A Damyankee in the Wild West
Chapter 1

Caution: This Western Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Consensual, Historical, Western, Science Fiction, Time Travel, Violent,

Desc: Western Sex Story: Chapter 1 - This is an alternate reality. Jeff Culberson, a modern Massachusetts state trooper and his replicator, are somehow transported to west Texas of 1872 during the Indian War. He fights Comanches, weds his lady-love, spends some time as a town marshal and as a bounty hunter. He does a lot of good to make Texas a better place to live, including starting the first Normal school for women. 11 chapters.

Author’s note:[ and ] delineate mind-to-mind dialog.

I was from a small New England city, Leominster, Massachusetts, and was taking a vacation from my job as a state trooper. I had always wanted to visit Texas and some of the places well known from the Indian Wars of the 1870s. The country had finally calmed down from the sudden arrival of the replicators that had made all non-service jobs obsolete, so I had been able to take my accumulated vacation time in one lump.

I had teleported to Dallas and had my replicator produce a convertible car for me to drive west toward El Paso. I had a map with all of the interesting places of the war with the Comanches marked, and I planned to visit every one that I had time for. I had been on the road about a week and was well into Comancheria, the area claimed by the Comanches before they were finally pushed to the reservation.

I had spent the night in a motel in Dry Wells, a place aptly named. There were a couple of sites close by, so I headed out to visit the first one right after breakfast. The place I was looking for was just a wide spot in the trail back in 1872, and did not exist in 2116. All that was left were some hills leading to a cliff where a small detail of Army soldiers was attacked by an overwhelming band of Comanches.

I parked my car about 150 yards away from the spot I wanted to see because it was impossible to drive any closer. I was not bothered by the heat or the bright sun because I was wearing my body armor supplied by my replicator. As usual, when I was off duty, I wore nothing over the body armor because I could have it range anywhere from opaque to fully transparent, and it automatically blocked penetration by anything but air, food, and water.

I was wearing my replicator in a fanny-pack, so I had no worry about running out of food or water, or anything else I might want to drink. My body armor was set for opaque out of modesty just in case I happened to meet some other humans, and I did not want to embarrass them.

Anyway, I found the deep arroyo that had been so important in the defense put up by the soldiers, and I walked to the rim. I don’t understand exactly how it happened, but my foot slipped, and I wound up falling head first about 18 feet to the bottom of the arroyo. I was knocked out, probably from a mild concussion, but my body armor protected me from any other injury.

When I came to, I could hear gunfire and a lot of yelling and screaming coming from up at normal ground level. Shit, what was that all about? Had I stumbled into a movie scene?

I managed to climb out of the arroyo on the side near the cliff, but that was purely accidental. When I stuck my head up far enough to see, I was so surprised that I nearly fell back to the bottom of the arroyo. What I saw was seven soldiers with their backs to the cliff and shooting at a bunch of Indians who were shooting guns and arrows at them.

I immediately knew that something was wrong, both because I had been the only person around only minutes earlier, and because those arrows looked dangerous with their sharp points. Just at that moment, one of the soldiers was hit in the shoulder by an arrow, and I could see it penetrate. There was no question that this was a real fight!

I could see that the soldiers were using Henry rifles, and about half of the Indians were using Spencer rifles. The rest of the Indians were using bows and arrows. Those Spencer rifles had probably been gathered from former battlefields and were really worn out, mostly from lack of proper maintenance.

Well, it didn’t take me long to decide what to do. [Replicator, I need my shotgun and plenty of ammunition. Please notch the ammunition for buck and ball. Also, I need my target grade .45 with hollowpoint bullets.] In an instant, my .45 was in its holster at my waist, and I was holding my shotgun in my left hand.

Since I was wearing my body armor, I had no fear of the Indian bullets or arrows. In a show of foolish bravado, I sat on the lip of the arroyo and began firing my shotgun at the Comanches. Well, actually, I shot at their horses. I knew from my research that killing humans would only incense the Comanches’ desire to win the battle, but they might retire if they began to lose their horses. After all, it was every brave’s desire to be killed in honorable battle, but it was stupid to endanger a valuable horse.

The buck and ball resulted in a “ball” of buckshot, usually six pellets, striking the target. At that point, the wrapping was destroyed and the buckshot flew off in random directions as if that many .31 caliber pistols had been fired at the same time. I figured that nothing short of an elephant could withstand that kind of hit.

