Slocum and the Comanche Page 3

  “The ones I seen at that creek was damn sure scalped plumb to the bone.”

  “Then it isn’t likely Comanches did it.”

  The salesman dropped his pack on the ground near his feet with a curious look in his eye. “Who the hell else would have done somethin’ terrible like that?”

  “Maybe Osages or a Choctaw war party. They don’t make that much of a distinction when it comes to enemies.”

  “You sound mighty damn sure.”

  “I am, on this particular topic. I did my share of scouting for the army a while back. I spent some time in Apache country, and before that I tracked some northern tribes. You can be pretty sure it wasn’t Comanches who did what you say happened.”

  The drummer shook his head. “Either way, I’m stayin’ in this lousy settlement till they find the bunch who done it. I ain’t lookin’ to lose my hair.”

  Slocum glanced into the stable. His Palouse was eating hay and its flanks were full. He was getting what he paid for when he gave the stablekeeper an extra dollar. A clean stall and oats, with plenty of fresh-cut prairie hay. “If it was me I wouldn’t worry about it,” he said, turning back in the direction of the Grand Hotel.

  “And why’s that, mister? I worry when I could be the next feller who goes bald afore his time.”

  “I doubt it’ll happen again. If it was an Osage or Choctaw war party, they won’t hang around to wait for the army to come after them.”

  “Just the same, I think I’ll stay. You don’t strike me as a feller who’s all that sure of what he’s sayin’.”

  “Suit yourself,” Slocum said with a shrug, ambling off toward his room.

  “By the way, mister ... that’s a gunfighter’s rig you’re wearin’. Are you, by chance, a shootist?”

  Slocum did not bother to turn around. “I’m in the horse business. The gun is just for looks, in case some fool thinks he can take my poke.”

  “I’d be careful in this neck of the woods. It’s full of men on the dodge from the law. Just a week ago I had three fellers ride up to my camp carryin’ guns. If I hadn’t stuck a twelve-gauge shotgun in their faces, they might have took everything I own.”

  “A man can’t be too careful in Indian Territory,” he said as he walked out of earshot.

  “That’s the damn truth,” the drummer called out as he hoisted his packs.

  Slocum put his mind back on the Indian girl. It would be a shame if a woman as beautiful as she was harmed by the cavalry in an attempt to punish whoever was responsible for the scalpings. One thing he was sure of: It wasn’t Comanches who scalped the women.

  His thoughts then returned to the business at hand: the seduction of a pretty redhead by the name of Fannie. He intended to wine her and dine her at the Palace tonight, and when the hour grew late, after she’d had several glasses of brandy, he meant to take her upstairs to his room at the Grand.

  A red-orange sunset emblazoned the skies above Cache as he entered the hotel to climb to his room. A deep longing warmed his groin. If Miss Fannie gave her consent, she would be in for a long ride on his mattress tonight.

  4

  He waited for her over a glass of cognac, a watered-down version of one of his favorite drinks. But he was, he realized, lucky to find cognac of any description in Indian Territory.

  She came through the door wearing a red dress. Her hair was done in curls, and a red ribbon was tied around her neck. She wore rouge and lip paint, and high-heeled shoes of the button variety.

  He stood up as she walked to his table. “Good evening, Miss Fannie. You look lovely tonight.” It seemed as if every head in the house turned when she entered the lamplit room.

  “Why, thank you, Mr. Slocum. I do hope I haven’t kept you waiting.”

  “I’ve been enjoying a glass of cognac. Will you have one with me?”

  “Of course,” she replied as he pulled back her chair.

  The red gown revealed even more cleavage than her green velvet dress, and her creamy breasts jiggled as she settled herself and sat down. Her nipples were barely covered by the silky fabric.

  He took his seat. “I’m glad you came. It would have been more proper for a gentleman to call for a lady at her residence, but I do understand about the rules at your boardinghouse.”

  A waiter hurried over to take Fannie’s order. “What will the lady have, sir?”

