Dorothy Garlock (39 page)

Della twisted her body and tried to draw her knees up in an attempt to get out from under him. Her frenzy excited him more. He worked his hand down between them and into the opening of his britches. He pulled out his huge, rock-hard tool. She felt it at the opening between her thighs an instant before he plunged it into her. The feeling was surprisingly exquisite!

“Ah . . . ah . . . ah—” The sound burst from her and lost itself in his mouth. She had never been filled so completely. With each movement it felt as if he would split her asunder. His sex was huge; even larger than the thing she’d made out of a bone and covered with layers of soft doeskin to use on herself for temporary relief. She forgot her disappointment, forgot to be angry because he hadn’t undressed. She forgot the sickening odor of his body, forgot everything except the weapon she was speared with. Bucking beneath him, she wrapped her legs around him and her hungry body pressed upward. He pounded at her furiously, pounded and grinded. She drummed her feet against him, increasing the urgency of her movements, wanting more and more, yet wanting to hold onto this incredible feeling for as long as possible. He gushed into her just before she jerked convulsively and wave after wave of intense pleasure washed over her.

Della came out of a near swoon aware of the heavy body pressing her into the lumpy mattress. She gave him a shove and he rolled to the side. He was gasping for air, as she was.

“Bessie, Bessie, me . . . darlin’.”

Della heard the words. Awareness hit her like a dash of cold water. She sprang out of bed. Good God! The thick body! The beard! The odor! This man wasn’t the man she had kissed in the livery barn!

“Who are you?” she gasped. “What the hell—”

“Ye be a good whore, gal. The best I e’er . . . had . . .” His voice trailed off as he fell into a drunken sleep.

Whore! He’d said whore! Her mind spun crazily. She fumbled on the table for the stick matches and drew the head along the rough boards until it flared. She held it to the candlewick and light washed over the room.

Della batted her lids against the sudden glare, then turned to look at the man on the bed. She stared and then shrank back as a shudder of revulsion passed through her. He was so big the side of the bed sagged. The hand on his arm that hung over the side looked like a giant, worn claw. He was dressed in the clothes of a mule skinner or a miner; his pants tucked into the tops of heavy, laced boots. He had a month’s accumulation of dirt and beard on his face. His mouth was agape and she could see stubs of rotten teeth.

Della’s stomach did a slow roll. Then her eyes moved to the large, wet, limp piece of flesh hanging from the front of his open britches. There were several large sores on it ranging from the tip to the base where they disappeared into a thick mat of hair. Her hands flew to her cheeks as realization dawned. A half gasp, half shriek escaped her.

“My God!” She shook her head in agony. “Oh, my God!” She stood frozen in terror for a full moment before she ran to her valise and grabbed the jar of vinegar she carried with her. Before sex she always soaked a small sponge in the vinegar and poked it up into her vagina as a preventive against pregnancy. Half sobbing, she saturated a cloth and washed herself, again and again. In her panic to clean herself she pushed the vinegar-soaked cloth as far into her as she could.

A loud, snorting snore followed by a whistle brought her attention back to the man who had done this to her. A high rage started in the pit of her stomach and rose to her brain in a red wave. She grabbed the buggy whip from the nail on the wall and brought the thin leather down on him with all the force of her anger behind it. She aimed for the still elongated piece of limp flesh, but missed and the skin laid bare by his open shirt felt the biting sting. He came up out of the bed with a roar.

“Goddamn ye, Bessie! What’d ye—” The whip came down across his face and neck and cut off the words. He looked with disbelief at the blond, naked woman wielding the whip. Her face was contorted with rage, and her hair whipped wildly about as she spun around to get more leverage on the whip. “Who be ye?” Utterly confused, he danced around the end of the bed in an attempt to escape the lash. Finally, he stood his ground and tried to catch the leather she swung at him.

“You bastard!” she screamed. “You goddamn, dirty, fucking, sore-infested bastard! I’ll kill you!”

“Ye ain’t . . . I don’t . . . Ye goddamn . . . whore! Stop it!” He yelped as the whip laid a trail of blood across his cheek and he bolted for the door. “Ah . . . shit!” he yelled and fell against it. It yielded to his weight. He staggered into the hall and ran for the back door.

Della slammed the door shut behind him and fell on the bed in a storm of weeping.

