The Drifter
Chapter 1

Copyright© 2016 by JRyter

Western Sex Story: Chapter 1 - The story of a boy who spends his younger days living in a rundown shack beside a railroad. The lonesome sound of the outward bound, gives the boy a restless itch to go west. He's thirteen when his Ma dies, and the yearning to follow the restless wind grows until there comes a day he can no longer deny his need to roam. There is some sex in this story, as the boy begins learning how to be a man.

Caution: This Western Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including mt/Fa   Mult   Consensual   Fiction   Western   Cheating   First   Pregnancy   Tit-Fucking  

The Wayward Wind

A Ballad Written By:

Stan Lebowsky &

Herb Newman - 1956

Tex Ritter Arrangement:

Oh, the wayward wind is a restless wind
A restless wind that yearns to wander
And I was born ... the next of kin -
The next of kin to the wayward wind

In a lonely shack by a railroad track
I spent my younger days
And the lonesome sound
Of the outward bound
Made me a slave to my wandering ways

And the wayward wind is a restless wind
A restless wind that yearns to wander
And I was born ... the next of kin -
The next of kin to the wayward wind

Oh, I met a girl in a border town
I vowed we’d never part
Though I tried my best to settle down
She’s now alone ... with a broken heart

And the wayward wind is a restless wind
A restless wind that yearns to wander
And I was born ... the next of kin -
The next of kin to the wayward wind

The next of kin...
The next of kin to the wayward wind

(Members of the ‘Western Writers

of America’ chose this song as one

of the Top 100 Western songs of

all time.)

In a lonely shack by a railroad track
I spent my younger days...

I was two months shy of my fourteenth birthday when Ma died on March 10, 1871.

I reckon that was when Pa gave up on life too. He just never had the will to live after we lost Ma.

Pa had worked as an oiler on the Tebo and Neosho Railroad since he was thirteen. When the Union Pacific bought the Tebo and Neosho Short Line, Pa stayed at Sedalia, Missouri and worked for The Union Pacific in the Sedalia railyards.

Ma once told me that she’d met Pa right here in this train yard. The westbound on which she was traveling, broke down and had to layover a day and a night. She was sixteen at the time and Pa was nineteen, she told me.

She was supposed to be traveling to Wichita, Kansas to live with an aunt. She never made it out there. She wrote her aunt and told her that she was married to a railroad man in Sedalia, now. She said she never heard back from her aunt.

We lived in a small two-room shack just off the edge of the railroad property. I was born in that shack. I grew up there and went to school for five years in the little one-room schoolhouse in Sedalia while we lived in that shack. I learned to read and write as well as any boy or girl in my school. Reading was my only escape from that shack at that time and I read everything I could get my hands on, at least three times ... The one thing I loved most about reading was, I got to discover other places as I read the words and pictured the places in my mind. I knew way back then, that one day, I would see some of those places I was reading about.

The mainline of the east-west Union Pacific Railroad was just a hundred feet or so from our shack, built at the edge right-of-way. I used to sit on the back porch and watch the outbound trains headed west, their whistles blowing to clear the tracks.

I dreamed of riding on one of them some day. One that was westbound anyway. For whatever reason, I never had a hankering to travel east. The tall tales I heard told around the train yard, were about the west and how wide open and wild it still was out there. I wanted to see some of that myself when I got older. They told that a man could buy an acre of land out there for as little as a dollar. I even dreamed of me owing a piece of that wild country way over yonder they called, Out West.

When Ma died, I buried her myself. I went to the man in charge of the cemetery and asked what it would cost me to bury my Ma there. He told me the grave site would cost me a dollar. Then another dollar to have the grave dug. With two more dollars I could have a pine coffin made.

I didn’t have but two dollars to my name, and Pa had spent the last of his money on whiskey. He always was a drinker, but now, he drank himself to sleep each night since he come home and found Ma dead. When Ma died, he just gave up.

I reckon I gave up on trying to help my Pa about that time too.

I talked the man into letting me dig Ma’s grave by myself. I told him I could build her a coffin too, out of some fine scrap pine lumber that I had scavenged from the empty boxcars over the years. It took me a day and a half to dig Ma’s grave, but the graveyard man told me I did a fair job of it. He measured the grave and told me it was as good as his men could dig. I took his measurements and built Ma a coffin that would fit her, and fit down in her grave.

