Chapter 1

Caution: This Time Travel Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Fa/Fa, Mult, Romantic, BiSexual, Historical, Harem, .

Desc: Time Travel Sex Story: Chapter 1 - Tyler McGuinn was a washed up rodeo bull rider when he boarded a plane in Phoenix one day in 1977. The next thing he knew, he was a no account cowboy on a cattle drive headed for El Paso in 1877. To make matters worse, he was the cowboy destined to die by the back door of Rosa's Cantina. Fate had dealt Ty an ugly hand...or maybe not.



"From thirty thousand feet above
The desert floor, I see it there below
A city with a legend -
The west Texas city of El Paso
Where long ago I heard a song
About a Texas cowboy and a girl
And a little place called Rosa's
Where he used to go and watch this beauty whirl."

El Paso City, Written and Performed by Marty Robbins

It was a weird feeling, listening to a song that described you and the situation you were in perfectly. It was sort of bizarro déjà vu. I was flying from Phoenix to El Paso, and through the headset plugged into the armrest of my cramped seat, so was the hero of Marty Robbins' ballad. Yep, and I felt like the guy in the song, too; an out of place cowboy trapped in the twentieth century. Well, a half-assed cowboy, anyway. In actuality, I was a washed up bull rider in his late thirties, working as a rodeo clown on the professional rodeo circuit.

Now before you laugh, a rodeo clown is closer to a bullfighter than he is to a circus clown. See, us clowns have the responsibility of distracting the bull away from a rider after he finishes his ride or is thrown off the bull. Yanking on the tail of a twelve hundred pound, pissed off bull to make him chase you is not a job for sissies.

During the off season for the rodeo circuit, I am ashamed to admit that I am an actor in one of those desert ghost town tourist traps that pretends to show how life was in the wild west. I played a character named Black Bart, a mean and nasty gunfighter and card shark. I also do fast draw and trick shooting exhibitions dressed up as if I were Roy Rogers. It isn't something I'm real proud of, but it puts bacon and beans on the table for six months of the year. I was heading back from my gig as a gunslinger on the day I heard the song on the airplane.

The recorded tape had just segued into the song "Feleena" when the 727 shuddered and rolled to one side. I snatched the earphones off in alarm, and looked back towards the flight attendant, when a gaping hole opened in the fuselage by the rear exit door and the stewardess was sucked out of the plane. The emergency oxygen masks fell down from the ceiling when the cabin depressurized, and people were screaming and clutching for them as the plane nosed over into a steep dive. I instinctively reached for a mask, then forced myself to sit back. I hoped that I had enough time to pass out from oxygen deprivation before the plane augured into the desert. It would be a fitting crappy ending to an equally crappy life.

That was my last thought before I woke up. When I woke up, I hurt all over, but that made sense, didn't it, after all, I had just been in a plane crash. As I swam toward consciousness, I took a little mental inventory. Yep, I was still Tyler McGuinn. The trouble was that I was the wrong Tyler McGuinn. When my eyes finally opened, I knew where I was, hell, I even knew what day it was. What I didn't know, was how I got to where I now found myself. How did I end up in the back of a chuck wagon in the middle of a cattle drive in 1877, when I'd left Phoenix in 1977? Not to mention, if I was in my great-great-uncle's body, where was he?

As I was musing, the flap to the chuck wagon flung open and Jose Orosco, the trail cook, poked his head inside. I tried to say something, but all that came out was a croaking noise. Jose jerked his head back in surprise, then peered cautiously at me. I pointed towards my mouth. He nodded in understanding, and ducked back out of the wagon. When he reappeared a few seconds later, he handed me a dipper full of lukewarm water. I grabbed the dipper with shaking hands and gulped it down. I have never had anything that tasted as good as that tepid water did right then. When I handed the dipper back to him with a 'gracious amigo', he gave me a strange look.

"So you did not die after all, Señor Ty," he said in heavily accented English.

I coughed out a laugh. "Only the good die young, Pepe," I said in Spanish.

Jose didn't laugh at my joke; instead he gave me an appraising look.

"Then I think you will live a long time," he finally answered.

Before I could zing in another pithy comment, Jose spoke again.

"I did not know you spoke Spanish, Señor Ty."

Oops, I guess good old Uncle Ty didn't speak the language of my grandmother.

I managed a shrug and switched back to English, "I've been learning on my own to impress the señoritas in El Paso. What happened to me anyway, I don't remember anything?"

"A large rattlesnake spooked your horse. The horse threw you to the ground near the snake, your head hit a rock and the snake bit you on the arm. You are lucky to be alive, hombre."

I smile wanly; old Jose didn't know the half of it. I fell back on the pallet someone had made for me to die on, and tried to wrap my head around what was happening. My ancestor was nowhere to be found, but surprisingly his memories were available to me. Some of his memories popped up unbidden, that's how I knew where I was and who Jose was. Other things I had to dig for. Maneuvering around in my new brain required effort, but as I searched the nooks and crannies, I learned the lay of the land and it became easier.

