Published in Lesbian Cowboys: Erotic Adventures
Copyright © Teresa Wymore. All Rights Reserved.
Lesbian erotica | Western | 2009
On the wall of the stable hung coal shovels, a hay fork, and rakes. A large drill with a broken bit had a thick cobweb holding it to the wall. The breeching of a harness hung in disuse, its leather cracked and peeling. Sticks and considerable stones littered the ground near the door. My mind tried to fashion everything I saw as if I were a cobbler for feminine pleasure. Nothing seemed right. Not until I noticed the tip of a dusty milk bottle peeking from under a horse stall.
I snatched up the empty quart of Whiteman’s Cream Line and wiped the open end across my shirt. The tin bail-top lid had been snapped off and the wide glass neck was smooth.
Miss Jinny had been craning her neck to watch me, her arms braced against the stall, her cotton drawers bunched at her ankles and bare ass high in the air. “What do you plan to do with that, Mr. Cortland?”
After pushing her dress farther back, I rolled the bottle’s texture of embossed words and rings around her skin. “I aim to screw you with it, Miss Jinny.”
Her eyes roamed down my body to my trousers. “Why not use what God Almighty has given you?”
I rubbed the bulge and smiled, reluctant to confess that the Good Lord had blessed me with ambition and a steady gun hand such as proper society allows no woman. The sausage that I had planned to eat for lunch slipped down my trouser leg, so I leaned forward to distract Miss Jinny. “Or maybe you need a lickin’.”
When her eyes widened, I dropped to my knees and tongued her furry slit until she was so spent of pleasure that she lay breathless in the hay. With panting words, she asked, “How long will you be staying, Mr. Cortland?”
I set my hat on my head and adjusted the sausage. “A day. Two.”
“Why then, I’d be pleased to see you again when you saddle up your horse.” I stayed mum, so she added, “I’m sure I could convince Daddy to discount you a quarter for the help you gave fixing the busted stall.”
I glanced at the stall she had finished nailing before I arrived. Then I winked and left.
Five years ago in Kansas City, Sealy McGuill killed my horse and used her as bait to poison wolves. But that wasn’t why I was in Rawlins, although finding McGuill here and the unlikely chance of tasting his randy daughter went a long way to paying the debt for Skinny Gin. No, I was in Rawlins because the machinists of the Union Pacific railway went to strike, and the unionists took every chance to beat the devil out of the immigrant scabs hired to replace them. Such beatings required men of low character, which is why I knew I’d find my man, Bill “Jackjaw” Bivens, in Rawlins.
The panic of ‘83 had scared the railway into bankruptcy, so now the high officials had to fight towns looking to make favorable contracts, corrupt politicians looking for votes, and unionists looking to start a war over contracts. The town marshal was in with the union, looking the other way whenever the anarchists took to killing scabs. Bodies had been washing up along the river for months.
That’s where I came in. My name of late is “Charlie Bluff” and I work for the Pinkerton Detective Agency. I had come to the rowdy little town to get in with the unionists and find Jackjaw, who was wanted for rustling, theft, and murder.
So, after partaking of Miss Jinny’s hospitality, I walked through town, where the marshal stopped me and fined me $10 for carrying a pistol. He also confiscated my Colt 45. That left me with a good story for the Capital Saloon, where I complained to anyone who would listen and went by the name of “Decker Cortland.” After hurrahing it up pretty good, I put out that I had been peddling whiskey to the tribes in Alaska after working a goldmine where I was sent away for smuggling. I wanted men to get thinking I still had that swag somewhere.
A few unsavory types came sniffing around, asking questions and offering drinks. These low characters filled me in on the union bosses who had hired all manner of men for their dirty work. I set out following one of the brutes but met up with Proster Dun. He was a machinist with a wife and baby who had left the line when the union told him to, but I could tell he wasn’t content to ride out the strike. When I met him outside the saloon, he was pacing.
He spit at my feet but nodded his apology and offered his name. He was nervous like a good man who wanted to do right but couldn’t. He was sweating on this cool night, and blood stained his white shirt.
I eased my throat and let my voice fall from me in the deepest tone I could. “You look to been fightin’.” Despite the years I had been disguising myself as a man, it still didn’t come so natural. Proster just shook his head, and I shrugged as if I didn’t care beans for his conversation anyway.
We were standing on the road, and no one else was outside. The autumn night made everything like crystal, and the streets stunk of sheep. The saloon was full of mutton-punchers as well as saddle stiffs and strikers painting their tonsils and looking to dance with the saloon girls or screw the nickel-strumpets upstairs.
I wondered why Proster was outside instead of whooping it up with the rest. Part of my disguise was to go around devitalized by reverent whiskey and tobacco, like a no-account waste-it-all, so I finished rolling a cigarette, lay it on my lip, and dug for a match as if I was unsteady.
“I heard the marshal took your pistol,” he said.
I lit the cigarette and swallowed the sweet smoke.
“Smells like good tobacco,” he said.
“Pennsylvania by way of St. Louis,” I answered.
“That where you come from?”
“There and other places.”
“Heard it said Alaska.”
“Yup. But I got employ waiting on me in Texas. Lousy employ, but at least it’s honest.”
“Haven’t any turn with honest?”
I laughed and spit but didn’t answer. He laughed back.
I breathed in deeply, enjoying the cool smoke filling my lungs. “Don’t aim on going without my Colt, though. Do I look to be a scab to you?”
“Not by an acre. But no firearms in town. Didn’t you see the sign?”
“Don’t read.” We stood staring out into the night for awhile before I asked, “Know of any work? I need a room.”
He scratched his cheek. “If the marshal don’t like ya, best not to stick around.”
“Maybe I can do him a turn, and he can give me back my Colt.”
“That’s up to the judge.” He spit. “But I got a place you can sleep. Just for a night.”