.

Inverting her body, Abigail placed her cunt over Morgan's face in a 69 position.

"Lick it!" she ordered.

She placed her fingernails against Morgan's inner thighs and dug them into the
soft, giving flesh.

Soon, Morgan's trembling lips tentatively brushed her pussy hairs; the wet tip
of a warm tongue probed the swollen, tingling flesh of her cunt lips. The
beginnings of a cum race through Abigail's belly, building deliciously. She had
never known sex with a woman could be so good. Quickly she lowered her mouth to
Morgan's pussy burying her tongue deep into the slit while continuing to work
her finger in and out of her ass.

Both women sucked at each other as if possessed. Their nude bodies writhed
sensuously on the narrow bed giving Tibbs a show he would never forget. Standing
up he shook off the rest of his clothes until his broad-shouldered, big bellied
body was totally naked. His massive cock swung heavily from side to side
occasionally jerking upward to slap against his hairy gut.

He stepped over to the bed and gripping his cock in one hand he grabbed a
handful of Abigail's lush, brown hair and pulled her toward him guiding her
mouth against it. Eagerly her lips opened and slid down the immense tube which
filled her mouth to the stretching point. He pushed it all the way to the back
of her throat and held it there.

She couldn't take all of him. It was impossible to breathe with that enormous
head lodged against the back of her throat. She began to panic. Did he know he
was strangling her? Would he care? The need for air grew within her. Yet at the
same time an intense excitement built within her as Morgan's tongue moved hotly
in and out of her cunt.

The closer she came to smothering the more an overwhelming need to cum racked
her body. It was unbelievably exciting. And horrifying. She was going to die
cuming!

Tibbs laughed raucously and pulled his cock out of her mouth, slapping her hard
on her ass. He climbed on the bed behind her, straddling Morgan's face.

He placed the head of his cock against her asshole while Morgan alternately
licked his massive balls and Abigail's pussy. Slowly he inserted the huge organ
in the tiny, puckered opening and began forcing his way in inch by inch. And
while he was entering her, Abigail resumed licking and probing Morgan's cunt
hole bringing the newspaperwoman closer and closer to the most intense climax
she might ever know.

Tibbs reached down on the floor and unloosened his belt from his pants and
doubling it brought it down hard on Abigail's creamy-white ass while his cock
was lodged fully inside her. The sharp whack of leather against tender, female
flesh resounded loudly in the small room. The intense pain caused Abigail's
sphincter to tighten around Tibb's cock like a vice. A puffy red welt formed
instantly across her firm, rounded cheek. Tibbs brought the belt down again; the
delicious sensation of her asshole squeezing his cock to the root with such
force made him shoot half a load of cum into her ass before his tube was
squeezed shut.

Delirious with ecstasy, he swung the belt wildly raining blow after blow on the
delicate cheeks raising a cruel criss-cross of welts over the now burning red
skin. Abigail screamed in agony yet came with such force that her whole body
convulsed into a series of uncontrollable spasms. Her teeth were clenched so
tightly that she thought they would crack.

Sweat dripped from Tibbs' hairy belly onto her asscheeks. He stared down to
where his thick slab of meat disappeared into her. The slightest movement would
make him cum. His body tingled all over. Morgan's tongue on his balls made it
impossible to resist any longer. Pumping Abigail's ass frantically he shot load
after load filling her to the brim. As he pulled out cum dripped out into
Morgan's lapping mouth.

Tibbs smiled and climbed off the bed. In just a week he was more than well on
his way to turning the two women into his sex slaves. If he wanted, from now on
they would be at his beck and call, willing to perform any perversion he wanted.
Things were looking up.

He thought about Green languishing in the dungeon. He could just let the man
starve to death, but that wouldn't be any fun. Or maybe he could nail his naked
ass to a whiskey barrel and flay him alive with a latigo de cadena, a chain
scourge that Mex jailers were fond of using on prisoners. That would make him
talk; the thought made Tibbs' dick begin to re-stiffen. But there was no hurry.
He had plenty of time to figure out an appropriate end for John Green, aka Jack
McGee, or whoever the fuck he was. He squeezed his dick feeling it swell with
new excitement. Power was the greatest dick stiffener in the world. If there is
a fucking God, Tibbs was thinking, his fucking dick must be as fucking hard as a
fucking rock all the fucking time.

Chapter 21: The whores come to Red Rock

The round-up finally over, dozens upon dozens of horny cowboys began to converge
on Red Rock for pussy, whiskey, poker and shoot-outs. Lilly's whores had arrived
earlier in the afternoon from Sackville and taken up rooms in the Loomis hotel.
Later, they would stroll down to the cantina and pick up some cowboys and bring
them back to their rooms. And later -- much later -- when no one cared about
appearances any longer, the whores would stay in their rooms and merely have to
open their doors to select from a long line of randy cowboys who would be
waiting with two dollars and a hardon.

.

When the whores had first arrived that afternoon, the beautiful Ish-kay-nay,
shaman-warrior of her tribe and second in power under Gray Wolf, stood naked,
save for knee-high moccasins, on a rocky ledge watching through a pair of
military binoculars. Encamped behind her were a hundred or more young warriors,
equally naked, lounging about and eagerly awaiting nightfall.

It is good, she thought, lowering the glasses.

