The Trailsman 317 (9 page)

Mabel stepped around the fire, the firelight accenting the contours of her body. She smiled at Fargo, her lips like ripe strawberries.

“I will take the first,” Fargo said. But he had something else in mind.

Fargo waited a half hour after Binder started snoring. Then he squatted beside Mabel and reached out to wake her, only to see that her eyes were open, and she was smiling.

“It took you long enough,” Mabel whispered. “I was beginning to think you had changed your mind.”

“You are the one worried about her reputation,” Fargo said. Taking her by the arm, he helped her to her feet. As she rose she leaned against him, her breasts brushing his chest. His hunger flared, and he pulled her to him and fiercely kissed her on the mouth. Her nails delicately scraped the back of his neck. Taking her hands in his, he picked up a blanket and moved past the horses and over near the waterfall.

“Here?” Mabel said when he stopped. She had to lean close to be heard above the roar of cascading water.

“He won't be able to hear us,” Fargo said.

Mabel glanced at the waterfall, and grinned. “My compliments. You think of everything.”

Fargo spread out the blanket and patted it, and Mabel sank down beside him. Even in the dark he could tell she was nervous. He put an arm around her and lightly kissed her ear, her neck, her cheek. Gradually, she relaxed, and began doing to him as he was doing to her. He liked how she would gently nip him with her teeth.

The air was chilly, both from the altitude and from the mist, but the warmth of her body and his own rising heat drove the chill from him.

Fargo fused his mouth to hers. Her lips were velvet, her tongue silk. The kiss went on and on, until her breath fluttered in his throat and she uttered tiny coos of delight. He sucked on her earlobe, licked her throat, sculpted her shoulders with his fingers.

“Mmmmmm, nice,” Mabel whispered in his ear. “I have never been kissed like you kiss me in all my days.”

“Kiss a lot of men, do you?”

Mabel snorted. “Goodness, no. I can count them on one hand. Frankly, I don't know what it is about you that has me feeling so naughty. Besides the fact you are so handsome, I mean.” She pressed her mouth to his.

Fargo peered over her shoulder toward the fire, making sure Binder was still asleep. He scanned the woods, then devoted himself to the matter at hand. She responded marvelously. When he cupped her breast, she moaned. When he stroked her leg from her knee to her thigh, she gasped and squirmed. She was practically smoldering with desire.

After a while Fargo eased her onto her back and lay by her side, his body partly over hers. He bestowed kiss after kiss, and while he kissed, he let his hands roam where they would, from her shoulders to her knees but especially about her heaving mounds and the molten core between her thighs. He did not undress her. Not yet. He stoked her fire slowly so as to draw out their ultimate release for as long as he could.

Mabel was not a bump on a log. She kissed, she scratched, she bit, she molded his muscles with her fingers.

Fargo noticed she touched him everywhere except
there
. Taking her hand, he placed it on his iron member. Her sharp intake of breath betrayed her surprise. Tentatively at first, she explored him, running her hand up and down and cupping him, low down. Her body became hotter than the fire, reflecting the depth of her need.

Fargo ran his hand through her soft black curls. He began to undo her riding outfit, starting with the blouse. She went to help him but he moved her hands aside. He would do it himself.

Mabel took the hint and applied her fingers to him, instead. She kneaded the hard muscles of his chest and shoulders, and slid a hand along his leg to his redwood. She could not get enough of his pole, and began tugging at his belt and his pants.

Fargo remembered to check on Binder and the woods. All was as it should be. The horses were dozing, a sure sign no enemies, two-legged or four-legged, were nearby. He could devote himself to his pleasure, and devote himself he did.

Eventually Mabel was naked. Fargo leaned on an elbow to admire her, and had to admit she was exquisite. Her face, framed by her lustrous curls, mirrored wanton yearning. The alabaster of her throat, the swell of her full, firm mounds, her flat belly, and the smoothness of her thighs were enough to fill any man with carnal craving.

