1 comments/ 53920 views/ 11 favorites Red Rock By: Willailla ~New Mexico, 1870's~ Chapter 1: A Stranger Rides In A dead Indian hung from the limb of a cottonwood over a dry creek bed. There was a flurry of large wings as a rider slowly approached, and reddish-colored hawks lifted their engorged bodies sluggishly into the air with a chorus of kreeing sounds and began to circle leisurely overhead. John Green clicked his tongue softly and the pinto he was riding came to a stop at the edge of the shallow clay bank on the opposite side. It was past June when most stream beds had dried up. He lifted his, wide-brimmed hat from his head and wiped the back of his hand across his sweaty brow. His face was streaked with grime. His blue shirt and tan buckskin pants were covered in a thin coating of alkali from days of trekking up the Jornada del Muerto, a waterless waste of blistering sand and sagebrush. He wore a holstered pair of Colt .44-40s with the ivory butts pointed forward on two criss-crossed cartridge belts. Hanging from his pommel by a shoulder strap was a leather case. Inside was a Sharps .52 caliber buffalo rifle. The throat of his shirt was open underneath a yellow bandana, and the sleeves were rolled up deeply tanned arms to the elbows. He looked to be a man in his mid-twenties with black, curly hair and piercing blue eyes. He squinted against the hot glare of the noonday sun and, after a moment, placed the sweat-stained Stetson back on his head. The Indian, a boy, had been dead some considerable time. The body was bloated with gas. The lower portion, from the hips down, was coal black where the blood had settled. Decay had caused the torso to turn a reddish black. Clots of dried blood hung in black strands from the nostrils. Shit had fallen to the ground beneath, but it had long since dried, and no flies buzzed around it. The eyes were gone from their sockets. The mouth hung open; the tongue was chewed away as well as the lips by the hawks. The cock was missing, too. Either eaten . . . or cut off. Whoever had hanged the boy had mutilated him; the belly had been cut open. The uncoiled gut hung to the ground like a long, withered snake. Green guessed he had been dead at least twenty-four hours. The rope used to hang the Indian was a Mexican-made maguey, a light string good for calf roping. It had been tossed over the limb of the cottonwood and, after the Indian had been hoisted up, secured around the trunk of the tree. There were many hoof prints in the sandy creek bottom around the boy. Maybe half a dozen riders. Green wiped his sweaty palms on his thighs and took out a draw-string pouch of tobacco from his shirt pocket and rolled a smoke, lighting it with one of the few remaining matches stuck in the yellow band. He inhaled the smoke deeply smelling sulfur fumes mixed with the faint stench of the Indian. He didn't want to get any closer. Whoever had hanged the boy wanted his body to be seen, for it was in plain sight of the stage route Green had been following. He nudged his silver spurs gently against the pinto's flanks and continued on across the creek bed avoiding the body by a wide margin; the hooves of the horse clopped on a bed of sandstone near the center. Green knew that the circling hawks would draw attention from far off, and he didn't want to be around when the boy's relatives showed up, for he had, most likely, been killed by whites; the hoof prints he had observed near the body had been those of shod horses. He moved on off and after awhile came to the top of a rise where stretched out before him was a panorama of red-cliffed mesas and deep canyons interspersed with wide, open plains. Scraggily pinons and other various pines and junipers clung to the nearby slopes, surging up through cracks in the reddish rocks. Prickly pear and sagebrush dotted the landscape. Below on a stretch of open ground, he could see a small cluster of twenty or thirty buildings mostly of adobe. A few of two stories. He looked around at the low outcroppings of rocks on either side of the road. Several hundred feet to his right was a rocky overhang adjacent to a wide-spreading juniper. He guided his horse toward it and dismounted. The tangy odor of the juniper itched his nostrils. Behind the tree, he inspected the outcrop. Near the bottom was a narrow fissure running several feet horizontally and several inches wide vertically. He got down on his hands and knees and peered into it; after a moment, he stood back up and took the leather case holding the Sharps rifle off the saddle and fitted it into the fissure. It went back far enough to be out of sight. Mounting up once more, he returned to the stage route and headed down the gently sloping rise toward the small cluster of buildings. On the outskirts he passed a cemetery on a hillock and a pine marker leaning into the ground with a panel nailed to the top that read 'RED ROCK'. An Apache arrow was stuck in the post. The sign had several bullet holes in it. The first building to his left, a barber shop, had a 'closed' sign hanging in the window. In a lot next to it were some hay stacks of grama grass and a corral behind a gabled livery of pine logs. Next to this a general store of adobe, with a doctor's office above, according to the sign over the porch walkway. On the slightly inclined roof sat a man holding a Winchester rifle in his lap. At the bottom of some side stairs that led up to the doctor's office was a buggy with a yellow canvas top. A black medical bag was sitting on the seat. Farther down, another sign on a small adobe building proclaimed it to be the jail. In front of the general store, two men were loading a buckboard with supplies. Green noticed that both were heavily armed with pistols and knives. On the seat of the buckboard leaned two Winchester rifles. He also noted that the walls of the adobe buildings were pitted with bullet markings. As well as the logs of the livery which were splintered and punched full of holes. A few arrows stuck out just beneath the roof. To his right, across from the barber shop, was a two story adobe. The 'Loomis Hotel' according to the sign. A vacant lot sat next to it; farther down was a hardware store. All the buildings had small windows and heavy shutters that could be closed in a hurry if need be. Typical of western towns periodically besieged by Indians. Continuing on he passed another adobe building to his right. A pretty woman with blonde hair braided up in coils on the top of her head was leaning in the doorway observing him without expression, her arms crossed over her breasts, one foot extended out in front of the other on the plank walkway. On the front of the two-storied adobe an arch of black letters stated that it was the 'Red Rock Lantern'. A few buildings farther down was a cantina, also of adobe with bright red shutters on its two front windows, one on each side of the door. A canvas awning overhead held up with poles served as a porch. A