Red Rock

He didn't know how to send signals. It was an art he didn't have time to learn, but he figured the Apache would investigate any smoke signal rising in their territory.

He heaped more wet grass onto the burning pile until he could see no flame. It would smoke for several hours like that, and that would be more than enough time for the Indians to see it. They'd probably already seen it.

He made his way back down to the overhang. The Indian was still lying on his back just as he had left him. When he heard Green, he opened his eyes.

Green knelt down beside him and checked the wound, putting more jelly on the cactus pad. He rolled a couple of smokes, lit them and handed one to the boy. He placed the bag of tobacco and papers with a tin of matches next to him.

"Mas tarde, amigo."

Bear Claw nodded.

With nothing left to say, Green made he way out from underneath the overhang, mounted his pinto, and cautiously descended to the stage road and headed toward Red Rock at a steady canter.

Chapter 15: Tibbs Arrives at Loomis' Ranch

As Tibbs left the hill country -- veiled in mist that resounded with the echoing clops of his horse's hooves on wet sandstone -- and started down a slight incline, the Loomis ranch -- lying on a wide, flat stretch of desert -- slowly came into view. The mountains far beyond were shrouded in a low-lying bank of gray clouds that clung to the desert like a giant slug.

As he drew near he observed little sign of life. A few horses milled about in a cedar corral next to a large red barn. Everyone was, no doubt, inside out of the rain -- where Tibbs wished he was. An uncomfortable, cold, wet spot around his crotch irritated him where the rain had sluiced down his saddle underneath his slicker. He was sorely in need of a stiff drink.

As he dismounted and looped his reins over a hitching rail, one of a pair of double doors opened and Loomis stepped out beneath the low-ceilinged portico and leaned casually against the recessed, adobe jamb. He held a tumbler of whiskey in one hand and a cigar in the other.

Tibbs stepped up onto the porch, his boots thick with mud.

"Take your boots off," Loomis said, "and your slicker." Dismissively he flicked the ash from his cigar and turned back inside.

Cussing under his breath, Tibbs balanced himself against a column, grunting as he removed spurs and boots. He washed his thick hands of the mud from the runoff of the roof, took his slicker off and laid it down on a bench near the doors. He didn't like Loomis. The arrogant bastard always made him feel like a peasant, but he knew better than to show his anger. Old man Loomis was no one to fuck with.

This was Tibbs' weekly visit to Loomis' ranch to take any orders he might have for him.

The twin doors opened on Loomis' private lounge. He was seated behind his hand-carved desk with his stocking feet propped up on top as Tibbs entered. He didn't offer him a seat, so Tibbs stood, big and brutish before the desk, hooking his thumbs in his gunbelt to keep his arms from dangling awkwardly at his sides.

Loomis studied him with a slight smirk on his face and drew several leisurely puffs on his cigar.

"What did you do, piss yourself?" he said after a moment.

Tibbs glanced down at the wet ring around his crotch. Loomis was the only man alive who could poke fun at him and get away with it.

"Rain," he muttered, forcing his tongue into his cheek and turning his face to the side to hide a sudden, flaring anger.

"Yeah, well that'll do it I suppose," Loomis said, chuckling, shrugging shoulders as broad as the marshal's; Suddenly, turning serious, he gave Tibbs a hard stare.

"I want you to pay a visit to the newspaperwoman."

"Faye Morgan," Tibbs said automatically.

"Yes. She's taking her little enterprise too seriously. Criticized my daughter-in-law in the last edition. I won't stand for that."

"I'll take care of it," Tibbs replied. He shifted the bulk of his weight to his left leg. He would enjoy this assignment.

"Also," Loomis continued, "the round-up will be over soon. I'll want you to see that plenty of Lilly's girls are brought in from Sackville, same as before; the boys will be going in for a little celebrating." Loomis blew a cloud of smoke toward the panther. "And there's another matter. Know anything about a feller by the name of Green?"

Tibbs felt a twinge of uneasiness. Why was the Old Man bringing up the name of the drifter?

"He's stayin' at the hotel. I let him know he wasn't welcome on Loomis land."

"Umph!" Loomis grunted. "Obviously you didn't impress it upon him hard enough. The son-of-a-bitch just got himself hired on by the Holbarth woman."

"What as?" Tibbs replied sarcastically. "He's sure as hell no cattleman."

"Yeah, exactly," Loomis said. "She's hired herself a shooter."

"Well, he's just one man, Mr. Loomis, "You've got an army."

