Dorothy Garlock by The Searching Hearts

to wait for the other train.” He sat down and looked toward the captain for approval.
    This man certainly wouldn’t be any great asset on
the journey, Captain Doyle thought as he nodded to the next man.
    Unnoticed, the scout, in oiled leather britches and doeskin shirt, stood in the shadows. He chuckled as he listened to the argument about whether or not to take the army escort. The fools hadn’t learned a damn thing since they’d hired him on in Baton Rouge. All they wanted to do was get to the promised land!
    Frank Parcher melted into the surrounding darkness. There was a woman waiting for him. She’d be there, right where he’d told her to be, a hundred and twenty paces south of the last wagon. He paused to look around the camp before he moved on. The women were cornered at the other end, straining to hear what was being said at the meeting. He laughed quietly to himself again. They’d still be hagglin’ an hour from now, as if it was so all-fired important whether they got to Californey this year or the next.
    Survival was the important thing. Parcher had learned this the hard way. Use what you can and destroy what you can’t. This belief had served him well over the years. Parcher knew that no man was his friend when it came to that man having something he wanted, be it a woman or anything else.
    He had watched Blanchet’s woman—like a man watches an animal with its foot caught in a trap—for over a week before he’d pounced. It’s been easy. He had her to the point now where she would lay down and let her throat be cut if he told her to. It had been good enough for a while, but he was getting tired of
her lying there like a limp pile of hides while he had his way with her.
    He walked into the clearing and there she was, standing with her back to him. He took her by the arms and pressed her to the ground. There was no resistance; there had been none since that first day two weeks before. Hell,
then
she’d fought, he remembered, savoring the thought . . . until he’d squelched her struggles with his insinuating threats. Frank considered the woman beneath him a slut, something less than a whore, more worthless than an animal. He slapped her across the face, trying to drive some life into her. She raised her arm to protect herself, but he pushed it aside and slapped her again. She lay still then, breathing heavily. He tore open the front of her dress and toyed with her breasts for a while, biting and scraping his rough, whiskered face across the tender nipples, then sucking them until strangled whimpers escaped her lips. He liked to hear the sounds that came from a throat that wanted to scream but didn’t dare. He lifted his head and told her to kiss him. She did.
    When he opened his britches and ordered her to lift her skirts, she did as she was told and said nothing, but she winced with pain as he plunged his hardened manhood into her softness, pinning her to the ground. He rammed her delicate body against the packed earth until he was finished, then got swiftly to his feet and stood there leering at her disarray.
    When she tried to pull down her skirt, he reached for her and fastened his hand in what remained of her
bodice, hauling her to her feet. As she gasped and fell into his arms, he plunged his tongue into her mouth, filling it. When she gagged, he hurled her away from him and watched her stumble back and fall to the ground. He turned to leave her, then looked back.
    “Tomorrow night,” was all he said as he walked away.
    Frank was still unsatisfied. He wanted to get out into the hills where there was a small Mexican village. There was a little
señorita
waiting for him: she didn’t know it, but she was waiting for him. He found his horse, saddled it, and rode south. He needed something young, something tight, something that would claw and scratch and bite and scream, something that would help him get rid of the demon riding on his back.
    Sarah Blanchet stumbled from the bushes when she was