The eyes were dark brown and glittering with a keen intelligence. The eyebrows
were plucked as well as the eyelashes, the custom among the Apache, both male
and female. Her thick, shinny, black hair hung halfway down her back to a narrow
waist that could be encircled by a man's two hands. She held the binoculars
loosely against her left thigh and placed her right hand on her cocked hip
slowly letting her gaze drift to the vast desert beyond.

The white eyes -- los ojos blancos as the Mexicans called them, pin-dah-lickoyee
to the Apache -- would be drunk tonight. And the moon would be full. A good
night to attack.

She turned toward the encampment, square-shouldered, chin held high, her hips
swaying provocatively as she walked. She cast a proud glance among the
surrounding ravines and outcroppings. To the untrained eye a yucca plant, a
mesquite bush, the tan grasses or the sage were just that and nothing more, but
to Ish-kay-nay they were Apache warriors, hidden from enemy view. No one could
come within a thousand yards of their encampment without being seen.

She strode purposefully among the scattered groups of warriors knowing their
averted eyes would be fixed on the lush curves of her firm, young body as soon
as she wasn't looking. She didn't mind. Her beauty was a source of power and one
she knew how to use well when she wanted to. Her full breasts jiggled tautly as
she stepped over the rough, rock-hewed terrain. Consciously she allowed her hips
to move even more seductively and heard appreciative murmurs come from behind
her. She glanced over her shoulder and gave a nearby group of braves a taunting
look, but continued on until she came to a young Indian lying on a red blanket
off to himself.

She kneeled down next to him and looked at the freshly healed scar on his
stomach. The white man who called himself John Green had saved her young
brother's life, at least until she had had a chance to use her healing arts on
him.

Bear Claw studied her profile as she poked and prodded around the scar. He no
longer felt any pain. The soft palm of her hand brushed against his limp cock .
. . and brushed again. His organ quivered slightly.

"I'm healed now. I can fight." He spoke brashly, but she saw a need for
confirmation in his wavering gaze.

"Hmm, perhaps it is so," she replied keeping her face expressionless. "You heal
fast, my brother."

Her hand brushed against his cock once more. This time a noticeable jerk caused
the organ to rise slightly off his hard belly. He was powerless to stop it. Was
his sister teasing him? If she knew his need for a woman she would not be so
cruel. She would take pity on him. She would not tempt him so. She would -- but
what could a sister do to ease a brother's longing? He tried to push out the
thoughts and images that had suddenly arose in his mind. His sister's hand was
so soft and warm. Her skin and hair as she bent over him smelled of heart wood,
sage and mountain heather. His cock stiffened even more. God, if she kept
rubbing him he was going to cum, and she would know the evil thoughts he had.

"Dee-dah (you) have been lucky, my brother."

"Shee-dah (I) know, Ish-kay-nay."

The general term for a young woman who has not received her proper name is
ish-tia-nay, but his sister had been a tomboy and had refused to accept a
designated name when the time came -- showing a fierce spirit of independence --
and so she was called by the male term for boy, ish-kay-nay. Like all warrior
women in the Apache tribes, she did not perform any of the duties of a squaw and
was considered the equal of any male warrior. And since the Apache have a
reverence for those of great beauty she was elevated to an even higher level in
which she never was expected to perform the slightest menial duties. She was
treated as if she were a princess. Also, having acquired the shaman's art from
her great uncle, she became second only to Gray Wolf in power and was as feared
as he in combat. She had taken her first scalp when she was thirteen. But even
more importantly she had earned greater honors by conducting the highest number
of coups in her tribe.

She moved her face closer to examine the scar. He could feel her warmth on his
belly. Her left breast touched his hip bone. The nipple grazed the tender skin
coming off the slope and brush against his cock which was fully hard now.

He gasped deeply as her hand encircled it and squeeze tightly, loosen and
squeeze again. She continued doing this until he thought his cock would explode.
Spasms of pleasure raced up and down his spine colliding and ricocheting wildly,
churning his lust into a frenzy. He pushed his meat up into her moist palm and
began hunching it.

His sister was seducing him! He couldn't believe it.

He wanted to fuck his beautiful sister more than anything he had ever wanted.
But would she let him? Was she playing with him? She had to! She had to! Or he
would die! She was like a goddess. Her body so beautiful. He would die to cum in
her.


Oh, beautiful sister have mercy on me! Fuck me or I will die! Please do not let
me die without fucking you! I beg you! Please!

She straddled his waist. He could feel his cock lever up against the crack of
her ass.

Oh, Great Spirit! It was happening. He was going to fuck her.

They were in a secluded area near a large boulder. No one could see them. She
leaned forward touching her breasts to his chest. Her rich, black hair rained
down shrouding their faces. Her lips touched his. The point of her tongue moved
between his lips. Her slender fingers became entangled in his long dark hair.
Her nails raked lightly across his scalp.

Bear Claw's lust made him grow bold. He gripped the back of her head and forced
his tongue deep into her mouth. She squirmed against him. Eager. Excited. He
could hear her breathing becoming ragged and labored. He was turning her on.

He lowered his free hand to his cock where it palpitated against the warm flesh
of her ass. Gripping it tightly he tried guiding it into her cunt and after
several attempts the head suddenly slipped in between the soft pussy lips. She
was so wet that he was in before he realized it. Her cunt tightened around the
head like a vice. With greater effort he managed to push his cock farther into
her and heard her groan deeply, hungrily, as their tongues entwined.