drunk, with his wide-brimmed hat pulled down over his eyes, was kicked back in a chair against the wall next to the door sleeping one off. As he dismounted in front of the livery, a strongly built man with close-cut gray hair beneath the brim of his black fedora stepped out of the alleyway. He was puffing on a curved pipe and pushing a wheelbarrow full of manure. The pitchfork handle stuck out in front like the jib pole of a ship. His shirt was blue and white stripped underneath a dark-gray vest. The sleeves were rolled up, revealing muscular forearms. His trousers were of blue denim. When he saw Green he sat the wheelbarrow down and tipped his hat back. "What can I do for you, mister?" he asked, taking the pipe from his mouth and cupping it in the palm of his dark-brown hand. "Need to put my horse up for a day or two," Green replied. The liveryman's narrow eyes sized him up, glancing at the makeshift rope hackamore on the pinto. "Indian pony, huh." He lowered his eyes. "Not shod." Green nodded. "Couple of bucks jumped me a few days back." He spoke slowly, softly, meeting the man gaze. "Killed my horse. I caught this one . . . afterwards; the other spooked and got away." "Un, huh," the liveryman said, He glanced at the ivory handled Colts on Green's hips. He didn't feel a need to ask what happened to the two Indians. The eyes of the stranger were cool and watchful like a rattler before it strikes. "Probably some of Gray Wolf's renegades," the liveryman said. "They've been hitting us pretty hard lately. Last stage through was two weeks ago. Indians killed a passenger and the guard. Hasn't been one since." Green nodded slightly. Pocketing his pipe the liveryman stepped off to the side of the pinto and cupped it's muzzle in his hand. The horse didn't shy off. He stuck his finger in the side of it's mouth and pushed up the lip to examine its teeth. "About four years old," he said. "Tall for a paint, a ripper, good sixteen hands." He patted it shoulder. "Good slope but not too much. Good cow pony; large chest, healthy lungs and a big heart; holds his legs nice and straight under him; he'll be clear-footed. Got a short back, won't ride as comfortably as the long back, but he'll be stronger and quicker. Firm looking hooves, no cracks." He glanced at Green. "Probably need to shoe him if you plan on doing much riding. Lots of rough ground around here." He straightened and took his pipe back out of his vest pocket. "I'd say the Indians did you a favor with that'un." "Could've been worse," Green replied. "Got a blacksmith in town?" "You're lookin' at'm." "OK. How soon?" "Won't take long. I'll put him in the paddock, let him cool off some, and have at it as soon as I finish loading that wagon." He nodded toward a nearby work wagon. "Won't take more than an hour." Then he added. "Taking a load out to the Widow Holbarth's place tomorrow. She puts it on her garden." The woman's name meant something to Green, but only a slight flicker of his eyelids gave notice under the shadow of his hat brim. "No hurry," Green said, handing him the rope reins of the hackamore. "I won't be needing him until tomorrow." He untied the apron strings and retrieved his bedroll, saddlebags and canteen. Walking back toward the Loomis Hotel, shouldering his gear, he saw the blonde woman still watching him from the doorway of the newspaper office. His spurs made a chinking sound as he crossed the hard packed clay of the street. Chapter 2: The Woman Behind The Desk A tinkling bell on a spring above the door announced his arrival. To his right, as he entered, was a square arch way and beyond a small dinning area with an oak table and half a dozen chairs placed around it. Upon the table cups and plates had been placed face down. A kitchen area could be seen through an open door. In front of him a sofa, just past the archway, and beyond a reception desk with several keys hanging from hooks on the adobe wall behind. At the left was a stairway to the second floor. In between was a curtained doorway. After the tone of the bell had died down, the curtain was pulled aside and a petite woman with brown hair fixed in a bun came out, one hand smoothing back a loose strand over her forehead. She was wearing a blue and white plaid gingham dress with a full skirt. She moved behind the desk, her manner unhurried, collected; her face was smooth and tanned, set with sparkling hazel eyes; her figure shapely. She gave Green a calm, friendly smile. On top of the desk beside the register was a short-barreled, pearl-handled .38. "The six-shooter is for the Indians," she said, in a voice that was soft and charming with a trace of southern accent followed with a faint smile. "Not for guests." She turned the register so he could sign it, then turned it back around. "Welcome to Red Rock, Mr. Green," she said, after glancing at his signature. A hint of irony played in her voice, her lips pinched in a wry smile. "Thanks. Maybe I'll live long enough to see some of it." "Um hmm," she replied. She turned to the side and slowly reached up to take a key off one of the hooks; the fullness of her breast was accented under the soft cotton bodice. "I'll give you one of the center rooms. Not as many shutters to close when the bullets begin flying." "Appreciate it," he replied. "By the way," she said, handing him the key, "my name is Abigail Crane. Everyone calls me Abby. If there is anything you need just let me know." "Need a bath, but the barber shop had a closed sign." "Yes. Mr. Ames, our barber, was shot in the arm two days ago during the last Indian raid. His shop won't be open for awhile, I expect. Green nodded, finding it difficult to keep his eyes from ranging over the shapely figure of the woman. "But we have a bathing room upstairs at the end of the hall. I could heat some water for you, if you like." "That would do it. I haven't had a hot bath in a long time." "Well then. Your room is to the left at the top of the stairs. First door on your left." The room was small with one narrow window facing the street. A bed to his left. Opposite it, to the right, was a chest of drawers with a japanned wash bowl and pitcher on top and next to it a pocket mirror with easel back. He hung his hat on one of the coat pegs next to the door and removed his gun belts. He sat down wearily on the bed, unstrapped his spurs and pulled off his boots. He was asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow. One of the nickel plated .44s lying by his side. A light tapping at his door woke him. His gun was in his hand and cocked before he was fully aware. "Yes?" he said, when he realized someone was at the door. "Your bath's ready," a woman replied. It was the voice of Abigail Crane. In the bathroom was a steaming foot tub full of soap suds. A faucet connected to a metal pipe that ran to a cistern on the roof provided the cold water. A bucket of hot water sat next to the tub. On a stool nearby was a sponge and an oval bar