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From: kellis <kellis@dhp.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} The Last Slave (M++F MF Oral Rom Western) {Kellis}
Date: Fri, 28 Apr 2000 01:12:19 -0400
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The Last Slave
a Short Story by Kellis
April, 2000



"All right, you bastards, here it is:  free pussy."

The woman's high voice carried over the male oaths, clatter of
chips, clink of glasses and the twang of the honky-tonk piano.
It seemed to arise from the other end of the bar.  Branden
pivoted on his stool, turning away from the poker game he had
been watching, where an optimist had just filled an inside
straight, to peer past the shoulder of the adjacent man.  He saw
white thighs but hairy calves, knees drawn up and parted, ankles
and dirty bare feet resting on the edges of the dented bar.  But
the heavy, dark patch of hair in the center riveted his eyes.

"Something to see, ain't it?" said the adjacent man bemusedly,
barely audible over the ringing cheers.

Branden chuckled.  "Hardly anything would get more attention."

The man spared him a glance and a grin.  "And Bart counts on it."

Which goes a long way to explain it, Branden thought.  Bart, he
knew already, was the bartender with the suspenders and the
drooping mustache.  And probably the whoremaster, too, even if
the fancily attired old lady at the euchre table did collect the
whoregeld.

The woman on the bar was lying on her back, genitals facing
Branden.  As he watched her hands came forward and parted her
pubes.  Even in the dimly lit saloon the crimson slit flared
wetly.  Her upper body apparently was clothed.

"Which one is she?" he asked the adjacent man.

"Lucy," was the short answer.

Branden's eyes narrowed.  "How many Lucies work in here?"

"Only that one, far's I know:  leastwise, that's the only one I
ever poked."

Branden downed the last swallow of his drink and slid off the
stool.

"Going for it?" wondered his companion.  "You're new in here,
ain't you?"

"So what?"

"It's free but you gotta strip naked first."  The man's eyes
twinkled.  "Bart'll hold your kit."  He grinned at something he
saw in Branden's face.  "Oh, hell, man, go on before you have to
follow some gushy kid."

"Thanks for the advice," Branden responded sarcastically.  He
pushed forward toward the woman through the gathering crowd.
When he neared her, his path was blocked by a man rising up naked
after removing boots and britches:  a very young man, he saw, who
threw shirt and pants on the bar before climbing atop them.

Another cheer went up from the bystanders.  The young man knelt
between the woman's legs, his hand pumping his manhood.  The
woman raised up on an elbow and reached forward to cup his
testicles.  She was wearing a pink sleeveless underblouse.  The
outstretched arm showed a dark bruise near the shoulder.  Her
face was heavily painted, intent on the hand's goal but
expressionless.  She had dark brown hair gathered incompletely
into a chignon.  The cheekbone below her left eye was blue
despite the paint.  She looked familiar to Branden, though with
all the paint and the bruise not familiar enough for certainty.

"Stick it to her, Bailey!" someone cried.  Other cries of "Shove
it in!" and "Crawl on her!" rose from either side.  Underneath
the shouting someone was collecting bets for a pool on how long
Bailey would last.  Two men were arguing about which of them
would be second.  They seemed at the point of exchanging blows
when a shout, "It's in!" drew everyone's attention to the couple
on the bar.

The bet collector held up a large pocket watch.  "21 minutes and
17 seconds!" he screamed.  He called off the time every fifteen
seconds thereafter, dividing his attention between the timepiece
and the sweating couple on the bar.

The massed crowd made a hot environment.  The young man had knelt
before the woman, his knees resting on a cushion thoughtfully
provided by the bartender, and lifted her hips atop his thighs.
He was leaning forward over her, pounding in and out of her with
youthful vigor.  Sweat dripped off his nose onto her blouse.  She
did not lie passively;  her hips rolled back and forth in the
ancient female accompaniment.

Bailey began to snort.  The bettors' encouraging shouts rose to a
frenzy.  "Damn!" cried Branden's neighbor when his pool time was
exceeded.  But the face of the next man lit with glee when Bailey
froze at full extension, head turned up, eyes clenched and mouth
open in a groan unheard in the general hullabaloo.  "Mark the
time!" cried the gleeful man.  "Mark the time!"

Suddenly the crowd hushed.  Bailey's subsiding moans were heard.
The man with the watch declared, "One minute 48 seconds.  George
Smith is closest!"

"Hooray!" cried the gleeful one, presumably George Smith.
"Drinks on the house!"  Which resulted in another chorus of
cheers.

Soon as Bailey got his kit off the bar, another was thrown upon
it.  The issue of second place had been decided.  A second naked
man crawled between the woman's legs and paused to let her verify
his readiness.  The air was thick with coin and paper as bets
were placed in the second pool.  The times were decidedly longer
now, perhaps because this man was older.  Shortly he stretched
himself upon the woman and the time keeper announced a new start.

The man next to Branden was watching avidly.  Branden asked him,
"How long does this go on?"

The man spared him a glance.  "New here, are you?  Long as she'll
let 'em.  She'll take a break after four or five, take a piss,
have a drink, and then hop back up there."  He stared up and down
Branden's frame.  "You don't look broke."

"Broke?"

"Loan me a cartwheel and you can have my place."

Branden realized that indeed the watching men had formed a ragged
line that wound back and forth toward the woman.  The one closest
to the straining couple was already naked, holding his clothing
in one hand and pumping himself with the other.

"No, thanks," Branden responded, backing away.  He bumped into
someone soft, turned around and found himself looking down into
large brown eyes set above overly rosy cheeks.

The face smiled and he felt a hand feeling for his genitals
through the front of his britches.  "You don't have to wait for
Lucy, mister."

The girl was wearing a gown of such lace and frills that her
maturity was uncertain.  She was short.  Her tightly bunned and
powdered hair did not reach his shoulders.  His long fingers
tilted her chin.  "How old are you, about twelve?"

"Twelve!" she snorted.  "Does this look twelve?"  As she spoke
her hand rose and pulled her blouse off the shoulder, exposing a
breast:  the superimposed cones of a very young breast, though
nevertheless a prominent one.  She restored the gown to her
shoulder.  "Well?"

"15," he guessed with a sneer.

"Huh!" she sniffed.  "Lots of men *want* 15!"  She turned away.

He edged further from the bar.  His 15-year old was whispering
into the ear of an older woman, who wound her way to him, gaudy
skirts swaying.  She took his arm and shouted above the noise,
"I'm Tilly."

"Hello, Tilly," he shouted in response.  "Call me Branden."

"Pleased to meet you, Branden.  We saw you looking at Lucy.  Want
to go upstairs?"

"I have a room upstairs."

"Want to go to your room?"

He regarded her thoughtfully.  "Can you go out on the porch?"

Her penciled eyebrows rose.  "The porch?"

"To talk."

She thought about it, nodding at last.  "Just for a minute."

He took her hand and together they wove through the press to the
swinging doors.  The night was moonless, lit only by starlight.
He paused beside the doorway, then as his eyes adjusted, led her
to a post that supported the porch roof.  Light from the interior
spilled past them into the dust of the street, glittering in the
eyes of horses hitched to the rail.  No traffic into or out of
the saloon was evident at that moment.  Everyone interested in
the entertainment was already inside.

She came into his arms, pressing her body against his.  As had
the 15 year-old, her hand sought the front of his britches.  When
she had identified his manhood through the cloth, she simpered,
"Is this what you wanted to talk about?"

His hand dived into a pocket and came out with the glint of
silver.  Her hand closed over it immediately.  "Let's go to your
room."

"Tilly, I really want to talk."

"What're you afraid of?"

"I'm not afraid of anything, Tilly."

"Well, you shouldn't be.  I'm clean.  If you want something
special, just name it."

"I want some information."

The woman took a sharp breath.  He asked, "What's the matter."

"You don't want to fuck?"

"Not now."

She sighed.  Her hand released him.  "You paid for a quickie.  I
guess you're entitled to a few minutes, but Bart watches us real
close.  If I stand here very long he'll come looking."

"It won't take long.  What's Lucy's real name?"

"Lucy!  What do you need with her?"

"How about you answering *my* question?"

She sniffed.  "Liza.  No, *E*liza!  I don't remember her last
name."

"Could it be Eberly?"

"Yeah.  That's it.  You know her, do you?"

