Slocum and the Hellfire Harem (9781101613382) (6 page)

“Then don't.” The old woman stood by the back steps to the little house, a ladle in one hand and sweat glistening on her brow. “And keep your clothes on.”

Close by her mother stood the sullen young girl with the six-shooters. She kept her eye on Slocum and a sneer on her lips.

He lowered his voice and said, “Your mother and sisters don't seem any too pleased to have me helping out. I'm more than happy to ride on out of here.”

She smiled at him, her own hands covered in grease. “I think you're full of it, and I also think that the twins are in a huff because you took their job. They wanted to fix this themselves. That's what they were working on before you showed up.”

He nodded. That would explain the banging and ringing sounds. “Well, why don't they get over here and help?” He stood, eyeing the scant selection of tools they'd brought with them.

“Likely as not, because Mama told 'em to stay in the house.”

“Sure, because I'm a man, and as we know, all men are evil.”

Her smiled disappeared. “Most are,” she said, not looking at him. “Least the ones I've known.”

He was pretty sure that pursuing that line of thought would only make her angry again, and he'd had enough bickering with these women. He wanted to get the wagon fixed and get the heck out of there.

“You'll want a proper wheelwright to take a look at it once you get to the next decent-sized town.”

Ruth nodded, holding the wheel in place while he scored the wood for another round of crude carving with his sheath knife. Not much longer and he'd have it.

“California. We're headed to California and want to make it over the Sierras before the snow flies.”

“Oh, you don't have all that far to go, then. And it's still high summer, so you should be fine. Provided you get this wheel looked after.” He looked at her, half smiling.

“Yes, sir,” said Ruth, saluting him.

“That a truce of some sort?”

She shrugged. “Could be.”

“Well, thank God for that.”

Her playful smile disappeared once again and she said, “God?” she snorted. “I don't intend to thank Him for a thing. What's He ever done for any of us except heap misery down on our heads by the bucketful?”

“Amen, daughter,” said the old woman, stepping down off the porch. The two women exchanged a look and then both started laughing. Slocum wiped his face with his balled-up shirt. The old lady's face seemed to lose ten years of hard living. The smile livened her entire appearance and Slocum could see clearly the beautiful woman that had raised such pretty daughters.

She looked at him, and kept the smile in place. “We are obliged to you for your assistance with the wagon. If you get your clothes back on, we'll be eating shortly. It ain't much, but it's what we got.”

The meal was far more than he'd expected, considering the women looked to be traveling light. They'd unloaded their possessions into the broken-down house, and from what little he saw stacked inside, it seemed as if they had packed in a hurry and expected to move fast.

The family gathered around an old table in the center of the main room; crude benches had been set up along both sides. A crate at one end of the table served as his seat. “So,” said Slocum, helping himself to a biscuit after the rest of them dove into the pile. “I take it you all don't say grace beforehand.”

“Not anymore!” said a freckled little girl, smiling at him.

“Hush, child!” Ruth scowled at the girl and ladled steaming stew onto Slocum's pie-tin plate.

“We'll be buying supplies,” said the old woman. “Restock the larder for the journey at Dalton's Corners. It's a few days west up the road from here. Know of it, Mr. Slocum?”

“I do, in fact, though I've only ever come into it from the west and left it headed southward. This road is new to me.”

“Yep,” said the old lady. “Not many folks travel this road. It's been a lonely valley for far too long for us—” She clapped her mouth shut and glanced quickly at him.

He said nothing, pretended that what she'd said didn't mean anything to him. In truth, it added to his guess that these were the women that the raging, sunburned, Bible-thumping farmer and his sons had lost. Besides, he'd seen no signs of bandits, so his suspicions had been confirmed much earlier.

With an image of the sunburned five in mind, he didn't blame these women one bit for leaving. But they must have been the ones to tie up the men. He shuddered involuntarily. These were dangerous, vengeful women. Women who appeared to be in a hurry. Question was—what finally made them leave?

He looked around the table at all the freshly scrubbed faces, young and older, and decided to hold his tongue for the time being. They obviously wanted to keep to their own business, and he had to remind himself that he had business of his own, too. “After this fine meal, I'll have to ride on out. That rascal won't catch himself. But I thank you kindly for your eventual hospitality.” He smiled and was pleased to see the old woman did the same. “Now, I know how you reacted before, but I'm going to ask again anyway.”

They all stopped eating and looked at him with sudden suspicion.