of coconut oil soap. A towel hung from a rack on the wall. He laid his pistol, shaving gear and a fresh change of clothes on the stool and stripped off the sweat-stained shirt and dusty buckskins he was wearing. When he was settled in the steaming, wet warmth of the tub, he heard a tap on the door. "If you would like," Abigail said, sticking her head around the half-opened door, "I can have my servant, Maria, wash your dirty laundry." Her face was impassive, but her eyes didn't fail to notice the broad, sloping shoulders and muscular chest of her guest. His eyes held hers as he nodded. After she was gone, he found himself becoming hard as he fantasized holding her naked body in his arms, melting her cool, efficient facade with a raw, unbridled fuck, for he knew it was only a facade. He had seen the heat in her eyes when she had looked at him, and he was equally certain she had seen the heat in his. When he left the hotel, she wasn't in sight, but he could hear movement and voices coming from the kitchen area. He stepped off the porch and started down the street toward the general store. The sun was farther to the west now. The air was still and hot after the relative coolness of the thick-walled adobe hotel; the heat from the sun penetrated his clothes; he felt sticky beads of sweat already forming on his freshly scrubbed body. Beyond, a pale, earthshine moon hung its ghostly rim over a purple range of mountains in the distance. Hawks swirled far off with majestic leisure on an uplift of air as they had done since the beginning of time. Barn swallows flitted about the loft of the livery. Below the liveryman was bent over shoeing the pinto, the necessary tools stuck in the top of his boot for easy access, his curved pipe hanging from the corner of his mouth, gray smoke rising. The men who had been loading their buckboard were gone now. The guard who had been posted on top of the doctor's office was still there, idly watching him as he crossed the street. Inside, the store was deep and high-ceilinged. The floor was hard-packed clay swept clean. Long glassed-in counters ran the length of it on both sides offering a wide assortment of goods, as well as the walls which had shelves packed with the luxuries and necessities of life. The proprietor, a fat man with a cigar in his mouth and a sweat-stained white shirt, was standing behind the left-hand counter scribbling something on a piece of paper, beads of sweat trickling down his cheeks. When he noticed Green he paused in his scribbling and wiped his face with a wet hand towel that was lying on the counter next to him. Gold rings glinted on his fat fingers. "This heat's something else, ain't it? I'm gonna halfta find me a cool cave somewhere and crawl in it till winter." He turned leisurely to a bucket of water setting on a stand behind him and dipped the towel in it, rung it out and placed it around his fleshy neck. Green stopped in front of a rifle rack on the wall. The fat man moseyed up still wiping his fat neck with the towel. "Don't have much left," he said, eyeing the rack. "Folks just been buy'n'em up purt' heavily since we started having Injun troubles. Alls I got left is that ten gage and the saddle carbine, only twenty inch barrel though if you're lookin' for a long shooter. The gage is used but in real fine shape; the Winchester is brand spankin' new. Got a real purtdee burl stock and cleaning rod trap; it's a forty-four." Green nodded. "I'll need a couple of boxes of cartridges to go with it and a saddle sheath and a box of matches too," Green said, reaching in his pocket for some money. The fat man took the rifle down from the rack and laid it on the counter along with a pale orange scabbard which he placed it next to the rifle. Out of a drawer nearby, he took out two cartridge boxes and placed them on the counter also. "Box of a hundred each." He took a box of matches from the shelf behind and jotted down some figures on a piece of scrap paper. "Yes, sir, that'll come to fourteen dollars and eighty-three cents. Get you anything else?" he added with obsequious rapaciousness as Green paid him. "Nope, that'll do me," Green answered. He slid the rifle in it sheath, picked up the boxes of cartridges and matches, nodded curtly and walked out. Chapter 3: A Friendly Drink The small lobby of the hotel was still empty as Green went back to his room. He loaded the rifle and put the boxes of cartridges in his saddle bags from which he took out an empty soap powder tin. He filled it with matches, snapped the lid shut and stuck it in his shirt pocket, putting the rest of the matches in his saddle bags. He took the Winchester with him when he left. The bartender had a twelve gage lever action lying on the bar. A dozen square tables filled the room. Green took one facing the doorway in the darkened back, away from the front windows, and ordered tequila, laying the rifle on the table. The bartender, a bald-headed man with a neatly trimmed mustache, lost some height as he stepped from behind the bar. Green saw that his legs had been amputated just above the knees. For walking he had padded leather cups around the stumps. He wore a red and white vertically striped shirt without the collar. "Most folks are surprised when they first see me do that -- steppin' out," he said grinning as he placed a glass and bottle on the table. Standing on the stumps he was about four feet tall. "Got a plank sittin' on some old powder kegs to walk on." He nodded toward the bar. Lost 'em in the war. Didn't have the three thousand dollars Lincoln wanted to get out of serving, and since they shot you if you didn't serve, I didn't figure I had much choice. Didn't reckon on losin' my legs though or I'd of hightailed it for parts unknown." He dipped his head and raised his shoulders as if to say it was all in the past -- what the hell. Red Rock and Rain 'It's beautiful, isn't it? There is just something mystical about the whole place.' I knew exactly what she meant; I had been to Double Arch in Utah more times than I could count and yet, every time I was struck with true dumbfounded awe. It was magical, like a sacred shrine thousands of years older than mankind. A place that had seen wonders since before time. After laying back on the warm sandstone and looking up at it a while soaking in the ambiance I realized it was getting late, and the weather called for rain this evening. 'If we want to drive through the rest of the park tonight we better get going,' I call. So, we walked back to the car hands embraced and my eyes unable to focus on the trail ahead due to the distraction of her plunging cleavage and the rhythmic bounce of her full, creamy breasts so tightly straining against her work out bra seeming to plea for release from their binding cage. It had been a busy day at arches, one of those rare desert days when the temperature was just perfect and clouds had provided intermittent shade cooling the trails. As we drove on through the park, however, I noticed most everyone was driving the other direction. It was getting dark and the tourists were heading back to their hotels and dinners. We have been here before though, and we are in no rush to leave. 