Comanche Heart Read Free Page B

vivid, that he could almost smell fresh meat over open fires.
    In the distance a church bell chimed, telling him what day it was and that a town rested over the rise. His mouth quirked, and he sniffed the air again. Judging from the scent, someone had a side of beef skewered over an open pit. He ran his hand along his whiskery jaw. Right now he could do with a bath and a jug of good whiskey.
    Chink Gabriel, who rode beside Swift, reined his roan to a walk. “Be damned if that ain’t a church bell. There’s a town over yonder. Been so long since I sniffed a skirt, I’m as randy as a buck in rut.”
    Slightly behind them, Jos’ Rodriguez spat tobacco and said, “The last time I had me a gal, I was so damned drunk, the next mornin’ I couldn’t even remember givin’ her a poke. I left town feelin’ as randy as when I got there.”
    Bull Jesperson, whose name suited his massive frame, gave a disgusted snort. “One of these days, y’re gonna pay dearly for drinkin’ that heavy.”
    “Oh, yeah? How you figger?” Rodriguez challenged.
    “Y’re gonna tie up with somethin’ diseased, that’s how. You’ll wake up some mornin’ and yer pistol will be rottin’ off.”
    “What’d’ya expect for two dollars?” another man grumbled. “Them last whores we run across was the durtiest bunch of females I ever saw.”
    Rodriguez chuckled. “The only clean spot on the one I had was her left tit, and that was because Bull went upstairs with her before me.”
    “Hey, Bull!” someone yelled. “Yer pistol been lookin’ peculiar lately? Jos”s is rottin’ clean off!”
    Laughter erupted, and the men began exchanging their favorite stories about whores. Swift listened with half an ear. He had paid a woman for her favors only once, not because she demanded money, but because her dress had been threadbare. Among the Comanches, a woman never had to sell her body to survive. To Swift’s way of thinking, men who patronized sporting houses were encouraging a savagery far more heartless than any the Comanches had ever committed.
    Charlie Stone, a stout redhead with a grizzled beard, pulled his gray to a stop. “My neck’s swole, too. How’s about you, Lopez?”
    Acutely aware that the question carried a challenge and that his response was unlikely to sway the vote of twenty men, Swift removed his timepiece from his pocket and checked the hour. “It’s early yet.”
    “Yep, all the little pleasure doves might still be abed,” someone inserted.
    “Mebbe business was slow last night,” Chink countered. “If not, an extra ten dollars will wake ’em up right fast.”
    Swift didn’t cotton to entering towns in broad daylight. He was especially leery today because Chink and the others were itching for trouble. Reining his horse around, he looked across the rolling open range. On the horizon he could see a ranch house. Returning his watch to his pocket, he withdrew a five-dollar gold piece and flipped it through the air to Chink. “I reckon I’ll just take a snooze. Bring me back a bottle.”
    “Ya can’t poke no goddamn bottle,” Charlie retorted. “Y’re not normal, Lopez. You figger y’re too good for whores, or what?” When Swift made no reply, Charlie curled his lip. “Where we go, you go. That’s the rule. Ain’t that right, Chink?”
    Swift swung off his black, his spurs ringing as the rowels caught in the grass.
    “Y’re jist runnin’ short on guts, that’s what,” Charlie jabbed. “Afraid some green kid might recognize that purty face of yers and take it into his head to draw down on ya. That’s it, ain’t it, Lopez? Y’re gettin’ squeamish.”
    Keeping his face devoid of expression, Swift met Charlie Stone’s gaze, all the while loosening his saddle cinch. After a few tension-packed moments, Charlie’s larynx bobbed in a nervous swallow. He glanced away. Swift pulled the saddle off his horse and, skirting the other riders, carried it to a patch of sparse shade under a bush.
    Chink sighed