							

She hunched her cunt against his cock forcing him deeper inside her. She was
taking all of him. Wildly she squirmed on top of him, writhing and twisting.
Sitting up suddenly she sank down on the few remaining inches of his cock and
began to rotate her hips while bobbing up and down, dragging her nails across
his muscular chest. Her face was contorted with lust and glistened with beads of
sweat that dripped onto her tits and coursed down her firm belly to mingle with
the sweat on her brother's.

"Oyah! Oyah!" she exclaimed, clenching her smooth, white teeth.

Her pussy spasmed around his cock, and he knew she was cuming. In a frenzy she
moved up and down on his stiffness bringing them both to a shuddering,
paralyzing climax. His balls tightened against the base of his cock in a sudden
gut-wrenching rush of pleasure -- that powerful release of tension -- as cum
shot through his cock tube filling her hot, tight pussy.

Sister collapsed into brother's arms, their hot, sweaty bodies stuck together in
the afterglow of abandoned lust.

Slowly the sun circled toward the west keeping warm their naked flesh.

"You are ready for combat, my brother," she whispered raggedly in his ear.

Chapter 22: Bad moon rising

"I'm going to take your woman, and she going to like eet."

Chili had his arm around Elena's narrow waist pulling her up tight again his
body. He had been drinking tequila and had a mean look. Sweat shone on his dark
face and beaded on his drooping mustache. In the lamp light, silver rings
sparkled on his left hand which rested on his pistol butt.

Raymond glared at him from behind the bar, tempted to go for the shotgun he kept
underneath, but he knew the Mexican would kill him before he could even touch
it.

The cantina was full of cowboys and whores who suddenly dropped off their
raucous conversations and poker playing eager to see what was going to happen
next.

In the tense silence Elena made an attempt to break away from the Mexican; her
shoe soles scraped audibly on the sandy floor, but he was too strong for her.
Several of the whores gasped eagerly, their eyes glittering from cocaine and
belladonna.

"Ay, Dios mio!" she exclaimed.

"Let her go, Chili," Raymond's attempt at sterness cracked into a plea.

"No, amigo. She going to know what eet like to have a real man and not some
fucking creepple."

Chili laughed and drew the back of his left hand lightly down her cheek and
kissed her crudely on the neck.

"Ah, you going to like eet mucho, senora."

He picked a bottle of tequila off the bar and began walking, half dragging her
toward the antepuerta at the back of the cantina.

Seeing his chance, Raymond reached for his shotgun.

"No I would do that, hombre," Jorge Mendoza shouted from one of the nearby
tables pointing a cocked pistol at him.

"Es un vero amigo."

Luis went to the bar and withdrew the shotgun, his gold teeth glittering as he
held it up over his head smiling broadly. Raymond slumped down on his stool and
buried his face in his hands as Chili dragged his pretty wife behind the
curtain, her soles scraping the floor.

A guitar began to play, followed by the sounds of silver coins jingling on the
poker tables, jumbled conversations and the slutty laughter of whores.

Behind the curtained doorway was a small living area with a feather bed off to
the left and a kitchen area to the right. Chili threw her roughly onto the bed.

"Por Dios, do not do this thing, senor, por favor. Tengo un esposo."

"Callate, puta! Te voy a joder!"

"Please, senor, no, por favor."

Chili staggered, took a long pull from the bottle and fluttered his hand
impatiently about the buttons of his shirt in an unspoken order for her to
strip.

She stared at him and slowly closed her eyes letting her head drop. Hesitantly
her hands moved up to the neck of her blouse and she began unbuttoning it.

Chili watched her through bleary eyes, licking his lips. A noticeable bulge
appeared in his pants as Elena's garments began to fall off. He moved closer
caressing her hair where it curled in fine wisps around her ear.

When she was naked Chili held the bottle out to her. She took it from him and
held it in her lap staring at it as if it were filled with poison. She sighed
softly causing her firm, round breasts to rise then fall. She lifted the bottle
to her lips and drank. When she tried to lower it, Chili placed his hand on the
base forcing her to drink more.

"Please, senor," she sputtered, spilling tequila down her chin. "Eet ees too
strong."

"Strong ees good. When I get through with you your esposo will never be able to
satisfy you again. Compared to me that fucking creepple will be like weak piss
to that tequila."

Chili grabbed her by the hair and forced the bottle back into her mouth.

"Drink, bitch! Puta whore! Or I, Chili, will hurt you badly!"

He watched with satisfaction the delicate flutter of her throat in her slender
neck and listened to the gurgling sounds as the burning liquid filled her belly
and brought tears to her dark eyes.

When he judged she'd had enough he took the bottle from her and took another
swig for himself.

Chili set the bottle on a small table and stroked the tender skin just
underneath her ear lobe at the hinge of the jaw-bone.

"You know, senora, you can enjoy eet. No one will know but us."

He stroked his fingertips lightly down the jaw line.

"You have a nice body. You should fuck many men and not waste eet."

Elena avoided his eyes by lowering her head. A shivered coursed through her
body.

"You like that, mi carita, I can tell, no?"

He unbuttoned his pants and pulled out his dark cock; he placed his hand under
her chin drawing her face up. He nudged the head against her lips insistently.

"Ah, senora, but you're going to have to suck eet eef you going to make eet
hard."

Chili took her small, soft hand and placed it around his cock.

Her mouth was warm and moist. He placed his hands on the sides of her face and,
arching his back, forced her head back and forth.

"Asi."

He dropped his hands; she continued sucking, her hand gripped tightly around the
base of his cock.

"Si, si. Mas rapido."

Her head moved faster. She made wet, slurping sounds.

