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From: kellis <kellis@dhp.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} The Poker Chip (MF oral western) {Kellis} [2/2]
Date: Wed, 7 Jun 2000 21:10:06 -0400
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The Poker Chip
a Short Story by Kellis
June, 2000
(Part 2 of 2)
Tyler located the near bench marker left by the route surveyors
and erected a ranging rod at a known offset nearby, visible from
the bottom of the chasm. He allowed the range-wise Mustang to
pick its own path down to the stream at the bottom. The woman's
horse followed close behind. At the stream they dismounted and
let the animals drink.
"How lovely!" Phyllis exclaimed. The rushing waters of the
spring floods had deposited a level strip of loam beside the
narrow stream, now lushly covered in bright green grass that
rippled in the breeze. Tall cottonwoods farther up the bank cast
dappled shade over all. Their leaves clattered when the wind
gusted.
He said, "I have to find the far bench. Would you like to wait
here?"
She only smiled, knelt and dangled her hand in the swiftly
running water. Her eyes widened. "Very cold!"
"It's probably snow melt. That's the place to put our beer
bottles. Here's a tagline." He drew a loop of heavy cord from
his pocket. "Tie it around their necks and let them dangle in
the water. I'll be back in just a few minutes."
"You're going up the other side?"
"Right. Holler if you need me."
"I shall."
He found the second marker easily after sighting on the two peaks
described in the surveyor's report. Again he set out a rod, then
paused to study the lay of the land on the chasm banks. A
four-level trestle would be needed, he thought, with two footings
part way up the sides. If the route was shifted about 200 yards
north, natural projections in the bedrock could be utilized for a
considerable savings in timber. He made notes on his pad, drew a
quick sketch and set up his theodolite to measure the angles
precisely.
The 200 yard route shift caused him to ride down into the chasm
and up again to the lip closer to town. He waved to her as his
horse jumped the stream some distance away. From her seat in the
grass she waved back. Her white legs gleamed. Had she taken off
the divided skirt?
Again he set up the theodolite, measured angles and carefully
noted the results. Drawing near on the subsequent descent, he
saw that indeed she had removed the skirt -- along with the rest
of her clothing. She had spread the horse blanket from her
saddle bags and lay on her belly, propped up on her elbows,
watching him with her crooked smile.
He dismounted and looped his reins over the same tree limb as
hers. She rolled to her side and raised one knee, watching him
silently. The stream burbled over stones in its bed. Above them
the cottonwood leaves clattered lightly. Behind him one of the
horses nuzzled the other and nickered. The woman and he might
have been the only two people in the world.
He had several other measurements to make, but they could wait.
He sat on a boulder and tugged off his boots. Shirt, britches
and long handles followed quickly. Her eyes never left him. He
stood over her a moment, drinking in the lush spectacle of her
pale body.
Squinting up at him, she murmured, "You're beautiful."
"And you're crazy," he retorted, sinking to his knees. "God,
Phyllis! I'll never get enough of you."
They coupled protractedly in the cool shade. She moaned and
stiffened several times before his own crisis neared.
"Mark, don't pull out."
"But ... I don't want to put a babe in you."
"You won't. This time I remembered to fill the douche bag."
"Oh, god, Phyllis. Oh, *god*!"
She screamed as she felt his discharge. When he rolled off her,
she crawled away into the grass and took up a rubberized bag that
gurgled between her legs. She rose tiredly to her feet and went
to her saddle bags. He lay in complete contentment, propped on
an elbow, watching her lithe body reel in the beer bottles and
fetch out the sack of sandwiches. She brought him the cold
bottles to open, gave him first choice of the sandwiches and
ended up leaning against him to take her lunch. With her breasts
so close he could hardly eat for fondling them.
She asked surprisingly, "How do I compare to your wife, Mark?"
"What a question!"
"I mean her no disrespect. She would have born you a child. No
woman can do more for a man than that. But I'd truly like to
know, if you'll tell me."
"She was younger than I, Phyllis, hardly more than a slip of a
girl. But she loved me."
"You're easy to love. Did she please you, Mark?"
"Yes, but not the way you do. You are the most passionate lover
I've ever known."
"Was she pretty, Mark?"
"A woman cannot help being pretty to the man she ... gives
herself to. But I knew you were beautiful when I first laid eyes
on you."
