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Cattleman's Lament
by Beating Off Bob (beatingoffbob@yahoo.com)

***

Sarah, daughter of cattle rancher Jonas Collins, goes 
missing under strange and disturbing circumstances. 
Then his wife disappears too. It all seems to have 
something to do with the unwelcome sheep rancher next 
door, but Jonas doesn't seem to be able to solve the 
mystery. Can a 15 year old boy succeed where a grown 
man fails? (MFmf-teen, reluc, 1st, mast, oral, preg)

***

Author's comment: Both bestiality and rape are 
mentioned in this story, and there is some violence to 
move the plot forward. None of these elements are 
significantly described, but the reader should be 
prepared to be confronted with these concepts.

Bob

***

Sarah Jean Collins lay back and stared up at the dark 
blue sky, filled with fluffy white clouds. She felt the 
sun on her face and smiled. She wasn't out in the sun 
quite as much as her father and brothers, and didn't 
yet see it as a pain in the behind that one just had to 
deal with during the work day. Her body rocked, as the 
horse under her kept walking in the direction she had 
last urged it to go, but her muscles automatically took 
the horse's gait into account and shifted subtly to 
keep her from sliding one way or the other. Her thighs, 
draped around the horse's neck helped too.

She felt Daisy's haunch muscles bunch and move under 
her back as the mare stepped gracefully over the scrub, 
heading for home, and the pan of oats she knew Sarah 
would provide her when they got there. Sarah loved 
riding bareback, in direct connection with the 
magnificent animal that carried her, and she rarely 
used a saddle unless she was working on the trail, or 
doing other work with cattle.

But today she was just enjoying being with her friend, 
as the summer breeze swept across the plain. She had 
ridden over to visit Mrs. Settleton, on the ranch "next 
door", and the new dress Beatrice Settleton had made 
for her was in the saddlebags connected by the wide 
leather strap that currently made a hard pillow for 
Sarah's head. It was a red and white checkered gingham 
dress, and Sarah was going to wear it to the dance that 
was scheduled in just two weeks. Travis Woods would ask 
her to dance, and as they swirled to the tune of the 
fiddle and washboard, he would fall madly in love with 
her and beg her to become his bride. And then... she'd 
find out what made her mamma moan so loud when she and 
Pappa were alone in the dark of their bedroom at night.

Sarah had heard that moan clearly on a lot of nights 
since she was a little girl. The first time she'd been 
aware of it as a real sound was the first time it had 
awakened her. Her parents' room was right next to hers 
in the big house her pa had built in the shelter of a 
geologic disruption in the mostly flat land they 
ranched. Her brothers had shared that room with her, 
but had recently been installed in their own newly 
added room across the house.

She had only been eight or nine that time, when her 
mother's agonized sounding moans had come through the 
wall clearly, and she had awakened. Unused to being 
alone in her room... it was her room now... and used to 
the noises her brothers made while they slept, her 
mother's voice had sounded like she was in pain. Sarah 
had been instantly frightened, thinking of Indians, or 
some other danger that had overtaken her mother. Those 
piteous moans had broken into an agonized plea of 
"Pleeease Jonas... don't tease meeee."

Jonas was her pappa and the noises that had followed 
had made her get out of bed and pound on her parents' 
door. She would never forget the sight of her pappa's 
huge body, holding the lantern as he opened that door, 
a pistol in his hand. He was stark naked, something 
Sarah had never seen before, and his gaze was over her 
head, searching for the cause of the pounding.

Then his eyes had fallen to see Sarah, somehow 
huddling, even though she was standing alone in the 
dark of the hallway.

"It's just Sarah," he said over his shoulder.

Her mother had appeared, concern on her face, closing a 
robe around her, but Sarah could see that she too was 
naked under that robe as it closed and was belted.

Then there had been the questions about what was wrong, 
and Sarah's tear-filled complaint of the sounds she had 
heard, as if her mother was being killed.

Her pappa had laughed, standing there like he was proud 
to be buck naked, instead of ashamed, like all decent 
people were if they had on no clothes. Even at eight 
Sarah had been taught that.

"Send her back to bed, Molly," he said roughly. "We're 
not finished yet."

Mamma had shot her husband a look that would have sent 
Sarah running, had it been aimed her way, but Pappa had 
just laughed louder and turned away, back toward the 
bed.

