Karen Jones in A Red Dead Redemption 2 Prequel.

BY : Nickamano
Category: +M through R > Red Dead Redemption
Dragon prints: 127
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.

Karen Jones in – A Red Dead Redemption 2 Prequel.                                                                                                                                       

"Observations on Revolvers in the turn-of-the-century frontier.

By Major (retd.), D. B. Gould with Ms. K Jones."

By Nickamano.


Prologue - the beginning.                                            


  “Please, mister… please... let me suck your cock, just thirty cents. C’mon mister, only thirty cents! Please!”

The rhythmic thrum of the steam engine powered mining equipment was a constant day and night din in the town of Annesburg, the furthest both North and East of New Hanover State. The thrumming was like the town’s very own heartbeat, but it was a heart filled with cloying coaldust and dirty steam and near constant rain and mud. The locals had got used to the sound, they didn’t really register it but many of the visitors complained about not being able to sleep, or converse, or even to hear themselves think. However, the desperate noise the prostitute was coming out with was cutting through even the roar of the machinery.

The obviously desperate woman was literally on her knees on the half rotted, hewn boards of the sidewalk, her fists clenched on the grubby pants of her prospective client. Her instantly noticeable facets were firstly, the strawberry-blonde wavy hair which actually appeared a lank, greyish brown at this point of the evening. Dirty, mud-splattered and unkempt. And the second thing was the sheer size of her tits.

  “Mister, long as you got cash, I'll do whatever you like... Just name it mister, please!”

The prospective client was not-quite middle-aged, a dark-skinned man with a flat cap, a linen shirt tucked into pants, held in place with a pair of suspenders that actually appeared to be struggling against the desperate grip of the prostitute. He scowled down at her, trying to extricate himself from her clawing attentions without drawing too much scrutiny from the other men and women on the muddy thoroughfare.

DB Gould, retired Cavalry officer turned very successful writer, watched the startling altercation with amused interest. He had been in Annesburg for all of half a day, arriving on the noon stage, following a rumour that Emmet Granger had been seen in the small mining town. Of course, according to the local saloon goers, he had missed the renowned gunfighter by four days. Though he did garner a few rumours from those same locals, though each did substantiate the others' accounts, that suggested Granger was heading south, first to Van Horn and then on to Saint Denis.

DB had been heading back to his hotel room to pack his things and get the evening stage down to Van Horn Trading Post, when this inviting, amusing little incident caught his eye.

The woman was obviously down on her luck, as so many were these days and in these kinds of places. And she had apparently reverted to the oldest profession, again, as so many were these days and in these kinds of places. He had watched her from afar, desperately propositioning any man who caught her eye. And making a darn fool of herself in the process. Twice she had been shoved away into the mud. And once a wife, emerging from the general store to see her poor husband being propositioned, grabbed the prostitute by her hair, slapped her hard across the face and then shoved her violently away, again down into the mud. So, not only were her clothes a mess, torn and filthy but now her hair was in disarray, mud splashed and mussed up, all semblance of style or attractiveness long destroyed.

And now ten or fifteen minutes later, she was busy chasing down another individual. She had to be truly desperate to have so openly propositioned the dark-skinned gentleman. She obviously held no qualms about laying with such men, ex-slaves, freemen. And though DB, unlike many of his countrymen, entertained no prejudices either, at least he did his best to counteract prejudices that had been pressed onto him throughout childhood. He knew better now. He was older and wiser. However, the majority weren’t like himself, or apparently this prostitute, hate and prejudice was rife and not only was the woman making herself a target for the townsfolk’s vitriol, but she was also hanging a sign around the dark-skinned man’s neck, making him a potential target too. He would get far more of the blame and loathing than she would. Understandably embarrassed and annoyed by the harassment and no doubt afraid of being assessed as depraved by a show sexual interest in a white woman, the man angrily lashed out, back-handing the woman to the ground. It was a sad and unfortunate but not surprising response to her overt approaches.

Watching from the weathered and muddied planks outside the stagecoach offices, DB winced. The Soiled Dove had slammed down into the thick rain-fuelled grey-brown mud, very close to a large pile of tan-green horse shit. Even so, she was once more caked with fresh mud and more than likely a degree of old horse shit that was mixed in with it. She got up and cursed the rapidly departing man at the top of her lungs, inviting even more revolted stares, derogatory snarls and derisive comments from pretty much everyone on the street.

Picking herself up, fighting back tears and cursing the air blue while she flicked mud from her filthy skirts; flashing more than a little of her shapely legs as she struggled to make herself presentable, the woman immediately picked out another potential money maker.

This time it was a miner, recently up out of the ground and still filthy with coaldust. He was crossing the street, stepping over the raised train tracks and heading for the general store. She ran over to him, on the boards on the opposite side of the street, closer to where DB stood. There, she threw herself down at his feet blocking his way, a living obstacle. Once again, she grabbed at his coaldust and sweat-caked pants, deliberately up close to his crotch.

  “Please mister, I'll treat you good. How about for a dollar… Just one dollar and you can do anything you like.”

Following a pause and subtle glance around, he seemed to shock her by looking back down, smirking and nodding his head. She grinned, relief flooding through her as she hauled herself to her feet. She looked unsteady or drunk, or swimming in laudanum, maybe both.

