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Karen Jones in A Red Dead Redemption 2 Prequel.	By : Nickamano Category: +M through R > Red Dead Redemption Views: 3084 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Red Dead Redemption 2, nor the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
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The three-week search for Flaco Hernandez and his gang concluded in success. Though compared with their relative ease with Emmet Granger, convincing the Mexican murderer, outlaw and bank and train robber would be far from a simple task.
DB and Karen headed south from Grizzles West in the direction of Blackwater, pursuing a rumour of sightings of Flaco Hernandez and his gang of marauders. The Blackwater Sheriff and his deputies were certainly riled up, however there was nothing concrete. Just a gang of riders that resembled Mexicans had been seen riding through the vicinity.
It was a week of hot, dry weather that made riding difficult for both humans and horses and their progress was poor. After a couple of days DB decided that sleeping throughout the day and riding overnight would be a better prospect and far more comfortable.
So, their first day-camp was a small abandoned domicile a mile or so southwest of Cattail Pond, on the other side of a shallow hill that formed one side of the hollow the Pond rested in. The tin roofed building was apparently deserted, situated in a valley of rocky land away from just about any human used trails, so there was barely any chance of their being discovered.
The building was odd, resembling a barn from end to end with large doors on the east and west sides, while the north and south walls featured normal domicile doors. It was also a strange layout inside, as though it had started life as a stable though had been converted into a living and sleeping space for humans.
DB and Karen set up their little camp inside the building and Karen remained outside and made sure the horses were safe until they could be brough in too. They removed the animal’s saddles, yet secured them with long coils of rope that they found in the building. The ropes allowed them to wander and graze, without straying too far. Though Karen had fed them horse meal and oatcakes from DB’s saddle bags while she brushed their coats clean, there was also plenty of patchy grass for them to work through. There was also a shallow rocky stream that ran down the hillside from the Pond that in turn flowed into a larger stream, emerging somewhere by the railway track that cut its south-westerly line beneath them. Though only a tiny stream, it was enough for the horses to drink from. By the looks of the multitude of animal tracks in the mud along its banks, it was a safe source of water for the local wildlife too. There were even shoeless, therefore wild, horse tracks by the dozen. As well as the usual sheep, deer and elk, squirrel, rabbit and fox prints.
When she came back into the building, Karen took her first proper look around. The east and west ends with their oversize doors were large spaces which might, once they had had their fill of grass and water, house the horses. The middle section was divided by thin fencelike walls into a living area with a fire, two sleeping areas and a kitchen with a stove. Each partitioned room was bare, other than the soot-blackened stove, the brick work of an old fireplace and chimney, and a single skeletal wooden shelving arrangement in one corner of the kitchen. It didn’t matter very much; they would only be staying for a single day.
DB arranged a cold meal of salted venison, bread and honey, and a box of Hedley Baking Company biscuits. Best of all at least as far as Karen was concerned was washing all down with a bottle of strong rum, all the way from Guama no less.
Afterwards, while Karen walked the fed and watered horses into the building to wait out the day out of sight, DB stretched out in one of the bedrooms with his bedroll and his saddle as a pillow. Karen made her bed just like his, but she was far too wide awake to sleep. At first the rum had her all electrically charged and her body tingling, her loins thrumming. She looked over at DB, thinking of fucking him for an hour, perhaps wear herself out, burn off some of this pent-up erotic steam. However, she noted that he was already asleep and beginning to snoring quietly. It was common knowledge soldiers always ate and slept whenever they got the chance to, the ex-Major would no doubt have developed the ability to put his head down whenever and fall straight to sleep.
She could already feel how hot it was. She was sweating profusely in her dress, even when she shuffled out of it intending to sleep in her chemise and drawers, there didn’t seem to be any respite. The tin roof seemed to absorb the sun’s rays and blast them down onto her from above. It felt like being in an oven. She lay there sweating, unable to relax let alone sleep. Before long, her thoughts meandered back over their journey in the rising dawn and the beauty of Cattail Pond, as it was painted in the first pale colours of the dawn, that mystical dew-laden mist lying over the still water. It called to her until she couldn’t ignore that insistent desire any longer.
Checking on DB one final time, she quietly slid into her dress, pocketed her Cattleman and some spare shells, and then slipped out of the building without waking DB or disturbing the horses.
It was a pleasant meandering stroll back the way they had come with the morning sun blazing down, a light cooling breeze caressing her, birds singing in the trees and no human around to darken the mood.
As the sun reached its mid-morning position, Karen crested the small rise of rock and shrubs and found herself looking down across the expanse of Cattail Pond again. She was on its west bank. On the far side there were a couple of deer drinking from the clear water, an elk swimming across its middle, away from her while ducks and other birds sat dotted around, both in the water and on the banks.
She stepped quietly and carefully down to the bank, where a couple of fallen logs lay, half on the bank and half in the shallows. She chose one of the logs and, hoisting up her skirts, started to work on the lacings of her boots. The swish and crumple of the fabrics of her dress and the squeak of the leather of her boots sounded loud and alien beside the trickle of water and the breeze rustling the tree foliage and birdsong.
After spending a few minutes splashing her bare feet in the water Karen rose, hurried over to a nearby tree and stripped quickly, hanging her dress and underclothes on a low branch. She skipped naked into the cooling waters of the pond. She was aware of how she would look to someone watching her in her shapely naked splendour, a pale skinned golden haired hourglass shape in the clear pool, bombastic and alluring.
She splashed through the water, fighting her way through the shallows toward the deepness of the pool's middle, half running half skipping against the weight and pressure of the water around her knees, and then her thighs. Her full breasts leaped vigorously, swinging up down and around. Her youthfully taut flesh, tight against the curves of muscle beneath due to the bracing cold, felt heavenly in the heat of the beating sun and flexed through the flushed pink of her skin. Her hair, already darkened and dampened by sweat, whipped out behind her, partly by a sudden gust of wind and partly with the urgency of her forward motion.
Her forceful movement through the water caused little splashes that erupted up over her naked skin. The sensations of the swelling, splashing water was sweet but the noise of it was annoying. The droplets remaining after each splash looked like little gemstones glinting in the sun, little cut diamonds adhered to her smooth nakedness, each containing a miniature reflection of herself, the sky and the glorious cool water surrounding her.
There was no distinct tide, but the water flowed into the pool from the north and ran out to the south so there was a tide-like movement that pulled at her. It made progress and keeping herself upright difficult. Her rounded thighs, encircled by the coldness of the water, flexed with the effort of her wading. Her flat stomach, tightening with that same effort, while her arms pumped and flailed, pushing her through while keeping her balanced.
In a few years, once she had passed the vitality of youth, she might find herself on the heavy side. Back in Annesburg before DB, she had found herself gaining weight the more she drank, and if she was honest at the present, she drank more than she ate.
Drinking to forget her problems had been more important than getting a square meal into her belly each day. She hadn’t cared about her weight gain then but she had noticed it. Still, she was a long way from fat. Just that if she carried on the way she was, in a decade or more she might start to struggle a little to remain smooth, supple and slender.
Submerging herself, it felt like the filthy sweat and grime was floating free of her body, disappearing into the depths and leaving her fresh and clean, perhaps even devoid of sin, she thought, smirking.
She swam in broad circles with just her head above the water, trying to make as little splash as possible and enjoying the water’s cold touch caressing her hot flesh. She almost felt a part of what surrounded her, connected to the world, as if she belonged there. It was something she could not remember having ever felt before and she found herself wondering if it was this feeling that urged those wild men, the trappers and the hermits, to take on their lifestyle away from civilisation. Living off the land, men who were little more than a wild animals themselves. And in that moment, Karen felt as though she could almost appreciate it. Almost.
She eventually grew tired and cold and swam to the shore, disturbing a flock of ducks and a couple of geese as she emerged, dripping, her sun-kissed flesh glowing like liquid gold from the water and the high sun.
A little way along the southwestern bank from where her clothes were hanging, there was a large, smooth rock, its flat surface angled like a wedge of cheese and perfectly aligned with the beat of the hot sun. Brushing away a few loose stones and ignoring the moss and dried bird shit, Karen pulled herself up onto the rock and lay down on her back, her eyes closed, body angled toward the sun, like some sacrificial pagan offering. The warmth of the sun and the rock against her cool skin felt good. The baking heat soon dried her smooth flesh after only a few minutes, and she turned and gave her back the same treatment. Once she felt the wetness of the pond beginning to turn into the salty dampness of fresh sweat, she rose and dressed herself.
It was only afterwards that she realised how trusting of the fates she had been. Having left her Cattleman in her dress pocket out of reach and there being a trail, used perhaps rarely but still used, she could easily have been caught out and found herself having to entertain the sordid lusts of some random man or men. If she was lucky. And all because she had left her revolver out of reach. She would have to remember that lesson. And be thankful that she had not been made to learn it the hard way, underneath some rutting rapist’s brutal humping loins.
After dressing and checking her revolver, Karen decided to explore a little around the land surrounding the pool. There wasn’t much, a gently sloping ground of rock and dirt with a layer of grass and random patches of trees and shrubs dotted about. However, a sudden rise to the northwest of the trail and the downflowing stream, caught her attention and her interest and she scaled the steepening slope until the risen blemish in the smooth undulating ground was right before her. She started clambering up its rocky side to satisfy a mild curiosity.
Within only a few minutes of this idle exploration, Karen found a little cave-like hollow. It was formed from the outhouse-sized interior space, within a cluster of large wind-smoothed boulders, even having a dolmen-like flat capstone covering the arrangement and protecting the impromptu cave from the elements. The pale stone exterior was flecked with moss and wind-blown dirt which filled and smoothed out the little curved triangles of negative space where rock met rock. And a number of small ferns had rooted in those triangular holes, masquerading the arrangement and its hollow interior even more completely. There was a narrow, horizontal gap between two of these rocks, behind the trunk of the thickest of the trees growing from it, that provided an entrance to the cave itself. It was a snug fit.
The interior was dim. However, there was enough illumination from the sun, possibly by this time it could be close to noon, that leaked into the hollow. It seeped in through little gaps between fallen in and locked together boulders, and also bled through where moss and roots had pushed through a number of those gaps, offering a pleasant emerald hue to the quality of the meagre light that filled the void. The floor was of loose earth, some rotten leaves, no doubt blown in through the cave entrance.
However, a man was present too. Or at least the corpse of a man. He was sitting, slouched against the wall of the cave with his legs spread out before him and his skeletal head bent so his chin almost touched his sternum. A tan slouch hat held whisps of straggly grey-blond hair under the brim. The rest of the skeleton’s coverings were little more than scraps of rotten flesh and fabric, hanging from mottled browned and yellowed bones. At least, that was how it looked in the low light. And other than a softly musty smell of rotten vegetation, there was a low residual aroma of rotted meat, but it was nowhere near as vile or as strong as Karen would have expected.
But it was the two other items around the man that interested her the most. There was a watch chain linking the two halves of the open vest which might be worth a few coppers, and there was a simple pistol belt and holster just about visible on the far side of him, belted to his right hip above tan coloured though rotted and holed canvas trousers. The primary item of real interest lay between the bones of his lower legs. Holed leather boots covering his feet and the lower part of his shins flanked a pair of saddlebags that did not appear empty. Karen grabbed the top strap and hauled them over to her, dislocating his left leg and dragging it awkwardly over the earth. She pulled the saddle bags into the improved light at the mouth of the little cave where she squatted.
The flaps of the bags were sealed with leather thongs but they were easy enough to open. There was more of that rotten vegetable smell within and rather than dipping into the shadowed funk of its contents with her clean hands, she decided to tip the bags upside down, dumping the innards onto the ground. There she would search through them with a little twig from the tree trunk behind her, that had constantly been trying to prod her in the ear.
There were some letters, the handwriting and some of the words looked French to Karen. She found a pouch of tobacco and a clay pipe to go with it, some salted meat that was little more than putrid mush, a small jar of offal, the thought of which turned her stomach just as much as the rotten meat. A few items of clothing were rolled up, a pair of trousers and shirt and a neckerchief. There was a small carboard box of tarnished paper cartridges, the paper mostly rotted away and the bullets and black powder within spilled out all over the place. There was also a book-sized canvas parcel which had weight and bulk to it, and a hopeful metallic tinkle. It was secured by another thong of leather which she teased apart and then unrolled the rectangle of mouldy canvas onto the floor of the cave. The contents twinkled in the daylight seeping through the entrance.
There wasn’t a lot to sort through, and it was a mish-mash of items. But some of it was useful and one or two pieces could constitute as treasure. There was an old spy glass, though the large lens was cracked right across its circumference. There was about a dozen silver-dollar coins that dated back to the civil war, though they should still be legal tender. There were a couple of necklaces, pearls, a leather pendant with a gold locket suspended from it, a ribbon with a brooch pinned to it. There was also a half dozen gold and silver rings, a pair of pearl earrings and a couple of silver-plated belt buckles. There was also an honest-to-God gold nugget the size of a revolver cylinder. That find had Karen shivering with excitement and giggling under her breath. She hurriedly tied up the bundle and slipped it into her dress pocket.
Finally, she performed a quick, as it was so unpleasant, search of the body’s pockets and belt. She found a few more coins. The pocket watch on its chain appeared silver. A small pouch on the pistol belt contained more paper cartridges. The revolver was an old cap and ball pistol. A Duke ‘Navy’ that, again, dated back to the civil war. These days, more or less obsolete. At least from a point of view of modern advances and the metallic cartridge. She smirked at the realisation that she was starting to sound like DB.
The revolver seemed in reasonable condition, a little dull and tarnished, worn in places. The ‘Duke’ emblem on the cylinder was worn almost smooth. The grips, well-shaped and fitted, were of old ivory, dirtied and worn and aged down to an attractive dull amber. This old timer must have kept it on from the war. It had probably saved his life more than once and bought his loyalty because of that. It wasn’t of any use to Karen. Maybe DB would enjoy it? No, probably not. A perfect condition, unblemished and unfired model maybe. Besides, if she gave him the gun as a gift, she would have to explain where she got it and then he might be suspicious of what else of interest she might have discovered. And she wasn’t sure how convincing a liar she could be when it came to someone like DB, with his experience and his writer’s mind.
She took the small bag of loot and left the revolver behind and returned to the cabin-come-stable in the late afternoon. BD was up and making coffee over a little fire in the hearth of the cabin’s living area.
“I was starting to think you had abandoned me.”
He said it casually and barely glanced up at her. Though Karen did notice his hand slip down to his holster and reapply the leather loop over the hammer spur of his Cattleman. Resecuring it.
“I couldn’t sleep in this heat. Went for a swim in that pond a mile or so back. Fell asleep.”
“All refreshed?”
“And clean, and smelling of roses.”
DB grinned, looking her up and down.
“Would have liked to have seen that. I would have enjoyed the view.”
Karen shrugged.
“I know the agreement. You can fuck me whenever and however you want. Right now, if that’s what you’re after.”
Of course, him screwing her would surely drive any potential questions out of his mind. However, he didn’t seem to be in the mood. Karen shrugged again and went over to her already saddled horse. Surreptitiously drawing her new found treasures from her skirt pocket.
Within another couple of hours, the sun had crept down behind the westerly mountains and having enjoyed another leisurely meal of cold meat, tinned fruit and hot coffee, though Karen instead drank more of the rum, they collapsed their camp, saddled their horses and rode out in the dusk, continuing their journey south toward the trainline at Riggs Station.
<><><>
Esteban Ortega, galloping along at the back of the bandit gang cast his sand-flustered gaze across the backs of his compadres, those, including himself, being the ten members of Flaco Hernandez’ gang of outlaws. They were Pandilla Salvaje, they were the law unto themselves. They did whatever came naturally. Robbery, murder, raping, rustling, whatever took their fancy. Whatever felt like fun. They were all the same, these ten. All with pain in their pasts, all with scores to settle, or murder in their hearts, often against Yankees, settlers, the law, the military, sometimes simply the rich.
There was Eleuteri the Bastard, with his head covered by a patterned bandana, large yellow leather chaps matching the hide vest that he wore over his bare, hairy chest. His gun belt, holstered reversed so the grips of his twin LeMats thrust forward, was of brown leather and decorated with extravagant tooling and polished tin rivets that twinkled under the sun like silver. His mother had been Italian, hence the Italian name. His older sister by his father’s previous marriage, had been wed to a Yankee cattle Baron over the border in Nuevo Paraiso. Within only a year of the wedding day she had been abused, tortured, forcedly whored out and then murdered, all for fun. Allegedly because she hadn’t been able to give her husband a son. Eleuteri’s family had sworn revenge, and they had taken it. Though, now Eleuteri was the last living family member. And though the cattle Baron and his sons were all dead, Eleuteri had a price on his head throughout numerous states on both sides of the border, and a death-wish to go with it.