Mamma had taken Sarah back to her bed, and sat there in 
the dark, telling Sarah that what she had heard was 
nothing bad, but what husbands and wives did sometimes 
that was what they were made for during creation. She 
tried to convince Sarah that those sounds were 
pleasure, not pain, and that she must never interrupt 
them again when she heard them.

And so, over the years, whenever Sarah heard those 
noises again, her mind tried to come up with some scene 
that would account for them. She tried to think of her 
parents dancing, since that was fun, but who would 
dance naked? And why? When she started to bleed between 
her legs and her mother instructed her on what to do 
about that, she asked again about the sounds for some 
reason. Her mother simply said that, once she was 
married, she would understand. That was all she had 
ever been told.

Well, perhaps not all, though she didn't know it. At 
various times she had been scolded for wrestling with a 
boy... Junior Ridgemont, to be precise. She was 
fourteen at the time and he had said something she 
didn't like, so she took him down and sat on him. He 
had cried, lying there in the dust under her, his eye 
already swelling where she had punched him. They were 
in town at the time, getting provisions, and her mother 
had seen from not far away. Her mother's anger had been 
vitriolic, and full of talk about how civilized people 
didn't behave that way, which was purely puzzling, 
since Sarah's brothers acted like that all the time, as 
did most of the cowboys around, and nobody ever yelled 
at them about it.

Her mother had made her wear dresses after that... all 
the time. You couldn't fight or wrestle in a dress. You 
couldn't move quickly in a dress. And your legs got 
tangled up, so you couldn't kick. You could still 
stomp, but the soft soled shoes her mother made her 
wear weren't any good for stomping. Now, the only time 
she could put on pants, was when she had to ride a 
horse.

Which was one reason Sarah Jean Collins was riding 
Daisy on this sunny summer day. Anybody could have 
picked up her new dress from Mrs. Ridgemont, but the 
excuse to be able to wear pants was too much to pass 
up. So, Sara was dressed in pants, and one of her 
brother's cast-off blue checkered shirts, lying on her 
back, stretched out on the firm, swaying rump of her 
best friend in the world, riding along without a care 
in the world.

Then, her best friend stopped.

That was odd. Daisy wouldn't stop on her own. She was 
too well trained for that. About that time Sarah heard 
a deep voice... one that raised the hackles on the back 
of her neck.

"Well, looky what we got here," growled the voice.

Sarah knew that voice. It belonged to one of the men 
who should not be anywhere near where she was currently 
located. It belonged to a man who would be beaten and 
dragged through the scrub if he were caught on her 
father's range. It belonged to Buford Smith.

And Buford Smith was one of the men who worked for Brad 
Rocklin, who was, if not at war with her father, at 
least most unwelcome in this part of Wyoming. Brad 
Rocklin was a sheep man, and that made Sarah Jean 
Collins shudder.

***

Sheep were domesticated 10,000 years ago in Central 
Asia, but it wasn't until 3,500 B.C. that man learned 
to spin wool. Sheep helped to make the spread of 
civilization possible. Sheep production was well 
established during biblical times. There are many 
references to sheep in the Old Testament. Sheep farming 
is man's oldest organized industry. Wool was the first 
commodity of sufficient value to warrant international 
trade.

In the 1400's, Queen Isabella of Spain used money 
derived from the wool industry to finance Columbus and 
other conquistadors' voyages. In 1493 on his second 
voyage to the New World, Columbus took sheep with him 
as a "walking food supply." He left some sheep in Cuba 
and Santo Domingo. In 1519, Cortez began his 
exploration of Mexico and the Western U.S. He took with 
him sheep that were offspring of Columbus' sheep. These 
sheep are believed to be the descendents of what are 
now called "Churros." The Navajo Churro is the oldest 
breed of sheep in the U.S. Despite efforts by the U.S. 
government to replace them, the breed is still raised 
by Navajo Indians.

As useful as sheep were, though, they were also the 
cause of much contention during American history.

During the 16th and 17th centuries, England tried to 
discourage the wool industry in the American colonies. 
Nonetheless, colonists quickly smuggled sheep into the 
states and developed a wool industry. By 1664, there 
were 100,000 sheep in the colonies, and the General 
Court of Massachusetts passed a law requiring youth to 
learn to spin and weave. 

