Chapter 1

Caution: This Time Travel Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, mt/ft, Ma/ft, Consensual, Drunk/Drugged, Heterosexual, School, Western, Science Fiction, Aliens, Time Travel, non-anthro, First, Oral Sex,

Desc: Time Travel Sex Story: Chapter 1 - Oh Well. Shit happens.

I loaded the last tipi pole and laced the 21 poles together. The ladder rack I had built for the Dodge last winter worked as advertised. I had spent the past few weeks swapping the frame and running gear from the D-200 short narrow 4x4 pickup over to the 1964 Dodge Town Wagon. If you don’t know the Town Wagon think Suburban ... only Dodge. The Town Wagon was an SUV before there were SUV’s. Picture three row seating and plenty wide to seat three abreast. Nine passenger I called it. The D-200 wasn’t built in the short box until 1966 but the frame bolted under the Town Wagon body with nary a hitch. Eventually, there was a 340 under the hood.

We moved from Tyler, Texas to Sheridan, Wyoming the spring of 1976. There was a lot of really boring circumstances involved and this narrative is going to be complicated enough without going into that ... except on the fringes. Up until a couple of weeks before the move, I owned a 1960 Ford pickup ... with a Dodge 318 and automatic transmission in it.

Through no fault of my own ... really ... I was t-boned heading home from work.

“Officer,” he said. “I’ve been driving this road for thirty years and never had to stop for that light. Everyone knows I don’t stop ... you should give that boy a ticket for getting in my way.”

Really. He said that ... really. Honest.

I wasn’t hurt ... not even when he tried to leave the scene and left the passenger side door and both pickup fenders laying in the street. He snagged the rear bumper ... all that kept him from getting away.

The move was already set ... I was supposed to haul a big flatbed trailer to Casper. Bought and paid for ... and no pickup.

We were both insured by the same company so I footed it to the office and they paid.

I took the money and called my favorite junkyard. They had a Chevy long wide with a blowup six ... and a 1965 Chevrolet L-79, which was nothing more than an L-76 (11.0:1 forged pop-up pistons, forged steel rods and crank, 2.02 Corvette heads), but with the 30-30 Duntov cam replaced by the #151 hydraulic cam. A little of this and a little of that, a couple of cuts and several bruises and two hours later the pickup had a V-8.

I did mention this was Spring ... Texas Spring starts a whole hell of a lot earlier than Wyoming Spring.

We left Tyler in shorts and tee shirts and approached Sheridan in snowsuits. Feet ... not inches ... of snow and still snowing.

I went to work Monday and suddenly realized that in Wyoming, neighbors is anybody within a hundred and fifty miles. Driving to the job with Gene, brother-in-law, is pretty boring. He insisted on driving.

This all started because I bought a brass framed .36 caliber Italian replica 1849 Colt revolver kit at K-Mart for 29 bucks. If I hadn’t bought that damn revolver none of this would have happened. I finished it up real pretty and sold it to my brother-in-law for a hundred.

Well, that was stupid.

So I bought another kit at the new Wal-Mart for 39 bucks ... steel frame this time. It came out good and I sold it to my next door neighbor for two hundred ... more than a factory job cost.

Casting around for something to do on the way to the job, I spotted a Santa Fe Hawken .53 caliber rifle kit by Uberti at an actual gun-store. I didn’t know what a Hawken rifle was, but the picture of the finished article looked cool. I dickered and got it for 169 bucks out the door. (I could have gotten it for 129 through the mail ... including shipping.) Once I got the curly burly Sycamore Maple stock finished with Rit dye and several coats of boiled linseed oil and the metal work urine browned it was pretty damn spectacular! Some damn fool offered me a thousand bucks for it ... Yup.

You bet I sold it.

So, by this time, a customer had loaned me The Indian Tipi by Gladys and Reginald Laubin. It was a first edition paperback.

I needed a new tent ... because another brother-in-law had tossed a butt out the window of my Chevy pickup and burned six holes through my old tent.

Well I read the book ... and just had to have a tipi. While I was deciding ... I bought a tipi pole cut permit from the office of the Bighorn National Forest. Actually, I went to buy a pole lease but they talked me out of that and into the lease I got. Which was a good thing ... I didn’t need a thousand poles.