Grinning as she slipped an arm through his, she allowed the man to lead her across the street, aiming for the space between the Gunsmiths and the Post Office, towards the water's edge. As they walked, quickly and in stride, DB watched the miner’s linked arm uncouple from hers and slide quickly around her waist, then dip lower still and cup the seat of her dress, fondling her bottom. Though the petticoated, faded green dress concealed her and padded her shape, it was still an overt and shocking manoeuvre. And to DB’s creative writer’s mind, also an expression of possessiveness. The man’s head turned to the left and he immediately performed a double take, then put his ass-groping hand onto the nape of her neck, stopping her in her tracks. He shouted and waved over to another man, called him over. The newcomer, similarly dressed though shorter and stockier, jogged over quickly, grinning.

  “She says for a dollar and we can do whatever we want with her, you game?”

  “One dollar? Sure, I got time before my Clara expects me home.”

  “Wait, I... I'm not sure about... The two of you together...?”

  “Shut yer yap, whore, it’s two dollars ain't it?”

DB watched her face, reading that she was neither convinced nor averse to the men’s designs. However undecided, she was escorted her to the rear of the main street’s buildings, close to the water’s edge where a few stacked crates and canoes stood; also, an old wreck of a boat, a moored fishing vessel and a lot of oily water, filth and detritus. Apparently, the men had decided it would offer enough privacy to conceal them from the street and any back windows of the buildings between them and the thoroughfare.

Intrigued, DB followed at a distance and found himself a position where he, unobtrusively, could see between two of the crates to where the men had frogmarched the woman. However, there was little he could discern in the twilight, just partial silhouettes which merged with their own shadows, forming weird constantly moving shapes. However, he could hear plenty.

It proceeded just as DB had expected it would, starting with male laughter, then female protests which grew increasingly desperate and shrill. The sound of ripping fabric. There were pleas and whimpering, slapping noises, squealing, more ripping of fabric, laughs and rhythmic grunting and then a loud scream, quickly silenced, a whole lot of grunting and muffled crying and moaning.

At one point the woman’s face came into view as an oil lantern was lit on the fishing boat, casting additional light onto one side of her face. Her expression was creased into a look of concentrated pain, a gloved hand was clamped over her mouth. She was up right, sandwiched between the two men, one in front and one behind, and being jerked up and down as they thrust into her, hurried and violent. One of them grabbed a fist-full of her hair and fiercely tugged her head back toward the sky.

It went on for twenty minutes, DB checking his pocket watch more than once. Finally, the men emerged, laughing and tugging up their pants. The woman staggered out, crying and holding her torn-beyond-all-repair dress to her large, though scratched and ruddy pair of breasts. Her face was tear-streaked, tracks through the mud and now the coaldust from the two miners. Her hair was even more of a mess. She staggered out, cursing the two men brutally and loudly, demanding her owed two dollars with increasing desperation. The two men ignored her, laughing at her tirade as they walked away.

She ran at one of them slapping and pummelling his broad back with her fists. Her dress fell to her shapely hips, showing off her pale hourglass figure which seemed to glow ghost-like, though certainly alluring, in the lantern light. She got a lucky hit in, it seemed to DB, on one of the men and he grunted and shifted out of range, a hand to his ear, predictably it enraged him and he turned back toward her, no longer laughing and clocked her one on the jaw, hard, knocking her down on her ass. She cursed him and pulled a small knife from some concealed place in her dress and struggled back to her feet. The second man immediately countered with a small Bulldog revolver, which he shoved into her face cocking the hammer, threatening. She froze, eyes bulging in terror and defeat, she let the knife fall from her grasp and burst into tears.

The men spat on her, and the man she had hit booted her hard in her naked ribs. She fell, rolling onto her side and curling up in a foetal ball, whimpering and crying as another kick booted the wind out of her lungs. Then man with the revolver pulled his companion away and they wandered off back to the main thoroughfare.

DB waited another minute and then slowly approached the woman, who was upright, sitting on the boards crying quietly, head bowed, shoulders shaking. One hand half-heartedly held the torn front of her dress to her substantial bosom.

  "Are you injured madam? Anything broken?"

She looked up, baulked and then cursed him colourfully and loud through her broken tears, gasping in air as she cursed and thrashed. A child’s tantrum. He leaned down and took hold of her by the upper arm, hauled her to her feet. She screamed at him, struggling and crying. Not quite lashing out, possibly having learned what she had taken to be a lesson from the two miners.

  “Let me be! Let me be!”

  “I want to see you're alright. I'm not one of those animals you seem to attract. Listen madam! I have a room here, just over there, let me at least make sure you're okay.”

  “You just gonna do stuff to me, you just want to hurt me. Like them others.”

  “You offered those men two dollars to do whatever they wanted to you. I'll give you five. Here and now. But you must come back to my room and let me have a look at you. You can pretend we're playing doctor, if you like.”

  “Five dollars? Just you? You ain't gonna hurt me?”

  “My word of honour.”

He slipped a hand into his trouser pocket and brought out a five silver-dollar coins. For the muddy, assaulted and beaten lady of the night, they might as well have been Queen Victoria's very own Crown Jewels.

As he walked the woman toward his hotel room, he eyed her casually but in the dim light there was little to discern. Her frankly awful hair was covered in mud and coaldust, as well as her tear-streaked face and she was holding the ruined dress up to her bosom and belly with both hands. However, it was so badly ripped that, although the skirts were still covering her legs, the back of the dress was torn from neck to skirts and bellied outwards revealing her smooth back. The moonlight highlighted the bulges of muscle and filled the hollows in with shadow, casting the inter-connecting shapes of her muscles into sharp, well-defined relief. This included the tops of her buttocks which were on display above the dress’s tear, flexing up and down in time to her staggered steps, the top of her ass looked attractively plump and smooth, though scratched and a little mottled by the abuses of the two men, and of course more coaldust.