  “Cognac. And while you’re here, get us two steaks, the best you have. The lady will tell you how she wants hers cooked and what she’ll have with it.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  “I like mine rare,” Fannie said, staring at him suggestively. “Potatoes and any type of greens will be fine with me.”

  “I like things rare myself,” he said, after placing their order with their waiter. “Rare women, women who are unusually beautiful, are my favorite, and they’re quite rare, especially in an out-of-the-way place like Cache.”

  “You have a way with words, Mr. Slocum.”

  “Please call me John.”

  “As you wish, John,” she replied, slipping her shawl from her milky-white shoulders to drape it across the back of her chair.

  “I’ve dreamed of being in San Francisco for so long,” she said as she finished the last of her dessert. “If I can only find a way to get there.”

  “Perhaps I may be of some service. On occasion I do some work for the railroad.”

  “What sort of work is that?” she asked.

  “They call it detective work. I make sure valuable shipments arrive at their destination. I might be able to convince someone at the Texas & Pacific to provide you with a complimentary ticket to California. I’d have to send a telegram to the main office to be sure. I’m not the sort to make empty promises.”

  She reached for his hand. “You are a true gentleman, John. Even if you can’t arrange passage aboard a train for me, I won’t hold it against you. You said you would try, and that’s enough to convince me that you’re a man with a good heart who cares about a woman in distress.”

  “It’s bad luck that you were left here in such difficult circumstances. It must be hard in a town like this on your own.”

  She nodded and sipped more cognac. “I’ve done without a good many things.” She turned and stared at him for a while before she spoke again. “More than anything else, I’ve done without a good man. I’ve been lonely.”

  “Maybe I can also remedy that situation. If you won’t think I’m being presumptious, we could take a walk down Main Street and go up to my room for a glass of wine. I purchased a bottle of the best they had, a French import.” She smiled. “I think I’d like that. You won’t think I’m being unladylike by accepting your offer?”

  “Not at all,” he told her, signaling the waiter for the bill. “I like a woman who knows what she wants. Being coy about it only makes things more difficult for both parties.”

  “I agree,” she said, pulling her shawl around her as she stood up. “One thing you can be certain of, John. I’m a woman who knows exactly what she wants.”

  In the dim light cast by a small oil lamp on the washstand, Slocum poured Fannie a third glass of wine. A cool breeze wafted through the open window. They sat side by side on the bed talking about San Francisco. The room had no chairs, so the bed was the only place to sit.

  “The Old Frisco Opera House is a sight to see,” he told her. “It’s the most elegant I’ve ever seen. You’ll like it there. There are stage plays and operas and all manner of entertainment.”

  “I’d do anything to get to San Francisco,” she said, gazing deep into his eyes. “I wish you could be there with me when I see the city for the first time.”

  “I’m afraid business will keep me elsewhere for the present. Perhaps next year, if things go well. But I’d be honored to be in your company most any place, Fannie. It wouldn’t have to be San Francisco.”

  She smiled. “I can’t help noticing how you look at me, at my bosom.”

  “Does it make you uncomfortable?”

  �
�Not at all,” she murmured.

  “I can honestly say I can’t help myself. You have a magnificent chest ... very large for a woman your size. It almost seems like your dress is too small to cover you. I find it very appealing.”

  Fannie put down her glass. “Would you care to see more?” she asked. Reaching behind her as if she already knew the answer to her question, she began to work the buttons open.

  “Of course,” he replied. “Let me help you with those back buttons.”

  “You won’t think I’m a loose woman if I take my dress off?”

  “Quite the contrary. I’ll think you’re a woman who knows what she wants.”

  Fannie stood up slowly and turned around so he could open her buttons down to her waist. She wriggled the dress over her hips and let it fall to the floor, until she was standing with her back to him wearing nothing but a corset and silk stockings. When she turned to face him, she was pulling the strings free on her corset in a slow, suggestive way. The twin mounds of her soft flesh bulged above the corset, until the lacing was loosened enough to allow her to tug it down off her breasts.

