Page 16 of Working the Lode

“Good.” Maybe now they’d find out where the doctor câched all his gold.

There were more than thirty men working the Lion Island gold diggings, and the doctor known as Bowmaker had not returned to Sutter’s Fort to trade in his gold or register his claim. Valenzuela knew by questioning—but not robbing—other men heading back to the Fort that men had been washing three hundred dollars a day using Indian blankets as sieves, as no one was clever enough to construct a rocker as Bowmaker had done. Sutter had been sending up oxcarts filled with mutton haunches, peas, flour, kegs of gunpowder, picks and spades, and more men, so miners could concentrate on their work and have no need to hunt. Still, it was obvious Bowmaker was the main jefe of the island, as he’d been the discoverer. He had staked out what was obviously the most desirable length of riverbed. It would be easy enough to capture him and torture him into telling them where he’d câched his gold, then merely kill him. Bowmaker may be a toughened mountain man, but no one could hold out against Valenzuela’s particular brand of Spanish torture.

Taking with him Three-Fingered Jack, Garcia, and Feliz, the group started down the steep declivity that led to a creek that fed into the American River. Over a few small hillocks Valenzuela heard the burble of the creek itself. He knew the water’s rush would obscure any rustling Bowmaker made as he câched his gold, probably in the trunk of an old oak. Valenzuela was surprised no other white men followed as well, but then they all seemed to be trusting men, leaving their tools lying about at night, their tents unguarded during the day.

Indicating the other three men should wait, Valenzuela slipped down a slight rise, skating on muddy oak leaves. It was simple to catch a glimpse of the sunburned white of the doctor’s back as he stood waist-deep in a spot where the creek formed a pool. Bowmaker bent forward, the dappled shadows of oak leaves playing in an artistic chiaroscuro pattern across the sheer blankness of his back—no marks, freckles or birthmarks whatever obscured the purity of his skin—well, perhaps a dusting of freckles across his shoulders. Valenzuela was distracted by the strength of the sinews that undulated rhythmically under the skin of his flawless back. Did his own muscles move like that, like the flanks of a sturdy buck? Perhaps he himself was more slender than the doctor, who after all spent his days shoveling gravel and had probably walked for years across tall mountains, while the most strenuous thing Valenzuela did was lift a pistol and order others about.

He did not often spy on naked white men who played in the sun, so he was riveted to a tree trunk, realizing the man was bathing. He had imagined Bowmaker had an underwater câche—that would be the clever sort of thing the surgeon would do—but no, he was rubbing his hands over his thighs under the water, and now his chest, socking his soapy hands into his underarms. Valenzuela’s nostrils flared with curiosity when the man turned to face him, bending backward like a graceful willow at the waist and knees, wetting his hair in the stillness of the pool. His chest was absolutely magnificent, Valenzuela thought jealously. The pectorals were robustly developed, the abdomen ridged with the sort of hardworking muscles no one in his band possessed, and he could even see the solid shaft of his penis when Bowmaker bent backward again to rinse the soap from his hair. If Valenzuela squinted his eyes he imagined he could view through the clear water the full thick and fleshy length of it, and mi dios if the god damned doctor didn’t take the rough bar of soap, move up the ledge a few steps to bare himself to the speckled sun, and with two hands begin to lather up his enormous penis.

Valenzuela was shamed to discover his breathing had quickened at the sight of the man’s nude body, pleasuring himself so blatantly. Yes, he was right, the doctor’s meaty tool was as magnificent as his body had promised, and Valenzuela’s own penis engorged obscenely inside his calzoneras. Oh, madre de dios, how contemptible and disgusting to be aroused at the sight of a man slathering soap up and down the length of his admirable penis. There was obviously no gold câche here, so he should be leaving, but Valenzuela couldn’t shade his wicked eyes from the view of the man taking immense titillation in what was no doubt the velvety feel of his long penis as it slithered through his agile fingers. Bowmaker leaned his shapely buttocks back on a mud ledge, spread his thighs, and took thorough enjoyment in stroking his fist the full heavy length of his penis, squiggling his fingers over the shiny bulbous crown until his jaw went slack. The sight sent waves of lust down Valenzuela’s spine, stiffening his own cock until he had to pull his serape around himself and restore his pistol to its holster. He admired the way Bowmaker’s muscular pectorals jerked and shimmered in the sunlight, and the stiffness of his nipples made Valenzuela’s mouth water.

Well, Valenzuela was a wicked man, there was no question of that. What harm was there in perversely admiring the view of a long, donkey-like penis being stimulated to orgasm? He only wished his own penis was so long and beefy. He lustily desired to see the man ejaculate what certainly would be jets of delicious, hot semen—

What was he thinking? Turning to face the hillside, Valenzuela squeezed his eyes shut, his heart pounding. What sort of filthy bastard was he, imagining things unacceptable to any decent Castilian? He needed to return to camp and say several—or several hundred—ave marias. What sort of penance would they demand from a murderous bastard who turned into pudding while spying on another man frigging himself?

“Maria santa!”

Oh dear Lord, it was Three-Fingered Jack, who couldn’t bear to obey orders, and had followed him.

“Shut up!” Valenzuela hissed.

But it was too late, Bowmaker had heard the idiot, and with wide deer’s eyes, was already scrambling backwards up the muddy embankment like an agile spider, his stiff prick bobbing in the air.

“Maria santa!” Jack giggled again, and Valenzuela gripped him by the arm to haul him back over the hillock. Of course they had been seen, Bowmaker knew someone was trailing him, and all because this moron couldn’t resist snickering at the sight of an erection!

Once safely over a couple of hillocks, Valenzuela tossed the fool to the ground and, enraged, punched him several times until he felt the satisfying crunch of cheekbones under his knuckles.

“You idiotic mule!” he shouted quietly, as Bowmaker might have decided to chase down his stalkers, and a mountain man seldom pulled the trigger without sending the bullet to the mark.

Although his nose poured blood into his mouth, Three-Fingered Jack still giggled like a girl. “He was fondling his own prick!” he excitedly told the others, and they too fell to laughing like the imbeciles they were.

Valenzuela snorted hotly through his nostrils. “He saw us! We’ve got to get out of here!”

They had left their horses over the next ridge, so they set to scrambling over the rise. Indeed, Bowmaker had dressed hurriedly, and Valenzuela just saw the roots of his fiery hair pop over the rim of the hill before they skied down the side of another one. They were accustomed to fleeing, but Bowmaker was accustomed to chasing, more out of curiosity than murderousness, Valenzuela concluded after many long minutes running.

He must face it—his thoughts had turned to subjects other than robbery and mayhem. For a brief moment, he had envisioned doing something to his quarry other than slicing off chunks of his chest or shooting his brains to hell on the ground. Valenzuela became even more enraged, thinking how easily the white man had aroused him.

He hoped to wipe these thoughts clean. Punishing the perfectly formed specimen of manhood would be the answer.