DB immediately sent her upstairs to his room, shut her in and then hurriedly visited the Gunsmiths’ owner. A Norwegian immigrant if he could gauge the accent, he owned the building and rented out the rooms next door to his shop as a side business. He requested a bath and paid double to have it prepared in quick time.

Then he hurried over to the General Store which was opposite the Gunsmiths and a couple of doors up. It was a large place with a good expansive layout, but there wasn’t much in the way of stock and a lot of the shelves were empty. Looking around, DB assessed that it was more than likely ready to close its doors for good. Still, he found her a simple burgundy dress in what he judged to be her size, a cotton under-slip, petticoats, drawers and boots. The shop owner appeared remarkably grateful for the custom. He probably would have scoffed if he had known who the purchases were for.

When he returned, DB hadn’t been surprised to find her going through his valise, which he had left at the foot of his bed. His only really valuable items - his money, his medals and his revolver, were on his person, so he was only mildly concerned by her aspersion. The resulting affront he performed was altogether put-on and deliberately manipulative. It was utterly unnecessary. However, it was fun.

She was actually flicking through his notebooks, reading the words fluently in a whisper, which surprised him - that she could read. There were plenty who couldn't. Still, it was obvious what she was trying to do and he slammed the door shut behind him, startling her. And then offered her his best, military-perfected glare.

Terrified at being found out searching through his personal belongings, she desperately protested her innocence, begged for his forgiveness, his understanding, that she was telling the truth. Every word countermanding the previous. He frankly shushed her, and promptly forgave her, though he didn't believe for a second that she wasn't looking for things to steal.

And then told her he had requested a bath be prepared for her and a present would be awaiting her return once she was all clean and refreshed. She shamefully offered her thanks, eyes down, cheeks flushed crimson.


The bathroom was just down the hall from his hotel room so it was easy to get the woman from his room to the tin bath without issue. He left her to it, there were towels and soap and the water was hot and dressed with a whole pile of silky perfumed bubbles.

So far, other than responding in single words to orders issued, and protesting her innocence, the woman hadn’t really said anything. Or asked anything. Which was fine by him.

It took over a half hour before she knocked on his door.

On returning to his little rented room, DB had removed his hat and pistol belt, hanging the former on the hatstand near the door and the latter over one of the brass orbs that topped both corners of the bedstead. And then he had seated himself by the little desk beyond the foot of the bed, and used the light of a supplied oil lantern to reread his notes for the umpteenth time, before adding to his journal the day’s events thus far.

On hearing the tiny knock on the plain wooden door, he bade her enter with a single word and she appeared wrapped in two towels, one around her body the other around her head. It somehow reminded him of a photograph of an Arab he had seen in a book in the Public Library of New York when it had opened two years earlier. While the towel around her body reminded DB of drawings of ancient Greeks adorning urns and vases, also probably from that same trip to the New York Public Library.

This scrubbed-up reintroduction gave him the first inkling that she was actually not only very attractive but rather young, certainly younger than earlier impressions had suggested. Her face was scrubbed fresh, still featuring multiple minor abrasions where she had been struck, but her hazel eyes were large and long lashed, her nose straight and her lips full.

The body-covering towel was wrapped around her with one end tucked into her cleavage and the tightness of it across her chest up-thrust her bosom, the upper curves all but bulging over the towel and very much reminding him of the previous view of the tops of her buttocks that he had enjoyed an hour or so earlier. The towel reached just below her knees and he also recognised his admiration for the shapeliness of her calves, well-muscled yet slender and ending at small feet with good arches.

She might lose some of that freshness and prettiness once the bruises started to come out in full, but he had some ‘Earl Bodine's Health Cure’ medicine and some of ‘Dr Claussen’s Cumberland Mountain Bitters’ that would help with that.

  “So, you’ll be wanting me for the whole night?” She asked suddenly demure, a hint of the child she had barely developed beyond. “What will you want me to do?”

  “There’s plenty of time for that.”

  “You’ve been kind to me but I don’t take charity. If you’re paying five dollars, I have to do something to earn it. I have to do plenty to earn it.”

  “There’s plenty of time for that.”

  “I’d feel a little better if I did something for you now. It’d make me feel like I’m earning the cash…”

  “You’re a strange one… Okay then. What do you suggest?”

  “I’ll suck you off. You’d like that wouldn’t you? You ain’t that old…”

DB smiled at her, undecided if she had meant her observation as a compliment or a sly jibe.

  “It does sound inviting. And I do like a good sucking. And as my wife is revolted by the prospect, I miss it when I’m at home.”

  “You ain’t at home now…” She observed with a lop-sided smile.

  “I am not…” He smiled the same smile. “How about you take away those towels first of all. Let me see what my five dollars is getting me.”

 “I’d like a minute to sort my hair…” She requested hesitantly. “It’d kinda ruin the look, if my hair’s all over the damned place.”

  “I can only imagine.” DB Commented. “It just so happens I purchased a hair brush for you earlier.”

He strolled casually over to the boxes and the paper sack on the far side of the bed, pulled out the brush and tossed it to her.

  “You wanna watch me do it, or maybe you could go for a little evening constitutional?”

She blushed immediately and her eyes fell, possibly reminding herself of what she had been caught doing the last time he had left her alone in his room. Her shame was palpable, and amusing.

  “I shall remain here at my desk and read. I won’t look up. You go ahead and make yourself presentable.”

  “You don’t half talk well, mister. What do you do?”

