Part 5 (2/2)
Speares tipped the bottle back, and the bubble slid toward the bottom as the sheriff took several heavy swallows. Patchen watched him, one pewter brow arched.
When Speares lowered the bottle, sighed, and corked it, the marshal said, ”I hope you plan on staying clear, Sheriff. This gang-the Thunder Riders, they're called along the border-is nothing to trifle with.”
”I don't aim to trifle with 'em, Marshal. I aim to kill 'em.” Speares chuckled and ran his sleeve across his whiskey-moist lips and mustache. ”But without a little medicine to dull the pain in my beak-thanks to that son of a b.i.t.c.h right there!-I wouldn't make it to the edge of town on horseback.”
Patchen raised the cup. ”Touche. It does look a mite on the sore side.” He threw the whiskey back, set the empty cup on the desk. He stuck his cigar between his teeth, shouldered his Henry, and made for the door.
Speares told the liveryman, Suggs, to stay in the jailhouse with the prisoner as much as possible and to keep away from the cell except to pa.s.s a food plate once a day through the slot in the bars. ”And whatever you do, don't open that door. I don't care if the d.a.m.n town's on fire! Understand?”
”I understand,” Suggs said, thumbing wads into the shotgun's tubes as Speares headed for the door. ”Don't forget-you promised a half-dollar a day.”
Speares cursed and left. He stepped out from under the brush arbor into the sunlight, heading for his zebra dun tied to the hitchrack. One of the posse men milling under the arbor-a tall bearded man in a cloth cap and checked s.h.i.+rt-lifted his rifle onto his shoulder and swung around toward his own horse.
As he did, the end of his rifle clipped the sheriff's nose.
Speares gasped as he pulled his head to one side and clapped his left hand over the swollen appendage. ”Uhhhnnnn!” ”Uhhhnnnn!” He froze there, chin down, holding his hand over his nose. From the window, Yakima could see his shoulders trembling slightly. He froze there, chin down, holding his hand over his nose. From the window, Yakima could see his shoulders trembling slightly.
A few of the others muttered, but Yakima couldn't hear what they were saying.
Speares lowered his hand and turned his head sharply left. His voice owned a pinched, nasal tw.a.n.g. ”G.o.dd.a.m.n it, Hank, watch where you swing that rifle!”
”Sorry, Sheriff.”
”Sorry, h.e.l.l.” Speares made a sour face as he sucked a breath through his lips. ”Anyone comes within six feet of my d.a.m.n nose, they're gonna be prying their rifles out of their a.s.sholes-understand?”
When the posse men had grumbled their affirmative, Speares mounted up. He and Patchen swung out away from the jailhouse, and the others-about a dozen men by Yakima's rough count-followed them east of the jailhouse and out of sight, the drumbeat of the horses' hooves dwindling behind them.
Suggs snapped his shotgun closed, sauntered over to the door, and looked out. He left the door open. Except for the one small window to the left of it, and a couple small ones in the cells, the door provided the only light-a trapezoid of molten copper laid like paint across the earthen floor just inside the threshold.
Suggs sat down in the squeaky swivel chair at the desk and held his shotgun across his chest, caressing the forestock.
”Well, breed,” he said through a self-important sigh. ”Fine mess you got yourself in, now, ain't it?”
Chapter 7.
The leader of the Thunder Riders, Jack Considine, crested a low rise and, giving the horse its head while holding Anjanette down across the mount's withers with his left hand, glanced over his shoulder. The stage was a good half mile behind him, as were most of the other desperadoes-keeping pace with the gold, afraid to let it out of their sight.
Those boys didn't have a single trusting bone in their bodies.
Considine grinned under his silver-trimmed Stetson as he turned his head forward. At the same time, the girl twisted toward him, one hand on his saddle horn, her face taut with anger. She swung her arm up, whipping the back of her hand toward Considine's face.
The desperado leader laughed as he grabbed her wrist.
”Let me off, you son of a b.i.t.c.h!” the girl screamed.
”Want down?” Considine slid out of the saddle, grabbed her by the back of her skirt and one arm, and pulled her brusquely off the mare.
