Slocum Giant 2013: Slocum and the Silver City Harlot

1

Marianne Lomax smiled sweetly as she tugged down her bodice to reveal more than a little of her swelling white bosom. With a deliberate shake of her shoulders, she set her breasts to jiggling—and captured the miner’s full attention. He swallowed hard and spilled some of the drink she had fixed for him.

The auburn beauty wished he would drink more. She had a few customers who got so knee-walking drunk that she didn’t have to do a thing but assure them they had been superior in bed and that she would never forget how expert their lovemaking had been. More than once she had dropped hints about this around Silver City to bolster the men’s reputations. Salesmanship went a long way in keeping the best customers.

In her mind that meant ones who never caused trouble and who paid her what was more than the going rate for sexual favors in the larger cathouses.

I never ’spected to find a filly as fine and frisky as you, Miz Marianne, the miner said. He spilled more of his whiskey on her sofa.

She came close to rushing to him and clawing out his eyes. That sofa had come all the way from Georgia and had belonged to her mama, rest her soul. The furniture was about all she had left to remind her of better days in the green hills with the gentle breezes and . . .

Let me freshen up that there drink, Clem, she said, knowing she had to tend to this disagreeable business so she could get it over fast. Marianne rose gracefully, being sure to show enough ankle to keep the man’s interest focused on her and what was going to occur. So much of what she did was showmanship. Most of the silver miners were done, otherwise, in a minute or two, and often felt cheated. A slow buildup, a bit of tease, a flash of forbidden flesh, and they were more than happy to pay her.

She almost laughed at that. She could hit him between the eyes with an ax handle and never break his concentration on her. He worked a claim out at the edge of Chloride Flats, where the richest silver strike in New Mexico still brought in prospectors and others itching to get rich. The town struggled to put up enough buildings to house them all. Most of the miners lived in tents, and the largest of the structures in town were adobe or two-story wood frame saloons and bawdy houses.

Just sitting in her parlor was a treat for a man who camped with sand fleas and biting gnats in a tent that likely leaked like a sieve when it rained.

Why, thank you kindly, Miz Marianne, he said. Clem held out his glass in such a way that she had to bend over to refill it.

Marianne played the game well. She enjoyed this, bending so her rump was in the air just a little so she could shake it. Her bodice slid down a little more, giving Clem a decent view of the deep, shadowy canyon between her breasts.

Oh, my, I am being so bold. Will you forgive me? She pulled up her blouse in such a way that it tightened across her breasts, showing her penny-sized nipples through the cloth.

The miner didn’t miss this part of the show either. She sank down beside him on her mama’s sofa and considered ways of moving him to the only other item of furniture in the room where he could spill all the tarantula juice he wanted. She had taken the fainting couch in payment from the Silver City carpenter rather than take his last silver dollar. For a town where silver flowed like a river, too many were living on the edge of poverty.

As she was.

Oh, I am suddenly dizzy, she said, taking two exact steps back, being sure the fainting couch was under her and then flopping back. She theatrically lifted her arm to cover her eyes even as she flapped her skirt.

Are you all right, Miz Marianne?

I am taken faint and need to be revived, she said, drawing up her skirt even more until she exposed her leg past the knee.

You want some of this here whiskey?

I need more than that, Clem. I need a man who can massage me so the circulation returns to my limbs.

I don’t rightly know how to do that.

"It’ll come naturally to a man like you." She hiked her skirts even more to reveal snowy white thighs and the fact that she wasn’t wearing any undergarments. Flapping the cloth a bit caused a small breeze across her privates. To her surprise, she was getting wet.

It wasn’t because of Clem. She enjoyed the buildup to the actual act of the miner being on top of her, pumping furiously until he was done. Too few men she had ever found took the time to be certain she was enjoying the sex as much as they were.

Too damned few, but there had been some.

Clem wiped off his dirty hands on his flannel shirt and then knocked back all the whiskey to get some Dutch courage. This was a man who risked his life mining silver, would wrestle a grizzly and win, and he was afraid of a slip of a girl like her. Marianne needed the money he had to offer for her favors, but she also reveled in the power over the socially inexperienced and how she controlled them.

The miner dropped to his knees beside the fainting couch and hesitantly touched her calves. Marianne recoiled.