"How long has she been here?"

"About ... eight or ten months.  She came in with the first
railroad crews.  They had nearly killed her."

"Beat her up?"

"Probably that too.  Sheriff Calloway put her in jail, but Bart
gave her a job."

"Some job!  That on the bar, it happens every night?"

"It's what Bart calls his 'live advertising.'  He got the idea
when he went to Chicago."  She smirked.  "It's good for
business."

"Every night?"

"Just Thursday and Friday."

"Not Saturday?"

"Huh!  Nothing's free on Saturday!"

"Which of you is friendly with Eliza?"

"Huh? ... Eliza!  Had to think a moment to realize you was
talking about Lucy.  Well, none of us, really.  I guess I'm about
as close to her as anybody."

"Does she ever talk about ... Kentucky?"

"Is that where she's from?"

"Remember, I'm asking the questions."

"I don't know.  She don't talk much.  I never paid any
attention."

"How much does she owe Bart?"

"You'll have to ask him."

"You must have an idea.  How much do *you* owe him?"

She smiled.  "Is that it?  You want to buy somebody's contract?"

"I might.  What's typical?"

She shrugged.  "Two, three hundred dollars.  But the girl has to
agree, too.  Where's your place?"

"The idea, Tilly, is to get --"

A gravely voice sounded from the doorway.  "Tilly, where the hell
are you?"

The woman spoke up.  "Right here, Bart, with a paying customer."

"A what?"  The doors creaked as the man pushed through them.
"Goddammit, Tilly, if the sheriff catches you fucking out here on
the goddam porch --"

Branden interrupted.  "We're only talking."

The man pushed closer.  Branden swung himself around in front of
the woman.  Bart demanded, "What're you talking about?"

"Your advertising stunt."

"Oh, yeah?  What you think of that?"

"I think it probably works."

"You're damn right, it works!  You in the business?"

"I have been."

"Oh, yeah?  Let me give you a piece of advice.  This town ain't
big enough for two of 'em."

"I've about reached the same conclusion."

Bart leaned closer in the dimness.  "Just make sure you stick
with that opinion."

"I will.  But I have yet to decide who ought to run the one."

"Eh?  Huh?"  His voice took on menace.  "Just what the hell are
you saying?"

"Nothing, yet, except to advise you to get your goddam nose out
of my face before I smash it worse than Lucy's black eye."

Bart did draw back.  "What's your name?"

"Taylor Branden.  Mr. Branden to you."

"Oh.  *Branden*!  You rented a room this afternoon."

"I did."

"Excuse me, Mr. Branden.  Will you be needing Tilly's services
much longer?"

"Only a moment or two, thank you."

"Very well.  She'll be glad to visit you upstairs at any time,
you know."

"Yes, I know."

The bartender turned around and re-entered the saloon.  The woman
giggled.  "Bart does respect the paying customer."

"Wise of him."

"Ain't it!  What else you want to know?"

"Expose your left breast."

"Huh?"

"Show me your tit."

A hand rose to her shoulder and pulled the gown straps down her
arm.  Pale flesh popped free of the cloth and jiggled in the
starlight.  He cupped it in his hand, gently pinching the nipple
as lumps formed in the areola.  He bent and sucked it into his
mouth.  Her indrawn breath squeaked in her throat.  "You do want
to fuck!" she announced hopefully.

He raised up.  "No, Tilly.  I told you, not now.  But that's a
nice one.  Go back inside.  I think I'll stroll down the street."

"You can't see anything on a moonless night.  Let's go upstairs."

"I can see."

"Why did you suck my boob?"

He chuckled.  "I always do if I think I can get away with it.
Good night."

Her mouth wrinkled as he stepped off the porch and vanished into
the dark night.





	*  *  *  *



"Hoo, boy!  Can't you walk shtraighter?"

It was a woman's slurred voice rising above the thump of
irregular footfalls moving along the porch flooring.  Above them
on the balcony, whose floor was the porch roof, Branden followed,
picking up his feet to walk softly.  He leaned over the rail when
he reached the end.  Below him the boot thumps ceased as their
owners stepped off into the dust.

The woman complained, "Argh!  You let me fall, you b-bastard!"
Branden could faintly see dark entangled bodies below him.  They
seemed to be struggling.

"Shut up, Lucy," a man's deep voice retorted mildly.  "You knew
that step was there.  Help me get her up, Bashford.  Lucy, are
you hurt?"

"How th'hell do I know?  'M too drunk to --  Ow, my knee!"

"Rub her knee, Bashford.  Which one, Lucy?"

"Oh, god, sheriff, I don't know."

"Shit!" declared a younger masculine voice.

"What's the matter?" asked the older one.  "Can't find her knee?"

The answer was full of disgust.  "She's smeared with spunk."

"Spunk won't hurt you.  How many did you fuck tonight, Lucy?"

"I don't know.  All there was.  You have a drink, sheriff?"

"We'll get you a nightcap.  Bashford, take her other arm."

"She's naked, boss."

"I know it.  Ain't no moon.  Nobody's gonna see her.  You can run
back here and find her dress.  Now come on.  Let's get her out in
the street before we trip over Perkins' boardwalk."

The unlikely combination lurched out into untrammeled starlight.
Branden could barely make out the lighter body between the two
dark ones.  His fist clenched in indecision.  Where were they
taking her?

The female voice quavered, "W-watch out for those spurs!"

The deep voice responded patiently, "We ain't wearing spurs,
Lucy."

"Well, those boots, then.  I don't want a smashed toe either."

"Hang on.  The jail ain't much further.  Bashford, let's pull her
over here to this horse trough."

They lurched to one side.  Splashing sounds arose and something
glittered among them.

"That t-tickles!" complained the woman.

"Well, wash it yourself."

"You got a handkerchief, sheriff?"

"Give her your bandanna, Bashford."

"Damn it, boss, it'll stink!"

"No worse than your dick after awhile.  Straddle it, Lucy, and
throw the water up in you."

"Huh!  You think I don' know how to wash a cunt?"

"Wash it, then.  What're you doing, Bashford?"

"Holding her up."

"By the tits, eh?  Lucy, don't sit in it!"

"Need a good soak."

"That's enough.  Come on, get out, before Dalton hears you.
Christ, you've got my whole side wet!"

The unlikely group staggered away from the side of the street.
Branden, still leaning over the rail, heard a final comment in
Bashford's high voice:  "Sure do pity them horses!"





	*  *  *  *



Within an hour after first light Branden had bathed and been
shaven in the barber shop, where he left two shirts for the
Chinese laundryman, and had eaten a breakfast of bacon and eggs
served in the saloon by the old woman he had earlier taken as the
whoremistress.  He accused her of that as he paid her 40 cents
for the food, plus a dime tip.  "I understood last night that you
were our madam procuress."

"Our what?"  She cackled, displaying the retention of half her
upper incisors and both lonely lower canines.  "Fancy talk!  Tell
Bart that, why don't you?"

"Would a dollar get me Tilly's attention this morning?"

"Hell, no!  Not this *morning*.  Let them as can sleep, sleep."

"You can't, I take it?"

"Not more'n two hours at the time."  She cocked an eye at him
appraisingly.  "Why?  You hard up?"

He smiled.  "No, just curious."  Tipping his hat, he turned away
to the swinging doors.

"50 cents!" she called after him in a beguiling tone.

"I'll remember that," he retorted over his shoulder as he passed
out onto the porch.

The morning was bright, the sun just peeking into a cloudless sky
over the barren hills to the east.  Branden proceeded afoot along
the side of the street, avoiding the balls of horse manure, until
he reached the planking before the building decorated by a
shingle crudely lettered, *Redpath Sheriff*.  He stomped up onto
the boards and pushed through the unlocked door.

The room was lit by a reflecting oil lamp hung over the desk, now
completely overpowered by sunlight streaming through the
east-facing windows on either side of the door.  A Franklin
stove, presently unused, stood across the room from the desk.  A
rack on the wall behind the desk contained three Winchester
lever-action rifles.  The board floor had been swept.

The back half of the room drew Branden's attention.  It was
subdivided into three small rooms, each with its iron-barred
door.  He crossed the floor and inspected them one at a time.
Two were empty but a cot in the third contained a sleeping woman,
naked under a ratty blanket that left one shoulder and its
unmistakably feminine breast exposed.  Her face was turned away,
but he could see enough of her profile to determine that this was
Lucy.

