Slocum 373

“Guerra and I know that, Señor. You don’t have to doubt our loyalty for one second. We could have taken that money, fled for Mexico, and no one would have known who had it. We work for you, Señor.”

Toby nodded. They could have done that. Just so they didn’t get any new ideas about abandoning him and taking the loot. Sumbitch. He had that to worry about, as well as whoever was on his ass. If Earl Simpson was alive, he would be looking for Toby. And, Toby figured, the Texas law would be on his tail, especially if they checked back at the ranch and found that he’d pulled out.

In two days, they’d be well across the border in a village the boys knew well called Matador Negro. It was to be his headquarters until they could find a ranchero for him or someplace better. The boys felt certain the village would be defensible, and they knew the locals well enough. Valdez had agreed, and he was the most loyal of Toby’s ranch help. In a few days, Valdez would join them with the rest of his things. Toby would sleep better when his man was with them. But they were all good boys. Mexico would be fun. He had the money and the team to ranch or do whatever he desired to do.

Mainly hump some sweet ass. It had been days since he’d had any. He never liked to be without pussy for long. It soured his disposition. However, they would celebrate when they got down there. He reached inside his pants and straightened his growing erection. Simply thinking about wild women had aroused him. Damn, he would be horny by the time they got to Matador Negro.

They stayed the night at a small ranch. The man, a gringo, only had a brush arbor for a house, and corrals were made of small, crooked mesquite poles strung between double posts. The man charged them twenty-five cents per horse for hay, since he said he had to have it hauled from forty miles away down in Mexico. With a scruffy white beard, he looked up in years, but still acted spry considering how old he must be. His cowboy hatband was black from sweat, and the caked-on dirt was piled around the crown. His spurs were Mexican rowels, his pants deerskin, and the shirt a pullover. He smoked cigarettes rolled in corn husks, and his thin lips were white from sun scars. But his deep blue eyes never missed a detail. He carried two large knives and an old cap-and-ball pistol called a Paterson model.

“Is she Mexican or Indian?” Toby indicated the short young woman in the pleated skirt and thin low-cut blouse. Her small breasts could be seen when she bent over to stir the frijoles.

“Who knows?” The old man, who called himself Hodges, shrugged his thin shoulders. “You want some of her, you pay her. She came here starving. Her baby died the next day. She is hardworking and doesn’t go hungry here. But at my age, I don’t need a woman very often.”

“Sofia,” Hodges said, and she raised up to look at him. “After supper, he wants to buy some of your ass.” His words to her were in Spanish, and she blushed.

Seated on his butt on the dirty blanket, Toby nodded. “I’ll buy some of her. One of you boys go get us some whiskey. Hodges needs a good snort for looking out for me.”

Soon, they ate her corn tortillas and frijoles with hot sauce, and drank whiskey to wash it down. Afterwards, she took a rolled-up blanket under her arm and came over to get Toby as if it was business as usual. Then she led him a hundred yards off in the low greasewood and pear so that he no longer heard the voices of his men or Hodges as the sun set.

“Who knows? I have not been there in a long time. Bandits may have killed them.” She was busy untying the strings that held her skirt on her small waist. When that garment was shed, her dark legs looked shapely in the growing twilight. The blouse came off over her head, and her small triangular tits shook when it did.

“All I have left is that old man.” On her knees in front of Toby, she took off his vest and then began undoing the buttons on his shirt. He fondled her breasts. It felt good to have flesh again in his palms to knead. Her nipples quickly responded to his attention. With his hand on her firm butt, he pulled her in close to feast on her nipples. This would be well worth what he would pay her.

With his gun holster laid aside, he stood, and she unbuckled his pants. Then she fought his pants down until the night wind swept his bare legs. Raising up, she took his half-full erection in her mouth and blew on him so hard, she sent chills up his spine. Filled with excitement, he wanted to dance on his toes as she worked his manhood over with the hunger of a starved lioness.

As she squeezed his scrotum and then jerkied him off to speed him up, he knew he was coming and clutched her head. His efforts succeeded, and he came hard in her mouth. She scrambled to get on her back, wiping the streams of white from the corners of her mouth on the tops of her hands. At last, she grabbed his kerchief and swiped it all away. Then, she rested on her back, and raised her knees in the air for him to enter her.

