Chapter 4

The next day the sight of the brick walls of the town of Solomon cheered my spirits tremendously, although the sight of bullet pock marks around the gate and the top of the walls indicated that probably several raiding parties had been recently beaten off.

"Oh fucking great!" A voice shouted out from the top of the brickwall near the gatehouse. "First a lady Witchfinder arrived and burned to ashes a family of six, and then the raiders came. Now that we've gotten rid of them, what shows up but another Witchfinder to burn down the rest of the town!"

"You down there on your horse!" Another voice called out behind the gate. "I don't suppose we can pay you off to turn your ass around and ride off to annoy someone else? No ... probably not ... bastards!"

"Open the gates or I'll open them for you!" I growled, and readied the long rifle for action. I didn't sense any corruption inside, but I was wasn't going to announce that little fact. The town may have seen tough times lately, but they weren't my fault. Unhappy or not, they were required to admit Witchfinder's at any time, for any reason. The next time around, the situation could be more dire.

"Alright, hold your fucking water ... I'll have the gate opened in a minute!" We nailed the sum'bitch down tight, a few days ago when the raiders came, and it's going to be pain in the ass to get the last of the spikes out. Leave the fucking gate alone - do you know how fucking hard it is to get good wood nowadays? It all has to be brought from the south, and we've not seen a trader from that direction in over a year now!"

"What happened to the traders? Did the raiders get them all?" I shouted, mildly curious about the growth of the raiders in this area, as I suddenly wondered if Ruth in her village three days away was likely to remain safe. Once again I felt some pangs of regret at leaving her behind.

"Gone, no one knows where! The last scout we sent south, towards Wichita last month returned witch-infected, and muttering about how the old city was now a place of demon infested horrors. My guess, for the piss it's worth, is that the raiders are the survivors from there, now pushed out of the area here to the north. They're around here in some fairly great numbers, slowing gaining more killers to their company, and trying to choke off Salina, just to the west. They want the small city, and our town as well, for supply bases, so I think they're here to stay."

"Did you mention this to the woman witchfinder?"

"Aye, that we did. After she burned down the Johnson family, she grabbed some rations and a bit of our spare ammo and rode off towards Salina. Frankly, we hope you'll do much the same, except leave us with most of our ammo. We've got a good caster, but the new reloads just don't have the same zip of the old, good stuff, and getting good used brass is getting to be a bitch as well!"

"That's the last brace!" A lower voice called out and a moment later the town gate swung open to admit the witchfinder. The faces that looked upon him weren't happy ones, but even a cursory examination of the townsfolk showed that I wouldn't have any pressing responsibilities here.

With a quick nod to the town's mayor, I quickly released the assembled people back to their normal duties, and dispensed with the usual offering of soft flesh for my enjoyment. Later perhaps, but not quite just yet.

"Tell me more about the bandits." I asked, while being served a more than decent cup of herbal tea. In fact, this was a much better herbal mix that the very bitter concoctions that Mother Turner had brewed back home, another life ago. The biscuits, made from rye-grass and another wild growing weed, were excellent too, complete with fresh butter. It took a lot of cut rye-grass to feed a dairy cow and our small village could never spare it. The butter had a rich tangy orange taste to it, perhaps with added honey, and I shamelessly accepted thirds when they were offered. I'd had real oranges once, out of an old can, long ago as a rare treat for my birthday when I was a child, and I'd never forgotten the taste. It was still the sweetest taste I can still recall. Old Grampy said that oranges, and other fruit like them, were cheap once, available to everyone in stores, and I hoped that somewhere in the world that those delicious fruit still grew. Maybe, someday I'd taste a fresh one, off of a tree ... that would be a great luxury!

"Dire-rat bastards, the lot of them!" The Mayor said. Scoundrels, rascals, murders and just plain good-for-nothings that are gathering up every malcontent in the state. They started poking at us, checking for weaknesses last fall, and they wintered somewhere near or in the town of Lindsberg. Now that it's not totally ass-freezing cold outside, they're out scouting again, but with an eye for conquest. The usual 'join us or die' bullshit."

"Did you hear that they've sacked Enterprise to your east? I found about forty dead bodies there yesterday, how many did the town hold?"

"A bit more than that, say maybe sixty or seventy. Maybe some got away, or else they decided with a gun put to their head that a bit of banditry would indeed suit them fine. Anything else interesting about their dead ... did you check them carefully?" The kindly mayor hinted with an ominous voice.

"Other than the obvious knife cut marks to the bone, where flesh was carved away to be cooked? Nope ... but I'm guessing that's really what you had in mind. Yes, they're cannibals, or else it was a really hard winter for them. Frankly I don't care which ... they need to be eradicated, or there won't be a safe town or village left within a hundred miles of them, more if they've got horses, and didn't eat them during the winter."

