Slocum #422 (6 page)

He moved out of her oily interior and hiked her skirts even higher until they rolled about her waist so her privates were fully exposed.

“If you like what you see, what are you going to do about it?”

He lightly swatted her behind, then grabbed a handful of luscious ass flesh and maneuvered her so she was poised directly over the head of his throbbing manhood. Without a word, he pushed down on her hips. She tried to resist, playfully wanting more. Slocum found his need too great for more foreplay. After all he had been through, he needed her.

He twisted her from side to side until she lowered her hips. He gasped as his thick head pressed between her pink lips and then plunged balls deep into her heated core. For a moment, they remained still, unable to do anything but let the sensations pound through them. Then Sarah Jane moved.

Slowly she lifted herself. Slocum guided her and then slid his hands up her sides and cupped both breasts. Catching the nipples between his thumbs and forefingers, he twisted and turned. She moaned softly and tried to follow the directions he moved her body. Then he pulled downward.

Once more she engulfed him. His shaft jerked hard within the tight female sheath. Then it got even tighter. He had gotten a hint of how strong her inner muscles were when his thumb had been diddling her. Now she squeezed powerfully until he thought he was in a virgin. He abandoned his post on her tits and once more roved her sleek body. This time his thumb stopped at the top of the vee just above where he disappeared into her. Pressing down here produced a skyrocket effect in her.

Sarah Jane arched her back, jammed her hips down even harder into his groin, and let out a long, loud shriek of carnal release. He felt her shudder and settle back down, but he was nowhere near through with her. His finger parted her fleshy ­half-­moons and probed until he found another hole to enter. This caused her to rise. He controlled her perfectly by how he rammed in and out of her back.

Faster and faster he sent her rising and falling. The water had long since sloshed out of the tub. What remained evaporated and chilled his flesh. The contrast between her fiery innards and the coldness of his legs and midriff spurred him on until he felt fire ignite deep within his loins. The ­white-­hot tide rose along his length, and as Sarah Jane pumped up and down in a passion, he exploded. He pulled her chest to his face and buried himself between her boobs. His arms circled her and held her tight, to keep her in place, to prevent her from slipping away as he spurted powerfully.

Only when he began to melt within her did he release the woman so she could rock back and look at him. Her face flushed and her skin rosy all the way down to the tops of her breasts, she eyed him like a hungry wolf did a rabbit.

“I knew you were something special, John. It's never been this good.”

“Might be you learned a thing or two spying on that gent back in the whorehouse.”

“I knew all about that before. I only wanted to see if he did anything ­different—­or she did.”

“She was a professional, after all,” Slocum said. He idly stroked over her body, occasionally flicking his thumb against a nip. The blood was retreating now that her passion faded, but she still appreciated the attention. When he tried to move on, she clamped both of her hands over his and pressed down until he felt the soft flesh compress.

“More,” she said in a husky voice. “I want more.”

“So do I,” he said. She grinned just like that wolf, then turned mad when he said, “I want more hot water for my bath. Go fetch it.”

Sarah Jane sputtered, then pushed herself to a seat on the edge of the tub. Scissoring her legs so she lifted first one and then the other over his head to give him one last look at the paradise where he had been, she got to her feet and wetly padded out. He heard the car door slam. Slocum leaned back in the tub, then got out himself. He had water to heat and a proper bath to take before he put on the fancy duds Burlison had given him.

If the rest of the trip to Texas rivaled the way it had started, he was ready for ­it—­and seeing more of Sarah Jane along the way.

The Yuma Bullet lived up to its name as it pulled away from the San Diego yards. Slocum had felt a mite uncomfortable wearing Burlison's hand-me-downs, especially so when he had shaken the railroad officer's hand for the last time before their trains went in different directions. Burlison had chugged away to his meeting in San Francisco and the short train carrying his daughter finally steamed past the spot where the rail had been removed and burst out into the arid countryside.