He pulled on the iron door, which swung outward on creaking
hinges.  He slipped into the cell.  Her cheek lay in a crusted
puddle of partly dried vomit.  Her mouth and nose were barely
clear of it.  She was breathing gently.

He shook his head, grimaced and put out his hand, turning her
face toward him.  Her eyes fluttered open, then clenched shut.
Her arms lashed out and threw the blanket to the floor.  The
exposed body was shapely, although the numerous bruises,
abrasions and scabs marred Branden's appreciation of it.  He
backed up a pace, turning his face away from the odor.

"Oh, god!" she breathed.  A hand rose to cover her eyes.  She
stared at him through parted fingers.  "Where am I?"  Her voice
was hoarse.

He grunted.  "In jail, Lucy."

"God, my head!  Where's Bashford?"

"I saw him and the sheriff at breakfast in the saloon."

"Who're you?  You aren't supposed to be here."  Without waiting
for his answer, she swept dirty feet off the cot and rose to a
sitting position.  Her eyes widened and both hands went to the
sides of her head.  She moaned piteously, then snapped, "Guess
you're getting an eye full!"

"A good guess," he agreed distastefully.

She heard the sound of his voice and eyed him belligerently.
"Then look somewhere else.  I've got to piss something awful."

He asked dryly, "Are you referring to quantity or quality?" then
added with more sympathy, "Think you can make it to the pot?"

She held her head.  "Might have to crawl."

He set the chamber pot before her, spun on his heel and left the
room.  Behind him water rattled thickly into tin.

He opened a drawer of the desk and found the expected bottle of
whisky and two clay tumblers.  The water in the pitcher at the
washstand looked clear when he poured a sample into the basin.
He half filled one of the tumblers and returned to the woman's
cell.

"Eyes not full enough?" she demanded sarcastically, hands still
holding her head.  She was again seated on the cot.

"Not quite."  His foot pushed the pot well to the side.  "Hold
this."  He passed her the tumbler then brought a tightly folded
paper from his coat pocket.

She took the tumbler and peered into it.  "Whisky?" she asked
hopefully.

"Water...  No, no!  Don't throw it away."

"No use for water," she declared, her lip curling.

"You will have in a minute."  Carefully he unfolded the paper,
forming it into a flat funnel.  "This contains a powder I want
you to swallow.  Then wash it down with the water."

"A powder?  What for?"

"It'll fix your head."

"Huh!  Only whisky can do that."

"This works even better than whisky.  And it's fast.  Tilt your
head back and open your mouth."

She stared up at him.  Something changed in her expression.  She
lowered her hands and slowly rolled her head back, opening her
mouth expectantly.  He didn't hesitate to place the tapered end
of the paper between her lips and tilt it up.  The contents
hissed into her mouth.

He withdrew the paper.  "Now the water."

She tasted her lips, still staring at him, then raised the
tumbler and took a swallow.

"Drink it all," he ordered.

Dutifully she obeyed, lowering the empty tumbler reflectively.
"It tastes sour.  Will it kill me?"

He grunted.  "Of course not.  I have no wish to harm you, Lucy."

"I decided I didn't care if it did.  If it doesn't, I can always
find some whisky.  Just for curiosity's sake, what was it?"

"It's an Indian remedy for headache, made from the bark of
certain trees.  You'll feel a lot better in five minutes."

"You're a doctor?"

"No, not a doctor, but I've had my share of headaches."

"Who are you anyway?"

"My name is Taylor Branden."

"Do I know you?"  Before he could answer she chuckled bitterly.
"You're certainly getting to know me!"

"Everyone knows you."

"They think so."  She dropped her eyes.  "But no one does."

"Lucy, I know your real name."

"Do you!"  Her lip curled.  "Well, keep it to yourself."

"What are you doing here, Lucy?  Or should I say, Eliza?"

She raised one shoulder in a shrug.  "I told them my name, but
Bart named me Lucy."

"I understand:  your whore's name.  Tell me, why are you waking
up in jail?  Who did you offend last night?"

"I live here.  I'm a prisoner."

"A prisoner who copulates with all comers on top of a saloon
bar?"

"'Copulates!'"  She grinned sarcastically.  "An educated man!"

"You were educated, too, Eliza."

She looked away.  Her hands clasped her knees.

"What do you mean, you're a prisoner?"

"They say I killed a man back east.  I'm awaiting trial for
murder."

"In an unlocked cell?"

"Where would I go?"

"If you cleaned up a little, I imagine you could find a man
willing to take you anywhere you named."

She shook her head.  "Men!"

"Not too pleased with us?"

"You're nothing but penises with legs.  Everything you do is
meant finally to squirt your seed into a woman."

He smiled.  "I can understand how you might reach that
conclusion.  Isn't a woman supposed to use that arrangement to
her advantage?"

She regarded him sourly, though her lip twitched.  "I guess
that's my failure."

He squared his shoulders.  "Well, Eliza, it's time you learned
better."

"Who plans to teach me?"

"I, to start."

She laughed unpleasantly.  "All I see is a fancier suit of
clothes.  Are you even armed?"

"Of course, Eliza," he answered softly.  "The west doesn't get
wilder than this territory.  But I don't intend to teach you with
a gun."

"Maybe not, but you'll need a fast one to get me away from the
sheriff."

"Oh, I think not.  If an indictment was actually outstanding on
you, it's quashed."

"'Indictment!'" she repeated contemptuously.  "There's 20 dollars
a month Bart pays the sheriff for my special services on the bar
top.  I don't know how you can quash that!  And two hard dicks
right here in this office that fuck me every night.  They've
gotten quite accustomed to their 'prison pussy,' as they call it.
What paper do you have that can quash *them*?"

"The sheriff?"

"And Deputy Bashford.  He sleeps in here, mostly in one of the
other cells.  He's a randy little devil.  He's my guard and my
greatest lover.  He fucks me three times a day, regular as
clockwork.  In a few minutes he'll come in here and help me take
a whore's bath, then fuck me unless the sheriff is feeling randy,
in which case I get to fuck the sheriff while sucking Bashford.
Then I can go back to sleep until he feeds me lunch and more of
his spunk.  Then I may get to work for the Chinaman, ironing
shirts until supper time, which Bashford fucks me *before* if
it's a saloon night or *after* if it's not.  Then --"

"Enough."  He raised a hand.  "Believe it or not, Eliza, I can
quash them, too."

She sighed.  "Talk is so cheap."

"It is that, but the time for talk is almost over.  Who blacked
your eye?"

"That was Bart."

"Why?"

"Because I puked on him."

"Made you sick, did he?"

"He pissed in my mouth."

"Did he!"

"That's his favorite trick.  He ran off three or four girls with
it till he found one he couldn't run off.  But this last time he
cut loose in the back of my throat.  It strangled me."

"I see.  Can you think of anything men have *not* done to you?"

She shrugged.  "Kill me.  That's why I'm here.  I'm waiting for
that."

"And what do you think of it?"

"They say you can get used to anything, but I'll never care for a
mouthful of piss."

"Perhaps not.  I meant, what do you think of your life as a piece
of meat, as 'prison pussy?'  Do you perhaps enjoy your bar top
popularity and Bashford's personal attention?"

She took a deep breath, but kept her eyes lowered.

"Well?"

Her voice was very soft.  "Maybe I don't deserve any better."

He shook his head.  "Another way to put it is, do you want to get
out of here?"

"I ..."  Her eyes grew large.  "I don't see how I can leave."

"That's the easy part.  The real question is, if I take you out,
will you come back?"

She studied his face.  "You don't mean just back to Redpath, do
you?"

He nodded.  "You're intelligent, Eliza.  How the hell did you
ever get in this fix?"

Her lip curled.  "It's a long story.  Why should I think you can
take me away?  The sheriff can get a posse as large as he wants
in five minutes."

"You want to know why you should believe me, is that it?  How's
your head feeling?"

Her eyes widened.  "It ...  My god, it's almost cured!"

"I don't need to steal you, Eliza.  I can take you from here
quite legally and while I'm at it make these conniving bastards
regret ever laying eyes on you.  But do you really want to go?"

She shook her head, eyes again downcast.  "I'm no good, Mr.
Branden."