Chili's cock stiffened until it filled her small mouth, stretching her rounded
lips as far as they would go. Spittle ran from the corners and dripped on her
tan breasts. Her brown eyes searched his face as if for approval or instruction
and widened with surprise as Chili filled her mouth with thick, squirting loads
of cum. She couldn't swallow it fast enough. Creamy strands ran from her
nostrils.

Chili withdrew his organ from her mouth, but instead of shrinking it became even
more erect and swollen. For Chili was one of those men who are sexual unambited.

He wiped his dick off in her hair.

"And now, carita, I am going to taste your body all over."

Saying this he dropped to his knees before her and pulled her close. He kissed
her hard on the mouth tasting cum and sweet juices. The cloying taste made him
dizzy with lust. She tried to break free, but he held her tight and forced his
tongue deep into her mouth while running his hands down her nubile body. When
his hands came to her breasts he heard her gasp softly.

"Now you know, senora. Chili going to make you hotter than a pistola."

He lowered his mouth to one of her nipples and sucked until he could feel it
harden between his lips. Then the other. The breasts, already firm and full,
became more so. Her body arched against him wantonly. Her fingers locked in his
hair and pulled his head hard against her breasts almost smothering him.

He shoved her so that she lay back on the bed, her feet remaining on the floor,
and spread her legs. Her pussy hairs were a silky, reddish-brown. The swollen
lips were slightly parted showing a pink interior. He gazed up to the clit and
flicked it lightly and rapidly with the tip of his finger until it peeked from
its fleshy sheath.

He could hear her breath coming in ragged gasps. Her body jerked involuntarily
with his every touch. He thrust his finger in her pussy and her muscles gripped
it tightly. She grew wet. Pussy juice beaded the hairs like morning dew.

He put his mouth on her clit, sucking and biting. She went wild, beating her
hands against the mattress and jerking her head from side to side.

"Ooh, por Dios!" she cried. Yo voy a morir! Dios, perdoneme!"

Chili straightened and moved forward until his cock was throbbing against her
pussy. Her hips began writhing wildly as he stabbed his cock in her. It was like
riding a bucking bronco. He rammed into her hard and fast, their flesh slapping
in a hard staccato.

"Take all of Chili, beetch! I going to fill your cunt! Take eet! Ugh!
T-a-k-e-e-e-t! Aaaah!"

As he came in her, their naked bodies humped and ground in wild, uncontrollable
ecstasy.

"Chingeme! Fuck me!" Elena cried, sobbing.

When it was over Chili wiped his dick on her belly and began laughing.

Chapter 23: The breakout

Faye Morgan looked at herself in the vanity mirror. Out of the corner of her eye
she could see Tibbs leaning in the doorway watching her put on her make-up. She
was wearing a black, waist cinch, sheer silk hose and button shoes. Tibbs had
told her, while he held his cock in her, that he was going to sell her to some
Mexican businessmen who intended on using her in a donkey show in Juarez. Good
looking, Anglo women commanded a high price. Tibbs had wanted her to look her
best when he showed her to the Mexicans.

When she was finished she examined herself in the mirror. It was a face she
didn't recognize. She never wore make-up. Now the face that stared back at her
was that of someone she didn't know. It was the painted face of a whore. Eyelids
tinted a dark purple, lips red and lush, the cheeks rouged and the eyebrows
darkened and arched. Whorish, true, but she had to admit that it was darkly
beautiful, too. Seductive.

Tibbs handed her a full length cape.

"All right, let's go," he said when she had the cape draped around her
semi-nakedness . . . .

.

Ish-kay-nay incanted over a firkin of bear grease; the nearest warriors dipped
their hands in and began oiling down their naked, muscular bodies and decorated
their faces with war paint made from roots and clay.

When the moon began to rise they gathered up their arms and silently followed
Gray Wolf and Ish-kay-nay down a rugged slope toward Red Rock. As they reached
the border of the town they split up into two groups: one following Ish-kay-nay
and the other Gray Wolf, each group making a 180 degree circle enclosing the
town completely.

In the moonlight Ish-kay-nay nodded at her nearest warriors toward the lookouts
posted on top of the buildings, and they separated, each singling out one of
them. With a long-bladed knife clenched between her teeth, she made her way
stealthily among the shadow of mesquite and sage until she reached the side of
the general store. Without a sound she climbed up the support braces of the
stairway until she stepped onto the top landing of the doctor's office. Stepping
lithely onto the guard rail she grasped the eaves and pulled herself onto the
roof.

Near the front she saw the silhouette of the lookout seated with his back
against a chimney. The red glow of a cigar brighten and grew dim. Ish-kay-nay
felt nothing but contempt for the white eye and his carelessness. He deserved to
die. And Ish-kay-nay would see that he got what he deserved.

She moved forward at a crouch. Her naked body glistened in the moonlight. Her
red and black war paint gave her the look of a demon, a spirit being from the
regions of the dead. Her bare feet made no sound on the tarred roof still
retaining the warmth of the sun.

Within steps of the man she held her breath. A faint breeze wafted his sweat
smell to her. Her nostrils dilated like an animal scenting its prey. He was big.
She would have to be careful, but she knew no fear. Only an intense excitement
that at bottom was sexual.

She took two quick steps and had her blade at his thick throat. Before he could
react she jerked the razor-sharp edge savagely across cutting deep. Involuntary
muscles caused the man's body to spasm violently. He gripped her throat with
thick, strong hands trying to strangle her, but she jerked away from him easily.
His hands couldn't get a grip on her oily flesh.

