Slocum and the Grizzly Flats Killers (9781101619216) (15 page)

He counted to ten and then to fifty and knew they weren't bringing her out this way.

Not knowing what had gone wrong with his plan, he returned to the front of the saloon to see the outlaw still fighting with Mirabelle. She clawed and kicked and tried to bite him. He shoved her hard into the middle of the street. Slocum made a move to intervene when he heard Marshal Willingham and Beefsteak Malone arguing.

Both were just outside the saloon on the boardwalk, Beefsteak with his sawed-off shotgun and Willingham with his six-shooter drawn. Slocum did a quick calculation and knew he could never bring down both men before the third gang member drew and shot him.

If he went for the man in the street standing over Mirabelle, either Malone or Willingham—or both!—would fill him with enough big holes for a blind bat to fly through.

“We don't want to make a big ruckus,” Malone said.

“Too damn late for that,” Willingham said. He waved his six-shooter around and even swung it in Slocum's direction.

Slocum ducked back, but the marshal was only gesturing wildly.

“I'll lock her up.”

“I can't leave the saloon,” Malone complained. “Business is too good tonight. Always is just 'fore a storm hits. Ever'body wants to get likkered up to ride it out.”

“There's no hurry,” Willingham said. “She ain't goin' nowhere, not once she's in my cell.”

“She better be there, Will. I swear I'll cut off your ears and cram them up your ass if you try to cross me.”

“I'd never do a thing like that, Jim. You know it.”

Slocum wasn't sure how that sounded to Beefsteak, but to him it was a huge lie. And that suited him just fine. He waited for Willingham and the other outlaw to drag Mirabelle away, still struggling. He only had to deal with the two men, not three.

And when Beefsteak Malone showed up at the jailhouse thinking he was ready to find where the stolen gold had been hidden, Slocum would be waiting for him.

16

Slocum started after Willingham, his deputy, and their captive when a ruckus inside the saloon burst out into the street. Slocum half turned, then hightailed it across the street to get out of sight. Beefsteak Malone had his shotgun out and was swinging it around wildly. If he had spotted Slocum, he would have cut loose with both barrels.

In the middle of the street two men fought like wildcats, hammering at each other with fists as hard as stone. From their looks, they were miners, fit and tough and determined to make the other pay for whatever slight had gotten them ejected from the Damned Shame. With Beefsteak Malone watching over them, Slocum had no chance to pursue the marshal.

He kept to the side of the building, holding his breath, as if Malone might somehow hear or see or smell it.

The two miners continued to fight but weakened quickly. Slocum had never seen a real fight last longer than a couple minutes. Either the men intended to kill each other, in which case it was over quick, or they only wanted satisfaction and not the other's death. Most fights were about bragging rights and humiliating the opponent. If the other fighter died, there wasn't any way to lord it over a corpse.

Malone made sure no one from the saloon interfered, but he also swung his weapon around to fend off anyone elsewhere in the town coming for a bit of entertainment at the drunken men's expense. More than one citizen of Grizzly Flats walked in front of Slocum, intent on the fisticuffs.

“All right, git up, you two jackasses,” Malone said finally. He lowered his shotgun, went and grabbed one filthy, mud-covered man by the back of his coat, and lifted him to his feet. The other he kicked a couple times to get moving. “I'll give the two of you free drinks—but nobody else!”

A groan of rejection went around those who'd watched, but several helped the fighters back into the saloon. Beefsteak stopped and looked around the street, motioning to the onlookers who weren't filing inside to join the festivities. A couple did.

As far as the Damned Shame's owner was concerned, the two free drinks for the fighters brought him more customers and an hour of rehashing the fight between those not taking part.

Slocum waited for the swinging doors to stop flapping back and forth before pursuing the marshal and his captive again. He didn't quite run but came close. Catching Willingham and his deputy off guard mattered. Otherwise, there'd be more dead bodies littering the streets of Grizzly Flats, likely his. He slowed his rush when he caught sight of the jail and then stopped.

The door was closed. But no smoke curled up from the stovepipe sticking out of the roof at a crazy angle. Willingham didn't strike him as the sort to suffer the cold when the wood or coal was paid for by taxpayers' money.

He slid his Colt from the holster, held the weapon at his side, and advanced cautiously. He pushed gently against the door. Latched. Slocum eased up on the wood peg in the latch, got it free, then kicked the door inward. It slammed hard against the wall and rebounded, but by then he was inside and pressed against the wall to the side of the door.

His six-shooter swung about just as Malone's shotgun had—but he had no one to sight in on. The jail and cells were empty.