He sniffed.  "That may be, Eliza.  If it is, you're right, it
would probably be best to leave you here, though not in this
exact predicament.  If I take you out of here, you'll have to do
exactly as I say."

"As *you* say?  Trade one master for another, eh?"

He nodded.  "That's right.  Until you can hold your head up
again."

Her eyes were wary but showed the beginning of warmth.  "You did
cure my hangover.  Mostly."

"What's left?"

"A little nagging headache just behind the eyes and a queasy
stomach."

"You need to put something in it."

"Whisky."

"No.  If you go with me, you'll drink no more whisky till it's
out of your system."

"You'll enforce that, will you?"

"Yes, absolutely.  You'll be a very tightly held prisoner for
about a week while I take you to St. Louis."

"St. Louis!  You own a whorehouse there?"

"Not to a whorehouse.  A sanitarium.  You'll be its guest until
you recover your health."

She studied him.  "Taylor Branden.  That name sounds familiar
somehow."  When he merely returned her stare, she continued,
"What do you want from me, Mr. Branden?  What's this all about?"

He shook his head.  "I'll answer that only if you agree to go
with me.  If you elect to stay here, it's better for you not to
know."

"Something shameful, is it?"

"Not shameful to you.  You'll understand when I explain it."

"How can I go with you?"  She looked vainly around the cell.  "I
must've left my dress in the saloon."

"I'll take care of that.  That's the deal, Eliza.  You surrender
your freedom to me and I'll take complete care of you."

She straightened up, eyes larger.  "You'll really take me out of
here?"

"Right now."

She rose to her feet but staggered, one hand extended toward him.
"Ooh, I'm dizzy!"

He took her elbow, steadying her, but raised the other hand.
"Hold it!  First you have to agree to do everything I say."

"Everything?  I'll suck your dick three times a day if you'll
really take me out of here."

"I may ask you to do things a lot harder than that."

She snorted.  "I don't know how to do anything much harder than
that."

"Yes, you do.  Say, I swear to obey you until you say I can
quit."

She took a breath.  "I swear to obey you until --  How long is
that going to be?"

"A couple of months I expect, altogether."

"Will you promise not to piss in my mouth?"

"I won't piss anywhere near you, Eliza."

"Oh ... kay.  Then I swear to obey until you say I can quit."

"Very good."  He raised the tattered blanket from the floor and
wrapped her in it.  "Come on."

Her hands went to her hair.  She grimaced when she felt its
content.  "I'm not fit to be seen *anywhere*!"

"We'll fix that first.  Lean on me until you get your balance.
I'll take you to --"

"Just where the hell do you think you're going?"

The bear-like man with the sheriff's badge darkened the still
open front door.  Bashford peered around him.

Branden stepped in front of the woman, a hand pushing his
coattail to one side.  He answered mildly, "I was about to say,
to the barber shop.  Do you have some objection, *Mister*
Calloway?"

The man responded stoutly, "I'm the sheriff here, mister, and
that woman is a prisoner awaiting trial."

"Sheriff, you say?  That's an *elected* office!  You're only a
thug whose salary is paid by a few Redpath businessmen."

"That's sheriff enough, damn it!  Just who the hell are you
anyway?"

"I am special agent Taylor Branden of the U. S. Marshall's office
for this territory."  His hand slipped into an inside pocket and
came out with a gold and silver star mounted on a leather
backing.  "This is my identification.  I'm glad you arrived, Mr.
Calloway.  It saves me a trip back here.  Show me the paper you
have on this woman."

The man in the doorway stared.  His hand twitched toward the
pistol holstered on his hip.

"Don't do it, Calloway," Branden suggested softly.  "You'll be
dead before it clears leather, you and your deputy both."

He slipped the badge back into his coat as the big man hesitated.
"Come on in, Calloway, and show me that paper, if you have one."

The claimed sheriff sidled across the room to his desk, keeping
his body turned toward Branden.  Deputy Bashford remained in the
doorway, hands and chin dangling.  Branden's left hand pulled
that coattail aside, exposing the handle of a revolver
reverse-mounted in his waist band.

Calloway took a paper from the top drawer and laid it on top of
the desk.  "This is it."

With a glance at the deputy in the doorway, Branden strolled to
the desk and took up the paper.  The woman held weakly to the
open door of her cell, her eyes bright on the men.

Branden sniffed.  "I'm surprised.  At least it's for the right
woman!  But look at these words:  'Wanted for questioning in the
murder of Jason Eberly.'  It doesn't even charge her with a
crime.  What's your excuse for holding her?"

"Well, it ...  The railroad police said she robbed a passenger."

"Did they!  Where's the paper on that?"

"They didn't give me any."

Branden shook his head.  "Mr. Calloway, I could charge you with
kidnap and enslavement of this woman, and I can take her out of
here with no further explanation.  But I knew about that
interrogation warrant.  I guess you're the best man to leave this
with."  He drew a long folded legal paper from another inside
pocket and proffered it to Calloway, who shook his head, saying,
"Let the woman read it."

Branden grinned at him.  "It says that the interrogation warrant
against Eliza Marion Eberly is quashed, and it's signed by the
same judge whom your paper quotes."  He dropped the paper on the
desk.  "Any questions, Calloway?"

The man stood silently behind his desk, mouth working
indecisively.  Branden extended his hand to the woman.  "Come on,
Eliza.  Bashford, stand away from the door."

The woman took the hand and followed him through the doorway from
which the deputy had retreated.  She pulled the blanket tightly
about her as he hurried her up the street.  Behind them they
heard Calloway call, "Bashford, go get Bart."

"Still remember how to ride?" Branden asked her quietly as their
feet stirred the dust of the street.

"You mean a horse?  Yes, I remember.  Why don't we just wait for
the train?"

"I may have to kill some of them if we tarry here too long."

"Are you really a U. S. marshal?"

"Actually not.  I'm a special agent."

"What's that?"

"It's special.  In here."

He pulled her across the board platform into the barbershop he
had earlier patronized.  The barber jumped out of his chair and
reflexively dusted it with his apron.

"Back so soon, Mr. Branden?"  He looked curiously at the woman.
"Is that Lucy?"

"Hargett, I want to rent your back room for an hour.  Is your
water hot again?"

"Should be.  I've had the fire going.  Another bath?"

"For the lady."

"Lady!"

Branden thrust his face close to the wiry little man.  "She's
with me, Hargett.  You damn well better understand what that
means!"

"Yes, sir!"  Hargett drew away.  "Whatever you say, sir!  Do you
want to go on back?  I'll start the boy with the water."

"I want a bottle of that soap, too.  Come on, ah, Lucy."

He led her down the hall past the barber's living quarters to his
bathroom, a rudely finished compartment containing a large tin
tub and racks for cloths, towels and clothing.  At least the
walls were chinked against drafts and, perhaps more importantly,
spies.

"You called me Lucy," she noted, regarding him curiously.

"I want these people to forget your real name."

The boy entered, straining with the first bucket of water.  Steam
soon rose from the tub.  He grinned at the woman on his way out.
"Hullo, Lucy!"

"That shouldn't be too hard," she remarked dryly to Branden.

Several buckets later the boy noted, "That's the last one."

"I've got an errand for you," Branden told him, passing him a
quarter.  "Run over to Dalton's and tell him to bring me two
woman's dresses, size eight.  Right, Lucy?"  At her acquiescence
he continued, "Style and color to suit a brunette.  Plus a set of
underclothing and a pair of lady's boots.  What size, Lucy?"

"Seven."

"You got that?"

"Size eight dresses, size seven boots.  What if he's busy?"

"Tell him I'll make it worth his while.  Tell him to bring a
cowboy's grub kit, too."

"You want 'em fetched in here?"

"Right here.  You can help him.  I'll have another errand for you
when you do."

When the boy departed, Branden latched the door and gestured
toward the tub.  "Madam, your bath awaits."

She looked at it hesitantly.  "It's too hot."

"Those sores need hot water."

She sighed and let the blanket fall away.  She arched one leg
over the rim of the tub, great toe into the water.  "God, it *is*
hot!"

"Get into it slowly.  Come on.  I'll brace you."

