Slocum #422 (11 page)

Marlene reached down and pressed her hand boldly into his crotch. A little squeeze was all it took to betray his interest in her. When she felt the pulsing mound, she kept squeezing, slowly, gently, until Slocum wiggled uncomfortably at being trapped in the ­too-­tight jeans.

“Is he asleep?” Marlene looked past Slocum at Ned Fisk.

“He's passed out, but you said there's more water in the tank?”

“And inch or two.” She caught her breath when Slocum moved his hands from around her waist and up so his palms pressed down hard into her breasts.

She closed her eyes, arched her back, and shoved herself forward. He began giving those delightful mounds the same attention she gave his crotch. The tiny buttons of her nipples hardened with need and began to pulse visibly through her blouse. Slocum caught both of them between his thumbs and forefingers and slowly tweaked.

“Oh, John, John. That makes me wobbly in the knees.”

She sagged against him. Her hand moved from his groin to his ­rock-­hard belly and then slowly up across his chest until she put her arms around his neck and pulled him close for a kiss. He tasted her lips, and then her tongue began darting about until he moaned again. His hardness had reached the point where he was going to hurt himself if he didn't free himself from his jeans.

“Oh?” she said, a delightful twinkle in her emerald eyes. “Am I doing
that
to you?”

“Bitch,” he said. “You know you are.”

“Such language. I've never heard anyone say that about me before. What does it mean?”

“It means I'm going to take you like a dog.”

“From behind?”

He spun her around, reached around her trim waist, and pressed his fingers down into her belly, then moved lower until she spread her legs. Wetness flowed from her interior as he continued to massage and stroke and move all about her privates. She shoved her ass backward into the curve of his groin.

“That's how I'm going to do it,” he said. “You have any objections?”

“Yes,” she said, her voice quavering with need. “You're talking and not doing!”

She hiked up her skirts and revealed her bare hindquarters. Slocum reached around and cupped one of the ass cheeks, then gave it a quick swat. Even in the dim light coming through the doorway from the starry night, he saw the red handprint forming on her sleek rump.

“More,” she said, grinding her hips around and shoving back even harder. “I want more.” Marlene tried to reach behind and stroke over his ­denim-­imprisoned manhood. “You have no idea how much I want you now, John!”

He thrust forward with his hips and moved her outside into the cold night. The broken water spout dripped onto the ground, forming a mud puddle. Slocum reached down, caught up the girl, and carried her to the puddle. He let her get her feet under her, then began stripping her naked. She shimmied and held her arms over her head, helping him remove all her clothing until she stood like a marble statue in the starlight.

“Your turn,” she said.

Together they got Slocum out of all his clothes until he was as naked as a jaybird, too. Then he caught her up against him and sank down to the ground, splashing about in the mud puddle.

She yelped as the cold water touched her ivory skin. Then they were rolling about in the wallow, the mud better than any feather mattress. The moisture invigorated them. Dripping water came down as they passionately struggled beneath the broken spout. Somehow they ended up with Slocum sitting ­cross-­legged in the mud with Marlene's legs thrust out straight on either side of his hips. Facing each other, they kissed, licked, and teased lips and ears, throat and lower. She licked across his nipples, then he returned the favor.

He caught the pink buds between his lips, suckled and bit gently with his teeth, then caressed using his rough tongue until the woman shook all over. He kissed the deep valley between her breasts and finally ran his hands under her buttocks and lifted. With a smooth move, he pulled her even closer so her nether lips touched the tip of his shaft. Hands pressing on his shoulders, she eased herself down until he was buried full length within her.

They both sat for a moment, the sensations rippling through their bodies. Then neither could remain still any longer. The need was too great, the desire rampaging.

Marlene lifted and sank on his fleshy pole, twisting her hips slightly as she moved. Slocum's finger moved behind her and touched another entry to her body. She cried out when he ran his finger up her back, then her hips went ­berserk, flying up and down.

The water dripped down on their upturned faces, stimulating and giving excitingly different reactions as their ­bodies moved apart and together, grinding and thrusting.

Marlene let out a series of tiny trapped animal sounds, then howled as her body exploded in motion. She flew up and down on his length until the friction threatened to burn him to a nub. Then she quivered once and sagged against him. Slocum braced himself on the ground with his hands and continued to lift her up, driving ever deeper into her heated center until the rush of his release erupted.