Slocum stared out the window of his Pullman car. Marlene and her sexy maid were holed up in the first car. Even over the clanking of the steel wheels, he heard snippets of an argument. If he had been more interested, he would have spied on them the way Jefferson did. The conductor stood on the narrow platform between cars, making no bones about eavesdropping. When the dry wind began blowing off the hard desert, the conductor came back into Slocum's car and looked around.

“You shore do live like a king heah,” the conductor said.

“First time for everything,” Slocum said. He had found a small bar and had poured himself three shots of whiskey. Holding up the glass, he silently offered one to the man. Jefferson shook his head.

“Not whilst I on duty.”

“What are they arguing about?” Slocum's eyes darted toward the front of the train.

“You cain't figger that out? You smarter 'n that, Slocum.”

Sipping the whiskey relieved some of the aches and pains he had accumulated in San Diego and while repairing the engine. The bath had cleaned out the scrapes and cuts and Sarah Jane had done her best to make him forget the worst of his injuries. For her part, she had succeeded better than the fine whiskey.

“That's a strange pair,” he said.

“They don't look so strange to me, but what do I know? I's only a po' black fella who don't git to look on no nekkid white lady. That ain't what's evah gonna happen.”

Slocum laughed. “I meant Marlene and Sarah Jane, not Sarah Jane's, uh, endowments. It hardly seems Sarah Jane works for the boss's daughter the way she acts.”

“She do be a quiet one.”

“You've got quite a sense of humor. The pair of them were in a cathouse and Sarah Jane was watching a man take one of the soiled doves like she was a dog. Spying on them through a peephole in the wall.”

“Do tell. Sarah Jane's got mo' to her than I'da thunk.” Jefferson checked his watch, studied it as if the secrets of the universe were revealed, then snapped shut the lid and replaced the gold watch in a vest pocket. “We's 'bout ready to cross the ribber.”

“You sound worried. Should I be?”

“That there trestle's been mighty shaky ever' time we rolled ovah it. We don't get ovah that bridge, we don't go nowheah.”

Slocum downed his whiskey and let it warm him. He couldn't help comparing this warmth with what Sarah Jane had sparked inside him. That was better. Climbing to his feet, he stretched. Seams across the coat's shoulders gave way. Slocum was broader there than Burlison and the shirt flapped around his chest and middle. Burlison carried greater girth than did Slocum, but the fine cloth felt as good as anything he'd ever worn, other than Sarah Jane, in a long time. The clothing was expensive and gave him the look of a man of means, even if he didn't have two dimes to rub together.

He settled his ­six-­shooter at his hip and followed Jefferson forward. Since the train had pulled out, he hadn't budged from his car. If he wanted to talk to Mad Tom, he had to pass through Marlene's ­car—­and get another look at Sarah Jane.

The car had been partitioned so there were two sleeping quarters. Marlene sat on a chair in the common area working on needlepoint. When Slocum and Jefferson entered the car, she looked up and smiled. Slocum recognized the expression and wasn't about to do anything about it. She was the boss's daughter. Besides, he had a spitfire in Sarah Jane to keep him company whenever she could sneak away from her mistress.

“Good day, Mr. Slocum.”

“Ma'am,” Slocum said, touching the brim of his hat.

“You folk, now, you do go on and settle mattahs.” Jefferson disappeared through the front door and worked his way outside along the tender to talk to Mad Tom.

“I should go, too,” Slocum said, but a strange reluctance to leave held him as if his boots had been glued to the floor.

He glanced down at a table where a book was laid facedown.

“Do you know Mark Twain, Mr. Slocum? That is his newest title. It hasn't been published in this country yet. That is a Canadian edition.”

“Sounds like me.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Slocum tapped the book. “
The Prince and the Pauper
. I'm a pauper all duded up in your pa's finest.”

“There needs to be some tailoring done. I will be happy to do it if you let me take your measure.” Marlene blushed and looked away. “That didn't come out the way I'd intended.”

“Where's Miss Mulligan?”

“Why, I . . . she was feeling poorly and is taking a nap. The heat, you know. It is brutal and will only get worse when we cross the river.”