'Looks like we'll soon have the place to ourselves,' I note; seductively moving my hand from her knee slowly up her inner thigh and back again. We have been together for years, but there is something about her tight ass and sexy legs when she wears these blue jeans that I can never ignore. Visions of her tight ass and her smooth legs wrapped around my lower back begin filling my mind while my blood begins to fill other areas. 'Yeah,' she agrees looking into my eyes, 'too bad it is getting so late.' My hand extends its journey further up her leg. I can feel the heat radiating from loin before I even get there, and the sweet smell of her sex fills the car. Unable to take the pain anymore, I reach over to adjust my swelling cock upright. 'What is this all about,' she asks coyly as her well versed fingers grasp me and begin encircling my member giving him a slight tug as she does. She slowly starts running her fingers up and down my member making sure to feel the outline of the ridge of my head. My hand returns to her warmth and my fingers find curves of their own to explore. 'Mmmm, yeah' she moans softly. Flashes of past sexual exploits begin filling my head. Hot tubs with mirrors, that jungle themed shower, the bondage fun of just last month. As these images fill my mind my penis jumps and swells again with the promise of more to come. 'Oh yeah, baby, keep growing for me. I love feeling that hot cock of yours swell in my hands.' She giggles slightly and squeezes my member once more before letting go. 'Come on now, you know I hate teases.' 'Who's teasing?' she grins. She leans over to me nibbling my ear and putting her hand atop my cock for balance. She begins leaning heavily trapping my quivering dick between my thigh and her expert hand. -CRASH- Neither of us had seen the lightening but the thunder clap had us both looking forward. 'It's still a ways off' I reassure, 'lets head back to town just in case.' With my mind back on driving and her focused on spotting monsoon season lightening bolts (a spectacular sight in the desert) my erection begins to fade, but my arousal and inner need to fuck only grew. Thunder storms had always turned me on. It is that raw power of nature I think. Thunderstorms are so primal and unbridled, just like sex should be. The idea that began growing came so naturally and yet as I considered it more the eroticism of it burgeoning. Outdoors, a National Park with rangers and campers, a near full moon, and lightening in the distance, it was all too much and my prick again began sliding down my thigh like a python hunting for a meal, hungry with anticipation. I look over at her smiling. Her eyes and mind are elsewhere but her scent, her rising pheromones urging me to fulfill my earlier promise are palatable. Her sweet intoxicating aroma was begging for a man. As the first stars began filling the sky and the large moon began rising over the distant butte I turned off the main road and headed back to Double Arch. 'Where are you going? The entrance was straight ahead.' 'What's your rush? I want to show you something before we go.' I leered at her lustfully envisioning her naked body. As we reached the lot my pants were once again too tight for comfort. We parked, alone in the lot, and I leaned over. My lips tauntingly close to hers my eyes looking deep into her blue eyes. 'Gods you are beautiful!' As my hand cupped her warm moistening crotch our eyes met again and the car was filled with raw electric lust. Her eyes again closed as I began massaging her pussy through her jeans. My strong hand lightly rubbing up and down the length of her slit, teasing her begging clit for more touch. Then I press firmly into the meat of her center. She bites her lip softly as her hands began to roam up my tightly roped arms and down to my chest. My lips explored her ear and I continued to massage her loin she gasped slightly and I begin my journey down her long graceful neck. Soft licks and warm breath accented with slight bites, just hard enough to make her wince and want more. On my way back up I stop at the curve of her jaw and bite her gently but urgently. 'Oh God,' she purrs as my lips return to hers. My soft lips part and my tongue slowly explore the warm recess of her mouth. Our tongues dance and wrap around eat other seducing one another, and as she leans in for more I slowly pull away, her lips following vainly for more. 'Follow me.' I whisper and open my door. The short hike back to the arch is punctuated by passionate kisses and groping hands. As we arrive, again I am filled with wonder and awe, this time at the thought of the magic which is yet to happen. 'I want you. I want to take you right here in the open.' Our bodies meet and her hungry mouth seeks mine as my hands slide over her soft cheeks, down her neck and slowly glide down her back pressing her firmly into my body. Her soft breasts pressed against my chest. Her nipples, hardened with erotic excitement, press into me. Lower down our hips grind together as my growing need presses into her flat stomach. Our lips melt together and I feel the world begin to spin then melt away it is only us. My hands glide around the curve of the butt and her hands reach up mussing my hair. Slowly my hands begin to climb up again this time finding their way under her shirt and up the soft skin of her back. I reach round and feel her sides and the underside of her breasts still imprisoned in her bra. 'Let me help you with that.' I whisper as I nibble her ear and my right hand expertly unfastens the clasps. She backs away coyly as her breasts are freed and removes her bra from under her shirt. I pull her toward me again and begin lifting her shirt over her head and setting it on the rocks beside us. 