By 1698, America was exporting wool goods. England 
became outraged and outlawed wool trade, making it 
punishable by cutting off the person's right hand. The 
restrictions on sheep raising and wool manufacturing, 
along with the Stamp Act, led to the American 
Revolutionary War. Thus, spinning and weaving were 
considered patriotic acts. Even after the war, England 
enacted a law forbidding the export of any sheep.

George Washington raised sheep on his Mount Vernon 
Estate. Thomas Jefferson kept sheep at Monticello. 
Presidents Washington and Jefferson were both 
inaugurated in suits made of American wool. James 
Madison's inaugural jacket was woven from the wool of 
sheep raised at his home in Virginia. President Woodrow 
Wilson grazed sheep on the White House Lawn.

The sheep industry started in southern Wyoming in the 
1870's along the Union Pacific rail line. The coming of 
the railroad also led to large sheep drives from Oregon 
to the Wyoming along the old Oregon Trail. On some 
drives in the 1880's as many as 20,000 sheep would be 
trailed to Rawlins. Even after the construction of the 
Oregon Short Line, sheep would be trailed from Oregon 
rather than be hauled on trains. 

Even within the state trailing sheep remained the 
general means of transport. In 1928, as an example, a 
herd of 1500 sheep purchased from the Yellowstone Sheep 
Company was trailed from Hudson to Douglas even though 
the railroad was available. The reason was simple. One 
sheepherder with a dog and a sheep wagon, could herd as 
many as two thousand sheep. By 1910 there were over 5 
1/2 million sheep in the state. 

But in the late 1870's during what came to be called 
the U.S. range wars, violent conflicts erupted between 
cattle ranches and sheep herders as both competed for 
land to graze their livestock.

Which brings us back to Sarah Jean Collins, who sat, 
more or less, her horse, on a summer day in 1877. 

Sarah was a cowman's daughter, and, at age sixteen, was 
tougher than most men five years older than her 
nowadays would even hope to be. Her five foot six inch 
frame, which was undeniably as female as any man could 
hope for, belied that toughness. Her hands would have 
convinced anyone that she was a hard worker, but her 
thrusting breasts, unfettered by undergarments that 
women in later years would wear routinely, drew a man's 
eyes away from her hands. 

From there it was difficult to decide whether to look 
at those obviously sweet soft humps under her shirt or 
dress, or at the pretty feminine face that was 
surrounded by a wild halo of bright yellow hair. That 
hair constantly got in her face when she wasn't wearing 
a hat, or had it tied up in ribbons like floppy dog 
ears. Of course it would be normal to let your eyes 
linger on her hips too, as they swelled out from a tiny 
waist, and smoothed into legs that looked too long to 
fit the rest of her body.

A man's eyes could get eyestrain, looking at this girl, 
from his eyes jerking all over the place trying to find 
a place to light.

"You're not supposed to be here," she said, sitting up. 
Her voice held command. Among the men on her pappa's 
ranch, she was untouchable, and her word held sway. Men 
who looked too long at her, or spoke roughly towards 
her didn't last on the Circle C ranch.

"Y'hear that Chaps? We ain't supposed to be here," said 
Buford, sneering. "This here is open range girlie, and 
you nor any of yore high fallutin' folks cain't say 
otherwise."

It was then that Sarah saw the sheep. While they were 
still in the distance, they were everywhere, heads 
down, doing what she knew destroyed the range... her 
father's range... HER range!

"This is Circle C land and you know it," she sneered 
back. My pappa has ranched this land for years. You 
turn those dirty beasts around and get them OFF OUR 
LAND!" she yelled.

Buford smiled widely, unaffected by her outburst. Then, 
in what was obviously supposed to be a lightning quick, 
smooth, and impressive maneuver, he jerked the pistol 
out of the holster he was wearing and pointed it in the 
direction of Sarah.

The only problem was that, while it was quick, it was 
by no means smooth, and as far from impressive as 
drawing a weapon could get. In the first place, Buford 
had been practicing that draw while shooting at tin 
cans, so his muscles, which meant only to draw the 
weapon to impress the girl, caused his thumb to cock 
the hammer back. Buford's brain realized that something 
was wrong, and he looked at the pistol, as his 
forefinger held the trigger back and he took his thumb 
off the hammer.

It might have been a comedic moment, as the Colt fired, 
and flipped out of the startled man's hand, to spin, 
now gracefully, backwards as it headed for the dirt.