"Yeah, I know. But that's why I made you marshal; you're supposed to take care of problems like this."

"He's gone, Mr. Loomis; I'll see to it first thing."

"See that you do, Tibbs; I don't wanna catch sight of the bastard again."

Tibbs watched wistfully as Loomis finished off the whiskey in the sparkling tumbler, jerking his silvery head back. His nostrils were cloyed with the odor of the expensive bourbon; he ran a dry tongue over his lips unconsciously, his mouth and throat parched.

On the ride back to Red Rock in a heavy drizzle, Tibbs leaned his head back and caught rain drops on his tongue. He could think of only three things: getting a stiff drink at Stubs' and putting the pretty newspaperwoman in her place. His cock stirred against his wet crotch. He would enjoy that. Later, he would take care of Green, and he would enjoy that, too.

Chapter 16: A bed warmer

Abigail had just finished slipping the photograph back behind the pocket mirror when she heard the sound of voices coming from the livery. Moving cautiously to the window she peeked out. It was Green handing his pinto off to the liveryman. He was heading toward the hotel. Hurriedly she placed the mirror in his war bag, placed it in his bedroll and rolled it up.

Too late.

She could hear the lobby doorbell tinkle and the scrap of boots across the floor . . . .

As Green opened the door to his room he caught the odor of perfume. Abigail was lying on her back naked on his bed, her brown hair fixed in a tight bun. Her dress was hanging over the wrought iron foot railing . . . .

She was wet and tight. She bit into the hard muscles of his shoulder, moaning as he moved within her. His unshaven face reddened her breasts, causing her nipples to rise as if they were seeking -- relishing -- punishment. He moved down her belly parting the wiry, brown cunt hairs with the point of his tongue moving slowly down the furrow of her slit, faster and harder as she moved her hips up off the bed forcing his probing tongue deeper into her.

She gripped the back of his head with both hands holding him tightly to her. Her heart was ripping away in her chest. She didn't know which she was feeling the most, pain or pleasure. One moment she cried in pure agony, the next in almost unbearable ecstasy.

Soon his cock was in her again, going in deeper. His mouth eager, wet and hot, found hers. She murmured a smothered, liquid sound as their tongues entwined, his tongue and cock filling her simultaneously. Constellations of stars exploded behind her clenched eyelids.

Their sweat-slickened bodies strained and rocked on the wide bed. Her hands moved over the hard muscles of his shoulders and down the rippling back to the taut asscheeks, as if in a frantic effort to 'see' him by touch. Her hands went to his neck pulling him to her as she forced her tongue farther into his mouth.

She pounded the edges of her fist against him, driving him on; she wanted to be punished for betraying him. She bit deeply into his lower lip; she could taste blood. He slapped her, again harder. She gave a deep-throated laugh which he covered with a forceful kiss that smothered her. Unrelenting she fought back scrapping him with her sharp nails which only increased the vigor of his thrust in her.

He pounded into her with the ferocity of a wild man, bringing her to the edge -- and over so intensely that she cried out, her long fingers locked in his thick hair.

And afterwards there was only the rapid motion of firm breasts rising and falling beneath sweaty palms, the sound of heavy breathing and rain pelting the window, a distant murmur of thunder.

Chapter 17: Riders on the Storm

Old Man Loomis took the lead. Immediately behind him riding abreast were Chili, Jorge Mendoza and Luis Amundo. Behind them rode twenty-five of Loomis' toughest cowboys.

They rode at a trot breaking into a canter occasionally, hunched forward slightly, their wide-brimmed hats slouched from the heavy downpour coming from the northwest. Their yellow slickers glistened like glazed candy as their bodies rose and fell rhythmically to the strides of their horses . . . .

Susan Holbarth rubbed Zeke's muzzle, patting his neck and shoulder. The big, gray gelding had been her husband's. Since all her hands had deserted her after her husband's death she hadn't been able to let the animal graze freely because of the Apache. She held onto the halter and led the horse to the rear of the barn and turned him loose in the corral. But he didn't like the idea of going out into the rain, and she had to swat him on the butt.

She tramped back to his stall and began mucking it out with a long-handled shovel. While she was about it Zeke stuck his head back in the rear entry and cautiously slipped into the alleyway and shook himself.

When Susan finished, she filled a large bucket in the stall with rainwater and forked some hay into the rack. Zeke hurried into the stall when she stepped out.

The rain on the roof drowned out most sounds. Susan took off her leather work gloves and hung them on a nail by the front entry. She slipped on her black, rubber coat, grabbed her shotgun leaning against the wall and started for the cabin.