Both weak and shaking from their sexual release, they clung to each other until they began to shiver in the cold.

“I never noticed how freezing it was until now,” she said.

“That's because you were so hot.”

“You flatter me. I . . . I've never done this before. I mean, not like this, not with . . .”

“With a hired hand?”

She giggled.

“I'd gladly hire your hand and your”—she twitched her ­hips—“I'd hire this if I had all the money in the world.”

“You about do,” he said.

“John, I've wanted to say this.”

“Later,” he said, helping her to her feet under the slowly dripping spout. “We'll catch our death of cold. But first let's rinse off some of the mud.”

“We were rooting around like pigs, weren't we?” She giggled like a schoolgirl again.

They began washing each other to get rid of the mud. By the time they had finished, Slocum had again found a way of warming her, at least for a while, by showing her what he had suggested earlier in the cabin. Their hands and knees got all muddy, but cleaning them off again proved as much fun as before because of the way they did it.

“He's doing much better,” Marlene said, her hand pressed against Ned Fisk's cheek to check for a fever. The man stirred and a small smile came to his lips.

Slocum wondered if he played possum just to feel the woman's hand on his face. After the night they had spent together, rolling about in the mud and making love a couple times more, he had to admit the feel of her ­hand—­and ­more—­was worth any deception. The fact that she was the daughter of a rich and powerful railroad official hardly bothered him now, not after all they had been through together. She had saved his life and had pulled his fat from the fire. They worked together well and owed it to each other what they had done to blow off some steam.

Slocum didn't go around boasting of his conquests like so many men did, especially when they got liquored up in a saloon where they had a willing audience of ­sex-­starved cowboys. Marlene hadn't given him any hint she was the kind to throw up an affair with a wrangler as a way of getting back at her pa for leverage in an argument either. Even if she were, Slocum thought it was worth the risk of having all the S&P Railroad bulls coming after him. What were a few more men with blood in their eyes coming after him? At least this time he had done something worthy of an army of bounty hunters calling for his hide.

He stared outside into the desert. Heaven knew he had enough angry men hunting for him. The San Diego lawmen wouldn't go beyond sight of the nearest saloon to come after him, but he doubted Big Joe Joseph gave up easily. More than the reward on Slocum's head, it was a matter of pride and he had been humiliated in full sight of a crowd. He had a reputation to uphold, and bringing Slocum ­in—­dead—­was the best way Big Joe had of doing that.

The only way, Slocum thought, that the bounty hunter could find him was if someone at the S&P rail yard mentioned how Morgan Burlison had hired a new bodyguard for his daughter. Catching the Yuma Bullet had been a boon for Slocum, taking him away from a world of bullets and gunsmoke.

A wry smile curled his lips as he looked back over his shoulder at Marlene putting a damp cloth on Fisk's forehead. Shooting it out with Big Joe held no appeal, and he had been through hell since crossing the Colorado River, but he had fought Indians before, endured hardships that were ­worse—­and with less reward. Marlene was worth walking through hell barefoot for. The smile died when he knew it had to come to an end soon enough.

The repair crew would come steaming out of Yuma and get them back on the tracks toward San Antonio. Parting with Marlene would be a heartbreaker, but Slocum faced it as something needful. Their worlds couldn't be any different. She lived amid wealth and power. More often than not, Slocum had no idea where his next meal was coming from, and a shot of whiskey gave the only release from the aches and pains of a long day in the saddle.

“What's that?” Slocum asked. He left the doorway and felt the warmth rolling in as the sun rose to heat the desert again.

Marlene looked up. Her eyes were wide and bright and he wanted to kiss her, but over in the corner of the cabin lay something he had missed before. He went to it and began pulling away the debris tossed on it by the Indians as they ransacked the cabin.

“A telegram key!” Marlene came to him and rested her hand on his shoulder as he dug through the pile of splintered wood and ripped cloth. “And the batteries! We can send a message!”

“The wires aren't attached,” Slocum said. He cleaned off a spot on the floor and hauled over the heavy batteries. The Indians had missed them entirely, or they knew how dangerous they were if the contents spilled. The sulfuric acid chewed through flesh and cloth in nothing flat. “There, all hooked up.”

Marlene gripped his shoulder even tighter and her breath came faster in anticipation of more immediate rescue.

“Can you send a message?”

“I know a little Morse code,” Slocum said. “Most of the traffic on the telegraph is special code swapped between two operators and doesn't mean squat.”

