Longarm 341

When the blonde had aroused him to the boiling point, Longarm shucked out of his clothes and pushed her down onto the deerskin mat. He mounted her, and in a few minutes she screamed as he threw his head back and thrust his hips forward, his shaft cleaving her, firing his seed deep within her.

When he’d finished spasming, he sagged on top of her, pressing his chest against her greased breasts. She cackled and raked her nails across his shoulders, ran her heels up and down the back of his thighs.

He lay there for several minutes, breathing hard, exhausted, before he turned left to see the black-haired girl on one knee beside them, leaning on her rifle. She raked her gaze between Longarm and the blonde, her lips parted slightly, a dark, wanton look in her brown eyes, whiskey on her breath.

Her deerskin vest was open, showing most of both large, amber breasts, the brown nipples jutting. Her soft, deerskin shirt was pulled up nearly to her waist. Her straight, jet black hair hung down over her shoulders, glistening with bear grease.

Longarm stared at the Indian goddess beside him, her deep bosoms rising and falling sharply, and glanced at the rifle in her left hand.

He doubted he could spring from his current position between the blonde’s knees to wrestle the Winchester away from her. These women were fast and strong, like Apaches or mountain lions.

Longarm returned his gaze to her and lifted one corner of his mouth. “Feelin’ left out?”

The blonde reached up and placed her hand on the black-haired girl’s thigh. The dark girl reacted instantly, sucking a deep breath through her nose and slitting her eyes. The blonde stroked her thigh for a time, then the dark girl stood, leaned the rifle against the far wall, and returned to the blonde and Longarm.

She handed the bottle to the blonde, who took a long pull, barely reacting to the burn, then offered the bottle to Longarm. He tipped the bottle back, his eyes on the black-haired girl.

She shucked out of the vest, kicked out of her skirt, and knelt where she’d knelt before. She wrapped her arms around Longarm’s neck and kissed him hungrily, moving her head and groaning. After a time, she threw her other arm around the blonde and kissed her the same way.

Longarm had been in a similar situation before—once in San Francisco, once in Dodge City. For some reason watching two beautiful naked women kiss and paw each other never ceased to arouse him.

Only he’d never intended to arrest the other girls, or, failing that, kill them.

He hoped these two would get so interested in each other, they’d forget him for a time, and forget about the rifle. But then the black-haired girl pushed Longarm over onto his back. His shaft had been hardening again inside the blonde, and now as he settled back against the deerskin, his cock gave a couple of nods before the head filled out and stood at attention.

The black-haired girl climbed on top of him and pressed his shaft against his belly for a time, nuzzling and licking, nibbling his balls. He ran his hands up and down her long, slender back. When she straightened, he kneaded her breasts, working her into a swoon.

The blonde had been watching, propped on an elbow beside them, drinking from the bottle. Now, wanting into the game, she gave an eager, enraptured laugh and straddled Longarm’s belly, facing her sister. Before long, the two girls were kissing and caressing each other and nuzzling each other’s breasts while the black-haired girl impaled herself on Longarm’s rock-hard shaft.

As she rose slowly up and down, her insides like a wet fire, Longarm lifted his hands around the blonde and played with her nipples.

Longarm lifted his head to see the blonde’s long, slightly curved back before him, her head lolling on her shoulders as he caressed her breasts and her sister nibbled her right ear between long pulls from the whiskey bottle.

Giving himself a mental slap, Longarm looked at the rifle. The brass housing flashed in the firelight.

He had to get to it. The only way, however, was to first give these drunk, horny wildcats the time of their lives, so they’d forget all about the long gun leaning against the wall.

An hour passed, then two, and then the spent threesome lay entangled upon the deerskin, a couple of blankets drawn over them. Longarm felt as though he’d been wrestling the rogue grizzly that had followed him over a mountain. He wasn’t sure he hadn’t sprained something or cracked a couple of ribs.

He lay on his back. The black-haired girl had her head on his chest. She was snoring softly, a little puddle of drool growing just below his left nipple. The blonde was curled up like a baby in the V between his legs, her head snugged up against his crotch, her hair tickling his balls. One arm was draped across his left thigh.

The only way to get himself untangled from these two vixens was to move in inches . . .

Holding his breath, he placed his hands on the ground and began sliding his torso to the right and toward the wall behind him. He’d moved maybe six inches when the black-haired girl stirred suddenly.

The black-haired vixen gave a frumpy sigh, rolled away from him and curled into a ball nearer the fire, pulling a blanket with her and drawing her knees up to her breasts.

Lifting his right leg slowly, he moved straight away from her head, creating a gape between his balls and her curly head.

She sighed, muttered something in her sleep. Propped on his elbows, Longarm stopped. She snorted, swallowed, then adjusted the blanket around her shoulders and nuzzled his left knee.

After a minute, he continued hoisting himself away from her, one slow inch at a time, staring at her, a perpetual wince balling his cheeks, willing her to stay asleep.

She groaned a couple of times, but after ten minutes, Longarm had freed himself of the blonde who lay as she’d been lying between his legs. He turned and, heart thumping wildly, crawled toward the rifle.