*  *  *

Morning came and Della packed her valise. She was in a cold fury. In the course of one night she had been “raped” by a filthy clod who had more than likely given her the highly contagious clap, if not the incurable pox, and she had been left waiting like a cheap floozy by a half-breed. She almost choked on her anger. She would get even! She sure as
hell
would get even!

Looking calm, cool, and beautiful, just as she had when she arrived, Della left the room above the saloon and walked the short distance to the stage coach ticket office. Her main concern, now, was to get to Denver and see a doctor.

“Hello, Miss Clayhill. Nice to see ya, Miss Clayhill.” The fawning ticket agent hurried toward her and took the valise from her hand.

“Is this the day the stage to Denver comes through?”

“Shore is, Miss Clayhill.” The man took a heavy watch from his pocket and made a big show of studying it. “Now . . . let me see—” He pursed his mouth and looked at the ceiling. “It ortta be here by two o’clock, if’n it’s on time.”

“May I wait in your office?”

“Course ya can, Miss Clayhill. With all the toughs in town it ain’t safe fer a pretty gal ta be sittin’ on the street. It just beats all how one redskin kin get things stirred up. The sooner yore pa runs that Injun outta the territory the better. Then things kin get settled down agin. One a them bastards . . . I’m beggin’ your pardon, ma’am, can get them savages riled till they break off the reservation. Then there’ll be hell to pay. Why . . . that ’n is so brazen he come right into town in broad daylight and . . .”

The agent continued to rattle on. Della heard only half of what he said until the word “married” caught her attention.

“What was that you said?”

“I said that Indian sneaked in here yesterday ’n married that Spurlock woman. Why . . . I never heard of a decent white woman doin’ such. Preacher Abernathy said the redskin threatened to scalp him and burn the church. He said that after he said the words they rode off to the south with her aridin’ astride with her skirts pulled up to her knees. It’s disgraceful, is what it is!”

Della drew in a quivering breath. The sonofabitch! He was on his way to be married when he met her in the livery and he had no intention of going to her room. The knowledge cut into her pride like the sharp edge of a knife. The blow was so acute that her chest tightened so that she could scarcely breathe, but her mind leaped into gear. They went south, he said. South could only mean to Mary Gregg’s. She walked out the door, stood on the walk, and looked up the street. Hatred bubbled up inside her, the hatred of a woman scorned.

*  *  *

Adam Clayhill rode down the dusty street trailed by a dozen ranch hands. He had left the ranch at dawn in a foul mood. He was still in one. Goddamn that girl, he cursed silently. He should have whipped that nigger to within an inch of his life for taking her to the saloon and leaving her there. But then he knew how stubborn the little devil could be once she set her mind on doing something. Goddamnit! He had enough on his mind without having to corral that headstrong girl! By God! He’d chew her rump when he found her.

He pulled up at the saloon, dismounted, and threw the reins to one of his men. He stomped up onto the board porch and looked up and down the street. It was then that he saw her standing in front of the stage office.

“Stay here,” he snarled to his men.

Della saw him as soon as he rode into town; by the time he reached her, she had an expression of distress on her face and her eyes were swimming with tears.

“What the hell have you been up to?” Adam grabbed her arm and jerked her to him.

“Don’t, Adam. Please don’t!” she whispered. I’ve got to talk to you . . . but not here—” Her words ended with a sob. “Oh, Papa! Something terrible has happened!”

“What do you mean?” he growled.

“It was . . . awful—” she sobbed and tugged on his arm. He moved with her to the end of the porch and around to the side of the building. Della sniffed and drew a lacy, perfumed, bit of cloth from the sleeve of her dress and dabbed at her nose.

“Gawddamnit, girl!” he snarled impatiently.

“Please don’t be mad at me, Adam,” she said tearfully and leaned against him weakly. “I’m sorry I worried you. I . . . just wanted a little excitement. I was so . . . bored at the ranch. You didn’t pay any a—attention to me . . .”

“I’m mad as hell and I’ll beat your butt when I get you home.” His voice softened. “But . . . don’t cry.” He folded her in his arms and patted her back.

Della squeezed her eyes so the tears would come again and looked up into his hard, craggy face. “I love you . . . Papa Adam . . .”

“There, there, girl . . .”

“But . . . I’ve got to tell you . . .”

Adam grasped her arms and held her away from him. “Tell me what?” he demanded. “If someone’s hurt you, I’ll—kill ’im!”

