Longarm wasn’t too sure he followed their drift. But he made a grab for fresh meat as Roxanne literally rolled him off her younger pal.
The more fleshy and voluptuous Roxanne kissed him back, but then she shoved his hand away from her hairier crotch, purring, don’t be so impatient. That prospective buyer isn’t coming to look this wagon over until this afternoon, and you could obviously use a breather!”
That was the simple truth. So Longarm reclined on one elbow with a bemused smile as Roxanne took his place with Rowena. It was sort of interesting to watch the way lesbian gals went at it when neither had a dick.
At least, they surely acted like lesbian gals. They kissed a heap, and then Roxanne started kissing her way down Rowena’s slender form, dark hair trailing across heaving breasts and excited belly as the older gal cocked one shapely thigh over her partners to settle down in her face like a biddy hen fixing to hatch something.
So a good time was had by both as Longarm watched, feeling ever more inspired as the two of them gave one another some experienced and far from delicate licking.
From the way they were both moaning and groaning as they slurped, it seemed up for grabs who’d be coming first. But as the older gal must have known, and Longarm should have guessed, the less controlled younger one came first, sobbing aloud, “It’s not fair but don’t stop!”
So the smoldering Roxanne gave her a few good licks, and then she rolled off to lay spread-eagled between her two bed partners, saying, “Whee! I’m right on the edge but I won! So let me call you sweetheart, cowboy!”
Longarm’s old organ-grinder was feeling mighty edgy as well by then. So he chortled, “Powder River and let her buck!” as he mounted her and thrust home, hitting bottom, and Roxanne gasped, “Keerist! You might have warned me, Rowena!
But the younger gal was sitting up, pawing at Longarm’s bounding bare butt as she sobbed, “Hurry, hurry, do hurry, and then do it to me some more!”
Longarm couldn’t answer with Roxanne swabbing his tonsils with her tongue as she gyrated her bigger hips in jig time with his long-donging. How had he ever thought anyone else had the best damned pussy in the world when this was obviously it?
Of course, once the three of them had shared an after-orgasmic cheroot and he was dog-styling Rowena while the friendly child ate her older mentoress, she did feel a tad tighter. So then he had to put it in the moaning and groaning Roxanne some more to make sure, and in the end he was damned if he could decide whether he enjoyed hot pulsating wetness or wiggly-smooth tightness more. The grandest thing about women, bless them, was that nine out of ten of them were worth screwing, while that tenth one was worth it as a change of pace.
Chapter 16
No lawman with the brains of a gnat would have let himself fall asleep among thieves, and Roxanne had said that prospective buyer was due to show up any time after noon. So neither gal seemed to feel insulted when Longarm finally hauled ass out of there walking funny.
He made it back to his hotel, forced himself to take the time for a bath down the hall, and flopped bare-ass and alone across his hotel bed to catch forty winks through the hotter half of the day.
He felt way better after close to six hours’ sleep. Longarm arose around sundown to shit and shave, pay his hotel bill, and inhale some steak and mashed potatoes with plenty of black coffee downstairs.
At the Western Union he found answers to some of those earlier wires waiting for him. None of them told him all that much at first glance. He wadded them up and put them in a breast pocket of his jacket to go over again later. For as anyone who’d ever taken out a bank loan could tell you, it was easy to miss serious shit in the small print.
He picked up a sack of feed on his way to get old Rocket. As they helped him saddle and bridle her, Longarm lashed the trail rations to the saddle, balancing the Winchester’s boot on the far side, and told the perky roan, “We ain’t fixing to stop for conversations about your species along the way, Rocket. For I’ve a weak nature around women and we’re in a hurry.”
He led her outside in the gloaming, tipped the young stable hands, and mounted up, saying to old Rocket, “I make her a day’s cavalry ride if we push on through to old Helga and that swell carriage house without stopping anywheres along the way for more than a trail break. I’ll get you back to the Lazy B on my return swing, as I redistribute all you ponies.”
Rocket didn’t argue. Once they were south of the railroad tracks he let her have her head, and she loped as if she’d felt cooped up in that stall all day. She likely had. Mankind and horseflesh got along so well because a healthy horse enjoyed running across firm grasslands as much as most folks liked to ride.
But by the time they were even with her home spread, Longarm was a mite tempted to swing over and see how that paint felt about carrying him the rest of the way. For old Rocket was commencing to show the effects of her sportive gallop the night before.
It was only in Ned Buntline’s Wild West Magazine that true-blue cowboys rode one true-blue steed at least as smart as a math teacher. A well-founded beef outfit kept six or seven mounts for each human on the payroll. That way a man could get a hard day’s work out of a pony without permanent injury. He felt guilty about pushing another man’s pony this hard two long lopes in a row.
On the other hand it was after midnight by then, and Sappa Crossing lay almost within an hour’s ride downhill. So he pressed on, letting old Rocket walk every other furlong, till he had her in Heger’s snug carriage house, with Helga yelling things like “Wer is das?” down the stairs at them until he told her it was him, and then she wanted him to get right up stairs and into bed with her.
He chuckled fondly and told her he had a few less pleasant but more important chores to tend to first.
He tethered Rocket by the trough, unsaddled her, and rubbed her down with some handy sacking as she enjoyed some water and oats, in that important order, lest she bloat her fool self.
Then he picked up a manure shovel from another corner and went across to the gunsmith shop’s back door in the moonlight. He cussed when he recalled Helga’s key ring. But the back door wasn’t locked, bless her loss of interest in a boss who’d never paid her.
He went down to the cellar, lit that same lantern, and regarded the now dried-out dirt floor morosely. Save for a few tiny low spots hither and yon, the infernal floor had dried out evenly. You could smell stale piss and long-lost food scraps better now. But aside from being sort of sloppy as he worked at yon tool bench, the missing Horst Heger hadn’t hidden a dead wife down here after all.
Upstairs, in bed with Helga after the pleasant discovery that neither Rowena nor Roxanne had the best little pussies in the world after all, he told Helga about his experiment in the cellar across the way, and added, “He could have buried her under this carriage house and he could have buried her out back in his yard. But a man with a dirt-floored cellar he could work in with a constitutional right to privacy would be a total fool to bury her anywhere else.”
Helga shrugged a big soft shoulder and said, “I told you she had off with another man abluafen. We have more serious something to talk about, Custis.”
He cautiously asked what seemed more important than at least two missing persons. She said she’d been offered her old job back, and he agreed cleaning house for modest wages, room, and board had waiting here for Horst Heger beat.
He said, “They have a Western Union up in McCook. So by wiring all over I managed to establish that that horse and shay that Heger kept down below was left at a livery over to the county seat by a late-night customer who never came back.”