Longarm and the Horsewomen of the Apocalypse by Tabor Evans

Author:Tabor Evans
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group
Published: 2011-07-04T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 11

Out the corner of his left eye, Longarm saw movement. He turned from the woman who had the gun rammed against his gut, to see three more just as vixenishly beautiful standing about ten feet beyond the fire. Four horses stood ground-reined behind them.

The women—two blondes and a Mexican—all stood facing him with their thumbs hooked behind their cartridge belts. One of the blondes—the blonder of the blondes—had a pair of doeskin gloves tucked behind her pearl gun handle. Firelight and dusky shadows flickered across his unexpected visitors, just beyond the warm air shimmering around the cook fire, so that Longarm, whose head swam as though he’d rolled down a steep hill, wondered if they were figments of his imagination.

The gun barrel poking his guts wasn’t in his head, however. The hazel-eyed brunette twisted the gun around until Longarm had removed his hands from around the gun and took one wobbly step back.

“You poisoned the spring,” he told the brunette.

The others sauntered toward him with maddening ease. The Mexican grinned, brown eyes flashing reflected firelight. “Oh, I wouldn’t call it poison. We just flavored it up with something special.”

“Very special,” said the girl with wheat blond hair and clear blue eyes. She was likely the one who’d ambushed him earlier.

The strawberry blonde walked up and pressed her breasts against Longarm’s left arm, ran a finger across the fresh bandage over the wound. “Something to make your arm feel better.”

She grinned maliciously as she leaned farther forward and pressed her hand against his crotch, cupping his balls through his pants. “Something to make all of you feel better.”

Longarm’s crotch tingled. It took him aback. One of these ravishing killers had his gun rammed hard against his belly; another had her hand on his balls. And he was feeling warm blood surge into his loins, making his cock itch.

He’d never known both fear and desire at the same time, one emotion as powerful as the other.

“What was in it?” He slid his eyes around the women, and blinked to keep their images from separating and becoming two. “Had to be some powerful shit.”

“Absynthe. And a wine made from cactus blossoms and peyote,” said the brunette, holding the gun taut against his belly and lifting her chin up toward his own, enunciating each word perfectly, menacingly.

The Mexican stepped up beside the brunette, running the tip of her tongue along the underside of her upper lip as she held up her right hand, using her thumb and index finger to indicate a small amount. “And just a little bit of the venom milked from a female tarantula. Powerful . . . very powerful”—she ran her tongue across her lip again—“male stimulant.”

“Aphrodisiac,” said the blonde with her hand on his balls. “Been used by the Comanche for a thousand years. More effective than Spanish fly.”

The brunette said, “That’s why you never run into a sad Comanche squaw.”

She and the other women laughed.

The brunette cut her laugh abruptly off, snarling and jabbing the gun hard against Longarm’s belly, just up from his crotch.

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