He could get to it now even if the wolf women awoke—he’d fight them off with every ounce of strength remaining in his battered carcass—but their yells would no doubt rouse old Magnusson.

Longarm wasn’t going anywhere if Magnusson started shooting down at him from above.

He closed on the rifle, reached out with his right hand, and wrapped his fingers around the breech. His heart beat faster.

He removed the Winchester from the wall and, still on his knees and enjoying the feel and weight of the steel in his hands, swung it toward the sleeping beauties.

The blonde was on her knees, holding her breasts in her hands as she regarded him angrily through a curtain of rumpled hair. The black-haired girl stood before him, swinging the whiskey bottle by its neck. It smashed against Longarm’s right temple.

When Longarm woke, he lay on the deerskin, blankets drawn up to his chin. He tried to open his eyes but gray light pushing through the hole’s opening made his head throb.

Dried blood lay crusted on his forehead. He felt as though he’d been thrown down a steep hill then beaten and fucked half to death by polecats.

He opened his eyes by degrees, till he could keep the lids open without feeling as though a sharpened axe had been plunged through his brain plate. His breath puffed around his head. Gray ashes smoldered in the fire ring. His bottle of Maryland rye stood propped in a notch at the base of the wall. He reached for it, bit the cork from the bottle lip, and threw back a couple of shots.

Instantly, the liquor warmed him, dulled the sharp throbbing in his skull. He rose, dressed quickly in the bracing morning air, and leaned his back against the wall.

What a rube. He’d let himself get hornswoggled by a couple of women. If this ever got back to Billy Vail, Longarm would no doubt be relegated to stamping envelopes and changing typewriter ribbons for Henry.

After a couple more swigs from the bottle, he started to feel almost human again. Sunlight seeped over the opening’s lip, spreading a golden sheen across the floor. Something small and black lay in the dust. Longarm rose and walked over to the chunk of bear meat, picked it up, brushed it off, and took a bite.

Chewing the cold, stringy meat, he looked up. He hadn’t heard anything from above since he’d awakened. The meat had been tossed into the hole a while ago.

Longarm sat back down on the deerskin and ate the meat slowly, taking his time, letting the nourishment seep deeply into him, washing the food down with liberal swigs from his bottle. As he ate and drank, he gave a good bit of thought to his predicament, glancing every now and then at the skeleton grinning at him in the shadows to his right.

If ole Hank or Mike or Pete hadn’t been able to get out of here, chances were slim Longarm would. But he had to try.

He studied the wall. It appeared mostly granite, striated with sandstone and clay. Solid in places, not so solid in others.

Longarm tipped the bottle back once more, washing down the last of the meat, then hammered the cork back into the bottle’s lip and set it aside. As he did so, he heard what sounded like distant thunder. A single, muffled clap.

When only silence followed the explosion, he rose and walked around the pit, raking his gaze across the walls. When he found a stretch that seemed to offer the most possibilities for hand- and toeholds, he dug his fingers into a slight crack and pulled himself up with his right hand while digging his left boot toe into a notch.

The notch wasn’t much more than a dimple, but it held . . . until he’d almost got his left hand into another crack.

Then the boot slipped. He dropped straight down, hit the floor awkwardly on both feet, and fell on his right hip.

He felt pressure building. The panic again started closing in. His heart quickened.

He glanced over his shoulder at his pal, Ernie or Hank or Miguel, grinning at him, the long, horsey teeth glowing in the sunlight angling into that corner of the cavern.

With another curse, Longarm heaved himself to his feet, kicked out of his boots, then pulled off his socks. He ran his hands together as he studied the wall, picking out every pit, fissure, bulge, and dimple, plotting a course.

He found a way, tracing the route in his mind. Then, before any misgivings could plant themselves in his brain, he grabbed the first hold, levered himself up, and dug his right toe into a tiny fissure. When he’d planted the left foot along a slight ledge, he reached up, found a solid sandstone thumb, and planted the right foot successfully once more.

Gaining confidence, he dug the first three fingers of his right hand over a granite shelf below a layer of clay.

His heart lightened. He could do it. He’d found a way. As he climbed, he looked up at the opening widening before him.

Then the ram’s horn of granite he’d just grabbed with his right hand crumbled like old plaster. He clawed at the wall with his feet and left hand but couldn’t gain a purchase.

He slid straight down the wall, tearing skin from his fingertips, hit the floor on his feet, and stumbled away from the wall before tumbling onto his back, the fall’s momentum throwing his legs up over his head.

He squeezed his eyes closed against the billowing dust and the sand sifting down the wall.

Longarm opened his eyes. Two heads were silhouetted against the sky at the lip of the hole, staring down at him. On his chest lay the end of the catch rope sagging out from the wall. Longarm pushed himself to his feet and shaded his eyes with one hand, peering up the hole.

“You all right, Custis?” Merle shouted, staring down at him, her straight blond hair hanging down both shoulders, her olive plainsman hat shading her forehead.

Comanche John cackled, bearded cheeks stretched back from his gap-toothed grin.

“Don’t just stand there gawkin’!” Merle shouted, her voice echoing around the pit. “Tie the rope around your waist before I decide to leave you down there!”