She only had one Sunday dress and I put that one on her. I had to go get the graveyard man to come help me carry Ma’s coffin to her grave. Pa was still passed out drunk.

There was a preacher, who was preaching a funeral over on the far side of the cemetery, with people gathered around. I could hear him talking loud and clear as I covered Ma’s grave. His voice was the only sound in that quiet, peaceful, tree lined cemetery.

“Son, why are you covering this grave alone?” The preacher asked and I turned, surprised to see him standing right behind me. I was so lost in my own thoughts I never knew he was close by.

“I didn’t have the money to pay the men to help me bury my Ma.”

“Hand me that shovel, Son.”

The preacher took my shovel out of my hand and finished covering Ma’s grave. Then he picked up his bible and asked me what my Ma’s name was. He started preaching her funeral like he’d known her personally. When he was through, he handed the graveyard man a dollar and told him to put Ma’s name on a wooden cross for a grave marker. I gave the man Ma’s full name, her birth date and the date she died so he could carve that on there too.

Two days later, I got a job at the stockyards. I was making fifty cents a week. But that’s all they paid any of the boys for hustling cattle in and out of the pens, and into the loading chutes. The men got fifty cents a day for their work. It was messy as hell out there, with cow shit over my shoe tops, then cow shit and mud half knee-deep when it rained.

I cleaned horse stalls at night for the man who owned the stockyard. He paid me a dime to clean each of them once a week, and there were twenty in all.

I was working seven days a week, day and night. I slept maybe three to four hours most nights. But I was making and saving some money. I had my mind set on heading west as soon as I could purchase fare on a westbound train ... and some more clothes – that didn’t smell like mud and cow shit.

There were many other boys working at the stockyards at that time. Two of them were bad-ass bullies. One of the bullies was the owner’s son, which made it even worse. He and one of his friends by the name of Bernie, beat up a few of the other boys and made everyone pay ten cents a week, just to get to keep their job there.

They had yet to try me. I was bigger at thirteen years old than they were at fifteen. Then one night, less than two months into my job, both of them jumped me from behind in one of the stalls I was cleaning. I heard the scuffing of their feet on the dirt floor behind me just as they both plowed into me, knocking me face first onto the dirt floor covered in straw and horse shit, soaked in horse piss.

I came up off that floor with my pitchfork in my hands. Even then, both of them came at me again. I stuck that fork clean through the knee joint of Bernie’s right leg. He went down screaming as I tried to pull that pitchfork out of his knee. Just as I pulled that five-tined pitchfork free, Rusty, the boss’ son rammed into me with his shoulder, knocking me backwards into the back wall of the stable. He started beating me around my head and face with his fists as I lay on my back under the feed troughs.

I was thrashing around, trying my best to keep him from beating me to death, when my right hand landed in a pile of fresh horse shit. With my fist full of horse shit, I caught an opening and slammed it right in his face, smearing shit in his mouth, trying to gouge his eyes out with my fingers covered in horse shit.

As I rolled him off me, my hand hit the handle of the pitchfork. I came real close to killing him right then and there, when I stood and looked down at him as he hunkered on the horse shit covered stall floor. I had my pitchfork right over the back of his neck, then I thought better of it. I flipped that fork around to use the hickory handle as a club. Swinging that long handle as hard as I could, I hit him across his back. He was still screaming, with his fingers clawing at the horse shit in his mouth and eyes when I hit him. He was a tough, rawboned, mean-ass boy for his age though. Even that lick across his back didn’t put a stop to him.

He was still on his knees when he turned and made a lunge for my legs. He managed to grab my left britches leg with one hand ... but just as he leaned back to jerk my foot from under me, I put the toe of my right shoe in his mouth ... All the way to the laces.

With all the commotion in the stables, as both of them yelled and screamed in pain, three men ran into the stall to see what was happening. One was the owner, the daddy of the boy with the bloody, toothless mouth. I just knew this was it for me.

That man grabbed his son up by his collar, turned him toward the doorway of the stall, and kicked him right square in his ass. I mean, the man kicked his son so hard, he lifted his feet clean off the dirt floor. Then the boy stumbled and staggered across to the other side of the stable where he hit the wall head-first and fell backward on his ass.

“YOU!” The man turned to me, shouting as he pointed his finger right at me. I was ready to jump between the split-rails into the next stall and run like hell, when he called my name.

