Longarm #398 : Longarm and the Range War (9781101553701) (8 page)

He smiled. “I like what I see just fine, Helen.”

She giggled. “So do I. Let me help you out of those clothes.”

He had already removed his coat and laid it on the bed. Helen picked it up and carefully hung it in the wardrobe, then returned to him and unknotted his string tie, unbuttoned his vest and his shirt—she seemed surprised at the sight of the derringer that had to come out of his vest pocket to free one end of the watch chain that stretched from pocket to pocket—and unbuckled first the gunbelt, which she placed on the washstand, and then his trousers.

Again she knelt, reaching up to very carefully and slowly unbutton his trousers.

“Oh, my,” she whispered hoarsely when she uncovered Longarm's cock. “It's beautiful. And . . . big. Oh, my.”

Helen gently stroked the swollen object in question and peeled the foreskin back away from the dark, bulbous head.

“Oh, my,” she repeated and, leaning forward, first pressed the warmth of Longarm's prick against her cheek, then took it into her mouth.

She pulled back far enough to say, “Lovely,” then resumed rolling the head around and around within her mouth.

Longarm placed his hand lightly on the back of Helen's head and let her enjoy herself—it was not exactly unpleasant for him either—for several minutes, until he had to speak up and say, “If you don't quit that, pretty damn soon you are gonna have you a mouthful of cum, lady.”

Helen looked up at him and grinned. “Good. I haven't tasted a man in ever so long. Would you mind?”

“Mind? Hell no, I won't mind. Go right ahead an' enjoy yourself.”

She returned to the pursuit of her pleasure, taking his cock back into her mouth and rolling her tongue around the head, then sucking him deep into her mouth.

Longarm could feel the pressure of his juices rise near to the point of boiling over. He grabbed a handful of Helen's hair and yanked her face hard onto his cock, driving himself deep into her throat and exploding there, flooding the woman with his semen.

He quivered with effort and with pleasure and held himself inside her for long moments while Helen continued to suck, leaning back every few seconds to swallow and then resume her efforts to pull every last drop from his balls.

He was pretty sure she managed that too.

“Lordy,” he breathed at long last, withdrawing from Helen's mouth and lifting her to place her onto her bed.

He nuzzled one of her tits and sucked on the nipple.

“Careful there, cowboy. I'm already so hot you might burn yourself, so please don't start anything you can't finish.”

Longarm grinned and gave a playful lick to the tip of a very sensitive nipple. “Give me a couple minutes an' I'll show you what I can finish, that an' then some.”

Helen laughed and pulled him hard against her tit.

The woman damn near smothered him with overheated flesh.

He really did not mind.

Longarm woke early, to find Helen already awake and lying on her side, eyes wide open, just looking at him.

“Is something wrong?” he asked.

“No, not at all. I'm just enjoying having you here in my bed,” she said.

He smiled. “My pleasure, believe me.” He yawned and stretched a little, enjoying the feel of her warm body pressed close against his. “Tell me about yourself, pretty lady.”

Helen blushed. “I wish I was pretty.”

“You are,” he assured her and with a grin added, “A mighty good fuck too.”

“Do you mean that?”

“I do,” he said.

“I don't . . . I can't really tell. Until Cory died, he was the only man I was ever in my life with and since then there haven't been but two, not counting you.”

“Trust me. You're good.” He stretched again, luxuriating in the warm bed and the handsome woman. He idly played with her right tit and asked, “You were happy with him?”

“Very. Cory was a good man and I loved him from the time we were kids. We came here and built a little house and he ran the saloon and I tended to the home. Then he was killed. It seemed silly for me to keep that house all for myself. Besides, I had memories there that I didn't want haunting me, so I moved into what had been my storeroom here and sold the house. I'm glad I did it. But it gets lonely sometimes.” She leaned forward and kissed him. “It's a pleasure to wake up and hear a man's breathing.”

He laughed. “Is that a polite way t' say that I was snoring?”