Fargo bent to her breasts. He inhaled first one hard nipple and then the other, swirling them with his tongue. She made low animal sounds, her fingers en-twined in his hair. Slipping a hand under her, he dug his fingers into her pert bottom. Her reaction was to grind herself against him.

His pants had slid down around his ankles, hindering his movements. Consequently, he sat up and quickly removed his boots so he could take his pants off. Bare from the waist down, his member jutting like a flag-pole, he shivered at a sudden gust of wind from off the heights above, then glued his body to hers.

Mabel's slender fingers enfolded him. “You are magnificent,” she breathed. “I will remember this night forever.”

“It is not over yet,” Fargo said, and resumed his devotion to her breasts. He sucked, he licked, he lathered, he made them heave, and then, without any hint of what he was about to do, he dipped a hand between her thighs and pressed his forefinger to her wet slit.

Mabel nearly came up off the blanket. Her fingernails raked his shoulders, then held fast. Her mouth sought his and would not be denied. Her tongue slid halfway down his throat.

Fargo parted her nether lips. He flicked the tip of his finger across her swollen knob and her hips bucked upward. Her thighs parted to grant him greater access. He shifted so his knees were between them.

Years ago, when Fargo had slept with his first dove, he learned an important lesson. She told him that most men wanted one thing and one thing only. They got right to it, ignoring the woman's needs, and more often than not left the woman wanting more. She explained to him that foreplay meant a lot to a woman. That touching and kissing helped bring a woman to the brink so that her release was as powerful as the man's.

Fargo never forgot her advice. Sure, there were times when he wanted to ram right in. But he liked the female form, liked pleasuring a woman and being pleasured in return, and if touching and kissing helped things along, then by God he would touch and kiss until he straddled a volcano.

Mabel was close to that point. When he slid a finger up into her, she became a clawing, biting tigress. When he slid a second finger in, he thought she would buck them both into the pool.

Once more Fargo glanced toward the campfire. Binder had turned over and had his back to them. The horses still dozed.

Gripping her hips, Fargo aligned his rigid member and ran it along her slit. Mewing, she wrapped her legs around him.

“Do me! Please. I want you. I want it so much.”

Fargo inserted the tip of his pulsing rod, then slowly penetrated her. She bit him on the shoulder. Her nails nearly ripped his backside off. Then he was all the way in, and she locked her ankles behind him and drew his mouth to hers. For a while he stayed still, until his hips commenced to move of their own accord. She met his thrusts with thrusts of her own, slowly at first, then with rising ardor.

Fargo could no longer hear the waterfall, or feel the wind. He heard only her moans and cries, felt only pure pleasure.

After the explosion, Fargo sank on top of her. He rested his cheek on her breast.

Mabel nuzzled his neck, then closed her eyes, saying dreamily, “That was nice. So very, very nice.”

Fargo did not mean to but he drifted off. He slept so deeply that when a sound awakened him, he jerked his head up in alarm, thinking it might be Skagg or the Untillas. Easing off Mabel, he hurriedly reclaimed his pants and boots and gun belt. As he dressed he scanned the camp. Binder still lay with his back to them. But the horses had their heads raised and their ears pricked toward the forest to the north.

Fargo drew his Colt. He bent to wake up Mabel just as she pulled the blanket about her and rolled onto her side. Deciding to let her sleep, he moved into the ring of firelight. The horses were still staring into the timber but he neither saw nor heard anything to account for why. Patting the Ovaro, he said quietly, “What is out there, boy? What is it?”

Fargo glanced at Mabel. He could just make her out. Stepping to the fire, he added more wood. The flames leaped high, relieving more of the gloom but failing to reveal whatever was out there. He wondered if maybe the horses had caught the scent of a roving mountain lion or bear.

Fargo walked around Binder. He did not want to wake him if there was no need. He strained his ears but heard only the rustle of the wind and the yip of a coyote.

