Karen Mercury (2 page)

While there was nothing wrong with admiring a nice stiff prick, today it irritated Foster for some reason. Maybe because he wanted to
see
Worthing’s nice stiff prick, he dismounted and called out, leading his horse to the creek’s edge.

“Worth! Custer needs you.”

Worth made a half-turn, and indeed his monumental prick was in his fist. His eyes were bewildered, as though he hadn’t even noticed Foster was there. And he probably hadn’t, as he wasn’t a scout, only a photographer. Foster chuckled but made no effort to hide his own erection that bulged the crotch between his leather leggings. He would grab that uninhibited buck if he damned well felt like it. Out here in the heartless frontier, mutual solace was one of the only things to find comfort in.

Foster would grab any judy too, if there was a judy to grab. Gone were the days of being told what to do. That was one of the beauties about scouting for the army. As an independent scout, he wasn’t quite in the army, so he had a lot more latitude than the soldiers. He would grab anyone he wanted, but right now he had to water his horse.

“What does he need me for?”

“What do you think? He wants you to paint the Sistine Chapel.”

Worthing looked incredibly stupid, standing there like a Greek statue with his cock in his hand. The penis was heavy, veined. His thumb and forefinger barely met around the thick trunk of it as he squeezed it, choked it. The red glans popped out from his fist like a blooming poisonous mushroom, and Foster wondered if he was dense. Worthing was so brawny from his dumbbell-lifting that his absolutely flat abdomen actually rippled like a wind-blown sand dune. The skin was a creamy chestnut that nearly shimmered with vitality, his chest sprinkled with intriguing silken brunet hair.

Worth’s cheeks even dimpled when he smiled, but Foster didn’t look at his face much. “Very funny. I mean, what’s he want me to make a photograph of? I made that one of the entire encampment yesterday. Took me six plates that I’ll have to piece together.”

“Private King’s funeral. I’ve got to get back because he wants me to take an important message to Fort Sanders. Wanted to make sure you were finished beautifying yourself first.”

Worth finally let go of his cock. Rinsing off his bulbous, swaying testicles, he trudged to the bank. “Fort Sanders, eh? How are you going to find it? I heard one of the cartographers say all existing maps of these Black Hills are as useful as a blank canvas. And all these bogs we’ve been stumbling about in make for a mess.”

“Just point the compass southwest, I suppose. It’s not like I haven’t been to Fort Sanders before. I lived in Laramie City for two years.” It irritated Foster that now Worthing Ludlow swiped up a towel from the rocky shore and fussily toweled his hair dry. The toned pectorals bounced and quivered, the nipples just burgundy pellets begging to be thawed by a warm mouth. The cock still jutted out at a right angle, bobbing heavily as Worth toweled his hair. What was he planning on doing, taking a sunbath?

Perhaps because he was irritated, Foster snapped, “The fellers of Company D are roasting us to fight.” Worthing looked up at Foster blankly as he stepped into his drawers, so Foster continued. “They want to wager on it. Everyone’s wagering you’ll win since you’ve got all that nancy boy dumbbell-lifting.”

Worth tilted his head. “I don’t know. You’ve got a lot of beef on you. Might be a pretty fair match. After the funeral?”

Foster nodded, touching the brim of his slouch hat to indicate agreement before he rode back to camp.

Worth called, “Bare-knuckle? We have no gloves.”

With his back to the creek, Foster waved. He didn’t want to look at that stunning stallion any longer. If he rode at full chisel to the fort, he could be poking a prairie flower four nights from now. Then he wouldn’t have to resort to thoughts of an Italian fashion when looking at Worth’s bare ass or his long horse’s cock.

He wanted to find Horatio, but Bloody Knife accosted him first. He was Custer’s chief Indian scout, as Foster was the chief white scout. Bloody Knife was an all right hombre, although he had recently fessed up to never having been into the Black Hills, the sacred hills being so protected by distance from the Platte and Missouri rivers. They had been promised to the Lakota in the treaty of sixty-eight, so realistically speaking, this expedition shouldn’t even be here right now. The truth of the matter was, once anyone had found gold, Indians would never be allowed to remain unmolested in their Black Hills.