"Did you play with her boobs as you do mine?"
"She had small ones. We thought they would grow larger after the
baby. Have you born one, Phyllis?"
"I don't know."
"You don't have the marks."
"I would bear one for you."
"Oh, Phyllis!"
"I'd do anything for you, Mark. I know I keep saying that, but
it's true. Things you'd never imagine me doing. Your work, for
example. It's fascinating. When you are finished, this lovely
spot will look very different. A heavy railroad train will fly
through the air high over this stream. The thought of that
accomplishment thrills me. I wish I could help you do it." Her
head turned to regard him. "I believe I could."
He smiled tolerantly. "Phyllis, the math, the training --"
"Don't you have assistants or apprentices? As to the math, it's
mainly just trigonometry, isn't it?"
"What do you know of trigonometry?"
She blinked. "If you give me the angles from here to all the
markers, and a table of trig functions ... and I guess a table of
common logarithms, I can tell you the width and depth of this
gorge."
"Good god! How can you know all that?"
Slowly she shook her head. "I don't know. But I do know it.
'The sine of an angle is the opposite side divided by the
hypotenuse.'"
"My god! Were you a professor's daughter?"
"Maybe. I can also read music. For the piano, at least. I
spelled the regular player several times in Placerton while Perry
was gambling." She smiled. "He wanted to be sweet on me until
Perry offered to kill him."
"Phyllis, this is absolutely amazing! What else do you know?"
She chuckled wryly. "*I* don't know! I can't tell until it
comes up. I didn't know I knew math until just now. 'Pi is four
times the arctangent of unity.'"
"Calculus, too!"
She chuckled again. "The old boy who discovered that about pi
must have been absolutely astonished, yet it is so obvious when
one understands."
Suddenly her expression was fearful.
"What is it, Phyllis? Are you remembering?"
"No, Mark." She turned around and pressed herself against him,
her face buried in his neck. "But I'm afraid I will."
* * * *
Sundown was nearing when they rode back into town. The chaparral
bushes beside the road shaded the bodies of the horses but left
the riders' faces in orange sunlight. They glanced often and
admiringly at each other, both clearly pleased by their sojourn
in the wilderness, though Tyler had not completed half the
necessary measurements.
After dismounting he helped her transport their saddle bags up to
the hotel room, endured the bartender's leer as he ordered the
double bath again, and went off to stable the horses. She
enjoyed a long soak but was out of the tub and drying herself
when he returned.
"What kept you?" she asked. "The water is hardly tepid."
"I know. Let me get right into it and knock some of this dust
off. I brought you a cold beer."
"Oh, Mark, you are so thoughtful!"
He opened the brown bottle, covered with condensed moisture, and
passed it to her before attacking his buttons.
"Ooo, it *is* cold!" she exclaimed after the first long pull. "I
know about decompression from kegs, but how do you suppose they
cool bottles? I didn't think an ice plant existed between St.
Louis and Kansas City."
He studied her. "Who told you that?"
She shrugged. "I don't remember. Am I wrong?"
"Maybe not. I asked the bartender about it. He cuts ice from a
lake in the winter the old-fashioned way and stores it in his
cellar. He even has some ice cold champagne that I've reserved
for supper."
Her eyes lit. "I see what took you so long. I'm looking forward
to supper, but this beer is wonderful. Thank you, Mark."
The sun had set but bright twilight suffused the room, whose
windows faced the western sky. She happily scrubbed his back for
him when he entered the tub. "I'd wash you all over if you'd let
me," she admitted. "I love to feel a man's hard body. It is so
different from a woman's almost everywhere."
"The French have a toast for that."
"I know. *Vive la difference*!"
"Yes," he agreed, looking around at her. "There you go again."
"*Je connais aussi la langue francais.*" Her voice conveyed
surprise at the evident fact.
"Quit that," he growled.
She nodded. "I must indeed quit that." She backed away. "When
you finish I'll help you dry off, then I have a surprise for
you." She smiled. "I think you'll like it. It's from Vienna."
"Vienna? Austria or Pennsylvania? Have you remembered something
important?"
"Austria, I think. This is not a question of memory. You'll
see."
When he emerged from the tub, she was ready with towels and dried
his back vigorously. Her hands lingered between his legs, even
after the towel had fallen to the floor. He winced as his
manhood came erect.