Meanwhile, the three pellets not a part of the ball spread out just like a regular shotgun load and stood a good chance of wounding a Comanche. Eventually such a wound would be fatal because the Comanches had no medical service. He would probably die in one to three weeks of an agonizing case of gangrene.

I yelled to the soldiers, “SHOOT AT THE HORSES, NOT AT THE MEN!” The soldiers started doing that, and the Comanches became less enthusiastic about attacking when a significant number of horses were killed. I don’t know how many horses I killed, but it was at least seven, and I noticed that the Comanches stayed as far away from me as they could manage during the rest of the fight.

Eventually, the Comanches got tired of losing horses and abandoned the fight. When we saw that they were no longer shooting at us but concentrating on picking up their dead and wounded, we let them do that without being shot at. That took nearly an hour to accomplish, but the battle was over by noon.

The surviving soldiers consisted of a corporal and six privates. I talked to them and was thanked for assisting them in the fight. I gave my name, but I knew that I would be mentioned in the action report only as a civilian who had a repeating shotgun. That was alright with me, mostly because I had no idea how to explain how I had gotten where I was.

I left the soldiers and walked back toward where I had left my car. I found what I expected—nothing! There was no car and no tire tracks. Hell, I had to face the fact that I had somehow been transported back to 1872 Texas in the midst of an Indian war.

I had no idea of how I got here and certainly no idea of how to return to my own time. For practical purposes, I was stuck in the Wild West and had to make my place in that time. As long as I had my replicator, I was in reasonably good shape. The replicator could provide sustenance and shelter, so that was no problem. It could even provide money, especially in the preferred form of gold and silver coins and bars.

Come to think of it. [Replicator, please supply me with about $15 worth of various coins, ranging from pennies to an eagle ($10).]

I sat on a convenient rock and thought about my situation. I had to assume that I was stuck here, so what was I going to do to avoid dying of boredom? For as long as I could remember, I had wanted to be a lawman. In my former life, I had satisfied that ambition by becoming a Mass. State Trooper. There was no equivalent job at this time, so I needed to make a job for myself.

It seemed to me that I could assume the guise of a bounty hunter, and I would get as close to what I wanted as was possible. Becoming a town marshal would mean that I did very little beyond rousting drunks. Becoming a US deputy marshal would depend on some political clout that I did not have. Becoming a Texas ranger might do what I wanted, but I really needed more information before I committed to that. Therefore, all I was really left with was becoming a bounty hunter. One big advantage of that was that I could quit at any time.

[Replicator, I know that you cannot create a living being, but I need a robot that looks like a mule. That should attract Comanches like flies to honey. Furthermore, I would like a vehicle pulled by the robot mule that looks like a covered wagon, but really is the nearest thing possible to an up-time RV (Recreational Vehicle). I want a bed, a toilet, and a shower.

As for weapons, I want a slam-fire 10-gauge shotgun that is fed by a box magazine. I think a 22-inch barrel would be appropriate. Oh, the shotgun should have a sling so that I can carry it on my back. I would like a Bowie knife with a 9-inch blade and a stiletto of the same size. For pistols, I would like a pair of Glock 21 Gen4 pistols with crossdraw holsters.

The weapons were available immediately, but I was told that the RV would take an hour and the robot mule would take 14 hours. [Okay, start immediately on the RV so that I can have it to sleep in tonight and start the robot mule as soon as you finish the RV.]

The replicator supplied me with a light lunch, and I spent most of the afternoon practicing with my new weapons. I was an excellent marksman with the pistols, so much so that I had been thinking of trying out for the next Olympics. I did not need any practice with the shotgun except to get the feel of moving from a 12-gauge shotgun to a 10-gauge. This shotgun was just a shade heavier than the one I was used to.

The pistols were familiar, so I mainly practiced with my left hand to bring it up to its old standard. I also practiced a fast draw, not because I expected many duels, but one never knew what sort of things the future might hold. I got tired of shooting after a while, so I climbed into the RV for a nap until supper. Before going to sleep, I had the replicator put a protective shield around the RV just in case some unfriendly people showed up.

I slept so well that I was late waking up for supper. I had beef wellington with an excellent red wine and followed that with a baked Alaska. Oh, Man, a replicator sure makes “camping out” a real pleasure.

