Chapter 22
Ah, those tits. Magnificent. Huge and soft and pale. Blue-veined and pink-tipped. And warm. Oh, yes, they were warm.
She bent low over him. Smiled. Used her hands to press her tits tight on either side of his stiff cock. Smiled even more as he began slowly stroking up and down, his erection sliding between the sweat-slick mounds. That was good, but it got even better when she dipped her head and opened her mouth so that at the end of each stroke he penetrated, just barely, between her moist and waiting lips.
She was something, this redhead. Her hair spilled in bright copper coils that framed perfect features.
He knew her from … he couldn’t remember. Her name was … dammit, he couldn’t bring that to mind either.
But she was beautiful. Big and buxom and as randy as a goat.
And those tits. Fantastic.
The redhead nibbled gently at the tip of his cock, then lifted her chin and smiled at him. She gave him a wink and opened her mouth to speak.
“Marshal. Marshal, sir? D’you want hot water to shave with this morning, sir?”
Longarm frowned. He opened his eyes and sent one peeved glare in the direction of the hotel room door, outside of which the young Jennison was hawking water, then another angry glance toward the front wall, where frost coated the wallpaper a dull and ugly white.
The room was frigid, dammit. His ears and the tip of his nose burned with cold despite the heavy blankets that were drawn high beneath his chin, and when he exhaled, his breath was clearly visible in the air. And that was indoors, dammit. He could just imagine what it must be like outside right now.
“Marshal, sir?”
Longarm sighed. “I hear you, son. Yeah, I’ll have some of that water. Just a minute.”
Longarm steeled himself against the chill that would envelop him as soon as he pushed the covers back—he’d been a helluva lot more comfortable while dreaming about that redhead—and forced himself to do what had to be done.
One nice thing, though. The hard-on that his dream created was no match for the shock of sudden cold that greeted him once he was out from under the blankets. By the time he got to the door to let the kid bring his shaving water in, the flagpole had subsided and Longarm no longer had to worry about embarrassing himself in that manner.
Longarm yawned and stood back while Jim Jennison Junior poured him a generous measure of steaming water. Then Longarm yawned again and reached first for the loose change he’d tossed onto the bedside table, and next for his strop and razor.
“Good morning, sir,” the boy said, accepting the nickel tip Longarm handed him.
“It’s mornin’ anyway,” Longarm reluctantly agreed. He wasn’t so damn sure about it being any sort of good.”
The boy grinned. “Hotcakes and ham for breakfast today, Marshal.”
“I can’t hardly wait,” Longarm groaned. He dipped his shaving brush into the hot water and began working up a soapy lather in his mug.
“Can I ask you something, Marshal?”
“Go ahead, son.” Longarm splashed some water onto his cheeks, enjoying the heat it imparted, and commenced lathering up.
“It’s about, you know, that poor woman Old Man Travis killed?”
“First off, Jim, that wasn’t just a whore that died, it was a girl. She had a family somewhere. Secondly, Mr. Travis wasn’t the one that killed her. He was already gone from home when she was taken there and murdered. So … what’s your question now?”
“I was just … I mean … she really was one of them … you know.”
“Whore? Yes, son, she was that.”
“She didn’t look … I mean, I seen her around town a couple times. On the days those women are allowed to shop. You know?”
Longarm nodded. He leaned close to the mirror hung on a carpet tack above the washstand, used his thumb to wipe away some excess lather, and lightly drew the edge of the razor over his flesh. He managed to bring away a swath of lather dotted with flecks of beard stubble. And no blood was left behind. So far so good.
“She was pretty,” Jim said.
“That she was, son.”
“And not so awful old.”
“Not much older than you,” Longarm agreed.
“Well, what I was wondering … was who killed her.”
Longarm paused in the middle of shaving the shelf beneath his jaw. He looked closely at the boy, then smiled. “Tell you what, Jim. I’ll answer both your questions.
“Sir?”
“The one you said out loud and the one you really wanted to ask but couldn’t quite.”
“I don’t know what you, uh …
“It’s all right. I won’t mention this conversation to your folks. Now, as for the question you asked me a minute ago, I don’t know yet who killed that girl. I’m sure Mr. Travis did not. As for who did”—he shrugged—“I’ll find that out sooner or later. Count on it.” Longarm carefully slid the razor up his throat, again without cutting himself, and wiped the blade. He grinned down at the youngster. “As for what you’re scared to come right out and ask, that pretty girl prob’ly cost a dollar and a half, maybe two dollars. But son, don’t be in too all-fired a hurry to grow up. You hear me? Growing up ain’t always as grand as it might seem. Give yourself time and let things come natural.”
The kid blushed a furious shade of red and backed away a couple steps. “I didn’t mean …”
“Of course you didn’t. And you’d best go on now before the rest of that water gets cold. I’m sure there’s other gentlemen needing their water hot on a morning like this one.”
“Yes, sir. Good-bye, sir.”
Longarm chuckled a little as he turned back to the mirror and leaned close to concentrate on his shaving.
Chapter 23
“I’d give a dollar for an egg.”
“Dollar, hell, I’d give ten.”
“Ten?”
“All right, so maybe that’s stretching the truth. But I’d beat your dollar if the bidding got started.”
Longarm felt pretty much the same as his dining companions, one of them an engineer from the Comstock on his way home to visit relatives and the other a dry goods salesman from Ohio. The difference was that Longarm didn’t have money to squander on luxuries like eggs.
And wasn’t it saying something odd when you got to thinking about an ordinary egg as a luxury item. Still, the kitchen help at the Jennison Arms swore there wasn’t an egg in Kittstown. The storm kept any freight from moving in or out of town, and apparently the few backyard hens in town had stopped laying in the continuing cold and wind.
There was no telling how long the other foodstuffs would hold out. All the fresh meat that the hotel had had on hand at the beginning of the storm was used up and gone now. Breakfast had consisted of hotcakes and fried ham. Longarm hoped for a break in the weather so there would not be the danger of hoarding and food piracy.
Yet at the same time he had to acknowledge that the storm in a way was doing him a favor. It made damn sure the heavy-fisted killer was still in town.
Longarm wadded his napkin into a ball and dropped it beside his plate, adding a nickel tip even though the meal was paid for as part of his lodging.
“In a hurry, Marshal?” the engineer said. “Surely you don’t think we’re going anywhere today.”
“No, I reckon we’re here for a spell yet, but I have work to do. Thanks for sharing your table, gents.” He stood and took down his coat and fur hat from the rack, bundling up in preparation for the assault of the wind outside.
His first stop was at the railroad depot. The telegraph office was closed. There was no sign of the operator. A small sign propped against the inside of the glass on the door said the telegrapher would be back in fifteen minutes. Longarm rather doubted that considering that when he peered inside he could see the door to the stove standing open ready for a fresh fire to be laid. The telegrapher hadn’t come to work yet this morning. And might not be inclined to make it in at all on a day like this one.