  “Retired Cavalry Major.” He replied, returning to his journal to reread the observations of his journey out west, mostly by train.

  “Ah…” The prostitute muttered, as if it answered her question.

Of course, it didn’t. DB had known more than a few of his Military contemporaries and even superiors who hadn’t read a thing in their lives and who spoke the most colourful gutter speech imaginable. In fact, DB had quickly found that, when he had joined the cavalry, dirtying his own speech patterns had helped him to fit in and feel accepted.

  “You might find a hand mirror in one of the bedside drawers.” He offered. “If not, I have one you can use.”

  “No, I found one. It’s a bit shitty, but it’ll do.”

It took fifteen minutes, continual squeaking of the bedsprings along with much wincing and colourful muttered curses. However, the eventual results were a more than pleasant surprise, when the young woman finally said she was finished and that he could look. DB raised his head and turned in his chair to finally take in the result of her efforts.

Her hair had come up well. Lustrous and dark blonde now that the muck and grime had been thoroughly washed away. It was naturally curled into loose waves that tickled the gentle curves of her shoulders and her slender neck.

  “The towel, if you please?”

Smiling a little demurely, she stood and then untucked the corner of the towel from her cleavage, grasped both flaps and then after a theatrical pause, looked up at him and slowly drew the folded front of the towel open. Revealing her naked torso for him.

  “Why, you’re simply fantastic…” DB gulped, staring, unable to pull his gaze from her large and terrifically perky breasts.

She was still very much blessed with the elasticity of youth. Her face fresh, eyes huge and lustrous, maintaining a pretence of innocence he knew she would have long since lost, and yet her body remained firmly under control, defying the effects of gravity. It was especially visible in her breasts. The nipples, encircled by pale, tea-cup size areolae, were high up in the centre of the full teardrops, the teats thick, up-lifted and well stiffened.

There was a dark blonde bush of pubic hair, newly trimmed, but her thighs were crossed so anything beneath was lost in shadow. Her stomach was all but flat, the tiniest hint of a bulge but only noticeable because of the angle of the lantern light.

  “Like what you see?” She said face straight, though a mildly mocking tone was evident.

  “Certainly, you’re lovely.”

  “So, how’s about me sucking you now? Let me earn some of that five-dollars you’re paying me.”

  “I’d like… I don’t know quite know what the term is… You press your lovely bosom around my maleness, and….”

  “Oh, so that’s your interest, is it?” She said with a smirk. “Sure.”

  “Come sit on the bed.” She added, getting up and stepping aside to make room for him.

DB followed her instructions, pulling off his grey jacket and loosening his purple satin puff tie. He wore a pale blue shirt beneath it but the woman was taken with the strange leather arrangement that was over the shirt beneath his left arm. It appeared to by an old-style military flap holster that was worn under the arm and secured there by way of a figure of eight pattern belt that was worn over both shoulders. He shrugged it off his shoulders and left it on the desk, then took off his satin tie. And came over to sit on the bed where she had been sitting, slipping the leather suspenders from his shoulders as he sat down.

  “A good trip down mammary-lane’s best with lubrication… I guess I could spit…”

  “Might gun oil suffice?”

  “Sure, I guess that’d work.”

He handed her the little brass tube of oil, and she un-stoppered the top and then upended the contents onto her chest, using her fingers to ease the mineral oil onto the inner curves of her immense and beautiful bosom.

  “Okay, that ought to do it.”

She then reached over and worked hurriedly through the buttons holding together the crotch of the older man’s expensive grey pants. Even barely touching the woollen cloth, she could detect the hardness he was sporting beneath. His pants opened, she reached in and wrapped her cool fingers around the older man’s hard shaft, levering it out into the open. It was thick but not the thickest she had entertained. It was long but not the longest she had come across either. Simply a good, slightly over-average erect length of maleness.

DB groaned at the feel of his shaft encased in her delicate, cool young fingers as she gently squeezed and worked his foreskin up and down. She had obviously had plenty of practice.

The young woman exhaled a short focussing breath and then nodded to herself, cupping one of her breasts with her free hand while, her big hazel eyes not leaving his jutting erection for a second, she gave him another couple of tingling tugs and then shuffled in close and slipped his throbbing length down against the pendulous upper curves of her big young tits.

Understanding what was expected of her, DB assumed due to through countless prior experiences, the young prostitute cupped her huge mounds and pressed them firmly together, cushioning and enveloping his thick hard-on completely within her warm, oiled cleavage.

He groaned at the soft, smooth heat that enveloped his manhood and unable to hold back, started to thrust at once, enjoying the feel of his oiled foreskin rolling back and forth, stroking the bloated, swollen crown as she formed a rhythmic lubricating buffing motion for the sensitive head and shaft immersed in her cleavage.

The sensation of her huge, soft bosom was simply delicious, and they were both intimately aware that it wouldn’t take long to shoot his cum all over her crevasse-like cleavage. He took the moment and worked it for all it was worth unable to give her the chance to show off her own ability, he slammed with his hips, grunting loudly while he pumped between her lush melons.

Somehow managing to snatch a little self-control he halted his thrusts, had her take over for a while, using her pressing palms to slick her luscious breasts up and down his pleasure-pulsing erection. However, he soon found out that he was unable to keep from taking over. Something about the freedom to control and order a woman who was bought and paid for, as opposed to one wedded to through mutual agreement. Though faintly aware that the two methods were not mutually exclusive. In his marriage possibly, but the majority were probably unlike his own experience. Generally, he felt there was no mutual regard and respect, the woman was still regarded as the man’s property and was treated as such. It was a tradition that was taking a long time to be overwritten. And right at the moment, DB knew why. The feeling of power and superiority to have this attractive curvaceous young woman at his sexual beck and call was proving a powerful aphrodisiac.

