Longarm on the Overland Trail (5 page)

She leaned closer and told him, sort of sultry, that she had no idea what on earth he was talking about.

He figured he owed her that much for her help. he commenced to bring her up to date on the crazy case he was working on. She had somehow herded them both over to a purple plush sofa across the room before he was halfway through, and though he hadn't invited her to snuggle against him so close it didn't hurt, and he was recovering from the first shock of her perfume. He had an interesting view down the open V of her loosely tied kimono as well, and he was beginning to suspect he was supposed to. But she must have felt she'd make him nervous if she moved in on him any faster, which was true, so she said, "My, that poor boy does sound strange. But what good does it do you to know he's devoid of any musical talent as well as common sense, Custis?"

He caught his arm about to slip off the back of the sofa behind her, warned it to behave itself, and said, "The kid has never met anyone who knew the real Black Jack Slade Well enough to sing about him. He memorized the words of that ballad, likely reading them over and over in his lonely room, until he had them down pat, even if he had the tune wrong."

She repressed a yawn. "Oh, this warm weather makes me so drowsy! Do you mind if I rest my head on your shoulder like this? Go ahead, I'm all ears. Tell me some more about the Wild West."

He figured he'd better. The widow woman who'd introduced him to this enthusiastic listener had warned him she'd feed his heart to the hawks if he ever went near her and, right now, he was so near her it was starting to make him tingle where he knew he'd promised not to. He said, "I told you young Joe Slade had just about every penny dreadful ever printed about real and made-up desperate characters. I found stories about Buffalo Bill, Wild Bill, Billy the Kid, and a female bandit named Billie Bangs. I don't think she could be real. I didn't find one fuller account of the notorious Black Jack Slade, and I know more than one such story has been published. I've seen 'em on many a newsstand."

She shrugged or nestled closer, it was hard to tell, and said, "You found the sheet music he'd bought. Maybe that was all he had to know about the dreadful man."

Longarm shook his head. "I don't think so. Once he'd memorized that simple-minded song he didn't need to look at it no more. But I think he took a longer printed account of the one and original Black Jack Slade with him. Are you aware of where your hand is resting at the moment, ma'am?"

She giggled. "I am. Aren't you? Go on. Why would he want to carry around a pulp penny dreadful about the real Jack Slade?"

"As a Bible. Anyone who's so tired of being his puny original self that he's convinced his fool self he's somebody else might want written directions as to his new, proper conduct. If I knew which of the many versions of the story he was using for his research I'd have a chance of outguessing the mean little brute. But so many have been written since the real Black Jack was lynched, years ago, that his would-be second coming could be out to do wonders that never happened, and... Madam, are you aware that what you're doing with your head in my lap is a violation of the criminal statutes of the state of Colorado?"

She didn't answer. She must have thought it impolite to talk with her mouth full. Longarm stared down at her bobbing red head with ever growing fondness and reflected that he was, after all, a federal lawman, and that Colorado could worry about its own dumb laws. The widow woman down the avenue who'd introduced him to this literal man-eater was going to cry fire and salt if she ever found out about this, and the odds were fifty-fifty she would, since women could brag as bad as men about such matters. On the other hand, this one was sure to say far meaner things about him if he tried to stop her at this late date, and what man born of mortal clay was about to stop at a time like this, in any case?

So they both went deliciously crazy for a spell, and Longarm was only mildly surprised, when they stopped for breath at last, to find himself bare-ass under the piano with her smiling up at him adoringly, with her bare feet pressed against the bottom of the sounding board. He'd been wondering what those funny harpish drummings he'd been hearing were. They sure had a fine grip on one another with her wide-spread heels braced that way.

He kissed her some more and said, "Well, howdy, pard. I was wondering where you might be whilst I was up in heaven. But don't you have a bed on the premises?"

She sounded serious as she demurely replied, "Oh, never. That would be downright indecent, Custis! Whatever would you think of me if I went to bed with you in broad daylight?"