Muerte, had been a gambler who had gambled away his wife in a game of poker to a Yankee Captain. The cavalry Captain was killed in Muerte’s attempt to get her back, and he got his wife killed in the process. The Cavalry arrested and sentenced Muerte to hang for multiple murders but he escaped. Now he has a price on his head and simply lives to kill Americanos. Which Esteban assumed was the reason for his nickname.
Jaime and Farkas had been comrades in the Mexican army. And during a number of border disputes had seen one too many of their comrades captured or killed by Yankee soldiers. They had ridden across the border to kill guerrilla style, purely out of revenge. After each killing, they would slip back into the mountains, to hide and evade the Yankees in any one of a thousand hiding places. They had never given up their fight. For them their border war was still ongoing. Though any and all Americans were the enemy, they tended to only kill the men. Raping Yankee women and making their children fatherless was apparently vengeance enough.
Ramos had been the son of a farmer who had always hated the lifestyle and prayed for the excitement of the outlaw life. He had been jailed for some drunken misdemeanour and just happened to be in a jail that housed one of Flaco’s men, who had since been killed in a bank job. When Hernandez’s gang had arrived to free their man, Ramos had managed to flee at the same time and even killed the leader of the Federales who had cornered the bandits in the town. Flaco, whose life had been saved by Ramos’ actions had given they boy first dibs on the Federale officer’s wife when the gang raided his house later that night.
Emilio had one day fallen from grace by forcing himself on his older brother’s beautiful wife. She had been an obsession for months before and after the wedding, and once when he had found himself left alone with her for an afternoon, he had snapped. It had been a violent and gleeful afternoon for Emilio. Afterwards, he had escaped the wrath of his brother, father and father-in-law by escaping across the border. There he had accidentally fallen in with Flaco, who had been in a shoot-out with Pinkerton agents in a border town. Emilio, seeing his country men attacked by Yankees, had slipped in behind the agents, doused them with paraffin oil and set them alight. His actions had earned Flaco’s respect and immediate membership into the gang. On Flaco’s urging, Emilio had gone back for his sister-in-law to extract revenge. And along with the gang they had all enjoyed her one after the other, leaving her bloody, scarred and broken. That had been quite the fiesta. Then they had burned down his brother’s business, all while he and the other men had been out searching for Emilio.
Gonzales was in it for the women. Pure and simple. He raped at every opportunity and spent all of his loot on whores wherever he found them. Esteban knew almost nothing about the young man’s past, only that he had been brought up in a convent, having been left on its doorstep.
Consuela, the lone female member, was beautiful as a snow-white mare and yet as tough as an enraged bull. A stone killer, even if she didn’t have the personal protection of Flaco himself, the rest of the gang would have been hard pressed to get the better of her long enough to take her, though everyone wanted to pretty much all the time. She had started out as a member of another gang. Forced into the life at an early age, Flaco had killed all but her, and taken her for his own. However, he had been so impressed with her that he had promoted her to membership in the gang rather than just their whore. Everyone in the gang had fucked her in the past, once or twice, but now she alone got to choose who she would allow between her thighs. Other than Flaco, of course. She was still subordinate to him and still obediently drained his balls when he demanded it.
She was up at the front now, galloping alongside Flaco. Her long, glossy black hair was flying in the wind, whipping violently behind her. No doubt, her huge tits would be swinging all over the place, unrestrained inside her simple linen blouse. She wore tight brown leather pants with black chaps over them. And she used a Schofield six gun holstered at the small of her back, and always a pair of sawn-off scatterguns, strapped to her smooth, well-toned thighs. A bandolier of scattergun shells separated those mouth-watering breasts and pressed her blouse snugly against her bosom.
Esteban watched her lustfully for a couple of minutes. The way her firm plentiful buttocks, tightly encased in their brown leather trousers, were bouncing rhythmically up and down on the Mexican style saddle. He pictured himself in place of the saddle. Damn, that would be so fine. That glorious ass slapping rapidly up and down on his hard meat, gripping him tightly with her internal muscles while they moaned and wailed noisily in mutual passion.
Esteban dragged his attention away from the delicious form of Consuela-Marie Gomez, regretting it even as he succeeded. He needed his focus to be on the job. There would be men with guns, passengers as well as guards. The passengers were usually the hardest to deal with, they put up the pretence of fear and then drew on you, often small derringers from hidden pockets or a full-bore pistol from beneath a coat. Plus, there were numerous prospective gunmen per car and he only had his converted cartridge Navy and a single pair of eyes. So, he could definitely do without the distraction of that mouth-watering body.
Instead, he drew his attention to the trail. They were riding along a narrow path down a shallow incline, with a wall of craggy granite to their left and a sloping, tree-dotted rocky expanse to their right. Plus, they could see the approaching trail of grey-white through the trees ahead of them, coming from the steam train’s smokestack, bright against the overcast gunmetal sky.
The train came into view, the tracks cutting a square through the cliff side. But the land opened up where they were. They raced at full gallop down the slope, spread out and racing in a loose line, a minor avalanche of man and beast. They steered their horses to the right until they were galloping alongside the train cars, just barely keeping pace.
A heartbeat later, on Flaco’s bellowed signal, they began to leap from their saddles onto the train. They either aimed for the roof, where a brass railing ran along its edge, or onto the railed balcony-like ends of each car where the couplers were located. Transporting themselves from racing animal to racing contraption came as a scattered wave.
Beautiful Consuela, fierce and fearless, was first. She kicked out of her stirrups, brought her feet up onto the saddle and then launched herself sideways, kicking off from the moulded leather and grabbing the railing at the front of one of the forward cars. Flaco followed her, grabbing the railing at the roof and then going hand over hand until he caught up. Three of the others took the other end of the car, leaping across the gap, though one of them was obviously hesitant and another almost missed grabbing the roof railing.
That was half their number successfully on board. The plan was to have half up front heading aft, and the other half to the rear heading forward. So that when they met in the middle, they would have covered everyone on the train.
Esteban steered his horse as close to the train as it would let him, waiting with his heart hammering until the animal took him as far as to the rear balcony of the second to last car. It should have been the last, but they were in a hurry and slowing his horse to allow the train to catch up, then getting it up to speed again to put himself close enough to jump onboard, all would cost time.
He kicked his feet out of the stirrups and reached, one handed, for one of the rails surrounding the rear of the car. Grabbing it, he lifted his legs clear of the horse’s flanks while he held on for dear life. For a moment, he flailed with his other hand, desperate to consolidate his grip on the bars. To make matters worse, he couldn’t find anywhere to put his feet.
The wheels were far too close. They were solid, heavy steel and spinning far too fast for comfort. His heart leaped into his throat as his sweat made the single grip slippery and he felt his hand sliding down the vertical railing. But he lashed out with his other hand, crying out in desperation as he grabbed for the metal shaft. His hand found the life-saving tube of the railing and the sensation of security was alike a tidal wave of relief. All at once, as his other hand found purchase and stabilised him, his feet automatically came up to find the floor plate of the train car, locking into place beside the balcony’s rails. Once his position was secure and his pounding heart back down to a tolerable pace, he pulled himself over the railing.
Immediately there was a chorus of chaos that enveloped him. There was a crack from somewhere to his right, inside the second to last car. Splinters of smashed wood flew past his vision. The crack was overlapped by a deafening boom and a burst of white powder smoke appeared in the rear car to his left. A second boom overlapped the first. This one, again came from the left, from within the rear car.
Even as a cloud of smoke billowed toward him, a shadow dropped from above, nearly giving Esteban a heart attack. In the seconds that followed he belatedly registered that the crack had been a pistol shot from a guard in the second to last, and the two booms had been shotguns going off from his left, filling the rear car with blinding smoke. While, the descending shadow turned out to be Ramos, here to back him up. They peered forward into the gloom of the second to last car, but there was no sign of any guard. They could go forward immediately, putting two guns to their backs or they could go aft first and kill those two last men with their shotguns.
Ramos snapped a curse as he ducked back in response to the second shotgun blast, but now he laughed, seemingly infected by nervous excitement. Esteban didn’t feel too far from that state himself. But he was no coward and, drawing his Duke Navy, he skipped across to the rear car’s balcony, half aware of Ramos following him. Technically it was the wrong direction, backward rather than forward but obviously they couldn’t allow themselves to get shot in the back when they did advance.
Behind there was a sudden shout and Esteban snapped quickly around, saw a figure approaching them down the central walkway of the second to last car. He snatched his revolver level and snapped off a quick shot. The approaching silhouette tried to throw himself behind a packing crate but he was knocked abruptly off balance by the impact of Esteban’s bullet. He crumpled to the floor of the car and lay still. Esteban watched him for a few seconds before turning his attention back to the rear most car.
He felt a strange low throbbing-stinging sensation in his right cheek but he ignored it. He swept around the edge of the entry way of the rearmost car. The shotgun smoke had drifted and spread into a thin layer toward the top of the ceiling. It allowed a clear though almost silhouetted view of the interior, boxy shapes filling the left and right walls of the car while the two human shapes showed up as a series of rounded bulges, as though in opposition.
Esteban cast off the flowery over-thinking and pointed his revolver at one of the rounded shapes, squeezing the trigger, the air blew up with an instant of belching flame and a blast of white smoke, the acrid stench of brimstone burning his nostrils, and stinging his eyes. There was a cry, all but drowned out by the crack of the old revolver.
In the second between pulling the trigger and throwing himself back into cover, Esteban saw one of the rounded shapes stumbling back into the boxy environment.
Ramos, using a Packenbush double-action, whipped his left arm up and around the side of the entryway and jerked the trigger three times in quick succession. The cracks were fast, the three merging into a single, combined rumble while the powder smoke burst forward into the car, cut through by the triple blast of flame. Esteban noticed how Ramos had aimed low, using the pistol’s natural recoil to lift his aim and spread the three rapid shots in a narrow arc, spreading the lead slugs across the space of the train car. He thought he heard a grunt, but the triple-crack of Ramos’ rapid firing made it impossible to be sure.
Timing his next shot right after Ramos pulled himself back into cover, Esteban again led with his converted Navy, cocking the hammer as he swung himself into position and searching through the smoke for the unique shape of either of the two men.
“Ahhh! I’m hit! Bastard’s killed me…! I got one in the gut man! Christ, it hurts…”
Smiling at the Yankee’s whining, Esteban saw movement on the floorboards, a leg bent at the knee straightening out, apparently trying to push himself into a place of safety. He took aim, but then a second movement to the right diverted his attention and his gun hand. The other man shifting himself into position to fire. Esteban shot first, aiming at the shape’s centre. The responsive grunt was audible even over the crack of the .36 slug erupting from its seven-inch barrel. The other human shape crumpled like a felled tree, his own revolver swinging uselessly upside down on his hooked trigger finger.
Ramos leaped forward, taking advantage of the initial victory. Esteban would probably have put one extra slug into the guard on the floor before coming out of cover, but he was always the more cautious. The wounded man shouted a vocal submission, simultaneously tossing his double barrel towards Ramos’ feet.
“I give in! I surrender, sir... Please.”
His shout was weaker than the previous one and the words had a wet quality. Ramos kicked the scattergun behind him toward Esteban, then stood over the gut-shot guard and with a smirk, fired another slug, this time into the wounded man’s face.
Esteban cursed under his breath but he picked up the scattergun and reloaded it from the shells in the corpse’s coat pocket. Then the two Mexicans started to look for loot in the car. The two dead men’s persons gave up some items, then they turned their attention to the furniture lining both walls.
On the right there was a space that had a few random items of luggage stacked up. Then there was a long settee and finally a desk with a typewriter by the rear entrance. The settee was now spattered with blood, brains and skull fragments. Ramos was already rifling through the desk’s drawers. Esteban turned his attention to his left. Though the only thing of interest was a large floor to ceiling cupboard type piece. Preceding that was a little stove with a tin chimney that poked up through a hole in the roof. Esteban started opening cupboard doors and drawers as he found them but only managed to haul out a few meagre bits and pieces, it was as if it housed lost property items. A couple of items of jewellery, a few coins of small denomination adding up to little more than a couple of dollars. A box of .45 revolver ammunition and half a box of shotgun shells. A couple of items of tinned food. Nothing spectacular. He pocketed the shotgun shells.
The two young bandits moved up to the next car. They could hear shots and shouting up ahead but the guard in their next car was already dead and his pockets proved to be empty. This car had a few barrels, probably supplies of oil for the lamps and such. Maybe some engine grease for the wheels or something, if the wheels required grease, Esteban wasn’t sure. On the left were a series of sacks, the mouth of each folded over a circular metal brace that was bolted to the wall. Probably for sorting the mail into towns along the route. Opposite this arrangement was another floor to ceiling cupboard, filled with pigeon holes. Maybe for sorting the mail. And then next to that was the exciting part. The combination safe.
They all knew how to open a safe by ear and touch. Flaco had once brought one back to whatever hideout they had occupied at the time, and made everyone learn how to listen to the tumblers and the tightening of the dial as it got close to the correct combination number, that sense of touch though subtle and time consuming, allowed those with enough skill to open a combination lock even under the incessantly loud chuffing of a full-steam locomotive.
Ramos took the duty. Kneeling he put his head close to the black painted door-plate of the small safe. Esteban left him to it and started going through the remaining parts of the car. Again, he didn’t expect to find much and he was right. There was a coin purse at the bottom of a drawer with three silver dollars inside. He found a jar of cover scent ointment on an open shelf and a metal fountain pen, the polished outer surface a mixture of filigree scrollwork and punch-etching. It was a nice item and he was sure he could swap it for something he wanted, or sell it to one of the fences their gang dealt with, for a few dollars. By the time he was done with his search, keeping one eye on the two open topped cars that lay forward of their current position, Ramos had the safe open.
“Not much, amigo.” He said with a grumble. “Some dinero. Twenty dollars only. A pair of earrings, a necklace of pearls.”
“Better than nothing.” Esteban suggested.
Ramos gave a shrug and then indicated to his compadre to move on to the next car. That was the car used to transport horses, sometimes cattle but usually passenger’s personal horses. They used the short ladders and by-passed the car completely via its flat roof. They had good well-trained horses and weren’t interested in that car.
The next two offered nothing more interesting than stacks of cut lumber and a few barrels, probably filled with nails and pitch and the like. A couple of boxes that Ramos prised open only revealed standard woodworking tools. Worth a lot to someone, but certainly not their kind of treasure.
They hurried onward, guns drawn and eyes alert, until they stepped onto the first of the passenger cars, third class. The cheap seats. There wouldn’t be much treasure to be found here either. Though, when it came to passengers, at least potentially, there was more than one kind of treasure to be had.
The car was rectangular of course, two walls of glass windows, plain boarded floor and ceiling with ceiling fans to move the warm air around, and oil lanterns to provide light for night time passage. The high-class cars would more than likely have gas lighting. There were papered walls in blue and gold scroll patterning, and on the rear wall flanking the door to the next car were two medium sized guilt framed landscape paintings. There were seven pairs of two-person benches, spanning the length of the car. Gold painted wooden frames with red and gold patterned cushioning, up against the windows with a central walkway. It was neat and clean but not typically ornate or rich looking. The red and gold cushioning was faded, a little threadbare, a little stained. And the gold painted, scroll-carved wood of the seat frames was scuffed and in need of touching up, there were noticeable old gouges and scratches in the wood.
There were seven passengers. Five seated, one face down in the aisle in a small pool of blood. The seventh was already on her knees at the opposite end of the car.
The occasional crackle of gunfire broke the near normality of the scene. It came in the distance, funnelled backward along the train from the forward cars. The shots cut through the other abnormality, the near and far sounds of numerous feminine squeals, moans and weeping, and masculine grunting which was all par for the course when it came to their robbing of trains.
In fact, finding females to vent their lusts upon was almost an equal motivation to the robbing of riches and the train’s vaults. Almost an equal draw to enjoying the shootouts with the guards as well as the usual one or two heroic contenders they often had to deal with, idiots trying to keep hold of their prize possessions, at the cost of their lives.
That, more often than not, also applied to chastity when it came to female passengers. It wasn’t unheard of for even old hags to be stripped, beaten and raped as punishment for fighting to keep a wedding ring or family heirloom from being taken. A hole was a hole after all. Though that tended to be only for use as a punishment.
