Chapter 12

I got to feeling mighty sad over Kate’s demise of late and dug out a bottle of vintage whiskey from the bottom of my saddle bag. My current companion was Hilda who had no desire to partake of the good stuff no matter how aged it might be.

Hilda had been bought and paid for a full year of labor from a Mormon wagon train hard up on cash money to pay for much needed supplies for the trail ahead. Her younger companion had already asked Hilda to assume her remaining six months labor on her account and got hitched to a young cowpoke hooked on her pretty pussy. As it stood right now, she still had nine months left to do on her contract and she was literally working her ass off to please her lord and master.

Doc liked the way she could switch from her domestic duties to her evening chores with a spirit of enthusiasm. If she was ironing a shirt or distracting a mark at the table Hilda took her job seriously and never eased back on the throttle like on one of those new-fangled motor cars spreading as rapidly as the buffalo disappeared forever.

The Indians were still calling the railway trains “Iron Horses” and Doc and Hilda were seated in one of the passenger cars studiously avoiding the stares of the sod busters and the traveling salesmen looking for signs of the wild west.

Hilda was wearing a low cut dress that displayed the tops of her fully rounded bosom that attracted the men to pass by their seats more often than necessary. Doc had his eyes shut tight and his hat was pulled down low over his forehead covering most of his face. His rail thin frame hinted at his illness that had plagued him and drove him to move to a dryer climate in the great Southwest. His inclination towards violence was a shadow on his personality ever since the Civil War and he would much rather meet his maker because of a brutal gun fight rather than cough his way out of this world like some weak sister with no other option.

Hilda was still snoring in the big wide bed with her tits exposed and her nipples all erect and aroused like she was having a dirty dream about licking and sucking in a real romantic way.

I disassembled one of my handguns to give it a good cleaning. Of course, I always kept the other one by my side ready for action because I had so many enemies that my sense of caution was resting on my shoulders like a cloak of danger shielding me from that bullet with my name on it fired by an unknown assailant with evil intent on his mind.

I heard shots fired on the street outside and heard shouts of anger and a woman crying out a warning to some unseen victim being shot in the back by some coward too fearful to face his opponent head on in a fair fight. It was the way of the real west with back-shooters outnumbering the disappearing gunmen that were the core of legend with speed and accuracy the name of the game rather than cheating and deceit at that fateful moment of final confrontation.

It was a true comfort to me that despite the fact I had dispatched over twenty souls into the great beyond with my handguns, I had never shot a man in the back, and I always gave fair warning to any enemy to “fill your hand as fast as you can!”

I cautiously looked out the window and saw a young girl leaning over the body of a well-dressed man. He was obviously the loser of the shooting incident, and his shooter was nowhere to be seen leaving me with the conclusion that he had been bushwhacked plain and simple.

It didn’t appear that any other bystander was inclined to get involved and I figured that the shooter was well known to them, and they wanted to avoid any confrontation with him or his kin or friends for involving themselves in something that was none of their business.

I knew that the sheriff had recently been buried up on boot hill and they hadn’t been able to find any substitute willing to take on the job of lawman in the dangerous town. It seemed unlikely that the girl would be finding any justice other than the code of the West that demanded everybody to stay heeled and defend their own lives when push came to shove.

Hilda was still asleep, and Doc knew she was probably in need of some more rest because she hadn’t fallen asleep until the wee hours of the morning. Her capacity for drink was huge and had a lot to do with her heavy snoring and heaving chest with her swollen nipples waving like flags demanding attention fully exposed.

I headed down to the street to assist the young lady since there didn’t seem to be any other individuals interested in volunteering to fill that bill at the present time.

“Pardon me young lady, might I be of any assistance in your moment of distress?”

The young lady looked up at me with tears in her eyes and she replied, “Thank you kindly, Sir, but I fear it is too late for my daddy. He was just standing there, and we were talking about buying a wagon to take us to our new home when some strange man shot him in the back without any warning at all.

It was an old story in the Wild West. Half of the characters walking around on the streets with a sidearm strapped to their waist had no confidence in their ability to win a gunfight and usually resorted to devious means of taking out their opponents without any danger to themselves.

It was truly a country of bushwhackers and back-shooters.

I literally picked the attractive young girl up off the dusty street by her elbows and told the Chinese laundry man on the sidewalk to take the double eagle I gave him to the undertaker and pick out a large size coffin for the girl’s father to make the final trek up to boot hill.

We cleaned out his pockets and she put his belongings in her oversized purse including a neat little derringer with walnut handles. I took the girl to my hotel and got her a room right next to mine much to Hilda’s chagrin.