But the bullet grazed Daisy's neck, where her mane 
erupted from the skin.

Daisy was a well trained quarter horse, who would turn 
on a dime, stop or start in an instant, and who would 
go up against a longhorn with not a care in the world. 
But Daisy had never been shot before, and she reared at 
the burn of the bullet that removed a .44 caliber patch 
of her mane.

Sarah Jean Collins slid helplessly off the back of her 
horse and landed square on the top of her head as Daisy 
scampered and bucked, and then ran for home at a full 
gallop.

Sarah saw stars, and then everything went black. 

Both Buford and his even less intelligent sidekick, 
known only as "Chaps" stared at the girl on the ground.

"Yuh SHOT her Buford!" gasped Chaps. "What did yuh do 
THAT fer?"

"I didn't shoot her you idiot," said a very pale faced 
Buford. "The gun went off and skeered her horse."

"She looks pretty dead to me," said Chaps, taking his 
hat off and scratching his head. I don't think yuh 
ought to have done that Buford."

Buford sighed, once again, as he wondered why he had 
been saddled with this man. True, Chaps was probably 
the only human on earth who would call Buford his 
friend, but putting up with him was like putting up 
with sheep. It just rankled a man. 

Buford thought hard, which meant it was quiet for 
fifteen seconds, other than the distant bleating of the 
sheep, and the occasional bark of Queen, the dog that 
actually did all the work when the sheep were being 
handled. Buford couldn't talk and think at the same 
time.

"We got tuh get her to a line shack somewheres," he 
finally announced. "You know, hide her away." His 
cretinous brain ground on further and his excitement 
grew. "We can hold her for ransom! And make that damn 
pappy of hers pay for her, to get her back. And then 
we'll have a stake and we can light out of here and 
live like kings. Yeah! That's what we'll do!"

Chaps screwed up his brow and put his hat back on. "I 
don't know Buford. That don't seem right to me somehow. 
Won't her pa be all upset?"

Buford looked at his... friend... and scowled. "Whatta 
you think her pa's gonna do if he comes along and finds 
her here like this, and with us here too? You think 
he'll ask any questions? He'll gun us both down Chaps, 
fer sure. An she knows who we are now. If'n we just 
leave her here they'll come lookin' fer us fer sure. 
Takin' her fer ransom is the only way out of this. Now 
get her up on behind me and let's get the hell out of 
here before that horse of hers gets back to the barn 
and they know somethin's up."

***

Sarah woke up confused and in pain. Everything hurt. 
Her head ached abysmally, and her stomach and chest 
hurt. She felt her wrists painfully too. Then the musty 
odor of burlap filled her nostrils. Her eyes blinked 
open to a dim light. She couldn't tell what she was 
looking at until her nose reminded her that it had to 
be burlap. There was a burlap bag over her head. It was 
stifling, and she tried to move her hands to get it 
away from her face. But her hands wouldn't move and the 
pain in her wrists increased. Her shoulder joints were 
on fire too. Clarity seeped into her head as she 
realized she was bound. Then movement under her 
resolved itself into the knowledge that she was tied 
face down on a horse that was walking. 

She opened her mouth to take in a breath to complain, 
and the bag sucked into her open mouth. Spitting it 
out, she moaned uncomfortably. 

"I think she's awake," came the voice she suddenly 
realized belonged to Chaps.

"Don't matter. Not much further now." came another 
voice, that of Buford. Memory flooded back into her 
mind and she wiggled again, subsiding with another moan 
at the pain in her raw wrists and shoulders.

"Be still," barked Buford and she felt a hand slap her 
upraised bottom. It was a hard slap, and she gave a 
muffled squeak of outrage.

Despite what she'd heard, the ride seemed to go on 
forever. She bit her lip as tears streamed from her 
eyes. The pain was almost unbearable. The only thing 
that pushed past that pain was the feel of a hand, on 
her buttocks, rubbing and pinching.

That was when she began to get scared.

***

Frank Collins was oiling tack when Daisy cantered into 
the yard, riderless and without a saddle. He knew 
instantly that something was wrong, because he knew his 
sister, Sarah, had taken off on Daisy that morning. He 
whistled, and Daisy veered toward him, tossing her head 
and snorting. She looked angry, or scared. When she 
nuzzled him, he felt the dried blood matted in her mane 
before he saw the thin dark stain that ran down her 
chocolate brown neck.

