A Good Prospect
Going for the Gold 3
Coming August 3, 2011
The story of one mining camp is the story of mankind.
Salvador Palomares, Don of a vast California rancho, saves the life of Ophir, a former slave pierced by an Indian arrow. Sal has wasted years in drunken cattle driving and horse racing, and is surprised when Ophir tells him gold has been discovered, his land invaded by a gang of ruffians determined to banish all Spanish “foreigners.”
Sal and Ophir rescue Tamasin, a downtrodden Irish refugee raised in a convent. Their passion for Tamasin creates rivalry between the two partners. Tamasin loves them equally, so the decision to form a ménage cements their bond.
But their empire is threatened by The League, lawless thieves closing in to starve them out of their own mines. The trio’s goal is to live in peace. And they fight to the bitter end to reclaim it.
Their love is…A GOOD PROSPECT
“Mr. Palomares!” With shoulders squared, the buffoon addressed Knut.
Knut sat up proudly. “How did you know that I am Mr.—” he started to say, but Sal cut him off.
“I am Don Salvador Palomares,” he declared with irritation. Knut looked offended to have not been allowed to be Don Salvador for more than one second. “Who are you, and what is your business?”
“Mr. McCarthy says you should proceed to the Legislature of a Thousand Drinks, and meet with him there.” The thug reversed his direction and lumbered back down the street.
Ophir shrugged. “I guess we should follow. Although what will we do with Tamasin while we’re having this confab? We can’t very well leave her in the street with these ruffians.”
“No, not at all. And Knut will turn into a crybaby if we try to leave him out. I suppose we should take her in with us.”
“If this place really does have a thousand drinks, she could amuse herself with some aguardiente. Didn’t it seem strange that lout immediately knew who you were, as though we were expected here?”
The thuggish fellow vanished into one of the many buildings that had been built in the past couple of months. There was no sign out front, and no drunks were describing zigzag Virginia fences in and out the door, so it couldn’t be an ordinary grog shop.
“Maybe it is sort of an office building, such as we are building in Bear Valley?” Knut suggested when several efficient Americans leaped forward to take their reins. “But I would really like to know more about these thousand drinks.”
The interior proved to be a large room about twenty feet long, a wide array of different rickety tables and chairs lit by whale oil lamps. Indeed there was a rough oak bar and a barkeep who wasn’t very busy, as there were only three men seated at a center table, so Knut made a beeline for one of the many drinks he was assured were there, taking Tamasin with him.
The two partners approached the center table, and Tyke McCarthy removed his threadbare, misshapen hat. Apparently for one who styled himself the alcalde of this burg, he couldn’t afford a better hat. “Mr. Palomares,” he sneered. He did not extend his hand. “Last time we met, you introduced me to an oak tree and stole some of my workers.”
Salvador placed his sombrero on the greasy table, and nodded guardedly. “Yes, I did. California is a free state, and workers are free to go wherever the pay and the treatment is the best.”
“Well, and thank you for asking me how my head is doing. I see you’ve brought your contingent with you—a colored slave”—he looked Ophir up and down as though he were a steaming pile of cow’s entrails—“and your Swedish manservant, as well as a…”
“Yes, this is my partner, Ophir, as I introduced you before,” Sal said quickly, as Tyke’s eyeballs were already glazing over with a prurient appetite at the sight of Tamasin. Sal did, however, extend his hand to the stranger wearing an extremely wide-brimmed felt hat. “And you might be…?”
The small-eyed fellow shook his hand, but said guardedly, “Thomas Jefferson Green.” The anti-greaser slave-owner narrowed his tiny eyes at Sal. Sal had a feeling this meeting would not go well. The third member of the meeting was the burly enforcer. No one introduced him, and no one was sitting down.
Sal said, “We’re here to discuss collecting rents, and the loss of many of my cattle.”
“Oh, is that so?” Tyke laughed and raised his empty glass in the direction of the barkeep. “Sam, a round of whiskeys all around.”
“No, thank you,” said Ophir.
“Thank you, no,” Sal echoed. “Some water would be nice.”
“Water?” scoffed Tyke. He laughed with his partner, Mr. Green. It was a gruesome sight in one so slimy and repugnant. Sal certainly didn’t want to have to look at his corroded teeth again. “Have you ever seen anyone drink water in these parts, Tom Jeff?”
Tom Jeff shared Tyke’s amusement, and his teeth weren’t nearly as noisome. “Maybe Mr. Palomares is so interested in water because he’s fixing to steal all the Merced water for his own operations upriver.”
Sal frowned. “Steal? You can hardly steal water, Mr. Green. If anything, you’re stealing it from me, as I own this entire part of the river.”
Tom Jeff’s face reddened and Tyke cut him off in a show of forced jollity. “And maybe that’s why he wants a glass of it back, Tom Jeff. Now, here’s Mr. Frostad, how are you, my fine fellow? I see you don’t consider yourself above drinking our whiskey.”
Knut gestured with his whiskey glass. “Jah, Mr. McCarthy, I find it most interesting to compare the different vintages of whiskey from one part of this country to another—”
Tyke nearly bowled over his chair in his attempts to greet Tamasin, who had been hiding behind Knut, soaking her lips in her whiskey glass. “And who might I have the pleasure of greeting?” he said slimily, while Tamasin yanked her hand away from his paw.