Given the choice, and that their killing-fuelled lusts - invariably escalated by the rush of violence and the possibility of being shot themselves - the desire to rape was always prevalent and the younger and most attractive female passengers were always the first to be picked out. Of course, that was all supposed to take place only after the treasure had been accumulated and sacked up for removal. Supposedly.
At opposite end of this train car, as per the plan, Emilio waited for them. He was meant to be keeping the passengers covered with his combination of Schofield and LeMat revolvers, keeping the seven civilians silent, docile and subdued. It was still Esteban and Ramos’ duty to remove from those passengers any and all valuables.
Of course, in reality, Emilio hadn’t been satisfied with merely keeping his guns and his eyes on them. There was the dead man lying face down in the walkway, a small snub barrelled Cattleman still in his lifeless grasp. A hole as big as Esteban’s fist through his upper back, his check-patterned jacket stained by the blood that oozed from that big, ragged hole.
Emilio only had his LeMat drawn and his eyes were not covering the surviving passengers, he was blatantly and deliberately distracted from his duty. It was understandable as he had obviously taken it upon himself to take his pick from the females in the car. There weren’t many to choose from, four in total yet only two of those were eligible. The third and fourth being aged hags, seated side-by-side and both sharing the same grey-white hair and skin like tree bark. The second eligible woman was seated alone, halfway along the left side. And she appeared awash with tears, head down, face buried in her hands, shoulders shaking violently as she bawled away. Maybe the dead man in the isle was her husband. Maybe the young woman Emilio was enjoying was her daughter.
He had the young woman forced down on her knees. She was easily the prettiest of the bunch, even from Esteban’s distance from her. Her head was tilted up and her lips were stretched around Emilio’s meat. His free hand buried in her curly blonde locks, dragging her mouth back and forth along his slick girth. The young woman, obviously struggling with how deep he was forcing her along his erection, repeatedly tried to grab the shaft with a hand to stop him driving it into her throat. But with increasing impatience, he had grabbed her wrist and pulled her hand from his shaft, tell-tale slapped the offending hand and then punished her with a slap against one suction-hollowed cheek.
Esteban and Ramos stood staring for a moment before shaking themselves free of the engaging view and turned their attention to the passengers and the goodies they would be trying to protect. Esteban simply started with the closest passenger to him. While Ramos, ever the sadist, made a bee line for the weeping woman. Esteban, trying to be professional and watchful, kept his attention and the barrel of his Navy revolver on each of the passengers as he forced them to give up their valuables. However, being young and almost constantly rampant he couldn’t keep from casting long and longing looks toward Emilio and Ramos, fully engaged with their two women.
Emilio was still enjoying his increasingly fast and frantic suck job, one fist buried in the young woman’s hair. While almost immediately Ramos had chosen to join him in his lust and was making use of the weeping woman. Her sobs had switched to horrified screams, which were being echoed further forward in the other cars. And each of those overlapping screams was distinctly feminine in origin. Ramos was already atop the woman, fighting with her taut struggling form. Amusedly slapping at her, anywhere and everywhere, while she fought like a tiger to try and keep him at bay. However, he was already between her legs, his hips keeping her thighs from squeezing shut. And all in all, that meant her struggles were in vain, her fight already lost. It was just a matter of realising it and giving in to him.
Esteban caught the sound of a shot from up ahead. There was still a slow exchange of cracks further in the distance, suggesting someone was giving the first-class team a problem, but this shot was louder, seemingly from the next carriage. However, everyone else appeared too engrossed in their own entertainment, or horror, and the loudness of the gunshot didn’t seem to register with anyone but him.
Ramos was busy. He had thrown the woman’s skirts up over her torso, revealing gartered stockings and short legged drawers. Gleefully slapping away her flailing arms and legs, he immediately snatched at the crotch-split sewn in the drawers and tore it wider. Her bush and flushed pink lips were easily visible in the afternoon light. The woman screamed as she felt the cool air touching her most intimate place but rather than getting straight down to it, Ramos appeared to be enjoying the fight and he clawed her skirts down around her waist a little and then dug both hands into the neckline of her bodice and started to violently yank and rip at the reinforced fabric, apparently trying to rip her dress open to reveal the succulent teats concealed beneath. Esteban wasn’t sure if he would succeed but Ramos was absolutely giving it his best shot.
The woman reached up and slapped him hard across the face and he instantly returned the favour with a clenched fist, bloodying her lip and making her wail and cry even harder. Then apparently wanting a momentary hiatus from the constant struggling, he cocked a fist a second time and slammed her fiercely in the gut. Esteban could distinctly hear the rush of wind leaving her lungs and she half fainted, limbs flopping, mouth wide open like a fish, trying unsuccessfully to force her lungs to suck in air.
“Hey, can’t you do something about him? That poor woman, I mean, it’s nothing less than a disgrace!”
The man who had spoken looked like an aged rancher. Grey and weathered, his sun-aged face was lined and mottled by liver spots, his expression disgruntled. His clothing, though rugged and hard wearing, still had the appearance of money. He wasn’t just a ranch hand or foreman. Esteban looked him up and down in his worsted coat, fine French styled vest and fancy tooled riding boots. The old man looked imploringly toward the woman and Ramos, in the seat opposite his, and then beyond them, over his shoulder toward Emilio and his younger companion.
Emilio was still a flurry of dragging, yanking hands and powerful hip stabbing. While the young woman knelt there, her hands now dangling down by her sides, her chin, neck and the front of her dress slick with saliva overflow, taking his dick rapidly and rather violently down her throat over and over again. Her wet gaging and muffled complaints were easily audible, even over the recent din from Ramos and his woman.
The exchange of gunfire continued up ahead, butting through the young woman’s erotic gagging din. However Esteban, this time, was too distracted to give it a thought. He turned his attention back to the old rancher, offered the older man an unconcerned shrug and then shot him through the heart with his Navy revolver. There were squeals and groans of shock and horror from those passengers who were still able to react but Esteban ignored them and went over to the still warm corpse to rifle through his pockets for loot. A platinum pocket watch and chain, a golden wedding band and a silver-plated harmonica, were all the interesting items he had to offer along with the contents of his pocket book.
An almighty squeal from halfway along the left side of the car hooked Esteban’s attention. It was obvious that the woman had just become impaled on Ramos’ erection. He was laughing at his victory as his half-bared buttocks punched rapidly in and out. The woman was weeping and wailing. Her legs, forced wide apart by Ramos’ driving hips, were up in the air and swaying to his rapid rhythm and kicking uselessly. Her arms were similarly tossing about as though she was trying to grasp onto some invisible defence. Still, she refrained from trying to push Ramos off her or strike him, probably due to the punches to her face and stomach.
Esteban smiled through his initial pang of jealousy. He watched for another moment, enjoying the sexual violence and the suffering of the Yankee woman, before he knelt beside the corpse lying in the isle. Trying to keep the blood from getting onto him, checked through the pockets. He took a gold-plated watch, a wedding band, and a bill fold with a dozen dollars in it. He also pulled out a locket attached to the opposite end of the watch chain. Forcing the locket to pop open revealed a small photograph of the young woman whose mouth was currently being engaged to pleasure Emilio.
Esteban moved over to the two old ladies who, literally shivering in fear, readily handed over their goods. Though one of them pleaded to keep her wedding ring. All it took was Esteban drawn a straight razor from his trouser pocket for her to tear the ring from her shaking hand and throw it at him. Snarling, he forced her to retrieve it and hand it to him properly, cutting the papery skin of her friend’s wasted cheek to ensure her cooperation.
Esteban was counting the coin purse of the third man in the car when he heard Emilio suddenly groaning out his climax. It was noisy and protracted, and he pictured it gushing from Emilio’s balls like cannon shot into the young woman’s mouth. She seemed to lose half of it down her chin as he rapidly punched his throbbing meat forward and back between her taut lips. Once he was done, he used the two-handed grip of her head to shove her fiercely to the floorboards and then threw himself aggressively onto her. Esteban wasn’t certain if he was about to rape another of her holes or was searching her for valuables. It turned out to be both.
He decided to leave the guys to their women and make his way alone to the next car. He had to step carefully over the writhing, hammering bodies of Emilio and the young woman. He was lying flat on her back on the floor of the car half under her seat, and she was covering her face in her hands and blubbing while she repeatedly muttered “no, no, no”. Esteban wondered if the suck job had been an attempt to secure her chastity, a humiliating effort that should at least save herself from a far more severe experience. If so, it had proved to have been pointless as she was having her chastity plundered all the same by the big and decidedly brutal Mexican. Esteban also knew, with not a small degree of proxy sadism, that her assault would take an age. Witnessing numerous occasions when Emilio had raped, his young compadre knew after that first explosive climax, that Emilio always took an age to cum the second and third times, and so on. The two of them would be there for the duration.
The second-class car was essentially a fresher and cleaner version of third-class. The paint and soft furnishings looked newer and cleaner, less threadbare, more up to date. Eleuteri, Muerte and Gonzales were already working the car. The male passengers all appeared dead, either via throats cut or shot. Their clothes had been hacked apart by sharp blades, seams and pockets slashed. Even a few fingers lay severed on the boards of the car, no doubt where rings had given the bandits trouble.
One of the women, youngish and pretty or she had been before she had her throat slit, lay along the length of one of the benches, her blood still dripped fast and steady onto the stained floorboards of the car. Her dress had been slashed open from neckline to hemline; the halves tossed aside, her chemise and drawers slashed open too. There were even smears of blood from a wound along her naked torso, as though the knife wielder, probably Eleuteri, had been too passionate in its wielding. Her pubic hair glistened with wetness. She had obviously been raped, possibly more than once, while she lay there bleeding, before finally being dispatched by the knife across her throat.
Another woman was currently being used by Gonzales. Just like the dead woman, she was laid out on her back along the length of the bench seat. Though her head was hanging over its edge into the aisle. The previous girl, the dead one, had been rather plump, small breasted with a slight bulge to her pale, blood-sheeted belly but she had been pretty enough. This living victim was also pretty though in Esteban’s opinion she had a natural cruelty to her features, the arch of her dark eyebrows, the length of her face with those high cheekbones and thin cheeks. She was tall and slender, possessing little in the way of shapeliness. Yet she was taut and toned, very much its own kind of attractiveness. She also had very plump lips which were wrapped around Gonzales’ cock. He was driving it back and forth, slow and deep, making her throat bulge. Saliva drooled freely over her upturned face, forcing harsh wet gagging sounds that issued from the very back of her throat. The amount of her saliva trickling down over her face and into her loose hair had darkened the unkempt wavy locks so much that it was impossible to determine if she was blonde or dark.
Meanwhile with hands and knife, Gonzales continued cutting into her bodice and dress, slashing through lacings, tugging at the bodice with his hands, then going in again with the knife to slice through the layers of cotton and linen. Soon enough, her pale bare flesh was revealed, laid out for them. Her pointless struggles were incidentally helping to cast aside the cut halves of her skirts while Gonzales urgently shoved apart the bodice and slashed chemise, fully exposing her pale, torso with shuddering mounds of barely handful breasts topped with strawberry nipples, engorged by fear. His hands closed on those breasts, fingers pressing into the tender flesh while his thumbs teased the nipples, flicking and stroking.
Without looking away from the undeniably delectable platter of female laid out before him, Gonzales called over to Muerte who was finishing up stripping the valuables from the corpse of the male furthest along the train car.
The two bandits crowded around the woman. Muerte was pushing his way between the seat and seatback to get to her legs. She was trying, blindly, to fend off his approach, her raised legs kicking pointlessly in the air. Muerte grinning, grabbed her legs, pinning them together, wrapping an arm around both booted ankles while he tugged and tore at her skirts, exposing her for the two men. At the same time, Gonzales began to accelerate his crown to root throat-raping thrusts. Muerte leaned into the woman’s legs, bending them forward toward her chest while he took an awkward position kneeling on the bench seat, pressed up against her buttocks and back of her thighs. His back was to the window and he had one forearm across her shins, pinning her lower and upper legs together so she couldn’t kick out at him while with his free hand, he fumbled with his trouser buttons.
Gonzales’ increase in thrusting pace and power started to bring wet and muffled wails of protest from the woman. Her wailing turned into a full-on cock muffled squeal as Muerte pushed his erection into her, driving hard and deep into the pink folds beneath the wiry patch of her inky black pubic hair. Immediately he took up a rapid punishing pace, both arms encircling her kicking legs attempting to pin them against his chest. Esteban knew that if she didn’t stop that kicking, Muerte would just bite a chunk straight out of one of those long lean calves and then simply continue with his fun.
Grinning, despite increasing pangs of jealousy, Esteban recognised that there was nothing for him to do in this car. He decided to move on to the next. Though he found that he had to step over a body and climb over a couple of the bench seats to make his way beyond the forced spit-roasting, that was now in full swing, with Gonzales fully blocking the central isle.
Things seemed to be going more slowly in the first-class car. Farkas was here along with Consuela and, of course, Flaco himself. While, as per the plan, Jaime occupied the engine, the plan being to force the driver to stop part way along one of the bridges between Riggs and Wallace stations.
Esteban looked into the first-class car as he crossed the outside threshold, feeling the rushing wind snatch at his pants and unbuttoned vest. There was actually none of their people in first-class at all, though he could see Consuela at the opposite end. However, her attention was focussed entirely on the car beyond. The dining car, if he remembered the planning details properly.
She half turned, caught his eye. Well, her huge, unsupported breasts did, so did the way they quivered inside her simple off-white blouse.
“Hey, Esteban! You deal with these gringos, eh!?” She sneered at him, nodding at the first-class occupants.
She was even smoking a cheroot and Esteban couldn’t help but picture an erect cock in its place. He managed to give her a nod. His eyes flicking up to the ebony pools of her eyes for a forced moment, before gleefully reverting to her chest. Though he did notice that she had acquired a brand-new pistol rig. It was of tooled black leather with shiny metal rivets, the holster housing a nickel plated, ebony gripped Schofield six-gun. However, the eye-catching beauty of the holster and belt didn’t compare to those huge brain-melting tits and Esteban almost immediately felt his rod engorging inside his union suit. The pleasurable tingles translating into an aching hardness, until the crotch of his pants felt drum-tight.
He was too wound up, too sexually energised to keep his mind on the job of robbery any longer. Everyone else seemed to be getting their cocks wet, it was high time he indulged too. His eyes swept the interior of the car, not for sources of treasure but for a something he could vent his lust upon.
He saw his prize immediately, and what a prize she was. However, having the car to himself and his pick of all the choices, he wanted to take his time and make the right one. They didn’t have any choice after all. It was entirely his decision as to which, of any, fine morsels would be made to satisfy him. He could take the treasures and riches from the rest of them, once he had emptied his balls to his satisfaction.
Like the second-class car, the first-class was a higher quality and more well-maintained version of the third-class design. Blue and gold wallpaper, red and gold bench seats, gas lighting and ceiling fans. Little red velvet drapes with brass rails, framed the windows along both sides. The oil paintings that flanked the entrance and exit doorways were also of a higher quality, a superior artist commissioned. Though the subject of landscapes were essentially the same, they also featured lovely and shapely nymphs who frolicked in the sapphic way beneath trees or in the shallows of lakes that featured in the art.
There were five passengers. Three women and two men. One of the men sat alone at the very front of the train. Grandly moustachioed, he looked like a professional gambler, or perhaps the quintessential dandy. Either way, he was adorned in rich, high-quality attire. The wide brimmed Panama hat with its hat-band of silver, complimented the black tailored suit he wore with silver buttons and watch chain. It was over a white silk shirt and bolo style tie, a pair of highly tooled black boots with shiny rivets, and polished spurs. However, tellingly, there was no sign of gun belt or pistol.
The second man sat beside one of the women, midway along the left side of the car. They looked similar in age and seemed to present the baring of man and wife. He was another dandy, a man of means, property maybe. Though his dress was less garish than the gambler, he wore a tan brown frock coat and vest with finely cut trousers tucked into tall riding boots, and an Estate Boss hat atop his head. He wore a pale brown leather holster rig but the holster was empty. He held his wife’s hand. She was probably forty, lean and upright, putting on an air of the prim and proper type.
Something about her made Esteban have the urge to actually take her. Good and hard. And rough. A good hard shafting with a Mexican dick. It might loosen that obvious rod up her ass. In fact, a length of Mexican up her ass might do the trick even better, a bit of screaming and sobbing to soften that haughty exterior might be just what she needed. And maybe her husband, quietly of course, might well thank him for it.
If not for the young one in the red dress, he would no doubt have done her two times over. Right there face down over her husband’s lap. That sure would have been fine.
