Free Working the Lode by Karen Mercury Page A

pass anyone on the trail?”
    Her eyes widened as she slung her possible bag over her shoulder. “No, no one at all. That I could detect.”
    “Someone’s grilling beef,” he muttered, and went to help poor Quartus, who attempted as usual to slither off his horse like a jar of jellied prunes. He untied the packhorse from the tail of Zelnora’s mount and took the reins. They placed Quartus between them as they stepped down the embankment.
    “Where is…my drum…” Quartus mumbled.
    “Why is he talking about a drum?” Cormack asked Zelnora in a hushed voice.
    “Oh. I bought him a drum. Quartus, dear, I’ll give it to you when we reach camp. He used to love drumming,” she explained conversationally. “On the ship that brought us over here, he drummed constantly. Then the marines in San Francisco took his drum away. They claimed they needed it to help with their drilling, but I do suspect it was just driving everyone loco.”
    Cormack grinned as they dragged Quartus through the waist-high creek. Quartus was not a bad sort, really—he was certainly harmless, and he was strong enough to help them shovel gravel from the river, though he could not throw anything plumb center and he flung about rocks right smart. Because Quartus’ legs refused to work and they each had a horse to lead, Quartus nearly wound up burbling creek water through his livery lips. The iciness seemed to wake him up, though, and by the time they reached the campfire, he was cheerfully greeting the men he recognized from the mill with an effervescent “Howdy, brother!” Cormack picketed the two horses round the fire while Quartus took possession of his drum and fell to with a vengeance, madly drumming out his unexpended passion on the deerskin.
    “There’s white man sign by the road from the fort,” Cormack told Erskine. “I scented beef grilling. Let’s leave a sentry to guard the horses tonight. I elect Sly.” He gestured at the only man not drinking whiskey.
    Erskine frowned. “There’s sign about? You know the sign of Injuns slick, but Digger Indians would never be chawing beef. How could they afford it?”
    Cormack looked off distantly, as though he could see the opposite hillside. “It’s not Diggers I’m thinking of.” He paused, trying to gain more white man sign, but then Zelnora was at his side, leaning into him. Putting a protective arm around her, he kissed her on the forehead, lingering for a long moment as the men about them babbled to be heard over the din of Quartus’ drumming.
    “Let’s go to my tent,” he murmured in her ear, and by answer, she nuzzled his neck and bit him alongside his jugular vein, sending shivers down his spine that stiffened his cock.
    “Well, that isn’t helping guard the horses!” Erskine called when they struck toward the canvas tent. Cormack spun around to see Erskine pointing at the flailing arms of Quartus, drumming so furiously he was a blur in the flickering campfire flames.
    “Give him some bug juice!” Zelnora called.
    Inside the tent, Cormack had fashioned a bed of soft pine branches covered with his buffalo robe. Today he had cut drains around the tent to prevent the wet reaching them, and over a large flat stone placed a Navajo blanket impervious to all rain. He divested himself of his pouch, powder horn, and boots, which he put near the bed with his rifle. He lit a tallow candle.
    She kneeled on the buffalo robe, removing the shawl that had protected her from the chill that came suddenly when the sun set in those parts. How she loved to grip his shirtfront in her little fists! “Cormack,” she purred, her features also going all feline as she scrunched her shoulders and became a ladylike ball of sensual awareness, emanating attar of roses. She sucked his lower lip, bringing his prick to immediate attention against her lap as they kneeled together. “I want to pleasure you. You’re always pleasing me, I don’t know why. Those men cannot hear us with that racket going