***

Molly Collins was baking pies, and thinking about what 
her husband had done to her last night. She still felt, 
or imagined she felt, the warmth of the spend he'd left 
in her womb after riding her for almost an hour. Their 
lovemaking had always been a wild and torrid thing, 
since the first night Jonas had brought her to the 
ranch as his bride. She had been a frightened girl back 
then, but he had transformed her that night, and the 
next day people looked at her twice, trying to figure 
out what it was about her that was so completely 
different. What had transformed her was the gentle love 
of a man who, while he didn't know a thing about women, 
understood scared foals, and bawling calves better than 
he understood himself.

He had taken his time, hard though that was, and had 
coaxed his young bride along until she was the one who 
was pushing and pulling at him, demanding more, 
laughing and crying so much that he was almost 
ashamedly glad that the men had stayed in town that 
night.

Since then it had been like that almost every time they 
coupled. And they coupled a lot. He knew every inch of 
her body, and she was just as familiar with him. It 
didn't embarrass her to inspect each dark and hidden 
place about him. 

One time she had sat on his back, while he pretended to 
be the horse. She was facing his feet and laughing as 
she spanked him gently, grinding her wet sex into his 
back. When she leaned over and parted his buttocks, 
curious to see what he looked like between them, he 
became wild, cursing as her finger probed. That was the 
night she had taken him into her mouth as he lay, agog, 
unbelieving as his virginal wife did things to him he 
hadn't even imagined before.

Since then she had made him her slave, demanding that 
he do the same kinds of things to her. He had resisted 
mightily, thinking that no normal man would stoop to 
put his tongue where she wanted it. But, once she had 
bullied him into it, he found her taste to be 
intoxicating. After that, there was almost nothing he 
wouldn't try if she was curious enough to ask for it. 
He would die a thousand deaths before admitting some of 
the things they did, but he looked forward to each and 
every night with Molly.

She had become even more wild and demanding after he 
impregnated her the first time, and sometimes she went 
much longer than he could. Still, she had a way about 
her that made it clear that what she needed most was... 
him. She needed his soul, his essence, and she drank 
that in through his body when they made love. She made 
it impossible to feel less than a man who could compete 
with the mythical gods.

He had given her two more babies before a long horned 
steer snagged him in the crotch and threw him fifteen 
feet like he was a rag doll.
 
After she was assured he'd live, and would recover to 
walk and work, Molly had been almost as anxious about 
his recovery as he was. It had almost killed him to lie 
abed for a month, but the first time he got up and took 
a few steps he couldn't wait to get back to the hated 
bed again. Still, he was back on his feet a week later, 
limping around and doing what he termed "wimmens work". 
As to whether his sexual equipment would recover, Jonas 
had wanted to know sooner than the doctor said was 
wise, and it was Molly who pushed her delicate face 
into his grizzled one and snarled that if he ruined 
himself by trying too early, she'd cut it off and save 
him the trouble.

Conversely, after making him wait an entire month past 
when Doc Granger said it was OK to "test out the Bull", 
her tenderness and patience had been exactly what he 
needed to be soothed enough to let things happen 
naturally. The upshot was that his penis still worked, 
but the babies had stopped after that. 

Molly rolled out another crust, thinking that it was 
too bad. She'd wanted six or seven children to assure 
the future of the Collins line. She was comforted by 
the fact that both Peter and Frank were strong young 
men. Sarah was the essence of motherhood too, though 
she resisted taking up that mantle. Molly sighed as she 
thought she'd have to have another talk with Sarah. At 
least she'd been excited about the new dress, and about 
going to the dance. That was an improvement, at least. 
If only she wasn't so picky about the boys she could 
have her pick of.

Frank's scream stopped Molly's movements as if she'd 
been frozen instantly, and the cold ran straight to her 
spine. That scream had the sound of panic, but not pain 
to a mother's ears, and she turned, looking first to 
the shotgun on the wall by the door. Frank yelled 
again, and this time she could hear the drawn out and 
panicked "Mawww" in it.

She grabbed the gun off the wall, broke it open to make 
sure it was loaded and then snapped it closed again 
while reaching for the door. Only the sound of Frank's 
boot heels on the porch gave her enough warning to step 
sideways as the door burst open and Frank rushed 
through, heading immediately for the kitchen.

"FRANK!" she shouted.