Sheridan Wyoming had a radio station that put on a program called Tradio where a seeker could look for items and a seller could sell something. I called looking for a drawknife. More results than I wanted ... so I drove to town to look at what the most expensive and the cheapest responders had. The cheap one was a German antique and far better than the expensive China made. The guy with the good one had several and I couldn’t make up my mind so he sold me all of them for half the price of Mr. China. Now ... and this is important ... in his back yard he had a Forest Service Dodge Town Wagon that was flat from the windshield back; the result of a falling tree. He had bought it for the motor and transmission. The front clip was perfect.

Now, the Dodge was my own fault.

I bought my wife a last year production Jeep station wagon. Four wheel drive with the Tornado overhead cam six. She loved it.

I wanted a larger four by four ... because she wouldn’t let me drive her jeep ... so I bought two Dodges ... a town wagon and a short wide 4x4 pickup. I made the swap and went to the courthouse to register it.



“No title, no registration.”

“I have the title for the pickup.”

“You’re not registering a pickup. You’re trying to register a Van. You need the title for the body.”

“Well, shit!”

The fella I bought the drawknives from? The Dodge in his backyard? He gave it to me. So ... I had a 1963 title to a 1964 Town Wagon and a title to a 1973 Dodge pickup ... the clerk took a look...

“I see you got smart. Here’s your plate.” Then she said, “What did you do with the frame to the van?”

“Took it to the landfill.”

“The operator took it home ... it’s now a pickup so I’ll just keep the title for the frame.”


“So my husband will get it out of my garage.”

I peeled the tipi poles with the German drawknife and stacked them in the crotch of the cottonwood tree in the front yard.

Cora Jo, the wife, said, “Decided on the tipi?” She acted pissed. I know better than to make a decision before discussing it with her.

“Umh, sorta.”

She got all squinty eyed, “Those poles ain’t a sorta, buddy. Them is a positive. Order it yet?”

“No,” I said. Would she let me?

“Me and the rug rats want an eighteen footer.” She grinned. “Had ya worried didn’t I.”

“You coulda said,” I said.

“Just did.” She got a good chuckle out of that.

And that settled that.

The Japanese war bride that sewed the tipi together made a good one.

While she was doing that I was cutting and peeling pegs and lacing pins. The pegs were to fasten the tipi skirt to the ground and the pins held the sides together at the front. (If you’re confused, look at tipis online.)

The bank along the stream behind the house, Wolf Creek, was a tangle of chokecherry bushes. Chokecherry makes really good pegs and pins. It’s a hardwood ... even if it is awfully small.

The lodge took awhile, the builder was making a speedboat cover and a couple of awnings.

The sign in the gunshop window said:
Buffalo Skinners Presents
The Third Western International Black Powder Shoot
Three Days
Paradise Guest Ranch


From the kitchen where she was baking eight loaves of bread, “Jesus, Hairy. You made me pee my pants,” she said. “What?”

And it was true ... there was a tiny wet spot on her shorts.

“Big black powder shoot Friday week ... Friday, Saturday and Sunday. Wanna go?”

“Is my gun finished?”


“That’s a no,” she said. “Better get your ass in gear, boy.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“Call and see if the lodge is finished.”

So ... I picked up the phone and no dial tone ... but I could hear breathing.





At the same time as she said, “You tipi is leady,” I asked, “Is my tipi done?”

“Yes. Come get it.”



“Damn it, Hairy,” she shrieked. “Don’t do that. What?”

“Tipi’s ready. Wanna go to town?”

We lived 13 miles from the nearest town with an actual store ... of course she wanted to go ... and the kids, too.

“Gimmie a minute, I’ll cover the dough pans,” she said, “Collect the kids.”

Wolf Creek Road barely answers to the name Road. In a state where off the beaten path pavement of any kind is rare, Wolf Creek is paved to the Water Treatment Plant and it’s ruts the rest of the way. I have driven from our house to the treatment plant in fifteen minutes ... but ... I was alone when I did it.

When I bought the Town Wagon it came with the wheels and tires on it and an extra set in the back. I’m pretty sure that the tires in the back were supposed to be on it... 37x12.5 12 ply on 16.5 snap rings. The tires that were on it were 235xR60 6 ply on 16 inch white spokes. The 37’s were at least 10 years old and still had 3/4’s of an inch tread. The 235’s were nearly new and looked like shit.