He held her under the arms from behind and she eased her buttocks
into the water, whimpering and moaning, complaining of the heat
and the sting of her cuts.  But her complaints soon died away and
she leaned back in the tub.  "Ohhh!" she sighed with the
beginnings of contentment.  Then she peered at him sharply.
"What're you doing?  It's not big enough for you to get in here
with me."

He was hanging coat and shirt on a rack.  "I'm going to wash your
hair."

She studied his well-muscled chest and her eyes widened.  "Was
that a gunshot wound?"

"Yes.  Straight through the shoulder.  Lucky for me the bullet
hit nothing vital."

She mused, "Jason was shot clear through, too, but he took
infection."

"I was luckier.  Who killed your husband, Eliza?"

"You think I did it, don't you?"

He shrugged.  "It doesn't matter now.  But I am curious.  Did you
shoot him?"

"No.  I never fired a gun in my life."

"As I said, it doesn't matter to us."  He uncapped the bottle of
soap and poured half of it into her bath water.

"What 'us?'"

"You and me."  He felt of her head and took the pins from her
hair without effect.  It was too crusty to descend far from the
bun.  He advised, "Now close your eyes tight."

He brought up handfuls of water for her hair, then poured on a
generous slug of the soap and began to scrub with his fingers.
Shortly she was submerged in lather and bubbles.  He took care to
keep her nose clear.  Finally he raised a bucket of rinse water
and poured half of it over her head, washing away the soap.
Further scrubbing and a second rinse left her hair, now halfway
below her shoulders, squeaking between his fingers.

When he applied a scrubbing cloth to her shoulders and breasts,
she commented, "I wondered if you'd do that."

He cupped a breast in his free hand.  "You have small nipples,
Eliza.  Did you ever bear a babe?"

"Jason's.  Would have been.  It was stillborn."

"Only the one?"

"He gave me the clap that killed it.  A doctor told me the clap
can sterilize a woman."

"Not just the clap.  You have nice breasts, Eliza, except for all
these bruises.  Who bit the side of this one?"

"I have many bite marks.  Men get confused, don't they?
Especially the drunks."

He grinned.  "You mean, about what they're supposed to do with a
woman?"

"Well, they're not supposed to eat us!"

He was scrubbing her back.  "Nor piss in your mouth.  The thought
of that angers me.  If it wasn't so important to keep this visit
quiet, I think I'd give Bart a momento of my visit."

"He's rough on all of us, but beating him up does no good."

"What beating up?  I'd shoot off his testicles."

"You would?"  She chuckled then peered around at him curiously.
"What would you do to a woman who angered you?"

"Probably stay out of her way.  Stand up, Eliza."

The woman got shakily to her feet, holding tightly to the sides
of the tub.  "That, too, huh?" she remarked as his bare hands
probed between her legs.  "Is this bath for me or for you?"

"Surely you don't object, Eliza.  I'm surprised."

"At what?"

"I don't feel any warts."

"Why does that surprise you?"

"Whores' privates are usually covered with them.  Here, I'll
brace you.  You take the cloth and scrub yourself.  Do a good job
of it."

"I can't scrub away all the penises, Branden."

He only grunted and raised up, keeping a tight hold on her upper
arm.  As she scrubbed, she said, "I've only been whoring about a
year."

"What did you do for the first five?"

"When I ran away from Jason's family, I took up with a humbugger.
Most of the time I helped him fleece the marks."

"The cuckold game?"

"That and some things a lot worse.  I'm not proud of it,
Branden."

"Nevertheless I want you to tell me all about it."

"Do such stories stimulate you?"

"It's not that.  I have to know what to expect."

"You what?"  Her eyes grew large with wonder.  "Are you going to
tell me what this is all about?"

He shook his head.  "Not until we're more private than this
place.  Do you think you're clean enough?"

"Enough for what?  Let me sit down and scrub my feet first.  Are
you really getting me new boots?"

She had one shapely foot raised to the washcloth when a knock on
the door announced the arrival of the storekeeper.  The man
glanced once at Eliza, visible from the nipples up above the
soapy water, blushed and thereafter kept his eyes averted.
Branden opened the long shoe box and held up a trim gray calf
boot.  "Does this look about right?" he asked Eliza.

"Oh, yes."

"If it isn't," offered the storekeeper, "she can come in and
exchange them."

"Thank you," responded Branden.  "I'll take it all, including
this mess kit.  What's the tab?"

"$14.54.

"This should cover it."  Branden dropped two gold coins into the
man's hand.  "Keep the change."

"Yes, *sir*!  Thank *you*, sir!  If there should be anything
else, just send Gerry."

"Gerry?"

"I'm Gerry," said the errand boy, hovering in the background with
eyes glued to the woman's bare shoulders.

"No, that will be all, Mr. Dalton, and I appreciate the personal
service."

"Then good day, Mr. Branden."

"Good day to you.  Gerry, stick around."

When Dalton had departed, Branden took a towel vigorously to the
woman's hair as the boy leaned on a rack and stared.  Taking up a
bucket of water, Branden said, "All right, *Lucy*.  Time to rinse
off."

She looked at the boy, whose eyes had widened in anticipation,
then at the man.  "You don't care about him?"

"Neither should you.  He's only a servant.  How old are you,
Gerry?"

"16," was the answer.

"Old enough.  Stand up, Lucy."

She shrugged and holding to the sides of the tub, got to her feet
and stood stolidly as he poured two full buckets of rinse water
on her shoulders.

"Give me your hand," he instructed, helping her step from the tub
onto the drain boards.  The watching boy licked his lips.
Branden toweled her back and buttocks, then handed her the towel.
"Finish drying off."

She turned to regard him.  "Are you going somewhere?"

"To pay the barber.  Gerry, give her any help she asks for,
especially with getting dressed."

"Yes, *sir*!"

Branden grinned at the woman, vigorously drying her legs.  She
rolled her eyes back at him.  "Make the most of your last Redpath
admirer," he told her before spinning out the door.

Standing in the hall, he listened through the closed door and
heard the boy ask, "Does he mean you're leaving Redpath?"

"What if I am?"

"Shit!"

"What's the matter?"

"I was just getting up nerve to go to the saloon."

"You waited too late, eh?  I guess at least that's a sincere
compliment."  The woman's voice was dry.  "Hand me those
bloomers, will you?"

"Could I ...  Could I maybe ..."

The woman chuckled.  "You'll have to ask Mr. Branden."

Suddenly the boy's voice was all business.  "Can I hold them open
for you?"

Branden walked up the hall with a grin.  He found the barber
alone in his shop, standing before the front window.  The man
turned at Branden's entrance.

"Something interesting out there?" Branden asked.

"Well, yes, sir, there is."

"Tell me about it in a moment.  First, what do I owe you?"

"About through with the room?"

"Yes, we are."

"I, uh, I've got a room with a bed, if ..."

"No, thank you.  Just the bath water and the clean towels."

"The water's 50 cents.  The towels come with the room.  That and
the soap ...  Make it a dollar."

"Make it two, then."  Branden dropped silver into his hand.  "Now
tell me what's interesting in front."

"Thank you, sir.  What's interesting is that Dalton seems to have
put an armed guard atop his store with another leaning on the
hitching posts."

"Yes, that *is* interesting!  You don't mind if the lady and I
use your back door, do you?"

"No, sir, not at all.  In fact I think I'd prefer it.  Window
glass is hard to replace out here, even with the railroad running
two trains a week."

"I expect it is, at that.  We'll be leaving shortly."

Back in the bathroom Branden hurried Eliza into the remainder of
her toilet.  While she was coiling and pinning up her wet hair,
he said to the boy, "Take this cartwheel and grub kit over to the
saloon and tell them to fill it up with coffee and a bacon and
egg breakfast.  Go out the backdoor of the saloon and come
straight to the *back* of the livery stable.  You got that?  The
*back* of the stable!"

"Yes, sir."

"I'll have a couple more cartwheels for you when you get there.
If anybody asks, tell him Lucy is entertaining me in the barber's
bedroom, that we'll probably come out in half an hour."

"The barber's bedroom."  His eyes swung enviously to the woman.
"Is she really gonna --"

"Get going!" Branden interrupted.  "You know what to do."

The boy whirled away.  Eliza was standing, booted and dressed in
full length dark gabardine, before the small mirror, putting the
final shape on her chignon.  He folded her second dress, along
with an unused towel, into the storekeeper's bag and straightened
up.  "Are you ready?"