He spun, overbalancing, and his shoulder hit the wall 
hard enough to shake her collection of rare plates 
displayed on a shelf that ran the entire length of the 
wall up high. Molly's eyes darted toward the plates, 
but then snapped back to her son. The plates weren't as 
important as whatever had set him off. Frank was the 
calm one.

"Sarah's horse," he burst out. "It came back. She's not 
on it and it's bleeding."

Molly's existence as a rancher's wife had tempered her 
in ways that made her tough as nails. Clamping down on 
her own panic, she opened the door and pointed, not 
needing to say anything. She took the shotgun with her, 
even though it probably wasn't needed. It made her calm 
to feel its weight in her hand.

Daisy was standing at the stock tank, head down, 
drinking. Frank patted her withers and Molly saw the 
blood at the same time he pointed it out. As she parted 
the blood matted hair at the base of the mane, Daisy 
snorted and stepped sideways until Molly cooed at her. 
A quick look-over found no other injuries.

"You father is in Ford's gulch, rounding up strays. 
Peter and Buckshot are with him. I'm going to start 
backtracking Daisy. You ride Widowmaker and go get 
them." 

Frank was off at a dead run as Molly yelled after him. 
"BE CAREFUL!"

Widowmaker was the fastest horse on the ranch. Jonas, 
and sometimes one of the boys, rode him at local fairs 
in the races the stockmen threw together and bet 
astonishing amounts of money on. His name belied his 
temperament. He was a sweet horse, who loved to run. He 
worked cattle pretty happily too, but he purely loved 
to run. Molly heard the clatter of hooves as she went 
into the house, skinned out of her dress and pulled on 
leather pants, and a bright red and white blouse. She 
stomped on her boots and grabbed a hat before getting a 
few things she hoped she wouldn't need when she found 
Sarah and packing them into a set of saddlebags she had 
tooled herself.

For her own mount Molly chose Vixen, a quarter horse 
mare who stood almost fifteen hands high. She wanted 
Vixen because she was voice broke, and would follow 
spoken commands. She could also see farther from 
Vixen's back, rather than her own horse, Tulip. She 
took Tulip along too, but not to ride.

Jonas, like most stockmen who shoed their own horses, 
made every set of shoes in recognizable patterns. With 
a quick look at Daisy's left front hoof, Molly saw the 
V shaped notch at the toe and knew that all four shoes 
would exhibit the same sign. She cursed under her 
breath for forgetting to ask Frank what direction Daisy 
came in from, but started looking towards the North, 
the direction Sarah had left in that morning. It only 
took her five minutes to pick up Daisy's back trail. 
She could see it easily even from up as high as she 
was.

Molly Collins set Vixen a mild canter and let the horse 
watch where they were going. Molly kept her eyes in the 
ground, looking for more of those notched hoof prints. 
They were there, dug in and far apart. Daisy had been 
at a dead run when she approached the ranch. That was 
odd. Horses usually only stayed scared for a short 
while, and then stopped to nibble. They'd come home, 
but they usually took their time about it. Whatever had 
happened to Sarah had scared Daisy enough to make her 
run for miles, unless, of course, Sarah wasn't far away 
at all. 

***

Frank, besides forgetting to tell his mother which 
direction Daisy ran in from, also forgot, or maybe 
didn't think to take Daisy with him when he went to get 
his father. Had he been a little older, he'd have known 
that the first thing his father would do was examine 
the horse's hooves, to see what color of dust was on 
the fetlocks. It wasn't a sure fire piece of 
information, but Jonas Collins knew his range well, and 
he knew what soil types belonged to what areas.

Had Jonas known that Daisy's hooves were stained with 
red dust, he'd have known immediately that Sarah had 
cut through Ute Canyon, and he would have ridden 
straight there. But he didn't know that, and the only 
way he could determine where to look was the same way 
his wife was currently using. 

Jonas was unhappy about all this, whatever it was. He 
and his foreman and son had collected thirty-five 
strays and had them bunched up and ready to move when 
his younger son came flying toward them on Widowmaker. 
The horse, after a mere five miles, didn't want to 
stop, and danced under Frank as he tried to tell his 
father what had happened. 