The second woman was older, a spinster type in her fifties, a mix of grey and mottled pink. And plump. Matronly. Possibly a good set of tits on her, but once you’d been in proximity to Consuela’s… well, nothing else came close. She was sitting opposite the husband-and-wife duo. She might well be the type who could have skills or a fieriness that could be unlocked and reveal her to be real firecracker once you got between those thighs, but you would have to spend time breaking her down, hurting her a little, make her suffer, humiliate her in front of everyone else, before the firecracker came out.
No. There was only the one choice. The blonde pair of teenage tits in the red dress toward the rear of the car. She was more like half-woman and half-girl really. From the neck up she looked fresh and young, barely grown out of her childhood, yet still very attractive. Huge hazel eyes, full pouting lips. And yet from the neck down she was all woman, not quite to Consuela’s level of robust hourglass shapeliness, but she looked well on her way there.
She was blonde haired, golden ringlets cascading from under a little red cap. And she wore a deep crimson taffeta dress that revealed a fantastic and invigorating amount of deep shadowy cleavage. Esteban caught her defiant glare and grinned at her. Well, by the time he offered the grin his eyes had dipped again, lost in that enticing cleavage. It was framed by the white cotton neckline of her half-unbuttoned chemise.
The gunfire beyond first-class, still sounding slow and measured, was much louder here. And it definitely originated from the next car. Esteban wasn’t concerned. Consuela, who had vanished from the entrance of this first-class car into the one beyond was right there, as was Flaco himself, Farkas should be with them while Jaime had to be close enough to give them support if it came to that. Satisfied, Esteban turned his full attention back onto the eye-catchingly busty young beauty.
“Hola, pretty.” He sang, advancing along the central isle toward her, one hand lightly encircling the grips of his Duke Navy.
The young woman looked more defiant than afraid. And she didn’t attempt to either escape or fight him off as he closed the space between them. He leaned over her, leering and grinning, the lump in his pants surely as plain for her to see as it was achingly demanding for him. In fact, he noticed her eyes dart southward to his crotch, just as his own slid luxuriously down over that deep inviting cleavage again.
“If you don’t try to fight me, gringa, this could be quick and easy for you.” He suggested, grinning. “Though if you do try to fight me, I might enjoy it more, I think. Of course, you would not.”
She looked downhearted and uncomfortable but still she didn’t try to struggle or fight. She didn’t even burst into tears, which appeared to be the normal reaction of women. What she did do was to carefully reach out to his tented trousers and, working carefully around his pistol belt, deliberately unbuttoned the front of his crotch. As she opened his trousers, she ensured her hands played across the warm bulge, so overt in its assured presence. The sensation of her palms and wrists rubbing against his prominent hardness, as her fingers drew each button from its hole, was invigorating. It sent trembling quivers throughout his loins. Esteban didn’t even try to withhold the groan of pleasure that built rapidly in his chest. He had found a right one here, he thought. Pliant, cooperative and pragmatic about what he was about to do to her.
At this rate, she might prove to be too easy, too cooperative. It might take away some of the fun of forcing your lust onto a woman. He might have to induce a little suffering to make it exciting enough for him to enjoy properly.
The lust rose in him like oil, dark and thick. He didn’t want cooperation, he wanted to be in control he wanted to use at least some force. And even though she was cooperating fully, he wasn’t about to go easy on her, his sexual drive wouldn’t allow it. He was an outlaw, a villain. A thief and killer. And that’s how he took his women, as a villain.
He holstered his pistol, careful to hook the leather loop securely over the hammer spur, which should stop her from easily relieving him of it, should she be trying to use subterfuge.
Hands freed, he aggressively yanked the plain white collar of her chemise further open, revealing more cleavage, and then putting his hands palms out, backs of the hands touching, he thrust both hands down her bodice, into her cleavage and squeezed hard on her hot fleshy mounds. He rolled his hands through three-quarter turns so that he could cup her big tits, fingers compressing firmly into their soft yet firm flesh. He felt the hot points of her nipples pressing against his palms as they stiffened in response to his excited and ungentle touch.
Meanwhile, she had finished unbuttoning his crotch so she reached in and found the open slit in his one-piece drawers. She took hold of his warm, thick shaft with its sweaty, oily texture and levered it out toward her.
Esteban leaned forward, one knee coming up onto the bench seat to support him. He realised that her thighs were already spread apart to give him room, beneath her skirts. She was doing half the work for him. Making it too easy for him, almost spoiling his fun.
He continued to fiercely grope and squeeze her pert, hefty breasts. The young woman, trying to stifle the grimace of pain that his manhandling developed across her lovely face, leaned smoothly forward, bringing those big, attractive cock-sucking lips towards his swollen, purple cock head. However, he stopped her approach with cruelly asserted pressure on her bosom. Their eyes locked, his burning with barely restrained lust, hers glistening wetly with unshed tears of discomfort.
“What’s your name, pretty gringa?”
“Karen.”
“You know what I’m going to do to you?”
“Of course.”
“You want me to?” He asked, grinning maliciously.
“No.” Her reply was obstinate, a disgruntled pubescent pout.
“But you know I will do it anyway?”
“Of course, I ain’t dumb.” She glared up at him.
“Not so dumb that you would try and stop me?”
“Like I said, I ain’t dumb.”
“We’ll see, gringa.”
He leaned forward, pressing the warm spongy head of his erection against her mouth. Her lips parted to accept his meat at once. As he slid into the warm cavern, her teeth cleverly kept clear and her tongue slid forward to embrace his crown entering her mouth.
Esteban gave her lovely udders a good hard squeeze. He grinned at the muffled sound she unleashed, a painfilled moan that burst from between her cock-filled lips. And then he thrust hard with his hips, driving deep, punching the crown of his shaft firmly, right to the back of her mouth. The young woman gagged noisily and he groaned at the feel of the warm saliva gushing over his embedded meat. He could still get deeper though and he wanted exactly that.
She pulled back, apparently trying to curtail the discomfort of Esteban slamming his cock head so brutally to the back of her mouth. He didn’t allow that of course, One hand dragged itself out of the confines of the front of her dress. He ripped the little hat from her head and then grabbed a fistful of her carefully piled blonde curls, so he could take full control of the exquisite orifice that now encased his erect shaft.
“Get this open!” Esteban grunted, jerking at her bodice with his free hand. “I want these big udders bare.”
His instructions contained a little vibration as he was thrusting hard with his hips, slamming his cock over and over again into the back of the young woman’s mouth. The force made her continually gag and groan in pointless protest. But she reached around to the back of her bodice, found the knotted lacings there and started to untie them. Once untied she began to blindly unthread the lacings from their eyes, while she continued to take Esteban’s thick, thrusting cock into her mouth, gagging all the while.
She tried her best to suck on the engorged shaft in time with his withdrawals, while keeping her tongue swishing around as he thrust inward but it was hard going. The discomfort of when he made her gag, interrupted her efforts each time.
The tiny space between their bodies was filled with a slobbering, wet squelching along with thick gagging groans and a slick popping sound. The noisy increase was due to the bandit using his grip on the young woman’s hair to tilt her head back enough to angle her throat so that his ploughing girth could get in deeper still, penetrating her oesophagus and shoving himself balls deep.
Thoroughly enjoying the increased heat and wet friction bathing his tingling cock, Esteban tightened his grip of her mussed hair and started to yank her face fiercely inward against his loins, enjoying the way her pretty features were now creasing up in discomfort, the tears of exertion and no doubt humiliation streaming, down her cheeks. Well, he was about to push that further, he thought with erotic glee.
Her bodice slipped at last, the loosened front dropping and bellying forward, the garment slack enough to relinquish its constricting grip on her torso. Her large breasts quivered beautifully as they spread outward into their natural, still youthfully perky positions.
Esteban immediately reached down with both hands and gave her loosened bodice a couple of extra downward yanks, giving himself an unencumbered view before he snatched up her half-stiffened nipples between forefingers and thumbs. With a tight grip, he gave them a good tugging, pinching the spongy buds, twisting and rolling them this way and that, working her nipples until they were hard as bullets.
The blonde gringa winced and whimpered at his deliberately fierce assault on her teats. And when he started stretching them out and lifting those full delectable orbs by his vice grip of her nipples, she invariably lost her concentration and her rhythm and started to splutter and gag worse than ever, the resulting din was as wet-sounding as it was noisy. And a whole flurry of saliva, slick, slimy and awash with bubbles, drooped in viscous trails from her full lips. Her drool snail-trailed down her chin and throat like oil, to splatter onto the stretched out upper curves of her big creamy breasts.
It proved enough of a temptation for Esteban and rather than hammering her throat until he spewed his seed, the Mexican pulled himself free of her pouting lips and instead pressed his cock between her more than handful breasts, crushing the smooth orbs around his shaft, burying it between the heat of the pair. Fortunately, his fat dick was well lubricated by her suck job, as was her cleavage from the overflow. He started to fuck her cleavage like a man possessed, a wild abandon driving not only his thrusting hips but also his cruel sadistic vice grip on her bosom, pushing the soft orbs so tight around his throbbing meat that he’d practically squashed them flat, no matter how full and youthfully firm they were. He was also vocal in his appreciation of their interaction, groaning and panting and muttering colourful curses both in English and Spanish.
Karen Jones was focussing as much as she could on keeping herself emotionally clear of the sexual assault. She instead occupied her attention with assessing the cultural differences between the short snappy and often sexual curses and oaths of English, compared to the much more religious, drawn out and somehow more eloquent derogatory language of Spanish origin.
In that moment she realised how much of an influence DB was obviously having on her. She hadn’t thought in such terms since she had sat at the dining table with her young husband, chatting about the book she was reading that particular month.
She had been taught to read by her parents, but only elementarily, and Luke had quickly encouraged her to deepen her education. Sometimes he had even had her read to him in the evenings, in the oil-lit time between supper and bed. If he wasn’t too horny of course. And most of the time he had been, them being young newlyweds getting to know each other and the ways of a man and his wife.
Karen forced herself stifle the sad smile of bitter sweet nostalgia in that moment, not only because those memories were only to be enjoyed in the right moments, but also as those occasions of being made love to by her dearly departed husband could only be sullied by her current predicament, and that was the last thing she would ever want.
“Take over.” Esteban commanded. “Squeeze these together. Squeeze them tight, gringa!”
She took over, putting her hands on top of his, which freed up his own hands. She pressed her palms, carefully adjusting her position so they were against the soft outer curves of her bosom and obediently crushed her breasts together in the middle of her chest.
His pelvic thrusts didn’t slow for a moment. His hands danced hurriedly, gathering up her skirts around her hips and waist until he could see the bare tops of her thighs, her pubic mound only just cast in shadow. But he could reach it easily enough and he did so, stroking his fingers up the intimate softness of the tops of her inner thighs. He gave her a couple of pinches into the soft flesh of her inner thighs, making her wince and hiss muttered curses.
From there it was nothing to feel out her drawers and the slash in the fabric at her crotch. He wormed multiple fingers through that sewn slash and located the sparse patch of the curls of her pubic down. The delicate warmth of her soft pouting lips was easy to find. As was spreading them apart with his fingers. Three pushed up into her tightness, succulently soft and warm but hardly dampened. While with his other hand, he stroked northward, following the trail of her labia until the two sides came together in a little cavemouth. He pushed in, pressing the pad of a finger into the cave, stretching the flesh upward and revealing the little pea of her clitoris hidden within. She reacted with a hoarse, high-pitched gasp and her whole body jolted at the overly intimate contact.
The outlaw wasn’t concerned. He liked making her react so overtly and he rubbed at the little knot of flesh firmly, making her writhe and wail as though she was taking a lash to her privates. While his three fingers embedded inside her cunt worked slow and deep at her smouldering heat. He started to detect a hint of slimy lubrication sheening his fingers, allowing them to slip against each other. A little more of this and she would be ready to take his meat.
A loud feminine curse in raw, accented Spanish snatched Esteban’s attention. It had been barely pronounced, around full lips and teeth clenching on the butt of a cheroot. And there was a blur of long dark hair whipping, dark coloured skirts fanning out and the illicit and attention-grabbing bounce of huge unsupported breasts in the periphery of the Mexican bandit’s eyeline.
He glanced up and saw Consuela darting back from the entryway of the next car, into the space between that and first-class. She didn’t look back, didn’t cast him a derogatory or accusing sneer, she simply righted herself, cocked her newly acquired nickel-plated Schofield and then marched forward again, immediately out of Esteban’s line of sight.
More pistol cracks followed, bullets flying by, tell-tale zinging of metal-ricochets and concussive splintering sounds, as the flying lead slammed into wooden wall panels or door jams or the floor or ceiling of the car.
Esteban was thoroughly distracted but only for a moment, the intense pleasure of this girl’s huge tits caressing his slick, throbbing meat and the heat of her dampening cunt tunnel around his fingers almost immediately drew him back to the delights of the young blonde’s body.
<><><>
DB had been enjoying a post luncheon pot of coffee and a glass of brandy in the dining car, somewhat bemusing him, Karen had taken the rest of the bottle back to their first-class car, and it had been only a few minutes later when the attack had been instigated.
Although longer, the dining car was set out in a similar way to the class cars. The same blue and gold, and red and gold decor. With two-seater benches along each side of the train car with a central aisle separating them. However, the bench seats were back-to-back, and between each facing pair was a square table covered by a white table cloth and the usual upper class dining accoutrements. It added up to five pairs of benches with table along each side of the car, seating a maximum forty diners at a time.
Karen and DB had finished dining a half hour earlier. And when DB had refused to order a second bottle of cognac after their meal, requesting instead coffee, Karen had chosen to return to the first-class car and relax there, people watching or looking at the sunlit scenery passing by the window.
Attuned to the sound of gunpowder detonations and ever prepared for a gunfight, DB had been quicker than most to become alerted to the train robbery in progress and he had repositioned himself from seated alone at a table to shifting over to the table of a family whose father had retired to the front of the car, supposedly to smoke. Though with plenty of others smoking while still at their tables, DB suspected a draught of laudanum was probably more likely.
So, there sat the temporarily abandoned young wife and mother, along with her three children. Two daughters, one close to a young lady, the other a couple of years her sister’s junior and the third, a boy under ten. At least those were DB’s hurried assessments.
The only other passengers were an older couple in their sixties almost certainly husband and wife, two middle aged business men from, by the looks of their attire and their accents, somewhere back East. And a happy young couple, perhaps newlyweds.
This young mother with her three young charges was the only table without a man’s protection and without even thinking DB took the duty upon himself. At least, he told himself, until the husband and father returned. The wife had given a dubious look and hurried protestations that her husband was due back to the table at any moment, even before DB could explain the situation to her.
There was no easy position to take as the outlaws, he was assuming had boarded the train, could come from either the front or rear of the dining car. Or both. The best he could do was to take the silverplated coffee pot from the middle of the table and repurpose it as an impromptu mirror, to allow him to face the rear of the train where the first-class car was and also observe the dining car’s other entrance.
Of course, he had to quietly explain his rudeness and impropriety to the young mother as, at least for the time being, no one else seemed to have been alerted to the invaders.
“I’m afraid madam, that this train is being robbed.”
“Robbed?! But sir, do you mean to…!”
Her shocked attempt at protest was interrupted, though as politely as possible.
“And without your husband present to protect you, I feared for you and your children. Hence here I sit.”
Her apparent disbelief and increasing malcontent with his presence at her family’s table were suddenly cancelled out by the screams and the sounds of gunfire that became more plainly audible in the dining car as the outlaws advanced from the rear. Of course, DB did not dismiss the possibility of more of their numbers coming in from behind him.
He worried for Karen, but she was an employee, and a fallen woman, unlike this God-fearing innocent young mother with her children in need of protection. And Karen was not incapable of defending herself.
There was a flurry of action in the first-class car. It began as a shifting of shadows flashes of bodies rising from seats, moving into the aisle, a lot of multilingual shouting. And then a gun barked, and a belch of white smoke stretched itself into view in the rear part of the next car. The younger daughter screamed, the mother gave a leap of shock and her eyes turned to BD.
“Under the table, if you please.” He whispered calmly.
The mother ushered her three children quickly beneath the dining table. Though she herself did not follow them.
There was a painting on the left wall of the near end of the first-class car. And at the right angle, it cast a shadowy reflection for DB, giving him a vague idea of what was happening in the previous car. His concern for Karen flared, surprisingly so, but as she had chosen to go back to their first-class seats, separating herself from him, there was nothing he could do for her any longer. He just hoped she didn’t try anything rash with that Cattleman she had concealed in her dress pocket. She was a reasonably sensible girl, fingers crossed she would not get herself killed.