She chuckled. "Have I made you sore, Mark?"
"Yes," he admitted, "but you won't hear any complaint."
She kissed his upper arm, at that moment the part of him closest
to her mouth. "You are not what they call a womanizer, are you,
Mark?"
"No. Not until I met you. But I think if I could do it, I'd
make love to you every minute we're together."
She chuckled again, deep in her throat. Her hand cupped his
testicles gently, feeling for the contents. "If it's any
consolation to you, Mark, your obsession is mutual."
"I'm beginning to see that." He took a deep breath. "Show me
your surprise, then we'll go to supper -- else we might just skip
it."
"I hope you're not too hungry. I want to show you while the
light lasts."
"Then go ahead."
She swept the top covers off the bed to its foot then laid
herself full length upon it, head propped on a pillow. With a
wide smile on her face, she parted her legs and raised her heels,
higher and higher, drawing them back above her shoulders. Her
buttocks rose into the air as her heels passed *behind her head*,
where she hooked one foot on the other ankle. She raised her
elbows and passed them in front of her thighs, bringing her
shoulders out on top of her inner knees and calves. Then she lay
still, except for a quiver of her torso -- suppressed laughter? --
a woman folded back over herself with all her secret parts turned
up and gaping to his eyes, exposed as he had never before been
privileged to see.
She laughed aloud. "Wonderful, Mark! I wish you could see your
face."
"Oh, my god, Phyllis!" he exclaimed, finally closing his mouth.
"It even has a name, according to Perry: the Viennese Oyster."
"Oyster? Meaning that one is to ..."
When his voice trailed off, she put down a hand on either side,
stretching the labia far apart. Her eyes were inviting above the
glistening, crimson aperture and wet inner folds.
With a hoarse cry he fell upon the bed and buried his face into
the offered delicacy. The woman matched his cry and took his
head in her two hands to guide his tongue. She did not long
endure his service before screaming his name and tightening her
muscles until the bones creaked. When he raised his head at the
urging of her hands, her face was almost as red as the very wet
area he had vacated.
"Fuck me like this, too!" she gasped.
Nothing loath, he knelt above her and penetrated almost too
easily.
"This will hurt you less," she predicted. But when he touched
her womb tip, her heels came up from behind her head and hooked
themselves atop his shoulders. "Lean more forward!" she
commanded. Her calves and thighs took up much of his weight.
Every thrust struck the lump deep within her, eliciting a short
contralto groan that stimulated him to faster movement. Her
internal sphincters gripped him as her groans merged into a soft
scream, continuous except for the necessary gasps of breath.
Neither objected when he ejaculated within her body, now almost
rigid beneath him.
* * * *
Well after their breathing eased he lay silently on his back in
the darkening room. She lay against him with her head on his
shoulder, as she had spent their previous hours in bed together.
His hand stroked her hip and buttocks. The other brought her
hand to his lips. He kissed her fingers.
"Phyllis ..." He sighed.
"Do you like me a little?" she asked, kissing his chin as she had
done before at such a moment.
"It's gone beyond that," he admitted. "I love you, Phyllis."
"Do you? How long have you known me? Nearly a full day?"
"I know. But you are the most marvelous person I have ever ..."
"Slept with?"
"That, certainly!"
"Thank you, Mark. Of course I love you, too."
"Why 'of course?'"
He felt her grin. "I don't know the 'why' of very much, Mark.
Except I think you are also marvelous."
He sighed again, more deeply.
"This displeases you?" she asked in wonder.
"On the contrary ... Damn it! How could fate do this to us?"
"Fate?" She raised her head to study him.
"At this point I would ask you to marry me."
He fell silent. She waited a bit, swallowed and said, "'*Would*
ask?'"
He spoke in a strained voice. "Your name is Phyllis Hackwood.
More accurately, *Mrs.* Jonathan T. Hackwood."
"*What*?" She caught her breath.
He took a deep one. "The sheriff did have a bulletin on you. He
loaned it to me; it's in my coat... Phyllis ... I meant to give
it to you when I came in, but I got ... carried away. You are so
beautiful! I had to have you one more time." Again he took a
deep breath. "I knew then I was in love with you. I'm sorry, my
darling."
"For heaven's sake! Sorry for what?"
"For taking advantage of you. For not telling you immediately."