  Her admired her bosom in silence for a moment. Its rosy-pink nipples were twisted hard and erect. “How beautiful you are,” he said as his cock began to swell.

  “Do you want to see more?” she asked playfully. A grin lifted the comers of her ruby lips, and her teeth sparkled in the lamplight.

  “What a silly question.”

  “I used to be very bashful. The first time I took my clothes off in front of a man, my face got so hot I thought I’d die.”

  Slocum stood up to help her with the corset laces. “I’m glad you got over it.” He push the undergarment down over her hips.

  Fannie began rolling her stockings down. A mound of flame-red hair glistened above her thighs.

  “Sit down and I’ll take off your shoes,” he said, his prick throbbing inside his pants.

  She sat, and without an invitation she opened the top of his denims, one brass fastener at a time. “Good grief,” she whispered, her voice thickening. “Are you really this ... big?”

  She pulled his cock from the leg of his pants and gasped. “It’s almost too big. I’ve never seen one ...”

  “I’ll use it real gentle,” he promised, tossing one of her shoes to the floor.

  Fannie stroked his pulsing member. “I’m not sure I can take all of it.”

  “We can try,” he said, ridding her foot of the other shoe and then pulling off both stockings.

  “I suppose ... we can,” she stammered, and now her breathing was quicker. She couldn’t take her eyes from his swollen cock, even as he unbuttoned his shirt, continuing to stroke it gently with a slight tremor in her hand.

  He sat on the edge of the mattress and pulled off his boots and pants, tucking his bellygun into the top of one stovepipe boot.

  “Please turn down the lamp,” Fannie whispered, swinging her legs off the floor so she lay flat on the bed, watching him and his stiff cock with what could only be described as fascination. “It’s too bright in here.”

  He turned down the wick until it glowed pale and cast faint shadows on the walls. Then he lay down beside her and handed her a glass of wine. “Finish this, pretty lady,” he said, cupping a hand over her left breast, gently pinching the nipple between his thumb and forefinger.

  Fannie downed her drink in a single swallow.

  He emptied his own glass and placed them both on the washstand before returning his hand to her breast.

  “Oh, that feels good,” she sighed, momentarily closing her eyes. She reached for his prick and found it, clasping it in a firm grip while he kneaded her breast.

  He bent over her face and kissed her gently. “You are a very passionate women, I can tell.” He released her nipple and moved his hand down to her cunt, noticing at once how wet it was when his finger slid across her soft mound.

  “That feels even better,” she moaned, tightening the muscles in her thighs while spreading her legs apart.

  Slocum entered her with his finger and she gasped with delight.

  “I want more,” Fannie panted, her breath coming in short, quick bursts.

  He rolled between her curved thighs and placed the head of his cock against the lips of her cunt, hesitating, applying no pressure.

  “I hope it’s not too big,” she groaned, beginning slow, rhythmic thrusts against him. “Clyde was small, if you know what I mean. I don’t know if I can take you inside me.”

  “You told me before you liked men rough, but in a gentle sort of way. Just relax. I’ll show you how.”

  He pushed into her mound only slightly, parting the wet lips a fraction.

  “I do like it rough,” she gasped, “but you must promise me you won’t hurt me.”

  “You have my word, Fannie.”

  Her pelvic thrusts became harder, faster, as though she meant to drive herself onto his prick in spite of the resistance he felt. “I want more,” she hissed, clenching her teeth.

  With subtle pressure he pushed another inch of his thick cock inside her.

  “That feels wonderful!” she exclaimed, raising her voice as her hunching grew faster, stronger, more urgent. “Push harder, John! Harder!”

  Again he sent more of his prick into her, feeling her wetness and heat. Her body was trembling from head to toe and she dug her fingernails into his back.

  Slocum’s balls began to rise, his jism ready to explode if he allowed it. He intended to satisfy her first, before he had his own release.

  “More!” Fannie cried, drawing blood where her fingernails cut his skin. Thrusting, hunching, she placed her heels behind his knees and locked him in a powerful leg embrace.