The first instance of trouble entering the dining car was of a stray bullet zinging into the space and smashing a window somewhere on the right behind DB. The wife beside him gave a little scream and dropped herself down in her seat but with three children bunched up under the table by her legs, there wasn’t far she could go. DB simply remained still and calm though he pushed the glassware and crockery onto the far side of the table out of the way and once he had loaded the usually omitted sixth cartridge, he placed his own Cattleman onto the table top. He also drew his prize ornate Schofield, from its under-arm holster and loaded that too. However, he re-holstered it again, only intending to use it as aback up. Finally, he took a China bowl from the table’s centrepiece, removing the stylish flower arrangement from it and started to pile cartridges into it for ease of use, stripping bullets from the loops in his holster rig.
He was almost finished, having counted eighteen .45 shells into the bowl beside his Cattleman, when the first figure appeared. He was almost a silhouette in the entryway of the dining car. It was a bandit, his wide brimmed hat knocked back off his head and hanging between his shoulder blades by its loose chin strap. He advanced quickly along the central aisle, pistol drawn. A long-barrelled Cattleman, DB noted. The bandit’s narrowed, dark brown eyes swept back and forth, quickly taking in the number and location of passengers. He was only a metre from DB’s table before he noticed the China bowl full of pistol shells.
By the time this initial bandit had noticed the cocked revolver in DB’s grasp, held in his lap angled up at him from beneath the table, the retired Cavalry Major had already shot him through the heart.
The bandit fell to the floor with a heavy clatter and DB sprang quickly over to the body, retrieved the bandit’s revolver, tossing it up onto the table and then started to skilfully snatch the cartridges from his gun belt. Throughout, he kept his own barrel and one eye trained on the entrance to the car. His only concern now was if someone entered from behind him. However, luck was with him and he quickly had two fresh handfuls of .45 shells dropped into the China bowl. Also, after quickly checking the cylinder, he now possessed a second fully loaded Cattleman. He returned to his seat, facing the young mother. And then risked a sip of lukewarm coffee.
Next came Flaco Hernandez himself. He paused in the entrance, long enough for DB to see and recognise him, from a volunteered description and a Blackwater wanted poster. The Mexican bandit leader spotted the corpse of one of his men and, frowning, quickly backed away quickly. DB heard mutterings in Spanish, an exchange between Flaco and whoever was with him.
There was a sudden flash of skirts, a slender though visibly muscular arm, the small hand gripping a sawn-off shotgun. Following it came wide-belted slender waist, and the eye-catching extension of an extremely prominent bosom. DB brought his Cattleman up, cocked the hammer and waited. The female figure slid eloquently forward into his sights. She moved like liquid, quick yet silky smooth. Unable to see her face in the alternating shadows and lances of bright sunlight, as she was in the open air between the two cars, he watched her gun hand instead. If that gun came up, he would shoot.
Though he admitted to himself that he did not want to put bullets into what appeared to be a stupendous figure. However, if she insisted on it, he would be forced to oblige. It had been her choice to gain entry to the train, her choice to put innocents at risk. She caught his eye.
They watched each other for a timeless moment, and DB even allowed the woman a heartbeat or two of advantage, as his gaze slipped across from her gun hand to her jutting chest, the hypnotic rise and fall of those huge, head-size breasts. Though not once did she try to take that advantage. However, the impatience of Flaco interfered all of a sudden. He swept into view behind her. His own gun hand coming up on the outside of her shoulder, while his other hand grabbed her and started to shove her back into cover.
DB beat him to the shot, his Cattleman kicked and boomed and the world was full of white smoke and the acrid stench of burning sulphur and saltpetre. However, in his effort to avoid hitting the woman, his shot went an inch wide, whipping past Flaco and embedding itself into the wooden edging of the first-class car’s exterior.
Flaco’s shot was wider still, missing DB’s head by a good eight inches, too high and too far to the left. There was a smashing of glass behind, along with multiple screams of shock and terror. DB fired again, a pinning shot, meant to throw Flaco off his aim and his balance. Flaco ducked, cursed and then wheeled out of sight around the side of the doorway.
Things went quiet after that and, keeping a close eye on the entryway, DB deftly ejected the spent cartridge and replaced it with a fresh one. The noise from the first-class car began to intensify after a few minutes of relative peace. There were screams and moans and the odd gunshot, but they were distant and muffled.
And then, all of a sudden, the screams and moans and gunshots were much closer. And DB even recognised Karen’s voice amongst them. He remembered the well-placed painting and its reflective glass. Waiting for the right moment, as the train continued to rattle along, the cars shifting this way and that on the mostly even track, DB waited for the cars to align and give him a look into first-class. Finally, he was offered a couple of second long glimpses of the interior, and Karen specifically.
It was as he had assumed, with a somewhat heavy heart, she was indeed being held down on their first-class seat and raped by one of the outlaws. The man was using her with the vigour and passion that only a young man could muster. DB saw naked buttocks almost a blur as they pummelled back and forth between her spread thighs, her skirts hiked up around her waist, her slackened bodice dragged down to free those fantastic young breasts of hers, which the bandit had tightly grasped in both hands.
He felt somewhat sorry for her, and a little guilty that he hadn’t insisted she stay in the dining car with him. However, he thought that her recent experiences on the docksides of Annesburg should have strengthened her against such abuses. The aggressive ravishing at gunpoint might not be as humiliating for Karen as it would invariably be for either of the young women currently occupying this dining car. Or indeed for the elder of the daughters hiding under the table, who might also be seen as eligible fare for a sexually deviant bandit.
Well, he couldn’t help Karen, not here and now. However, the women and children in this dining car were under his protection and he would take that oath to his grave if need be.
There were periodic glances around the edge of the entrance, second long looks, with just the crescent of the side of a face and a single eye. Sometimes him, sometimes her. The irony of who the leader of this group was did not lose itself on DB and he felt the need to confirm his assertion as to the leader’s identity. He called out to him.
“Hello there. Might I be addressing Señor Flaco Hernandez, by any chance?”
“You indeed might, gringo.”
“Señor Hernandez. A pleasure to make your acquaintance. I must say, it’s unfortunate that we should be meeting in these particular circumstances.”
“Oh? And why is that Señor gringo?”
“I’m currently writing a book, and I was hoping to get the chance to interview you, some tales of your illustrious career and the like?”
“I am here, trying to rob this train… and you ask me to tell you stories?” He said, laughing. “You are mad Señor!”
“Quite possibly. I realise it is no longer possible, at this time. It’s a shame, that’s all.”
“It will never be or never have been possible, gringo.” Flaco shouted back. “You would have more chance with fucking Consuela here.”
Perfectly timed, the Mexican woman swept into view, her guns holstered and her hands well away from them. Hernandez continued from his position safely out of sight.
“And she has only fucked men she wanted to fuck! Not many women can say such truths, don’t you think so Señor?!”
“I applaud the young lady for her dedication to her freedoms.” DB said, throwing a smile at the woman’s direction.

She returned it with a full-lipped lopsided smile of her own and a mildly mocking curtsey.
“She is quite the woman, is she not!”
“She leaves me quite breathless, Señor Hernandez.” And then holding the woman’s eye he offered her a polite nod. “My compliments to you, Señorita Consuela.”
This time she couldn’t hold back a grin. Though as she did so, one of her hands inched closer to the sawn-off shotgun strapped to her hip. DB grinned as he cocked the hammer of his already aimed revolver, and her hand reversed course, her smile widening even further.
So, it was to be chess, two gunfighters toying with each other, he considered. But then she slid back out of sight. Flaco’s hand, just his hand, gripping his own revolver of course, appeared around the side of the doorframe and put three shots blindly into the room. There was a grunt and a scream from behind them, more smashing of glass, a crack and splintering of wood.
None of the shoots had come close to DB, however someone behind him, hadn’t been hiding well enough and seemed to have been hit. DB couldn’t risk looking back to investigate. Glances into the curved reflection of the silver-plated coffee pot was all he could risk.
“You still with me Señor?” Flaco asked.
“‘Afraid so, though you hit someone else, I believe.”
“Too bad. We never wish to kill. It is forced upon us by fools.”
“To be honest Señor Hernandez, I find that hard to believe.”
Flaco laughed, so did Consuela. Again, she swept passionately, energetically into view. As though deliberately toying with him, willing him to take a shot at her. She was grinning, and DB couldn’t fail to notice that not only had her blouse been unbuttoned further, revealing a full six inches of her immense cleavage, but her nipples poked forward against the thin fabric, catching the light, the erect nubs, casting noticeable shadows. DB noticed that her hand was once again wrapped around the walnut grips of the unholstered sawn-off. Though again, it was down by her side rather than levelled at him. He didn’t react, just kept his eyes on her. Fighting to keep his attention on her eyes rather than her breasts, though it was excruciating. He could well see how her distraction technique had probably resulted in the deaths of countless men, gunned down while enjoying an eyeful.
He could still see the reflection in the painting, when the angle of the two cars aligned just right, that Karen was still there and still being ravished by one of Flaco’s bandits. There was nothing he could do. Now Flaco and Consuela stood between them as well.
<><><>
The stretched walls of Karen’s tunnel felt scorched. The bandit hadn’t waited long, once his shoving stabbing fingers had worked her juices and started them flowing, before he stabbed his erection up into her. And the friction of his cock scraping against her tender, sensitive innards burned with each driving thrust and hurried retraction.
She remembered her earliest experiences back in Chuparosa, on only her second day as a street whore, following the initial realisations of what her life now was. Her first shock had been the rough way she was used by the men who paid her for their pleasure. Her experience of physical love to that point had been lying beneath her husband, in his loving embrace, making love; sometimes fun and energetic, sometimes as a literal expression of mutual feelings, and respect and companionship. After her fifth ruffian on that second day and the half dozen short occasions the day before, all of them leaving her bruised, battered and sore inside and out, her body and her thoughts and emotions. She had come across another of her kind. The first of who she would think of as friends in the days to come.
Karen had been limping down the exterior backstairs of one of the miner’s cottages, cum trickling down her inner thighs, her scalp stinging from when he had pulled her hair, her lip swollen from where he had nibbled her, her nipples throbbing from where he had pulled and twisted and bit them. She had swung herself around along the northerly leading foot planks that doubled as a platform for the trains that passed across the middle of the main thoroughfare, on her way to the tavern that, like many of the local whores served as a pick-up point. She had crossed paths with one of those women the older ones, haggard by age and experienced and yet blessed by skill and experience that allowed her to keep making money despite being long past her prime. Karen had flinched, half expecting to get attacked, as more than a couple of the established women had threatened her with the previous day. However, the woman, of indeterminate age, had sported a lined and drawn face which still offered suggestions of the pretty girl she had once been, and she had offered Karen a kindly smile, perhaps an act to have Karen lower her defences.
Instead, she had gently taken Karen’s upper arm and spoken softly with a strong European accent, possibly Russian, of how she must gird herself against the realities of the life she had found herself in.
There had been a number of pointless platitudes, warnings, scary stories and advice. The single piece of the latter that Karen had taken had been to apply a couple of dollops of goose fat or if she could get her hands on any fragrant oils or creams and apply them within, to provide a pleasing layer of lubricant to ease the passage of the male’s organ inside. It helped with both ‘down below’ orifices; though goose or pig fat were cheapest and easiest to acquire, it did sting dreadfully, if applied to already raw or lacerated flesh. Karen had taken her advice, giving the butcher a blowjob and/or tit-job in return for weekly jars of the greasy lard.
Of course, the third day had been the day some of the other whores had arranged a little ‘welcome’ gangbang in the bar’s backroom, which had almost finished her off and forced her to miss a number of days where she could potentially have earned, while she healed from the two hours of constant multi-orifice assaults and beatings. It was shocking to think that it had been less than a year ago. And that she had gone straight back to work without a second thought after she had recovered from that.
And now as she lay back on the padded first-class bench seat with a young Mexican bandit humping away between her spread thighs. And Karen found herself wishing she had kept up that vile though aidful practice of anointing her vagina and anus with animal grease to assist with penetration.
Esteban marvelled at how tight the young woman felt. Her cunt veritably fisted his shaft. Driving himself in and out of her tunnel was an effort in gritting his teeth and pushing on through the burning friction. She wasn’t as lubricated as he had thought. However, he preferred a bit of effort, the tighter the better really. He’d forced his way into sloppy seconds, thirds, even fourths, far too often. Or he’d used whores who shoved handfuls of grease into themselves to make the fucking all slippery and tedious. This was by far a superior experience.
He shifted his weight, so he was kneeling on the bench seat with one foot down on the floorboards to brace himself. It freed his hands and allowed him to grasp a good, firm hold of the full soft tits this young gringa sported. He had meant to throw himself into a fantasy of turning the gringa into Consuela while he fucked and fondled her to his heart’s content. However, she was too tempting a morsel on her own and he was having a fine time humping away on top of her without needing to mentally replace her with his buxom bandit-sister.
The feel of his cock, slick and hard and suffused with that sweet tingling ache was delicious. Her tunnel was lubricating slowly but the heat of it and the tightness with which it gripped his ploughing shaft was just fine. He could keep this up for ever and be a happy man. However, in the background was the slow but insistent pressure-build of his driving ecstasy. It was like a stick of dynamite lit and beginning to exploding yet the sequence was slowed down, the building pressure that could only accelerate before the whole thing went off in a gigantic boom. However slow, there was no way he could stop it or hold off that insistent desire to accelerate his humping pace.
Besides, she looked damned good under him. Her body was taut yet voluptuous, her youth keeping her trim and tight. Her thighs plump but firm with muscle, were bent up and back, framing his shoulders and no longer struggling against him, just swinging back and forth in time to his hard and deep thrusts. And of course, her huge milkers felt velvet soft, warm and smooth under his squeezing, clawing molestations. Her nipples he had trapped between fingers and thumbs and he squeezed the teats, pinching and pulling them. Gentle, little tortures that brought exquisite flushes to her full cheeks, winces to her pretty features and glistening tears to her large hazel eyes.
She chewed erotically on her plump bottom lip as Esteban thrust hard, faster still, grunting rapid expressions of the pleasure that filled him and blossomed delightfully through his loins.
In response the gringa’s lovely features twisted up in that delectable expression of pleasure-pain.
Loving every second of raping this buxom blonde morsel, Esteban grinned down at her maliciously, squeezed harder still on her full breasts and intensified his thrusts until he was going at her like a battering ram and forcing whimpering moans of protest from those full, slack lips.
<><><>
Flaco was smart enough to count on the Yankee gentleman’s hesitance at taking a shot at Consuela. Again, he slid in behind her using her as a human shield, then swung around the side of her. He raised his pistol and started shooting.
Hurrying forward into the car, he relied on his rapid-fire shots to keep the Yankee on the backfoot and unable to return fire.
In the split second between seeing Flaco’s sudden advance and his own reaction, DB noticed that the Mexican was carrying a second revolver in his off hand. He didn’t catch enough sight of the handgun to identify the model, just that it was nickel plated and long barrelled. It made his sudden impetuous rush forward seem a little less foolhardy.
DB twisted in his seat and launched himself backward, falling into the central isle. As he fell shoulders first into the wooden boards, he lifted and cocked his Cattleman then squeezed the trigger. He thought he saw the blur of Mexican bullets zipping over his head, he certainly felt their heat trails in the air and heard them zing and crash as they thumped into surfaces behind him. And once again the air between him and the Mexican was filled with gun smoke.
DB’s own bullets had been more accurate, though not accurate enough. The first whipped over Flaco’s head, putting a hole through the brim of his hat. The second zipped past his shoulder, and though he didn’t actively dodge it, he did stumble to the side. As Flaco stumbled he struck the edge of a table, and it overbalanced him, putting him face down onto the ground. The edge of the closest bench seat caught the barrel of his revolver, bending his trigger finger back. It didn’t appear to break his finger but it did, snatch a pained curse out of him and flicked the gun out of his hand as he fell.
DB’s last shot again flew past him, striking the edge of the table he had struck and sent a whole detritus of crockery and cutlery raining down onto the Mexican. The glass bowl centrepiece landed on his head stunning him temporarily.
He let out a grunt and a wheeze as the unprepared-for impact knocked the air out of his lungs. He landed face down, his second pistol still in his grip but facing the wrong way, essentially useless.
DB coolly cocked his revolver, knowing he had at two live shells in the cylinder and swung the fat muzzle around toward Hernandez’s prone skull.
“No!”
The scream, splitting the moment of deathly silence, came from Consuela. There was a blur of robust femininity exploding across the car and though DB reacted as quickly as anyone in his position could, she was on him before he could bring his revolver to bare.