The town excursion always finished up with a trip to the Cowboy Store ... we only looked.

This time we had one more stop. Sherwin Williams for paint. There I bought quarts of pigment (the paint colors used to mix with base paint) Red, Blue, Yellow and Black.

Osako’s Canvas is on the way to town. The tipi was in a box with the liner and door, a coil of hemp rope and some cotton clothesline.

Back at the ranch, it’s true ... we lived at a ranch, I stole my son’s marbles and fastened tie ropes around the bottom. The book gives exact instructions on how to paint the cover and have the stripes or blocks parallel to the ground. Stretching the canvas with the tie downs and lifting pole straps we laid the canvas out on the yard.

Then we soaked the cover with water and started laying out the sections that were going to be painted. Blue top with four circles on the flaps ... the four seasons and blue sky. A red stripe underneath the blue and down both sides of the front and a black outlined yellow sun centered on the back. A black stripe around the bottom completed it.

Oh ... five red hand prints ... for the family.

While the paint was dry practically on application we gave it another couple of hours.

Mmmmm, hot bread with real butter! Mmmmm!

“Paint’s dry!”

“Damnitall, Hairy!”

“Come help me put it up.”


“Women’s work.”


“You’re lucky I’m helping.”

“You think?”

“Says so in the book.”

She knocked out the bread pans, wiped her hands on her apron and followed me out the door.


She came out of the joke of a barn. “Yes?”

Her brother followed.

“Come read the instructions.”

She stuck her tongue out at her brother.

“Why does she get to do it?” Dave was older.

“Who got the D in reading?”

“I read just fine.”

“But Becky applies herself...”

“And I don’t.”


So ... while Beck read how it’s supposed to be done ... Cora and I erected the tipi. We got a lot of No and I said from Beck but it was finally done. It looked great! As much as I hate to say it ... it never looked that good again.

The door was dead east, the cover wrinkle free, the lining had no sags and the small fire was drawing the smoke up and out the smoke hole.

I looked at Cora ... she looked at me.

“Wanna sleep in it, tonight?”

The way we’d said that, one would think we were twins.

The season was either late winter or very early spring ... in northern Wyoming there isn’t much difference. The odds of snow any day of the year are fifty fifty ... because, over the past one hundred years of recorded weather history it has snowed at least once every day of the year.

The odds of rain were much better ... about seventy thirty ... in favor of rain. All this was running through our minds as we were gathering ground cloths, a foam mattress, bedding and firewood.

“Hey, kids.”

They were looking around the inside and wondering where they were sleeping. The three of them looked upset.

“Inside ... you’re sleeping in the house ... don’t look like that ... you’ll get your turn,” I said.

Cora said, “Listen. if the phone rings we’re not at home.”

“Yeah,” I said. “We’re out.”

And it was true ... we were out ... in the yard ... but ... out.

No interruptions ... no nosy friends just dropping by, no pastor looking for a fishing buddy. We were out.

In the morning, with the sun peeping over the east hills, coffee cup in hand, sipping coffee from the pot on the fire, Cora stretched luxuriously and said, “Wanna do it again?”

Breast feeding three kids hadn’t disturbed her shape. She still had the body of the eighteen year old I married in 1966. No stretch marks, no sag, no worry lines marred her familiar face ... to me she was as beautiful this centennial year as she was the day I saw her wiggle across the street in front of the hay truck we were using as a bandstand.

I married a winner.

“You bet.”

About seven in the morning the kids boiled out of the house dressed, fed, and ready for school.

“You guys were loud last night,” Beck said.

Dave said, “Yeah.”

Chuck, the youngest said, “Did the coyotes keep you awake last night? They were howling something awful.”

“Go to school. The bus will be here soon.”

Cora began her day. I went to the garage and started sanding on her highly modified Mountain Rifle.

The Friday of the Buffalo Rendezvous I finished the job at noon and headed for home. The tipi was loaded, our applewood firewood was the last thing in the back. The kids were excited. We headed out an adventure.

Cora won the aggregate woman’s event.

I was second place in the iron shoot. Twelve hits out of thirteen shots. It rained every night and we slept dry.

“Your wife calls you Harry but your name is David.”