'Now those are the tits I have been dreaming of all day!' The creamy soft round breasts heaved as she breathed in deeply. Punctuated by her dark areolas, now nearly invisible as her nipples harden into beautiful buds, her breasts seem to glow in the failing light. I resist the compelling urge to begin sucking them hard and instead I lift off my own shirt. Her cool hands begin at my chest and lightly finger the expanse of my chest. She curls the dark mat of hair in her fingers then ever so lightly grazes over my nipples. Shuddering in pleasure I pull her hips toward me and begin unfastening her jeans as her hands glide down my abs, her mouth hovering over my right nipple as her tongue darts in and out at it. My hands slide inside the back of her jeans and then into her panties and I begin sliding them down over her perfectly rounded bottom. Her torment of my nipples stops as she steps back, reaches around herself and lowers her remaining clothing to the ground. After laying my shirt on a large boulder, I pick her up and set her atop; her glistening cunt at eye level. Slowly I begin licking her from the bottom of her vulva up between her slit so lightly I almost can't feel it, but she can. She moans and writhes her hips and spreads her legs wider for me. As I reach just below her clit I stop and begin my journey back down. Quick light flicks of the tongue and slow heavy pressured tastes warm her to the core as I consumed the intoxicating aroma of her wetness and the sandstone around us. The storm was approaching quickly now, and I knew we should continue on. I removed my pants with my left hand as my right hand explored up her soft belly and up to her breast. I cup it and cover the entire mound with my hand, her nipple escaping between my fingers. I close around her tit massaging and pinching her nipple between my fingers and continue my feast between her legs. As my erection springs to freedom I pull her from her rocky throne and back to me. I moan from deep within as her soft hand instinctively caressing my hard cock and rubbing it up and down. 'I want this inside me, now!' she hisses in my ear. Unable to restrain myself any longer, I turn her around and force her forward. She grips the sandstone bolder tightly as her legs spread open. My swollen head finds the warm moist center of her and slowly teases at her entrance. Stretching her a little then leaving again. As the moon comes out from behind another cloud I see my tip wet and her love running down my shaft. She moans, 'oh please,' as I tease her again. Then without warning I thrust hard enwrapping my entire shaft within her. 'Oh GOD' she moans as her head lifts back. I remain inside her a moment, still and swollen as her body stretches and strives to accommodate. She looks back with that seductive grin of hers, 'oh I love your cock inside me, fuck me, hard!' I slowly pull out only to return again faster then she expected and she gasps again as I moan deeply. 'You are so tight and wet.' Just as a begin pumping in and out harder a clap of thunder roars across the desert floor and through our two bodies now as one. I feel the strain inside and I know I can not last much longer fucking this amazing body. I look over her and see her tight back and my hands as they grasp tighter to her hips. The fluid movement of her tight ass as it responds to my thrusts. I can hear her moans and screams mingle with mine as they echo hauntingly off the rock walls that surround us! 'Oh God,' I yell as the world suddenly goes dark and swirls of color fill my vision. I plunge deeply inside of her as she yells, 'oh yes.' My cock no longer satisfied with throbbing is now pulsing deeply inside her while my hips convulse and expel my load into her wanting body. Somewhere far away, I feel the first large warm drops of rain falling on my chest as I throw my head back in agony and ecstasy. As my world returns I realize the rain is here and I pull out regaining my composure. We grab our clothes and find a small alcove where we can remain dry and get dressed as we watch the rain fall all around us. There truly is a mystical magic here. Red Rock Canyon Afternoon 02 Afternoon 2~ Waiting Out the Storm "Well I could think of a hundred thousand or so things that could be worse than being stuck in a cave with a couple of gorgeous college girls." Chad said with his charming smile. "Okay, don't go getting any cute ideas there 'Mister Charming'." Paige retorted quickly. "Come on inside the rest of the way. The storm is getting worse I think we should move ourselves and the tent further back into the cave." Shelby said with authority. "AYE, AYE Captain!" Rex laughed. "You'd better listen to her, she knows more about what we're doing here, and what we are up against with this storm than the three of us put together." Paige replied in a playful scold. "Don't mind him, ever the joker-never the king! Chad laughed. "What can we help you do Shelby?" He continued in a serious tone. "Chad, you grab all the knapsacks," Shelby replied. "And Rex you grab all the sleeping bags and drag them to the back." Paige ordered. "Alright, sleeping bags... I can handle that." Rex replied. "I hope I can handle one of them in a sleeping bag later too..." He thought to himself. The two girls folded down the tent and drug it to the back of the cave were the two young men now sat on a couple of big boulders. "Okay, we need to survey each hikers pack. Lay everything out and see what supplies we have to make it through the night on." Shelby suggested. "Okay, I have waterproof matches, 3 cans of lentils and 3 cans of Spam left. Then just some clothes a flashlight, canteen and lantern." Paige said while riffling through the contents of her sack. As she did a lacey black thong came out attached to the flashlight handle. "And what nice clothing it is too!" Rex added, pointing to the small pair of panties now resting by his boots. "Oh Jeez..." Paige sighed with embarrassment. "What the hell were you packing for, it's the great outdoors...not a night out clubbing!" Shelby teased. "Oh, shut the hell up! YOU wear them too! And it is a simple fact that when you're hiking things are gonna creep up into unwanted places...so you might as well wear something that starts there and stays there for the duration... it's a lot more comfortable than tugging at something that isn't suppose to be where it is all day!" Paige replied in her own defense. "We're just bored-Gotta have something to talk about... guess that was the most interesting subject so far." Chad replied. "Well, I have nabs, three cans of tuna and three cans of Vienna wieners. Along with bandages, ointment, extra socks and clothes, water and of course I have a flashlight and a lighter." He continued listing his packs supplies. "Wieners for the WIENER-I mean winner!" Rex laughed out loud and the two girls couldn't help but join in. "Okay, okay...I'll go next," Shelby said and began to run down her list as she removed the items from her pack and put them into the collection. "Socks, clothes, yes thongs...although without the frills for me...a few cans of fruit, peaches and fruit cocktail and a flashlight, matches, canned meat and crackers and...a book for reading by the fire." She said shyly as a naughty novel slid its way out of her pack. "Well, maybe you can read it to all of us, cause I think were gonna get bored in here-it's gonna be a long night with very little to do..." Chad remarked. "Okay Rex looks like you're the last...so spill it..." Paige said. "Well, really the same stuff as the rest of you, clothes, socks, canned meat, baked beans, a couple of cans of pears. Matches, flashlight... some late night reading..." Rex continued as Chad interrupted. "Late night reading hunh? Looks more like late night looking than reading." Chad teased his buddy as he pointed at the latest copies of Penthouse and Playboy. Then everything got quiet as the last remaining item slid