"For loving me instead. You owe me no apology, Mark." She got
out of bed, found a match in the lamp table and lit the oil lamp.
"Where is that bulletin? I want to tear it up."
He chuckled worriedly. "You can't do that, Phyllis. I promised
it back to the sheriff. Besides, it wouldn't do any good. He's
telegraphed your husband by now."
"He *what*? You told him I was here?" Her eyes flashed at him.
"Yes, I did." Tyler got out of bed and came to her. "Do you
mean to say you have no interest at all?"
She pulled away. Her contralto voice was suddenly ugly. "You
know how it will be! A man that I can't remember, whom I might
as well have never seen before, will claim to own me, will force
me to go away with him. And *he* can make it stick!"
"But if he's your husband --"
"I don't give a damn! If I must have a husband, I want it to be
*you*!"
He sighed and reached into his coat. "I think you'd better read
this."
KIDNAPPED
Mrs. Jonathan T. Hackwood, nee Phyllis Maybelle Wayland
on May 14, 1874, from a house near her home in Toltram, Missouri
by two masked white men demanding ransom.
Age 28, Reddish-brown hair, green eyes, avg. height, buxom med.
build, last seen wearing white summer dress with vertical violet
stripes
$500 Reward for information leading to her recovery.
Contact Capt. Jonathan Hackwood, Wayland Rd., Toltram, Mo.
She glared up at him. "I suppose you'll demand the reward."
He sighed. "That's not important."
"Then what is?"
"I mean the money's not important. I don't need it, Phyllis.
But does any of this joggle your memory?"
"No."
"Toltram, Missouri? That's not too far from St. Louis, if I
remember rightly."
"Never heard of it."
"Are you sure? How about the white dress with violet stripes?"
"The one hanging in my hotel room was undyed calico. I remind
you that I was naked."
"Well, you were kidnapped, so it says there. Your abductors must
have left you in that room, probably because they expected you to
die. Somehow you had suffered a debilitating blow to the head.
I thought about this walking back from the sheriff's office. May
fourteenth was a little over six weeks ago. You can remember the
last three weeks, or a little more now. For three weeks you must
have been their prisoner."
She shrugged. "I don't remember any of it."
"Maybe seeing your husband, hearing him, smelling him when he
hugs you, will bring your memory back."
She wrinkled her lip. "Maybe. But I won't stop loving you,
Mark."
The man sighed deeply. "Nor I you. But we have to do the right
thing. You'll have folks that miss you, too." He straightened
up. "Let's get dressed and go drink that cold bottle of
champagne. You'll feel better when you eat."
She stared into his eye. "I'd feel better if we caught the three
A.M. train to Kansas City."
"Phyllis ..."
* * * *
Crack!
He was simultaneously aware of a small explosion on the surface
of the boulder beside his face, the instant whitening of a spot
in the rock the size of a silver dollar, the tortured scream of a
ricocheting bullet and the sting of rock chips on his cheek. He
spun around and dropped behind another boulder, but not before he
saw the puff of blue-gray smoke between the cottonwoods part way
up the western slope. Someone had just taken a shot a him! His
experienced surveyor's eye estimated the distance down from the
smoke puff at 100 yards. Probably he faced a rifle. Either the
shooter had little skill or else a lot but wanted only to warn
him. Phyllis? No! Though she was probably the reason.
A masculine voice shouted, "Stay there and you won't get hurt!"
The miss was deliberate, then, and Phyllis was certainly the
objective.
This pile of boulders, chosen to serve as the western footing of
the trestle-to-be, formed a slanting chimney that he had never
noticed when viewing from a distance. He scuttled backward
through it down to the bushes that concealed its entrance.
Pausing, he looked out over the grassy strip beside the stream.
Phyllis had gotten to her feet near the horses about 80 yards
away. Before he left her to take measurements she had redonned
the "western" skirt, to keep the flies away from tender spots,
but her full breasts dangled enticingly. She was shading her
eyes, looking up the side of the gorge. How could she not
realize that another man had invaded their privacy?
Above him he heard the irregular sounds of hooves descending a
hillside. He took a breath, drawing his revolver. Bushes grew
thickly along the edge of the grassy strip, up to the gap where
he and the woman had ridden through an hour earlier. Crouching
as low as he could, he ran toward the gap, hewing close to the
line of bushes, expecting another bullet at any moment.
