Longarm and the War Clouds Read Free Page B

Cynthia took a couple of puffs and coughed, exhaling. They talked drowsily, and when he’d finished his drink and his cigar and was about to nod off, she crawled on top of him, kissed his cock alive once more.
    He groaned his objection, but then she fucked him slowly, delicious with her large, firm breasts, raking her jutting nipples against his balls. What little seed he had left jetted across her tits and dribbled down her cleavage. She rolled onto her back and massaged it into her belly.
    Later, Cynthia gave them each a cool, leisurely sponge bath, and then she dressed quietly, kissed him good-bye, turned out the lamp, and left.
    Lying belly up and naked on the bed, Longarm was only dimly aware of the clomps of Olafsson’s Percheron receding into the distance before he drifted into a deep, pleasantly exhausted sleep.
    He had no idea how much time had passed before something grabbed his toe. Still asleep, he tried to pull his foot away, but whoever had ahold of his toe would not release it. He must have been dreaming.
    He opened his eyes and lifted his head.
    He gasped when he saw the two Indians standing at the foot of his bed.

Chapter 3
    Still ensconced in the warm, clinging wool of his slumber, a warning voice in Longarm’s ear shouted,
“Attack!”
    Semi-consciously, he was somewhere down in the Arizona or New Mexico desert and his current mission had run him up against a band of savage Apaches. He flung his right hand toward where he’d coiled his shell belt and holstered Colt Frontier .44, well within easy reach, but neither the gun nor the holster was there.
    His hand slapped down on rumpled, slightly damp cotton sheets.
    And then the wool of sleep lifted enough that he remembered where he was.
    Heart still thudding, he turned to stare down over the long length of his muscular, naked body toward the two Indians still standing there—a man and a young woman. The man was slender, with a rough-hewn, craggy, brick-red face and hawk nose framed by long, black hair liberally stitched with gray. He wore a black, bullet-crowned hat and suspenders over a red calico shirt.
    The girl couldn’t have been much over twenty, and ravishing—an Apache version of Cynthia Larimer. She wore a shirt much like the man’s under a doeskin dress. She wore her long, raven-black hair in braids bound with hawk feathers and rawhide. Her hair glistened with what Longarm, who’d frequented Apache country often, knew to be bear grease.
    The man was grinning down at Longarm delightedly, brown eyes reflecting the dawn light pushing through a near window.
    â€œWait,” Longarm grunted, fisting sleep from his eyes and rising to his elbows.
“War Cloud?”
    The Indian chuckled, showing large, off-white teeth between his thick, brown lips. Longarm looked at the Indian girl standing beside his old Indian friend, and he pulled a twisted sheet corner over his exposed crotch.
    â€œWhat in
hell
?”
    War Cloud chuckled. “Get your duds on, Custis—we got a trail to dust!”
    â€œHuh?” Again, Longarm looked at the girl with sexily somber, near-black eyes standing to War Cloud’s right.
    War Cloud wrapped a proud arm around her shoulders. “Longarm, meet my daughter, Magpie. Magpie, meet my good friend Custis P. Long, the famous deputy United States marshal known as Longarm.”
    â€œPleased to meet you,” Longarm said skeptically.
    The girl just stared at him.
    Longarm said, “How in the hell . . . ?” He looked at the door flanking the Coyotero Apache father and daughter. They must have come in when Cynthia left, leaving the door unlocked. “How long you been here?”
    â€œSince early last evening. We let ourselves in.”
    â€œHow?”
    War Cloud grinned again proudly, squeezing the girl whose head came up to his shoulder. “Magpie’s a sorceress. Some even call her a witch!” He whispered that last.
    Longarm’s