The Last Trail Drive (7 page)

“Yeah . . . Oh, yeah, I remember. What you got there, Spud?”

“Just some quick chili I threw together. Want a bowl, Boss?”

“I feel like hell, but I sure do.”

“Corn bread or tortillas with it?”

“Can I get both?”

“You're the boss.”

Spud handed Flood a bowl of chili, a hunk of corn bread, and a rolled up tortilla. Flood went to sit with the men and eat.

“Is somebody on watch?” he asked.

“Henderson is, Boss,” Eddie Mott said.

“Bring him a bowl of chili when you get a chance, Eddie,” Flood said.

“Sure, Boss.”

“Hey, Mr. Flood?” Dan Quick said.

“Yeah?”

“Henderson said that cook tol' him Jack Trevor was dead. That true?”

“Yeah, it's true,” Flood said. “Somebody stabbed him in the back.”

“Did they catch who did it?”

“No,” Flood said, sourly. “That's why I said ‘somebody' did it.”

“So what are we doin' then?” someone asked. “We still pullin' out tomorrow?”

“We are,” Flood said. “I need two men to go to town at first light and get our supplies from the general store.”

Two men volunteered. Well, seven men volunteered, but Flood pointed out two he figured would not try to get the saloon to open for them.

“What about Jack?” Eddie asked.

“What about him?”

“Well, he was segundo,” Eddie said. “Who's gonna replace him?”

“I got a replacement already,” Flood said. “He'll be here tomorrow mornin'.”

The men all exchanged glances. Obviously they'd expected a replacement to be picked from their number.

“Who is it?” Eddie asked.

“You'll find out in the mornin',” Flood said, brushing him off. “Okay, listen up, here's who I want on night duty . . .”

 

Sitting at the back of the group of men eating chili were Roy Sobel and his friend, Andy Dirker. They had managed to get back to camp before Flood returned.

“Wonder who the new segundo's gonna be?” Sobel said, around a mouthful of chili.

Dirker remained silent, but he thought he knew.

Debra could not recall ever treating another man's penis the way she was treating Clint's—lovingly.

She positioned herself between his legs, stroked him until he was painfully hard, then took him deeply into her mouth and began to ride him wetly. He groaned, began moving his hips in unison with her head.

She rubbed her hands over his thighs, belly and chest while she continued to suck him. She was such an expert that she used no hands. She was able to take him to the brink, then back him off, then to the brink again, only using her mouth and tongue and throat.

She made an “Mmmmm” sound at one point, and he didn't know if it was because she was enjoying herself, or because she wanted him to feel the vibrations from the humming, which he did feel, right down to his toes.

“Jesus, Debra—” he said.

“No, not yet,” she said, although she did release him from her mouth. She straddled him, smiled down at him and said, “First I want a ride.”

“Fine with me,” he said, reaching for her . . .

Flood walked over to where Spud was cleaning up after everyone had finished eating.

“Well, looks like you can cook,” Flood said.

“Yessir,” Spud said. “I'm glad they all liked it.”

“Listen . . . thanks for gettin' me back to camp.”

“Sure, Boss.”

“Now that I've had a small nap and a meal, I'm feelin' a lot better.”

“That's good.”

“Except about Jack Trevor.”

“Oh, yeah,” Spud said, “I'm real sorry about that.”

“Say, you didn't notice anything in the saloon, did ya?” Flood asked. “I mean, anybody hangin' around, maybe followin' us?”

“I'm real sorry, Mr. Flood, but I didn't see nobody,” Spud said.

“That's okay, Spud,” Flood said. “Good job on the chili.”

“I'm figurin' on makin' a mess of eggs and bacon for breakfast, Boss, with some biscuits.”

“You go ahead and make whatever you want, Spud,” Flood said. “You got all the supplies you'll be needin' in your wagon?”

“I took a quick look, but yeah, it seems well stocked.”

“Good, good. I'm gonna ride out and take a look at the herd with a few of the men. I'll see you later—or in the mornin'.”

“Okay, Boss.”

Flood walked away. Spud was thankful he'd gotten through the day without getting shot by the sentry, and he seemed pretty secure in his new job—at least, for the next three months or so.

 

When Clint flipped Debra over onto her hands and knees, she cooperated fully, and happily. This was nothing like the sex she'd been having in grubby whorehouse rooms for years. This was the kind of sex that was going to have her questioning her profession after it was over.

But as Clint gripped her wide hips and slid his penis up into her wet pussy from behind she didn't want it to end—ever. She had no idea what time it was, or what day it was.

And she didn't care.

 

Clint couldn't remember having been with a woman who enjoyed sex so much. And given Debra's job it was amazing to him that she was acting like a woman who had just discovered sex—except she was very, very good at it.

She had ridden him for a long time, her breasts mesmerizing him as they swayed in his face. He was able to stay with her, but it took every effort he had not to just explode.

Once she climbed off him, he gave in to the urge to flip her over and take her from behind, and she didn't mind at all.