“Fireball,” Bloody Knife said soberly.

Foster sighed. It was the scourge of his existence that he would be labeled with entirely unfunny nicknames involving his ginger hair.

Bloody Knife said, “These Black Hills are very
taku-wakan
to the Lakota. I have a vision that it is not good for you to bring that message from Custer to General Terry.”

“Why not? I’m sure he’s just telling Terry where we plan to go next—to build the new fort, you know.”

Bloody Knife shook his head. “I do not think that’s what the message says, although I can’t be sure. But I’ll tell you one thing, Fireball. Since bad medicine will go with you to Fort Sanders, it is good that you are staying here for King’s funeral. Custer is already creating ill will by leaving before the funeral. You also created goodwill by stopping that man from cutting his wife’s nose.”

Foster shrugged. “I’m not worried about any
taku-wakan
stuff. I’ve got to do what I’m ordered to, or I won’t get my pay.”

Or the gold I’ve already taken out of French Creek.
He spurred his mount to where Custer’s tent had already been struck. Custer waved him over. They walked behind a supply tent before Custer slapped the dispatch into Foster’s hand. It was rolled up but sealed with wax, so Foster stuffed it in the possible bag he nearly always had slung over his shoulder.

“Son,” said Custer. Although they had discovered they were both born in thirty-nine, Custer liked calling him “son.” It was some kind of need for superiority. “I wish you Godspeed with this message for Terry. We need to tell him the Black Hills isn’t the impenetrable region we once imagined. The Indians don’t need these hills for their happiness. How many are there, anyway? Five hundred Indians for this entire rich land?”

Foster tilted his head skeptically. “I’ve seen more than a thousand up here, in one place at the same time.”

“In any event. This message will speed up the extinction of their claim to these hills. We need to get these Indian dogs out of our manger. They will not dig gold or let others do it. It’s our Manifest Destiny to fulfill, Richmond! One more thing. Stay here until King’s funeral is over. I have to leave now. Your continued presence will add some confidence and faith, and you’re literate enough to give a good eulogy. Don’t mention he died of dysentery, though. Just use the words ‘noble’ and ‘hardworking.’”

Half an hour later, the rest of the Lieutenant Colonel’s command was marching to the strains of the band, while Foster Richmond stood over Private King’s grave. Some men seemed to be truly shedding tears for King, whoever he had been.

Worthing Ludlow had set up his tripod nearby to make some of the respectful photographs Custer requested. As Foster tried to inject some enthusiasm into this eulogy for the fellow he hadn’t even known, his eyes kept wandering to the photographer, fiddling around under his portable darkroom. Already Worth had dark stains on his hands, though he’d just bathed in French Creek. Foster wound up thinking more about Worth’s stained hands than about the poor soldier in the hole at his feet or the monumental message he was to take to Fort Sanders.

Eventually, the only thing that dislodged the image of Worth’s luscious profile was the thought of Bloody Knife’s prophecy that bad medicine would go with him to the fort. He had already created goodwill, Bloody Knife had said, by saving that wife’s nose and now adding literacy to this funeral. Perhaps to hedge his bets, he should do one more good deed before leaving French Creek.

Like beat Worthing Ludlow in the boxing match.

Laramie City, Wyoming Territory

Tabitha Hudson had read nearly all the books at Albuquerque House, with the exception of the Émile Zola books, as she hadn’t gotten very far in French at school, and the entire Bible.

“What’s this thing, then?” she asked her sister Liberty. From a bookcase in Liberty’s husband’s study, Tabitha pulled down a strange wooden board across which were scrawled the letters of the alphabet, “Yes” and “No,” and the phrase “Carpe Diem.”

Liberty looked up from where she was going over her next lesson for her schoolchildren. Tabitha was very envious of her sisters, who all had productive and rewarding careers in Laramie. Because Tabitha was still in mourning, she had not been able to take on a job, but she was beginning to think about it, at least. “Oh! That old thing. I haven’t seen that in years. That’s a talking board.”

