Page 34 of Working the Lode

CHAPTER TWENTY

Joaquin

After hungrily bathing the sperm from the mountain man’s prick, Valenzuela fell back onto his ass and pondered. The two white men were shamefully silent, and no one looked anyone in the face. Valenzuela propped his wrists on his knees and looked at Bowmaker’s boots. He should get back to Sonoran Camp and find out what destruction his cohorts had wreaked for the evening.

His tongue darted out and licked the last smoky residue from his bottom lip. He dared to look up at Bowmaker’s sinewy back, the delectable curve of his hip where it sloped down to his stupendous ass. What was wrong, really, in what they had done? Pleasure was a means to its own end—in the past two years he had advocated that. Didn’t he pride himself on being wicked and depraved? If anyone discovered what he’d done, he would say it was a new form of depravity. Besides, who cared what those idiots thought? Lately it had been more fuss and bother than it was worth, keeping them in line. It seemed he’d been forbidding more and more of their fatheaded schemes. It was far more pleasant to kneel here licking the plump prick of a hale American, one with immaculate skin as white as calcite, no less. It was a delicious feeling of power, to make this impressive mountain man come with his mouth. And with the apparent blessing of his sweetheart.

But he should leave. He was about to get to his feet when other hands assisted by lifting his elbows. Bowmaker looked a bit sheepish and couldn’t hold his gaze, but Zelnora’s face shone with the effulgence of satisfaction, and she told him,

“Come into the cabin. We have some claret you might enjoy.”

Valenzuela merely nodded, and the three strode through the still, hot moonlight. Valenzuela had stayed in this cabin a couple of years ago, when câching after his first few murders. He had felt so righteous then, avenging the deaths of his brother and wife, but it was getting a bit tiresome. And the more Americans that came to California, the more futile his revenge seemed. Fewer folks remembered the wrong done to him, so it just made him seem like a heartless killer with no lofty goal. That had been fine for awhile too, but he was growing weary, sleeping in the open often snow-packed ground, eating the same dull venison for every meal, or tinned oysters that tasted like rancid boot soles. It was time for the gentle touch of a woman again.

He was pleased with how Zelnora had tidied up the cabin, a twenty foot square of redwood logs. She had hung the sides with calico printed with every variety of rose. The fireplace, Valenzuela recalled commanding someone to build from stones and mud, and Zelnora had fashioned a mantle nailed fast to the wall with strips from the ubiquitous oyster cans. Someone had even sawed a window and filled the opening with clear glass jars half-filled with clay. A handsome carpet was tossed before the hearth, and since there were only two rough rocking chairs, Valenzuela perched on a stool while Zelnora handed him a cup of claret.

She sat on the edge of the rocking chair, cup between her fingertips. “This new claim…Will we be able to easily return back to this cabin at night? I’m growing sore from sleeping on pine branches, although Cormack of course spreads a nice bed.”

Bowmaker sat down on another stool and gazed evenly at Valenzuela. “Yes…it’s a mighty shame for such a hard-working woman to have to toil all night on a bed of rocks, after working in the same all day long.”

“Yes,” Valenzuela agreed. “The spot I’m thinking is well within five miles from here. I can send some men around this cabin to build you a porch, add a cooking area, a pantry. I just saw a very fine stove you can have.” Yes, Thaddeus Martin from down near Tuttletown had a fine stove—before they’d looted his cabin. Valenzuela wondered if the stove was still there. It was awful heavy, and bandits didn’t have much call for stoves.

“Oh, that’s all right,” Zelnora said dismissively. “We don’t plan on staying here for long. If the mines are as rich as you say, we should be able to leave by first snowfall.”

Valenzuela felt a momentary stab of panic at the thought his newfound friends would leave after they made their fortune. Well, of course. That was the nature of the frontier. But now he’d found such a virile strapping companion and a ravishing woman who knew as much about mining as he did…He had to discover if he could induce them to stay. “Where will you go?”

Zelnora looked to Bowmaker, and he indicated it was all right for her to tell him. “Cormack bought a lot in San Francisco near the bay.”