“Past Yuma gets mighty hot this time of year,” Slocum said. “It's kind of you to let your maid sleep like this.”

“There's nothing to do or see along this stretch of the line.” A ghost of a smile flickered across her lips. “What else could I do to pass the time?”

“You could read the book,” Slocum said, glancing in the direction of the Twain novel.

“I suppose I could. I'd rather work to get that coat of yours to fit properly.” She stood, then stumbled when the train suddenly braked, falling into Slocum's arms.

Slocum caught her. She fit into the circle of his arms nicely. He took a deep breath and caught the faint gardenia scent of her perfume. She looked up, her eyes wider than normal, then pushed away from him and tried to smooth out the wrinkles in her skirts.

“Why did we come to a halt?” Sarah Jane came from the larger of the two sleeping quarters, her dark hair mussed and her eyes bleary. “We can't be in Yuma yet to take on water and coal.”

“I'll check,” Slocum said, his hands lingering on Marlene's waist. He picked her up and spun her about. She was as light as a feather.

“Hurry, John. I don't like my sleep being disturbed like this.”

“Now, Miss Mulligan, don't be rude,” Marlene said.

For an instant fire passed between the two, then died.

“I'm sorry. Hurry along, John. Find out why that foolish ­crazy-­eyed engineer brought us to a halt.” Sarah Jane looked out the window at the desolate landscape.

Slocum opened the front door and stepped into the hot wind. He caught at his hat to keep it from flying off as he swung around and found the ledge along the tender's outer wall that led forward to the cab. The land wasn't as much a desert as he had thought looking from Marlene's Pullman car. The vegetation ahead turned lush as it dropped down toward the Colorado River. Without the clacking of wheels against the tracks, he heard the rush of the powerful river.

As he edged along, he saw a curious sight ahead along the tracks. A rainbow arched above the trestle. The river threw up a constant mist that made it seem as if the train would be running under the rainbow. But in this desert, the real pot of gold at either end of the rainbow had to be the water in the river fifty feet below.

Jefferson and Mad Tom stood toe to toe, arguing, when Slocum stepped into the cab. The fireman sat silently on a drop seat near the closed iron grate that opened to the boiler. He smiled, a white gash in a face filthy with coal dust. Rocking back, crossing his legs, he folded his arms on his chest and enjoyed the spectacle of the engineer and conductor fighting.

“What's wrong?” Slocum asked.

The two men turned on him.

“I ain't pushin' the Bullet 'cross the bridge 'less them fools say it's safe,” Mad Tom said.

“They only workmen, not engineerahs,” Jefferson said.

Slocum saw that four men had gathered along the tracks. They leaned on pry bars and shovel handles. The engineer and conductor went back to their argument. Slocum climbed down and went to the crew.

“Why do you have the lanterns up?” He pointed at the two lanterns hung from poles swaying in the wind. The glass had been painted red to give a warning.

“Well, sir, it's like this,” said the one that Slocum took to be the foreman. “There was a powerful wind last night that sent a big wave racin' down the river. Struck the far support just 'fore dawn. Me and the boys are tryin' to figger out if it's safe for a train to go across.”

“The bridge might collapse?”

“Might not either,” the foreman said. “Without climbin' down and doin' a complete examination, can't say one way or the other.”

“Have you seen damage happen to a bridge from such currents before?”

The foreman spat, wiped his mouth, and silently nodded.

“How long will it take for you to check out the sup­ports?”

“Can't rightly say. Might be a day 'fore we can climb down. Real dangerous since the wood gets all wet and slippery.”

Slocum walked to the edge of the cliff and looked down into the roiling, raging Colorado. The bridge supports looked secure, but he wasn't an expert. He jerked around when the foreman touched his arm and held out field glasses.

“What am I looking for?”

“Signs of damage, maybe the wood being chewed away like some damn animal's hungry for it.”

Slocum studied the nearer bridge supports, then worked to the far ones on the east side of the river. He moved a few yards and got a better angle. He handed back the glasses.

“The far timbers look bowed.”

