Karen Mercury Read Online Free PDF

felt bad again—what was such emotion doing in a boxing match?—when the mountain man collapsed in a pile of virile limbs. Worth loomed over him victorious, fists up, prepared to knock him down again.
    But Foster didn’t move this time, and Horatio had no choice but to count him down.
    Gleeful soldiers piled past the ropes and into the ring. Surrounding Worth, they lifted his feet off the ground as they put him on their shoulders. From up here, Worth saw a crowd of milling men around the fallen scout, and he truly worried. Of course most men preferred Foster—Worth worked alone, was usually in his dark wagon or up on some bluff making a photograph.
    He accepted the glory and even drank some whiskey that was shoved at him. He was extremely gratified when Foster got to his feet, feeling his jaw but otherwise unharmed. Bloody Knife was there, too, helping Foster walk out of the makeshift ring.
    Worth made a decision right then and there.
    Maybe it was true that the Black Hills gold had brought bad voodoo to white men—or was it the taking away of the gold from the hills that had rained misfortune down on them?
    Either way, he wanted no part of it any longer.
     
    * * * *
     
    That irritating Worthing Ludlow was right—available maps for the Black Hills showed practically nothing of creeks or the dark pine forests. But Foster had been roaming these hills going on two years now, master of all he surveyed, slave to no one. Darn the settlements. That was his good old motto.
    He traveled on his reliable bay through coulees and ravines, through nearly impenetrable walls of hills defended by regiments of lofty pines. The first night there was frost, but today was becoming too warm for comfort, and he had to keep pausing to drench the kerchief around his neck to stay cool. He longed to bust out his fiddle because some tunes were entering his brain that needed to be played, but he didn’t dare draw attention to his lone self. He was up to Indian ways, and he’d seen plenty sign of them and wasn’t in the mood to have his hair raised by one.
    Of course he thought about that obnoxious photographer. There was something about that fellow that had just riled Foster to unimaginable heights. Foster was a believer that there was chemistry in people’s brains and blood that either attracted or repelled one, and that photographer seemed to do both at once. Foster had been a sucker to think he could best that athletic buck. It had only been a last-ditch attempt to pin him like that and straddle him, sensuously yet with the domineering power he loved to exert over others. And darned if that protesting buck’s cock hadn’t stiffened when Foster had rubbed his own erection against the enticing breadth of his tool. Worthing Ludlow could protest all he wanted. The fact remained it had made him hot as monkeys to have his horse’s cock stimulated like that.
    When Foster delivered this tomfool message from Custer, he would be directly on his way to that sporting house near the Elkhorn Livery in Laramie City. A few romps would tide him over until he could rejoin Custer’s command.
    The valley below was too marshy, so Foster ascended some bluffs. He picked his way through timber that had recently burned, riding around the blackened snags that stuck up everywhere. In a canyon at the top of the ridge, Foster found an excellent spring that burbled into a deep pool, so he picketed his horse and quickly stripped for a swim.
    The icy water refreshed him and nearly froze his brain, so after a bit, he hauled himself up onto a warm rock, legs still dangling in the current. An abundance of semen still saturated his balls after the run-in with that photographer, so he gripped his cock and pumped it thoroughly. Giving in to the lascivious thrills that rushed down his abdomen, he nearly spurted immediately.
    He tried to slow it down to make the pleasure last longer, squiggling his fingers down the length of it, squeezing the cockhead sensuously. He