Chapter 10: Bushwhacked

We decided to picnic down by that little creek. Rebecca spread out a blanket and Rosie unpacked our lunch. Simple, just ham and biscuits and some corn whiskey to sip on. No need for a cooking fire.

Rosie looked at her mother and Rebecca laughed out loud. Rosie grinned.

Rebecca jumped up, “Mr. Murdock, that creek water looks mighty inviting. Care to join us?”

Rosie stood too and, bold as brass, the two of them started unbuttoning their dresses. Not a care in the world. I stood up, looked around careful, turned in a full circle. Sat back down and Rosie, wearing only a cotton chemise, tugged off my left boot, then my right.

Rebecca was naked now, standing in the sunlight, grinning at me. I stood and she took off my vest, unbuttoned my shirt while Rosie giggled and unbuckled me.

My equipment didn’t seem to notice that we were out in the middle of the great outdoors. Either didn’t notice or didn’t care. Rosie used both her little hands to pull me down and then let go — it slapped up against my stomach and Rebecca laughed out loud.

The water, up to our knees, was ... bracing, I believe that may have been the word. Cold as holy hell, which ain’t cold, but never mind. Rosie had bent down and taken me in her mouth, a first. Rebecca winked at me and started stroking me with both hands, a merry glint in her eye.

I’d been with two naked women one time before. Right before I left Indianapolis, Mrs. Adler gave me a going-away present, “No charge, Flint Murdock, enjoy them and come back again someday.”

But this, out here in the open with Rebecca and Rosie, felt different. Hell, it was different. I would have liked to have lasted longer, but that was not in the hand they dealt me. I said, “Rosie,” real soft and Rebecca laughed, “Let ‘er rip, Mr. Murdock.”

My mind wasn’t all that relaxed on the ride back to Little River. Rebecca and Rosie had waited until I was dressed to put their undergarments in a saddlebag. Stood there grinning, stark naked in the sunlight before they pulled on their dresses.

No chemise, no corset, just skin.

I had learned some about women’s underwear back in Indianapolis. Even before the Gilmore Girls sent me to Mrs. Adler’s. I had explored their closets and dresser drawers when I was alone. Of course I realize now that they had known all about it. Probably figured it was just part of a boy’s natural education.

I returned Scarface and the geldings to Livery Lou and walked on down Market Street to the jail. The O’Brien twins, groggy from sleeping one off, told me Cayuse was out on his rounds. I opened the cell door, no need to lock those two in, and went out to find him.

Part of me said I should feel guilty about me and Rosie because of Cayuse, but for some reason I didn’t. She was acting of her own volition. Well, her mother encouraged her, but certainly didn’t force anything on her.

And, I did take some comfort in Rebecca’s words to me on the subject, “She loves you, Flint, but she ain’t in love with you.” xxxxxxxxx

Mrs. Hogg and her two daughters walked toward me, heading south on Market from No-Name. I was sitting, tilted back in my chair, on the boardwalk, outside the Bighorn, taking the morning sun.

The three of them had obviously cleaned up, their hair was still damp. The girls were barefoot, wearing flour sacks for dresses. Mrs. Hogg still had her black-handled Colt in that Huckleberry worn bandoleer style. No-Name was outside the city limits, but if she planned to stay in town, she’d have to check her weapon at the jail. There was a faint scar on her forehead from that time Venerable and the Deacons had destroyed her place.

She stood straight, held out a calloused hand to shake, “I’m Mrs. Hogg. Plan to reopen my bar.”

Just like that.

Wasn’t my jurisdiction, wasn’t my call. But prevention ... the bar would be a slap in the face to Holy Redemption and its pious congregation. I didn’t care much about that, but Venerable and those Deacons, eleven now, were another matter.

The three of them — Mrs. Hogg and her silent daughters — stared at me. She said, “Can you control that fucking reverend?”

Well, that was the question. In town or out, that was the question.

She tried the only leverage she had, nodded to her daughters. Before I could say a word, they lifted those coarse sacks up to their shoulders. They were naked underneath. I made a downward motion with my hands, “No need for that.”

Two cowboys walking their horses toward the livery, three women with shopping bags coming out of the Ollie’s Emporium, Rumsfeld, the Buffalo Cut bartender watching from across the street.

Mrs. Hogg had outmaneuvered me.

That night in bed, Rosie cupped her hands, “Were you tempted, Flint? Bet you were.” She slid her hand down my chest, lower, “Yep.”

Rebecca, on my other side, had a twinkle in her eye, “Ain’t like you to turn down pussy, Mr. Murdock. Specially pussy that young.”

By suppertime, all of Little River would have heard some version of that Market Street ambush by Mrs. Hogg and her two daughters. By morning, word would probably be out that I’d fucked them right there on the boardwalk.

Legally, I was in no position to stop her from reopening a bar. But there was more to it than that. I know the Gilmore Girls would have sided with Mrs. Hogg over Reverend Venerable every day and twice on Sunday. Especially on Sunday.

Little River was like most places, I guess. Word had a way of getting around faster than a telegram. I’d never heard of it and then everyone was suddenly talking about the Little River Clarion.

While Rebecca and Rosie and I were out looking at the Appaloosas, a large freight wagon labored into Market Street from the south. It unloaded a strange looking contraption at Market and 5th — a small office that had once been the veterinarian’s office. Since Doc Gimble was the only medicine in town, he saw about as many people as animals and moved to larger quarters two blocks north.

I stopped in to introduce myself to the newcomer — a man from Columbia, South Carolina named North Platte Sherrill. Why someone from the South was named after a river in Nebraska ... well, Mr. Sherrill never did talk about it.

The young girl I had thought was maybe his granddaughter was his new bride. Maybe 14, maybe not. Willowdean was fat, with an angry expression most of the time. Didn’t talk much, scowled something considerable.

“I’m going to publish the finest newspaper in the Territory,” was how Sherrill introduced himself.

Credit due, he was proud of his printing press. Which — wagon, barge, steamboat, freight wagon — had somehow made the journey all the way from South Carolina.

He patted it fondly, “This was used to print currency for the Confederacy back ... back when things were right.” Accent like syrup.

The machine — the metal emblem said Ramage Common Press — looked sort of like a tall chair with a table sticking out.

Sherrill patted it again while Willowdean looked out the dusty window onto Market. “It’s American Red Oak. Couldn’t get Honduras Mahogany, but I’ll put it up against any iron press in the Territory!”

Got a little loud talking about the upstart papers in Billings and Helena. Turned back to his machine.

“It’s a one-pull with a bolted hose.” Looked at me.

I said, “That so?”