“
He
. . . came to my room last night.” Her lips trembled. She held the lower one between her teeth in a pitiful attempt to still it before she blurted, “He attacked me! He threw me on the bed and—and—”

Adam drew a deep breath into his lungs and his nostrils flared as rage consumed him. “Who?” he bellowed.

“Sshh . . .” she whispered frantically. “I don’t want anyone to know. I’m so ashamed!”

“Gawddamnit! Who was it?” Adam gritted.

“The . . . Indian! He did it because of you, Papa. He was getting even because you burned out the Spurlocks!”

“The Indian?” Adam said in disbelief. Then, “The Indian! Did he put his red pecker in you? Tell me, gawddamnit!”

“He . . . he forced me. He’s so strong.” She blinked her eyes rapidly and the tears rolled again.

“The sonofabitchin’ bastard!” Adam cursed. “I’ll tie a rope around his red pecker and drag him to death! I’ll split his gullet and spill his guts from here to Denver! Gawddamn his red heart! I’ll—”

“He’s out at Mary Gregg’s. I don’t want to be here when he comes back!” Her voice raised in panic.

Adam grasped her upper arms and shook her. “He’s at the whorehouse?”

“He went there yesterday. It was . . . after midnight when he came back to town. I . . . was asleep—”

“I’ll get ’im! I’ll make the bastard wish he’d never seen the light of day!” Anger had turned his face a mottled crimson. “And you’re not goin’ nowhere till I can go with you. You’re goin’ to the preacher’s house and you’ll stay there until I can take you home.” Adam’s hard gaze fixed on her face. When she opened her mouth to protest, he snarled, “Don’t give me backtalk, girl. If you had stayed home where you belong, this wouldn’t have happened.”

“No, Papa! No! I want to go to Denver.”

“You’ll do as I say!” he thundered. “You’ll stay with the preacher! Hear?” With his hand firmly attached to her arm he moved her to the front of the stage coach office and down the boardwalk.

Della fumed. It had gone so well . . . up to now. She was rather pleased with her performance. But she didn’t want to go to the damned preacher’s! The man made her want to puke. And his wife, creeping around the house, reminded her of a black spider. She wanted to go to Denver, had to go to Denver and see a doctor! She’d play along for now because she had no choice, but when the stage left this afternoon she’d be on it.

Adam walked into the saloon a half an hour later. Although it was mid-morning, there were more than a dozen men beside his own drovers drinking and playing cards. All heads turned in his direction.

“Any man here who wants to earn ten dollars for a day’s work come with me,” he announced in his bellowing voice.

Several men, to whom ten dollars seemed a fortune, stood immediately. Others, more cautious, but needing the money, shoved back their chairs and stood slowly.

“Who’er ya wantin’ ta hang?” The voice came from the back of the room.

“You want the money or don’t you?” Adam asked irritably.

“I don’t sign on without knowin’ the job.”

“We’re hangin’ a gawddamned, fuckin’ redskin!” Adam roared.

“Now yo’re talkin’, boss.” Shorty Banes chortled gleefully, slammed his empty beer mug down on the bar, and headed for the door.

Henry McCloud stood in the doorway of his store and watched the men led by Adam Clayhill speed through their own dust cloud as they rode out of town. He shook his head in frustration. He knew Clayhill was after Logan Horn and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it.

Logan and Case Malone stood leaning against the rail fence of the far corral and watched Brutus take off in hot and hopeless pursuit of a pronghorn antelope buck who had appeared on the edge of the grove. It had stamped its feet and released a blast to emphasize its disapproval of this invasion of its domain and then whirled back through the trees with a white signaling of its rump hairs. With lips pursed to whistle the dog back, Logan decided to let him go. The chase would end, he knew, as all such similar ones had ended—with victory for the pursued; and Brutus, after enjoying the chase, would return.

“Not knowin’ when ya was acomin’ in, I sent Frank out to meet yore herd a couple days back. I figured they’d need directions to your range,” Case said.

“I’m obliged. It was a load off my mind when Cooper told me they were coming.”

“Grass can be mighty poor down along the South Platte.” Case sprinkled some tobacco in a thin brown paper, rolled it, twisted both ends, and put one of them in his mouth. He struck a match with his thumb nail and held the flame in his cupped hands while he drew on the smoke. “There’s open range not ten miles northeast a here. I told Frank to take ’em there. Would a done it myself, but I wanted to stick close to Mary in case Clayhill shows up agin.”