Blood spewed across her face and breasts as she repeatedly rammed the point of
the knife into his chest. The rifle he had been holding clattered across the
roof. The cigar left a glowing trail as it rolled down the incline. His feet
kicked up and down; with a shudder his body grew still.

Ish-kay-nay placed her lips against the wound of his neck and drank the warm
blood that squirted out covering her; softly, she offered a pray to the Great
Spirit . . . .

Doc Greely had been reading, by the glow of his lantern, about the poet John
Keats in a volume of his Encyclopaedia Britannica when he heard a thumping sound
on the roof. Setting the volume aside he went to the door wearing only his
undershirt and stepped onto the landing glancing up to the eaves.

"Hey, Joseph; hello there; you all right?"

He heard something, but he would never live to know what it was. An arrow
entered his back, went up through his left lung with the obsidian head coming
out his throat. He lurched forward clutching at the door jamb. He stared inside
at the lamp with its warm inviting glow and the volume he had been reading on
the nightstand. The last, incomprehensible thought that crossed his mind was
that he would never finish the article on Keats. A horrible pain staggered him
as blood filled his lung flowing up his throat and out his mouth. He staggered
several steps inside to his office and fell dead on the floor.

Ish-kay-nay jumped down from the eaves back onto the landing. Below in the alley
she saw her brother, Bear Claw, grinning up at her. His naked body wet with the
blood of a white eye, his cock hard with the lust of killing.

She felt an intense need to fuck with him, but she managed to push the thought
out of her mind. They would have time later. First, they had more white eyes to
kill . . . .

.

As Tibbs followed her down the steps, Faye heard a noise like the pad of bare
feet coming from behind. Turning she saw a spinning object arc up from the back
corner of the Lantern into the light of the doorway. A dull thud sounded and
Tibbs rocked on his feet tumbling past her down the stairs and crumbling on the
ground. A tomahawk clattered down the steps next to her feet. Hurrying down the
steps, she leaped over Tibbs' body and raced across the rutted street. She
didn't dare turn to look as she lunged against the jail door, falling inside as
it opened. Regaining her feet, she flung it shut and slid the iron bolt locking
it.

A dull glow came from a lamp on Tibbs' desk. Next to it was a tray with a
half-eaten meal on it. Faye stepped back into the gloom. She called out softly,
but no answer came from either of the two cells. She stepped forward and felt a
slight give of the trapdoor beneath her foot. Going to the desk she took the
lamp and peered down at its outline.

Kneeling she slid the countersunk iron bolt back and, grasping the iron ring,
lifted the heavy door up until it fell over under its own weight onto the floor.
She held the lamp up and looked down. A naked man was lying curled up on his
side on hard packed clay some fifteen feet below.

"Green?" she called out.

The man gave no response. He looked dead, but she thought his chest moved
slightly. On previous visits to the jail she had seen a ladder lying against the
back wall. She set the lamp down and went to it. The poles and rungs were made
out of cedar, and it looked heavy. It was. She dragged it to the trapdoor
angling it in about half way and raised up on the end; when she knew it would
clear the jail roof, she let it drop down into the pit.

She took a wash cloth and wetted it in the washbasin sitting on a pedestal
behind the desk and holding the lamp and washcloth in one hand climbed down the
ladder.

Close up she could see that he was still breathing. In the narrow confines of
the clay walls she felt an overwhelming sense of claustrophobia; she pushed it
out of her mind with an effort by focusing her attention on rubbing the
washcloth over his face. She heard him murmured softly. Slowly he opened his
eyes, blinking, blocking the glare from the lamp with his hand.

"Can you get up?" she asked. "We've got to get out of here. Gray Wolf and his
braves are attacking the town."

Green shook his head as if he were trying to clear it of cobwebs and nodded.

"I think so," he said, rising up on his elbows.

She helped him to his feet, standing behind to help him start up the ladder.

"There's some food on Tibbs' desk."

This seemed to spur him on. He fumbled and slipped a couple of times but finally
made it to the top. He could smell the food. His stomach was growling. It had
been a week or more since he'd had anything to eat. He staggered to the desk and
grabbed a hunk of bread off the tray as he fell into the chair behind. He ripped
off a mouthful and chewed at it savagely and reached for the dipper in the water
bucket and slurped noisily from it. He slopped the bread into the leftover gravy
on the plate and shoveled it into his mouth and grabbed up a piece of partially
eaten steak cramming it into his mouth, only half chewing it before swallowing.
When nothing was left he licked the plate and his fingers and fell back in the
chair in a swoon as he waited for the hunger dizziness to pass.

She told him about the tomahawk and Tibbs falling down the steps.

"Tibbs took your guns with him after he hit you over the head."

Green nodded. He could feel his strength returning, his head clearing.

"They'll be around here somewhere."

He started opening the desk drawers. In the second one he found his cartridge
belts, guns and holsters. Beneath were his shirt, boots and buckskin pants. He
also found some smokes and some matches which he stuffed into the shirt pocket.
The pouch with five hundred in gold was gone.

Standing, he looped the belts over his shoulder and unholstered one of the
pistols. He moved to the door, the awkwardness fading somewhat, and opened it
cautiously.

The moon was full. Beyond the borders of the town the desert sand glowed with a
silver sheen. Green glanced up and down the street. The tops of the buildings
were deserted. He couldn't see any of the posted guards. Indians would be posted
now, he figured, lying in wait. They would be able to control the town from the
roof tops. Anyone who set a foot outside would be dead.