She was unaware of the two men, one on either side of the door, and as she stepped out they grabbed her arms. The one on the right yanked the shotgun from her and flung it off into the mud.

Everything happened quickly.

A man, wearing a sombrero and yellow slicker, stood on the porch of the cabin watching. Susan recognized him. It was the one called Chili. The two holding her were Mexicans also. She could smell whiskey and stale cigar. She struggled, twisting this way and that, kicking with her rubber boots, her brown skirt rising up revealing flashes of her thighs.

The man on the porch, Chili, raised his hand and motioned. On a nearby hillock Susan saw a mass of riders approach. She recognized Loomis in the lead. His white hair hung down to his shoulders in wet strands, his face hard-set. She ceased struggling, hoping to retain some dignity.

A sudden fear drove her reasoning. He wouldn't hurt her, surely. If he wanted the damn place that badly he could have it. But she sensed real danger; this was going to be it. Whatever it was.

God help me!

They rode up, their horses flinging mud about amid the creaking of leather. Almost two dozen of them -- or more, she figured. They formed a tight semicircle around her. The corral fence was behind.

Loomis stopped directly in front of her and leaned forward, his hands relaxed on his pommel. Rain sluiced from the brim of his white Stetson.

"Well, Susan, can't say I didn't give yuh fair warning. you're as hard-headed as that husband of yours was. West ain't no place for a widow woman. Should've gone back east." He sighed mockingly and shook his head. "Too late now though."

Susan tried to speak, but all she could do was stammer. Her knees trembled and gave on her. Luis and Jorge held her up under the armpits.

"Strip her, boys! Tie her to that fence!"

A couple of men got down off their horses and helped Luis and Jorge pull her clothes off amid crude laughter and lewd taunts.

Chili stepped off the porch and slowly walked toward her as the cowboys twisted her out of her raincoat. One of them ripped her blouse open. They pulled off her boots followed by her skirt. Their muddy hands smeared her naked flesh which the rain washed clean.

They dragged her nude, kicking and screaming, through the mud to the fence. While a couple of them held her, two others fashioned some rope around her wrists and ankles and bent her over the second rail. They spread her legs as far as possible and secured the ropes to posts on either side.

At this point Chili moved up behind her, opened his slicker and unbuttoned his fly.

She squeezed her eyelids shut and began screaming as he entered her. She could feel the cool, oiled canvas of his slicker against her asscheeks. She could feel his thick cock spreading her.

He jerked her head up by the hair when he was fully in and whispered harshly in her ear:

"Si no cierra la trompa, condenada, te voy a dar una galleta!"

The rape was over in seconds. Warm cum washed down the inside of her thighs as he pulled out.

But others took his place; she lost count. Some came back for seconds and thirds. It seemed to go on forever. Her belly was on fire. Cum pooled in the mud between her feet. Her breasts were bruised and swollen were brutal hands had gripped them.

Finally they untied her.

A thin Mexican led Zeke out into the corral. Susan watched in numb horror as he pulled out a pistol and shot the horse in the head.

Zeke instantly dropped to the ground and tilted to his side. The man holstered his pistol and took out a hunting knife and began cutting open the horse's belly.

It was only the beginning for Susan Holbarth.

Chapter 18: Tibbs confronts the newspaperwoman

Tibbs watched two flies fuck by a wet ring on the table next to his bottle of Jack Daniels as he scarfed down beef stew with dumplings. Outside the rain hadn't let up. If anything it had increased. He stuffed his cheeks with chunks of beef and dumplings, chewing vigorously; brown gravy trickling from the corner of his mouth. Occasionally he washed it all down with a slug of whiskey.

Raymond sat behind the bar reading an old edition of the Lantern and smoking a thin cigar. Elena was singing something softly in Spanish behind the antepuerta amid the faint noise of metal pots and pans being washed.

When he was finished, Tibbs leaned back, belched and loosened his belt a notch. He wasn't wearing his cartridge belt and holster. Instead, at the jail, before coming to the saloon, he had discarded them and stuck a slip gun in his hip pocket.

He smoked a cigarette and after awhile got up, scrapping his chair back noisily.

"Put it on account, Stubs," he said, with a harsh laugh, pulling on his slicker. He picked up a broom leaning against the bar and plucked out a stem of heath for a toothpick.