The next morning after breakfast, I hitched the robot mule to the RV. There was nothing to do to learn to drive because the robot was controlled by an artificial intelligence that was linked to me through the replicator. If I wanted to let the robot handle everything, all I had to do was to command it to follow the road. Otherwise, I could specifically order it to go left or right, to speed up or slow down, or to stop. The AI would insure that the illusion of a live mule was maintained by having the robot flick its tail or snort or some of the other things that mules do. It would even shit or piss as appropriate.

The next town had a courthouse, so I picked up a set of wanted posters. I acted the part of a novice bounty hunter and actually got some good advice. I went to the nearest saloon when I left the courthouse to practice talking to the bartender.

I had instructed the replicator to make sure that anything alcoholic that I drank was safe, had no unpleasant taste, and had the alcohol bypass my digestive system and go directly to my bladder. I had no intention of letting somebody shoot or stab me because I was even slightly inebriated.

I bought a beer, and, in my ignorance, I told the bartender that I was a novice bounty hunter and was hoping that he could steer me to my first capture. The bartender advised me not to reveal that I was a bounty hunter. Okay, I would remember that. He also said that he did not know of anybody nearby who was on a wanted poster. He ran out of advice about the time I finished the beer, and I moved on to the next saloon.

I had a pleasant conversation with the bartender, but then I ran into trouble. The man next to me said, “You must be a damyankee from the way you talk. I hate damyankees! Draw or I will shoot you where you stand.”

We were so close that I easily reached the drunk with my knee in his crotch. I really did not want to kill him, so that seemed like the best way to handle the situation. He jumped back with the pain, and I lightly tapped him on the side of his head with my right forearm. My body armor hardened upon contact, and he was knocked cold.

The bartender looked at me and asked, “How in the hell did you manage that?”

“Oh, that was a trick I learned as a bouncer in a whore house in Dallas. It always has been very effective in controlling drunks.”

“Okay, I can see that.” The bartender then directed the swamper to pull the unconscious customer to the side of the room and to prop him in a chair. I nodded to the bartender and left.

The third saloon was also a waste of effort, but I really didn’t expect much. I headed out of town and began looking for a place to spend the night. I figured that I had to allow plenty of time for that until I became more familiar with the territory.

I found a place that looked promising and pulled over. To keep up appearances, I unhitched the mule and tethered it to the back of the wagon. The mule was my alarm device if anybody or any animal tried to sneak up on me during the night. Mules had a reputation of being excellent “watch dogs,” and I was making use of that idea.

Nothing happened that night, and I slept well. The replicator supplied an excellent breakfast, and I had an extra cup of coffee. Naturally, I used cream and sugar, never thinking that was kind of a reverse anachronism. Any self respecting Texan drank his coffee black. I wondered if I was going to be forced into that.

That day was uneventful until mid-afternoon. The mule was moving us along at about 4 MPH (Miles per Hour) and I was kind of lazing in the driver’s seat. There was another place along here where a skirmish with the Comanches had taken place, and I was hoping to get there in time to make a useful contribution to the affair.

As usual, I was caught by surprise when three men suddenly appeared from the bushes and rode toward me with their pistols drawn. One of them said, “Stop where you are!” I did and waited for the next order. Of course, I was relying on my body armor and did not expect any problems with a gunfight.

“What the hell is going on? Why are you pointing your guns at me?”

“By God, you are dumb! This is a robbery. Give us all of your money. Tom, take a look inside the wagon to see if there is anything in there that we want.”

“Hold it right there! If you surrender right this minute, I will not kill you. This is your only warning.”

The spokesman laughed and shot me in the belly. Of course, the body armor acted to stop the bullet, but I did feel the impact with a little bit of discomfort. However, I was really pissed off, so I drew my left-side pistol with my right hand and shot all three of the bandits. I did pick up two more bullet holes in my shirt, but nothing that the replicator couldn’t fix.

The .45 caliber hollowpoint slug must have done a wonderful job of tearing up the bandits’ insides. The interesting thing was that none of the men fell from the saddle. That just made things easier for me. I used some rope to tie their feet together under the horses and to tie their hands to the saddle horn. I figured that was enough to keep them on the horses until I reached a marshal.

I checked and all three were on wanted posters to the tune of $45 total. That was a lot of money at this time because it would be paid in gold and not in paper money. I also collected close to $100 from their pockets and moneybelts. By the time I sold their horses and other stuff, I would have collected a good three-months wages for the average working man. Maybe I wouldn’t need money from the replicator.

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