"I'd think you were being practical about splinters in your sweet bare behind. This is a sort of silly place to screw, no offense."

"None taken. I'm lying on my kimono, if you must know. I like a firm surface under me when you thrust so hard. It makes it feel so hard."

He noticed that as he moved experimentally in her, but she said, "Wait. I do think my tailbone's getting bruised. Let's try it a more comfortable way, dear."

He said he was willing to try anything that didn't hurt. So they crawled out from under the piano to try it on the rug with her on top. He found that was inspirational indeed. As she moved up and down atop him he judged her waistline to measure no more than twenty-odd inches, without a lick of whalebone or India rubber to help, and her heroic breasts bounced proud and firm in defiance of the laws of gravity.

It felt so good he would have been content to do it some more, but she said, "We have to think of my reputation," and popped off him to add, "Come on. The neighbors have big ears."

He had no idea what she was talking about as she led him back over to the piano. She lowered the big lid and climbed atop the bed-sized instrument, patting the black varnish beside her naked flesh as she asked him what he was waiting for.

He said, "I ain't waiting for anything. I'm trying to figure out what you want me to do."

"You've been in here almost an hour. They've only heard the piano play a few bars, quite a while ago. Would that sound like a music lesson to you, if you were an old biddy hen?"

He said he doubted it and, grasping her intent at last, got aboard the piano with her. The hard, slippery surface felt odd against his bare flesh. It felt even odder, albeit good, when he mounted her big, soft body again and she raised her hands over her head to reach down to the keyboard and moan, "Faster!" as she proceeded to play "Kitten on the Keys."

He laughed like hell and did his best to keep in time with her as she tinkled and bounced her bare bottom at the same time. He hoped her nosy neighbors thought she had a big bass drum in here as well, for it sure sounded like it.

After climaxing again together in such an artistic fashion, they both lay quietly in each other's arms for a spell. Then she sighed and said, "That was lovely. But it's getting late, darling. They have to see you leaving before suppertime."

He'd been hoping against hope she was going to let him escape without the tears and recriminations a man who enjoyed life just had to accept with the nicer words of womankind. So he kissed her fondly and said, "Yeah, we wouldn't want 'em to think we've been nibbling on each other."

She laughed low and dirty, but shoved him off, and damned near broke his neck as he rolled off the piano as well.

It only took her a moment to climb back into her kimono. As she sat on the sofa beside him, watching him dress, she sighed and told him, "Lord have mercy, but we can't go on like this, Custis."

He hadn't been planning to, but he thought it only decent to look wistful and say, "I know. I ought to be whipped with snakes for taking advantage of a sweet little helpless thing like you."

She nodded. "I don't think any of the bruises will show, but you're right. I just can't resist you. That's why you're going to have to be brave for both of us, darling."

He tried to sound heartbroken as he asked, "Does that mean you don't want me coming back no more, Miss Mavis?"

She said, "I want you so bad I can taste it, even after coming all those times just now. But I have to consider my good name, and you know how everyone gossips about a divorced woman."

He nodded. "Yeah, it seems mean as hell. For it only stands to reason most married gals get screwed more regular than even the wildest divorcee."

"You don't know how true that is, darling. You may have noticed I was feeling sort of frustrated when you surprised me this afternoon. You can't do that again. People are sure to talk as it is. But I've an idea. Where will you be going when you leave here?"

"I ain't sure. You sort of surprised me, too. I had a doctor I wanted to consult about demented hookworms and the public library might have more than a song about Black Jack Slade on hand. But they'd both be closed by the time I could get to either, now. So I reckon I'll have me some supper and just prowl about some more."

"Oh, I was thinking, if you knew a very, very discreet little love nest we could sort of get to separately and discreet..."

