The Obedient Servant [Going for the Gold 6] (Siren Publishing Ménage Everlasting) (20 page)

“Sure as shooting,” Milo agreed.

Reynaldo knew that both Milo and Carson were former mountain men compadres as well, having run into each other trapping beaver in the mountains and at the rendezvous where hundreds of smelly men with animals on their heads met every year to swap booze and tall tales. And frankly, Reynaldo agreed with Carson and Ford. They had taken Sonoma without so much as a frayed nerve, but now Spaniards were squatting in the bushes, snatching only the lonely and unarmed
Norteamericanos
who strayed from the towns. The
Norteamericanos
were understandably in a lather.

“Hey Stefanski, old hoss,” said Carson, coming abreast of Milo on his other side. Reynaldo cringed, knowing how Milo disliked anyone using his Polish name. “I heard tell you is mounting that innkeeper, Tallulah, of Sonoma.”

Already this discussion did not bode well. Carson’s mountain fame was such that everyone knew him as rough and bear-like. Mountaineers never offended a woman’s modesty but were sometimes compelled to use “compulsory wooing,” claiming a lack of time for ordinary courtship. And Carson had been known to yank a beautiful squaw or two behind his saddle.

“What of it?” Milo said gruffly, staring straight ahead. They were coming up to Olompali, an old Digger village that had allegedly been abandoned for some years now.

“She’s some pumpkins,” said Carson, lapsing into mountaineer lingo. “I’ve seen nothing as can beat her.”

“And how would you know?”

“I knew her before she came to Sonoma, near on two years ago on the Feather River. Right after that rat bastard of a husband of hers told her he didn’t care if she went her own way, he was going to keep mounting anything shaped like a gal. I helped her escape that shit sack.”

Reynaldo used soothing words, to calm Milo. He knew Milo well enough to know he was already riled like all possessed just because Carson had been acquainted with Tallulah. “Why, that’s awful helpful of you, Carson. I heard tell that shit sack husband of hers—”

But Carson just had to continue. In a leering tone, he began to reminisce about his escape with Tallulah. “Yes, those were some shining days, all right. Riding along the river by day, under the stars at night.”

Already Reynaldo could see Milo’s nostrils flare, and he snorted like a lathered horse.

Carson continued on obliviously. Perhaps not having spent much time among humans, he was unfamiliar with what might rile them. “She was awfully eager to lock horns after spending years with that miserable old critter. She was just eager as a beaver to be mounted. We had some shining times—”

There was a flash of metal and Milo was leveling his revolver at the famed mountaineer. Carson reined up, and Reynaldo reined up, and suddenly the only movement was Milo’s mouth. He growled in a horribly murderous tone.

“I’ll drop you in your tracks if you don’t take that back, Carson. Such a heap of your fat meat won’t shine any longer.”

“Old hoss!” Carson protested, his own hand sneaking toward his piece in its holster. His left hand was held up in surrender, sending mixed signs. “I didn’t mean no insult to your lady. I was uttering none but compliments!”

Milo lifted his chin at a distant range of hills. “There’s the mountains.” He nodded toward the east. “And there’s my gal. Shoot sharp’s the word, Carson.”

“I was nigh giving you hell!” Carson protested. “You’re some, you are, old hoss.”

Milo’s narrowed eyes were poisonous. Reynaldo wouldn’t want to be on the wrong side of him. But at length he exhaled and holstered his piece, although he uttered one last warning. “Keep your eyes skinned behind you, old compañero.”

“Agreed,” Carson said chummily and was himself again. But he suddenly looked at a point distant over Milo’s shoulder. “Whoa, hoss! Look sharp!” He threw his Hawken rifle to his shoulder, aiming just a couple inches past Milo’s ear, so it was understandable that Milo again drew his revolver.

But Reynaldo spun in time to see the flash of a serape as a Spaniard dashed from large rock to large rock maybe fifty yards off. No other human was in sight, and it wouldn’t have made sense to blaze away at a boulder, so Reynaldo said in a low tone, “I’ll get the others. You pin them down.”

He struck the spurs to his horse and galloped off while Milo and Carson went in different directions to corner the cutthroat.