“You're sure you saw no other person. Hard fellow to miss. He might have been wearing a red shirt, sandy hair, needs a trim and a shave, shorter than me, and riding a dun mare?”

“We ain't seen him, that's a fact. But what did he do?” said the old woman, picking at her food.

He glanced at the children, then back to her. “Quite a few bad things. Bad as it gets. Killed innocent people. They were friends of mine.”

The older lady's face grew stony, her eyes sad. “I am right sorry to hear that about your friends. I didn't mean to pry.”

Ruth looked at him with questioning eyes. “You're following him to avenge your friends? Not for a reward?”

“No, I don't want any reward. I want him.” He paused and again looked at the kids. “I want him to be punished for what he did. And so do a lot of other people.”

“You can't leave, Mr. Slocum.” Ruth gripped his forearm.

Her mother said, “And why not? The man has things to do and so do we. Like lighting a shuck for . . . other places. We need to be headed on out ourselves.”

“I'd recommend you wait until first light, ma'am.” Slocum looked out the open door at the waning light.

“Oh, I see,” she said, setting down her spoon. “What's sauce for the goose ain't necessarily sauce for the gander, eh, Mr. Slocum?”

“That's exactly what I mean. But only because I have experience traveling at night and you don't. Besides, you'll be rested and ready to roll first thing in the morning.”

“Well then, Mr. Slocum,” said Ruth, showing him those glinting peepers again. “Why don't you take your own advice.”

And the last thing he needed was for one of the kids to yawn. Soon, every mouth around the table, full of food or no, opened wide in a yawn, his included, try as he might to stifle it. He squinted at Ruth. “You planned that,” he said, sighing and shaking his head. “I'll bunk down in the barn out back, head out at first light.” He pushed back from the table and nodded toward the entire crew. “My compliments, ladies. That was one fine feed. Now, if you all will excuse me.”

He'd been more tired than he'd expected. Within seconds he shucked his boots and once again unbuttoned his shirt and slipped out of it. He laid his head on his saddle and welcomed an easy sleep, his long, lean form stretched out on his bedroll on the dusty old hay in a back corner of the barn. He'd slept in more comfortable spots, but rarely one with so many curious creatures so close by. He drifted off to sleep, thinking thoughts of what might have been, particularly with that curious firebrand named Ruth.

It was the faintest of scuffing sounds some hours later that snapped his eyes open. Even before he grew fully awake, recognition became action and he slid his Colt Navy free from the holster where it lay in his coiled gun belt, close by his side. There it was again, a rustling, dragging sound. A snooping coyote? Doubtful. Rattler? Possible, then he thought for certain he heard someone swallow, a breath, faint but possible . . .

He cranked the hammer back. “Who's there?” he hissed, keeping low so spillover from the moonlight angling in through the open double doors—the doors themselves were long gone—didn't give him away.

“Mr. Slocum?” came the whispered reply. “Don't shoot.”

“Ruth?”

She stepped into the light, and it shone through a light cotton nightgown, outlining her full form, and leaving little unimagined. She walked toward him. “Where are you?”

He sighed, eased the hammer back down, and holstered the Colt. “What do you think you're up to? Slinking around in the dark is a surefire way of getting shot.”

“Oh, you wouldn't shoot me, Mr. Slocum.”

“Don't be so sure. I may have killed for less than waking me up—you never know.” He lay back down, his hands behind his head. “I was having such a nice dream, too.”

He heard a quick fluttering sound, then felt her presence close by, even though he couldn't see much since she'd stepped away from the door and toward him into the darkened barn.

“As nice as this?” she whispered, closer than ever. He felt her breasts brush his bare arm and chest, her long hair against his face, her breath reminding him of mint somehow. Their lips brushed awkwardly, found each other, then he felt her tongue tip dart into his mouth, circle his lips. He felt himself thicken, his denims suddenly tight. Her fingers worked down there, alternately kneading and groping for the buttons, as he reached up and ran his callused hands along the smooth plane of her shoulders and back.

Slight sighing sounds escaped from her busy mouth. She managed to undo his buttons and helped him pull the jeans down. He freed one leg, though he wanted to work them off fully, but Ruth was having none of it. She climbed aboard him and trailed her busy mouth quickly down his chest, his belly, and wasted no time in engulfing his stiffest part in her warm, seeking mouth.

Up and down she worked him in a stunning rhythm, her teeth just scraping enough to tantalize him further. She let him go and licked him up and down as though it were a peppermint stick, a purring sound growing in her throat. His hands were tangled in her hair and his breath rasped. All too soon he had to ease her from her task.