"I'd sure like that," he lied, "but I'm on the trail of a mad-dog killer and he just showed me there's no place in town that's safe. I dare not risk your pretty hide, Miss Mavis. My own could be in enough trouble if he spots me before I spot him again."

He got to his feet, buckling his gun rig, and put on his hat to leave. As he did so she rose beside him, grabbed him around the waist, and hugged him close as she said, "Oh, dear, if you're really in that much danger you'd better stay here after all. I'd rather risk my reputation than let you risk your life, you sweet man."

"That would be wrong for both of us, little darling," he told her. "No man who has to look at his fool self in the mirror when he's shaving could ask a lady to get ruined for him. And, besides, I don't see how I'd ever catch that killer under your piano. So I'd best get it on down the road."

As he was leaving she coyly suggested her bed might not be too improper a place to explore, after dark. But he left anyway, before she could set a date for his next music lesson.

As he moved on down the avenue under the shade trees, a little old lady wearing a sunbonnet was sweeping her front walk. When he ticked his hatbrim at her, she smiled and said, "Isn't it nice out this evening, now that it's started to cool off?"

He smiled back and said, "Yes, ma'am. It sure is a lot cooler than it was just a short spell ago."

CHAPTER 4

The Denver Public Library wasn't the only place in town a man could find a book. A little used bookstore on Larimer was open despite the hour. It smelled dusty inside. A little bearded gent wearing specs and a skullcap came out from the back to ask what he could do for the only customer in sight.

Longarm said, "I see you mostly sell regular books, and I don't blame you. But I'm looking for a Wild West magazine about a real albeit unlikely gent named Black Jack Slade."

The old book dealer looked pained. "Books about how to build a steam engine or rescue a maiden from a dragon are not good enough for you? We got books of fact and fiction. We got books old and new. We got books by Sir Walter Scott and books by authors nobody ever heard of and probably shouldn't. But a book about a blackjack? I don't think so."

Longarm said he was sorry for being such a pest and turned to go. But the old man stopped him. "Wait. You say you want a penny dreadful? Them we got. Come, I'll show you. We got a couple of boxes of such trash as part of a house-cleaning sale a few days ago. I was saving them for the rag picker, but who knows?"

Longarm followed the old man back through the musty racks, then through a curtained doorway into pitch blackness. The old man struck a match to light a wall lamp. They were in a small, cluttered storage space piled floor-to-ceiling with pasteboard boxes and wooden crates. The old man hauled a battered child's toy box out into the light and opened the lid, saying, "Look and enjoy. I'll be out front if you find anything."

Longarm hunkered down, setting the top layers of mouldering cheap paper neatly aside until, halfway to the bottom, he found a once-garish, now-faded cover that still looked mighty wild. He read the date--November, 1866--and set the old magazine aside until he'd replaced the others, closed the lid, and shoved the box back where it belonged. Then he picked up his treasure, put the lamp out, and rejoined the old man near the front of the shop.

"I'll take this one, sir. How much do I owe you?" he asked.

The old man shrugged. "Take it. I sell books, not wastepaper. I told you I was going to get rid of all that trash. I've been meaning to put it out back in the alley, but my son is away on business and my back is not what it used to be."

Longarm said, "You have to let me pay you. This has to be one of the earliest pulp books about a real person, so some of it could be based on fact. You see, I ain't a gent with bad taste in literature. I'm a deputy U.S. marshal, and this dumb old penny dreadful could be serious evidence in a murder case."

The old man laughed incredulously and said, "Where but in America could such things happen? You need the book, take the book. It's one less I have to carry out with my aching back."

"Now, look, the cover says it sold for a nickel back in Sixty-six. What say we settle for that, at least?"

The old man shook his head stubbornly. "I'm an ethical businessman. I don't cheat customers. I got that whole box of old magazines thrown in, free, as part of the deal I made for a couple of hundred real books I really wanted. How could I charge you for something I never paid for and was just going to throw out? It's against the law to do a small favor for a lawman?"