The girl's feet hit the ground, and she yelped as her momentum drove her stumbling backward into a mesquite thicket. She tripped over a clump of Mormon tea and fell on her b.u.t.t, red-brown dust blowing up around her, her wide black eyes glistening with fury beneath her calico bandanna.
She picked up a rock and threw it hard. It bounced off Considine's right shoulder and landed in the dirt at his boots.
He stood frozen for a moment, taken aback, his cobalt blue eyes darkening slightly in spite of the early suns.h.i.+ne bleeding out from behind a high eastern peak. His brown mustache hung down both sides of his mouth, rimed with trail dust and blood from a bullet burn across his lower right cheek.
He glanced at the rock and strode over to the girl, his eyes glazed with l.u.s.t.
Anjanette slid backward on her b.u.t.t. ”Get away from me, you son of a b.i.t.c.h!”
”Take your clothes off.”
”No!” She scrambled to her feet and ran into the mesquite, weaving around the shrubs until she came to a stone escarpment blocking her path. She turned, pressed her back against the rock. ”Please, leave me alone!” She scrambled to her feet and ran into the mesquite, weaving around the shrubs until she came to a stone escarpment blocking her path. She turned, pressed her back against the rock. ”Please, leave me alone!”
Considine strolled toward her, grinning. She looked around wildly, but the mesquite pushed up close to the scarp, wedging her in. Considine stopped in front of her and slid his pearl-gripped revolver from its holster with one hand while unbuckling the cartridge belt with the other.
As the belt and empty holster dropped to the ground at his boots, he aimed the revolver at the girl's chest. ”Take your s.h.i.+rt off.”
Anjanette glanced at the gun and pushed her back against the uneven rock wall behind her, digging her fingers into the crevices. ”No!”
Considine clicked the hammer back and held the revolver six inches from the girl's heaving chest. Menace edged his voice. ”Take it off.”
Anjanette looked at the gun again and curled her lip. She threw her head back, tossing her hair back from her face. ”You're a b.a.s.t.a.r.d.”
Considine laughed. ”How did you know?” He flicked his gun barrel against the third b.u.t.ton on the girl's green plaid s.h.i.+rt. A small silver cross dangled down her cleavage.
”Take it off, or I will.” Considine grinned coldly. ”And if I I take it off, it won't be fit to wear again.” take it off, it won't be fit to wear again.”
Slowly, she lifted her hand to her blouse, began undoing the b.u.t.tons, her b.r.e.a.s.t.s rising and falling sharply, making the s.h.i.+rt rise and fall as well. Her eyes were dark, her jaw hard. When the last b.u.t.ton was freed, the blouse hung slack, revealing half of each full, round breast, the cross dangling between them winking in the growing morning sunlight.
”No under frillies,” Considine observed. ”It's almost as if you were expecting someone. . . .”
He slid the gun barrel down her cleavage, tracing the inside line of the right breast, then suddenly flicking the blouse back away from it, revealing the entire pink-tipped orb, full as a cantaloupe and the color of varnished oak.
The girl stared at him, her brown eyes hard, her lips slightly parted to reveal the edges of her two front teeth. ”Filthy pig.”
Considine chuckled. ”Sooner or later, you're going to run out of insults.” His expression suddenly hardened and he flicked the other flap of the s.h.i.+rt back from the other breast. ”Take it off off !” !”
She jumped with a start, then raised her hand to her shoulders, peeled the s.h.i.+rt down her arms, let it fall back between her boots and the base of the scarp. Considine swallowed and ran the revolver barrel across each nipple in turn. Each turned hard, pebbling out from the areola.
He took the gun in his left hand, ma.s.saged the amazing orbs with his right, pinching the nipples. Anjanette's face went slack and her chest rose and fell more heavily. As Considine rubbed her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, her head fell forward, hair cascading down her shoulders.
”If you're going to rape me, you b.a.s.t.a.r.d, get on with it,” she breathed.
Considine dropped the gun, leaned forward to unb.u.t.ton the girl's skirt, which dropped to her boots, revealing her finely muscled legs. He ran his hands across her b.u.t.tocks, then released her to unb.u.t.ton his black denim trousers and peel them and his long underwear down to his knees.
The girl groaned as he shoved his pelvis toward hers and slid his hands under each thigh, at once lifting and shoving her back against the scarp.
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