The horses lowered their heads. Fargo figured it was safe to holster his Colt. He turned to go back to the pool and happened to look down. It took a few seconds for what he was seeing to sink in; he could not believe the testimony of his own sight.

An arrow was imbedded in Binder's right eye socket. The tip had caught him in the center of the eye and pierced his skull.

The warrior responsible had to be an amazing archer. The nearest cover was thirty feet away.

Fargo's Henry was propped on his saddle. Bounding over, he scooped it up and turned this way and that, seeking sign of the Untillas. There was none. Either they were gone or they were in hiding.

Fargo did not know what to make of it. Why Binder? Why then? Why not him or Mabel or both?

Mabel!
Jarred by his lapse, Fargo whirled and raced toward the pool. A vague outline low to the ground assured him she was still there, but was she alive or did she have an arrow through her eye? “Mabel?” he said, loud enough to wake her but not to scare her. She did not respond or sit up.

Fargo came to the blanket and discovered it was
only
the blanket and her clothes, lying in a heap. Mabel was nowhere to be seen. Stunned, he turned from side to side. She was not in the pool; she was not by the waterfall. “Mabel!” he hollered.

Fargo was incredulous. It was inconceivable to him that the Untillas had whisked her away almost right from under his nose without him hearing a thing. Cupping a hand to his mouth, he shouted at the top of his lungs. “Mabel! Where are you?”

Silence taunted him.

Fargo ran to the fire, selected a burning brand, and, holding it high, ran back to the blanket. Scuff marks were evidence of a struggle. Two furrows in the dirt showed where Mabel had been dragged Her captors had skirted the pool and headed west, up the slope that flanked the waterfall.

Fargo was an easy target with the torch in his hand but without it he would have to wait until daylight to track them. By then Mabel might end up like Binder. It helped that the warriors were on foot. He reckoned at least a half dozen were involved.

Fargo came to the top of the slope. The river had carved a channel that rose steadily. Bordering it was dense woodland. He climbed, his legs pumping, aware that every second was crucial. He dreaded to hear a scream for it would only mean one thing.

A flat shelf appeared, no more than ten feet long by half that wide. Fargo crossed it in long bounds, then drew up short. A figure was to his left, sitting on the lip of a drop-off above the river. Pale skin and long dark hair told him who it was. “Mabel?”

She did not answer.

Fargo envisioned an arrow sticking from her eye or her breast. He sidled toward her, expecting shafts to rain down on him. “Mabel? Answer me. Are you all right?”

From below came the hiss of rapids. She was dangerously close to the edge, her legs pressed to her chest, her arms wrapped around them, her face against her knees. Her shoulders were moving up and down.

“Mabel, answer me.” Fargo hunkered and placed a hand on her arm. She flinched and drew away. “Are you hurt?”

Her head moved from side to side but she did not glance up or answer him.

“What did they do to you?” Fargo saw no wounds, no trace of blood. He shook her. “Damn it, Mabel. Look at me. What happened?”

Sniffling, she finally raised her head. She was crying. “I was never—” she began, and had to cough to clear her throat. “I was never so scared in my life.”

“I am listening,” Fargo said.

Mabel sniffled again, then wiped her nose with her forearm. “I was asleep. I felt hands on me. For a few moments I thought it was you. Then I realized there were too many.” She stopped and quaked.

“Take your time,” Fargo said.

“They carried me off,” Mabel related. “I tried to fight. I tried to shout to you for help. But one had his hand over my mouth. They carried me off and I was helpless to resist.” She stopped and more tears flowed. “Completely and utterly helpless!”

“You are safe now.” Fargo sought to soothe her.

“I thought I was done for. I thought they would kill me, or have their way with me and then kill me.” Mabel scowled. “Where
were
you? Didn't you see them? Didn't you hear them?”

“I was over by the fire.” Fargo held off telling her about Binder for the time being. She was upset enough as it was.

“You left me lying there all alone?”

The accusation in her tone made Fargo inwardly wince. He was about to explain when he sensed movement, and whirled.