Salvador stepped to Tamasin’s side, insinuating himself bodily between Tyke and his paramour. “She is nobody, she is our housemaid.” Already he intended to apologize later to Tamasin for that remark, but he didn’t want Tyke paying undue attention to her. He took her by the upper arm and led her to an empty chair while saying, “Now, we have business to discuss. Knut here has taken my survey of my land, and filed it in San José—”
“As California Land Case Number One!” Knut pointed out with alacrity.
“—so it’s only a matter of time before my ownership is acknowledged. Most everyone in and around Mariposa and Bear Valley has agreed to pay rent for the use of my land in their mining operations. Now you, as alcalde”—Sal loathed bestowing Tyke with that moniker, but flattery would help in this instance—“have the power to persuade people around Hornitos to follow. Knut, show him the claim you filed.”
As he shuffled around in his purse, Knut remarked, “Why do they call this building the Legislature of a Thousand Drinks? It does not appear to be an ordinary grog shop, more of a headquarters for your League.”
“Ah, that’s easy,” Tyke replied happily. “Tom Jeff Green here has served in three Southern legislatures. He had a mighty idea to come to California from Texas and use slaves to grow cotton.”
“Which is why he was ejected from the Yuba River,” Ophir mentioned.
Tyke ignored Ophir. “So Mr. Green here is going back to San José to run for state senator. He has a splendid saloon there known as the Legislature of a Thousand Drinks, so we started up this one here.”
Sal frowned. “And what is your business in Hornitos then, Mr. Green? Shouldn’t you be in San José trying to win office?”
That Ophir stood behind him, urgently rotating the head of his massive cock against Sal’s ass, only increased his rapture. To finally glide his cock up her slick, hot passage was enough to bring him off instantly, and to watch her ass rotate and wiggle with pleasure was a treat he’d never experienced.
He was afraid of hurting her at first, thinking perhaps she’d been assaulted in the past. It was an arrogant thought that his penis was overly large, but once he was lodged against the final extremity of her passage, Sal tried to move slower. It was as though her cunt had sucked him in, like the mouth of one of those meat-eating flowers! The sucking and clenching of it compelled him on, the walls of her inner twat gripping and munching at his prick as though it had some masterly, adept life of its own.
When Ophir unclothed his own cock and rubbed the hot crown of it against Sal’s ass, his balls filled to their maximum and drew up close to his body. He had to still himself while Tamasin whimpered for more. Ophir dipped his fingers into a bowl of what was apparently manteca, and Sal could tell by the rigorous motions of Ophir’s bicep that he was slathering it onto his prick. Ophir’s bawdy murmurings only served to heighten Sal’s impending orgasm.
“That’s good, Sal, real good. Keep it up, keep pounding your wife. Isn’t she beautiful all spread out like that? Doesn’t it make your long…thick…juicy cock just want to erupt inside of her?”
“Oh, ay dios, sí, Ophir…” Sal muttered nonsensically. Yes to what? To the achingly exquisite sight of Tamasin with spread legs leaning forward on the bed, or to what Ophir was planning to do with the manteca?
When Ophir’s greasy fingers probed his asshole, smearing the unctuous butter up to his first knuckle inside of him, Sal had to slow his pumping until he was nearly stopped. This made Tamasin mewl with need, so Sal picked her up by the hips and launched her on all fours onto the bed, where he remained crouched over and into her.
“Ah!” she cried, and seemed to like this subservient position where her hungry quim could feel every nuance and slight motion of his penis. When he flexed his cock inside of her, she gasped and jumped, and he knew he could control her orgasm by the movements of his fingers against her clitoris.
Ophir positioned the giant mushroom head of his prick against Sal’s asshole, and Sal’s thighs quivered with anticipation and a bit of fear. He’d never been speared before, much less with an enormous appendage like Ophir’s, but he relaxed into the warm grip of Ophir’s steadying hand on his hip, and Ophir’s licentious words helped calm his trepidation at being invaded like that.
“I’m going to fuck you, Sal, my love, my love.” The bulging crown of Ophir’s prick breached the tight ring of his ass, sending a flood of jism up the underside of Sal’s penis. “Feel yourself inside of Tamasin. Feel her cunt squeezing your fat, luscious cock.” Ophir gave a swift little jab with his prick and he was halfway buried inside Sal. “You’re inside your wife, the woman you love. And the man who loves you is buggering your firm, fleshy ass. Good God, Sal.” He slapped Sal’s ass with such a loud snap the guests downstairs might have heard it, had Knut not commenced to caterwauling on Ophir’s fiddle. “That’s right, my big bull of a man. Feel my cock filling you. I’m gonna fill you with loads of my hot jism.” Another slap. “You like this? Tell me you like it. Tell me you like being bumfucked by my giant, meaty horse cock.”
Sal was so choked up, trying to hold in roars of intense excitement, he could only answer Ophir in monosyllables. “Sí,” he squeaked. “Fuck me, Ophir. Fuck me. With your. Giant prick.”
When Ophir commenced to driving nearly the entire length of his prick in and out of Sal’s asshole, Sal couldn’t hold back. The view of Tamasin’s pure white shoulder blades, so delicate like a bird’s, was enough to send him over the edge. He remembered to pet her clitoris, knowing by the slick bulging that she would soon be squirting her feminine juices all over his hand. He loved that, particularly when she gushed against his mouth, and he tasted and supped her juice.
“Good God, Sal.” Ophir bit the tender flesh at the side of his neck as he pumped into him. “You are one. Big. Delicious morsel of ass.”