As I said earlier, my uncle's name was also Tyler McGuinn, but he called himself Ty Ringo. Ringo was his middle name and his mother's maiden name. Tyler's mother was the sister of Johnny Ringo, a member of the Clanton Gang of Arizona. Wyatt Earp and Doc Holiday eventually shot down Johnny Ringo at the OK Corral in Tombstone, Arizona. Uncle Ty thought it made him seem a badder ass being a Ringo instead of a McGuinn. That was going to change. It was hard for me to believe that Tyler Ringo McGuinn had been such a slime bucket. Hell, he was only twenty.

There was no denying he was, though, because the evidence was right there in his recently abandoned memories. I took a good look around, even though I cringed at what I found. Among other things, I found out my uncle had been a rapist and a bully. He wasn't a coward, but that hadn't stopped him from shooting two men in the back over perceived insults or slights. He'd had a huge ego and absolutely no morals. So much for my romantic notions of my ancestors, I thought, as sleep snuck up on me.

Next time I woke up it was dark. It must have been early evening, however, because I could hear voices outside the wagon. More importantly, I could smell food and I was as hungry as a springtime bear. I was also as weak as a kitten, but I still managed to drag myself out of the chuck wagon. Leaning against the side of the wagon, I unhooked the dipper from the barrel and drank it empty twice. The water made me feel better, so I staggered over to the cook fire.

Four cowboys were sitting around the fire watching me, as Jose ladled out plates of some sort of delicious smelling stew. It was telling that none of those men offered me a hand. Once I'd managed to lower myself onto the ground, someone finally spoke to me.

"It's about damned time you got off your lazy ass, Ty, we are already shorthanded without you laying around faking sick."

The speaker was Josh Bemis, the owner of the cows we were driving. Bemis was a pretty good man, all things considered, but he was a skinflint of the first order. We were short handed because he was too cheap to hire any more drovers.

"Let me get a belly full of that stew and a good nights sleep, and I'll give it hell tomorrow, Boss."

Bemis gave me an odd look. I was getting a lot of that lately, first from Jose, now Bemis. The trailboss nodded his head.

"Good man," he said curtly.

The other cowboys were looking at me now, too. According to Uncle Ty's memories, that was the first time in two years that Bemis had applied that appellation to him. Well, they'd get more chances to gawk, because there was a new sheriff policing Tyler Ringo McGuinn town.

Jose Orosco had picked a campsite in a stand of cottonwoods along side a small creek. From Uncle Ty's memories, I plucked the knowledge that we were about a hundred miles north of El Paso. I wracked my brains trying to figure if I'd ever been hunting out this way in my other life. I was familiar with the general area, but couldn't recall a creek anywhere near here. I shrugged and put that minor worry aside, when Jose handed me a big bowl of stew with a couple of corn fritters lying on the top.

I don't know if it was from not eating for a few days, but I swear, that stew was the best I'd ever thrown down my gullet. I tasted pinto beans, corn and plenty of spicy hot chilies in some sort of tomatoey sauce, but the meat was hard to identify. I didn't have the nerve to ask what it was either, as I sopped the last of it off the bottom of the bowl with the last bite of fritter. I looked hopefully at the pot as I watched the other boys chow down, hoping there'd be enough for seconds.


The following morning, I felt like a new man. Hell, come to think of it, I was a new man. But you get the idea, I felt great. I was a little weak, but a twenty-year-old, healthy man recovers much faster than the beat up body I occupied in the future. I was first in line with my sand scrubbed bowl for grits, fatback and fried green chilies. It was a meal that would have made my old doctor apoplectic, but it tasted out of this world to me.

After breakfast, I stayed and helped Jose break camp, as the others rode off to tighten up the herd so we could move out. Staying and helping Jose was one of my duties, because my ugly personality had assured me the equally ugly job of riding drag everyday. Riding drag on a cattle drive was the equivalent of being the guy at the circus parade who follows the elephants with a shovel and a pushcart full of elephant doo-doo. My job was basically to choke on dust while I kept cows in the back from straggling. If I kept this cowboy gig, I was going to change that real quick.

To be such a complete jerk, my great-great-uncle sure had a nice horse. She was a sorrel mare, and big for a quarter horse. I figured she must have had some mustang blood in her. Uncle Ty had cheated her out of a drunken vaquero in a crooked card game about a year ago. He hadn't thought much of the mare, probably because she was slow to heed his commands. I figured that had to be mostly because of language. Uncle Ty was too proud and lazy to learn Spanish, and the mare was too stubborn to learn English. I saddled her up and swung up onto her. When I lit in the saddle, she turned her head and looked at me with her big soulful brown eyes.

