Frontier Justice (or My Western Harem)
Copyright© 2026 by Lubrican
Chapter 5
Action/Adventure Sex Story: Chapter 5 - His widowed mother and her sister ran a dry goods store in 1870. His sister helped out and he did odd jobs to make a little cash. A group of cowboys tried to rape his aunt, and they killed the sheriff when he tried to arrest them. So Bobby put on the sheriff's badge and went after the miscreants. They should have surrendered peaceably. But they didn't.
Caution: This Action/Adventure Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including mt/ft mt/Fa Consensual Fiction Western Incest Mother Son Sister Aunt First Masturbation Oral Sex Petting Pregnancy Size Revenge
Our plan, now, was to stalk the three miscreants (Three Feathers told me what it meant as we rode away) and deal out frontier justice. We knew they were guilty, not only of molesting Mattie, but also of almost killing me when I tried to stop them. Then one of them shot the sheriff, which was murder, so that one would hang, for sure. The others helped him, even if they didn’t pull the trigger, so I counted them as guilty, as well. The sentence for murder was hanging and I knew a man who molested a woman and actually raped her never usually made it to trial, so I did not feel bad about what I intended to do.
The problem was, it was a big ranch and the three men we sought could be anywhere. We had fairly good descriptions of them and I’d seen them before they kicked the shit out of me. I couldn’t picture them in my mind, except for Steve, and his missing teeth, but I was sure I could recognize them if I saw them.
One of the things in the sheriff’s office was a pair of what they called field glasses. They looked like the ones some of the soldiers carried, except one of the tubes was dented and the leather covering on the sides had seen better days. They still worked, though, and when I looked through them, they made far away things look close. I had brought those and wore them around my neck on a thick cord. I didn’t know a lot about how cattle were ranched, but Three Feathers was a fount of knowledge. He knew how cowboys herded cattle, and found strays in hollows and wooded land. He knew that the main herd would be somewhere on grass that would support them and that when that grass was gone, the herd would be moved elsewhere. So, what we needed to do was find a place where there were some strays and then watch them, to see who showed up to move them back to the herd.
We found a very interesting thing when we did that. We waited until dark and walked our horses until we found a deep cut in the earth that was maybe a hundred yards wide, and ran a quarter of a mile before the land surrounded the end again. Cows could wander in there, but there was only one way in and one way out. There were also big boulders along the sides of this cut, which was full of pine trees. We found a place where we could put the horses, and hide behind a pair of boulders.
That interesting thing we saw was a steer that had a brand on it that somebody had tried to alter, and did a shitty job with the branding iron. In these parts, if you found a stray, you looked at the brand and either herded the stray back to where it belonged, or sent word to the owner about it. If you cfdouldhjn’t find the owner, you put your brand next to the original one, which meant it was a stray. This steer, though, had come from some other herd and somebody had tried to make the brand look like Calhoun’s brand.
That meant this steer had been either found and kept without trying to find the owner, or rustled from some other herd. So that added an offense for which Calhoun, himself, could be accused of.
Then we waited.
It was a great plan ... if you had a year to hang around and watch strays munch on grass. A cowboy or two usually came around, hunting strays, but it was never any of the three men we were looking for. We got to know what a lot of his hands looked like, though. I didn’t count the days, but I expect it took three weeks before we saw one of the men we wanted. His name was Rusty, and I remembered him as soon as I saw him. He had grinned as one of the others held me from behind, while Rusty almost casually slugged my face half a dozen times. That was when things started to go dark and I don’t remember much after that; other than pain, that is.
Rusty was riding with another man we’d seen before. We had named him Slim, because he looked like a stick riding a horse. They were cantering in a direction where we knew the herd was not, so we followed them.
It turned out Calhoun had built little huts, of a sort, for the men to live in while they did whatever business Calhoun wanted them to do out where the range hut was. What that business was, was to ride around and find any cattle they could. They collected them and put them into a small corral beside the hut until they had eight or ten, and then pushed them toward the main herd. With the field glasses I saw that two of the cows in the corral by the hut they rode to had different brands on them than Calhoun’s brand. Calhoun called his ranch the Bar-under-B, and his brand was a large, thick B with an equally thick line under it.
There were two other men at the shack, and Rusty and Slim replaced them.
Against two of them I felt confident, especially since Three Feathers would be covering me with his rifle.
I did it the simple way. I just rode up to the shack, got off of my horse, and called out to the men inside. It was dusk when I did this, and there was smoke coming from the stove pipe which suggested they were cooking their supper.
It was Slim who opened the door.
“I’m sheriff Silvers,” I said. “I’m here for the other man in that shack.”
Slim smiled.
