The Last Trail Drive (6 page)

“Well, actually,” Flood said, “the horse belongs to me. Jack was just ridin' it. Okay, come on.”

Flood got to his feet, swayed, and would have fallen if Spud hadn't grabbed him.

“Whoa!” he said.

“I gotcha, sir.”

“Yeah, you do,” Flood said. “Now, why don't you walk us over to the livery, and we'll get us those horses. You can come out to the camp and check out your chuck wagon. How's that sound?”

“It sounds good, Boss, but . . . can you ride?”

“Sure, I can ride,” Flood said. “And the fresh air will do me some good, don't ya think?”

“Yessir, I do think.”

“Then let's go, Spud,” Flood said. “Let's go.”

 

Clint and Debra left the barber shop and stopped just outside.

“I'm sorry,” she said. “I didn't mean to act like some spooked virgin.”

“You didn't.”

She laughed.

“Yeah, I did. Truth was, I didn't know what I was supposed to do with what I was feeling. I mean, I've been a whore a long time. I thought I was pretty much dead inside.”

“I don't think that's true,” he said. “Let's walk.”

She didn't argue, and even allowed him to pick the direction. He headed them off toward his hotel.

“I don't live in the whorehouse,” she said. “I've got a room in the boarding house. Everybody thinks that's strange. Do you think that's strange?”

“No, I don't.”

“Why not?”

“How many other people do you know who live where they work?”

She laughed again, this time with more humor than irony.

“That's right, isn't it?”

“Yup, it is.”

Clint looked ahead and saw the sheriff coming toward them.

“Debra, you got any problem with talking to the sheriff?”

“No,” she said, “but he's got problems talking to me—or any woman, for that matter.”

“That's so?”

“He just sort of blathers on. Doesn't have the first idea how to talk to a woman. You know him?”

“Just met him today.”

“You watch. He'll stare at me, but talk to you.”

As the lawman reached them, Clint saw him lick his lips, take a quick look at Debra, and then fix his eyes on Clint.

“Sheriff, can I help you?”

“Uh, well, I just wanted to let you know the, uh, doctor didn't find anything else unusual about the body of poor Mr. Trevor.”

“I didn't think he would,” Clint said. “Seems like a pretty straight forward murder.”

“Yes, it does. Have you seen Mr. Flood?”

“Not for a couple of hours. Why?”

“I wanted to see what he wanted done about a funeral,” the lawman said.

“I don't think that'll be necessary,” Clint said. “Trevor didn't have any family or friends in town.”

“But he had men who worked for him, right?”

“I don't think they'd be coming into town for a funeral.”

“Probably not. Well, then, there's still the matter of a coffin, and a grave . . .”

Clint took out some money and pushed it into the sheriff's hands.

“Would you see that the undertaker gets that?” he asked. “I think it should take care of everything.”

The sheriff didn't look at the money in his hands.

“I'm sure it will,” he said. “Thank you. Will you be, uh, leaving town?”

“First thing in the morning, Sheriff,” Clint said. “You won't have to worry about me being in town after today.”

“Well,” the man said, “it's not that I was worried so much as . . . you know, concerned.”

“I understand. Well, good-bye, Sheriff.”

“Good-bye,” the lawman said, then suddenly looked at Debra. “Ma'am.”

“Sheriff.”

He turned and crossed the street with a quickening pace.

“That's the first time he ever looked at me like I was a person,” she said. “You think that was because I'm with you?”

“Maybe,” Clint said.

“What's this about a murder?”

“Why don't you come up to my room, and I'll tell you all about it?”

“Sure,” she said. “Why not?”

Spud walked Henry Flood over to the livery, where he allowed his new boss to sit on a bale of hay while he saddled both horses, Flood's and the one that used to belong to Jack Trevor.

“Were these Trevor's?” he asked, showing Flood two saddlebags.

“Yeah, I guess,” Flood said. “Let's take 'em back to the camp, and I'll have a look tomorrow.”

“What about buryin' him?” Trevor asked.

Flood wiped his face with both hands and, for a moment, Spud didn't think the man had heard him.

“I'll come back tomorrow mornin' and arrange it,” he said, wearily.

Trevor doubted that. Flood was drunk and exhausted. Spud just hoped this trail drive was going to get going on time.

Maybe, he thought, if he gave his boss a good breakfast it would improve his mood.

“Okay, Boss,” he said, grabbing Flood's arm, “let's get you in the saddle.”

 

Debra Moore was something she had never been before, and never thought she would be, especially in a man's room.

She was a nervous whore.

“Have a seat,” Clint said.

There were no chairs in the room so she sat at the foot of the bed. For the moment, Clint remained standing.

“I don't have anything to offer you,” he said, apologetically. “To drink, I mean.”

“That's okay,” she said. “I was just going to have a bath and then go to bed.”

She blushed suddenly and thought, What the hell is wrong with me?

“Debra, do you want to talk?”

“No.”

“What would you like to do?

“Truthfully?” she asked. “I'd just like to get our clothes off and have sex. Usually, I fuck for money. It's been a long time since I just had sex with a man.”

“Well,” he said, “I guess we could do that . . .”

“You didn't seem so hesitant in the bath house.”

“I'm not hesitant,” Clint said. “I just don't want you to do anything you're gonna regret tomorrow.”

“What's it matter to you?” she asked. “You're going to be gone tomorrow.”

“Good point.”

She stood up. She was wearing a men's shirt that was too large for her, a pair of trousers, and a pair of boots. When she walked the street she didn't like to show herself off. Men stared, and women glared, and she didn't need any of that. She got enough of it when she was at work.