I knew, that she knew, that something very different and confusing was happening, because of the way I sat her. See, every person sits a horse differently, I'm one of those fellows they claim sits light in the saddle, evidently Uncle Ty wasn't. She became even more confused, when I clucked her into motion in Spanish, but she didn't hesitate but a second to do my bidding. Her name was Melosa, Spanish for sweet and gentle. She was all that and smart as a whip. By the time we'd reached our dusty position at the back of the herd, we were the best of friends. I soaked my bandana in water from my canteen and tied it around my face bandito style, then settled in for the day.

Being on a smart horse that did all the work if you left her to it, while staring at the northern ends of south bound cows, left a man plenty of time for his thoughts. And right about now I had me a bunch of them. Thoughts, I mean. One big thought I had was why wasn't I more freaked out about being dropped back into the nineteenth century. Well, that was a no brainer; the alternative was being a greasy spot on the desert somewhere near here, a hundred years in the future.

Being a science-fiction fan and having plenty of time to read in my lonely hotel rooms on the road, I knew most of the theories about time travel. You know what I mean, the alternate universe, the diverging time line, and the paradox in time... all that stuff. I knew that the big philosophical argument against traveling back to the past was the concept that your presence in the past changed the future. It could even lead to you not being born in the future. Well sorry for your luck Chuck, but the way I reckoned, as soon as my tired old cowboy butt plopped down in 1877, the changes, if there were going to be any, were already in motion. I couldn't be worried about something I had no control over.

The theory that had my full attention, was the one that said time was unchangeable, and events would happen in the past to insure the future you left stayed unchanged. I was really, really hoping that wasn't the case, because old Uncle Ty was scheduled to be shot down over some dance hall señorita in the not so distant future. Now that I was the aforementioned Uncle Ty, you can see as to how I didn't think that was such a great idea.

All that thinking about timelines and paradoxes was giving me a headache, so I looked for a diversion. I decided that I'd start with an inventory of Uncle Ty's possessions. The first thing I did was pull the thumb loop off the hammer of his sidearm, and draw it out of the holster. I was as impressed with his pistol as I was with his horse, even though it could have used a good cleaning. Uncle Ty's pistol was a Colt .45 caliber, Army Single Action, commonly called the 'Peacemaker'. Ty Ringo had beaten up and stolen the pistol from a want-to-be cowboy hailing from Bostontown.

I checked his rifle in its scabbard and found he had a very serviceable model 1873 lever-action Winchester .44-40. It too, suffered from neglect, but it was nothing fatal. I resolved to clean them both that night, and pick through his ammunition to cull out any suspect rounds.

I checked unc's saddlebags while I was at it. I knew from his memory that he had what he thought was a hefty bankroll in there. Unfortunately, Tyler Ringo McGuinn was completely uneducated when it came to arithmetic, and clueless about exchange rates and relative values of monies. I could add and subtract with the best of them (well, the best from the sixth grade down anyway) but I didn't even recognize half the coins, bank notes and script that he had in his leather poke. My best guess was that he had at least three hundred dollars, including five Double Eagle, twenty dollar gold coins. Old Ty did indeed have a nice bankroll, considering the times. Of course, most of the money was ill gotten, but that wasn't a problem for me.

We stopped along side the same meandering creek about two hours before sundown. I helped bunch up the herd for the night then headed for the chuck wagon. Melosa was a good horse and all that, but ten hours in the saddle eating trail dust was about my limit. I was also bone tired because of my weakened condition, and seriously in need of a bath, a good meal and a night's sleep. I drew some incredulous stares when I asked Jose for some of his lye soap, and headed for the creek shedding my clothes, but I didn't much care at that point. Oh jeez, the water felt fantastic; it was cool and clear because the cows were down stream from where Jose had pitched camp. As I splashed around whooping, two more of the hands jumped into the water in there long johns.

I will have to say that of the seven hands on the cattle drive, Ty McGuinn was the best dressed. His butternut wool pants had fewer patches, his chaps and boots were newer and of better quality, and his black, low crowned, John B. Stetson hat was top of the line. My uncle may have been a no-account jackass, but he was a relatively well-dressed one.

After another of Jose's amazing suppers, I moved away from the smoking and gabbing around the fire, and found me a place to curl up for the night. Weapons' cleaning was going to have to wait one more day, as I fell asleep as soon as I flopped back onto my saddle and pulled my coarse wool Navajo blanket over my body.

And so began the first of a series of identical days as we drove Mr. Bemis's herd towards El Paso. As we moseyed along making about fifteen miles a day, I formulated a tentative plan to keep myself alive and still try to relive my uncle's life. I also made some plans to insure that if I did manage to keep alive, I wouldn't have to spend the rest of my days staring at the ass end of a herd of cows. Nope, if I were going to do that again, they would at least be my cows.

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