His hands grasped and dug into her bare shoulders and after a few moments he took over control, starting to thrust again, using his vice-tight grip to shove her around into a more pleasurable position for him. Then, growling at her to push her bosom more tightly around his maleness, he grabbed her wavy blonde hair and used it as a counter grip for his thrusting hips, simultaneously pulling her face down toward his rapidly thrusting crown.

Unsatisfied with the level of friction he was receiving, DB dragged the young woman’s hands away, shifting her grasp to the outside edge of her large breasts, exposing her thick nipples with their large areolae. Using his fingers and thumbs, he pinched hold of her nipples and used the grip to aid the young woman in holding them tight and steady while he drove himself between them with ever-increasing velocity.

She groaned at the sudden and surprisingly harsh treatment but did her best to keep up his insistent pace and desired snugness of the bouncing caress of her huge succulent melons.

  “Take it you damned whore!” DB snarled loudly, his orgasm imminently peaking.

His creamy white eruption exploded with the gusto of a well-shaken champagne bottle. It proved a heavy and powerful climax. Stream after long stream of his thick, hot seed bursting forth from his glistening crown. The first three he let burst across her tits and into her cleavage, coating her bared flesh and soaking her already sticky chest. Then, snarling with aggressive passion that belied his previously gentlemanliness, he grabbed her head and again and rammed his meat shaft into her mouth, pulling her down even as he thrust upward to finish off his explosive climax.

Unconcerned with the no doubt vile taste of the linseed lubricant, DB aggressively dragged her lips all the way down his shaft, as he thrust up to meet her, lifting his hips from the mattress, until her nose was buried in his pubis. And while his seed, continued to burst forth in long heavy streamers, he held her there. He groaned ecstatically at each ball-tingling ejaculation, phallic muscles straining against her lips and impressively swishing tongue, working at each heavy burst of his semen that he forced her to swallow.

She quickly found it impossible to keep up and her cheeks bulged before a flurry of saliva-mixed-spunk oozed from her stretched lips and dribbled down her chin, gathering pace as more came from her overfull mouth. It trickled down her throat and chest to gather at the downward sliding trails of his tribute with which he had already coated much of her huge bosom.

  “Damn mister but you don’t half come buckets!” She rasped hoarsely once his climax had finally abated and her mouth was freed. “You nearly drowned me!”

  “I apologise Madam, I was somewhat taken away, in the moment. I’m sure you understand.” DB panted.

  “Ain’t my first rodeo.” She muttered, more to herself than to him.

She hawked violently and then coughed up a load of cum that hadn’t quite made it down her gullet. Then swallowed it down again.


He lay back on the bed, his spent member limp, lying on the exposed lining of the front flap of his open pants, watching while the young woman tidied herself up again. Enjoying the views of her constantly shuddering bosom and her smooth well-rounded and generous buttocks.

  “You can put those on, when you’re ready. Your dress was obviously ruined. I took the liberty.” He said casually, obviously still enjoying the afterglow.

When she looked at him in confusion, he managed to drag his eyes from her luscious bosom and waved a limp hand toward the packages on the floor at the far side of the bed.

She protested loudly when, finally looking over the packages, she saw the brand-new clothes and boots procured just for her. And then she burst into floods of tears.

At first, he assumed it was due to his apparent kindness but then, through her bawling something came through about owing him as well now, and that she'd die in debt or be killed because of it. Though a lot of what she was saying was lost in her hiccoughing, wailing cries. DB patiently waited for her to calm down and then sat her on the bed beside him and insisted she tell him everything. But he also insisted she dress first, as her lovely nakedness was distracting him terribly.

As he watched her pulling the dress over her head, the drawers and slip already in place, she shuffled herself attractively around within the layers of the garment. It was an innocent enough manoeuvre, a shaking of hips and shoulders and head, but it held all the allure of an erotic stage dance, the Can-Can, or something akin to it. He couldn’t take his eyes of her delightful body.

The highlight had come a moment earlier when, drawers and slip in place and enticing in themselves, she had sat on the chair at his desk in order to pull on and lace up her boots. Throughout the procedure, her luscious body had jiggled and quivered enticingly, every couple of seconds, holding his attention completely.

It was strange really, he had seen her naked and knew well the intimacy of her curves, if not the feel of them. And yet the young woman with only a little to cover her modesty, seemed somehow even more enticing than when she had simply been buck-naked. He assumed it was the promise of what was beneath, suggestions of shape and form, half revealed by the thin translucent fabric, and half concealed by it. The mist of suggestion adding an additional degree of allure.

  “When did you eat last?”

  “What, something other than man-milk? Erm, a couple of days ago, I guess.” She said cheekily, a half-smile playing at her full lips.

  “Right, we’re going out to dinner, and you can tell me all about your life.”

  “…It’s a long and sad story, mister, you don't want to hear my tale of sorrow.”

  “Five dollars buys plenty of younger and more attractive Painted Ladies than you, my dear. So as far as I'm concerned, you’re here to please me until daybreak. And it would please me to hear your background and your woes. Now get to it, if you please.”

Though the words were harsh, his tone was carefully gentle and soothing.

