Longarm and the Wolf Women Read Free

their heads to forage the needle grass.
    A chill ran up the young lawman’s spine. “The old bastard could have a bead on us right now.”
    â€œThat old killer ain’t necessarily nowhere near here,” said Miller in a faraway voice as he stared at the two girls frolicking atop the waterfall. “We can’t be sure these two are his daughters. They could be Mel Ramie’s girls. He’s got him one towhead and one half-breed, too. We’re too far away. I can’t see ’em clear enough to be sure.”
    Parsons turned to the tall liveryman and was instantly distracted by the black-haired girl suddenly throwing the blonde onto her back. The blonde screamed. Laughing, the black-haired girl crawled on top of her and, placing both hands on the blonde’s round breasts, began running her tongue down the blonde’s belly toward her crotch.
    The blonde shook her head from side to side and raised her knees. Her groans rose above the river’s gurgle.
    Parsons felt his face and loins warm. He didn’t like what these girls were doing to him, how they’d captured not only his attention but his imagination, made him not want to think of anything else. As the dark-haired girl dropped her head down even lower on the blonde’s belly, Parson raked his eyes toward Miller.
    â€œHow many prospectors’ daughters cavort like that around here ?” he scoffed, his voice thick in his throat. He jerked his head around, wary of an ambush. “You men stay here and keep an eye out for the old mountain man. I’m gonna head upstream, cross the river, and investigate the other shore.”
    When none of them said anything, Parsons turned to them. “Look alive, goddamnit!”
    â€œYou got it, Marshal,” said Baron, not turning his head from the river.
    â€œWhatever you do,” Parsons said, “don’t leave these trees. And for chrissakes, don’t go into the river!”
    Miller turned to him, beetling his gray brows. “We’re not tinhorns, marshal. We’ll keep a sharp eye out for Magnusson. We’ll be coverin’ ya. Don’t you worry.”
    Parsons looked at the three men crouched in the brush, all three staring, mesmerized, toward the river. The young lawman shook his head and cursed as he turned and began walking upstream. When he was fifty yards beyond the waterfall, he looked around. Judging that he was alone at this section of the river, he stepped out from the bank and hop-scotched rocks to the other side, once slipping and filling his right boot with water.
    On the opposite bank, he took a slow look around, then sat down, set his rifle beside him, pulled off his boot, and poured out the water. When he’d tugged the boot back on, he rose, grabbed his rifle, and followed the girls’ caroming laughter downstream while inspecting every boulder and brush snag for their kill-happy father, Magnus Magnusson.
    Thirty yards from where the girls were entangled atop the waterfall—engaged in some sort of wrestling hold, it appeared, one yowling with mock pain—Parsons stopped. From a rocky hollow to his left, where the ground rose gently toward the southern canyon wall, smoke curled skyward.
    Parsons adjusted his grip on his Winchester and headed toward the concealed fire, setting each boot down carefully, wincing as the soaked one chirped softly, like a baby bird. He looked back toward the river.
    The girls were both sitting up Indian style, facing each other and playing patty-cake, breasts jiggling each time they slapped their hands together. Parsons looked beyond them, at the other side of the stream. No sign of the three townsmen crouched in the weeds.
    The young lawman was half-surprised they hadn’t descended on the two girls by now, throwing themselves on the pair like wild pack dogs on a crippled fawn.
    He stopped four feet from the snag and leaned left, casting his gaze into the hollow. He could see only the tops