out of Rex's pack. There on the ground in a lump on top of all his clothes lay a box of Magnum condoms. "And pray tell...what did you think you'd use these for way out here in the middle of no where?" Shelby asked in a tease. As Rex grabbed for the box his cheeks flush with embarrassment she threw them across to Paige in an impromptu game of keep away. "Magnum's hunh... well...someone thinks he's special!" Paige giggled as she threw them back to her best friend Shelby again. "Maybe you can test out my theory later on tonight." Rex replied in an effort to reclaim a little dignity for himself. The foursome decided on which food to eat that night and got the flashlights, matches and lanterns all set out in a pile before the remaining slices of daylight died out. Red Rock Tibbs held the poster up and leaned back in his chair. He drew in deeply on the cigarette and blew out a cloud of bluish-gray smoke toward the viga-and-latia crossed ceiling. He rubbed a thick paw over the bald patch near the back of his head and stood up shuffling around to open the front door. He leaned against the frame smoking, his broad body nearly filling it. Bats circled in the star-filled sky and would until all the insect had settled in for the night. When the bats were gone, the mosquitoes would come out and aggravate hell out of anything that moved. But that hadn't happened yet. The night was peaceful. The hot air had cooled down into a pleasant warmth, balmy with the faint odors of desert plants, the clean medicinal smell of creosote. Far off across the flat, immense desert plain, he could see faint streaks of lightning building to the northwest and hear the all but inaudible rumble of thunder. For a moment it brought back the war, the sounds of distant canon fire and the gut-wrenching knowledge that enemy troops were approaching behind it. He didn't like to recall the war: the horror, the dead bodies lying mangled and broken everywhere. The blood. Puddles of it. Rats drinking it from the lips of dying men. He shook his head to get the images out. Green. That was who he must focus on. Faye had come into his office earlier, looking as beautiful as ever and with that wise-ass aloofness she always assumed around him. He knew she didn't like him because she knew he worked for Loomis, backing him against the interests of the townfolks, small ranchers and homesteaders. But for all her fancy book learning back east, she didn't seem to grasp the politics of things. She lived too high up in the clouds. She needed to come back down to earth where things were not always as wholesome and pure as she might like them to be. Life was a process of give and take, of get-along to go-along. She don't seem to understand that a man has to compromise a little if he wants to better himself. You don't get anywhere bucking the system. He sighed. She just don't understand how things are, how they're done. She'd told him about the Green fellow seeing the dead Indian, and he had done his duty. He'd gone around warning everyone to expect another attack. He'd had several more men posted along the perimeter of town. All had their guns ready by them. It was getting to be old hat what with the continual raids day or night. He'd done his job. Didn't she realize that was all any man could do? Tibbs sighed and flicked his cigarette into the street. His eyes vainly scanned the dark reaches of the desert beyond town. Tenderfeet from the east thought Indians weren't supposed to attack at night according to some nonsense about their sacred beliefs, but someone must have forgotten to tell Gray Wolf that. The last two raids had come at night. Could be another one tonight. But without a full moon, he didn't think so. He didn't want to think about Indian attacks and other shit, but life had a way of making a man think about things he don't want to think about. His thoughts drifted back to Green. There had been no picture of the man called Jack McGee, but the description sure as hell fit John Green to a T. But that description also fit a helluva lot of men. He recalled Green's hand as he poured his drink made from that pulque Mex shit. Those weren't the hands of a working cowboy. Maybe a gambler, yeah, maybe on his way to one of the mining towns where the pickings are easy. Maybe. And maybe, just maybe, John Green is Jack McGee, and if he is, maybe I'll find out somehow. And maybe, just maybe, I'll pick me up five big ones. Tibbs stared across the way to the office of the Red Rock Lantern. A light was shining dimly through a window curtain. Faye would be busy as usual getting her weekly columns arranged and ready for her printer. Farther down he saw a light suddenly illuminate an upstairs window in the hotel. Green's room no doubt since he was the only guest staying in the hotel at present. But it wasn't Green he caught a glimpse of in the lamplight. It was Abigail Crane, and suddenly Tibbs knew how he was going to collect five hundred dollars. Chapter 6: Old Man Loomis Cordel Loomis sat in his reddish-brown armchair made of tufted cordovan smoking a dark-brown panatella, his booted feet propped up on a matching ottoman. He was a stout-looking man with thick bushy eyebrows and snow white hair that hung to the base of his neck. His ancient, clean-shaven face had a deep mahogany tan that had become permanent after three score years spent in the out of doors in all kinds of weather. Deep lines were etched into the aging flesh like ravines sloping off a snow-capped mountainside. Two steely-gray eyes glared out over prominent cheeks and thick jaw bones that gave the face the look of something built to take punishment, a face naturally fixed in a hard scowl that was an intimidation to most everyone. The lacy-blue smoke of his cigar wafted through the large study to double-wide doors in the four foot thick adobe walls. Outside a hot desert of sand and cactus stretched endlessly into the distance where jagged-toothed peaks, capped with snow -- that would last far into summer -- rimmed the horizon. Just above the doorway of the study was a deer's head with an eighteen point rack. A panther snarled on the wall behind the large, rosewood desk. He had killed it just as it had been about to leap from a boulder onto the buck. And instantly, in a remarkable feat of shooting, he had killed the buck, too, before it could bound away. Some stock reports lay in his lap and he was busy making notations in the margins with a flat, yellow pencil when he heard the sound of hooves approaching. He lay the reports aside and went to the double-wide doors, stepping out onto a verandah. Coming in from the east on her morning ride was his daughter, Mona Clevemont-Loomis, the dark-haired wife of his only son, Patrick. Three Mexican vaqueros were riding guard with her. Not only were they excellent cowhands but also among the best of his pistoleros, especially the youngest, nicknamed Chili, who was reputed to have 'killed his man'. His real