Slocum swung around and looked outside at the doorstep. His were the only tracks coming in atop a light snowfall. He hurried around the calaboose and saw where horses that had been tethered were gone, leading off toward the mountains to the west of town.

Willingham and his deputy had taken Mirabelle back to the site of the massacre to force her to tell them where the gold was.

Slocum started for Madeleine's and his horse when he heard two men arguing as they approached the jail from the direction of the Damned Shame. One of them was Beefsteak Malone. Slocum flopped down behind a watering trough that had cracked from the ice in it and leaked into a puddle just under his face.

“Should never o' let them take her, Beefsteak,” complained a man Slocum had never seen before.

“Didn't have no choice, and you were gettin' soused down the street.”

“Got to keep an eye on the competition,” the man said without any hint of apology. “It was up to you to keep an eye on Willingham. You knowed he was intendin' to double-cross us.”

“I don't know that bitch can tell him anything. If she wasn't in the camp the night we hurrahed it, she could have been collectin' the gold. But I doubt it. Otherwise, she'd have taken it all and we'd be none the wiser.”

“She might have the gold and still want revenge for killin' her friends.”

“No,” Malone said positively, “I read people better 'n that. She wanted revenge—and she don't know where the gold is.”

“So what do we do about the marshal and that no-account deputy of his?”

“They're likely headin' for the canyon where they shot up that old miner what interfered. We can start there.”

Slocum knew what Beefsteak Malone meant. They had filled Smith with three slugs and then ridden away to let him die. The search for the gold had to pick up there with Mirabelle's help, willing or otherwise.

He stepped out, leveled his pistol at the back of the saloon owner's head. It was an easy shot. He could kill him for the kidnapping and torture after Eckerly's funeral, then get off a couple more shots before his partner knew what was happening. Before Slocum could squeeze back on the trigger, a half-dozen men came down the street, yelling and waving to Malone. Slocum lowered his pistol.

His chance for a clean kill was gone. If he shot Beefsteak and his crony now, he'd have half the town coming down on his head in a matter of minutes. He slid his pistol back into his holster and walked away. If Malone was right, he knew where to start looking for Willingham and his captive, too.

After all, Smith had died there from Mirabelle's bullet, and Slocum had almost been permanently entombed by her stick of dynamite. It was hard to forget a place like that.

By the time he reached the barn behind Madeleine's, the snow blew into his face and made his eyes water. Riding in this storm would be hard. He slammed the barn door behind him and felt the chill knife wind stabbing between the boards.

“You won't last a mile in this storm,” came the soft words.

He spun, hand reaching for his iron. Slocum relaxed when he saw the madam at the back of the barn, a heavy blanket pulled around her shoulders. She shivered a little in spite of the blanket, and then he saw why when it opened just a tad in front. Slocum had thought Madeleine was also wearing clothing underneath.

She wasn't.

All he saw was milky white skin and a rusty red patch nestled between her thighs.

She quickly pulled the blanket back around her body, covering up the peep show.

“You won't last so long either, dressed like that.”

“You mean undressed,” she said, opening the blanket again and walking forward slowly. The blanket trailed behind her, but all Slocum could see was the way her body moved like a lithe, muscular mountain lion.

“I'll lose them in the storm,” he said, but his argument felt flat and bitter against his tongue.

Madeleine came closer until she was only a few inches from him. Her breasts had tightened with the cold. He saw gooseflesh on the firm, snowy cones. The nipples turned into hard bright pink pebbles as a new gust of wind blasted through the wood panels in the door.

“You know they'll be slowed, too, and you know where they're going,” she said.

“Did Willingham pay you to slow me down?”

The look of anger that flashed on the woman's face told him the answer before she spat it out.

“He hates me, and I don't think so highly of him either. Since I came to town, he's done everything he could to put me out of business.”

“Why?”

“I refused to let him have so much as a caress without paying for it. I'll pay him cash money as a bribe but that's all he'll ever get from me.” She reached out. Cold fingers touched his cheek, moved lower, then worked between his shirt and skin. She stepped a little closer so her breasts pressed into his chest.

“You could leave town,” Slocum heard himself saying. Blood pounded in his ears, almost drowning out her reply.

“I intend to. One of my girls run off to get married. Another killed herself yesterday. An overdose of laudanum. The two left aren't worth the dynamite it'd take to blow them to hell.”

“But you could make a good living by yourself.”

“So good of you to say that, Mr. Slocum, but I find myself doing things that aren't very businesslike.” She pressed insistently against him now.