Helen smiled and shrugged, then she slapped him on the chest and said, “I have to open up soon. Can I fix you breakfast first?”

“No,” he said, “but you can roll over on your back an' open those legs o' yours. I woke up hard an' think I know how to put that to good use.”

It did not take much persuading. In fact the lady required no persuasion at all. She quickly opened herself to him, giving back as good as she got with thrusts and moans, clutching him hard with arms and legs alike.

When they were done, Helen insisted on pouring some water into the basin and washing his cock and balls. With a smile she said, “So you won't be sticky all day. Change your mind about that breakfast?” she offered.

“No, I don't think so. But I hope I'd be welcome to come back for another roll in your hay sometime.”

“Anytime,” she said.

He dressed quickly and carefully settled the .45 at his waist. He liked to be precise about the placement of the Colt. Just in case he needed to get to it in a hurry.

When he was done, Longarm kissed Helen good-bye and slipped out the back door into a trash-strewn alley rather than be obvious about leaving her place when she was just opening her doors to business. He did not want to ruin the lady's reputation, after all.

He emerged from the alley onto a side street and walked over to the lone café, which now had opened for the day.

The place quite understandably was full, customers crowding the tables until there were only two chairs open. Longarm approached one of them. “Mind if I join you fellas?”

The three men already seated at that table barely looked up. “Sure thing, Marshal,” one said, waving in the general direction of the vacant chair.

Longarm sat and tilted his Stetson back from his forehead. “Seems you boys already know who I am. An' you would be . . . ?”

The man who had spoken left off chewing for a moment and said, “I'm Cullen Tifton. These here are Kurt . . . he's the ugly one there on the left,” a comment that brought a wide grin from the gentleman in question, “and Karl Biederman. They're krauts.”

“
Deutsch
,” Karl corrected.

“Right. Krauts,” Tifton said with a chuckle. Longarm gathered these three were friends of long standing.

“Kurt and Karl raise chickens. They butcher cockerels and sell eggs too, of course. I raise the grain they feed to their chickens and I run some hogs in the brakes. We all of us farm just south of town where the valley spreads out some. It's good country.”

“So I noticed on the drive up here from Casper,” Longarm said.

“You're here about the range war, I suppose,” Tifton said.

“Aye, so I am. What can you tell me about the trouble that's brewing?” Longarm asked.

Karl piped up. “Dem Meskins, they crazy sons bitches. Try to steal our birds.” He turned his head and feigned spitting. “Bastards. Dey come back, I shoot their asses. Got me a shotgun. Load it with salt and shoot der asses,
ja
, I vill.”

“Do you know anything about the Mexicans threatening the Basques?” Longarm asked.

“Way I heard it,” Tifton said, “it was the Basques saying they were going to fight to keep the Mexicans' goats off their graze.”

Longarm thought for a moment and asked, “Mind telling me where you heard the Basques wanted to start a fight?”

“Common knowledge,” Tifton said, “but I can't say as I remember where I heard it. Around town, I guess.”

“You?” Longarm asked the Biederman brothers.

“I do not remember this,” the one on the left said. Longarm could not remember whether that would be Karl or Kurt.

“They say the Meskin goats eat too much grass. The Basque sheep need that, eh?” the other added.

“It's open range,” Longarm said.

Tifton shrugged. “They want to keep it all for themselves. So do the Mexicans. I say let them kill each other off if that's what they want.”

“No,” Kurt said. “They buy our egg. Their money is good.”

“I just don't like the idea of foreigners . . . no offense, boys . . . of foreigners coming in here and making trouble for the rest of us.”

“Well, that's why I'm here,” Longarm said. He looked up at the waiter who had stopped beside his chair.

“We got eggs and spuds and fried pork. It's that or porridge,” the waiter said.

“I'll have the eggs and stuff,” Longarm told him. “And coffee. I need my coffee. About a gallon of it just for starters.”

“Coming right up. I'll bring the coffee right away and the rest of it soon.”

Tifton and the Biederman brothers had already returned to their meals, and Longarm soon joined them in that pursuit.