She unbuttoned her shirt, peeled it off, and then sat down to remove her boots before sliding her trousers off. Clint did his best not to watch as he removed his own clothes. But he couldn't help catching a glimpse of her from time to time, and by the time he was naked, he was also fully erect. When she finished and looked at him her eyes locked on his hard cock.

“Wow,” she said, “there's somethin' I didn't get to see in the bath.”

“You had a hold of it, though,” he said.

“Yeah, but . . . look at it. That's about the prettiest cock I've ever seen . . . and believe me, I've seen my share.”

There was still some awkwardness between them, even while they were naked. But once Clint took Debra into his arms, and their hot bodies pressed together, all their reservations seemed to fade away.

She came alive against him, rubbing herself all over him, reaching for his cock, taking it in both hands and then dropping to her knees.

“Damn,” she murmured, “so pretty . . .”

She stroked it, took his testicles in one hand, then licked the fingers of her right hand and used it to wet the head of his penis. Her tongue came out, then, and wet it some more. She was going slowly, because this was something she only did for men when they asked for it, and then with no enthusiasm. Most of them came to her smelling like the trail, and when they removed their pants the odor got even worse. But they expected her to gobble their smelly cocks with pleasure.

Clint's cock was clean, and she was sure it wasn't just because he had just come from a bath. He struck her as a man who kept himself clean, even on the trail. And if he came off the trail and was going to see a woman, she was sure he'd clean himself up first.

He was simply like no man she'd ever met or been with before.

 

Clint filled his hands with Debra's breasts, enjoying the feel of them—smooth skin, but heavy and solid in his palms. He lifted her to her feet, turned her, and deposited her onto the bed. For a moment she was afraid he was just going to spread her legs and thrust himself in. Instead, he lowered himself onto the bed with her and lovingly began to kiss her body—her breasts, her nipples, her belly, down and down until he was nestled between her legs, his face pressed into that golden bush, tongue seeking her out.

When his tongue touched her she jumped. As a whore, no man had ever seen to her pleasure—and certainly not before his own.

His tongue lapped at her, made her wet and sensitive, while his hands moved up and cupped her breasts again, pinching her nipples. The combination of sensations drove her over the edge to her first orgasm in years.

But not the first of the night.

 

“Who's there?” someone yelled.

“Take it easy,” Spud said. “My name's Spud Johnson. I'm the new cook.”

“Who's that with you?”

“Your boss, Mr. Flood.”

A man with a rifle stepped out into the open from behind a stand of junipers.

“What's wrong with him?”

“Drunk.”

The man peered at Spud suspiciously.

“How do I know he hired you?”

“Wake him up and ask him,” Spud suggested.

“Where's Jack?”

“Well, that's kinda why Mr. Flood is drunk,” Spud said.

Suddenly, the man stepped back and pointed his rifle at Spud.

“Ain't that Jack Trevor's horse yer ridin'?” he demanded.

“Hold on, hold on,” Spud said. “Yeah, it was Trevor's horse, but he's dead.”

“What?”

“Somebody killed him.”

“Who?”

“I don't know.”

The man with the rifle looked at Henry Flood again.

“Is Mr. Flood alive?”

“Yeah, he's alive,” Spud said. “I told you, he's drunk.”

“And was he drunk when he hired you?”

“No,” Spud said. “He got drunk after Trevor was killed.”

“How was Jack killed?”

“Somebody stabbed him in the back.”

“Jeez!”

Spud sniffed the air.

“Somethin's burnin',” he said.

“Yeah, one of the boys decided to try to make somethin' ta eat.”

“Doesn't smell like he's doin' a very good job,” Spud said.

“Yeah, well, the boys are hungry.”

“Well, I can fix somethin',” Spud said, “but maybe you wanna make sure Mr. Flood is alive first?”

The man studied on that for a minute, then put up his rifle.

“Hell, no,” he said. “If you can cook, then get to it!”

Debra Moore was lying across the bed, still naked, in a daze. Her pale, smooth skin was dappled with perspiration, her golden hair a wild, exotic tangle around her head.

“Oh my God,” she said.

“I'll take that as a compliment,” Clint said.

“That's how I mean it, believe me,” she said. “I'm used to having men grunt and groan on me, and then roll off when they're done. I've never had anybody spend that much time on me, making sure that I was satisfied.”

“Then you spend too much time at work,” Clint told her. “You need to spend more time with men on your own.”

“Not the men in this town,” she said. “Not the men I've had to deal with over the past ten years or so. Are you like this because you're a legend? Does that have anything to do with it?”

“I'm like this because I like being with women,” he said, “and I want them to like being with me.”

“Well, oh my God!” she said. “Have you ever been with a woman who didn't like it?”

“I'm sure I have,” he said, although he couldn't remember anyone in particular.

“I can't imagine that,” she said, lifting her head to look at him. Her eyes fell on his penis, which was still hard. “I have to take care of that.”

“It's okay—”

“No, no,” she said, rolling over and leaning over him. “I mean I have to—as in if I don't I'll die.”

“Well, in that case,” he said, “be my guest.”

 

The simplest and fastest thing Spud could think to make was some chunky chili. The meat, chicken, peppers, and onions just went into one pot with olive oil, simmered there until he added the seasoning, beans, and tomatoes. While it was cooking he made some corn bread and some tortillas so the men would have a choice.

By the time Henry Flood was up and walking around the men were sitting with their bowls full of chili, happily eating and dipping with their bread.

“What the hell—” he said.

“Supper's on, Boss,” one of the hands said. “That new cook you hired is the best.”

Flood walked over to the chuckwagon, stared at Spud.

“Spud Johnson, Boss,” Spud said, “Remember?”