Only she wasn’t on him, she was on Flaco, actively using her body to shield his. Her arms and head curled in around his, her back covering him, her spread skirts concealing the rest of him. DB could see the shivers of desperation and fear quaking the fine muscles of her back and shoulders. And though he pressed the muzzle of his revolver against the crown of her head, noting the little whimper that came from somewhere in the back of her throat and the tightening up of her whole body, he didn’t fire. He took pity.
“Again, my compliments Señorita.” He whispered.
Holding his pistol to her head he slowly picked himself up, drawing his legs up under him until he was kneeling and then slowly rose to his feet. His other hand grabbed her by the fabric at her shoulder and he pulled her up with him. She slowly rose, under his silent command. She put the fingers of one hand around the muzzle of his revolver and purposefully held it to her head.
“Do not shoot him Señor, I beg you.”
“Hmm… Can you hear me, Señor Hernandez?” DB called down as he rose from his crouch, pulling Consuela to her feet along with him.
“I can, Señor gringo.”
There was forlorn defeat as well as frustration in the bandit’s accented response.
“This remarkable woman has bought your life with hers.”
The shivers continued in Consuela’s shoulders, she had her back to DB, her head down looking at her leader. Her hands raised, one still gripping the end of DB’s revolver, barely, with only a light finger and thumb touch. The other was up in the air, as though in surrender. DB reached around to the front of her hips, feeling for the two buckles that held the twin holster rigs in place. One, the well-oiled black rig that was studded with highly polished rivets, though the black holster against the cleft of her hard buttocks was empty. While the other piece of old leather appeared to be a handcrafted piece built to house the two sawn-off shotguns. Blind and one handed, he drew tongues from their buckles one at a time, then pulled each rig away from him, tossing them to the floor behind him. DB kept his eyes on Consuela’s hands. And on Flaco’s hands. And the guns on the floor, one in Flaco’s grip, a highly polished nickel-plated Schofield, and his lost Cattleman which lay on the bench seat across from him.
“I’ll allow you to retreat back the way you came. Though, of course she will remain with me. And so will your pistols.”
Following a pause, he saw Flaco’s head lift then drop in a subtle nod. And then his hands shifted slowly, fingers spread and palms down, lifting away from the floor and the gun. Then he shifted his knees up underneath him to lift himself to his feet.
An abrupt flurry of urgent, hurried movement filled the entrance of the train car. Two young and rough looking Mexicans seeming to fill the doorway, guns levelled and in fact already firing, their screams of rage drowned out by the cracks and roars of their blasting guns.
DB knew they were shocked and angry, and so rushing their shots. That meant he was in less danger than Consuela, who stood between them. Indeed, their bullets went nowhere near anyone. They were trying to hit him while avoiding their boss and the tremendously buxom woman who rode with them and it annulled any chance of accuracy.
Keeping himself behind Consuela, with the kneeling Flaco also between him and the bandits, the former Major snap-aimed his Cattleman and put a bullet through the face of the first man. Then he fanned the hammer to follow up with a second bullet. One’s left eye vanished in a spray-cloud of red, the other went right through the second man’s mouth. DB lowered the pistol, putting his eyes back on Flaco and the woman, who’s blouse was quickly grasped and twisted tight in his free fist.
<><><>
A second bandit, another Mexican by his appearance, had appeared at the rear of the first-class car and hurried up its aisle toward the dining car. His revolver was already drawn, its hammer cocked. He rushed over to the young man busy raping Karen, casting a hurried glance over her on display charms as he came to a halt. But then he grabbed her rapist by the shoulder and hauled him urgently up and back.
At first Karen thought she was going to be fought over, this new younger and admittedly more handsome outlaw, perhaps wanting his turn inside her and wasn’t prepared to wait.
She gasped and winced as the rapist’s thick cock was suddenly hauled out of her clutching depths, the friction pulling at her pussy walls with the urgency of his forced removal.
However, further violence was, surprisingly, not forthcoming. After a moment of snarls and cursing, there was a rattling of Spanish, nods toward the dining car. And then her rapist was awkwardly levering his weapon away into his pants and drawing his old converted Navy six-gun. The two men disappeared through the doorway leading to the dining car.
Karen wasted no time. She pulled herself upright, hauled up her skirts, which had come loose, and bagged them around her thighs with one hand. With the other she dipped into the pocket that housed and concealed her Cattleman, and immediately set off after her rapist.
<><><>
A crack from behind and yet another smashing of glass at the opposite end, where the two bandit bodies lay twitching, snatched DB’s head around and he found himself face to face with his private nightmare. One of them had come in behind him while he had been distracted, unaware and unprepared. And he knew the revolver in his hand was empty and the other was behind him. Within reach perhaps, but out of sight. All he could do was - turn around, pick it up, align his grip, cock it, point, aim and then shoot - and hope that the guy who was already on target, and almost certainly already cocked and ready to fire a second time, didn’t shoot first. There was really no chance. But still, all he could do was to make his move and trust to luck.
The loud crack erupted and powder smoke burst into the car. However, it confused DB as, again, it entered his attention from the wrong side, the wrong direction. He wondered if he had been hit and if the reversed hearing was the first indication of damage. Shock or perhaps a bullet to the head. His vision whipped around toward the front of the dining car to see another of the newcomer bandits crumpled to the floor in the doorway. What, until now, had ever been his blind spot.
Turning back to the first-class doorway there stood Karen, her dress looping around her spread thighs, her loose bodice closer to a belt, hanging around her waist and midriff. Her large yet unfathomably pert breasts, marked by cruel welts, bared and pressed together by a covering forearm. She had her own Cattleman gripped in one hand, thrust out in front of her. But the gun smoke was in her face and she was blinking rapidly as the acrid cloud stung her eyes.
Flaco apparently took it as an opportunity. He dropped to the floorboards and snatched up the nickel Schofield. DB matched the Mexican's action with his own, spinning around and grabbing the spare long barrelled Cattleman from the table. He put the barrel to Consuela's head and cocked the hammer, but by then Flaco had his Schofield aimed at Karen, who had frozen in horror.
“You shoot me and you will miss, blondie!” He called, to Karen. “But I will not!”
DB saw that Karen's hands were shaking and her cattleman wasn't cocked. There was no way she would have the chance to cock and fire and hit Flaco without him killing her first. And DB had the exact same problem. He had swapped his emptied pistol for the spare he had taken from the first bandit, however his new revolver wasn't cocked either, and the time and sound of him pulling back that hammer would give Flaco every opportunity to shoot Karen dead.
“What shall we do now Señor gringo? You cannot let my Consuela free and I will not take this gringa with the fine tetas out of my sights.”
DB saw the side of his cheek bulge in a smirk or smile.
“And I do not think either of us want to pull the trigger…”
Without taking his eyes or his sightline from Karen, Flaco started taking slow steps toward her. Karen’s eyes widened in fear and realisation. Her own Cattleman barrel had drooped, either through giving up on her intent to shoot, or simple tiredness at having to hold the substantial two-pound weight at arms length.
“You are right, of course. But, if you make a grab for her, Señor Hernandez, I will shoot this lovely morsel.” DB asserted.
Flaco’s gun arm didn’t shift an inch, but the rest of the man turned into profile, and then his head turned back and stared darkly back at the Cavalry Major. First, he stared at DB, holding the older man’s eyes and then his gaze switched over to Consuela. Her face, then breasts-breasts-face. There was a kind of longing there, perhaps for a favourite possession, now possessed by someone else. Otherwise, he didn’t react.
A shout from the far end of first-class snatched everyone attention. One of the other bandits, shouting to his leader, though not coming in close enough to be spotted by DB, or apparently figure out the stand-off. BD didn’t catch every word but it equated to the man reporting that the law had been spotted outside. Five men on horseback, riding fast and already exchanging shots with Ramos. As the Spanish rattled back and forth, revealing a renewed urgency in both men, Karen took a huge risk, taking the opportunity to cock her revolver and square it, both using both hands, once again on Flaco.
DB knew Karen wouldn’t shoot, and apparently Flaco had made the same assumption. Though the man speaking to him didn’t and going from their reactions, the man not being directly visible, he had drawn on Karen. Flaco immediately ordered him to lower his gun down and instead go and hold off the approaching lawmen. Completely ignoring Karen and her shaking hands, he returned his attention to DB for a moment and then turned his dark glare to Consuela.
“I’ll get you back chiquita. My word.”
He spoke his oath, left hand pressed over his heart. And then turned his attention back toward Karen.
“And as for this Gringa with the tetas suculentas? Will she try anything foolish and get herself killed? Or will she allow me pass her by.”
“I won’t shoot you, if you don’t shoot me.” Karen said.
Her arms were shaking but her voice was clear and determined. DB felt quietly proud of her. He saw Flaco grinning, the Mexican give a miniscule nod and he retreated along the length of the dining car toward first-class. His eyes, and Karen’s, and the muzzles of their revolvers did not leave the other until he had passed her by and retreated all the way out of the first-class car and out of sight.
The sound of gunfire intensified almost at once as Flaco and the men who remained of the Hernandez gang fought their way off the train. The gang’s horses had apparently been trained well enough to run alongside the train, awaiting the whistles and shouts of their owners to come and collect them. From horseback they began the struggle of escaping the pursuing posse of West Elizabeth lawmen, probably over from Strawberry.
<><><>
The train journey ended at Riggs Station. Of course, though the engine was still in working order, the train’s cars were badly damaged, a number of the passengers killed, others raped and beaten. And the law from Strawberry, having lost the survivors of the Hernandez gang, was present and starting an investigation.
The clean-up, dragging away of the bodies and retrieval from them of a number of personal items, stolen from their owners yet never having left the train, took some time. The bodies had been separated, the five bandit corpses left out on the open cars with the wood and barrels. Meanwhile the murdered passengers had been more respectfully moved to the rear two cars, laid out and covered with linen cloths.
As the lawmen began their investigation and interviews at the back of the train, DB moved around too, taking it upon himself to check on the other passengers. The mother and her children he had chosen to protect were shaken up but unharmed, though the father was among the dead.
The train driver had managed to keep the lone bandit, who had been sent forward to take over the train, at bay and had kept the train running. Of course, when he had spotted the law in pursuit, he had started to slow down.
The newlywed husband in the dining car had been hit in the shoulder but having taken a look and cleaned the wound with medicinal alcohol, DB decided the man should live. He could potentially keep full use of his arm too, if he came with them to Strawberry to see the doctor there. His young wife arranged the hiring of a cart from the train station to transport them both to the town. The gambler had his flashy tin rivetted pistol rig returned to him, however, the nickel-plated Schofield that went with had been lost to the bandits. One small victory that DB believed might serve him well was that he had retrieved Flaco Hernandez’s personal Cattleman from one of the seats in the dining-car, and he had no intention of handing it over to the investigating lawmen.
Karen, having dressed herself and cleaned herself up as best she could, sat silently on a first-class seat, covering the prisoner Consuela with her Cattleman. The Mexican woman occupied the bench opposite, also sitting in silence staring out of the window.
There had been some discussion between the passengers that the prisoner should be strung up or shot, there was a lot of anger and hot desire for vengeance. However, DB saw all of their demands off with either smooth moral arguments or cold threats. Consuela was his prisoner and no one but he was going to decide her fate. Her identity was therefore reluctantly kept from the lawmen. In fact, she was introduced as DB’s wife. Karen kept her pistol hidden throughout, while the lawmen wandered around taking statements. Consuela, of course kept her peace and her mouth shut. If the law realised that she was in fact one of the train robbers, it would not go well for her. She understood DB was a gentleman and she would be better off as his prisoner rather than being taken away by an undisciplined gang of jumped-up cow-pokes and labourers from Strawberry given an inkling of power through a tin badge.
It was early evening before the witnesses were allowed on their way. Only DB, Karen, Consuela and the young newlyweds on their cart, were bound for Strawberry. The remainder of the surviving passengers intended to wait for the connecting train that would take them south, over the Upper Montana River and down into Blackwater, the closest town with a train station. DB and Karen had their horses brought from the animal car and saddled, then they accompanied the newlyweds to the west.
<><><>
DB shared his steed with Consuela while Karen rode alone. The newlyweds shared the cart. The wife drove while her injured husband rested uncomfortably in the back. Karen led the way. DB had shown her the approximate directions on a hand sketched map. She also made use of the available path markers, getting an idea of the layout of this more alpine part of the West Elizabeth for the first time. The cart followed her lead while DB and Consuela brought up the rear.
Consuela had spent the first hour of the journey hogtied and thrown over the horse’s flanks. However, she begged and pleaded with DB so thoroughly that he again took pity on her, untied her feet and allowed her to ride pillion in front of him. It was not an easy experience either, the saddle not being designed to incorporate two. Finally, DB removed the saddle, placing it in the back of the newlywed’s cart and leaving himself and Consuela to ride bareback with nothing but a saddle blanket.
Riding bareback proved a very amusing and distracting task. Consuela sat in front with DB thrust up snuggly against her, which didn’t appear to surprise her in the least. And it wasn’t long before the warmth and proximity of her taut fleshy rump rocking side to side against his groin caused his meat to tingle and then swell and grow fully hard. Also, without the stability of saddle or stirrups, when they took rises or when the trail grew rocky or less than even which seemed to happen every couple of minutes, DB found it preferable to wrap an arm around the woman’s waist, naturally drawing her more tightly against him and pressing the swell of her smooth buttocks against his now aching erection.
The warmth of her tight, robust body and the natural aroma of her was akin to intoxication and for a while DB felt once again like a pubescent whelp enjoying his first moment of close proximity of the fair sex. He felt heated, led by his desire and somewhat incapable of mature action. One hand gripped his horse’s reins while the other arm, encircling her slender waist remained snug, fingers pressing into her flesh. He slid up to her midriff, holding her tightly against him. And then his thumb extended upwards, its tip finding the hot, heavy weight of the undercurve of one giant breast.
“Do you intend to fuck me, Señor?” She asked him, donning a smile that was as coy as it was accusing. “Do you often force yourself on women?”
“It’s actually unheard of, Señorita. Though, with you I admit, I am surely tempted.”
“If I might ask Señor, what are your intentions with me?”
“I intend to return you to Señor Hernandez, in return for a conversation with him.”
“I am your hostage?”
“You are payment, for information.”
She fell silent then, hands still light on her long though plump thighs. DB couldn’t resist lifting the forearm higher still until he deliberately shelved her bosom, his hand cupping one weighty orb, forearm supporting its sister. Consuela didn’t react at all. DB kept his groping light and playful, squeezing only gently, experimentally, and stroking his uplifted thumb back and forth. He smiled at the feel of her puckered nipple stiffen and rise against the thin linen of her blouse. Within a few moments of the illicit contact, both of them were breathing more heavily.
“Are you planning to fuck me before you return me to Flaco, Señor?”
“I am sorely tempted. I can say no more than that.”
“I see. You want me, that is obvious. Everyone does. Yet you fight with your own desire.”
“If you do choose to fuck me Señor, put it up my ass. I will suffer no gringo child in my belly. And neither would Flaco.”
“I’ll certainly bare that in mind, Señorita.” DB replied, an excitement in his voice that surprised even him.
If he was lucky Karen would be getting in spades tonight. He thought. If he couldn’t control himself, this amazing figure of a woman would be getting it instead, multiple times. Perhaps he would force Karen and Consuela to share his bed with him? That could be interesting. Two amazing figures, a feisty blonde and an angry brunette. Would he survive the night? He laughed aloud at the idea and the moment of amusement broke through the impure thoughts that rankled his mind and drew his attention. He returned his embracing hand to his own person, made a half-hearted attempt to ease the ache in his groin by unsuccessfully adjusting his clothing and then took a determined grasp of the reins in both hands and tried to enjoy the breezy scenery of a summer’s alpine day in West Elizabeth.
They camped that night on a flat outcrop of the rocky alpine environs overlooking Hawks Eye Creek. The outcrop was surrounded by jagged rocks and though open to the cold northerly wind, it was well hidden from near by trails. Karen knew that following the creek upstream would take them into Strawberry. However, according to DB it would probably be nightfall of the following day before they arrived.
Their first and most preferred intention had been to ride through the night, which would have had them in Strawberry at some time the following morning. The idea had been to keep an easy pace, stopping to rest and water the horses three times throughout the night. However, the discomfort of the rough trail was an agony for Mister Striker, the injured man. And his young wife had begged to make camp so that he could rest easy for a time and build her husband’s strength for the following day’s travel. Therefore, the plan was changed.