I took off my shirt. “Hairy ... H.A.I.R.Y.”

“I see. Hairy it is.”

By the time we left I was Hairy Medicine Wolf, Cora was Jo, David IV was Four, Becky was Button and Charles was Chuck.

For the rest of the spring and summer we took the tipi down on Friday, loaded it on the Dodge, drove to whoever was having a shoot, set up the lodge, frolicked, took it down Sunday afternoon, drove home, set the tipi up in the yard and went to bed. Monday mornings the kids went to school, Cora loaded up in her 1957 Jeep wagon and went to town to do her thing. I went to work applying steel siding.

Until the Riverton Shoot.

I didn’t even ask her if she wanted to go.

I loaded the lodge and accruements. The food box Cora packed was heavy. I said Good Bye and headed out.

I had no idea.

Wolf Creek to Sheridan, US87 south to Buffalo. West on US16 to Ten Sleep and on to Worland. At Worland I picked up US20 to Thermopolis. With the Wind River Canyon on my right I headed to Shoshoni and picked up US26. 26 took me to Riverton.

Follow the signs. So WY135 south. (Today, 135 is paved ... then it was an improved road ... gravel.) Left on Riverton Oil Field and left again at the sign. This road had no name and it was definitely unimproved. Follow the signs. STOP ... TURN RIGHT. Three or so tipis, several Bakers and a few pop tents, a couple of Tin Teepees and some snores from toppers.

I had left home at noon ... now the moon was up and full. In those days I could set up, by myself, in twenty minutes ... in the dark. With the moon I was quicker. I went to bed.

“Where did the painted lodge come from?”

“God, that’s a beautiful set.”

“I knew we were doing something wrong.”

Someone scratched on the cover. “Coffee’s on. Bacon’s frying. How do you like your eggs?”

“I’m up.” Woke me up, they did. “Over easy.”

“You’ll get ‘em scrambled ... and like it.” A woman’s voice ... young sounding.

I stepped out. Dyers mocs, fringed buckskin leggings, breech clout, fringed buckskin shirt, hawk and knife in beaded belt, scrimshawed powder horn, fox faced leather possibles bag over one shoulder, strap across my chest, tin cup dangling from one thong, hand built full stock .53 caliber flintlock Hawken in one hand and a maple wood plate in the other.

“Holy Shit! He’s authentic,” said the 17 year old girl who told me how I liked my eggs.

And I was. Nothing about me or my lodge was newer than 1823 ... replicas to be sure but there was nothing post 1823 ... the end of the fur trade era in the Great Plains.

I weighed 166 pounds, had a 48 inch chest and 19 inch neck. Thirty inch waist. I couldn’t put my arms to my sides ... they were too big. I looked like I’d been trapping, farming, smithing all my life. And STRONG.

I was purdy and I knew it.

This was a whole new crowd. I’d never met any of them. These were the small shoot ‘skinners. You might see them at the Rock Springs Mountain Man run or the Green River Commemorative, but never at the Sheridan Paper Shoot. No paper targets for these guys.

Breakfast was great and I told her so.

“Can I see the inside of your lodge?

“Mom! He’s got an Autumn Killed Buffalo robe ... and it’s SOFT.”

So ... in nothing flat I had a lodge full of women and girls rolling on my bed enjoying the feel of wooly buffalo hair on naked butts and thighs. Burgeoning and burgeoned breasts and tantalized nipples sliding over the hair. Dripping ... well ... you know.

Not that I was getting to look ... NO! I got sent out to shoot with the men while the women played.

When it was my turn to show off my lodge, the first thing that was said was, “Place smells like my wife’s pussy.”

And from outside, a female voice shouted, “You’re getting a buffalo robe blanket tomorrow! And no pussy until you do!”

I think I like these people.

I won a red Hudson Bay point blanket for first place in the Run and Shoot.

All too soon it was Sunday and the lodge went back in the truck.

“Can I ride with you?” said the seventeen year old.

“What did your mother say?”

“She told me to ask.”

“Ten Sleep?”


I nodded.


Honest ... all we did was talk ... honest. Cross my heart and hope to die ... honest.

From Ten Sleep to Meadowlark Lake was fine. The moon was up, I could have driven without my lights. Then it started to snow ... a lot.

I missed a turn...

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