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He nodded, said he would see what he could do, then rode away. I stayed on a bit and walked the
shore, as it was a fine day. When I returned to town, I saw nothing of Reed and was careful not to
ask after him. I went to the saloon but didn't want to get on with anybody even though one man
would have fucked me. That night in my hotel room, I played with my cock for a long time,
thinking of Reed fucking me, hoping he was in bed with his big thing stiff for me as well.
I didn't meet up with Reed for three days. He had two men in custody so the cells weren't
available, and other times he seemed occupied with work. When I passed him on the street on the
night of the third day, he offered me a look that said we would take up again when things
permitted. My money had run out, and I would leave town in the morning, so I grew bold and
decided to visit the sheriff's office as I had business in the inquiry after Clay's death.
I stopped by late, and he seemed pleased that I did. "I've been tempted to turn men out of the cells
so I might have you," he offered. "I want no other."
I looked about the room, ready to do as he pleased, to strip naked then and there should he desire.
My cock grew hard, and as I rubbed it, he issued a moan of sorts. "I would take time with you if I
could," Reed said, "but we can only go out back for a quick fuck."
This was to my liking, so we went out behind the jail, and I dropped my pants and bent to have
him. He grunted throughout, which wasn't long, as he was pent up. He went at me as others had in
alleyways, rough and urgent until spurts began. I'd been pulling on my cock and came as well,
desiring no more happiness than this.
When Reed had finished he remained in me, prick still hard. He put his arms around me and said
once more, "I want no other," which I took to be a statement of his feelings toward me.
"Nor do I," I told him, at which his mouth touched my neck. I knew this was as close to a kiss as
he could manage.
We returned to the office where he sat behind his desk and had me sit opposite. "I've learned who
may have killed your friend," Reed said, "but there's no proof, so he'll likely remain free."
"Tell me."
"In your absence Clay took up with a man called Charles Robey, a clerk at the general store. He
settled here some months ago. Robey's married with children, lives in a house in town, and is
churchgoing, respected. Word has it Clay approached him to fuck and was killed as a result, but I
don't believe this is so. I suspect Robey is another one who condemns himself for his need of men
by lashing out at those very men. We'll never know if he killed Clay, but it's likely he was the one
as they were seen talking earlier that night. I've spoken with Robey, who says this was idle
conversation. I suspect he killed Clay and probably did it after they had fucked because a man
of that sort will always satisfy himself before killing."
I couldn't help crying at this. Reed came to me, put a hand on my shoulder. "You loved the boy,"
he said.
"I suppose I did."
He went quiet, kept rubbing my shoulder, then spoke softly. "As you heal from your loss maybe
one day you'll love again."
I put a hand to his. "One day, yes."
POLE INN
Guy Harris
The sun was just dipping below the mountains as we approached Carson Hole. I was in the back
of old Jack's rusty pickup, freezing my butt off, but I didn't care. If I'd known Weaver's foreman
was going to be such an asshole I never would have agreed to come work for him in Wyoming. I
needed to get away from the ranch to clear my head. I turned and peered through the truck's cab.
A tiny cluster of buildings and electric lights glowed up ahead. It looked like something out of
Mad Max an outpost of civilization with nothing but vast empty space surrounding it. All
around me the swell of the mountains rose up from the edges of the valley before pushing straight
into the sky. At least the countryside was pretty here. I pulled my jacket collar higher as the icy
air whipped around me.
Seeing as how Carson Hole had the only bar for two hundred miles, folks were charitable enough
to call it a town. But it was really just a one-block length of Route 13 with a general
store/post office, Riley's Feed and Tools, and the Pole Inn bar. I'd been in the feed store for a few
minutes earlier in the week, but this was my first proper visit to town. As we got closer to the
lights, I could make out the blue and red neon sign that read
POLE INN.
Jack pulled to a stop in the middle of the road, directly across from the bar's sign. There were
trucks parked all along the street. Through the closed door of the bar I heard Waylon Jennings on
the jukebox and smelled cigarette smoke. Jack rolled down his window, and I hopped out of the
side of the truck near his door.
"I'll be drivin' back through 'bout ten o'clock if you need another lift," he said. I nodded my
thanks while blowing on my hands and stamping my feet to get warm. He let out a rheumy laugh. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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