But he reached the last bush before the gap without incident.
The woman, now 50 feet away, had turned to regard him with wide
eyes. He raised a finger across his lips. Her eyebrows climbed.
She glanced once back up the hill, from which the sounds of
descent were ever stronger, took up her blouse and slipped her
arms into it.
A second shot crashed, throwing up water in the stream just
beyond the woman. Echoes resounded in the gorge. As they died
away the same masculine voice cried, "Leave it off, Sal!"
She froze, her hands reaching for buttons behind her head.
Slowly she shrugged out of the garment.
Amidst a cloud of dust the horse, another mustang, appeared in
the gap directly in front of Tyler. The rider was carrying a
lever-action rifle.
Tyler stood up. "Hold it!" he screamed, his revolver extended in
both hands.
The rider turned, working the rifle's lever. Tyler squeezed his
trigger. His weapon roared and leapt up in his hands. He cocked
it for the next shot before he could see well enough through the
smoke to gauge the effect of the first.
The horse shied forward with a lurch. It was riderless. The
breeze shifted the smoke cloud to reveal the man face down on his
belly in the grass. The rifle, its lever not closed, lay to one
side.
Tyler darted forward and captured the rifle. Throwing it aside
along with the intruder's revolver, which had been still in its
holster, he turned the man over onto his back. Dazed eyes
searched upward until locking on Tyler's. A handwidth bloodstain
was growing low on the man's left side.
The woman came running up. For once Tyler had no interest in the
bouncing breasts. She took one look at the fallen man before
turning wide eyes up to Tyler.
"It's Richard!"
"You know him?"
"Richard Gandy, the one who named me Sal LaTour."
Below them the man coughed and winced, but cleared his throat and
managed a leer at the woman. "God, Sal, you still got the best
tits in the country!"
"Oh!" she cried, looking ashamedly at Tyler. She turned away
toward the fallen blouse.
Tyler asked gruffly, "What are you doing here, Gandy?"
The man grunted and felt of his side. He held up a red hand.
"Dark blood! I've been liver shot. To answer your question,
what I'm doing here is dying."
"Let's put a bandage on it. Phyllis, bring me that basket
cloth."
"Don't bother. I've seen it before. I'll be dead in half an
hour. The luck of the draw! So she lets you call her Phyllis,
does she?"
"Why not? It's her name."
"Ah, but she wouldn't be Phyllis Hackwood ever again! We had to
call her Sal LaTour."
"Huh? What are you talking about?"
"You mean she still ain't got no memory?"
"Why did you come after her, Gandy?"
The man nodded. "You're right, of course. I came to rescue her
if she'd be my woman again. If not I meant to steal her away and
fuck her one more time."
"Then turn her over to her husband?"
"You mean that bulletin. I saw it in K. C."
"Thought you were in Charon."
"Well, I was. But I found I couldn't along without that
big-tittied little trick. She can get under your skin, as you
probably know by now. When she and Perry left, I followed along,
meaning to win her back. Might've done it, too, if Caliver
hadn't beat me to it. Then right away *you* won her on the
train! Talk about changing hands! But I decided it was good
luck for me. That Caliver's a dead shot with a pistol.
"I meant to take her from you in K. C. but you fooled me. I
finally found somebody who remembered her getting off in Kellens...
God, dying hurts! You ever kill anybody else, Tyler?"
"I was at Gettysburg."
"Put me a neat notch on your gun butt, will you?"
"I might, if you'll tell me what you meant a moment ago when you
claimed she wouldn't let you call her Phyllis."
The woman had returned, breasts demurely clothed. "He said
what?"
The prone man coughed and smiled at her. "That gal's a real
pistol, Tyler, with or without her memory."
"Are you saying you knew her *before* she lost it?"
"I was there when she was kidnapped -- so-called."
Tyler hunkered down beside him. "What's your story, Gandy?"
"What's it worth to you?"
Tyler chuckled grimly. "Nothing you can take with you."
"A notch shaped like a G?"
"All right. A notch shaped like a G."
[NARRATOR's FONT]
Harris came to me in St. Louis and asked if I'd like to help him
kidnap a big tittied woman for half of $500.
I told him, "They hang you for that."
"Not if she *wants* to be kidnapped."
We rented horses and went to the house in Toltram where she was
supposed to be: a widow's place. Mrs. Hackwood was visiting.