He kissed her. After a satisfactory length of time they broke off and pulled back, their lips almost touching.

“I find myself wanting to give away the merchandise to a select customer.”

“How often?”

“Only once,” she said. “Now.”

This kiss lasted longer. Slocum's arms closed around her, and they began to slowly spiral about, a sexual dance that caused her to rub against him like a cat. Her legs parted enough so she could lock her thighs around one of his. She began rocking up and down. After almost a minute of this, coupled with passionate kisses, Slocum felt his jeans getting damp with her juices where she rubbed the hardest.

She was ready for him. He had been ready for her since she had come toward him clad only in the cold night air.

He reached around her, cupped her ample, fleshy buttocks, and lifted. Her legs spread for him, and she locked her heels together behind his back. He kissed her lips and cheeks and throat. As she leaned back, his mouth worked lower to the deep canyon between her tits.

He stopped kissing for a moment and asked, “That hurt? My beard's got to be like sandpaper.”

“I love it, John, I love it. I want more!”

She clung around his neck, pulling herself forward to bury his face between her marshmallowy mounds again. He enjoyed this, but his tight jeans robbed him of some enjoyment. She knew this instinctively. Dropping flatfooted to the straw, she ran her hands down his body, across his belly, to unfasten his gun belt and then his fly. Her quick, knowing fingers unleashed the hidden monster.

His manhood snapped out, long and hard and proud. He gasped when she took just the tip into her mouth as she knelt in front of him. Her tongue whirled about like the storm winds blowing outside, then suddenly left.

She tugged on his jeans, working them down.

Looking down at her made him desire her all the more. She swayed from side to side as she worked at his pants, her breasts jiggling as she moved. He ran his fingers through her fine spun copper hair and pushed it away from her face. She looked up at him, emerald eyes blazing with lust.

Or was it more? He couldn't tell. And then he found it hard to think coherently. She took him in her mouth again and grabbed a double handful of his ass flesh as she rocked back into a stall.

He followed her down, his cock never leaving her sucking, demanding mouth. Her fingers worked between the meaty slabs of his ass and toyed with what she found. A quick finger drove into him and massaged, stroked, worked against his insides, and made him so hard he cried out.

“Now, John, now you're ready.” Madeleine scooted up, pulling the blanket with her so she could lie back on it.

Her legs parted wantonly, exposing her nether lips invitingly. He dropped between those sleek legs and let her grip his erection and guide him to the pinkly scalloped gates to paradise.

She arched her back and drove him balls deep in a single thrust. They both cried out at the sudden intrusion. Slocum felt as if he was being squeezed in a wet, hot vise. She tensed and relaxed her inner muscles in ways he had never felt before. Then she sank back to the straw. He followed her rather than slipping free of such a fine berth.

Supported on his locked arms, he stared down into her lovely face. A few freckles marred the skin—or did they add to her beauty? He began moving insistently, driving deep and hard, unable to hold back. She had done so many things to arouse him he couldn't back off now, even to rest. He saw a flush rising in her cheeks and spreading down to her throat and lower.

The tops of her breasts turned rosy and then he closed his eyes as sensations overcame him. She lifted her knees on either side of his driving body and rubbed against him. He sank deeper with every thrust until he was sure he would split her in half. She took every stroke and gave back as good as she got by squeezing down all around him.

They fell into a mutual rhythm that built their emotions to the breaking point. Slocum tried to hold back the fiery tide that began in his balls and then inched along his shaft, but the sounds, the feel, the way Madeleine knew all the right places to touch and pinch and stroke, caused this slow advance to become a heated rush.

His spilled his seed, and it vanished into her greedy heated core. All too soon Slocum felt himself melting in her inner heat. He sagged down, winced, and realized he had wrenched his ribs again.

“That was something,” she said in a husky whisper. “Now hold me.”

Slocum moved around to lie beside her, then rolled and pulled the blanket up over their tightly pressed bodies. A relaxation descended on him that made it possible for him to forget his aches and pains. She felt vibrant and warm in his arms, the anodyne for what had been ailing him for so long.

“It's hardly fair,” she said. “You're still mostly dressed.”

“Not where it counts,” he said.

“Oh, here?” She reached between his legs and caught at him with those strong fingers.

He recoiled, expecting her to clamp down hard, but she surprised him again with a gentle stroking that caused life to stir within sooner than he would have expected.

“There's no rush this time,” she said. “The storm's going to blow all night long.”

“Will it?”

She slithered down and took him in her mouth again to show how enduring this storm could be.