his empty cup and said, “You sure brew fine coffee, Miss Olive. But now we’d best settle on what I owe you so’s I can be on my way. For it’s dark out now, and I still don’t know where I mean to spend the night my ownself.”
She glanced over at the one oil lamp in the kitchen, as if deciding whether to turn the wick brighter or dimmer, as she quietly asked him, “Why don’t you stay here? Are you too proud, Wasichu Wastey?”
He blinked in surprise and replied, “Your folks never hung such a friendly name on me for acting snooty. I reckon it would make sense for me to unroll my bedding up in your hayloft and get an early start in the morning, if that’s what you had in mind, ma’am.”
Olive Red-Dog stared pointedly at the curtained doorway leading to her sleeping quarters as she quietly said that hadn’t been exactly what she’d had in mind.
So Longarm got to his feet and as the far smaller Indian gal rose expectantly, he just swept her off her moccasined feet and headed out of the kitchen with her as she clung to him and murmured what sounded like “Oh hinh, iyopte!” which might have meant she was anxious to get going. He’d been wanting to since he’d first seen her ankles in the doorway a hundred hard-up years ago.
But even as he groped their way to her iron bedstead in the dim light of her small clean-smelling sleeping quarters, Longarm felt he owed it to the gal to say, “You do understand I’ll be moving on at sunrise, don’t you, pretty lady?”
She replied softly, “I’d never have invited you in here for the night if I thought you might be here long enough to need a haircut. I hate the way you men brag in barbershops, as if you had anything to say about this sort of thing!”
So he laughed like hell and lowered her to the bedding. But then, as he flopped down beside her and reached for a friendly feel, the apparently rough and ready old gal sobbed, “No! Kiss me first. Treat me like a Wasichu girl who means something to you, before you get up and ride on, you brute.”
He said he’d get up right then and there if she thought he was being brutal to her.
But she pulled him down against her and felt friendly as hell as she confided she liked it sort of brutal once she warmed up.
Chapter 7
It felt like he was waking up in a thunderstorm. But as Longarm gathered his wits together, he saw that that frisky Osage gal had started up again on top, and the way she was bouncing the bed with her brown shapely torso accounted for the way the dawn light through the one little window behind her flickered. The bedsprings creaking under them and the way she kept licking his face like a pup, Indian style, accounted for the impression of rain. He was thrusting his now fully aroused organ-grinder up to meet her downward bouncings when the air outside was rent by another definite roll of thunder.
He didn’t care. He rolled her on her back and hooked a bare elbow under each of her tawny knees to spread her wider and enjoy her deeper as she panted and gasped, “Heya oh toe kaw hey! I am starting to come again!”
That made two of them, and since she’d assured him more than once by then that she admired a man who could let himself go crazy in her, Longarm enjoyed a long thoroughly selfish climax in her quivering wet innards. As she milked the last drops from him with her astoundingly strong vaginal muscles and crooned, “Pee-la me-yeah!” he kissed her collar bone and replied, “Well, thanks your ownself, you hot-as-hell thing. Is it really raining outside this morning?”
Olive said, “It’s dry as a bone. Those Wasichu witko are setting off sky bombs again. But don’t leave yet. I know I promised, before we went to sleep, I wouldn’t cry when this time came. But now that it has, I want you to make me come again before you go.”
He said he was running low on ammunition, but figured he could fire another salvo dog-style. So she coyly rolled on her hands and knees to let him stand behind her with his bare feet on the braided rug as he admired a broad view of her he’d never had before. He could tell she rode astride a lot. Nothing else pounded a gal’s rump to be so firm and sort of mature-looking below such a slender waistline. As she winked her rectal muscles up at him, she giggled and confessed she’d always envied a mare being served by a stud up until now. He’d wondered how she’d learned to arch her spine and pucker like that.
She allowed he’d been taking lessons from horny critters as well by the time they’d managed a protracted mutual orgasm in such an unromantic but practical position.
Then she served him breakfast in bed to show she wasn’t sore when he allowed he had no hard feelings for her. It sure beat all how a widow woman who made love so rough and ready could scramble eggs so delicately. He sensed her ulterior motives in treating him to such a swell breakfast when she got back in bed as he was enjoying his second cup of coffee, knelt between his bare ankles and the foot of the bed, and went down on him with her lucious wet lips.
So it turned out he might be able to lay her one more time, as she entreated, after all. But he sure felt stiff, and had a time walking right when they finally got around to saddling up those ponies so a lawman could carry out his damned duties with the sun now scandalously high.
He didn’t look back as he rode out. Olive had asked him not to. So there was no saying whether she was waving at him, just standing there, or playing with herself, as she’d threatened she might.
That orange balloon was more like a black dot against the sunrise now, as it slowly rose with yet another charge into what sure seemed a cloudless sky that would have done the Mojave or Sonora deserts proud. As he rode south past the last yard fences, he decided the two sisters had to be new at flim-flammery.
The flint cornstalks to either side as he rode between fenced-in forties were still green, but wilted. He spied a sunflower windmill spinning further up the wagon trace. Curious in spite of Billy Vail’s orders, he swung the paint he was riding that morning off to where he could peer over a fence into chocolate-colored streaks between the dustier corn rows. They had the crops under groundwater irrigation this close to the creek bed a few furlongs back. But that one windmill, in such cranky winds as they were getting in early high summer, was barely keeping that hardy flint corn alive. Nobody had ever gotten rich on skinny stock or half-parched cash crops. Barley or rye still had half a chance. But that corn needed rain and a heap of it pronto. A light sprinkle that’d leave the ground firm enough for mule-drawn reapers and steam-powered threshers just wasn’t going to revive the local corn crop, not if a halfways irrigated field already looked so desperate!
The higher country between mapped water courses was cut up by a confusion of shallower, drier, nameless draws and washes, as a nation calling itself Tsitsissah had taught strangers who called it Cheyenne in a serious of nameless but bitter little skirmishes in these same parts a few short summers back. So Longarm was down in a draw, out of sight of town and vice versa, when the Ruggles sisters set off another blast high in a cloudless sky.
