An F Troop Tale

“Honestly, Wilton Parmenter, sometimes I don’t know why I put up with you.” The pretty blonde woman thundered as she stormed out of the Captain’s quarters. With a quick leap, she threw her leg over the chestnut mare tied outside and hopped up and onto it. A strong pull against the reins unhitched her.

“But Jane...” Stammered the young man in cavalry blue who followed her out the door a few seconds later, only to be cut off as he tripped over a loose floorboard on the porch. Falling forward, he somersaulted over the hitching post and into the dirt street, knocking himself unconscious.

“Captain!” Cried out Morgan O’Rourke, the troop’s senior NCO as he ran across the compound, followed close behind by Corporal Agarn.

At the sound of the Sergeant’s voice, the buckskin clad woman turned the horse she had just mounted and looked down on the sprawled officer.

“Is he all right?” She asked the Sergeant as he bent down and examined his commanding officer.

“Don’t you worry your pretty little head, Wrangler.” The Irishman said. “He just had the wind knocked out of him. A little cold water will bring him right around.”

“Do me a favor O’Rourke.” She said as she jerked the reins and aimed her horse at the main gate. “Give me a few seconds to get out of here before you do.”

With that, she spurred her horse and galloped the length of the fort. She didn’t even look back before she disappeared out the main gate.

“She was sure fired up about something.” O’Rourke noted.

“Guess we’d better wake the Captain up.” Agarn said.

O’Rourke pointed to the nearby horse troth and the Corporal responding by filling his light colored hat up with water from it.

“You know, if we put the troth back over there,” He said, pointing to the empty space in front of the hitching post with the water filled hat. “He’d at least have something to break his fall. At least it always used to.”

“Good idea, Agarn.” The taller man replied. “Have Vanderbilt and Hoffenmeuller move it right after lunch.”

“Sure thing, Sarge.” He answered as he poured the water onto the face of the unconscious Captain.

“Blluu ... bluuu ... Jane ... I...” Wilton Parmenter gasped as the icy coldness snapped him awake.

“Easy sir,” O’Rourke said as he and Agarn helped the now soaked Captain to his feet.

“Where’s Jane?” He asked when he noticed that her horse was gone.

“She shot out of here madder than a bear in a hornet’s nest.” Agarn said as he slapped his now wet headpiece against his trousers. “That must’ve been some dilly of an argument the two of you had.”

“Agarn!” The Sergeant snapped in reproach.

The Corporal quickly shut up. It wasn’t often that Morgan O’Rourke lost his temper. But when he did, the last thing Randolph Agarn ever wanted was to be on the receiving end of it.

“To be honest, she was somewhat angry, Captain.” O’Rourke said in a milder tone. “But she did make sure that you were ok before she took off.”

“It really didn’t start out as an argument.” Captain Parmenter said. “We were just chatting and then out of the blue Jane suggested how much nicer it would be if she just moved in here with me.”

Both NCOs just listened quietly. If the Captain felt like sharing his problems, then they’d be more than willing to listen. The same would be true if he just wanted to be left alone.

“I quickly explained that it was impossible. I mean, we’ve only known each other a little over a year now. It’ll be at least another year before we even get engaged. What would people think if they knew we were living together? What would my mother say? They all think we were ... well ... you know.”

O’Rourke was genuinely surprised at the Captain’s admission. He wondered if he was misinterpreting it. Since the Captain had brought it up, it seemed only fair to inquire.

“I take it then that you and Wrangler have never ... what I mean is that the two of you...” The broad shouldered Irishman asked.

“Certainly not.” Parmenter said quickly. “We’d have to be married to do that.”

O’Rourke took a deep breath and could see the same thought reflected in Agarn’s eyes. Wilton Parmenter was naïve about a lot of things. He had become the commanding officer of F Troop and Fort Courage based on his turning a retreat into a successful cavalry charge in the closing days of the civil war.

O’Rourke himself had risen to the temporary rank of Captain during the war, only to drop back to Sergeant following the peace. He had preferred it that way. Parmenter, on the other hand, was the youngest son of one of the premier Army families. His medal had been big news and with it came the promotion and F Troop. Yet, from what he had heard from someone who had actually been there, that order to charge had actually been a sneeze.