"They've still got a few, more of a mobile scouting force really than an armed cavalry. Strictly hand guns, and many of them may not even have those, as I saw a few of them only armed with spears and even a couple armed with bows. Talk about old-time cowboys and Indians out in the middle of the prairie! My old Pa used to talk of the old days, of wheat and corn growing as tall as a man and for as far as the eye could see ... and further! These are sad days and I hate to think what worse struggles my own children will endure in the future."

"Things turn bad, then things turn worse, then they turn to shit, then turn into even worse shit, and then you die." I muttered. "Or so an old friend and mentor of mine used to often say. Still, not everything needs to decline for the worst, at least as long as I have ammo. If you can find me a little extra .308 rifle ammo, or even some 20-gauge shotgun rounds, any pellet size, I would be most grateful. Otherwise, there is little that you can do to speed my passage or increase my ire upon these bandits. I'll be leaving in the morning, early."

The mayor nodded. "I'll see that you get a big dinner tonight and the same for your horse, he looks a bit lean to my eyes. If you are certain that you don't require some entertainment ... there are more than a few young ladies that are strongly desirous of spending some personal time with you. I think they're still mad that the lady Witchfinder plum near wore out half of the town's men during her stay. She started off with three of them, and when she wore them out she had another three brought in ... and then another three. Her first night here alone she fucked a full two dozen men silly!"

I laughed. "Alright, if they insist ... but I would much rather have the company of an experienced young widow or two. They're still gentle on the eyes, much gentler of manner, and usually unlikely to have disapproving boyfriends or consorts eyeing my back with unhealthy thoughts."

In fact, two such young widows were produced after dinner that evening, and I found them already naked and quite eager for attention in my hotel bed when I entered it that night. Maria, the older and darker haired woman, was barely into her thirties, but she proved that she was very capable of competing for my affection against her blonde partner, a younger woman not quite yet in her twenties.

Together they challenged every single ounce of endurance that I had, as each desired to swallow a load of my semen, and feel me erupt into each of their cunts and asses. With the help of some more of the rather stimulating tea, I was able to much oblige them.

Only the older raven haired woman was ripe enough in her monthly cycle for impregnating, much to the disappointment of her nubile blonde companion. And I asked them both why so much ambition was placed by young women to be planted with child by visiting Witchfinders.

"It's hope!" They both earnestly replied. The hope that their offspring would grow in turn to also become a witchfinder, and obtain freedom from the daily struggle for survival. They said there was evidence, antidotal mostly, that suggested that the children of witchfinders were much more resistant to witch-blight, and sometimes had minor magical powers of their own, even if they didn't actually become great and powerful witchfinders. Sometimes, the minor ability to sense underground water or nurture crops to grow faster and stronger in the poor hard and cold soil with minimal sunlight, was a more valuable gift to a town or village, and much increased their chances for survival.

This made sense I suppose, and it gave me a little more insight upon my cheating ex, Nancy Wheeler. Undoubted Mother Turner had taught each of the young ladies under her guidance to want and desire this, for what were apparently good Darwinian reasons ... the greater hope for the survival of their children, no matter how slight.

This gave me a lot to think about, especially before dawn when the two happy women competed to give me the best possible blow-job, with their mouths and tongues dueling over my quivering pierced shaft. The final eruption of semen, little diminished from my tired balls despite over half a dozen earlier ejaculations, quite covered both of their faces, and with considerable delight they licked each other clean. This turn, led to some rather interesting feminine frolics, and they licked and teased each others well-filled cunts and clits.

I had heard vague rumors from the other older lads in my village that un-trothed girls and women had their own private ways of dealing with sexual frustration, in manners approved of by the Mothers, who were often rumored to still indulge in female only sex-rites in private. Now I had a faint idea of what the whispers of lesbian sex involved, and was not at all disappointed to have my knowledge broadened. Indeed, as they merged their faces into each other's cunts, my still rampant cock was easily able to service both of their well-licked holes in turn; filling each with additional loads of cum, which they exhaustively licked out of the other's sopping cunts.

At last sated and well-drained, I bid my two lovers farewell. The evening and long night had been quite enjoyable, but somehow the memory of leaving Ruth in a similar happy state gnawed at me as I saddled up Blackhawk.

True to his word, the mayor had found me a little more ammunition for my .308 lever action rifle, about another 30 rounds. This doubled my available ammo and I felt I could more happily use this weapon now, without fearing as much about exhausting my supplies. He also gave me another handful of 20-gauge shells that looked to be of recent manufacture.

"They'll work fine, for the most part." The mayor said. "Rubin, our gunsmith and ammo reloader made them up for you special last night. Worked until dawn he did, and he says they should work fine. Sometimes, the homemade powder he uses has a little delay, so if there is a misfire, be patient for a few more seconds. It's a pain in the ass, but he doesn't know what the problem is ... and the reloads do work, well, at least 90% of the time anyway. It's better than throwing rocks and making bows, you have to admit!"