Did I hurt you? I didn’t mean no—

You sent a shiver of anticipation throughout my entire quivering body, Clem. More. Do it some more. She lounged back and hiked her feet up to the edge of the fainting couch, then spread her knees lewdly to give him a sight he wasn’t likely to find again anywhere else.

He licked his lips, rubbed at his bushy mustache, and moved closer. His callused hands made her shiver as he parted her thighs even more. His mustache tickled as his face came closer. And then all hell broke loose.

The front door crashed open and slammed so hard against the wall it rebounded.

Marianne struggled to get her feet under her, but Clem was in the way.

Git yer face away from her pussy or I’ll thrash you good and proper! The threat came just before a deep-throated roar like a mountain lion ready to attack.

What’s goin’ on? Clem flopped back and sat heavily on the floor to the side of the fainting couch, giving Marianne a chance to pull down her skirts and try to stand.

A hand more like a ham hock shoved her back. Marianne’s arms windmilled as she struggled to keep her balance. She lost the fight and sat heavily on the couch, staring up at Lester Carstairs.

You can’t bull your way into a lady’s house like this!

Lady? Carstairs spat. The dark, viscous gob hit Clem on the shoulder and spattered onto his cheek.

This infuriated the miner. He surged to his feet, hands balled into fists.

You cain’t talk to her like that. You think you can bully ever’body in town, but it’s time somebody stood up to you!

Clem, no!

Marianne’s warning came an instant too late. While the miner was declaring his intentions, Carstairs reared back and unloaded a punch that came from a mile off. His huge left fist crashed into Clem’s belly. The miner grunted. But Carstairs was already delivering an uppercut with his right. This connected solidly. Clem’s eyes rolled up in his head, and he crashed backward, falling stiff as a board.

You have no right!

I got a right. I’m layin’ claim to you, whore. You’re the purtiest in town, and you’re mine now. Mine and nobody else’s ’cuz you got what I want! He stepped forward, hands reaching for her.

He froze at the sound of twin hammers cocking on a double-barreled shotgun.

You touch my ma and I swear I’ll kill you where you stand.

You don’t want to get my blood all over your ma, now do you, boy? Carstairs turned to face his diminutive attacker.

Run, Randolph, go! Marianne cried to her twelve-year-old son.

But the boy pressed his lips together in grim determination and aimed the shotgun straight at Lester Carstairs’s chest. The shotgun was almost too heavy for him to heft and the barrels swung about in tiny circles. Marianne saw what was happening but her son didn’t. Carstairs wasn’t a man who scared easily. More than one man in Silver City had pointed a six-shooter at him and lived to regret it—or had even died because of such folly. He wouldn’t have any more compunction about killing a boy than he would a gunfighter.

The shotgun strayed the barest amount from dead center on his torso, giving Carstairs the chance to step up and bat it away. His powerful fingers closed around the blued barrel of the ten-gauge and yanked. Randolph couldn’t hold on.

I ought to turn you over my knee and whup your ass, boy, Carstairs said. He grabbed for Randolph, but the boy had gotten over the surprise of losing his shotgun.

As Carstairs immediately found out, this wasn’t the boy’s only weapon. As he grabbed for the boy, Carstairs let out a howl of pain and jerked away. Blood gushed from his hand. Randolph had cut him with a small knife. Waving around the short-bladed knife made Marianne think of David and Goliath. But outside of Biblical stories, might made right. Carstairs would take any amount of punishment to get the boy now.

Marianne drove forward, her shoulders crashing into the backs of Carstairs’s knees. The man cried out and fell over her. By the time he got himself upright, she had the shotgun trained on him. It didn’t waver in her grip.

I don’t know what my son’s loaded this with. I hope it’s buckshot since that’ll tear a hole the size of my fist in your belly and make you beg for dying, she said.

You wouldn’t— Carstairs screeched in fear as Marianne pulled the first trigger. The fainting couch exploded in a welter of wood splinters and cotton stuffing.

Damn, I missed. I won’t this time, she said.

I’m goin’, Carstairs said. "But you remember this. You’re my whore. I take what I want."

Randolph lunged and tried to cut Carstairs again, but Marianne held him back. She followed the man all the way out the door. Only when she heard a horse trotting off did she sag down, shaking.

You shoulda killed him, Ma. I would have, but he—

You’re twelve years old, she said sternly. You don’t go killing grown-ups. And where’d you get that knife?

