The Last Trail Drive (3 page)

Her pussy was so wet they were making wet sucking sounds as they strained against each other. He slid his hands from her calves so that he could grip her ankles and spread her even farther.

“You're gonna split me in half!” she complained.

“Shut up, bitch!” he snapped. “I'm payin', ain't I?”

He was paying, and he could do any damn thing he wanted with a whore he was paying for.

Debra could feel the strain in her thighs. If he spread her legs any farther she wouldn't be able to walk—or work—until those thigh muscles healed.

Roy was one of her more aggressive clients, but she made sure his aggression stopped short of actually hurting her. One time he had spread her so wide she thought her pussy was going to rip, and she had kicked him in the chin to get him off of her. He had come right back to her, mouth bloody but smiling, and finished what he'd started without hurting her. He was a dangerous man, because that violence was just barely controlled. When Roy came around Debra kept a knife under the pillow, just in case.

But she had to admit, he was more exciting than most of her clients. She never knew when she might have to cut him to get him off of her.

 

Clint and Flood found the café. Actually, they found
a
café, not at all sure it was the same one, but by then they were hungry.

They entered, found all of the six tables empty, and chose the one they wanted—in the back. A bald, sweaty man took their order, and started them out with a pot of coffee. They both ordered steaks, and the man went off to cook them—or burn then, judging from the smell that came from the kitchen a littler while later.

“Not as strong as yours,” Flood said, when he tried the coffee. “Thank God.”

“What's on your mind, Hank?” Clint asked. “Why'd you ask me to meet you here?”

Flood put his cup down and looked at Clint.

“I'm goin' on a drive, Clint. Maybe my last trail drive.”

“That's too bad,” Clint said. “What do you want me to do?”

“I want you to come with me.”

“On a trail drive?” Clint shook his head. “I haven't been on one in years.”

“Didja hear what I said?” Flood asked. “This might be not only my last trail drive, but
the
last trail drive.”

“To tell you the truth,” Clint said, “I thought the last trail drive had already happened.”

“Not if I have anything to say about it,” Flood said. “I got a thousand head, and I expect to pick up half that again between here and Montana.”

“I remember when you drove three thousand head.”

“Those days are gone,” Flood said, glumly. “A thousand was all I could muster but, like I said, there's more out there roaming free.”

“What about barbed wire?”

“We'll go around it,” Flood said.

Portions of the famed trails—the Chisum, the Goodnight, and others—had since been blocked off by barbed wire. What was formerly open range was far from open, these days.

“How many men you got?” Clint asked.

“Ten,” Flood said. “Some of my regulars. Enough to do the job, by far.”

“With Trevor as your segundo?”

“That's right.”

“He's not going to like this.”

“Too bad.”

“Why do you want me, Hank?”

“You ain't gonna like the answer.”

“Try me.”

“You're a legend,” Flood said. “If this is my last—
the
last—trail drive, I want it to be remembered.”

“When it comes to trail drives, Henry Flood is the legend, not me.”

“Maybe with the two of us on this drive it'll be remembered.”

“Hank . . . are you all right?”

“Whataya mean?”

“I mean is there something you're not telling me?” Clint asked. “You're not dying or something, are you?”

“We're all dyin', Clint,” Flood said, “but me no sooner than you, I hope. Naw, I ain't dyin', I'm just gettin' old and tired. And like you said, the beeves ain't there to drive anymore. Not with folks shipping them by rail.”

“So this is on the level?” Clint asked. “This ‘last trail drive' business?”

“Of course it's on the level, Clint,” Flood said. “Why would I lie to you?”

Clint gave his friend a long look.

“Okay, that time I really needed you as an extra man.”

“You just about shanghaied me.”

“Not this time,” Flood said, as the waiter came with their steaming plates. “This time I'm askin'. Whataya say?”

“You haven't changed,” Debra said, pulling on her dressing gown.

Roy laughed. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, still naked, his penis flagging just a bit.

“I thought you was gonna kick me in the chin again,” he said.

“I thought I was going to have to,” she said. “You've got to learn there are certain ways a lady just doesn't bend.”

“Don't mean I can't keep tryin',” he said.

“What brings you back to town after all this time?” she asked.

“Trail drive.”

“I thought all the trail drives were done?”

“Not this one,” he said.

“What makes this one so special?”

“The trail boss is Henry Flood.”

She frowned.

“I know that name?”

“You should,” Roy said. “He's as famous as Chisum and Goodnight.”

“To you, maybe.”

She lit a cigarette.

“We done?” she asked, blowing smoke.

He looked down at his dick, then back at her.

“I don't think so.”

“Don't you have to be someplace?”

“I do,” he said, “tomorrow mornin'.”

“You aren't staying here with me until tomorrow morning,” she said.

“I would,” he said, “but I ain't got that much money. I only got enough for one more poke.”

“Fine,” she said. “Let me finish this cigarette. You just sit right there like you are, and I'll hop on.”

“Sounds good.”

“Stroke it a little for me,” she said, “while I watch. Make it hard.”

“Damn, woman!” he said. “Yer dirty.”

“And isn't that why you come to see me?”

“It sure is.” He took his cock in his hand and started stroking it. Before long it was standing long and hard—mostly because while she smoked with her right hand, she played with herself with her left, getting herself wet and ready.

“Okay,” she said, stabbing out the cigarette, “here I come.”

She dropped her robe, straddled his legs, reached down for his cock, and then sank down on it, taking it inside.

Hard for him to try to split her in half from here.

Jack Trevor came out of the general store, stopped to light a quirley. He didn't see the man watching him from across the street.