“I heared of you. The boss said if you showed your face we could shoot you.”
“You’re not wearing a gun and I don’t give a shit about you. I want Rusty,” I said.
“You just hold that thought,” said Slim. “I’ll be right back.”
He went in and when he got back, Rusty was with him. Both men were wearing gun belts.
“I’m wearin’ a gun, now, mister sheriff.”
I wasn’t stupid enough to wait for him to go for his gun. I drew and shot him right in the middle of his chest. He dropped like a bag of rocks. Rusty’s jaw dropped and he stared at his partner, lying on the ground and then looked at me.
“You shot him,” he said, as if he couldn’t believe it.
“He said he was going to kill me,” I said. “I killed him, first. I’m here to make you pay for molesting that woman in Broken Butte. If you come with me peaceable, then you’ll see a judge. If you don’t come peaceable, you’ll end up like Slim.”
“Who the fuck is Slim?” asked the cow poke. His mind was beginning to work again and his hand moved slowly towards the grip of his pistol.
“He’s the one at your feet,” said Bobby.
“His name isn’t Slim, it’s –”
Rusty thought he could distract me with talk while he drew down on me. About the time he was going to say whatever Slim’s name really was, he drew. He got the gun out of his holster but before he could level it at me I had already shot him. I didn’t even remember drawing. For that matter, I didn’t remember holstering the pistol after I shot Slim. All that practice had trained my muscles to react automatically. I did remember my left hand going across my body to cock the 1858 Remington I had also inherited from Sheriff Baldwin. The hammer on that pistol was different than the trusty Colt Patterson that had been my father’s gun. I looked at my left palm and saw a scrape where the hammer had slid over the heel of my hand.
It had all happened so fast that it seemed unreal, somehow, but my nose detected the odor of burnt powder and my ears were still ringing from the reports of my two shots. I reached for the saddle horn to pull myself up on when I heard another gunshot. This one was farther away and was the distinctive report of a rifle. I looked around and saw a third man, leaning against the door frame, with a shotgun in one hand and a spreading, red stain under his other hand. He had been shot and it had to have been Three Feathers who shot him. I had been careless, or maybe shocked. I hadn’t realized there was a third man. We had viewed the shack from only one direction. Had we moved around it we would have seen this third man’s horse.
Three Feathers galloped up and his horse skidded in the dust as its rider swung his right leg up and over the horse’s mane before seeming to float off the beast to land on his moccasined feet. His rifle was still in his right hand.
“He was going to shoot you,” said my panting friend.
“Thank you,” I said. All this was still too bizarre and I hadn’t yet processed it all.
“You’re faster with your own gun,” he commented.
“I was fast enough,” I replied. His criticism grounded me. I got on my horse.
“You’re not going to look around? Maybe find something valuable?”
“I’m a murderer, not a thief,” I said.
“You’re not going to leave a note?”
“I think three dead bodies is note enough,” I said. “I suspect Calhoun will know who it was. He might even send for the Marshal, himself.”
Three Feathers grinned at me and, somehow, mounted his horse while still holding onto the rifle. He slid it back into its scabbard and said, “By the time the marshal could get here you’ll be finished punishing those men. And if we get as lucky with the other two as we were with this one, nobody will be able to say they saw you kill anybody. You can say you rode home with your tail between your legs after he threw you off his land.”
“If anybody heard those shots they’ll be comin’ in a hurry,” I said. “Let’s mosey.”
We didn’t mosey. We galloped a mile and then settled into a canter to return to the cut we had been living in. Cows seemed to like it, and the cowboys probably knew that, so there would be more of them coming to look for strays, there.
We had to give up a week later. We did see cowboys, and we even saw the man called Steve, who had two missing teeth in front. But he wasn’t alone. Nobody was ever alone. They rode in groups of five, everywhere they went. Calhoun had gotten the message and this time he was taking what I’d said seriously.
We got back home in the middle of the night and my women, as I now thought of them, were practically crazy. They had been terrified I was dead. Calhoun himself had come to town looking for me. He’d brought ten men with him and he was looking for blood. The townsfolk didn’t have to think too hard to imagine why he was there, but he told them anyway, which meant their new “sheriff” had successfully rid the Earth of three miscreants. He didn’t name the dead men, and nobody asked him about it. Nobody had ever slapped Calhoun and gotten away with it, so people kind of perked up a bit. What that means is nobody was helpful to the man. Our mayor, Mister Wellington, said I was gone in the opposite direction from the Bar-under-B going after a stranger who had gotten a meal and beer at the hotel and then walked out without paying. The jail was closed up so there was nobody for him to take his anger out on. I don’t think he understood that the whole town was against him.
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