Outside the rain plinked the muddy street. Wind blew a cool mist against his face, forming dew on his thick mustache. Fog concealed the desert beyond the limits of town, and ghost-like drifted through the alleyways. Low, gray clouds hid the sky. It was as if the world no longer existed except for Red Rock. He glanced up the street toward The Lantern and, hunched over, began walking that way . . . .

When Green woke, Abigail was gone. He slipped on his freshly cleaned buckskin pants, blue cotton shirt and boots, strapped on his pistols and headed for The Lantern. He no longer had his serape, so he stepped quickly to keep from getting soaked.

He was thinking that the newspaperwoman wasn't bad looking. Maybe after he'd given her his eye-witness account of the dead Indian hanging from the tree he would invite her for a drink at Raymond's cantina.

The plainly furnished office was empty as he entered. To his left was a Washington hand press and type case, an ink barrel and a stack of stock paper piled on top of a wide desk. In a low book case were textbooks and on top piles of religious tracts. To his right was a pot-bellied stove and a straight-backed chair.

Suddenly, from the second floor, he heard a jarring thud and another in what sounded like a struggle. Drawing a .44 he went back out and up a stairway fixed to the side of the building. At the top landing, he found the door slightly ajar. Rain had soaked his clothes by now, but he was unmindful; all his attention was concentrated on what might be waiting inside.

He pushed the door open. Tibbs was holding a pistol to Faye Morgan's head.

"Well, lookee here. If it ain't Mr. Green," Tibbs chortled pulling the hammer of the slip pistol back. "Shoot me, Green, and this slip pistol will automatically go off. So if you don't want the lovely lady to die I suggest you drop your hogleg."

Green gritted his teeth, but he could do nothing. He stooped and placed his .44 on the floor.

"Now unhook the belts."

Green lowered his cartridge belts to the floor, letting down his other .44 in its holster.

"Now step back and face the wall," Tibbs ordered, turning the slip pistol on him.

When Green was facing the wall, Tibbs flung Morgan onto a spool bed in the corner and picked up the belts, holstering the loose .44 then slung the belts over his broad shoulder.

"Well, looks like I'm gonna get me two birds with one stone," Tibbs taunted. "You two really pissed off Mr. Loomis. And that's a no-no. Now I gotta take care of you all cause that's what Loomis pays me for. You shouldn't have lied to me, Green. Going out to the Widow Holbarth's was a real dumb-ass move. You got me an ass chewing for that, and I don't like gettin' an ass chewing. You'll pay for that." Tibbs paused for a moment,"Now turn around, Green."

He glanced back at Morgan. "Stand up, bitch. You gotta be taught a lesson, too. Gotta learn what to print and what not to in that damn rag of yours. You don't criticize the Loomises."

As soon as Morgan was on her feet Tibbs said, "Take your clothes off."

"Go to hell you son-of-a-bitch!" she exclaimed."

"Oh, I'm not kiddin', baby. You either peel or I start using Green for target practice." He motioned with his pistol toward Green. "I think we'd both be interested in see'n what yuh look like all butt naked, wouldn't we, Green?"

"You bastard!" Faye Morgan hissed between clenched teeth.

"It's up to you, bitch; what's it going to be?"

Saying this he leveled his pistol at Green.

"No, don't --" she blurted out. Her hands moved slowly to the top button of her blouse.

When the blouse was off, Tibbs said, "Now the skirt."

She hesitated, glanced at Green; hands trembling, she unhooked the waist catch and stepped out of the skirt after kicking off her slippers.

All that remained was a thin cotton vest that hung to mid-thigh. By now her face was flushed and her blue eyes flashing.

Hesitating she finally pulled it off over her head dislodging blonde strands from her neatly bunned coiffure.

Naked she stood before the two men, her firm, full breasts quivering slightly with each rapid heart beat.

Keeping his slip gun on Green, Tibbs reached out suddenly and stuck his finger in Morgan's mouth, hooking it in her cheek, and roughly jerked her against him hanging her up on her tiptoes as if she were a large fish being shown off.

"Nice, ain't she, Green?"

He placed the gun barrel against her left nipple.

"Damn," Tibbs sighed, "nothing like knowing you can do anything you like to make the old pecker hard. Go ahead and squeeze it, bitch. He yanked her farther so that her toes were almost off the floor.

"Stuuufffit," she pleaded.

"No, bitch, not until you play with it."

Her hand found the swollen lump between his legs.

"That's better. That feels good, real good. Bet you'd like some of that too, wouldn't you, Green?" He stroked her well-rounded ass with the barrel of his gun.