Mrs Striker firstly attended to her husband’s comfort against the night’s chill with blankets, a saddle for a pillow, and a careful change of his dressing. And then she dealt with the horses and built a small fire. DB had gone out to hunt for game. Which had left Karen to keep an eye on Consuela. BD had tied her ankle to the trunk of a tree, allowing her wrists to be untied for the first time since they had left Riggs Station. The bandit, kept her hands demurely folded in her lap and sat still and quiet. Karen sat on a rock nearby but out of reach. Her Cattleman in hand, watching her like a hawk. Nothing was said between them.
After the meal, DB decided he and Karen would share the watch between them, four hours each. Karen was given the first watch.
Unsurprisingly, DB untied Consuela and took her with him to share his bedroll, giving Karen her own sleeping place on the far side of the fire, once her time at the watch was over.
The fire had died down to smokeless embers but it was a cloudless night and cold, the moon was not full but it was high and bright and the pale rocks of their camp reflected the moonlight like snow. There were no outside disturbances, they all came from above and within their secluded camp. Karen heard the screams and hoots of coyotes and owls in the night. Perhaps the howls of a wolf at one point. However, the noise that distracted her the most was of DB and Consuela.
She watched them, Cattleman in one hand, a bottle of Old Blood Eyes in the other. She unloaded and then cleaned and oiled the revolver the way DB had showed her, then reloaded the split point shells that the Valentine gunsmith had given her and settled down against the smooth sided rock, wrapped in her blanket with her warming whiskey bottle for company.
DB’s companion was wriggling and writhing against him mostly beneath their shared blanket, and Karen couldn’t help but watch them going at it. The flapping motion of their shared blanket, at times revealing, at others concealing, along with the vague shapes of the two people beneath it, was like a picture puzzle and Karen found herself quietly amused by the challenge of determining just what was going on.
DB appeared to be on his back with Consuela on top of him. They were kissing, Karen saw slick lips and hurried plying tongues. The movement of the blanket revealed DB had both his hands on one of Consuela’s bared breasts, which appeared a big as a few of the boulders scattered around the periphery of the camp. He had one of those orbs against his chest cupped in a fully spread palm while with his other hand he teased her dark nipple, pinching and rolling it between his fingers.
The blanket shifted concealing their upper bodies yet suddenly showing off one of the bandit’s long supple legs, from bare foot right the way to the top of her upper thigh, almost to her buttock. Karen wondered if she had shed her skirts or if they were just rucked up. Then again, the blanket was flicked over and her long pale limb was hidden from view.
The blanket moved again; this time pulled down from DB's head while the concealed bulge of the woman's slid southward along with it. Karen had the impression of DB's hand on the top of her head, pushing her down his laid out body toward his crotch. Her descent took the blanket with her. DB grabbed it and pulled it back up as far as his chest. Soon there was DB under the blanket up to his chest though with his booted feet sticking out, while from his groin to his ankles there was nothing but a great camel hump.
The bulge at his crotch was going up and down in a rapid, purposeful and fervent rhythm and DB was reacting, subdued but audible, little hisses of sharp inhales, little throaty moans, muttered curses that barely made it to Karen's ears.
She found herself thinking back to an earlier time, a month or two ago, when DB and been looking into a clue concerning the whereabouts of Emmet Granger, before they had stumbled across Klein the fence.
They had stopped for the night in the wilderness of the Grizzles, she couldn’t remember if it had been east or west. Karen had built a fire while he had put up the tent. Then he had left her alone while he wandered off into the woodland to find something for supper. Looking for dry wood for the fire, she had wandered down to a little pond. Of course, fresh water was always essential when crossing country and they never made camp unless a water source was nearby.
Unfortunately, there had also been a trail that snaked around the edge of the pond. And a lone traveller had been passing by and had spotted Karen out there alone, gathering wood. He had climbed down off his horse and drawn the lever action scatter gun from his saddle scabbard before she even noticed his approach. She had no chance to run or shout for DB and no revolver of her own at the time. Within a minute she had found herself on her knees with her back to a tree with the stranger’s filthy unwashed cock sawing in and out of her mouth, then having it rammed down her throat numerous times. All the while, he had taken a fistful of her hair in his left hand while he had viciously squeezed her breasts through her bodice with his right.
DB had ended the rough face-rape by putting a .45 slug through the back of his head at point blank range, splattering the tree trunk and Karen with his blood and brains. She had had to strip and wash herself and then her clothing in the pond, under DB’s watchful protection. Afterwards, DB had hauled the all but decapitated body over into some brush, behind a house that had been ruined by a falling tree. The man’s horse appeared to have run at the sound of DB’s single shot.
However, once the writer was asleep, Karen had slipped out of the tent and scoured the body’s pockets. Scaring off a number of night time predators while she was at it. It was from that guy that she had procured her first loot. Ten dollars in coins, a gold wedding ring and a silver-plated pocket-watch. DB had tossed the shotgun into the pond, though she wouldn’t have had anywhere to hide it anyway.
The Mexican's beauty’s head slid upward, emerging from the blanket at DB’s sternum, looking up at him while she rocked herself forward and back. Karen could see what she was doing, using those backbreaking boulder sized tits on his erection. He would be trapped within her immense cleavage, her saliva for lubrication, the succulent warmth and softness of those giant pillows taking him to the gates of heaven.
Things changed after that, a few moments of languid caresses with mouth and breasts and then the blanket was rearranged again to cover them both, which was followed by much shuffling motions, grunting and whispers. Then next thing Karen actually witnessed was that they had exchanged places. Now Consuela was lying on the ground, on the folded padding of his bed roll, though she was face down, propped up on her elbows with her terrific breasts pressing down beneath her, jutting out of the sides of her torso. DB was on top, propped up on one hand, while he fumbled in the shadows with the other.
Again, Karen could picture it. Fumbling between her naked buttocks with his turgid erection, trying to instigate penetration. Consuela abruptly stuffed a clenched fist between her teeth and squeezed her eyes shut as DB, his face glowing in the dark with his exertion, pressured his way between her buttocks.
The Mexican gave a subdued throaty groan that was matched by a hoarse grunt from DB and his body lowered itself suddenly. Karen couldn't see under the blanket but she pictured the scene all the same, his pale hips meeting the rounded curves of her up thrust buttocks, his erection gripped vice tight by the ruddy ring of her over-powered entryway. Anal cavity more than likely, after all, she had told him that if he was going to take her, then he should take her the backway so as not to lumber her with a child. Though of course, it was guess work.
Consuela moaned and grimaced, lips pulled back, teeth clenched. Karen could swear there were even actual tears trickling down her plump cheeks. Those arched brows were drawn down tight as DB started to excitedly pump his shaft in and out of her. The noise intensified almost at once. DB’s groaning and huffing subdued but clearly audible, while Consuela had stuffed a fistful of bedroll into her mouth to stifle her own moans.
Clouds appeared and blanketed the moon, but the wind had picked up so the moonlight came and went like a flickering candleflame, bathing the sex with indiscriminate light and shadow. The noises sketched in the continuing activities when the moonlight illumination was insufficient. Which was how Karen knew there had been a pause in DB’s pleasure, and the next time the moonlight bathed the duo, the Mexican was sitting astride DB, who was once again lying back on his bedroll. The woman had the blanket around her shoulders though her breasts, cupped in DB’s hands were exposed to the night chill, her exposed nipples long and pronounced. While beneath the blanket the rest of Consuela was rocking back and forth all hip action, rolling them in fast aggressive circles or bouncing her buttocks up and down. Her face was also creased, though less so. Eyes screwed shut, and she was chewing her bottom lip. DB’s eyes were little flames, reflecting the embers of their fire, staring up at her seemingly in wonder.
His climax built up and overtook him rapidly once the Mexican started to ride him. And he announced it in a series of wheezing moans. Though they were subdued enough not to wake the Striker’s, who were both snoring quietly from their bed in the back of the cart. As he was filling the woman’s passage with his cum, DB pulled her torso down against him, burying his face into her enormous breasts, further blocking his orgasmic oration, or allowing him more expressiveness against his sound consuming flesh. Once he released her from his bear hug, she rolled off him and onto her back alongside, took a couple of seconds to make sure the blankets covered them both and then drifted off to sleep almost immediately.
And soon enough they were adding their own snores to those of the young newlyweds.
Karen still had almost three hours left of her watch. And it trundled along at a snail’s pace. She drank from her rectangular brown bottle, strolled around the perimeter of their camp, looking between the rocks at the woodland and the fast-flowing creek below their promontory. Or she sat by the dying fire wishing she could get away with another log or two, yet knowing the resulting smoke trail might attract badmen. Bandits, outlaws. Even, potentially Flaco.
DB finally rose from his makeshift bed just before the four hours were up. Though at first, he wandered off into a far corner, Karen assumed, to empty his bladder. He took his water canteen with him, as well as his pistol rig. She watched him strip off from the waist down and then pour water from his canteen over his penis, washing himself carefully.
Consuela sat up, her bareback all interlocking lean muscle beneath smooth and unblemished olive skin. She whispered something to DB’s back. He turned and looked back at her, then caught Karen’s eye held it for a moment, before giving the Mexican a little nod. Consuela rose, naked and started to pull on her skirts and blouse. While DB redressed and then, carrying his canteen and pistol rig with him, came over to Karen, sat on her rock.
“I’m about to escort Consuela down to the brook to bathe and refill this, then I’ll relieve you and you can get some sleep.”
“Okay, boss. Just make sure you take the right gun with you.” She said.
DB gave her a confused frown and then turned his attention back to buckling his gun-belt around his hips.
Karen slept well, wrapping herself in the warmth of her blankets felt good, and so was the relinquishing of the pressure of remaining alert and being responsible for catching approaching bandits. She slept deeply for an hour. Though something woke her up. Either something in a dream or a real-life noise. She rolled over and glanced across at the moonlit rock she had been using during her watch.
BD sat on it, gun in one hand the other resting on the top of the Mexican’s head. Consuela was kneeling on the ground between his spread thighs, her lush maned head bobbing rapidly up and down in his lap. Karen watched in silence for a moment wondering how the woman compared to herself in oral skills. She admittedly had Karen beat bosom-wise but a giant pair of tits was no guarantee of sexual ability.
She might had dozed for a couple of minutes while watching Consuela and her boss. Because the next time she was aware of them, Consuela had lifted herself up higher and her arms were cocked, embracing her breasts, obviously regaling him with an energetic tit fuck. And DB was straining, face flushed, head thrown backward Karen recognised the blatant sign that he was seconds from emptying himself all over her. But she never got to see that explosive comeuppance, her heavy eyelids forcing her back into sleep. When she next awoke it was morning and everyone was getting packed up to leave.
<><><>
The westerly trail following Hawks Eye Creek brought them straight into Strawberry. DB had been half concerned that the remainder of the Hernandez gang would circle back and ambush them. However, the gang had escaped to the north from Riggs station, leaving Strawberry’s riled up posse between them and Consuela.
The town of Strawberry came into view as they navigated a righthand bend, there were a few two storey wooden houses in the background, however before that was an entryway, like a bridge covering. The thick trunk-like poles flanking the trail featured a wooden roof with shingles, rounded ridge tiles and even an elk skull complete with antlers as a centre piece. While directly beneath the roof was a large sign that stretched the full width of the trail with the name of the town emblazoned on it, probably painted on with black pitch.
They passed beneath the entryway and continued onward, riding past the outdoor butchers and the post office and stagecoach office on their right.
Karen rode on up the slope and pulled her steed to a halt by a hitching post, while Mrs Striker had taken her cart around to the left across one of the sturdy bridges and then pulled up just beyond. Apparently, she had already spotted the doctor’s place or had already known its location. She immediately hopped down from the driver’s bench and hurried around to the rear to help her husband down from the back. DB would no doubt retrieve his horse’s saddle later.
Karen caught his eye and pointed with her chin over at the building to their right at the top of the hill, which DB recognised was a hotel. He gave her a nod and while she walked her horse to the new hitching post beside the staircase entryway, he slid down from his horse and then reached up to help Consuela down. Defiantly, the Mexican dismounted from the horse’s other side. Though she didn’t try to run, instead coming to DB’s side wearing a cheeky grin. Standing still and watching while he led his horse to Karen’s hitching post. Thinking he would have to find a lad somewhere to take care of them two horses, he put a guiding hand to the small of the Mexican’s back and wheeled her over to the hotel, up the stairs to the porch.
<><><>
DB sat at the little desk in the hotel room. He’d paid for two rooms. One for his pretty young assistant and the other for himself and his ‘wife’. Consuela sat on the bed in patient silence, wrists once more manacled, lay dormant in her lap. For safety purposes, DB had left all of the firearms with Karen.
On arriving at the hotel, Karen had immediately requested a bath while DB had paid for and settled into their rooms. After she had finished, DB had insisted that Consuela take one too, with Karen as armed chaperone. The Mexican had simply shrugged and then nonchalantly slipped out of her skirts and blouse then and there. Even with much of her naked flesh soiled by dirt and sand, sweat-baked to her skin, greasy unwashed hair, a coating of dried horse sweat along her inner legs, as well as smears of old powder-soot staining her face and hands, she still looked utterly ravishing. All Woman. She had smiled as DB had found himself staring at the robust hourglass of unblemished tanned olive flesh and grown instantly and blatantly erect at the sight of her. Though he had enjoyed her the previous night, the moonlight hadn’t done justice the way broad daylight did. With deliberate slowness she had loosely wrapped the supplied towel around her torso and, followed by Karen who had her revolver gripped but hidden in her skirts pocket, had gone next door for her own bath.
DB bathed with a jug and bowl of icy water, and a complimentary bar of soap, which appeared, amusingly, unused. He changed his clothes in his room while the women busied themselves next door. Then he secured most of his belongings in Karen’s room, other than a change of clothing and his saddlebags, once he had removed anything that could reasonably be used as a weapon. However, he retrieved his notebooks, pen and ink and, temporarily, brought along Flaco’s own Cattleman. Returning to his room and sitting at the desk, he spent a couple of minutes mindlessly looking out of the window, eyes wandering thoughtfully over the goings on in the little so-called ‘bustling hub’ that was the town of Strawberry.
Finally, the writer thought back over the experience of the train robbery and what he had seen of Flaco Hernandez and his actions with his guns. Had he observed anything or learned anything he could write about? Had Flaco revealed anything about himself and the way he used his irons? It was hard to pin down at the moment. There were distractions playing on his mind. Outside, he saw the husband and wife emerge from the doctor’s place. Mister Striker had his arm in a pristine white linen sling, his wife supporting him.
Since his time as a Cavalryman, DB had long since recognised that busying himself with a menial task allowed his mind to wander and land on interesting moments in his memories, interesting thoughts or ideas. And so, with that in mind, he retrieved his gun cleaning kit from his saddlebag at the foot of the bed and then took his seat back at the small writing desk. Having already unloaded Flaco’s revolver in Karen’s room, he started to look over the Cattleman. He would glean what he could from the artistry covering much of the six-gun and then he would disassemble it completely, down to the screws and springs, and give it a damned good clean and polish.
At first glance it resembled Emmet Granger’s Buck, and quite closely. Both sporting age-yellowed ivory grips and a polished steel frame and barrel. However, Flaco’s metal parts were obviously more carefully maintained and cared for than Granger’s had been. It still wasn’t up to DB’s own standards, of care and maintenance, but that was no surprise. Flaco’s was a working tool, possibly fired on a daily basis.
Both ivory grips were adorned with matching carved embossments of the Mexican coat of arms, a golden eagle fighting a rattlesnake while perched on a prickly pear cactus. The frame was adorned with etched patterns of scrollwork. And the first inch or so of the top of the barrel was likewise decorated. While the loading gate, along with same scrolling designs of vines, leaves and curlicues, was also emblazoned with a frowning human skull. Another matching skull was etched onto the forward part of the frame where the barrel joined it. The design and placement of the two skulls were replicated on both sides of the revolver.
So, DB observed that ‘patriotism’ and ‘death’ were the two obvious elements to be gleaned from the pistol. And perhaps a certain respect and care. Nothing particularly original or ornate or even of particularly high quality. The craftwork was a little lightweight and scratchy compered to Granger’s pistol’s more professional looking applications. So, he wasn’t spending too much money on the piece. He wondered if perhaps Hernandez was patriotically motivated in his robberies, that perhaps some or all profits were sent back over the border to help in the fight for revolution.
He took the linseed oil and a small strip of silk and worked it over each of the screwheads before slackening them. He removed the grips first and then each of the other parts until it was completely disassembled, springs and all. Then he went about carefully cleaning everything with oil and rag.