It was just the two women and a maid. Harris tied up the widow
and the maid and let out that hanging didn't worry *him* none.
He took the time to rape the maid and the widow. I was just
going to hold Mrs. Hackwood, but she whispered, "Fuck me, too.
It's got to look good."
That was my first time with Sal, on the widow's guest bed, and
let me tell you, she loved it. Why fake it when you're supposed
to be getting raped?
Since Harris couldn't read or write, I wrote the note demanding
$1000 ransom and left it on the widow's table. We rode off with
Sal up behind Harris. She had a bag with extra clothes. She
gave Harris half of the $500 as soon as we were out of sight of
the house.
We caught the train in the next town, her getting on alone to
make it look good, and holed up in Charon at a friend of
Harris's. The idea was to lay low until Hackwood got tired of
looking. The note I left didn't say anything about how he was
supposed to get us the money. That was deliberate. "He knows I
hate his guts," she said. "Maybe he'll understand just what this
is and leave me alone."
This woman was hot as a stove lid. I got the idea that Hackwood
didn't much care for fucking, and Sal wanted to make up for lost
time. She was after us nearly all day and night, singly and
together. I can't imagine a way to fuck that two and three
people didn't do. Let me tell you, I learned several that were
new to me! Even getting her curse didn't stop her. We *still*
had to fuck!
I guess too much of a good thing is too much, even of *that* good
thing! Harris started staying out more and more. Sal raised
hell with him for "endangering the plan" and threatened to
withhold the last of his pay. Harris said he didn't like lippy
women and stayed out the four next days. When he showed up, she
really lit into him. He slapped her. She picked up a flower pot
and threw it perfect. It beaned him, knocked him flat on his
ass. He picked himself up along with an overstuffed chair and
hit her over the head with it. She went down on the floor and
didn't move.
He rubbed his head, looked at me, back at her. "Goddam bitch!"
He drew his gun.
Spoil them beautiful tits? I said, "Harris, you're about to make
your worst mistake."
He turned the gun on me but mine was already lined up. Just like
me and you. Only I shot him in the left eye instead of the
liver. Blew out the back of his head.
"Is he dead?" Sal asked, raising up.
"As a door nail," I said.
She turned on me. "You stupid ass!"
"He was about to kill you."
"You're still a stupid ass," she said.
"I'm beginning to see his point," I said, gritting my teeth. I
turned around and got out of there.
I don't know what happened to her then. I found her a few days
later in the bar of the Charon hotel. The owner was about to
throw her out. She was broke -- I never saw the $250 supposedly
owing to Harris and me -- and naked except for one dress that
didn't fit her. She told me she didn't remember anything before
waking up in that hotel. Maybe not, but *I* sure did! I had got
used to them big tits and sweet cunt. So I bought her some
clothes, reminded her of her name and moved her in with me.
I had to earn us a living, so I went back to the tables. It was
okay at first, but that lucky bastard Perry cleaned me out and
like a fool, I covered my last bet with Sal. To my surprise she
agreed to it. I figured to hook her back after Perry got a
little taste, but I guess she don't like me as much as I do her.
She said that Perry won her fair and square and she was his woman
now. One thing I do know: you can't hold a woman long when she's
ag'in it.
[NORMAL FONT]
When the man's voice ran down, his face was drawn in a mask of
pain. Tyler put a beer bottle to his lips. "Want something
cool?"
He essayed a swallow but coughed it back up, along with blood.
His face was gray. He said weakly, "You won't forget my G?"
"No, I won't."
In another five minutes he shuddered his last breath and lay
still.
"Do you believe him?" asked the woman, standing back from the
body.
Tyler looked up at her apprehensive eyes. "Do you?"
She seemed to consider. "Wasn't that what they call a 'deathbed
confession?'"
"Maybe. Though I don't know what will stop a man from telling
lies on his deathbed."
"Isn't the idea that he'd have no reason to?"
"But he might -- the same kind of reason as that silly G he wants
me to cut into my gun butt."
"You mean, what people think of him afterwards?"
"Of course."
"Will you cut it for him?"
"I mean to have a jeweler carve a G so tiny you need a glass to
read it."
She chuckled. "You're an honorable man, Mark."
He nodded. "But chinchy. I want you to hold the horse while I
throw his body over the saddle."