“Whoa, girl. I might end up shooting you accidentally.”

“Can't have that, Mr. Slocum.”

Before he could answer, she worked her way back up and that magic tongue darted in between his teeth again as she lowered herself onto him, impaling with a sigh. As she sank down the length of his shaft, she trembled atop him, gripping his bottom lip lightly between her own and pausing there for just a moment.

He reached down the length of her again and massaged the velvety smooth swells of her backside. Then, as if by agreement, they each began to move in opposing but wholly comfortable directions, faster and faster. Soon, she sat up, arching her back and kneading his chest with her palms.

Her breath came in short gasps and then their motions grew tighter, shorter until together they paused, her fingers digging into his torso, his hands holding her tight to him. Then, with a gasp, she shoved herself up, then straight down on him. She gripped him hard down there, everything about her tense and trembling, before collapsing onto his chest, breathing hard but silently.

They stayed that way for some minutes, neither wanting to move. The night was cool but he felt her body covered in a sheen of light sweat. She raised her head, kissed him once, and with a sigh, she slipped up and off him.

“I'll be leaving early, Ruth.”

“I know,” she said as she slipped the nightgown over her head. “Good night, Mr. Slocum.”

“Ruth, my name's John.”

“I know . . . Mr. Slocum.” And then, with a faint scuffing sound, she was gone.

For the second time that night, John Slocum lay back against his saddle and fell asleep, though this time he was smiling.

10

As it always did, something about the predawn hour awakened Slocum. He lay still in the brisk, creeping cool. Shapes emerged—stall posts, a broken plow, the crushed bottom half of an old steamer trunk—around the edges of the little ramshackle barn.

A sudden urge to leave, to put as many miles between himself and the traveling band of women, gripped him. He didn't want to give any more thought than he already had to that bewitching Ruth. He only still half believed that she'd come to him in the night like that. No sir, he told himself, there will be no more dallying with her, nor even thinking about her. Because, John Slocum, he told himself, that will only lead to bad things for a wandering man—all those kids and a trip to California. Unless the old woman shot him on sight for messing with her daughter. He smiled at the thought.

But he knew the women were the least of it. He felt a tremendous urgency to get back on Tunk's trail. He'd already lost a day and he didn't want to lose any more time. As it was, making up that time would be brutal, and Mueller was no slouch on the trail, from what Slocum knew of the foul man. He knew he'd done something heinous enough to warrant a tracker or several. Slocum still hoped he'd gotten an early enough jump on the man. He wanted him back in Arizona, any way he could.

He rolled from his blankets and within minutes, because he'd kept the Appaloosa poled apart from the women's four horses, he had the horse saddled. He cinched down his bedroll tight behind the cantle, double-knotting the thongs.

As he rode on out, he swore he heard a slight sound behind him. He looked back toward the silent little house in the gray light of early morning, but saw nothing moving, heard nothing else. Must have been one of the other horses. He kicked off toward the cleft in the canyon behind the house, straight north. No more travel on that westerly road.

He'd had good information that Tunk was bound to head north at some point, and since the women hadn't seen him, and he wagered that their word was truthful in this regard, might as well try to cut his trail sooner than later. This would also be a decent spot to climb out of the valley's north ridge he'd been paralleling for the past few days. Maybe he'd see something from up there. North it was.

He breathed deep of the fresh morning air. It felt good to be back out on the trail. The women were an interesting diversion, and he wished them well, certainly, but he admitted relief at being free of them and their problems. He hoped they got to wherever it was they were headed, knowing full well they were better off to get anywhere away from the crazy Bible-thumping old man, Tinker, than to stay with him. And it was a sure bet Tinker had no way of getting to them. He'd just as likely sit at his farm and wave his Bible around and scream about the she-devils who'd robbed him of a future.

Slocum knew that many people found great comfort in the Holy Bible, in following its teachings, but it wasn't something he'd felt particularly drawn to. He regarded it as something he might need one day, when he was old and feeble, if he made it that long, and to that end, he figured it was providing him comfort enough in that respect. But he was in no rush to figure out the rest.

As he rode on, he realized he didn't feel the need for any more religion in his day than what he saw waking up all around him. Soon, he sipped from his canteen. He'd gladly forgo coffee in favor of making up time. The horse was well rested and had fed on lush summer grass, and he had a canteen full of water, provisions enough in his saddle bags for a few more days. He breathed deep and admired the eddy and swirl of the low-lying fog as they passed through it, man and horse, alone in open country.