Like a raging bear, he plunged his hard-on inside her wet twat, and went to pounding her ass as a new wave of raw need swept through him, driving himself deeper and deeper inside her tight slit as she hunched to meet him. Bare calloused heels pounded his back, and she moaned openmouthed as they sped off into oblivion. At last, the skin in the head of his dick felt stretched to breaking and he came again, this time deep inside her, like an exploding artillery shell. They collapsed in a pile.

After a short reprieve, they did it again, and afterward they fell asleep in each other’s arms, until the night’s chill awoke them under the thin blankets and they fled under the stars their separate ways to their own bedrolls in camp. He shivered for an hour until his body warmth rose enough to let him stop shaking so he could sleep.

Before the sun crept over some sawtooth range in the distance, she was up making the fire and cooking for all of them. Through sleep-deprived eyes, he considered slipping up behind her and inserting his dick in her while she fussed over things all bent over. But he never followed through.

After breakfast, he paid her ten dollars, and thought her eyes would bug out at the sight of such wealth in her small brown hands. She jumped up, pulled him down, and kissed him.

When the sun’s long shadows pointed westerly, they rode south for the border and the Rio Grande. Guerra said they’d cross it by noon, and Matador Negro was only a short ways south of the international boundary formed by the Rio Grande River.

Gnawing on jerky, they forded the hock-deep river and climbed the sandy bank on the south side. He paused to look back. Soon, he’d be like Old Man Hodges and not remember how to speak English. But if they were all like Hodges’s slut, Mexico was for him. Oh, he’d been there before and screwed his share of brown-skinned butts—but from that moment on, he’d better figure that Mexico was his land and their women were what he’d have to choose from.

Matador Negro was a sleepy place of jacales along some ditches that watered small fields of emerging corn and beans. Children ran about screaming in loud voices about visitors coming. A few scrawny chickens rushed to scratch in the horse turds left by his ponies for bits of grain or seeds. Some tethered milk goats along the banks of the irrigation ditches bleated like they wanted to get loose, straining at their collars.

Women came to their doorways and used the sides of their hands to shade their eyes from the bright sun to see the newcomers. Some of them were old and wrinkled. Many others bore swollen bellies. The rest, he saw, were too young to screw. But there would be suitable ones among the population for his needs.

“Thanks.” Toby looked around at the dusty room. A scraggly set of deer antlers was hung on the wall behind the bar, a poorly stuffed javelina beside it with his tusks showing. And a mountain sheep skull with three-quarter-curled horns. The chairs were mismatched, and the tables had been carved on by knife bearers with such nasty pictures as a bearded man screwing a sheep or goat. The room sat empty.

Guerra and Jesus talked about finding a place to stay and soon Guerra told Toby, “We can buy or lease a ranchero twenty miles from here at a place called La Ciénaga Verde.”

The deal was made, and in an hour three women were ready to go. Earlier, Toby had looked them over one at a time. Slouched in the captain’s chair, he’d selected the three out of many who wanted go along and work for him. Nice to have women almost fighting to be his prize.

He figured he tall, dark-haired woman in her thirties with the straight back would be in charge of them. Her name was Teresa. And the last one, who chewed on her finger and whose brown eyes danced with excitement, was named Nana.

Burros were rounded up for them to ride. Teresa rode hers sideways as if she had a sidesaddle and looked very ladylike, which brought a sly smile to his face for having chosen her.

He decided they could defend themselves more easily at this ranchero, so they headed out. It was located at a place where springs bubbled up in the desert and there was water. In Africa they called it an oasis. He was concerned about the condition of the ranchero, but since they had adequate food supplies and pussy, who really cared.

Well past midnight, they reached the hacienda. Under the stars and moon they rode through the gate in the high wall. In the shadowy square, he dismounted and tried the pump at the tank. Water soon poured out of the wooden spout and he drank some. It was both cool and sweet. No chalky aftertaste.

When he got his own bedroll loose from behind his cantle, she quickly assumed possession of it and led the way across the hard-packed ground to an unlighted building facing the square. Inside the dark room, she went looking for a ladder. “They used to sleep on the roof, no?”

He took the bedroll, afraid that she might fall with it, and shouldered it himself to follow her up the rungs. They soon were on the roof and he agreed her plan was excellent. In no time at all, they both were naked and in the bedroll, him on top enjoying her body.