The restaurant was a tiny affair, a little room to the rear of their hotel room with four small circular tables, that the Gunsmith’s wife and younger son maintained as and when required. They seemed to cook and serve out of their own family kitchen. There were no other couples in the small eating area, and when they weren’t taking orders, serving or collecting plates the mother and son were nowhere to be seen. It allowed DB and the young woman to converse without embarrassment or the discomfort of the prospect of being overheard.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Mrs. Jones. Mrs Karen Jones.” The young prostitute announced with a melancholy DB hadn’t seen in her before.

  “You came from down south?”

  “Yeah. Married at sixteen to a small-time Rancher, out by Cholla Springs. You know it?”

  “Certainly. I’ve passed through on a couple of occasions. Warm country.”

Karen nodded, her eyes took on a distant appraisal for a silent moment, as though she was looking back through her memories. She didn’t smile.

  “He was a lovely fella, my Luke. Hard worker, honest as the day is long. But he died of consumption, early on. Before the first year was out. I didn’t even get to give him a child.”

The young woman sighed, a long, deep breathy noise. DB thought that last particular factor might have been a blessing in disguise but he kept his opinion to himself. She carried on after draining her glass of red wine. DB refilled it automatically.

  “Once I’d buried him, I tried to carry on the ranch myself. And I was doing okay, until some bastard cattle baron with a claim bordering ours diverted the stream. Just dammed the whole thing off. And before I know it there’s no water for drinking, let alone washing or feeding the cattle. I complained ‘till I was blue in the face. But I got told the local Sheriff was the cattle baron's friend, or cousin, or some horseshit. And that I had no chance.”

  “So, what did you do?”

  “The only thing I could do. I sold up.”

  “But who would buy a ranch without a water supply?”

She offered him a mocking, sarcastic grin.

  “No one. Except Cavendish the cattle baron, of course.”

She snatched up and gulped down her next glass of wine, then refilled it herself before immediately drinking half of the refill.

  “He offered me a pittance. It was an insult. Of course, being dumb and stubborn I refused.”

  “Not surprising…”

  “So, he suggested a game of cards. Double or nothing.”

  “Ah…” DB muttered, seeing where this story was going.

  “If I won, he said he would pay double his first offer on the Ranch. If I lost, I would give him the place for nothing.”

  “And you lost?”

  “Hell no! I refused to play!” She said, loud and indignant. “I might’ve been just a girl but I weren’t no body’s fool.”

She snorted indignantly and then carried on.

  “I tried out anyone in the Springs who might be persuaded to buy. I offered reasonable terms, but no one wanted to go against Cavendish. I even looked for someone who might try and help in… other ways… All I got was marriage proposals from everyone. I was still grieving, so I turned ‘em all down.”

DB offered an agreeable expression, though he thought to himself that most women would probably have secured themselves a new husband as soon as possible, grief or no grief.

  “So, feeling like I had no other choice, I went back to Cavendish and agreed to the card game.”

  “And lost…”

  “Of course. I don’t doubt he stacked the deck. I took three aces with the flop, I was certain I was gonna win. But he made out a full house. Dead Man’s Hand, no less. If that ain’t takin’ the piss, I don’t know what is! But there was nothing I could do. He had a half dozen of his cronies sitting around. And one of ‘em had the gall to reach into a pocket and pull out the deeds to my ranch! Ready and waiting! He’d obviously already been over there and stole ‘em for his boss.”


  “There’re better words for the likes of that kind!”

  “I don’t doubt it.”

  “I packed my stuff, what I could manage by myself, onto a cart and rode all the way to Chuparosa, across the border. The horse went lame as I went through the north of Mexico and I had to shoot it and pick what little I could carry by hand and walk the rest of the way. And when I got there, I pretty much had to sell everything left just to get food and lodging for a week. There was no work and nowhere else I could get to on foot. I had to do something to bring money in, so I could eat.”

  “And there was only one course?”

She nodded, not even blushing, just emptying and refilling her glass again. DB looked into her eyes but saw neither sight nor sound of her being anything close to inebriated. If he had drunk as much as her, he would have been half blind and speaking in tongues by now.

  “The Painted Lady, as you so eloquently put it.” She said over a heavy wine-scented exhale.

  “And you were what age by this time?”

  “Oh, going on seventeen or so. Can hardly believe it was but a couple a’years back.”

She let out a sigh. DB kept his mouth shut, giving her room to talk.

  “Men don’t know. They think you just lay back an’ make noises, but it’s a hard game. A hard life. Dangerous, everybody seems to want a piece of what you make.”

She stared him down over her refilled glass. As though waiting for him to second guess her, she was like a coiled rattlesnake, ready to strike. DB remained silent.

  “I took to drinking and gambling to keep me sane. Weren’t too great at gambling. And I kept losing whatever money I made on my back. I lost my room with no way to pay the rent, and ended on the streets. And let me tell you mister, the streets of Chuparosa ain’t no Blackwater. They ain’t even Armadillo.”

DB lit himself a short cigar and Karen, using a half-hearted waft of one hand, convinced him to share it with her, while she gulped down yet more wine.

  “Please go on.” He indicated.

He left the cigar with her and drew another from his jacket pocket while she leaned across the small table to offer hers for him to use instead of a match.

  “I was lucky enough to meet me an exciting young Irishman.” She continued, blowing out fragrant smoke. “A professional gambler and a so-called pistoleer, though that was horseshit. I shacked up with him, he kept me off the streets and used my earnings as a whore to keep him in games. He was pretty good, all being told. Made good on a few scams and a few games here and there. We moved North into Armadillo, me following him around town, enjoying a slice of the high life for a few months. Until he hit a losing streak.”

She thumbed ash into a metal tin on the tabletop while she finished her latest glass of wine, before returning to her story.