“Joss Edmon Wayward, you come go with me, Boy! I hate to lose a good hand such as you ... But you’ll have to leave here after this. I can’t have you beating my own son’s ass and still keep you on my payroll! Now follow me, Boy!”

He paid me what he owed me, and even paid me for the rest of the week. I was shocked at his generosity, but I took his money.

“Leave this town, Joss. Don’t you ever come back here again either. You’re a good hand, not at all like your old man. Stay away from that bottle, Boy, and keep working hard. Save your money and you’ll have your own spread one day. You got just the guts, grit, temperament, and mindset it’ll take to make it in this day and time. Head west as far as you got money to travel and don’t ever look back over your shoulder toward Missouri!”

It was daylight when I walked out of his office, which was nothing but a leanto built onto the side of the stable. I walked straight to the watering trough to wash my hands and my face. I knew I was a mess, with horse shit and piss all over me. I could smell it on me, and I stunk like hell. When I swiped my right sleeve across the cut on my left cheek bone, it burned like fire and the bleeding started again.

I’d always kept every bit of the money I owned in my right front pocket. Pa would get it if I didn’t. I run my hand down in my pocket to make sure it was still there. I never took it out to count it, but I figure I had close to twenty-two dollars in paper and maybe another two dollars in coins, just by the feel of it. It was all still there. I knew exactly how it feels when I run my hand down in my pocket.

I was walking past the last corrals, headed straight for the train depot. I knew I had enough money to at least buy me a train ticket to Somewhere. Somewhere other than here.

I heard a lot of yelling, with men whooping and hollering, cussing and laughing. I stepped over to the horse corrals and looked through the rails. There was a man and two boys trying to hold a big old wild bucking horse down until another man could get on him.

When they pulled the sack off that horse’s face and turned him loose, he bucked three times as hard and as high as he could kick, throwing the man in no time. There was already another man paying a dollar to the owner of the horse for a go at riding him.

“What’s the deal?” I asked a boy standing beside me. I’d seen him around him, but I didn’t know him.

“That’s old Wild Bill Singleton over there. He’s always bringing another of his wild broncs in here off the range over’n Kansas, to make money off him. See that saddle on ‘im? They’ve only got the front girth on the saddle. Then they left it cinched too loose and the rider’s ass just bounces up with the saddle when the horse bucks. Ain’t no way in hell they’ll ever ride ‘im thataway.”

“What does the rider get if he rides the horse, after paying a dollar to have a go on him?”

“The horse and saddle!”

“Oh Yeah? How would you ride him?”

“I’d grab that latigo tie strap and cinch it up under his belly just another inch or two tighter. They’ve got the horse lathered up now and the saddle is way loose on his back.”

“Why don’t you go ride him, if you think it’s that easy?”

“I broke my good arm and it’s still healing where a mule kicked me last month. You could ride him though. You’re tall an’ lanky and you’re tough as whet-leather. I saw you beat the livin’ shit out of Rusty an’ his pal, Bernie back there in the stable a while ago. Go ride that horse, Joss. He’ll be your’n when you do.”

“He sure is a big’un ... Pretty one too ain’t he?”

“Yep. That’s a Red Roan and they’re not easy to come by. He’s just come five years old, I heard Wild Bill say. He’ll be worth a lot of money as a stud one day. If the right man owns him, that is.”

“I don’t know a lot about them, but I’ve been around them in the stables and the corrals for a while now ... where they breed them. Say ... why do the bronc riders always hold one arm up in the air like that with just one hand on the reins? Is it to show they don’t have to hold onto the saddlehorn while they ride?”

“That’s one of Wild Bill’s rules to ride his broncs, but Pa says the riders out west used to hold on with both hands. Then they started using one hand as a show of how good a rider could ride a bucking bronc without holding onto the saddlehorn. He said they figured out that by holding their free arm up in the air like that, it sort of helps their body take some of the whip out of the horse’s buck ... See how he’s got his arm kinda crooked forward? Then when the horse bucks, he lets his arm fly back and straighten out. Look at ‘im now, he’s got his arm crooked and ready for another buck before the horse is. That man could ride him if he wasn’t so damn scared of him.”

“I see all that with his arm and I can see how it works too ... Why do you say the man is scared of the horse?”