“Captain!” Reynaldo barked at “Fighting” Ford, Grigsby, and Sears, who were heading into the mouth of a valley. “The greasers have crawled like rattlers along the bottom of that ravine!” He pointed a stiff arm at the boulder where the black serape had vanished, before wheeling his mount about and striking back toward Milo.

Reynaldo discharged his pistol at a fleeing greaser. It was always difficult hitting a mark while galloping at full tilt, and today was no exception as the ball flew wild, although he did pass one downed Mexican who had evidently been struck by either Carson or Milo.

Reynaldo found himself facing down de la Torre’s force of about seventy charging Mexicans. Many rifles cracked simultaneously, but because the enemy only had old flintlocks, every last ball flew wild of its mark.

“Dismount!” Ford bellowed as the Mexicans began to scatter up the opposite side of the ravine. “Don’t fire until you’re sure of your mark!”

Ford scattered his men among the willows, and as Reynaldo rapidly tethered his horse to a tree he was relieved to see Milo making wild leaps across the arroyo, rifle in hand. What a joyous sight to see his red coat again! Milo flashed so swiftly behind Ford’s detachment Reynaldo was almost afraid of him being hit by a stray ball, but, in an instant, Milo was crouching next to him too, picking off a fleeing combatant.

Reynaldo polished off another worm who was crawling through the bush. He rolled almost comically down the hillside, clutching the ball in his stomach while his compadres fled in horror as fast as their mustangs could race. Another pointless volley of Mexican balls plopped into the hillside behind Reynaldo’s battalion. He panted, “They’re routed already. And we’re going to have to care for that one I just gut-shot.”

Milo panted, too, peering around the willow trunk. But there were no more enemies to shoot. The mustangs were out of range of even their Hawken rifles. “Goddamned Carson just vanished somewhere. He’s a wiry son of a bitch.”

“De la Torre will instantly get out a
pronunciamento
that’ll be a fucking literary masterpiece of his valor and bravery.” Relaxing, Reynaldo stood, flexing his limbs. “I wonder if any of those we raised the hair of were Garcia or Padilla.”

Milo stood too, and put a comforting hand on Reynaldo’s shoulder. It warmed Reynaldo’s innards to be side by side in a skirmish with another he loved so dearly and trusted thoroughly. “Sears would know. He lives near the Sonoma mission and has seen Garcia many times at the Blue Wing.”

They struck up the knoll toward Sears just as Carson emerged seemingly from thin air. He held aloft something bloody, shiny, and dripping, which Reynaldo instantly discerned as a scalp. Carson’s face was lit up with glee as he headed for “Fighting” Ford to display his trophy.

“Like hell,” said Milo with a shudder in his voice. “Is that what topographical engineers do?”

“I was just going to ask,” Reynaldo said, “if that’s what mountain men do.”

Milo paused, reflective. “Sometimes,” he finally admitted.

* * * *

A Delaware Indian messenger skittered around the side of the crumbling Mission San Rafael. He raised a cloud of dust in the fallen debris and shrieked, “The Spaniards have landed! The Spaniards have landed!”

Reynaldo slowly twisted his torso to frown quizzically at Milo. They’d been passing the time target practicing at sardine boxes, bottles being too valuable to waste like that. Reynaldo was already in a smoking mood. Last night, “Fighting” Ford had insisted they all sleep under the flea-riddled roof of the mission in the event of a sneak Spanish attack. Not only did Reynaldo wish to avoid fleas, he was physically aching with desire and pain for his partner Milo. And while the band of pioneers and backwoodsmen were very lenient and forgiving about the erotic needs of men, they would likely growl and throw things if Reynaldo attempted to pleasure Milo under the mission’s roof.

For that was what Reynaldo really wanted. He realized their entire affair had been one enormous indulgence of his own bliss. Really, even the first encounter on the Sacramento River had been designed to please Reynaldo, to have him coming back for more. Milo was skillful like that. He could be slapping and spanking a fellow, even whipping and torturing a man’s balls, but his skill was such that the gullible dough-head knew he’d been satisfied—satisfied just enough to manufacture methods to have an encore performance later.

Milo could be mounting and ravishing him, but Milo would never admit the goal was Reynaldo’s ecstasy, not his own. For as monumental of a selfish toad as Milo often came across, he really did take almost all of his pleasure in the bliss of others. He frigged and licked Tallulah to crisis. Not many men cared about the orgasms of women.