name was Jose Aguilar. The unofficial leader of the three was Jorge Mendoza, a heavy set man with a thick mustache and potbelly who wore heavy silver rings and necklaces. The other man was called Luis Amundo, a thin man who carried a razor-sharp bowie knife in his boot and knew how to use it. All of the men were heavily armed with six-shooters and rifles with a crisscross of bandoleers over their chests. Dressed similarly they all wore short chaquetas and leggins with silver conchos and, around their waists, belts with large silver buckles. From the shade of the verandah, Loomis watched the Mexicans dismount and help the senora from her horse, not that she needed their help. She was an expert rider, coming from a grand southern family were equestrianism was an art. Being young and beautiful had its perks, Loomis mused wryly. The Mexicans were like eager children, each one trying to outdo the other to be rewarded with one of her smiles which she parceled out among them with regal grace. When she caught sight of Loomis, she held the tip of her thumb and forefinger together and brought them to her lips. Loomis nodded curtly. They had established a ritual of taking coffee and cakes together in the inner courtyard after her morning rides, a little over a month now since she and Patrick had arrived from back east where they had married two years previously. She was wearing a tan riding outfit with a narrow-brimmed, flat-topped hat and a black scarf around her neck. Her thick, black hair hung halfway down her back. Loomis watched her until she reached the front door to his left and entered. Immediately, he turned his attention back to the Mexicans and called out. "Jorge, un momento." "Si, patron," Jorge answered and tossed the reins of his horse to Luis who with the youthful Chili, moved the horses into the corral next to the barn. Loomis turned and went back into the study. Behind him he could hear the chinking sound of Jorge's jingle bobs as he stepped onto the tiled walk of the verandah and entered the study. "Si, patron?" Jorge said when he was inside, sombrero in hand. The dust of the desert covered his sloping shoulders. Loomis didn't answer right away but went to a side table and filled two crystal jiggers with whiskey from a decanter and handed one to the Mexican. He sat down behind his desk while Jorge took a seat in the armchair facing, hanging his sombrero on one knee and taking in half the whiskey with a gulp. Loomis ignored his for the moment, drawing deeply on his cigar and exhaling a cloud of blue smoke. "Did you stop by the Preston place like I asked you?" Loomis finally asked. "Si, patron. I told them you wanted their land. That no one had to get hurt if they just fill the papers out no causing trouble." "You talked to Preston personally?" "Si, patron." "What did he say?" Jorge hesitated, looked down at his knees then back up. "You not going to like this." "What'id the son-of-a-bitch say?" Loomis asked, his voice rising slightly, his jaw muscles flexing. "He say he no can give land to you; that he already sell eet." "Sold it! Who the hell to?" "La Senora Holbarth." "Susan Holbarth?" Loomis had a puzzled, surprised look on his leathery face. "That fucking bitch! What's she up to?" Jorge shrugged. "I cannot say, patron, but eet ees strange. Preston he say to me she give him only fifty dolares for the place, but that she tell him that ees fifty more dolares than you give; so he sell her eet." A sudden look of comprehension crossed Loomis' face. He sucked heavily on his teeth and settled back in his chair, examining the gray ash at the end of his cigar thoughtfully for a moment. "The little widow bitch is clever," he said finally. "How so, patron?" Jorge asked. "Eet make no sense." "Ah, but it does. My guess is she is buying up all the homesteads that have received their titles for a twentieth of what they're worth to keep me from taking them. Afterwards she will control one of the most fertile valleys around. And getting it for a price that is practically robbery. She knows that as long as I take the land for nothing, the homesteaders will sell to her -- better a little money than nothing but a bullet or a boot in the ass from me." "What will you do, patron?" "There's only one thing I can do." Loomis smiled, but it was more like a snarl. He stood up and ground his cigar out in a silver ashtray. "Manana we pay the Widow a visit." * * * Loomis stepped through the open patio door into the inner courtyard. Mona Loomis was waiting for him at a round, glass-topped table surrounded by a colorful variety of red, blue, yellow and gold flowers set in large, earthen vases on the tiled yard. Above, through a lattice work, climbing vines spread their leafy tendrils providing shade from the harsh glare of the sun fixed overhead above white, fluffy clouds drifting aimlessly in a sea of blue. She smiled as he took a seat across from her and poured coffee from a silver pot into his cup. Loomis noted that she had taken off her riding jacket and changed into a fresh, white blouse but still wore the same brown skirt. He dipped out two spoonfuls of sugar from a glazed bowl and poured some cream from a small jug when she was through. "Did you ride far today?" Loomis asked, as he settled back in his chair, crossing his legs. "Out to the bend in Clear Creek," she answered. "That's where Patrick was riding circle today. He said that it was a good place to hold them for branding." Loomis smiled. Mona was new to the west and its ways, but she was smart and learned quickly. Patrick had made a good choice selecting her for his wife. "Yes," Loomis said. "With water on three sides you only have to deploy a few hands on the open end to keep the cattle from straying. Leaves you more men for rounding up." "Aw, well, see there," she said playfully, "I'm learning something new everyday, am I not?" "Yes, indeed," Loomis grinned. He removed a cloth cover from a basket of ginger snaps and took one. They were still warm from the oven. "I can't get over the beauty and the vastness of this land," she said after a moment. Loomis narrowed his eyes and clenched his hand tightly, but his face remained impassive. "Yes, it's all of that, but you can't let it fool you. It's a treacherous place, indifferent and unforgiving of mistakes. And if the desert wasn't bad enough there's the Apache. Goddamned heathens! I have fought them for forty years to get what I've got and lost many good men and friends in the process." Loomis' voice dropped as he lowered his head slightly. "Even my wife and two sons, Patrick's older brothers. All killed by those bastards!" "Yes," Mona said softly, "Patrick told me about it." She recalled the horror and outrage she had felt when Patrick had confided to her what the savages had done when he was still just a small child. How a band of them had ridden into their homestead, whooping and yelling, while the men were out riding circle. How his mother had