“He’s done pissed in his pants!”

“OH! I see that now. I’m glad I pissed before I left the stable ... Tell me how you’d ever handle that wild horse if you rode him and come to own him.”

Just gentle the hell out of a horse and he’ll learn to do what you want him to ... That’s what Pa always tells me, and it works for me. Make him feel like he’s a friend of your’n, instead of just some damned old barn animal or pasture ornament.”

“You really think I could ride him?”

“Joss, you could ride a damn bucking bull buffalo clean to Wyoming and back, if you set your mind to it! You’ve got a belly full of guts, and more heart than any grown man in that corral or the onlookers hanging on around it. Now go ride that damn horse! Then ride that big Red Roan away from Sedalia and both of y’all head across The Missouri into Kansas!”

“You’ve just talked me into it!”

Before I talked myself out of it, I stepped through the rails of the corral and walked out to where Wild Bill stood beside his wild bronc. He was asking if there was any more takers when I stepped up beside him with a dollar in my hand.

“Boy, you want to try your luck? This is a fine hunk of horseflesh here. A young man like you needs a horse like this’n these days. Hand me that dollar. He’ll be yours if you can ride him until he stops bucking.”

“Yes Sir. I’ll have a go on him. You wouldn’t mind if I tightened that cinch just a mite before I ride him, would you?”

“Go right ahead. If you do happen to ride him ‘til he stops bucking and kicking, he’ll be yours. Saddle, bridle and all ... just like he stands.”

“Here’s my dollar. Tell that big ol’ Red Roan goodbye right now, Mr. Wild Bill, because he won’t belong to you anymore, when we get done with each other.”

My courage was sucked plumb up in the top of my throat by the time I stepped over to take up the slack in the leather cinch strap. I eased my knee up against his ribs, right over the strap, and he relaxed just a little, letting his wind out. When he did, I pulled a good three inches up, slipping the slack back down through the knot on the d-ring of the saddle.

“Boy, you gonna wait til he’s too old to buck afore you git on’im and ride’im?” One of the wranglers asked me real loud. Even the onlookers lined up around the corral were still laughing as I stepped into the stirrup and swung my right leg across that big son-of-a-gun’s back.

I had just barely got my right foot in the other stirrup when they turned the bridle loose and jerked the sack off his face. That first leaping-buck of his, almost did me in. He had his head down between his front legs and I was stretched out, leaning back in the saddle, almost to his hind quarters ... his hind legs were kicking at the sky, at the high-point of that first leaping-buck. With my right arm high and crooked at the elbow, I locked my butt down tight against that saddle and let my legs lay loose on his sides as he commenced to buck and fart a full circle around the corral. I was getting into this now that I knew about holding my arm high and being ready for his next buck. He cut across to the other side, bucking like hell the whole time. He was going to try and rake me off against the wooden rails of the corral. I’d seen a horse do that to a rider once before out here. It messed up the rider’s leg really bad.

With my right foot still in the stirrup, I raised my leg, stirrup and all, just as we reached the other side. I let him rub the rails with his side and his hind leg all he wanted to, as he made a half circle around the corral. Then he got tired of that and just bucked like hell some more.

I decided it was time for me to take over and ride my horse already. I pulled the reins hard to my right, turning his head toward the open corral. He whirled and worked his way across the corral, farting – grunting and snorting like a mean old boar hog – bucking like hell the whole time. Then I turned him back the other way. We did this four or five more times and he was just about bucked out.

Or so I thought.

Just as I let my body ease up a bit, he really let loose, bucking and farting again. He was romping and stomping, kicking and whirling around and around in that corral until I was about to become dizzy headed. I knew I had him though, and I stayed with him. Finally he stopped bucking and just stood there like he didn’t know what to do next. I nudged him with my heels and rode my Red Roan all around inside that corral three times at a fast gallop. I waved to the onlookers as we made our way around and around that corral. The whoops and hollers of the men and boys sitting on or hanging over the top rails let me know I’d won this big Red Roan.

“Open that gate, Mr. Wild Bill ... Red and Me are coming through, on our way to Kansas!” I yelled so loud, my voice squawked in my throat. But, was I ever a happy first-time bronc rider.

Damn if Wild Bill Singleton didn’t open the gate himself. As I rode through, he slapped my horse across the rump with his hat and we took off down the dirt street like it belonged to us.