Reynaldo wanted to rectify this. He’d plotted all night last. He would tell “Fighting” Ford the mission was a fleabag full of burping odorous men and he and Milo were going to lay their buffalo robes down by the creek. He would take his reata and tie Milo’s hands behind his neck and torture him by sucking on his stiff nipples. He would lay a trail of kisses down the center of his firm abdomen and nuzzle in the bush at the root of his steamy, thick cock. Reynaldo had become so lost in these dreams he’d almost forgotten to tell “Fighting” Ford his plans.

But old Ford was resistant. No one was allowed outside the crumbling mission walls for fear of horse-racing señors lurking in the underbrush, playing monte. Reynaldo knew he could fend off any oiled, fandango-dancing
compañero
with one arm while frigging Milo with the other, but Ford wasn’t falling for it. He was strictly by the books, full of himself in his new position as commander. Ford wouldn’t even let Milo, still the President of the California Republic, breathe clean air under the stars.

The truth was, Reynaldo was weary of army life. He still enjoyed traveling and surveying, being one with the Great Spirit and all that Indian nonsense, but the rules and restrictions were becoming too childish for him. Osos—Bear Flaggers—were brutal, tough fighting men, not green youths who had to follow ridiculous rules. So Reynaldo was in a horn-tossing mood when the Delaware guide came tearing around the corner of the wall, shrieking about Spaniards. He shouldered his rifle and went to see what the uproar was.

Captain Frémont stood in the corridor with his adjutant, Gillespie, and Jasper O’Farrell. O’Farrell had just arrived from Sausalito with some horses donated by the venerable Captain Richardson. The Mexicans had been easily routed at Olompali, with eight killed and many more wounded. They had found the flag maker Todd nearby, set free from his bonds unharmed. Reynaldo had been hoping to be assigned the task of bringing them back to Sonoma instead of chasing down de la Torre’s militia, or looking for the mad barber Garcia, the terror of the Sonoma frontier.

It was not to be. “Where did they land?”

Kit Carson was with the frantic Indian. He reported, “They came by boat from the other side of the bay, where Castro is. Landed at Point San Pedro. Three Californios. Marcus Williams saw them with his glass.”

Reynaldo’s stomach sank when Frémont swiveled his torso to view him. “Vargas, you and…” Frémont gestured impatiently, arrogantly at Milo. He had scarcely acknowledged Milo’s presidency and had not even subjected Milo to questioning about the revolt. To do so would have been to give credence to his authority. “You and your partner go with Carson, track them down. Take Swift and a couple Delawares with you.”

Reynaldo saluted formally. “And take the Californios prisoner?” he assumed.

Frémont paused for a fraction of a second. Then he waved imperiously, again at Milo. Milo was really in Frémont’s bad books, just for having taken the initiative to carve out a bit of land and history. “I’ve got no room for prisoners.”

And he turned on his heel and stalked down the corridor.

Reynaldo was confused. Did Frémont mean… He caught Gillespie’s eye for a brief moment before the assistant followed his master, and it seemed as though Gillespie underlined his captain’s order with a hard flashing of his eyes. By this time, Carson and the Delawares were already around the corner, mounting their horses, so Reynaldo and Milo scurried to the corral to saddle their horses.

They threw their rifles across their pommels and struck out down the undulating golden hills that smelled of wheat. They streaked it through low chaparral that fronted the bay, driving their spurs into their horse’s sides.

They slowed to a canter when Point San Pedro came into view. The black shape of the Californio’s boat on a beach was like a diamond on a giant monte card. Three figures in serapes looked like crows as they struggled to shoulder their rifles.

Reynaldo said, “I doubt any Californios would be dough-headed enough to come to this side of the bay.”

“Not three Californios alone,” Milo agreed. “Not soldiers with mayhem in mind, anyway.”

Carson emerged from some chaparral. That fellow had a way of sneaking up on one. “Keep your eyes skinned,” he commanded, echoing Milo’s command to him yesterday. Evidently, Carson still resented that. “You’re some with the rifle, Stefanski, and your eyesight’s better than mine these days. You for certain they is Spaniards?”