“Not supposed to be that way. I have to run my hands over the wood to get a feel for how safe it is if there's nuthin' showin' up more 'n bowed supports,” the foreman said. “Replacing those struts would take a week, once we get the timber.”

“I'll tell the engineer,” Slocum said. He walked slowly back to the Yuma Bullet, where Jefferson and Mad Tom had run out of words and stood facing away from each other, arms crossed and looking fierce.

“The bridge supports might be shaky,” Slocum said.

“They don't know what they talkin' 'bout. We got to move on along,” Jefferson said. “Theah's a schedule to keep.” He took his watch from his vest pocket and made a big show of studying it.

“I ain't riskin'
my
train goin' over a bad bridge. This here trestle's been a caution since it was built.”

“Mr. Burlison'd want us to go on.”

Slocum looked at the conductor and finally said, “Even if it means risking the life of his daughter?”

“He knowed the condition of the road. He ain't nobody's fool,” Jefferson said. “It's
his
road.”

“The river just rose last night and shook the foundations this morning.” Slocum looked across the bridge. The mist still rose from the river, but the sun had sunk low enough behind them to erase the rainbow. “Why not wait for a train coming from Yuma going to San Diego and see how it fares?”

“We ain't got a siding heah, Mistah Slocum. How we s'pposed to let the train by?”

“He's got a point,” Mad Tom said. “We'd have to back up danged near twenty miles to find a siding. Railroad schedules are precise.” He walked forward, chewing on his lower lip. Finally he came to a decision. “If the work crew thinks we kin make it, we go. They say no, we wait. Don't care if we have to back up all the way to the Pacific Ocean.”

Slocum hollered and got the repair crew foreman over.

“You boys decide on what to do?” the foreman asked.

“That depends on your expert opinion,” Slocum said. “The trestle is upright but bowed. You didn't see any damage that would let you put a bet on a train taking a dive into the river?”

“Ain't a bettin' man, but I see what you're askin'.” He scratched himself, shuffled about, and finally said, “Without climbin' down, ain't no way to say if it's safe. I got me a man workin' his way down now.” He took his field glasses and walked to the lip of the cliff. After several seconds, he lowered them. “Either Ray's wavin' you on or he's got a foot stuck.”

“Then he's wavin' us on,” Mad Tom said. “Get to stokin', you useless piece of shit.” He swung into the cab. The fireman had already shoveled coal into the boiler to build up a head of steam to cross.

Jefferson grinned and slapped Slocum on the back.

“We's gonna be in Yuma by mornin'. Take some time, git a good breakfast.” He cupped his hands to his mouth and bellowed, “All aboard! We's pullin' out!”

Slocum looked across the ­twilight-­shrouded tracks. He had never crossed the river on a train and had no idea what a bridge looked like, but this one seemed to sway. Mad Tom leaned out the side of the cab, yanked on the whistle lanyard, and released the brakes. The Yuma Bullet edged forward.

“You gonna be left behind if you don't climb aboard, Slocum,” the engineer said.

Slocum waved and let the tender pass before he hopped up on the platform leading into Marlene's car. The locomotive reached the western side of the bridge. Mad Tom advanced carefully, as if testing the bridge. Then he let loose with another loud whistle and the train picked up speed. Slocum appreciated that. The faster they went, the sooner they'd reach safety on the eastern side.

He opened the door and went in. Sarah Jane sat where Marlene had been earlier. She gripped the arms of the chair. Her blue eyes widened in fear.

“The bridge is wobbling,” she said in a tiny voice.

“It's all right, Sarah Jane,” Slocum said. “Where're Miss Burlison and Jefferson?”

“The next car. I think they were going to the mail car. Don't worry about them. Stay with me. I'm frightened!”

Slocum ignored her plea, took a step toward the rear of the car, and lost his balance. He slammed hard into the side, his elbow breaking a window. Catching himself, he reached up and started to pull the emergency cord that signaled the engineer to halt. The Yuma Bullet plowed on ahead. Another whistle blast about deafened him. This one came long and loud.