It was unusual cold that winter. The winter of 97 is the one of which I speak. No, I am speaking not of 1997 but of 1897 when the west was still being won. In all honesty most of the winning was over and done with, but there were a few pockets here and there that were throwbacks to the earlier time of strife and danger.
Bitchback Mountain was one of those still dangerous places. Most people think it is located in Northern California but according to my maps it was north of the California border in that wild and wooly place of the Pacific Northwest where lumberjacks and fishermen were more numerous than cowboys or farmers. There were not a lot of nubile females in those days because the womenfolk tended to herd a little bit closer to civilization and the convenience of store bought goods.
The first time I trekked into the high country and came up on Bitchback Mountain I knew it was a special place because it seemed to glow with an aura of unfulfilled desire. An old Indian guide shared a bottle of rotgut with me across a nice campfire on a chilly night and he filled me in on the legend of Bitchback Mountain and the curse that was laid on any white man that climbed up to the peak and pissed on its black and evil-tinged rocks. I wanted to laugh at the foolishness of the so-called "curse" as just so much nonsense but I didn't want to offend the old man who had been helpful in directing me to the best hunting areas down on the flatlands. He told me straight out that he wanted nothing to do with Bitchback Mountain and I took him at his word.
The Indian village at the base of the mountain was a poor one because the people there were not much interested in working for any of the companies that sucked the vitality out of their young laborers and gave them a pittance in return. I was employed by the Department of the Interior to map out the areas still virtually undeveloped and determine if they were places the government might want to keep title to for one of the reasons in my little black book which I am not at liberty to discuss in a narrative of this nature.
I accepted their hospitality because it was nice to have a roof over my head even if it was the dried hides of animals killed for feeding the tribe. My blankets were of the softer animal hide furs and they were so warm that one had to sleep in the raw just to keep from sweating. No danger of chilly night air getting in to freeze your ass in the winter. It was only after I had retired for the night that I discovered the Chief had included one of the Indian maidens as a candidate to warm me up in another way entirely. I had plenty of opportunities to poke one of the Indian girls when I was working at the nearby U.S. Cavalry Fort to help draw maps for the land department but had kept clear of those females because I had heard so many horrible stories of white men being accused of raping or taking advantage of Indians under their control. I certainly didn't need any of that nonsense when I was already engaged to Miss Abagail Williams of Boston, Mass.
Her father was influential in governmental circles and I did not want to incur his wrath if any funny business with Indian females ever got rumored to be at my doorstep.
In this instance, I really had no other option because the poor girl was dumped into my naked lap inside my own private teepee wearing only a tiny feather in her hair. Her hairy bush was a black splotch in the light of the fire still burning outside from the evening's dinner. I reached out and as soon as my fingers entered into her pretty pussy pie, I was lost in the lust of mounting her and coupling like a man caught up by uncontrollable forces of lust and passion. The girl was unbelievably cooperative and took all that I had to offer and smiled at me with that look that told me she was truly and sincerely satisfied with my performance. The sight of all my cream bubbling to the surface of her quim made me proud of my night's work and I stiffened my resolve to do it again before the sun rose in the morning.
It was the sound of the wolves in the distance that awoke me in the middle of the night with my little Rosebud's ass right next to my rock-hard cock. Swiftly, I struck home this time in her rear door to show her how kinky white men can be when presented with such a desirable a target. She looked at me over her shoulder and reached back to spread her cheeks open for my penetration of her heated crack and before very long we were hooked together in anal combat as I punished her flanks in silent gyrations that brought us both to a heavy sweat under the skins. I could feel her vibrate under my ministrations and in all honesty I had never felt the tightness that her sphincter managed to deliver to my swollen shaft. Needless to say, I drained readily into her core and held her motionless in place as my last drops spurted from my little pee-pee opening inside her rectum. I liked the way this little Rosebud squirmed about, first this way and then, that way, all the time driving my rampant cock crazy with desire. She didn't have much experience in using her mouth but most of the Indian girls tended to see that as something for outsiders with their funny ways.
Fortunately, there was no more discussion of curses or taking advantage of poor Indian girls and the Chief made certain I knew she was my property now and I was to take her with me to the line camp for the winter months to take care of my needs. I have to admit I was a little fearful of the responsibility but the benefits were so great that I hid my fears and agreed passing him my spare Henry rifle and lots of ammo for his hunting success. It was a no-no under a decree by the territorial governor but the Tribes had to eat too. There was no danger of any warpath for the Indians out here anyway because they were too domesticated to be any trouble. Most of them had already left for Canada to squat down on the government land and the authorities up there never interfered with the Tribes because they pretty much minded their own business and seldom made any trouble.
.... There is more of this story ...