She turned to face him.  "I need some face paint."

"Only for that black eye.  Otherwise you've cleaned up nicely,
Eliza."

Her eyebrows rose fractionally.  "Thank you."

"You carry this," he handed her the storekeeper's bag, "and stay
close."

Turning the opposite way in the hall, he soon came to the
barber's back door.  Drawing the pistol from his waistband, he
edged the door open and stepped through it quickly, bent low,
eyes scanning the landscape rapidly, pistol thrust forward, free
hand holding the woman inside.

"It's clear!" he said in evident gratification.  "Take my hand
and come on."

She closed the door behind them and followed him out into the
narrow alley.  He led her along it quickly, watching the roof
soffits above them and pausing at each gap between buildings.
They saw no one else.  Passing behind the saloon, they heard a
woman or a child bawling inside.  Branden looked at Eliza
questioningly.  She shrugged.

He knocked with his pistol butt against a door in the last
building of the line.  It was attached to a fenced pasture in
which three horses stood with their mouths in the grass.  Tall
double doors within the fencing allowed horses in and out of the
pasture.

A man with a gray beard pulled the door inward and backed away,
wiping his hands on an apron.  He glanced once at the woman
without sign of recognition.  Branden hid his pistol, led her
inside and closed the door.  "You got them ready?" he asked.

"Yeah."  Gray beard looked down his nose at Eliza.  "You didn't
mention no woman.  Ain't got no side-saddle."

"She'll ride astride.  Through here?"

The man followed them out of the tackle room into a large
hay-floored area topped by a hayloft and lined with horse stalls.
Morning sunlight flooded in through air gaps under the front
roof.  Two horses, a large bay morgan and a gray-spotted
appaloosa mare, stood saddled in the open, reins tied to a
centerpost.  He led Eliza to the mare.

"Mount up so I can adjust your stirrups."

"I need riding breeches."

He grunted.  "Sorry.  You'll have to make do in a dress."

She bent forward, spreading her legs and thrusting her hands low
between them, pushing the long skirt high behind her.  Over her
shoulder to him she said, "Lift it up."

He cocked an eyebrow but obeyed her, taking the end of the cloth
in his hand and raising it up her back.  She reached over her
head and grasped the pommel of the western saddle with both
hands.  Her foot fumbled for the stirrup.  He aligned it and
slipped it under her boot.  She pulled herself up, throwing one
leg over the horse and falling into the saddle with practiced
grace.  Her skirt draped on the mare's hindquarters, riding up
her calves only to the boot tops.

He remarked, "I expect you're accustomed to the English saddle.
Can you manage a western?"

She shrugged.  "It's just larger."

He shortened the stirrups to fit her, looked up at her
thoughtfully, then took them up another pair of notches.  "That
should be more like English style."

"It is.  Thank you."

He untied her reins.  Passing them to her, he asked as a test,
"Do you need a curb bit?"

Her lip curled.  "A curb bit is cruel."

"I agree."  He turned to the liveryman.  "Did you get everything
I ordered?"

"Yeah.  All except the hat.  You didn't tell me a size."

"You got a boy's Stetson around here somewhere?"

"I might."

"Give it to me and add it to the bill."

Branden untied the morgan's reins and stood holding them until
the man returned, bearing a dirty tan hat.  Branden took it,
examined it with a grunt and passed it up to the woman.  "Try
that."

She wrinkled her nose at the stained sweatband but settled it
gingerly on her head and slipped the neckband under her chin.
"It'll do."

"What's the tab?" Branden asked the liveryman.

"You didn't say if you wanted to rent the mare."

Branden shook his head.  "I won't be coming back."

"Then with saddle and bedrolls, and ammunition and hardtack, and
the other --"

"Never mind an inventory.  How much?"

The man studied Branden and licked his lips.  "80 dollars," he
declared.

Branden chuckled grimly.  "That appaloosa had better be a
high-stepper."  He took a handful of gold coins from his pocket
and counted several into gray beard's hand.  "You got a bill of
sale?"

"Right here."  The man took a paper from his pocket.  "It's
signed.  You can fill in your name."

After scanning it, Branden stuck it in his own pocket.  "I want
to go out the back.  Open those doors and the fence gate."

Gray beard suddenly discovered his manners.  "Yes, sir."  He
flung the rear doors open and proceeded out into the pasture
while Branden mounted.

"Follow me," Branden told the woman, his knees urging the morgan
forward.  Ducking his head, he walked the horse into the bright
light, looking back to observe the woman's performance.  She
obeyed without difficulty.

The liveryman stood at the open gate but his face was turned to
something beyond the side of the building.  Branden drew his
pistol as he turned the horse toward the gate.  Rounding the
corner, he saw Gerry, bearing the grub kit, and behind him Bart,
the saloon keeper.

"Leaving us so soon, Mr. Branden?" asked Bart tauntingly.
"Williams, is he stealing them horses?"

Branden responded, "Both horses are mine.  The pistol is just a
precaution."  He returned the weapon to his waist band.  "Come
along, Lucy."

He pulled up just beyond the gate and extended his hand to Gerry,
who passed up the metal kit, now noticeably heavier.  The boy
whispered, "He followed me.  I couldn't stop him."

Branden tucked the kit between the pommel and his belly, then
threw two silver cartwheels toward the boy, who caught them
handily.  "I know you couldn't," he agreed.  Looking up to the
glaring saloon keeper, he said, "Well, a good day to you."

"Not so fast.  Where you going with my woman?"

Branden laughed.  "Where you'll never see her again."

"Damn your eyes!"  Bart gritted his teeth.  "Don't you know you
can't just come into town and steal a man's stock in trade?"

"Yes, I know that.  Don't you know that slavery was abolished in
this country 15 years ago?"

Bart's hand hovered over his holstered pistol.  He declared,
"Branden, you ain't gonna take that woman."

"Yes, I am, Bart.  Does this town have a doctor?  For your sake I
hope so, because you're going to need one bad a second after you
draw that Colt."

Bart hesitated.  "One shot and the sheriff's men will be here."

"They won't do *you* any good!  I won't kill you, Bart.  I'll
just shoot your balls off.  Think of it as a warning not to piss
in another woman's mouth."

Bart's eyes bulged from his head.  "Don't tell me where to piss!"
He snatched the pistol from its holster.

Branden's hand moved with the speed and precision of a striking
snake.  In a blink his revolver was aligned with the crouched
saloon keeper.  It crashed with an orange flare, filling the air
with blue smoke and reverberating echoes.  Both horses shied but
calmed under tightened reins.  The saloon keeper sagged to his
knees, pistol thrown aside, hands in his groin.  Mouth working,
he stared in horror at Branden.

"If you can't find a doctor," the mounted man shouted over the
ringing in all ears, "cover it with boiling pitch.  But get a
compress on it quick, before you bleed to death.  Come along,
Lucy.  We have a bit of a run before us.  Can you manage a
gallop?"

"Just lead on," she responded in her high voice, hunching over
the mare's mane.

He aimed his horse across a field planted in late corn and leaned
forward to urge it to speed.  Behind him the appaloosa's hoof
beats matched the morgan's pace.  He glanced back as they pounded
away and saw the liveryman bent over a prone Bart with Gerry
running toward the street.  The woman was also looking backward.
She faced forward with a grin of satisfaction.

He held the horses back to a canter and maintained it for a mile
and a half until they reached the foothills he had scouted on
first arrival.  Here on bare rock their dust cloud dissipated.
Rounding the hill he reined in his horse, extending a flattened
hand to instruct the woman likewise, and turned it to the rocky
slope.  Up the side of hill they went, both horses snorting for
breath, urged on by his knees and heels.  He was pleased to see
the woman maintaining the pace, her arm loose around the mare's
pitching neck, lips moving in verbal encouragement.

The slope eased as they neared the crest.  Keeping the grub kit
in one hand, he slipped off the back of his horse and led it into
a small depression between two house-sized boulders.  The
appaloosa followed.  "Dismount," he told the rider and took the
reins from her, laying the grub kit to one side.  "Fetch me that
big stone."

Straining, she brought a loose rock larger than her head to him
and obeying his gesture, dropped it on the gathered ends of both
reins.  "Will that hold them?" she asked doubtfully.

"Long enough," he answered shortly.  "Come on, but keep your head
down."