"Will we take him in immediately?"
"We'd better."
"Poor Mark! You'll probably have to redo those last
measurements."
He shrugged. "I never really expected to do this job in a couple
days." He smiled. "Especially not with your help."
She smiled in return.
When the three horses were on the road back to town, Tyler and
the woman side-by-side ahead with the dead man following, tied
across his saddle, Tyler commented, "That fellow, Richard Gandy,
was your lover, by your own admission, too."
She cut her eyes around to him but said nothing.
"Even after your head got hurt," he added.
"Are you wondering that I'm not prostrate with grief?" she asked
dryly.
He smiled. "I guess not. A man who would risk her at cards
can't be very precious to a woman."
"You think not? I cried over Perry's body."
"Did you?"
"He did value me, even if only $80 worth."
"How much did Gandy want for you?"
"$50."
"I see. Then if Gandy had killed *me*, who valued you at $150,
you would weep a veritable Niagara!"
"I would have killed him in return, I think. I know about the
spare gun in your saddle roll."
"Can you use one?"
"Yes."
"Phyllis, are you certain you remember *nothing* before waking up
in Charon?"
"Not even now. But I've been thinking about Richard's story. He
painted me rather black, didn't he?"
"According to him, you wanted to be kidnapped, though only to be
free of your husband, not to extort his money. It suggests that
you have a stash of your own."
"I noticed that, too. If I remember where it is, I'll tell you."
"It's not your money I'm after, Phyllis. Do you see that grove
of trees on the right? I don't think Mr. Gandy will mind if we
pause there a few minutes."
"Oh, god, Mark, I thought you'd *never* think of it!"
"In that case why didn't you remind me?"
"You already think I'm a heartless wench. I didn't want you to
believe I'm also a bloodthirsty one."
"Even though you are?"
"Even though violent, bloody death leaves me sopping wet, though
perhaps for a more fundamental reason than you first imagine.
You'll definitely be sore when we leave that grove, sweet Mark."
* * * *
When the little procession tied up at the rail before the
sheriff's office, the man himself, a tall and heavy-set one with
a florid face and handlebar mustache, came out onto the
boardwalk, his eye on the tied-down body. He leaned over the
rail and lifted the head by its hair. "I thought so," he said
cryptically. He looked to Tyler. "Got a name for it?"
Tyler got down from his horse and took the woman's hand to steady
her own dismounting. He said to the waiting sheriff, "His name
was Richard Gandy. I killed him after he shot at me and Mrs.
Hackwood."
"Where'd you get the cuts on your face?"
"His first bullet struck the rock about four inches from my
head."
"He shot from ambush and you still finished him?"
"Actually, after his two shots he rode down on Mrs. Hackwood.
Then I ambushed *him*."
The sheriff thought that over. To the woman he said, "You're
Mrs. Hackwood?"
She hesitated, then admitted, "My name is Phyllis."
"Born Phyllis Wayland?"
She took a breath. "So I've been told."
The man grunted. "Haven't we all! Lorenzo, go get the
undertaker. Mr. Tyler, I want you and your lady to come into my
office. We have some talking to do."
Inside the one-room office lined with empty jail cells on the
back wall, he pulled out chairs for his visitors and took his
seat behind the great scarred desk under the rifle rack. The
midafternoon sun shone brightly through the windows facing the
street.
"Miss Wayland, I want you to tell me exactly what happened up in
the hills today. Don't leave anything out. And Tyler, let her
do all the talking, you hear?"
When Tyler nodded, the sheriff said, "Go ahead, ma'am."
Despite instructions, she left out a great deal, Tyler concluded
silently. She recounted hearing a shot and seeing the smoke up
the hill, thinking it must be Tyler, though she knew he had gone
off to take measurements in a rock fall. She heard the man up
the hill shout something unintelligible, then she saw him start
down the hill on his horse and knew he wasn't Tyler, who was
afoot. About half way down the hill he took his second shot,
which struck the stream just behind her and scared her half to
death.
Tyler ran towards her along the grass, shielded from the
intruder's view by bushes. When the man reached the grass, Tyler
was ready for him and hollered, "Stop where you are!" or
something similar. But the man tried to load his rifle and Tyler
shot him out of the saddle. The horse ran forward and bent to
drink from the stream. It was very thirsty. It's a shame that
people aren't more thoughtful of their animals.