I had him headed west and he didn’t let up for two miles or more. Then he just sort of settled into a slow, smooth gait that made me proud all over again that he was my horse.

We stopped three or four times at a crick for me to get a drink, so I could settle myself down. I let Red drink all he wanted each time. I never turned the reins loose, keeping him close so I could put my hands on him. I did let him know that I was a gentle soul by talking to him and rubbing his neck at the same time. When I went to get back on him the first time we stopped, he threw his head up and shied back about three quick steps, with his eyes wide and wild. I slowly pulled his head down close to my face and looked him square in the eye...

Red! You and me have a lot of traveling ahead of us. We can do this the easy way, or we can go back to the bucking and farting and cussing each time I start to mount up. Either way, I will get on you, and we’ll still be headed to wherever it is we’re going, when we get done.”

I spoke to him real gentle but firm like. I really did want him to be friends with me, just like that boy had told me. I’d never had a pet dog or any other animal. I was proud of my horse. I patted his neck and reached back to jerk the stirrup down hard with my hand, like I was mounting up. Red just turned his head to look back at me.

I mounted up without a bit of trouble. That was the last time Red and me ever went through that little dosey-doe, when I was about to mount up.

We met a couple of farm wagons and many, many more freight wagons on our way west to Kansas City. We come upon a freighter who was watering his horses at a shallow crick-crossing and I stopped to ask him how far it was to the next town.

“You’re kinda young to be out here on the trail alone like this, Boy. Where’s your folks?”

“Pa’s back in Sedalia. Ma’s buried back there.”

“You’re about an hour from Warrensburg. You can get a stall for your horse at the livery for ten cents. They’ll let you sleep in the stall with him if you ain’t got money for a room.”

“I don’t have any money for a livery even. I’ll have to stay somewhere on the trail, I reckon.” I lied to him, but I knew better than to let on I carried as much as a dime on me.

“That sure is a fine horse you got there. Don’t see many Red Roans that size – ‘specially colored up as good as he is.”

“Yes Sir. He sure is a fine animal. He’s the best friend I ever had in this whole world too ... You have a good trip, Mister, and thanks for the help.”

“Boy, I passed a farmhouse back yonder about a mile or so. You might be able to get a meal and some feed for your horse, if you’re willing to work for it. Folks through here can be some of the friendliest you’ll ever come across, if you’ll let ‘em that is.”

I saw the farmhouse way before we got there. It sure is a big spread and the barn was big enough to stable twenty or more horses.

I saw a woman taking clothes off the clothesline as I rode slowly up to the watering trough. She turned to watch me and Red, with a scowl on her face, when I rode in.

“Ma’am, would you mind me watering my horse and pumping a cool drink for myself?”

“Boy, are you traveling alone?”

“Yes Ma’am.”

“How old are you?”

“I’m thirteen.”

“You’re awful young to be traveling alone. Where’s your folks.”

“Ma’s passed on and Pa’s laid up drunk back in Sedalia. I needed to get away from there, and here I am.”

“What’s your name?”

“Joss Wayward.”

“Joss, I’m Barbara McIntyre. Nice to meet you. Step down and help yourself to some cool pump water. Where you headed?”

“Over into Kansas, I reckon. I haven’t taken the time to pick out a place for sure yet.”

“Do you know how to split stovewood?” she asked, pointing to the woodpile over near the barn.

“Yes Ma’am. I’m real familiar with chopping wood.”

“Split me a good supply of stovewood and some kindling, then stack it just inside the kitchen door. You’ll see the woodbox there. I’ll put you up in the barn for the night, feed your horse, feed you supper, and breakfast in the morning.”

By the time I had four of the hickory blocks split small enough to fit inside a cookstove, I knew it was going to take me at least ten trips to carry it all inside. I stacked what I could of the stovewood into the crook of my right arm and headed toward the back of the house.

When I opened the door, I saw another woman at the kitchen stove. She turned when I stepped in and I saw that she was a girl, just a few years older than me. Not a full grown woman.

“Hi, I’m Darla. Mother told me we had company for the night. Just put the wood in the box and wash up for supper.”

“Hi Darla, I’m Joss. I’ve got a few more armloads to bring in, then I’ll wash up.”

I had to stack the last two armloads on the back porch. The woodbox was so full.

“How old are you, Josh?” Darla asked.