“Course, I’m not much for the settlements,” the man added. “But I should build Zel a nice house.” He observed Zelnora with obvious love. “Maybe a weekend house. I was thinking of finding some grape vineyards up north, near General Vallejo’s place. Seems to me one could make a good living making wine. The wine the missions have made in California is just well nigh to puke water.”

While Zelnora looked surprised at the vineyard idea, Valenzuela thought it a fine one. He pointed at Bowmaker with his claret cup. “You’re right. I’ve often thought about that myself. There are a few old-fashioned vineyards with wooden troughs making tolerable brandy, but the wine is undrinkable.”

Bowmaker was warming to the conversation. “Yes, Dr. Marsh near Mt. Diablo has made several casks of wine which are now fermenting. The fruit’s rind is very thin and dissolves in your mouth immediately. He gave me some aguardiente—if aged longer, it could equal the brandies of France.”

“I’m familiar with Dr. Marsh,” Valenzuela allowed. His band had rustled several hundred cattle from Marsh’s land. Bowmaker smiled forgivingly, perhaps aware of this. “If you’d like, I can send a few men to Vallejo’s to see what’s available, what he’d be willing to sell off, if it will be healthy for grapevines.”

Clutching the claret bottle, Zelnora scooted on the floor between Valenzuela’s outspread thighs. “Have some more wine.”

Bowmaker averted his eyes and spoke briskly. “That would be fine. Just don’t let them rob anyone, all right?”

Valenzuela nodded. Zelnora placed the bottle on the hearth and didn’t return to her chair, merely draped her arms over his thighs and looked up almost adoringly at him, placing her palm lightly over his crotch. The warmth of her hand caused his cock to enlarge, and now he, too, couldn’t look the mountain man in the eyes. He gulped some claret and added, “I’m looking for new boulevards of business to get involved in. Highway robbery is becoming too hazardous with the new anti-foreigner laws and militia mobs.” His cock was now too ample to ignore, and Valenzuela did nothing to close his thighs or shove Zelnora away. “An early death might be acceptable to my men, but I’ve decided it’s not for me. I need to stay around for my daughter.”

As Zelnora closed her hand over his pulsating prick, Bowmaker said in the direction of the fireplace, “That’s certainly something to consider. Send your men to Vallejo’s—let’s see what they report back.”

“My fiancé is quite attracted to you,” Zelnora murmured.

“Zelnora!” Bowmaker snapped, not unkindly.

Zelnora didn’t cease. Circling the head of Valenzuela’s prick with her thumb, she said salaciously, “He doesn’t like to admit it. But I saw how aroused he became when you were slapping his big…stiff…penis.”

Valenzuela was dumbfounded, and couldn’t bring himself to reply. American women were so forward! A Spanish woman would never dream of imagining such a thing, much less giving voice to it.

The lewd woman continued, “And spanking his juicy ass. Would you like to do that again? Or perhaps he’d like his revenge, and would like to spank you. I’d like that very much.”

Bowmaker cried, “Mr. Valenzuela doesn’t want to hear such talk!” For the first time, he looked at the couple crouched at the stool, Valenzuela leaning back on his palms and thrusting his crotch at the mountaineer’s sweetheart. Falling to his knees, Bowmaker grabbed Zelnora by the shoulder and yanked her away, much to Valenzuela’s chagrin. Yet his next motion excited the bandit even more, for he took Zelnora’s place and kneeled between Joaquin’s thighs, one hand above either knee. “Do you want to hear that? Such talk is only suitable for highwaymen, the sort of man you don’t want to be anymore.”

Ah, what exquisite, dazzling, aquamarine eyes. His athletic shoulder muscles undulated as he squeezed Valenzuela’s thighs, and his erect nipples demanded to be sucked. Valenzuela made a slight shrug of his shoulders. “It doesn’t trouble me,” he allowed.

Bowmaker came closer on his knees, so that the enormous erection inside his buckskins was poised directly over Valenzuela’s. His voice and eyes softened when he said, “It makes you no difference to be pawed by a man?” And placed one hot palm on Valenzuela’s stomach, his thumb inching up the white cotton shirt.