Green moved back from the doorway and went to the stove opening it.

"What are you doing?" Faye asked.

"Take your clothes off," Green said, as he began darkening his face with soot
from the inside of the stove.

"My, do you think you're up to it so soon?"

"Not that," Green grinned weakly. "We may be able to get out of here if we can
pass for Indians. You've already got your war paint on. All you need to do is
strip."

Green waited for her to shed the cape, waist cinch and hose. When she was naked,
he bundled up his clothes and boots and crossed to the rear door motioning for
her to follow. He blew into the chimney of the lamp putting out the flame and
slowly opened the door. Moving within the moon-cast shadows of the building
Green led her toward the livery. Looking out into the desert all seemed normal,
but Green occasionally detected a faint movement that told him Indians were
concealed behind sagebrush just waiting for a signal to attack -- no doubt, as
soon as Gray Wolf had positioned all his warriors on the roofs. Green was
certain they had the town surrounded by now. With all the cowboys drunk and off
guard, it would be a massacre.

			



The back door to the livery had been busted open when they reached it. Someone
was moving around inside. Green knew that to an Apache horses were the same as
money. Gray Wolf had no doubt ordered some of his warriors to collect the horses
in the livery and take them back to their camping ground to later go into his
own private herd.

From the front of the livery came the faint glow of a lantern. Green motioned
for Faye to wait; he moved silently up the alleyway staying in the shadows of
the stalls.

The liveryman was hanging naked from the loft by a rope tied around his cock. He
was dead; blood dripped from multiple wounds. Two warriors, their oily bodies
glistening in the glow of the lantern, were entertaining themselves by twirling
his body around and around and releasing it while holding the points of their
knives against the skin flaying off the flesh as his body spun about.

They were too engaged in their sadistic torture to notice Green who grasped the
handle of a nearby pitch-fork sunk in a pile of hay. He swung the handle hard
against the back of the head of the Indian nearest him, then rammed the prongs
into the throat of the other one as he turned. The Indian tried to shout, but
his vocal cords were pierced. He grasped the handle of the pitch-fork in his two
hands and staggered backwards until he hit up against the wall of the tack room.
Green jerked the pitch-fork out of his grasp and stabbed it into the back of the
other Indian, hearing one of the prongs make grisly contact with his spine.

Green got his pinto out of its stall and saddled up, along with a bay for Faye.
A partial loaf of bread and a large wedge of cheese wrapped in wax paper -- the
liveryman's meal -- sat next to the lantern on an oak barrel. Green stuffed
these into a saddle bag hanging over a stall door after taking a large bite out
of the cheese.

He released several more horses and mounting up guided them toward the back of
the livery.

"As soon as we're out of town head for Widow Holbarth's place," he whispered as
Faye mounted up. "You'll be safe there for the time being and be able to get
some clothes."

"Where are you going?"

"I've got some business to take care of; I'll meet you at Holbarth's later."

Following the loose horses out of the back of the livery they whipped their
horses into a gallop and sped swiftly out into the moon-glow desert.

Rising from the shadows of the tack room, where he had been hiding, a huge man
lumbered into the light of the lantern. He touched the back of his head where a
tomahawk had hit him. Luckily, he thought, it had been the blunt end and not the
bladed end that hit him. He quickly stripped off his clothes and stuffed them
into a canvas bag and saddled up one of the remaining horses that Green had not
released. As he galloped out of the livery and reached the safety of open
country he turned the horse in the direction of the Holbarth place.

Chapter 24: The long shot

Green reached the overhang by the juniper and retrieved his Sharps rifle, then
turned his horse east. In the distance he could hear the steady bark of gunfire
coming from Red Rock.

A few hours later he found a pool of water in some rocks and washed himself off
and changed into his clothes. As dawn broke he ascended a rock-strewn butte,
stopping two-thirds of the way up. In the distance he could see the Loomis
ranch.

He dismounted, hobbled his horse and emptied his saddlebags, refilling them with
sand. He placed them on top of a chest-high slab of boulder that had slid down
from several hundred feet higher up many thousands of years ago. He took the
Sharps out of it case and placed the hammer in half-cock position; extended the
lever downward, opening the breech. Carefully he inserted a bullet into the
breech, seating it firmly and filled the remainder of the chamber with black
powder. Pointing the barrel straight down he tapped the rifle a few times to
allow the powder to settle in the chamber and closed the breech; pointing the
muzzle up he tapped the rifle several more times to make sure the powder had
settled against the back of the breech block.

Moving to the boulder he placed the barrel of the rifle on the saddlebags. He
estimated the distance to the main house to be about 1500 yards. He adjusted the
rear sight for 5 degrees of elevation. He left the muzzle sight alone since
there was no wind.

He sat down and waited, ate some of the cheese and bread and rolled a smoke. A
few hours passed. A couple of times cowhands came out of the bunkhouse to the
right of the main house to take a piss. An old woman went to the hen house for
eggs and to draw a bucket of water. Only a skeleton crew, Green figured, would
be left at the ranch. Most everyone else would be in Red Rock. Loomis would have
no idea that the town was under siege.