"Did he fall dead?" asked the sheriff.
"No. He lived for a while. He recognized that he was shot in
the liver. He told us his name."
The sheriff studied her. "Did he say why he attacked you?"
She sent Tyler a worried look. "Something about a ... bulletin
on me."
"You've seen it," said the sheriff in a matter-of-fact tone.
She took a breath. Of relief, Tyler thought. "Yes," she
answered. "Tyler showed it to me last night. I know nothing
about what it claims, Sheriff."
The man nodded. "I believe you."
Tyler exclaimed, "*What*?"
The sheriff chuckled at him. "If you were counting on that
money, you can forget it."
"What do you mean."
"I've got a reply from Mr. Jonathan Hackwood."
"So?"
"So his wife ain't missing."
"His ... His *what*?"
The sheriff grunted. He opened the drawer of his desk and
removed a telegraph form filled out in large penciled letters.
EAST & WEST TELEGRAPH COMPANY
HAND DELIVER
TO SHERIFF R T HOLLISTER STOP KELLENS KANS
FROM CAPT J T HACKWOOD STOP TOLTRAM MO
MSG BEGINS MY WIFE PHYLLIS HACKWOOD SAFE AT HOME STOP KIDNAP
BULLETIN ISSUED IN ERROR DUE TO MIXUP STOP REWARD CANCELED STOP
PLS CONVEY MY REGRETS TO INQUIRER STOP MSG ENDS
1115 AM JUL 1 1874 JTW FILE RMO
"'Due to mix-up!'" repeated Tyler in disbelief. He passed the
paper to the woman, who scanned it avidly.
The sheriff chuckled. "I'd like to hear the explanation for that
myself." He took the form back and turned his piercing blue eyes
upon Phyllis. "You fit the description, all right. Do you wish
to tell me anything?"
She took a breath. "I'm sure Mr. Tyler told you I've lost my
memory, Sheriff."
"Do you want me to copy off Mr. Hackwood's address? You might
want to contact him yourself. The train through Toltram leaves
here every morning.
"No, thank you." Her hand stole out and enclosed Tyler's,
resting on his knee. "I'm glad Mr. Hackwood has his wife. I
have my man."
The sheriff nodded. "That's pretty clear." He looked at Tyler.
"I suspect Hackwood's bulletin is going to cause you two a lot
more trouble."
"You're probably right, Sheriff." Tyler stood up. "If it comes
I'll just have to handle it."
"Well, don't litter up the landscape with more dead bodies."
"I'll try not to. Coming, Phyllis?"
As they reached the door, the sheriff asked, "How long will you
be in town?"
"Another day, two at the most."
"If Mr. Gandy turns out to be as unidentifiable as most of the
fresh corpses around here, you're the only one with any claim on
his traps. You planning to stay where you are at the Madrid?"
"Yes, sir. First off, in the middle of a big bathtub. Give
Gandy's stuff to somebody who deserves it, Sheriff."
"In that case the undertaker will get most of it. I wish you
good luck."
"The same to you, Sheriff, and thanks."
Tyler helped the woman dismount in front of the hotel and
unbuckled her saddle bags to take with her. But she leaned
against him as he worked at her horse.
"Mark, I can't wait till we get upstairs. Does this mean that
you can ..."
"Can what?"
"Do what you said you *would* do last night?"
He stopped and turned to study her. "You mean, ask you to marry
me?"
She took a breath. "That's what I mean."
He said thoughtfully, "You told Gandy that Hackwood was your
husband."
"If you believe Richard."
"Did you ever catch him in a lie?"
Reluctantly she shook her head. "Not that I could tell."
"But you're willing to take a chance?"
"What chance? You saw the telegram. He has a wife."
Slowly he grinned at her. "Phyllis, I have a dream about that."
"A dream?"
"I always wanted to ask a girl that question when her mouth was
full of my dick. What do you think she would do?"
The woman cocked an eyebrow. "She couldn't say yes or no."
His eyes twinkled. "She could either nod or shake her head."
"Now I understand: either way you'd enjoy it!" Her eyes held a
promise. "And so would I. Go stable the horses and hurry back
to me. Please?"
END
Copyright (C) 2000, Kellis
Stories at http://www.dhp.com/files/Authors/kellis/www
--
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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