By the time the revolver was cleaned to DB’s satisfaction and reassembled, Consuela had returned to the room after her bath. And she had captured his entire attention by dropping the towel on the floor as she picked up a brush from the nightstand and started to draw its bristles through her long glistening wet hair.
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After dropping off the freshly bathed hostage in the adjoining room, Karen had retired to her own. She was feeling strange. She couldn’t understand quite how or what she was feeling. She undressed and then lay atop her bed, propped up on pillows with an unopened bottle of rum between her naked thighs and her Cattleman beside her. The contents of her saddlebags were spread out at the foot of the bed just beyond her crossed legs.
The head of DB’s bed must be shoved up against the dividing wall between their rooms. And he was obviously fucking ten shades of shit out of the Mexican. The bedstead slamming noisily against the wall, rattling the wooden crucifix hanging above Karen’s head. The noise reminded her of a gatling gun, that fast, dry repeating rattle again and again and again. She paused to listen, her head swimming slightly.
Had DB ever fucked her that fast? She wasn’t certain but she doubted it. That Mexican piece was a noisy whore too. Had she ever made that much noise? Certainly not with DB. It was goddamned distracting is what it was!
“Ahh! Señor, please!”
“You are big! Señor… Ouch!”
“It hurts! Too deep!”
“Please, do not… Not so deep.”
“Not so hard… Owwwww!”
The din was all her. And it all flowed, up and down in pitch and volume and harsh expression. Though there was an undercurrent of low groans and grunts of DB’s thrusting, ignoring her, perhaps even taking pleasure from her obvious discomfort. Though she could just as easily be putting it on for his pleasure. It was something Karen had done plenty of times in the past.
She opened the bottle and took a mouthful of rum then plumped the pillow behind her, trying to cushion the heavy rattle of the bedpost slamming against the wall. Her mind raced, and she started to consider her irritation; what it was, where it came from, what it meant.
It took a while and a lot of gulps of rum but her mind slowly swam through the booze-fog toward what must be the reason. Though admitting it to herself was a belated and fought-against effort. She was feeling a little lonely, and perhaps even a little left out. And if she was truly honest, abandoned by her employer. It was like DB had forgotten about her since Consuela had joined them. She had watched him, the ex-Major, unable to take his eyes of the buxom Mexican, rubbing up against her, the flirtatious looks between them. And then last night when he had taken her, at least twice. Was that it…? Was she jealous? Was that what she was feeling? It couldn’t be. Why would she be jealous of some Mexican prisoner taking DB’s cock, essentially against her will? She was being made to take it herself, that had never been her choice. She had agreed to it but only because it was a better set of circumstances than she was already in.
Letting out a long huff, and following it with another protracted and annoyed drowning of Guama rum, Karen reached back and punched her pillow a few more times, working it somewhere toward a better shape. Then she slouched there and fumed for a while. Nothing in her head but the increasingly energetic and loud noises from the next room.
A loud breathy groan sliced through the wall and then a high-pitched shocked gasp. It was followed by a loud rattle of whip-crack Mexican, practically screamed. BD’s grunts also grew louder and now the sound of flesh clapping on flesh was also coming through the wall as well. Karen tried to picture hips slapping against buttocks or a hand coming down on an ass cheek over and over, but she couldn’t tell the possibilities apart with only the sounds.
“Ahhhh! Ahhhh! Fuck! Ahhhh! Ahhhh!”
“Ohhh! Ohhhhh Gringo! Owwwww! Ahhhh! Please Señor!”
“Señor! Please, I beg you…. Please! Ahhh Gringo ahhh!”
And then all of a sudden, within only a few seconds, Consuela’s tone changed, and she started to moan, loud and long, begging for more.
“Aiii, Señor! Aiii… harder, Señor! Harder. Aiii! Aiiii!!”
And DB’s own grunts, drawn out into groans of climatic pleasure, could be heard almost as well. An octave lower, audible because of it. Yet still all but drowned out by Consuela.
“Si! Siii! Siiiii! Ohhh… Gringo!!”
Karen shook her head at the ridiculous din. She took another gulp of rum, feeling that sweet numbing burn and then the heat of it spreading across her belly. Sitting up she looked down over her belongings. The gold nugget, worth maybe thirty dollars with the right guy. The rest of it might add up to sixty, maybe the promise of her body might knock it up to sixty-five, if she got lucky.
“Near a hundred dollars, ain’t to be sniffed at.”
It was a start. The beginnings of a way of making a life for herself somewhere. Somehow. And then with the distraction of the fantasy concluded, there was once again nothing in Karen’s attention other than the noise from the adjoining room. And grumbling to herself, she gathered her treasure back into the bottom of her saddlebag, slid it under the bed, and slipped her Cattleman under her pillow. Finally, tossing a few grumbled curses into the ether, she slid down under the blankets to await the peace and quiet once her employer had finally dumped his load up, she assumed, the noisy Mexican woman’s ass. It took almost an hour.
The last thing she found herself noticing as sleep finally started to take her, was a series of sharp pictures of DB - spreading Karen’s thighs apart as she lay on her back before him, bending Karen’s knees back to her shoulders, before anointing Karen’s own ass hole with oil in preparation for sodomising her. Her nipples engorged and stiffed at the thought and she let out a long wistful sigh. Then she blew out the oil lamp on the nightstand beside her bed and allowed the darkness to envelop her.
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The following morning just after eight, one of Hernandez’s men rode into the town. Karen, already up and dressed, had taken breakfast over at the place near the doctor’s that had rooms for rent as well as a basic place where meals could be ordered and eaten at one of a handful of tables. Not quite a restaurant but not a long way away. She spotted the Mexican riding into town on her way back and hurried to her room to retrieve her Cattleman.
In the adjoining room, DB and Consuela were awake but not yet up; fucking again by the sounds of it. Karen went out to catch and speak to the man. She recognised him, having spotted him entering the first-class car on the train when Hernandez had backed away from her. Hand in her skirts pocket, the cocked revolver was already in her concealed hand so that all she had to do was angle her wrist up and pull the trigger. She might sprain her wrist doing it but, better that than getting shot.
“Are you here about the woman missing from your group, Señor?”
She voiced her enquiry quietly, so as not to be overheard by the dozen or so people milling around with their own morning business. And her question only came when he had turned his attention upward from her jutting bodice to finally spare a glance upward to her face.
“Si. Are you with the gringo from the tr… from yesterday?”
“Yes. Your boss is to arrive here to speak to my boss. And at the end of the conversation, the woman will leave with your boss. As simple as that.”
“Not so simple for men such as us gringa. Certain men from this place seek us out.”
Karen shrugged and shook her head, waving her free arm around the town.
“Doesn’t have to be here.”
He stood in silence for a moment, his gaze moving over his surroundings. Then, it returned Karen’s grave though pretty young face. And of course, her big young tits, again.
“I have to report to my boss that I have seen our Señorita, and that she is unharmed.” He said finally.
“Boss?” Karen called, turning her head but not her attention to the hotel behind her. “Can we have miss Consuela show her face at the window for a minute?”
“That window, up on the left.”
It took a minute but the drapes were pulled aside, the sash window yanked up and Consuela appeared, wearing her blouse, those breasts pushing hard at the thin off-white fabric, as though fighting to be freed again. The light of the morning sun swept in at a low angle, to strike her the perfect way to attract every male eye in the town. It turned her breasts into shapely shadows beneath the sunlit linen, with deeper shadows revealing the discs of her areolae. It made her bosom look absolutely ginormous. Karen assumed her momentarily see-through blouse had been hurriedly pulled on and she was probably still naked from the waist down. A quick and rather cool conversation began, in rapid Mexican between Consuela and the man.
“He says his boss isn’t for coming into town.” Karen called, after waiting for a break in the Mexicans’ conversation.
She looked beyond Consuela at the darkness of the room behind the olive-skinned beauty. Knowing DB would be standing there in the shadows. Consuela looked behind her and then stepped back from the window. Karen could almost imagine her skimming off her blouse the moment she was out of view. Then DB was standing there in a shirt, though hatless, vestless and tieless. He called down to the Mexican newcomer.
“You know the deserted homestead north of here, with the blue painted walls?”
“Just past Old Tom’s Blind, I know it Gringo.”
“We’ll have our conversation there. Can you get there by noon?”
“Si. We’ll be there.”
Without another word, he threw himself up into his saddle and rode off back the way he had come.
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“You should have called me.”
“You sounded busy.”
DB surprised Karen by actually blushing. He made no more comment. And the two continued to pack their things and then made their way to collect their horses from the stables nearby. They would have to either set out early or ride at a constant canter to get there in time. And of course, they would want to get there early. They were on the trail by half-past eight, with DB and Consuela both having to forego breakfast. However, the horses were strong and refreshed after a night’s rest and plenty of oats and water. They galloped half the way there and cantered and trotted the rest of the journey, getting them to the cabin called Lenore’s View a half-hour before noon. Even so, Flaco Hernandez was already in the two-room cabin, seated at the table and eating from a can, his chair propped back on its rear legs, his boots up on the table top.
DB went in first and went in alone, Cattleman drawn, eyes darting around the chamber. Karen remained outside with their hostage, covered by her own revolver.
“Where is my Consuela, Gringo?”
The question was growled with menace but the Mexican bandit did not offer any physical threat to go with it. DB ignored him until he checked the bedroom. Only when he confirmed it was empty did he return to Flaco. He took a canvas sack, that had been tucked into the rear of his gun belt and placed it on the table. And while Flaco picked up the bag to investigate, DB went to the front door and called the two women inside.
“Go straight into the bedroom and shut the door. Keep her covered, if you hear a struggle or a shot, kill her immediately.”
Karen nodded. DB returned to the table and took a seat facing Flaco, finally holstering his Cattleman as he did so. The Mexican was removing the objects from the bag which he had discovered were the half-stripped pieces of his lost revolver. The frame, barrel and main spring were all assembled, though DB had left the cylinder and grips separate. Flaco went into a pocket and drew a small screwdriver. Glancing up and catching Consuela’s eye and also Karen’s, as they marched past the table and disappeared into the bedroom.
“Your blonde Señorita seems just as fearless as mine, gringo.” He said, his attention apparently on slotting and securing the revolver’s cylinder back into its housing.
“I would agree. I grow increasingly proud of her.”
“I am relieved to see my Señorita unharmed. And I thank you for returning this to me too.”
“Well, Señor Hernandez. That is actually what I wanted to talk to you about.”
“Oh…? I am listening…”
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Memoirs regarding the employment, handling and management of the ‘Buck Cattleman Single-Action Army revolver’.
Chapter two.
Flaco Diego Villa-Lopez Hernandez.
As notorious as he is patriotic. As brutal as he is charismatic. As famous among his own people as he is infamous north of the border, Señor Flaco Hernandez is as dangerous as, perhaps, any man in human history. Wanted in seven states, the feared Mexican bandit is well known for killing as well as robbing banks, stages and trains.
Using the kinds of tactics Hernandez himself might respect while putting himself in true life or death jeopardy, the writer managed to secure a short duration to sit down and discuss revolvers with the ‘Terror of the Grizzles’ himself.

DB - I really only have one question for you, Señor Hernandez, why the Buck Cattleman?
FH - Like the one you returned to me? (laughs) I have used other pistols in the past. I tried El Volcanico for a time. But it did not sit right with me, the lever action you see… hard to fire fast, even though you have that capacity under the barrel. I suppose with enough practice a man could get fast with such a weapon, but I never could. Also, sand and grit getting in that complicated mechanism? No me gusta, Señor gringo. No me gusta.
DB - And Duke’s Navy revolver? I have heard accounts of you using that particular small arm in the past?
FH - Oh, the ‘Old Navy’ (laughs) sounds like some eastern gringo toilet-water doesn’t it, Señor? I liked the Navy at first, used it for a few years all over Nuevo Paraiso. It was easy and comfortable, easy to clean of dust and sand. And once I learned to use, what do you call those, prewrapped paper cartridges, rather than loading loose powder. All that ramming down the ball then fitting the cap to the nipple, adding wax to keep it all in place. Si, Señor gringo, once those paper cartridges came into use, or became easier to get our hands on, things with the Navy were much better. Until it blew up in my hand. Ba****do! How I still have all my fingers, I thank God, Señor! It was weak that Navy, that was why they only made it in .36 I think.
DB - On the contrary, Señor Hernandez, for its time the Duke Navy was a powerful piece. Yet lighter and easier to handle than its predecessor.
FH - (Shrugs) If you say so. I say it was weak, held together with a single pin? Foolishness. Those Duke men, were fools Señor! And no top-strap above the cylinder! It was bound to blow up at its weakest point! They were fools. After that I vowed never again to touch either the Duke Navy or any pistol that did not have a top strap, or any such weakness. This is the reason I do not use that Hutton and Baird.
DB - The Schofield?
FH - Si, that one. No matter what I hear from others. I will not touch it. That hinge right above the cylinder. It is foolish Señor!
DB - So you settled on the Buck Cattleman?
FH - Si. I used repeaters and coach guns for a while. Even tried a sawn down repeater as a belt gun but you had to use two hands. I know some could work the lever with one, but I never liked it so when I got my hands on the Cattleman… ‘El Vaquero’ we call it... There was no going back.
DB - I’ll repeat my first question. Why the Buck Cattleman? The El Vaquero?
FH - It is simply that I can rely on it. I can rely on it not to jam up in the desert. I can rely on it not to blow up in my hand. It is strong. You can rely on it. It will look after you. As long as you keep it clean and well oiled. Just like Consuela, just like El Nuevo Paraiso women! You hear me Señor? (laughs).
DB - And yet now we have the Packenbush self-cocking revolver, and the new ‘automatic reloaders’ from Europe…? Do none of those tempt you?
FH - In my experience, Señor gringo. The more complicated the mecanismo inside the pistol, the worse it works. All the grit and sand, gets in there and before you know it. ‘click’! or ‘growl’! and nothing works, the whole thing seizes up and you stand there with a useless piece of iron in your hand and three bullets in your gut. And then, Señor gringo. It is your time to explain yourself to your maker. No, the simple and effective, El Vaquero will be with me until I am in my grave.
DB - To finish, Senor. Perhaps you could offer us a short anecdote, some little memory or experience of yours relating to the use of your particular revolver, in the context of my interview?
FH - Okay... alright... Let me think... Okay, so... around year ago I was located in a brothel down in Chuparosa by a little group of bounty killers. There was even a female amongst them! Have you ever heard of such a thing?! Anyway, there were four of them and I was alone in a small whorehouse on the outskirts of the village. They started blasting away without warning. Missed me but murdered my whore, those hijos de p***s!
I went to the window and saw where they were, then climbed a ladder onto the roof. I had only my trusty Vaquero with me and I was naked. And still I gunned them all down! But, not because of my superior shooting skill.
You see Senor, one man carried a rusted old Volcanico. Another a Duke Navy, that we talked about earlier, but converted to fire cartridges. La gringa had one of your Schofield’s, and the last man used a lever scattergun. All those guns were either not well looked after or badly constructed or overdesigned. Every one of them had a problem that I took advantage of.
The man with the Navy, he was a big man, like a bear. His revolver jammed and he mistreated it in his anger, the pin was knocked out, like a mistreated horse bucking off his rider. While he was hurrying to put the barrel back onto the frame, I rose up from my rooftop like an eagle and shot him through his frowning forehead.
The man with the rusted old Volcanico. He should not have been there at all, he was having so much trouble with the coarse sand and grit of my country inside its mechanism that he could barely fire a shot. I shot the piece right out of his hand, then shot an oil lantern beside the cart he was using as cover. He burned alive. And I laughed at his screams.
The man with the scattergun had the same problem, sand and dirt in the mechanism. When the shooting started, he had dived down into a gulley, but failed to keep his weapon raised. When he worked the lever to load his next round, all he got was a nasty crunching noise. Fortunately for him he also carried El Vaquero himself. That actually was my skill at shooting that dealt with him.
La gringa, I admit she did not have any trouble with her revolver. I fired my rounds into the earth bank she was lying against. She got dirt and grit into her eyes, blinding her. I ran down, skirted around her while she screamed and shot wildly all over the place. I slapped her gun right out of her hand and hogtied her.
Then, to show mercy, I dragged her over to the well and washed her eyes clean. And afterwards threw her onto the dirt and punished her. She had a nice b****m, soft and pale. You see, they had killed my whore trying to earn my bounty, so I took la gringa in her stead to my satisfaction. Afterwards I dragged her into the brothel, had her chained up in one of the rooms and put her to work. As much as I know, she is still there, still making money for me. How is that for a… what did you call it? An anecdote?
DB - Señor Flaco Hernandez, thank you very much for your time and your insights.
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