Finally a door opened at the main house. Two men and a dark-haired woman stepped
out onto the portico. One of the men had his arm around the woman. The other man
stepped out into the yard and walked slowly toward the corral where a vaquero
was leading a black horse out from the barn. The man was broad and had a mane of
white hair. That would be Loomis. Green watched as the man climbed up onto the
corral fence and seated himself to watch the horse prance about. When released
the horse shook its head and trotted toward the man who pressed his palm against
it's muzzle and patted it on the head.

Green positioned the Sharps on the saddlebags zeroing in on Loomis. He capped
the rifle and fully cocked the hammer. He pulled on the rear trigger until it
set. Keeping his aim on the target, he slowly squeezed the front trigger while
holding his breath.

The bullet arched through the air traveling over 1300 fps. About six and a half
seconds later it came down at about 600 fps into the top of Loomis' head which
exploded like a wineskin.

Green mounted up leaving everything behind and eased his pinto down the slope of
the hill. When he reached the desert floor he nudged the horse into a gallop.

Chapter 25: The Holbarth ranch

The Holbarth ranch was bathed in the glow of the full moon when Faye Morgan
arrived. As she entered the compound she eased her horse into a walk sensing
something was wrong. It wasn't just that no light was visible in the windows of
the cabin, but the general look of neglect. The barn door was open and the logs
of the corral gate had been taken down and strewn about haphazardly. She could
see the silhouette of a large skeletal lump lying within the corral. A horse or
cow. She couldn't tell which. She hitched her horse to the rail in front of the
cabin wishing she had a gun as she cautiously entered the open door.

Moonlight coming through the windows gave enough light so that she could make
her way around the interior. She saw a lamp on the table, but she couldn't find
any matches nearby. A crude looking armoire stood by a wire-framed bed. She
would be able to find clothes to wear inside. Naked, she moved barefoot over the
gritty, canvas-covered floor to the stone fireplace and ran her hand over the
rough-surfaced mantle until she felt a square box of cardboard. She shook it and
could hear the rattle of matches inside.

As she started to turn she heard the sound of hooves approaching.

John Green!

Her heart beat a little faster as she recalled the naked, hard-muscled body; the
corded belly and slim hips; the large organ swinging heavily between strong
thighs. She dropped the match box on the table and moved toward the door. As she
stepped out onto the porch she saw not the pinto but a strange horse tied to the
rail. Before she could wonder at this hands grabbed her around the waist and
pulled her against a broad, hairy chest. A bloated cock pressed up against her
ass.

Tibbs twisted her about and kissed her crudely on the mouth thrusting his tongue
deep inside.

Holding her tightly he took her inside the cabin and found the matches on the
table. He lighted the lamp and searching around, found a length of hemp with
which he tied her spread-eagle to the bed. Sitting next to her he smoothed the
palm of his hand over her body, squeezing the full, firm tits. He moved his hand
down to her pussy and massaged it insistently, working his finger in and out and
tweaking the clit roughly between thumb and forefinger.

When he removed his finger from her, it was wet.

"You like it, doncha? You're just a cock-loving slut like all the rest."

He wiped the palm of his hand across her pussy.

"You're gonna make me a lot of money in Juarez, donkey girl. A lot of money."

Tibbs sighed with satisfaction and stood up. He was naked except for a gunbelt
with revolver strapped around his thick, hairy, beer belly.

"But first we'll have to take care of Mr. Green, aka wanted-for-murder, Jack
McGee. I'll cut his fuckin' head off and put it in a pickle jar. Take it to
Santa Fe and collect a five hundred dollar reward. And he can watch me fuck you
all the way there."

Tibbs laughed raucously at this idea.

She watched him check his revolver, pulling the hammer back and spinning the
cylinder and shove it back in its holster. He found a half empty bottle of
whiskey on a shelf among some canned goods.

After taking a swig or two he took the lamp and went out to move the horses to
the barn and get his clothes.

Chapter 26: My kingdom for a horse

Green headed the pinto toward a range of mountains a few miles distant. If he
could get to it before Loomis' men caught up to him, he could set his horse free
and lose himself in the myriad rock-strewn ravines and buttes. Later, when he
had shaken them, he would be able to walk to the Widow Holbarth's to pick up the
rest of his money and get a fresh horse.

That was the plan . . . at least until his horse stepped into a prairie dog hole
spilling them both. After slowly picking himself up, Green checked the right
front leg of the horse. It wasn't broken, but the horse was unable to put its
full weight down. Sighing, Green took the saddle and hackamore off and swatted
the horse's butt.

"Go on get! No sense in both of us getting killed."

The horse hobbled off a little ways, stopped and began nibbling around some
sagebrush where a patch of desert grass grew sparsely.

Green eased himself down onto the ground resting his back against the saddle and
rolled a cigarette.

Looking in the direction from which he had just come, he saw a narrow band of
dust rising into the air. It couldn't be Loomis' men. They would have raised a
hell of a lot more dust than that; it couldn't be more than one or two riders.
He stood up and checked his guns, spinning the cylinders and took out the empty
cartridges that he normally left in for the hammers to rest against and put in
two loaded ones. He looked around for a place of concealment. Seeing nothing but
mounds of sage he picked up his riding gear and hid himself behind a nearby
clump. It would have to do.

As the column of dust grew nearer he made out a lone rider: an Indian.

"You cannot hide from an Apache, Nah-kah-yen. I saw you from miles off." The
Indian was grinning.

Green stood up, holstering his guns. It was the young Apache, Bear Claw, his
face concealed behind red and black chevrons but recognizable from the scar on
his belly and the brash attitude. He held a Winchester across the pommel. A
pearl-handled .38 hung by the trigger guard from a leather thong around his
waist.