He had purchased what they needed and made arrangements to have it all picked up by buckboard early the next morning. Now all he had to do was find a chuckwagon cook, and they didn't grow on trees. You couldn't just go into a restaurant or café and grab a cook out of the kitchen. Cooking out of a chuckwagon for a group of drovers was very different.

If he didn't find one, he and the other men were going to have to eat Henry Flood's cooking the whole way. That was not an option for him.

 

Clint and Flood finished their burned steaks. It was still better than what they had eaten lately on the trail. Even burned meat was better than beans day after day.

Over pie—peach for Clint, rhubarb for Flood—the trail boss asked, “Well? Ain't you given it enough thought, already?”

“I'm still thinking, Hank,” Clint said. “You're asking me to give you three months of my life.”

“You got other plans for that three months?”

“Well, no—”

“Can you think of a better way to spend them three months?”

“I can think of a lot of ways—”

“Okay, never mind that part,” Flood said, waving his hands. “I know you'd rather sit at a poker table for three months.”

“That's just one—”

“When's the last time you turned down a friend askin' for help?”

“The last time a friend asked me for three months—”

Flood sat back hard in his chair.

“Yer startin' to rile me!”

“Okay, take it easy,” Clint said, laughing.

“Stop funnin' me like that, Clint,” Flood said. “This is real important to me.”

“I know it is, Hank,” Clint said. “Look, I'll have to send some telegrams today. I was supposed to be someplace in about two months, but I can cancel.”

“So you'll come?” Flood asked.

“As long as nobody else on the drive objects,” Clint said.

“I'm the boss,” Flood said. “Nobody's gonna say nothin' if I tell 'em—”

“Hold on,” Clint said. “I've been on trail drives before where there was tension between some of the men. It doesn't make for a pleasant three months.”

Flood scratched the beard stubble on his chin.

“I guess you're right,” he said. “Well, I'll talk to the men. I don't think anybody's gonna say nothin' about it.”

“What about Trevor?”

“I'll talk to Jack,” Flood said. “I don't think I'll have a problem with him.”

“Where is Trevor anyway?” Clint asked.

“He had to go and buy some supplies,” Flood said. “And we gotta find us a cook. The one I had did a damn fool thing and now he can't come with us.”

“What'd he do?” Clint asked.

“He died.”

“Well,” Clint said, “I might have somebody for you.”

 

Clint and Flood entered the Crystal Saloon, found Jack Trevor standing at the bar nursing a warm beer. Clint could tell the man wasn't happy to see him.

“Adams,” he said.

“Trevor.”

“How'd you do, Jack?” Flood asked.

“I got the supplies,” Trevor said, “we can pick 'em up in the mornin'. I'll have a couple of the men come in and collect 'em.”

“What about a cook?”

“Well, now, there I didn't have much luck. In the old days we woulda found two or three of 'em sittin' around the saloon, waitin' to be asked.”

“Well, Clint actually thinks there may be somebody in this saloon who can do the job?”

“Oh? That so? Is Adams an expert on chuckwagon cooks, now?”

“Not an expert,” Clint said. “I just know there's somebody here who's done the job before.”

“Who might that be, then?” Trevor asked.

Clint pointed a finger at the barman and said, “Him.”

“You say this fella's got experience?” Trevor asked.

“
I
don't say it,” Clint said. “He said it earlier today when we were talking.”

“Why were you and him talkin' about chuckwagons?” Trevor asked.

“We were just passing the time, Trevor,” Clint said, “and he mentioned it.”

“What's it matter why he said it?” Flood asked. “Let's find out who he's worked for, and maybe we'll get an idea if he's any good.”

“I'll talk to him,” Trevor said, turning to call the man over.

“Since I'm, here,” Flood said, “I'll just listen in.”

“Me, too,” Clint said. When Trevor looked at him he added, “I've got nothing else to do.”

“Suit yerself,” Trevor said.

The barman saw them and came over.

“Nice to see ya back, Mr. Adams,” he said. “Beer?”

“I've had enough warm beer for one day, Spud,” Clint said. “Meet my friend, Jack Trevor and Henry Flood.”

“Flood?” Spud's eyes popped.

“Spud Johnson, Hank,” Clint said. “Used to be a chuckwagon cook.”

“So he says,” Trevor commented.

“Well, Mr. Johnson,” Flood said, “who've you worked for?”

Johnson gave Flood a few names, and a few personality descriptions as well, enough to convince Flood that he was telling the truth.

“Well,” Flood said, “sounds good enough for me.”

“How do we know he can cook?” Trevor asked.

“No matter how he cooks,” Flood said, “it has to be better than my cookin'.”

“That's for sure,” Clint said.

Trevor looked at both of them, then said to Flood, “It's up to you. You're the boss.”

“Yeah, I am.”

Trevor walked away, out the batwing doors.

“Spud, you're hired,” Flood said. “Can you be ready to leave tomorrow?”

“Today, if you say so, Boss.”

“Tomorrow will do,” Flood said. “And Spud, on the trail you'll take your orders from me, and from Mr. Trevor.”

“Yes, sir.”

Flood looked at Clint.

“Now there's only you to make up your mind,” Flood said.

“Yeah, I guess there is.”

 

Jack Trevor stopped just outside the saloon, still didn't see the man across the street. He was mad—mad that Clint Adams would be coming along on the drive, even madder that Flood had hired the barman as their cook without consulting him. He was the segundo, he was supposed to have some say in who got hired and who didn't.

He decided to walk over to the livery and check on his horse. The animal was going to have to be sound for this trip. He had four others with the remuda back at the herd, but this one was his favorite.