hidden him in the fireplace. How he had heard the screams of his mother as the Indians raped and tortured her, skinning her alive, dragging her body and his two brothers behind their horses through cactus beds until they were ripped to pieces. "They usually take women and children captive," Loomis said, "but the Apache hated us for taking their hunting grounds from them, so they killed everyone hoping to make my father give up. But he didn't; and they only increased my desire to stay and fight them. And I'll kill every damn last one of them before I'm through! They'll never defeat me!" Loomis lapsed into a momentary silence before continuing. "It's a dangerous land; that's why I have Jorge, Luis and Chili go with you on your daily rides. The Apaches aren't fools. If they see a group of well armed, experienced men, they aren't likely to attack, not if they think they might suffer casualties. They're nomads, scavengers; they live by thievery. They'll avoid all conflict unless they have the distinct advantage. Ten Apaches won't attack one well-armed man if they know he is aware of his surroundings and is ready to defend himself and his property to the death." "But surely there's little danger of attack out on the open plains where one can see for miles --". "Not true," Loomis cut in harshly, then softened his tone. "Although they do usually hide out in canyons and rough country. And you're always sure to find them on mountain tops were they can keep a sharp eye out on the surrounding plains and any unsuspecting travelers that happen by. But don't be fooled; they're masters at concealment; you can be standing ten feet from one of them on flat, open ground and not see him. They can bury themselves in the sand like a rodent in a matter of seconds and grab you by the ankle as you pass. They can conceal themselves behind a bush no more than a foot tall and you'll never know it until you feel their razor-sharp knife across your throat. You can never relax your guard in the desert if you value your life. And mark my words . . . when you see no signs of Apaches that's when you can be damn sure they're around." Mona was silent with a thoughtful look on her face and seemed to be taking in what he was saying, but he knew it wasn't likely. To understand the Apache and the desert, one had to experience both first hand over a period of many years. Easterners who have been raised in a sheltered environment found it hard to grasp the harsh realities of life in the West. Experience, he knew, was the only teacher -- and a hard one. The conversation shifted to lighter matters by degrees: how Mona was managing with the servants; a baile Mona was orchestrating for the following month in which everyone of note would attend from miles around; a shopping trip to San Fransico planned for the following year . . . and on and on. To all of which Loomis listened politely with half an ear. Until she picked up a copy of the Red Rock Lantern and tapped at it with a long, glazed fingernail. "This is really outrageous," she fumed. She pointed out an article on the third page entitled "Are You One of the Chosen?" and laid it before Loomis. "It seems that Miss Morgan thinks that I'm a 'pretentious snob' -- I use her words -- because I invite only a select sort of people to my social gatherings." There was a time in his past, when he had been a struggling cowboy, that Loomis would have agreed with Faye Morgan and would have said so with a few well-chosen coarse epithets. But now the social atmosphere he moved in was stylish and full of superficial posturing. In his struggle for dominion, over the years, he had been forced to concede that such posturing was necessary when money and power became ends in themselves. One's acquaintances and friends, on the high end, eventually became one's enemies, greedy hypocrites hiding their true ambitions -- as he hid his -- in a social charade -- sincerity something cultivated with deceit. And one found that he was forced to play the game -- no matter how tiresome and silly, or be crushed. For although he was powerful there were still men more powerful than he, and if he wanted to rise above them -- which he surely intended to do -- he could not afford to reveal his hand. He realized that his daughter was indeed a pretentious snob, but as his daughter-in-law she had become an important player in his legacy of power, and he couldn't afford to alienate her. The children she and his son would give birth to would create his dynasty, a dynasty that would never die and would keep the name of its founder alive forever. It was the closest to immortality a man could get. It was ironic, he thought. He had spent his whole life achieving power only to find out that in order to hang on to it he had to concede it to others. He looked up from the paper and studied her face with eyes as keen as any Apache's from his mountain top, and he found himself wondering how it was that his son Patrick had not gotten her pregnant after two years of marriage. They surely had to know, he reasoned, that he hadn't spent forty years building up his empire just to give it back to a bunch of greasers and blanket Indians. He made a mental note to bring the subject up the next time he saw Patrick. He wasn't getting any younger, and he damn sure wanted to see grand kids on the Rocking L before he cashed in his chips. "I'll have Marshal Tibbs speak to her," Loomis said. "That woman has to be taught her place," Mona said, with a sugary-sweet smile. She leaned over to pour him another cup of coffee, and her ample breasts moved provocatively beneath the soft fabric of her blouse. Cordel Loomis felt his cock becoming stiff. Chapter 7: The Ride Out "My husband was a hard-rock miner," Abigail said over the breakfast table the next morning in the hotel dinning room. "He was killed setting a charge. After the funeral his fellow miners took up a collection to tide me over. I decided to go back east, but when the stage stopped here at Red Rock, I was offered the job of managing the hotel for the owner, a Mr. Simms, who suffered from consumption and had to move to Glenwood Springs to take the cure. When his health worsened, he sold the place to me, and I've been here ever since -- about five years now." She watched Green eat his eggs and bacon as she sipped her coffee. He didn't scarf down his food like most men. He ate heartily but methodically. There seemed always an air of calm calculation about him that she couldn't recall ever having encountered in another person before and a distinct impression that he was dangerous. He looked steadily at you when he talked and there was no flinching in him. He was serious business. But despite the feeling of intense concentration that he projected there were moments--when he was quiet and to himself--that she sensed he wasn't really 'there', that his mind was far off, that he wanted to be elsewhere. She couldn't define it consciously, but she felt it.