She followed him around one of the boulders to a narrow ridge.
"Take off your hat," he instructed her, "and keep your head low
enough to barely see."

"See what?"  But the hat came off.

She followed his example and raised her head slowly to peer over
the narrow ridge of rock.  Below them the little town was spread
out in the distance.  The sun was well clear of the opposite
hills.  It limned a fresh dust cloud just beginning to rise in
pursuit of the remains of their own.

"They're slow off the mark.  Bet they had to saddle their
horses."  He squinted.  "I make out ... five of them.  What's
your count?"

"Sorry.  I can't see any.  My distance vision isn't that good."

"Maybe your vision isn't."

"What do you mean?"

He turned to regard her.  "Eliza, damned few *men* could have
followed right behind me up that hill, especially on a strange
horse.  How in the *hell* did you ever end up fucking every hard
dick on top of a bar?"

At first she turned her face away from him.  When she looked
back, her eyes glinted.  "That appaloosa gets the credit for the
hill.  It was a woman's horse.  As for me, I'm a good mare, too."

"You mean you *like* that bar top?"

She sighed.  "I told you before, I didn't have a choice."

He shook his head.  "Whoever sold you *that* bill of goods was a
champion salesman."

"I thought of killing myself."

"Did you!"

"But I didn't for just one reason."  She looked away again.
"You're right:  I liked the attention."  She tilted her head
toward the approaching dust cloud.  "What will you do about
them?"

"It depends on what they do."  He backed away from the ridge.
She followed him around to the horses, now standing quieter.  He
rummaged in his saddle bag and came up with a box of rifle
ammunition, then lifted a Winchester lever-action from its long
holster behind the saddle.  Working the lever, he jacked a first
round into the breech.

He took his pistol from his waistband and extended it to her butt
first.  "This is easy to use.  All you do is pull back the
hammer, this tang right here, as far as it will go, point it and
pull the trigger."

She stared at him, hands remaining at her side.  "Why?"

"Just in case.  In case our horseshoes scraped a mark on the rock
and they notice it.  In case I don't kill all of them before they
kill me.  In case you'd rather kill or be killed than go back to
being a sex slave."

She shook her head.  "Whatever happens to me, I can't kill a man,
Branden."

"Yourself, then?"

She sighed.  "No.  The sheriff's office was full of guns."

He returned the weapon to his clothing.  "All right.  Hopefully
none of my cases will happen."

"Hopefully."  She stared at him with glistening eyes and added in
hardly more than a whisper, "Thank you, Mr. Branden."

"Call me Taylor, won't you?  You stay here with the horses.  Try
to keep them soothed.  We'll know in a minute what it's going to
be."

He disappeared around the boulder.  She freed the reins from
under her stone and wrapped them around her wrist.  She stood
between the horses, alternatingly rubbing a bay cheek, then a
white one, and began softly to sing a lullaby that her first pony
had loved 20 years before.  She heard a distant ringing of iron
horseshoes on rock and positioned her hands to block either
horse's nostrils in case the animal should want to call out to
its brethren below.  Neither did.  She remembered hearing that
only unaccompanied animals feel the need.

The distant hoof beats died away.  She waited tensely until
footfalls announced the man's approach.  He appeared around the
boulder and smiled at her.  "They rode on."

"Oh, how wonderful!" she breathed, daring to relax.

"We'll wait here a few minutes to let them get through the pass
up there, then we'll head out at right angles, which will get us
to the Larraby tomorrow."

"The Larraby?  That's a silver mine, isn't it?"

"Was.  But it has a water tower for the railroad.  We can catch
tomorrow's train."

He put the reins back under the stone and took up the grub kit.
"Hungry?"

"I'm starving!"

He grinned.  "A little fresh air is good for the appetite.  This
is for you."

"What about you?"

"I had breakfast before I came to the jail."

"Oh, god, Br-- Taylor.  You think of everything!"





	*  *  *  *



They rode north all day, trotting the horses in the flat valleys
and walking them over the ridges.  The woman followed close
behind the man without complaint.  The sun was low when they came
to a small wooded dell with a brook winding through it.  Branden
paused to study the lay of the land, then announced that they
would camp there.  He set about unsaddling the horses but kept
them bridled and tied to a tree on long leads within reach of the
water.  When he returned to the woman, he found that she had
gathered and stacked dead wood creditably over tinder for a fire
and was waiting with a lucifer from their saddle bags.

He looked over her work and said, "Go ahead.  Where did you learn
to do that, Eliza?"

"My father taught me.  He and I were very close."  She struck the
match on her boot sole and lit the edges of the tinder.

When the fire was well started, she said, "I need to relieve
myself."

He tilted his head.  "Squat over the stream."

An eyebrow rose.  "Shall I have no privacy?"

"I should tell you:  I was at the other end of the bar last night
when you called 'free pussy.'  But that's not it.  These hills
harbor cougar that prey on the elk and deer.  You need to stay
close to me, if you won't have my gun."

She cocked her head.  "Did you ... take me last night?"

"No.  I have never had that pleasure."

She chose a narrow spot in the brook and squatted with a boot on
either side, her skirt about her waist.  She sighed in relief.
He stared at her frankly.

Her eyes glinted up at him.  "I guess you never will get an eye
full."

"Probably not, Eliza."  He came around her and straddled the
brook just downstream.  She heard his own release.

Wiping herself on the lining of her skirt, she began, "When will
you tell me --"  But he turned away and took cans and grub kits
from their saddle bags.  She watched him opening a can of beef
stew and one of beans.  At his direction she filled the coffee
pot from the stream and set it in the flames.  Shortly they were
able to sit beside each other near the fire and eat their suppers
as dusk fell on their campsite.

She said thoughtfully around her mouthfuls of food, "Taylor, you
are a most unusual man.  I've seen a lot of men, men of all
kinds, high and low, but I don't think I've ever seen the likes
of you."

He chuckled dryly.  "When an experienced ... courtesan tells a
man he's unique, I suppose he should take it seriously."

"'Courtesan?'  Call me what I am, Taylor."

He shook his head.  "You're not even a courtesan now, Eliza.
You're a lady again."

"But I'm the same woman."

"No, you aren't.  As I told the barber, you're with me now."

"I'm *your* woman?"

"In a sense, a very fundamental sense, yes, you are.  For the
next two months."

"Two months!  What happens after that?"

"Three or four things.  You'll be released from the sanitarium,
hopefully cured of any dependence on whisky and stray dicks,
though that part is mainly up to you.  Also, you'll be free of
me, which other women have on occasion called a consummation
devoutly to be wished.  Third, your brother-in-law will be
elected the territory's first governor.  Or he will not.  If the
voters do approve him, you will be given the signature card for a
St. Louis bank account containing 100,000 dollars as payment for
your absence from the governor's life.  He hopes you'll go to
Vienna, as you said you wanted when you were young."

Her eyes had widened.  "Good god!  So that's what you meant by
'not shameful to me.'"

"Actually I meant, with that warrant against you quashed, which
it is, and you removed from your bar top, which you are, you
would cease to be a matter of real and potential shame to your
sister and her husband."

He chewed for awhile before continuing, "In fact we didn't know
about your bar top exercises, only that you were working in a
saloon in Redpath.  But I had followed some of your career with
your humbugger -- did you know the sheriff in Dodge considers you
a suspect in that murder, too?"

"I didn't kill him!"

"No, I'm confident you didn't.  But when I got here three days
ago, I realized just how infamous you might become if word got
out about your life here.  And it well might.  Redpath does have
a telegraph operator, when he gets his fist on the right
instrument.  I saw him fucking you last night.

"That's why I couldn't simply blaze our way out of Redpath.  It's
too bad Bart lost his nuts, but given the squeamishness of the
newspapers, that may go unreported.  At least the reason for the
gunfight shouldn't be given.  Fortunately I didn't have to kill
that posse.  *Five* dead could never be ignored!"

She thought over his words.  "Freddy hired you?"

"Yes.  I used to work for Pinkerton.  Before that I was a U. S.
Marshall.  I've kept my badge.  It's come in handy once or
twice."

"Freddy!"

"He said you hated his guts."

"With reason.  *He* killed my husband."

Branden raised a hand.  "I didn't hear that.  Don't say it
again."

"Is that a threat, Mr. Branden?"