  He felt the walls of her cunt open slightly, and when they did he drove his prick into her with a bit more force than he’d intended.

  “Oh! Oh!” Fannie gasped, slamming the lips of her mound against the thickness of his shaft. “I’m going to come, John! I’m going to come!”

  Her entire body shook so violently he gripped the headboard with both hands to keep from being thrown to the floor while she rocked back and forth underneath him, groaning, panting, her skin moist with perspiration.

  Bedsprings creaked with the power of their lovemaking, and the iron headboard banged against the wall when Fannie finally reached her climax. She stiffened, arching her back off the mattress, screwing her eyelids tightly shut.

  Slocum waited for her to relax. “That’s a good girl,” he said gently, returning to his own slow thrusting. “Now we go for the second act of this play. Close your eyes and pretend you’re at the Old Frisco Opera House now.”

  She returned his thrusts with pelvic movements of her own, a grinding motion, and the wet sounds of his prick sliding in and out of her cunt were hard to hear above her gasps for more air.

  His tempo increased and the tip of his prick felt warm, ready to erupt.

  When he reached his climax, the sensation spread from his balls to his thighs, then all over his body. After a few more thrusts he lay still, breathing hard, smiling.

  5

  Fort Sill lay on a flat plain northwest of Cache. It consisted of a collection of wooden barracks, a parade ground and headquarters building, a sutler’s store, and rows of stables surrounded by corrals holding hundreds of horses. Beyond the army post, buffalo-hide lodges and crude cabins stretched as far as the eye could see. Smoke rose from cooking fires into a cloudless sky. The Indians were preparing smoked meat—the only way to preserve it for the coming winter.

  It had been difficult for Slocum to decide whether or not to ride out to the fort to tell the commanding officer what he knew about the Kwahadie hunting party they’d encountered on the way up from Texas. It truly wasn’t any of his affair, and yet he felt some responsibility. Captain Carter knew so little about Indians, Kwahadies in particular, that he’d given the fort commander an inaccurate picture of the danger he believed existed at the hands of what Slocum felt sure was only a party of hunters.

&nb
sp; He rode toward post headquarters at a walk, keeping the stud in check on a tight rein. A squad of infantrymen marched across the parade ground carrying rifles. At the stables, he could see cavalrymen saddling horses. No doubt a patrol was being mounted to look for the Kwahadies.

  “Typical of the army,” Slocum muttered, wondering how the cavalry ever caught up to any Indians when they waited to begin a search until the sun was already an hour above the horizon.

  He was wearing a beaded buckskin shirt, and it drew a few stares as he rode across the parade ground to dismount in front of the headquarters building. Slocum had chosen the shirt in part because there was a chill in the air, a warning of the cold weather to come in the days ahead. The deerskin shirt had been given to him by a Ute warrior he found mortally wounded in the lower Rockies a few years earlier. He had made the Indian as comfortable as possible until the bullet hole in his gut finally claimed his life. Slocum treasured the garment, which reminded him of the special bond that had developed between him and the dying warrior.

  He tied off the stud at a hitchrail and climbed the steps to the front door. Two soldiers wearing privates’ stripes blocked his way.

  “I’d like to talk to Major Thompson,” he began. “I’ve got some information about those Indians he’s looking for.”

  “Step inside and speak to Sergeant Brooks at the desk. He will ask the major if he can see you now.”

  Slocum nodded and went inside. A long front room ran the length of the building. At the desk guarding the door of the back office, a burly sergeant regarded his Indian shirt with disdain.

  “What do you want?” the sergeant asked, as he took in Slocum’s cross-pull gunbelt.

  “I’d like a word with Major Thompson. I saw those Indians he’s after. Got a few things I want to tell him that might be a help.”

  “What’s your name, mister?”

  “Slocum. John Slocum.”

  “Wait here, Mr. Slocum. I’ll tell the major you’re here.”

  Sergeant Brooks was only in the major’s office a few moments before he returned. “Go on in, Mr. Slocum. Major Thompson said he had a few minutes.”