“It’s Joss with two esses, no H ... and I’m about to be fourteen before long.”

“You look young in the face, but you’re big old boy for thirteen years old.”

“I reckon I am. I was as big as the oldest boy we had in our school and he was was about to graduate at sixteen.”

“Where did you go to school? You speak as if you’ve had higher learning.”

“I went to school back there in Sedalia, where I’m from. I quit when Ma died about two months ago. Pa took it hard and stayed drunk, so I got a job and saved my money. I decided to head west after my boss made it plain that it would be better if I left Sedalia.”

“Did you get into trouble with the law?”

“No, not really. His son and another bully jumped me from behind and I crippled both of them up pretty bad. My boss told me that he hated to let me go, but I couldn’t be on his payroll after I whipped his son’s butt like I did.”

“That’s a fine looking horse you rode in on. Where’d you get him?”

“I payed a dollar to have a go at riding him. I won him and his tack when I broke him to ride.”

“You paid a dollar to ride him, then won him?”

“Yep. The man was a horse trader and he liked to see folks try to ride a really good bucking bronc. He charged a dollar for a go-round on his horse and I got him and the saddle too, when I rode him.”

“Mother and I have a young filly that’s never been rode. Would you like to ride her and break her for a dollar?” she asked, then laughed when I just stood and looked at her.

“I was only teasing you, Joss.”

“I’d like to have a look at her. If she’s not too wild, I might could have a go on her, if you’re willing to pay a dollar.”

“Go put your horse in the barn for the night. Feed him some crushed oats out of the bin and put some hay out for him. I’ll go with you and show you my mare.”

Darla walked out with me and I took the reins from the hitching rail at the water trough. Red turned to nudge my arm with his nose and I patted his neck.

I’m liking him more all the time.

As soon as we entered the barn, Red snorted and raised his head and tail at the same time. I knew what this meant. They have a mare that’s horsing.

“You need to step back out of the way, Darla. Red smells a hot mare and he’s still sort of wild yet.”

“Then it must be the young filly I was telling you about. She’s the only mare we have.”

“We might not ought to leave Red in the barn with her, then. He would kick this place into kindling wood to get at her, if she’s in here too.”

“She’s just now coming four years. Is she old enough to breed?”

“She’s old enough alright. Let me get Red settled in a stall and we’ll go see about her. If she’s a small mare, you might not want Red to breed her.”

“She’s tall and healthy. I’d like for you to let Red breed her if you would. She’d sure throw a good colt by him, the way he’s built.”

I didn’t know a hell of a lot about breeding horses, but I had watched enough of it back there at the stables. I had a pretty good idea what needed to be checked about the mare and what needed to be prepared on the mare and the stud.

“Now that sure is a really fine looking young sorrel mare you have, Darla. She and Red should throw you a colt that’s strong in his colors and may even come out with her yellow mane. Perhaps you should step back inside the house while I check her out.”

“Nonsense. Mother and I run this farm alone. We breed half our cows to the neighbor’s bull every year. I’ve helped pull calves from springing heifers and old cows alike, until I can do it by myself. Unless you’re too shy to check my mare with me here in the barn, I’ll stand and watch.”

“I just didn’t want to offend you is all.”

She sure did get upset in a hurry.

“Here comes Mother now. She can tell you if the mare is ready to breed. You won’t have to bother, since you’re too shy to check her with me watching.”

“Darla, I didn’t mean to offend you. I’ve never been around girls and I was just trying to show you some courtesy.”

“Mother, Joss was afraid that I’d be offended if he checked our mare in my presence. He told me that she’s ready to be bred and I’d like for him to let that big Red Roan of his breed her.”

“Darla – Joss was only trying to be a young gentleman with you. Stop being so fussy toward him...

“Joss, are you sure she’s horsing?”

“I’m pretty sure she is, Ma’am. Red was real sure about her too, as soon as we stepped inside the barn.”

“Do you have experience in breeding horses, Joss?”

“No Ma’am. Not personally anyway. But I’ve been there when many of them were bred. To make sure it’s done it right, we need to wash both of them before we turn them loose in the corral together.”

“If you’ll tend to your horse, I’ll show Darla how to tend the mare. That way, you won’t offend her,” she told me. I heard her and Darla laughing as I went to get two buckets of water.

Edited by Amigo

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