He took a breath.  "Eliza, you need to understand your
circumstances exactly.  My mission, the minimum requirement, was
only to make certain that you could never be a threat to
Frederick Mittel's political career, if he should actually have
one.  For this I have been paid $100,000 in advance with a second
100,000 promised if Mittel is elected.  Do you understand all
that this means?"

"Yes, I understand," she agreed bitterly.  "Killing me and hiding
my body would discharge your obligation neatly."  Ceasing to
chew, she stared at him for a long time.  "But nevertheless
you've risked your life for me?  And plan to give me your bonus?"

His eyes were level on hers.  "No.  Mittel will pay your 100,000
separately.  I made him agree to it."

"But why?"

He took a deep breath but didn't reply.

"Why would you do so much for the most common whore in the west?"

He stared at her and finally looked away before muttering, "I
hate to clean grub kits."

"Do you!"

"Yes.  Take care of them, will you?"  He put his down, got to his
feet and went to open the two bedrolls by firelight, laying them
side by side in the thickest grass.

She hung the clean kits on a bush to dry, then came and stood
before him where he sat cross-legged between the two sets of
blankets.  "What else can I do for you?"

He looked up solemnly.  "Take off your clothes."

"My ... clothes?"

"All of them."  He got to his feet, went to the saddle bags and
returned to her with a small glass jar.  She was just stepping
out of her bloomers, having laid dress, petticoat and camisole
neatly on the grass.  The new boots stood behind her.

She turned to him naked, her face expressionless.  "How do you
want me to lie?"

"I don't."  He unscrewed the lid of the jar.

"What's that," she asked, "another Indian remedy?"

"Exactly.  It's for cuts and abrasions.  Heals them without
infections."

He smeared her body liberally with the white salve, which
vanished when rubbed into the skin.

She made a face.  "Yuck!  It has the odor of mold."

"But it works.  The smell soon goes away.  Your sores look a lot
better tonight than they did this morning.  The hot bath was good
for them."

"Yes, it was.  Thank you.  Ooo!  That tickles."

"Sorry.  How did you get this scar?"

"Which one?  Oh.  Bart did that."

"How?"

"He was ... pushing a lamp chimney into me when it broke."

"Bart will have one, too, larger but in about the same place.  In
his case I am beginning to regret not aiming higher."

Her voice grew hard.  "No, you took the right revenge.  I'm sorry
I won't be around to remind him of it."

"Vindictive, are you, Eliza?"

"I suppose I am.  But I can also be grateful.  Take off your
clothes, too."

"Eliza, you have abrasions on your labia.  I put the salve on
them, but they need to rest."

"So?  I know other ways to please a man."

He sealed the jar, reached down for a blanket and wrapped her in
it.  "The evaporating salve will make you cold.  I'm going to
check the horses and look around.  When I come back, I'll take
off my clothes.  Spread another blanket over yours so the dew
won't wet them."





	*  *  *  *



"My god, Eliza!  You can have no conception of what this means to
me."

He lay naked on his back, head propped up by an elbow.  The woman
bent over his midsection, her scabbed breasts jiggling in the
firelight as her head rose and fell.  He pushed her loosened hair
back over her shoulder to allow himself a clear view of the lips
shaping themselves tightly around his turgid member.

She released him long enough to say, "So tell me what it means."
She re-enclosed the knob and tongued it roughly.  Slowly her face
sank until he felt the compression at the back of her throat.

"You are 34 years old," he explained almost dreamily.  "14 years
ago you were engaged to be married to Jason Eberly, a dashing
fellow just home from the war.  You were to be a June bride, but
you wanted to graduate from the Somerville Ladies' Academy and
needed a tutor to help you catch up with all the classes you had
missed in your whirlwind romance with Lt. Eberly, the great war
hero.  My father, Professor Eldred Branden, was the tutor your
father hired.  I drove my father, whom you may recall had lost a
leg, to your mansion every weekday for two months.  In the warmth
of May you persuaded him to teach you outside.  I stood day after
day beside my horses, watching nothing but your breathtaking
beauty.  You usually sat with Father in your arbor swing, but on
a few days of splendor you sat with him on the marble bench next
to the drive, not six feet away from me.  Do you recall the
low-cut summer gowns you wore?  I do:  every stitch of them, and
every square inch of the perfect skin of your shoulders and upper
breasts -- and the hollow between them visible when I stood
behind you.

"I listened to your high voice recite as father directed and
watched your full lips conform to the words.  I dreamed of you in
my arms, of kissing your breasts.  I pumped the seed from myself
every night for months, imagining your lips on mine, your body
submitting to me as I submitted to you.  But of course any
designs I may have formed to achieve that were dashed from the
start.  In due course you married the famous hero and I ran away
to the west.

"I thought I might hope to feel your nipple hanging in my palm as
it does now, but I never in my wildest dreams imagined seeing the
lovely lips that shaped the words of Tennyson and Swinburne
conform instead to the shape of my dick, to feel the head of it
in the back of your throat.  To release ... my seed -- oh, god! --
past your trilling tongue instead of your cunt lips.  Aaah! ...
Eliza, I don't care how many others have been here before me, how
much spunk you have swallowed, tonight you are mine and I am
yours, however briefly that may be so."

She did not rise up immediately.  Instead she simply held him
loosely against her palate until he began to shrink.  When at
last her face turned up to him, no sign of his emission was
visible anywhere.

"I did see you beside that surrey," she reflected.  "I remember
you.  I remember wondering if your father might have been
handsome as you when he was young."

He smiled.  "Do you!"

"I had a terrible crush on your father.  *He* was the one I
dreamed about in my bed those last weeks.  My finger was busy,
wishing it were *his* finger!"

"What?  But you were about to marry --"

"I hated Jason Eberly.  It was my father that loved him!  Jason
had already raped me while he was home on leave to recover from
that silly wound of his leg that everyone whispered he caused
deliberately.  He didn't care for me either and only agreed to
the marriage because my sister had witnessed the rape -- and
because my father was rich, of course.  But so was his.

"It was *your* father I loved!  The kindest, sweetest, most
patient man I ever knew.  You have some of his qualities,
Taylor."  She cocked her head.  "But you don't resemble him."

"I take after my mother's family."

"Well!"  She regarded him with amusement.  "So when you finally
realize your dream, it is in my mouth.  How ironic!  Your father
also put things in my mouth, be they only words."  She giggled.
"In those days I had never so much as *heard* of sucking a dick!"

After a pause she added, "But I offered you the other."  She
shrugged.  "Now I know men well in every part of my body."

"So I understand," he agreed dryly.

She smiled wanly.  "You've rescued me from ... something I'd
rather forget.  This is the first time since I fled Jason's
vengeful family that I can look forward with hope.  For your sake
I wish I could again be the relatively innocent girl of 20 you
loved in my father's garden, but all of that is long gone:
father, garden and girl.  As I told you this morning, you can't
scrub away the penises.  Still, it has a bright side."

"I don't see it."

"What I just did for you -- would you say it was well done?"

"Huh!  No one -- and believe me the best have tried -- ever
sucked my dick better.  I especially enjoyed your ... lingering
after."

"How do you think I learned to do it so well?"

He cleared his throat.  "You do have a point."

She took a blanket from the roll at his feet, lay down beside him
and spread it over them both.  She laid her head on his shoulder,
breast on his side, and lightly stroked the scar on his chest.
Her hair glistened in the dying firelight.

She mused, "How long will it take my vagina to heal?"

He chuckled.  "That's for you to say.  But let's at least give it
a night's rest."

A bit later she murmured, "It's Friday, isn't it?"

"Yes.  Thinking of the saloon?"

She shivered.

"Want to go back?"

"No."  She strengthened her voice.  "I want to go with you."

"That you will.  For the next week the only way you can get away
from me is to kill me."

"And after a week?"

"Then you'll rest in the sanitarium."

"Without you?"

"After a week you'll grow tired of me, Eliza."

"You think I will, eh?"

"Most do."

"Did you never marry, Taylor?"

"Never.  What are you doing?"

"Just checking.  This bag was truly full."

"When I'm on a mission, I do without."

"Not on this mission, you won't.  We have two dreams to fulfill."



END

Copyright (C) 2000, Kellis

Stories at http://www.dhp.com/files/Authors/kellis/www

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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