Billy gave it to me. It was a gift.

He show you how to cut a man, too? Don’t answer that. Tears ran down her cheeks, but she wiped them away. Fetch some water and see if you can’t wake up Clem. He got more ’n he bargained for tonight.

Do it yourself. I don’t want anything to do with your johns. Randolph ran off, sobbing.

Randolph! Wait! But it was too late. The boy had disappeared into the darkness, probably to spend the night with that friend of his, William McCarty.

She leaned against the shotgun and decided it was probably for the best. She didn’t like having to sell her body to keep her son fed and clothed, but she’d do whatever it took to raise him right. It was a shame he had to see her with any of her customers.

Marianne picked up the whiskey bottle and dabbed some of it on her fingers. Waving this under Clem’s nose caused the miner to twitch. When he opened his lips, she poured a little of the potent liquor in. He choked, gasped, and his eyelids shot wide open.

It’s all right, Clem. He’s gone.

Did he—

No, he ran off ’fore he could get around to that.

You and him, you his woman like he said?

Never. The vehemence of her denial convinced Clem.

I’m feelin’ kinda woozy, Miz Marianne.

You go on, Clem, and get some rest. I’ll be here for you when you’re ready.

All I got’s a greenback dollar, he said, fumbling in his shirt pocket. She pressed her slender fingers against his.

Nothing happened. You keep it. Or go buy yourself a half bottle of rotgut with it.

I took up your time, Miz Marianne. Don’t seem fair not to pay you somethin’.

What’s not fair is Lester Carstairs, she said, guiding the miner to the door. She closed it behind him, seeing that it had to be repaired. Carstairs had kicked it in and broken off the latch.

Marianne found herself so angry she paced, then wanted to scream. Carstairs had taken it into his head that he could have her anytime he wanted because she sold herself. Not many of the girls in the cribs in Silver City wanted anything to do with Les Carstairs. He had a reputation of beating up whoever he was with, and rumors had it more than one girl had disappeared, probably murdered at his hand and buried up in the mountains, never to be found.

How am I going to fix that door? She stopped and stared at the broken wood, then decided she might as well clean up now and worry on it in the morning.

She had a powerful lot to worry on. The mortgage payment on the house was due in another week, and she was still four dollars shy. What she would have gotten from Clem would have helped, but she was afraid she’d have to ask the banker for more time. He wasn’t likely to give it since houses, like any building in Silver City, were in short supply. He could foreclose and sell it for ten times what Marianne had paid for it only a year earlier. There hadn’t been the silver find then and not more than a hundred people had made Silver City their home.

Now that many came in a week, seeking their fortunes.

She dropped the shotgun onto what remained of the fainting couch, then went to the small kitchen to fetch a broom and dust pan. Cleaning up the debris was about all she was capable of doing at the moment. As she rummaged in the small closet to get the broom out, she heard a muffled voice coming from the front of the house.

Randolph, get on in here. We need to talk.

She returned to the front room, intending to have him help her clean up. But her son wasn’t anywhere to be seen. Marianne started to tug open the front door when the window to her right broke. Her mouth dropped open as she saw the whiskey bottle with the flaming rag stuck into the neck.

Then the bomb exploded, sending broken glass and fire straight at her.

2

John Slocum cursed as the heavily loaded wagon hit a rock and sent him flying up off the hard wooden bench. He landed askew on the edge and almost tumbled to the ground. Only by dint of will did he stay in the driver’s box. The leather reins turned slippery in his grip, but he drove his boot heels into the wagon’s side and recovered.

The mules brayed in protest at the steep climb. He had been whipping them along for the past four days to keep his cargo intact. A quick glance over his shoulder made him curse anew. Sawdust had leaked out from under the canvas covering large blocks of ice enclosed in wood crates. Moving the ice from Santa Fe, New Mexico, down to Tombstone in Arizona Territory was one of the most lucrative cargoes possible. The miners paid top dollar for a sliver of ice in their drinks. All he had to do was get the heavy load there before it melted.

Shaddup, he bellowed to the mules. They ignored him, continuing their noisy protests at such abuse. With a quick spin, he secured the reins around the wheel brake and vaulted to the ground.