  “Straight away he tossed me back onto the street. Pressed into earning on my back again, only this time to pay for Easóg, that was his name. I was paying for his lifestyle. He saw it as fair dues. He paid when we were flush, I paid when we weren’t. It was a long way from fair, but what in life’s fair?”

DB let his eyebrows offer his agreement. Took a long draw on the cigar as he watched her. The hardness and coldness of her, increasingly plain behind the attractive veneer.

  “Then he got killed in a gunfight over an accusation of cheating, right here in Annesburg, of all places.” She punctuated the loss with a shrug. “I fell into drinking and gambling myself, to forget. When the money ran out, I had to go back to plying my trade. But by then I’d put myself in debt with the wrong kinda people. I was able to keep on top of it for a while, but I carried on drinking and gambling and pretty soon it got on top of me. Besides, those men trapped me with interest hikes and then they got bored of using me over and over. And then the threats began. I have to pay them three dollars a day or they’ll break my legs or slit my throat, depending on how they feel that day. So, I found myself desperate, and let me tell you, making three dollars a day in this shitty deadbeat town is not the easiest, which is what you found me trying to do today.”

She gave a shrug and then gulped down more wine. Looking back at him in a defiant silence. Obviously, her story had brought him up to date with her unfortunate life.

They smoked in silence for a while, looking at each other. Karen maintained her defiance, expecting him to judge her, point out her mistakes and failings. When he stubbed out the tip of his cigar and then gave a spine cracked stretch, she was surprised by what he eventually said to her.

  "I have a… proposition, Mrs Jones. If you're willing to listen..."

  "I'm gonna be dead by the end of the week, probably. So, what have I got to lose?"

  "I am a writer, as you noticed from my note books. I am currently writing a series of investigative pieces for the "Army and Navy Journal of Arms" publication, printed out of Saints Denis. And circulated nationwide, I'll have you know."

  "I ain't heard of it."

  "No matter, I intend to interview a number of famous persons, survivors from the 'twilight years of the Frontier'. Noted shootists, some outright villains and one or two ex-military personal; to collect their opinions on the available revolvers that 'tamed the west' so to speak. The reputations of said firearms."

  "Huh? There’re demand for such writing?"



  "My proposition is this. I will pay off all your debts in full. And in return you will avail yourself to me until my articles have been completed. No less than six months, no longer than a year. You will do everything I say. I am no pushover, nor am I some kind, elderly gentleman you can take advantage of.  You mess with me, refuse an instruction, and I will beat you to within an inch of your life without a second thought and then you will perform my instruction anyway."

  "Okay, okay I get it. Jesus, no need for the fear-mongering."

  "You will satisfy my sexual desires as and when. You will dine with me, travel with me, help me to contact and convince my interviewees to speak to me, which might require sexual services from you too..."

  "I'm to be your personal whore?"

  "Can that be any worse of a prospect than with those two miners from earlier?"

  "Fair point… Don't you have a wife who could be your assistant though?"

  "I do have a wife, and a daughter back East. I love her dearly but she doesn't share my fascination for the romanticism of the frontier. She prefers societal life, paved tree-lined roads, horse-drawn carriages. Even Saint Denis is too coarse for her… Besides, she doesn't let me stick it up her ass or down her throat. And she doesn't have your remarkable figure."

    "Oh, I see..." Karen curled her lip in distaste, but then squinted up at him. "You'll pay off my debts?"

  "To the cent."

  "Six months to a year? No longer?"

  "I have a deadline, Madam."

  "I'm basically becoming your slave." She moaned with distaste.

It wasn't lost on DB that the young woman was speaking as though, however distastefully, she had already agreed to his terms.

  "Think of it as indentured servitude."

  "What's that?"

  "It is spoken of in the bible Madam. Leviticus. I know a lawyer who could draw up a binding legal document that would set out what is and is not expected of both yourself and myself, and the duration of the indentureship, so there is no confusion and no taking advantage...?"

  "That ain't necessary... It ain’t like I have any choice..."

  "Due to your expectation to being killed by the end of the week?"


  "Then you agree?"

  "Once you've paid off my debts,” She nodded, solemnly. “you own me for up to a year.”

  "Six to twelve months. Let’s just agree on twelve months or when the work is in print, whichever comes first."

  "Whatever you say, Mister."



  "Call me DB."

  "So, what's your story, DB?"

  "I'll tell you on the train, south." He said dismissively, looking around for someone to bring him the bill. "If you're smart, you'll take this opportunity to change your life for the better."

  "How am I supposed to do that?"

  "You'll be meeting lots of people, travelling all over a number of states. Hopefully learning a lot. Maybe steer clear of gambling halls and cut back on the drinking, you might find opportunities arise for you to improve your life, once you're free of me that is... You could even meet another prospective husband. I'm not referring to myself there, like I said I'm happily married."

  "You make a lot as a writer?"

  "Possibly, I was fortunate enough to pen a number of supremely popular Penny Dreadfuls, tales and adventures of the Great Otis Miller and Mister Frank Heck. They sold in huge numbers. It set me up for life, after I retired from the Cavalry. Good fortune, nothing more."

  "I guess some people are blessed with it, while others surely ain't." Karen muttered with a little huff.

(Author’s note: The following short addition is a plot-free excerpt from the book being researched in the story and is not necessary to read if you’re just interested in the plot and or sexual content).


"Observations on Revolvers in the turn-of-the-century frontier.

By Major (retd.), D. B. Gould with Ms. K Jones."