Jonas hated to leave the small herd; because he knew 
they'd fragment and have to be rounded up all over 
again. He also believed, in that way that strong men 
have of thinking, that there was probably nothing 
wrong. Sarah had probably gotten off of Daisy to water 
the flowers and something had spooked the horse. Daisy 
could work cattle, but she was lazy about it, and that 
colored Jonas' opinion of her worth.

So they had to return to the ranch first, to get more 
information from Sarah's horse, and to find her back 
trail.

His attitude changed instantly as he peeled apart the 
mane hairs and examined the wound on Daisy's neck.

"Bullet!" he growled.

"Buckshot" Anderson, so-named because of the small 
pieces of lead still residing in his buttocks, and 
placed there when he was much younger, by the father of 
a girl who'd objected to his attentions toward her, 
crowded up and pushed his boss out of the way. He 
peered at the crusty raw wound that was a perfect semi-
circle into the flesh of the horse, right where the 
hair should be growing out of the neck. 

He idly thought that that hair would never grow there 
again, but then sobered as he realized Jonas was right. 
Peter, Jonas' elder son, tried to see what the older 
men were looking at. He knew not to speak. Questions 
could come later, but when his father was busy, or 
thinking, you didn't bother him.

The men examined the rest of the horse intently, at 
which time Jonas saw the red dust on her fetlocks.

"She used Ute Canyon," said Jonas shortly. "Peter, get 
your Winchester." he ordered without looking at the 
boy. "And extra ammunition." he added. He glanced over 
at Buckshot. "You think you can find that telescope you 
got hidden away?"

Buckshot nodded and moved off. Jonas got another box of 
bullets for his own rifle, which he carried with him 
habitually, and stuffed them in his saddlebags with an 
extra canteen as well. He saw that Buckshot also 
brought extra water, along with a short brass tube that 
he was wrapping in a piece of cloth. Jonas mounted his 
horse as he saw Peter running toward him, excited, as 
usual. At least he wasn't yammering... yet. Frank came 
tearing out of the house belting on the double holster 
and Colt pistols he had won riding Widowmaker at a 
Rodeo a year ago. They were garish guns, with pearl 
handles... sissy guns to Jonas' way of thinking.

"Frank, you stay here and keep an eye on the place," he 
ordered tersely.

"Paaa!" complained the boy. "I want to go with you!"

"We don't know what's going on," said Jonas, as 
patiently as he could. "There's a gunshot wound on your 
sister's horse. Could be Indians... could be bandits... 
could be those damn sheep farmers. Trouble's been 
brewing ever since they invaded the range. I don't want 
this place left unguarded. You do what I say, boy," he 
finished.

"Yes, Sir," said the dejected teenager. He kicked the 
dust with his boot toe.

"See to that wound on Daisy," said Jonas. "And rub down 
Widowmaker. You rode him hard today." He nudged his 
horse with one knee and the animal turned instantly 
away from the nudge. Over his shoulder, as the horse 
stepped out, Jonas yelled "AND DON'T SHOOT YOURSELF 
WITH THOSE DAMNED TOY PISTOLS!"

The other two men mounted up and the group moved 
directly toward the same path that Molly had taken. Now 
they galloped, knowing where they were going, and eager 
to get there.

Frank looked around, waited until his father was out of 
sight, picked a knothole in a fence post in the corral 
and, in a draw that would have left his father standing 
slack-jawed, fired one shot. The knothole burst outward 
as the hard wood was displaced by a .44 caliber bullet 
that struck dead in the center of the target. 

Frank stood and looked at what was left of that target, 
while his fingers automatically opened the loading gate 
of the pistol he had used, ejected the spent case, and 
loaded a fresh round into the cylinder. Almost idly he 
spun the pistol backwards around his trigger finger and 
let it drop back in the holster. He had secretly been 
practicing with his guns for a year, and, though he 
didn't know it, he had become amazingly good with them.

Then, kicking the dirt with his toe again, he went to 
take care of Daisy and Widowmaker.


CHAPTER TWO


Sarah knew she was in some kind of trouble. She didn't 
know why she was in that trouble. Something had 
happened that didn't match up with her experience. What 
should have happened was that, when she found the 
trespassers on her father's land, they should have 
tucked their tails between their legs and hastened to 
get their nasty little grass killers back where they 
belonged. Wherever that was.

Sarah's attitude towards sheep, and the men who raised 
them, was the product of her father's attitude towards 
the same subjects. Jonas had been prepared to dislike 
sheep from the beginning. