Page 6 of Working the Lode

Voices made him pause and remove the hat from his face. Three of his fellow mill workers squatted on a rocky ledge above him with hands dangling between their knees, just watching him and muttering, expressionless. Bowmaker replaced the hat and returned to massaging his own balls. Ah, well. Folks were half-froze for entertainment around there, men frigged themselves constantly, and Bowmaker could do worse than send them into a jealous frenzy at the sight of his meaty tool. Maybe they would no longer make him light all the damned gunpowder charges while they cowered behind rocks. If this is how they wanted to gratify their dry, it was fine with him.

As he stroked himself faster, the idea the men were watching excited Bowmaker. Their own pricks must be stiffer than plates by now. He felt like a muscular buck displaying his immense cock to the men’s view. And what a view they must be having! He let his mouth go slack and he rocked his hips as he pumped into his own fist. Were his fellow workers getting so randy they were clutching their own cocks? Bowmaker’s free hand moved to massage his pubic bone as he humped the air with abandon in the direction of the men. He felt wild and lewd, proud to exhibit his virility, and thus his superiority. The men above fell silent and he was on the verge of shooting his seed into his face when a shower of little rocks came from directly above his head, some landing on his buffalo robe and annoying him no end.

Without releasing his cock, he removed his hat once more and squinted up the riverbed.

“Bowmaker!” Erskine bellowed, clad in a long capote as though he expected more rain. “I’ve got a heap of fat meat ready! This beaver feels like chawing!”

Sighing with regret, Bowmaker let go of his cock and dressed in his buckskins, recently laundered by Gennie Wimmer. Hurrah for Gennie Wimmer, even if she was the evilest most putrefied no-account woman who had ever lived.

He joined Erskine in front of the log shanty they had built, rather than share the quarters built for the other workers, where the foulest smells and sounds were the order of the day. Erskine was well enough with the flint and steel and was the gourmet of the mountains, so Bowmaker left most cooking up to him. They sat upon their square flat rocks with rifles across their laps, and heartily fell to a pan of deer meat.

After their usual silence of about ten minutes, Erskine licked his fingers, wiped his knife on the grass, and said, “So I’ve been wondering, old hoss. Exactly what you were doing with Miss Sparks in that shed.”

Bowmaker, not done with his last bite of fat meat, stopped chewing and looked up quizzically at his compañero.

Rolling his eyes, Erskine pressed on. “You know what I mean. Down at the Fort. You and Brannagh’s ‘helpmate’ were hard at it. I know the smell, and I know the flushed look that comes from being hard at it.”

Finally swallowing, Bowmaker grinned widely down at his knife. “’Flushed look’? I have that look all the time. It’s my Scottish ancestors.”

Erskine looked to the sky for assistance. “Damn you and your Scottish—listen here, Cormack, I don’t want any problems with Brannagh. He’s got the only damned worthwhile store within a thousand miles of here. Where else will we get coffee, pickles, sugar, tongues…bottles of porter?”

Bowmaker also wiped his knife on the grass and returned it to its sheath. He looked Erskine in the eye. “All right. Yes. We were hard at it. I happen to think she’s some pumpkins and…” He shrugged. “You know I’ve often said I want a woman to share a lodge with. I’m dog-gone if I ain’t.”

Erskine nodded knowingly. “There’s the gal, and there’s the mountains.”

“Right. Who’s there to remember my old body otherwise?”

Erskine frowned. “Yes, but she belongs to Brannagh, you out-and-out dough-head! Do you think he’s going to take kindly to you taking what belongs to him?”

“You yourself were keeping your eyes skinned for that red-head. I’m sure she also belongs to him.”

Erskine seemed to capitulate then, looking with disgust into the pines. “Yes, well…Just promise me you don’t intend on seeing her again. Captain Sutter could get angry too, think about that. Then all stores are completely cut off to us. We could even be discharged from this mill.”

Thinking of Miss Sparks’ husband, the one who was supposed to come with a message, actually gave Bowmaker pause. It did appear there were now two spouses he would have to rub out to win her hand. Still, he found his mouth saying, “I can’t promise that, compañero. Miss Sparks is the pinnacle of feminine superiority. The whip-poor-will has sung it. Speaking of stores…” Half-rising from his rock, Bowmaker viewed an extremely slow cart wobbling up to the mill, a cart pulled by a thick-set stumpy mule. The arrival of a cart from the Fort was always cause for a calamitous throwing down of tools, drink, and even food, and Bowmaker and Erskine jogged off down the hill.

But as the only thing the cart contained was another human, most of the other mill workers soon lost interest. The chap was extremely queersome, to say the least. Although not any older than Bowmaker himself, he had lost almost all of his hair, so that his head resembled a granite dome, and his thick-lensed spectacles were strapped onto his head with a leather thong. As he struggled to get out of the cart—quite giddily—he seemed extremely pleased to be arriving in such a conveyance—Bowmaker could see that in form he looked like a perfect pear. He wore a coarse checked shirt, and a pair of homespun pantaloons were tucked into boots that reached his knees. Bowmaker assisted by taking his arm, as the fellow giggled in a high pitched manner unsuited for a man. Bowmaker looked quizzically at Erskine, who shrugged.

“Oh, why, thank you so much!” trilled the fellow. “I’ve come so far today. It’s been such a long journey.” Both feet having touched earth, he looked about himself with excitement. “Is this the mill?”

Bowmaker admitted, “Yep. And who might you be?”

Putting a haughty hand to his chest, the chap stuck his nose in the air and declared, “I am Quartus Stringfellow, husband of Zelnora Sparks, here to see the esteemed Mr. Cormack Bowmaker, mountain man extraordinaire.” Losing the airs, Quartus giggled and slapped Bowmaker on the shoulder. “I’m here with a message from a girl. Zelnora.”

Bowmaker’s heart nearly stopped. This was Miss Sparks’ husband? And he was willingly coming to give Bowmaker a message about an assignation with his wife? Or perhaps the message was something else, something more along the lines of “I am here to lift your hair for touching my wife.” Somehow, Bowmaker didn’t get that impression from this dainty fellow.

“I’m Bowmaker, and this is my partner, Erskine. Why don’t you come up to our camp and set awhile?”

“Why, certainly! Just let me get my cartography tools from the cart here…I thought while I was up here, why not do some surveying? I’ll bet there has never been a map made of this area.”

“But there have been. Many maps,” Erskine mentioned.

They started up the hill.

“Oh, this is such an adventure! To go where no white man has trod before! So you are Mr. Bowmaker, my, my. Do you really make bows? I made my own drum once.” Quartus looked him up and down, assessing. “Yes…I can see why she was so taken by you. You look like you have muscles on top of muscles.” He looked about with gleaming eyes. “Thus my errand to this hearty place in the out-of-doors! And this is such a manly pursuit! The fresh air, the sawmill, the sky, the, ah, the rocks…”

Behind Quartus’ back, Erskine whispered loudly, “Her husband?”

Bowmaker curtly nodded. “I’ll explain later. Maybe.”