Introduction -

As we approach the last years of the nineteenth century and all around us the future sees off the past to take its place as the present, we see the shadows of the past blazed into memory by the sun-bright flare of the future, blinding us with both hope and promise.

However, as the old saying goes, we need to keep our eyes on the past in order to learn the lessons and bring them forward. Therefore, as we experience the technology and 'modern civilisation' of the East sweeping across the States and obliterating the frontiers made famous by the 'Wild West', I will take this, perhaps final, opportunity to look at the revolver-model firearms that, according to even modern legend have 'tamed the West'.

In future chapters, I will be relating the stories first hand from the men who used and championed these most famous of revolvers during those wild times of the taming of the West. However, for this introduction I will be relating my own humble personal experiences, when I rode for the New Hampshire's 9th Cavalry Division and later as a member of the distinguished 'Ambarino Rangers'.

My own experience shines with the lustre of Major Schofield’s variation of the Model Three, Hutton and Baird .45 long-cartridge revolver. It was presented to our Cavalry division as an active experiment to a third of the men, in the spring of 1875. And I was one of those fortunate Guinea pigs.

I remember my reticence at the time, as a lowly Corporal, when I handed in my beloved Buck Cattleman, which had only replaced the trusty cartridge converted Le Mat two years earlier, and took up the brand new blued-steel Schofield revolver from my Sergeant.  

It was not a good introduction. Though only two years old at the time, the Cattleman was already renowned the country over as a well-balanced, powerful and reliable ‘man-stopper’. With its well-shaped, comfortable grip, good sized hammer spur, robust frame and top strap, it was universally regarded as the most reliable pistol ever to be taken up by the armed forces of our great Nation. And by comparison, this new revolver was a beast. Big and heavy and somewhat unwieldy. And for me, at first impression, terribly unbalanced. The eight-inch barrel, the sharper curve of the grip that thrust the frame forward in the hand. The shorter hammer spur that seemed harder for the thumb to fall onto naturally and without effort, all disturbed my early impressions.

But then we were given instruction on saddle-reloading and that the revolver was a break-open design, really the first of its type in America not to show an inherent weakness across the top of the frame. And everything suddenly became clear to me.

The design and the training methods that had been perfected already by the now famous Major Schofield allowed, with practice, the successful reloading of the revolver while at gallop on horseback. Which was all but an impossibility with the Cattleman's slower and more dextrously complicated loading gate/extractor-rod design.

This aspect as well as the fact that the Schofield used the same .45 long-cartridge ammunition as the Cattleman was the winning combination that saw it replace the Cattleman with the US cavalry and saw its popularity rise with civilian purchasers too.  

Though, of course, two elements kept it from the top spot when it came to civilian popularity:

 - firstly, was the general mistrust of top-break designs due to their reputation of having weaker frames without a solid top strap. Which was proved false with the Schofield model, though bad reputations are always hard to shake.

 - secondly was the expense. The Hutton and Baird Schofield to this day, at $84, costs more than half as much again as the Buck Cattleman which is, at time of writing, priced at $50. And for civilians with little in the way of cash and lots of essentials to spend their money on, an extra thirty-four dollars for what amounts to a faster reload and a minor improvement in power and accuracy is a lot of additional funding to hand over to their trusty gunsmith.

Still, as a Cavalry officer and then Ambarino Ranger who saw battle with other Americans, natives, Mexicans, large organised bandit gangs and gangs trying to halt the railroad progression, myself and my Schofield shared a long and esteemed career.

Though I have no interest in blowing my own trumpet and regaling my dear readers of my own exploits, my close relationship with my friend and ally 'Mister Schofield' has seen me perform, what other men have described as 'startling heroics' and 'acts of extreme bravery above and beyond the call of duty'.

I stand proud with my friend and ally on my hip, and will always be indebted to its design, function, reliability and accuracy. It has saved not only my life but the life of my comrades in arms, both Cavalry and Ranger, and also one esteemed Ex-President Mister Alfred MacAlister.

Major DB. Gould. 1892.


Editor's note - the author's natural modesty prohibits the offering of certain additional evidences which he does not wish divulged by his own pen. However, I have deemed these very same divulgences should indeed be told, and here follows these very divulgences as told by mine own hand in his stead.

Major Gould was decorated in both the Indian wars when he single-handedly, with no more than two Schofield revolvers and his personal expertise at quick reloading and accuracy, managed to defend a frontier fort from Indian attack long enough for the Second Cavalry Division to arrive and force the Indian braves to retreat, allowing the Second Cavalry to relieve the Ninth Division and remove the almost score of wounded from the Frontier Fort to the hospital a Fort William Henry.

Three years later, in a miraculous presentation of the 'above and beyond the call of duty' action alluded to above. Major Gould protected the man who would eventually become President of our great land. Very little information has been collected about the events surrounding this action and neither the now ex-President, nor the retired Major Gould are willing to share any details themselves. However, what is known is that while badly wounded and under heavy fire from the Mexican invading army, Major Gould was able to run out under-fire, rescue and carry back the wounded Alfred MacAlister while dispatching no less than a dozen Mexican soldiers, again with nothing more than his trusty Schofield revolver and a belt-box of cartridges.

After the fact, during a private ceremony, the then President MacAlister presented Major Gould with a gold-plated Schofield revolver with the barrel's top strap inscribed with a personal message, which the editor can attest reads: “Presented to Major DB Gould, for impossible bravery and achieving the impossible. In gratitude. A. McA.”        

High praise indeed, for a Cavalry Major and his Hutton and Baird Schofield.


You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.
Report Story