Still, even knowing his background, O’Rourke found this new piece of information unbelievable. Over two thousand miles from his Philadelphia home, the Captain was still trying to live by the rules of polite society. Out here in the badlands, there were few white woman available. Far fewer that looked as desirable as Wrangler Jane. There wasn’t another man in five hundred miles, O’Rourke included, who wouldn’t run to her bed if she had offered. Yet she had offered far more than that to the Captain, and he had turned her down. Incredible.

“If you like Captain, we could have Dobbs and Duffy ride out after her.” The Sergeant said, changing the subject. “She was headed away from town, out towards the Hakowie camp. It’ll be dark in a few hours.”

“No, better let her get it all out of her system.” The Captain said as he turned and headed back into his office. “She’ll be all right. After all, she rides and shoots better than any man in the troop.”

With that, he closed the door to his quarters behind him.

Morgan O’Rourke stood there for a minute, staring at the hard wood door. He didn’t say a word until Agarn reminded him that they had to get the latest shipment of O’Rourke Enterprises souvenirs off to Dodge City.

“Incredible.” O’Rourke softly repeated to himself before talking off after Agarn towards the NCO club.

An hour or so later, Wrangler Jane was watering her horse alongside the banks of the small river that defined the edge of the Hakowie Reservation. She had ridden the mare much too hard in her dash from the fort. It would be at least another hour before she headed back. She was still angry. Both at Wilton and at herself. At Wilton, for his stubborn refusal to abandon his families old-fashioned idea. At herself, for letting him get away with it for so long.

“I don’t even care if he never married me, Sparkle.” She said to her mare as she gently stroked it. “I know his family would never approve of me. I only wish that he’d give me what I need.”

Jane knew that Wilton was a virgin, he had told her that. He never asked her if she was, it wasn’t the sort of question a gentleman asked. If he had, she wondered if she would give him the answer he expected, or the truth. She’d had her first man when she was 16. It was a totally forgettable experience, but it had gotten her out of her home back east. For the use of her body, the man had gotten her as far as St. Louis. From there, it was easy to find men willing to take her further.

A few of the men had been memorable, but she had always felt something had been missing. No man would deny she was attractive, but most were put off by her assertiveness. They wanted nothing to do with a woman who could out ride, out shoot and was in many other ways more man than they were.

That was one of the reasons she had to get away from her family back east. They kept trying to get her to fit the mold of what a proper young lady should be. A role she felt she was born to rebel against. A lifetime ago, she had been Jane Angelica Thrift. The Thrifts of course were welcome in the finest homes of New York, Boston and Philadelphia. That girl had died in the bed of a man who’s name she couldn’t even remember. In her place had been born Wrangler Jane.

If she had been born a man instead of a woman then her life would’ve been much different. Then her qualities would have been appreciated. She sometimes wished that she had been born such. She would’ve been much better off. Of course then Wilton would’ve had to have been born a woman instead as well. But that might’ve suited him too. He would make a better woman than man.

A sudden sound from behind the long row of bushes caused her to crouch down and pull out her six-shooter. The quick fluid motion of which was the envy of every man she knew. Tying Sparkle’s reins to the shrub, she carefully moved to higher ground.

Stepping slowly, she silently climbed an outcrop of boulders, giving her a view of the riverbank below. Looking down, she saw the source of the noise.

Standing naked in the shallow edge of the water was a young Indian maiden. Her long black hair stretched down to the cheeks of her ass. She was very pretty by both white and Indian standards. Small but full breasts stood firm in the late afternoon sun. Her entire body was a sun kissed brown, showing that she spent a great deal of time like she was now. Between her legs was a small batch of black hair. Jane wondered if the smallness of the area was natural or if the maiden trimmed it as Jane did her own. She couldn’t have been, Jane guessed, more than 16 or 17.

Wanting to get a better look, Jane carefully shimmied down the rocks. The girl’s back was now to her so she took a chance and bolted to the edge of the bushes. Stepping on a dry twig, Jane was certain that she had given herself away. But the girl never turned.

Now secure in her new vantage point, the 25 year old sat quietly and watched. And as she watched, old familiar, but long buried feelings, once more surfaced.

The soft skinned girl ran her wet hands up and down the length of her body. She pressed the roundness of her breasts, rubbing the small nipples until they were hard.