Longarm passed through the little gate in front of Sheriff Tyler's house and stepped up onto the porch. “Mornin', John.”

“Good morning, Longarm,” Tyler said over the rim of a coffee cup. “You surely are quiet. I didn't even hear you come in last night. Didn't hear you leave this morning either.”

Longarm laughed. But did not elaborate. He did not want to shame Helen Birch by starting any speculation about where he spent the previous night.

“Are you learning anything?”

“Not very damn much,” Longarm said, settling into the comfortable rocker close to Tyler's chair.

“Would you like some breakfast? I'm sure we have some pork chops left over, and Nell could cook you some eggs.”

“I'm fine,” Longarm said. “Just finished breakfast over to the café. I wanted to hear what folks are saying in town.”

“Coffee then?” Tyler asked.

Longarm shook his head. “I'm fine. Really.”

“Did you hear anything interesting?”

“Just what you've heard, I'm sure. That folks are expecting a fight. Opinions seem to differ about who's gonna start it. Mostly they're expecting someone to, it don't hardly matter who.”

Longarm rocked back in the chair and pulled out a cheroot. He nipped the twist off with his teeth and spat it into his palm, then tossed it into the bushes beside the porch before fishing out a match and using that to light his cigar.

“What I need,” he mused, “is some way to talk to those Mexican goatherders. I couldn't find none o' them as speaks English, and you could put my Spanish into your vest pocket an' have room left over.”

“I might have the answer for that,” Tyler offered. “Do you remember the young man at the livery?”

“Anthony? Of course I do,” Longarm said.

“Anthony comes from the south of Texas. Someplace along the Rio Bravo, though I forget the name of it. I've heard him dickering with the goatherds about this or that. The boy speaks Spanish like he was born to it. Why don't you ask him to ride along with you and talk to some of those fellows?”

“I will, John. Thanks.”

“I just wish I could be out there doing what the good people of McConnell County are paying me for.” He scowled at his own splinted and heavily wrapped leg like it had deliberately offended him. “Miserable damn cayuse,” he mumbled.

Longarm stood. “Reckon I'll step over to the livery an' see can I hire Anthony for that piece of work.”

“If there is anything I can do . . .” Tyler sounded hopeful that there might be, but Longarm could think of nothing the man might be able to do that would be helpful. Not at the moment anyway. Perhaps he could come up with something later, though, if for no other reason than to let the local sheriff feel that he was being useful.

“You've already been a big help,” Longarm assured him.

Tyler grunted his disbelief and took a swallow of his coffee.

The livery was empty save for the livestock stabled there, and there was no note to indicate where Anthony DeCaro had gotten to. Still, Dwyer was not so big a town that a man could get lost there. Longarm tracked DeCaro down in Samuel Johnson's mercantile. The young hostler was arranging for the import of a load of horseshoe nails.

“Where do those have to come from?” Longarm asked.

“Cheyenne,” DeCaro told him.

“Pretty much everything has to come up from Cheyenne,” Johnson said. “The railroad, you see. We have goods shipped by rail to Cheyenne then carted up here by bull trains or the smaller items on the stagecoach.”

“That makes sense,” Longarm said. “Y'know, while I think about it, I have a question for you, Mr. Johnson.”

“Sam,” the man corrected. “Everyone calls me Sam.”

“All right then, Sam. You handle freight orders here, I take it, just like you handle the stagecoach business?”

“That's right, I do.”

“Then do you happen to know how the Basques are armed? I noticed a lot of modern repeating rifles in that camp.”

“Is this an official inquiry?” Johnson asked. “Because I shouldn't tell you if it isn't. Privacy and all that.”

“It's official,” Longarm said.

“All right then. Yes, I handled the freight order for that. Two cases of rifles at twenty-eight dollars each . . . I made a fair profit on those, if I do say so . . . and four cases of .44-40 ammunition. All of it prepaid by a gentleman named Wisner. I don't know anything about him, though, or why he would be arming those Basques.”