Jon Reskind - Caesar_s revenge book II

God, she was getting all hot again just thinking and remembering! If Carol was in there with her at that very moment… but she wasn't; Jean could hear her washing dishes in the kitchen, and she, herself, was supposed to be napping, getting needed rest according to Doc Emory. That sweet old darling. Had he known… suspected? If he had, he hadn't shown it… simply blamed it all on the bump she'd received to her forehead… the throbbing lump she'd gotten from Link Morgan's huge fist when they thoght she was unconscious!

Damn them both! Why had they done it to her? It made no sense at all! Oh… she knew she was doing wrong in not telling Mark everything, but how could she? Even knowing the way they had drugged her, would he ever understand her uncontrollable acts with Lydia Newell? Link Morgan's raping her was one thing; though she hated to think what her husband would do to the vile brute if he knew! But he'd understand that wasn't her fault! With Lydia, she felt certain there'd be no such forgiveness! How many times had she heard him say that homosexual acts couldn't be forced onto anyone with an ounce of backbone! And he so deplored even the thought that up until the night with Caesar, she had been afraid to attempt oral sex with him, her own husband…!

Caesar…! Her wonderful animal-lover… she hoped he was all right… and now, she knew he had come on Carol's first night there, just as she'd suspected. Another shivering tremor rippled through her, but this time a warm, sensuous one as she remembered what Carol had told her. Accompanying it, was an undeniable feeling of jealous envy she wished didn't exist, but it did. Carol had sucked him… actually sucked her handsome animal-lover's wonderful cock until she had made him come in her mouth! Oh damn, she was so hot… so hot! Why didn't Carol come in, she feverishly thought, smoothing her small hands down over her sensitively moving breasts and belly, finally cupping the gossamery feeling puffiness of the moistened, hair-fringed crevice between her limply spread thighs… caressing and gently pressuring until at last, she dozed into an uneasy, mind-spinning sleep…

"Goddamnit! Something's gotta be done, Blakely, before that vicious pack sweeps down and rapes half the wives and daughters in the valley in one mad orgy!" Link Morgan bitterly roared to the agreeing multitude of male voices gathered in the bar of the Crescent Inn Tavern. "We've waited long enough for your fucking conservationists to show! This time, it was Lydia Newell, and no less than a pair… two of the wild bastards! Christ, Aaron Newell's daughter! What the hell'll happen next if we don't take action ourselves…?"

"You know you're off-limits, Link!" Mark barked sharply, while Steve, behind him, began to scribble notes. "You've got to give the authorities time to get men up here…!"

"And in the meantime, we just stand around and let those savage brutes attack and rape our women, eh, Mark?" someone in the group sounded out, the pointed question rousing a clamor of liquor-raged agreement.

Mark raised his hands. "Now wait a minute, all of you! Wait…! Hold it down! Let me finish…!" They quieted verbally, but the tensioned atmosphere let the deputy sheriff realize he was fighting a losing battle. "Some of you men here have seen… ridden with a no-head nor tail posse… a band of whiskey-soaked, frantic men with loaded weapons… firing at every leaf moving or, breaking twig! I don't have to tell you that innocent people, animals, whatever, can die from that insane action! That's why I'm asking you to wait for the conservationists. They'll be here right away… perhaps tomorrow…!"

"Tomorrow's too late, Mark!" someone shouted. "At least, it's too late for me! I've got two teenaged daughters and a wife to protect, and I don't intend to do it after they've been raped!"

"Right! Abe's right!" another threw in, until finally the entire, unruly group was in accord.

"Maybe, they've got a point, Mark!" Steve hissed into his ear. "Damn, what would you do?"

"Not this, for Christ's sake!" the determined deputy snapped back at his friend. "Use your head… a band of drunken men with weapons in those hills? You ever seen a swarm of hopped-up soldiers attacking an objective and wind up shooting at each other…? Well, I have… and if I can, I'm going to avoid it here! As well-meaning as these men are, they're in no mental condition to go out there…!"

"Blakely! Blakely!" It was Link Morgan's gruff voice. "It's three o'clock in the afternoon on the twenty-third of June! We'll give you until seven o'clock this night… the twenty-third of June, to produce your tree-planters! If they're not there by then, we ride!"

Again, the outburst of agreement re-echoed through the bar room.

"You're… you're leading these men into certain trouble, Chief Morgan!" Mark shouted at the top of his lungs. "Leading them into certain trouble. You know the law as well as I do… or should! I order you not to do this…!"

"To hell with you, Mark!" someone half-screamed. "They're our wives and daughters… not yours!"

Once more, the agreeing men shouted their yeas!

"That's it, Deputy!" Link Morgan roared. "You've heard the mandate of the people! Seven o'clock, and that's it! We've been more than patient, waiting for state help! No one can condemn us for protecting out homes and families! My own niece was the first, and I've waited this long! No longer! Seven o'clock, Blakely… then we saddle up, regardless of the consequences…!"

The overwhelming shouts and backslaps to Link Morgan let Mark know that he'd done little but gain a few hours grace. For a moment, he watched the teeming assemblage of liquored, up-tight men crowding around the big police chief, then he turned and walked from the Inn.

Steve Foster, directly behind him, caught up and said: "Christ, Mark, their point is well taken, you know! How would you feel if it was Jean that was threatened…?"

"You think, Goddamnit, that I don't know?" he stopped short and spat at his friend. "Put down that fucking pencil for a minute, Foster, and do some figuring! You have any idea what that mob is going to look like, be like, act like, by seven o'clock tonight? And carrying loaded guns?"

"Well… I suppose…"

"You suppose shit!" Mark spat, hating himself for taking it out on his best-friend, despising the knowing that he'd lost, aware that there'd be no state help for two days hence, and not blaming the men for the course of action they were going to take! Christ! Wouldn't he like to ride with them? Put a bullet right between that german shepherd's wife-fucking eyes! But he couldn't… wouldn't, and at the last minutes he'd still try to stop them. That was his job…!

"I'm sorry, Mark," Steve said, walking along beside him and climbing into the patrol car. "Don't get me wrong. I'm all for law and order… but hell, man, there's never been anything like this I just think of myself… and Carol… the same way those men must think of their wives and daughters, eh?"

"I know… I know! You think it's easy for me, buddy? If you only knew…!" Mark heard himself unwillingly admit. "Forget it! Let's just not talk about it!"

"O-Okay… where, we going?" the red-bearded writer questioned.

"Rounds… specific traipsing I have to perform every day in order to fulfill my role as protector of the peace!" Mark bitterly answered.

"Wh-What about the conservationists?" Steve put to him.

"They won't be here. They're two days off… and maybe a millennium too late!"

The smaller man gaped at him. "And you knew that all along…?"

"Anything to stall for time."

"But… but what happens at seven o'clock?" Steve shot.

"Who the hell knows? I try again, is all…"

Steve Foster tugged out a cigarette and lighted it. His whole frame trembled with the excitement involving him. Christ, it was an unbelievable story! What the hell kind of a lead-in would he ever open with? "Listen… Mark… if they ride, I'm going with them!" he said, watching the other's face.