“I always wondered. They want it to seem more difficult than it is so they can charge such outrageous prices. Why, once I paid almost three dollars for a telegram ­and—” Marlene cut off her reminiscence when Slocum looked up at her.

“Three dollars? For someone like you, that's a drop in the bucket.”

“Sorry. Can you send a telegram?”

Slocum turned to the chore. He wiped his hands on his jeans, then touched the key. A real telegrapher called it a bug. Slocum would crush it if it failed to work. He tapped it a couple times and was rewarded with a small spark and a loud click. Chewing his tongue in concentration, he composed and sent a short message, then sat back.

“That ought to do it. Not sure where I sent it, but the wires go both ways.”

“So it alerted them in both San Diego and Yuma?”

Slocum grunted assent. His spelling wasn't the best at any time, but just sending out the message alerted any telegrapher to the problem at the watering depot. However, something worried him.

“Wire won't go to San Diego. Lost it a week back where it goes over the Colorado bridge,” came Ned's cracked voice.

“But to Yuma?” Slocum asked.

“You didn't get a click back.”

“What's that?” Marlene asked.

“Acknowledgment the message got through. You aren't such a bad telegrapher,” Ned said to Slocum. “Slow but you got the knack.”

“What would the acknowledgment sound like? There hasn't been any message come in since I hooked up the wires.”

“None? Yuma's a busy station. There shoulda been something,” Ned said. He sank down to the pallet, closed his eyes, then finally said, “Damned Injuns must have cut the wire 'tween here and Yuma.”

“But he sent the message!”

“It's like talking without anyone to listen,” Slocum said. “The Apaches cut the line before they attacked, to be sure no warning was sent about their whereabouts.”

“Then we just have to wait,” Marlene said. Her dejection showed in her slumping shoulders and downcast expression.

“I can find the cut wire and fix it,” Slocum said. “Where's your spare telegraph wire and cutters?”

Ned perked up.

“You know how them varmints work? They tie rawhide onto a wire 'fore they cut the line.”

“Why would they do that?” Marlene asked, frowning.

“So it's harder to find,” Slocum explained. “A wire on the ground is obvious. One whose color hardly changes from insulation to rawhide takes up time to find. A nearsighted rider might pass right on by and never know where the trouble is.”

“You said it, mister. You ever a telegrapher?”

Slocum had worked at about every job possible but had only a passing knowledge of what it took to be a telegraph operator. He followed Ned's quick glance to a crate on the other side of the cabin and took out wire and cutters.

“How much of that wire you figuring on using?” Ned asked.

“As much as it takes. I'll return what I don't use.” Slocum suspected the railroad made Fisk buy his own tools and wire. “If they only cut a foot or so, I'll bring back most of it.”

“Naw, don't go doing that. Find the cut, splice in on one side, and let the extra wire droop on down to the ground. Keeping the wire taut between poles is a skill not many folks have.”

Slocum hefted the wire and tool and went outside. Marlene followed.

“You be careful. This isn't dangerous, is it? Climbing up a pole and fixing the break?”

“I'll be back before you know it. The Apaches wouldn't have cut the wire more than a mile or two away from this station. If they'd cut it sooner, Yuma would notice. More than that, Ned would have noticed his key going down, and giving too much warning makes it more likely they'd get shot at.”

“You listen to me, John Slocum. Be very careful.” She stood on tiptoe and gave him a quick kiss. Then she threw her arms around his neck and pulled him down for a more satisfying kiss. Panting for breath, flushed, and looking a bit wild and scared, she backed off. She covered her ­well-­kissed lips with a hand and averted her gaze, again the shy young girl.

“With a sendoff like that, what's the return celebration going to be like?”

She jerked up to face him, startled. Then she got a sly look and said, “You'll have to return to find out!”

Happy to see her less fearful, Slocum jumped onto his captured horse and rode away. He pulled down the brim of his Stetson to shield his eyes from the sun and watch the smooth flow of the ­black-­wrapped telegraph wire. Jockeying around, he caught the right angle to reflect a bright silver dot off the wire. If it changed, he would have found his break.

A half hour later the bright dot disappeared, then returned a few feet farther along the wire. Slocum drew rein, squinted, and worked around to the other side of the wire. Sure enough, a couple feet of rawhide had been spliced into the wire. No signal went beyond this point.