Legs a bit shaky from driving so long, he braced himself against the side of the wagon as he went to the rear. As he had feared, one crate had cracked open from too much jostling along the rough road. He was a hundred miles outside of Tombstone, still on the New Mexico side of the Continental Divide. All he had to do was reach the southern pass.

Pulling back the heavy canvas protecting the crate from the sun, Slocum tugged at the loose board. A new river of soggy sawdust dribbled out.

Replacing the sawdust as insulation wasn’t going to happen, but he might stuff in dirt or leaves to replace what had leaked out. Looking around, he decided pine needles were his best chance of keeping the ice from melting and ruining this freight run.

He grabbed a hammer and whacked at the loose nails, securing the crate. The holes in the top of the crate would let him stuff in pine needles or whatever else he could find. He wasn’t exactly sure where he was but close to Steeple Rock assured him there wouldn’t be much more of this mountain road to traverse. From Steeple Rock he would turn west through the broad pass and into the Sonoran Desert until he reached Tombstone.

As he gathered brittle pine needles by the handful, he hesitated. Slocum put his hand down flat against the rocky ground and felt vibration. The pine needles fluttered down as he slid his Colt Navy from his cross-draw holster and stood. A rider came mighty fast on his back trail. With the grade this steep, there was no cause to kill a horse by galloping unless circumstances warranted it.

Dire circumstances.

The rider came around a bend in the road and slowed when he spotted Slocum holding his six-shooter. Then he drew rein, stood in the stirrups, and waved.

You John Slocum? Holst sent me.

Slocum lowered his six-shooter to his side and motioned with his left hand for the rider to approach. It didn’t make a lick of sense that his boss would send a rider out since there was nothing Holst needed to tell him. He didn’t give two hoots and a holler if Slocum died on the trail as long as he delivered every cold cubic inch of ice to Arizona. Loss of profit, loss of the wagon and team—those mattered to Holst, and he had no reason to think anything jeopardized them. Slocum had driven this route three times in the past two months without any trouble.

The rider came closer, keeping his hands in sight.

Glad I caught up with you. Holst sent me to give you a hand. Looks like you’re needin’ it. Break down?

Crate broke open, Slocum said, not giving anything away. With the canvas pulled back and sawdust all over the wagon bed, any fool could see what had happened.

Damn. You expose the ice?

Holst is a cheap bastard. He told me over and over how this route didn’t need but one driver. What does he expect you to do?

Prices are way up over in Arizona. He reckons to sell this load for ten times what he has before. Been burnin’ up the telegraph lines to make it happen.

Slocum said nothing. He sized up the rider. Short, slender, red hair, and fair complexion. He wore his six-gun high on his right hip, where it would be hard to draw astride the horse and damned near impossible to draw with any speed even if he stood with both boots on the ground. This wasn’t a gunfighter. From his clothing, he might be a miner rather than a freighter.

You want me to help? The man rode closer, then dismounted when Slocum remained quiet. I’ve worked as a carpenter, and looks like you was stuffin’ leaves and shit into the box to keep the ice from meltin’ any more. It melted much? His bright blue eyes worked to see if the wagon bed was wet from vanishing ice.

Not much gone. The crate only busted open a mile or two back, at the foot of this hill.

Do you think pine needles will work better than leaves?

There’re more of ’em around here, Slocum said, glancing at the ponderosa all around. It was early enough in the spring that the oak, aspen, and other trees that shed their leaves every fall still clung to their new bright greenery. Winter snow had rotted last autumn’s crop of leaves, but the pine needles were eternal.

Good point, the man said, dropping to his knees and sweeping the needles up the way Slocum had before being interrupted.

You my assistant? You’re not my boss.

The redhead laughed easily and said, From what Holst says, you don’t even look at him as your boss and he pays you, tells you what to do. You’re free as the wind, that’s what Holst said ’fore he sent me along.

Slocum stepped away as the man jumped into the wagon, examined the crates for sturdiness, then began stuffing stacks of the dead brown pine needles into the holes. For all his industry, the man seemed distracted. Slocum knew it might be that he hadn’t holstered his six-shooter, but the man’s interest focused more on the ice. The notion that a single man would steal the cargo entered Slocum’s mind.

You got a name?

The redhead looked up, pushed his hat up to expose a pale forehead, then grinned. Slocum figured that smile melted the ladies’ hearts. It did not affect him.

Frank’s the name.

"You supposed to ride with me