He drove himself into her, and at the same time she rocked back into him. As their efforts continued, they both became covered by a sweaty sheen, and his hands began to slip on her hips. She grunted with every thrust, and in between grunts he thought she was laughing. She had a body made for sex, and he was pleased to enjoy it, but he doubted he was enjoying it as much as she was.

Maybe she was enjoying it for the first time in years—maybe in her life. Idly, he wondered if she'd want to talk when they were finished—but then all thoughts fled as he felt his orgasm building, and from then on he concentrated only on pursuing that.

“Well, this is just fine,” Debra said.

“What is?” Clint asked.

“You've ruined me,” she said. “How can I go back to being a whore after this?”

“I didn't mean to cause you a career change,” he said. “Should I apologize?”

“Hell, no!”

They were lying side by side, catching their breath.

“So do something else with your life,” he suggested.

“Like what?” she asked. “At my age how can I change?”

“You're not that old.”

“If I'm not an old whore,” she said, “then I'm an old maid.”

“At . . . what? Thirty?”

“Thirty-two.”

“Oh, yeah, that's real old.”

“It is, for an unmarried woman.”

“There are lots of jobs you could get, Debra,” he said.

“That may be true,” she said, “but not in this town. I'd have to leave here and start over again.”

“You seem to me to be the kind of woman who would have some money saved.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Well, for one thing you have your own room, away from the whorehouse. You have to be able to pay for that, somehow.”

“Well, you happen to be right,” she said. “I do have some money put away.”

“There you go,” he said. “Buy a stagecoach ticket and get out of this town.”

“And go where?”

“Anywhere,” he said. “What's it matter?”

“And wherever I go, will I find another man like you?” she asked.

“You'll probably find more than one,” he said. “You'll have to beat them off with a stick and make a choice.”

“Yeah, right.”

He turned his head to look at her. She sensed it and turned hers to look at him.

“You'll never know unless you try,” he said.

“Well,” she said, “I can't very well argue with that, can I?”

 

They got dressed and Debra took Clint to a small café where they wouldn't be stared at.

“You know,” she said, “the legend and the whore?”

“Men stare at you because you're beautiful,” he said, as they sat.

“Women glare at me for the same reason,” she said.

“They should keep their husbands at home.”

“Well, here I'm just Debbie. The waitress and her husband run this place.”

He looked around at the other empty tables.

“Doesn't look like they do a booming business.” And it wasn't just due to the late hour.

“Nobody does, these days. I'm sure you've noticed Doan's Crossing is dying.”

“All the more reason for you to leave.”

A waitress came out of the kitchen, saw them, and came over, smiling. She'd been pretty once, but that had been before life had gotten so hard. She looked beaten down, tired, and ten years older than she was, which was probably forty.

“Hey, Debbie, who's your friend?” the woman asked.

“Annie, this is Clint Adams. Clint, this is Annie Camp-bell. Her husband, Charlie, is the cook.”

“Best cook in town,” Annie said.

“I hope so,” he said. “I had a horrible steak this afternoon.

“Well, we can fix that. Steak?”

“Please.”

“Just a bowl of stew for me, Annie. A small one—it's late.”

“I know,” Annie said. “I'm going to lock the door. Normally, we'd be closed, but for you . . .”

“Could I bother you for a cup of coffee?” Clint asked.

Annie smiled at him and said, “How about a whole pot?”

He grinned back and said, “I think I love you.”

 

“I never asked you why you have to get going early in the morning?” Debra said.

“I'm riding with a trail drive.”

“The Henry Flood drive?” she asked.

“That's right. You know Flood?”

“No,” she said, “but I know one of the hands, Roy Sobel.”

“Customer of yours?”

“Used to be a regular customer. Hadn't seen him for years until recently.”

“Good drover?” Clint asked.

“I don't know that about him,” she said. “I know that he has a tendency to be . . . violent. I always kept a knife under my pillow when I was with him.”

“Violent, huh?”

“Well, around women,” she said. “I don't think he was violent around men. In fact, I get the feeling he's pretty easily led. Probably why he's so aggressive with women.”

“Do you analyze all your customers that way?” he asked.

“A whore better be able to size up her john pretty quick—if she wants to stay alive.”

 

After a wonderful steak and a great pot of coffee, Clint walked Debra to her rooming house. They stopped right out front.

“Sure I can't spend the night in your room?” she asked.

“I have to get going real early, Debra,” he said. “If you spend the night, I'll get no sleep at all.”

“And no chance you'll be back this way?”

“What's the difference?” Clint asked. “You'll be gone by then.”

When Clint got to the street the next morning, saddlebags over his shoulder, rifle in hand, he saw the buckboard at the general store with two men loading supplies. He walked over and was standing by the buckboard when they came out with sacks on their shoulders.

“Need some help?” he asked.

The two men dumped their sacks into the half-loaded buckboard and turned to face him.

“Who are you?” one asked

“Name's Clint Adams.”

“You're the new segundo,” the other one said.

“Yes.”

“And the Gunsmith,” the first man said.

“That's right.”

“My name's Daltry,” the first man said, extending his hand.

“I'm Roland.”

Clint shook hands with both men.

“And we can use all the help we can get.”

Clint put his rifle and saddlebags on the buckboard.

“Let's get to it.”