“Talking board?” Jeremiah Franklin was on the floor, untangling the strings of his marionettes. He was a queer fellow, so neurasthenic he’d taken on the moniker “The Lollipop Kid” for his completely round head and features set on stick arms and legs. He had just returned with Liberty after entertaining her schoolchildren with his puppets. “I wouldn’t mess with that. That sounds like all kinds of supernatural stuff, the likes of which you don’t want to mess with.”

“Oh, it
is
supernatural,” said Liberty. Apparently warming to the idea, she stood and took the board from Tabitha. “Levi, Garrett, and I used to use this board.”

“What’s it supposed to do?”

“Give you messages from beyond the grave.”

Tabitha gasped. “Why didn’t you tell me about this before? We could possibly get a message from Parker.” Parker was her dear husband who had departed the world much too soon almost a year ago now.

But Jeremiah got to his feet before Liberty could answer. “I’ve seen heaps of supernatural stuff in my time. Messages from beyond the grave, my ass! I’m telling you, Tabitha, you don’t want to delve into that.”

Tabitha faced the ridiculous clown. “If it’s false, why are you so afraid of it…Montreal Jed?” She used his former circus nickname to underline the absurdity of what he was saying.

Montreal Jed held a hand to his chest. “Afraid? Who said anything about being afraid? I’m just saying you don’t want to delve into that whole stew of a rathole.” His round eyes dilated with some far-off mystical memory. “I’ve seen creepy things that would make your skin crawl. Spirits materializing out of the thin blue sky. Spirits with the ability to affect matter. Spirits who could throw
snowballs
.”

Tabitha laughed. “That sounds like just what I need right now! If we could get a message from Parker, I know it would go a long way toward soothing me. Shall we try, Liberty? Show me how it works.”

“Of course!” With her forearm, Liberty swept Levi’s desk clear of papers, shoving everything to one side so she could set the talking board there. From the bookcase she unearthed a strange little basket with a wooden stick woven into its underside. She placed it upside-down on the board. Apparently the stick would point to letters that would spell out messages. “We sit around here, everyone placing their fingers on this rim.”

“Does it work?”

Now Liberty’s eyes shone with a doom-filled warning. “Yes,” she said with great import. “Works too well, sometimes.”

Montreal Jed held out his palms to the floor. “I want no part of this! No sirree, bub! A spirit once told me to take whiskey root for the Saint Vitus’s dance I was afflicted with. Made me hallucinate horrifying things, such as wolves with knives and tiny little jesters dancing across my knees. No, thank you!”

But Liberty grabbed Jed by the shoulder and jammed him into a chair. “Sit. It works better if there are more people.”

“Yes,” Tabitha agreed, taking her own seat. “We’re just spelling out a message after all, Jeremiah, not calling forth tiny jokers. Was your affliction cured by the root?”

“Well, yes,” Jeremiah admitted. “But I’m telling you. I can never look at clowns the same way again.”

As Montreal Jed had gone so far as to actually sit on his hands, Tabitha yanked one from under his butt and forced him to place his fingers on the rim of the basket. “Well, is that such a great loss, really? I mean, how many clowns does one see in a lifetime?”

Jeremiah shuddered. “Plenty, apparently.”

Liberty prattled on happily. “A spirit told us where to find the South Pass mine deed.” Her mines in South Pass had brought them great fortune.

Tabitha asked, “Really? Do tell.”

“Well, Garrett is quite clairvoyant. He had a vision that showed him and Levi where to find the deed. But the talking board—the spirit who controlled it—told them to protect me against one of Father’s creepy college friends.”

Jeremiah cleared his throat. “Um, ladies.”

As was quite usual, the ladies ignored him. Tabitha continued, “Shouldn’t we be asking a specific question now?”

“Isn’t the question about Parker?”

“Yes, I suppose. It would hearten me quite a bit to get a message from him from beyond the veil. I miss him so.”

“It’s about time that you can start wearing gray or lavender, Tabby. You don’t need to mourn forever. I know you miss Parker, but you do need to move on with your life.”