The heat was tropical. She was a singer. Weren’t all women once? She had the calling of the Siren, a Lorelei, destroyer of men. Circe, sorceress, witch. A voice so steeped in magical chant and ecstatic, holy praise that God Himself would have seduced her just to listen as she reached her climax. In lilting jazzy riffs of moans and little pattering breaths; in low, agonized releases, in snarling, animal howls she was a singer. Awaiting a man to sing to. Thinking of the man she awaited, often in the nights, her fingers would wind their way along her skin, over the slopes of her hips, to the center of her thighs; wet lips there that clasped at her hands, sucking them in slowly, a sharp twisting grind of her clitoris against the back of her palm. Thinking of the man she awaited, her mind went all Art Deco; herself a goddess draped in velvet and ermine, gigantic embracing hat akimbo, a svelte hound beside her on its studded leash. Thinking of the man she awaited, poetry ranged through her. Surely, that meant that the bandits had divided up the money when they made camp that night.That division of the money meant trouble for me: now the men were less likely to stick together, and I could be chasing four different galoots all over creation. At almost dark, I sighted a cabin amidst a few trees, and there was an associated rope corral holding four horses. Maybe, I had hit the jackpot!I hobbled my horse in some tall brush and took my shotgun as I walked up to the cabin. There was smoke coming from the chimney, so I knew that there was at least one man in residence, and the presence of the four horses implied that there were four men here.I sneaked up to a window and peered in. Four men were sitting at a table playing poker, and the table had a pot consisting of nothing but gold coins and bars. I figured that my famous luck was holding, and the men were playing with the gold taken from the bank. All the men were wearing their guns strapped to their thighs in the common.
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