Slocum looked around and saw a small stand of cottonwoods. He tethered his horse in their shade and hiked back to the telegraph pole nearest the break. Studying the matter, Slocum decided it would be easy enough to do as Ned had suggested. Splice a long piece of wire to the stub near the pole, then let the longer section drop to the ground, but wasting wire to run from the stub to the fallen end rankled. He could repair the line without letting fifty feet of wire flop down onto the ground.

He cut off a long loop of the wire and whipped it around the telegraph pole before twisting the ends tight behind him. The wire let him lean back and jam his feet down into the wooden pole to climb more easily. As a kid in Georgia, he was second best only to his brother, Robert, at skinning up a tree and finding the highest point to stare across the fields in their boyish competitions. Slocum worked his way up to the crosspiece holding a glass insulator. The telegraph wire ran around it and continued on to the way station. Bending close to the pole and reaching around, he felt the hard knot in the rawhide where the Indians had cut the wire and tied the strip that smothered any signal.

Working carefully, not wanting to start over, he spliced in the length of wire he held between his teeth, then played it out to cut the rawhide and securely splice the other end. As he finished, hoofbeats caused him to crane his neck. An Apache brave rode slowly along the railroad tracks, eyes downcast. Slocum tucked the wire cutters into his gun belt, then slipped his Colt out, and took aim.

He wanted a good shot. Waiting until he was getting antsy proved how keyed up he was. Slocum's patience usually knew no bounds. As the brave came under him, Slocum squeezed the trigger. The hammer felt on a punk round with a dull
click!

The Indian looked around at the noise. When he failed to find the source of the deadly sound, he glanced up and saw Slocum. The Indian grabbed for a bow slung in front of him. Slocum watched the smooth movements as the brave whipped out an arrow, nocked it, and raised the weapon to send a shot upward to skewer Slocum.

The Indian was fast. Slocum was faster. He cut the wire around his waist and fell straight down, atop the warrior. He used the butt of his ­six-­shooter to hammer at the brave's head. A glancing blow knocked the Indian from his horse. Slocum got his feet under him to face the angry warrior.

A knife gleamed in the sunlight as the Indian advanced. Slocum lifted his Colt Navy and fired again. This time the bullet sang out and flew straight to the enemy's heart. The Indian took two more steps before realizing he had been shot dead. Collapsing at his enemy's feet, the Apache gave one last twitch and died. Slocum stepped back and holstered his pistol. It had come through for him when it mattered most.

Dragging the Indian to the stand of cottonwoods, he propped the dead man up before fetching his horse. Two horses ensured his safe return. He could ride one until it tired, then jump onto the other and finish the ride at top speed. He took the time to dig a decent grave. He wanted to avoid a pack of coyotes coming to feast. Another Indian might notice and investigate. The longer before this brave was discovered, the better it was for him, Marlene, and Ned Fisk.

Slocum looked up the pole at his handiwork. The splicing held. He galloped back along the tracks and switched mounts just a quarter mile away from the depot. He saw Marlene standing in the shade waiting for him. Waving, she stepped out and gave him the best reason in the world for returning. Her smile was nothing but sincere at seeing him again.

“Where'd you get the other horse?” she asked. “It's another Indian pony. Were you attacked?”

“I did the attacking after I mended the line. Has anything come in?”

“Ned has been hunkered down by it for the past hour.”

“That's about when I repaired it.” Slocum jumped to the ground and secured the reins of both horses to a rusted section of railroad track discarded beside the station house.

As anxious as he was to hear what Ned had ­received—­and ­sent—­he still took the time to properly kiss Marlene. She clung to him and sobbed just a little.

“What's wrong? You're crying.”

“I worried I wouldn't see you again. Then the telegraph began clacking, and you didn't come back.”

“I can't travel as fast as the signal along the wire. That's why we use telegraphs.”

“I know,” she said, squeezing him hard. “I know it but I didn't
know
it, if you can understand.”

They went inside. Slocum saw Ned hunched over the key, fingers flying as the code left along the repaired wire.

“Glad you're back. Got the telegraph working.”

“Have you sent a message to Yuma yet?” Slocum asked.

“I did. Bad news. The Yuma Bullet isn't able to start back right away. The Apaches pulled up track between here and there. Worse, they pulled out the spikes holding the track in place. If a locomotive rolls over a section without spikes, it'll derail.”