I agreed, and decided that I'd keep these newly made bullets and shells handy, but not to use them in a dangerously critical situation. The decades old .308 ammo still seemed to be 100% effective, and little showed its age or other signs of corruption.

Riding off to the west, heading towards Salina and trouble, I made a mental note to myself that I needed to start learning the craft of reloading ammo myself. I was already saving my spent brass, as I knew it was valuable, but I hoped that with a little instruction I could learn to tell poorly crafted and unreliable ammo from good ones. Someday, the old antique ammo would become too corrupted with age and would fail, and I needed to soon learn to be able to discover the difference.

If the dour witchfinder thought that he would need to ride closer to Salina to find the scouting bandit patrols, he soon discovered otherwise. In fact, just a few minutes outside the gate, a pair of lurking scouts was discovered, hiding behind a nearby ridge of hard volcanic rock where they could keep an eye on the activities of the town.

One overly ambitious bandit fired off a wild shot that I didn't even bother to stop or deflect. A second even wilder shot hit the hard ground in front Black, and the wise animal snorted in semi-disgust and annoyance.

Since the bandits were partially hidden under cover at the top of a ridge and I didn't have a scope for my lever action rifle, which I still had very little ammo for, I decided that a long range gun duel wasn't really my best course of action. Also if I charged the pair of bandits, it was not impossible that Blackhawk wouldn't be struck by a bullet just out of range for me to block.

On the other hand, I was itching to try out my Harry Blackhawk Special, now complete with a scope for just this sort of medium distance duel. I had not had the time to properly sight in this new scope, mounted upon the long ten and half inch barrel. But as I had plenty of ammo for this gun, now was as good of a time as any to make the minor scope adjustments for the range, which appeared to be about a hundred yards.

After dismounting, and directing Black to lie down upon the ground behind cover, I stood and let the first three rounds fly towards the bandits in slow careful measured shots. For the range, the gun was firing low and a bit to the right, but a few careful adjustments corrected this. The fourth shot struck one of the scouts high in his left thigh, again a little low and to the right, but my fifth shot struck his fleeing partner dead center in his back, as he was about to leap upon his horse to escape.

Satisfied that the scoped .44 pistol was exactly now aligned, I casually walked up the gently sloping hill to inspect my wounded prisoner. Not wanting to be taken alive, the wounded scout fired off three more rounds of his own, which I casually blocked until I had a clear shot to neatly shoot away the fellows rifle from his arms. Firing at close range, my mind's eye just envisioned a red dot where I wanted the bullet to go, and with a swift casual shot the lead had indeed struck the rifle butt, exactly where I had wished it to hit.

Pointing my ominous Blackhawk pistol at the man's head, I didn't have the slightest trouble whatsoever obtaining all of the information that I currently needed. The main camp of the cannibals was still at Lindsberg, but with the warmer weather plans were being made for increasingly larger raids to both the west and the east. Salina was their long term object to be sieged and taken later this summer or fall, but first the less protected towns and villages all around it would be taken, as indeed the bloodthirsty bandits were currently ill-supplied.

This suggested that Ruth's village of Woodvine indeed might now be in some danger and now fraught with worry, I made plans to return there at once, after first paying a short visit to Salina, to better warn it, and deliver my prisoner.

As for my captive, he was bound and gagged, and then strapped to his horse, as was the body of the other slain bandit. Both were then attached by a long lead to Black, who quickly asserted his authority over his small herd by biting the nose of the taller brown horse, bearing the prisoner. Their camp contained few items of interest or use to me; their weapons were of poor quality and ill-maintained, and the strips of jerky found in their supply sack felt evil to my touch. Undoubtedly sliced from human flesh, I thought as I chipped a small hole into the hard rock of the hillside to properly give these tormented remains a respectful burial.

I really had no plans for the cannibal captive, but I thought the folks of Salina would undoubtedly enjoy properly punishing him themselves. No one like a cannibal army roaming around their town!

Riding again west, with his two lightly laden pack horses in tow, the witchfinder evaded a slightly larger scouting patrol about an hour's ride out of Silana, distaining even to engage in another gun duel with them. While his repeating rifle was excellent for short to mid-range gun battles, his scoped .44 revolver was not really the perfect tool for a very long ranged sniper duel. He would need something much better than the couple of poorly aged hunting rifles he had found so far before he could feel comfortable about taking out a decent amount of foes before being sighted. Perhaps in Silana he could find a proper rifle, perhaps an old military weapon still accurate and capable of giving good service.

The gates of this larger town, also crafted of brick and great chunks of dark volcanic rock, remained barred to his entry as he rode up toward the gate. Without warning a pair of rifles fired shots at him, one of which was aimed for his head, quite accurately, which he blocked. The other more of a warning shot, fired to hit a few yards ahead of his horses.