"I see you managed to survive," Green said, staring at the .38. He rolled a
cigarette and handed it to the Indian. Bear Claw held it under his nose sniffing
before placing it in his mouth waiting for a light.

"Today I am Gray Wolf's greatest warrior. I get all the pussy I want now. I take
a white woman at Red Rock. I will fuck her tonight, after I beat her." He
laughed while leaning over to catch the flame Green struck with a match. He blew
a thick cloud of smoke toward the sky baring his muscular throat. Green could
see splatters of blood on the Indian's naked body, and none of it belonged to
the Indian.

Green glanced back into the distance as he lit his own cigarette. He heard the
faint sound of gunfire.

"The vaqueros will not be coming," Bear Claw grinned. "There is a dark-haired
woman and a black stallion Gray Wolf wants. They will be too busy fighting him
to find the one who made the long shot, the one with the keen eyes,
Nah-kah-yen."

Green nodded in the direction of the Holbath place. "How 'bout a ride?"

Bear Claw shook his foot out of the stirrup and held out a hand.

As they trotted off the pinto limped along after them trying to keep up even
when they disappeared from view.

Coming over a slight rise close to the ranch, Green told Bear Claw to hold up.

"What is wrong?"

"I'm not sure; but there's the remains of a dead horse lying in that corral, and
the gate's been pulled down."

.

Puzzled, Tibbs took a final swig from the bottle and tossed it into the
fireplace. Through the window he had seen Green dismount from the Indian's horse
on the rise. Suddenly it came to him why: the horse carcass in the corral. He
cursed under his breath. Green couldn't have known about the widow woman and
what Loomis' men did to her: sewing her up naked inside the horse's carcass;
leaving her for the wolves and cougars coming down out of the mountains for a
meal. Green had been in the pit all that time afterwards. Not knowing she was
dead he would naturally wonder why leftovers were lying neglected in the corral
-- if everything was okay. And he wouldn't likely be crazy enough to come
waltzing in until he had an answer -- not in full daylight, unless the widow or
the newspaperwoman showed herself, and that wasn't going to happen.

Tibbs cursed himself for having drunk so much; and at the same time he licked
his lips wishing he had another swaller. He couldn't figure Green being with a
redskin, and that worried him. Where there's one fucking skin there might be
more. And if there were more then it was all over for him. He had lost the
advantage of ambush, too. As he figured it he only had one remaining chance: no
one could beat him in a gunfight. No one.

Tibbs smiled feeling his dick stiffen. He would call Green out. Mano a mano and
kill him. Afterwards he'd get the fuck out with the woman in tow before any more
skins showed.

Tibbs cast a look at the woman spreadeagled on the bed and walked out onto the
porch; he stepped off into the yard his hand hovering over the butt of his
pistol.

"Green. You want the woman, come down and get her like a man."

Green didn't reply right off. Reaching in his shirt pocket he pulled out his
tobacco pouch and rolled a smoke, lit it, took a heavy draw and studied the
situation.

"Which woman we talkin' about?" Green hollered back.

"The newspaperwoman, asshole. The widow's history. Loomis' men fucked and killed
her over a week ago." Tibbs chuckled. "From what the boys told me it was some
good fuckin', too."

"Asshole?" Green muttered softly. Glancing at the Indian he said, "Do me a
favor. You got bullets in that thing?"

Bear Claw nodded.

"Toss it to me."

Bear Claw hesitated a moment, shrugged and tossed Green the Winchester. What
happened next was too quick for the Indian to see. There wasn't even a blur of
action. One instant the rifle was in the air flying toward Green, the next a
loud report sounded in synch with a muzzle flash -- and the rifle was back in
the air coming toward Bear Claw who barely reacted fast enough to catch it.

"Thanks; shoots a bit to the left," Green said, drawing a pistol, and starting
down the rise.

When he came to where Tibbs was lying he stopped and gazed down at the three
bullet holes in his chest.

Tibbs stared up at him with a bewildered expression on his face.

"McGee?," he whispered hoarsely.

Green was silent.

Blood bubbled out of Tibbs' mouth; his eyes became still; his head dropped
limply back against the ground.

Green knelt down and went through his pants pockets and retrieved his pouch with
the five hundred in gold the widow had given him.

As he entered the cabin, Green glanced back up the rise. The Indian was gone.

He saw the newspaperwoman on the bed, but ignored her. He went to the armoire
instead and began ransacking it.

"What are you doing?" Morgan asked in astonishment.

"Gettin' the rest of my money."

"Think you could . . ." she nodded her head at her bound wrists and wiggled her
hands.

Green merely grunted and moved to the fireplace. He ran his hands over the stone
facing until he felt one move slightly and pulled it out. He reached inside and
pulled out a leather pouch. It chinkled heavily as he hefted it from one hand to
the other. He opened it on the table; large fifty dollar gold pieces spilled
out.

"Must be about five or six thousand," he murmured. "The widow won't be needing
it."

He left the money lying on the table and went to the bed sitting down on the
edge. Their eyes met briefly as he reached toward the rope that bound one of her
wrists.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

"Untying you."

"Mas tarde."

Epilog.

Bear Claw recovered the pinto and the saddle. It was a good, strong pony and the
leg was only sprained; it would be healed by the next full moon. Slowly, he
guided his horse toward the west with the pinto in tow. Someday he would have a
herd as big as Gray Wolf's.

Someday . . . . 

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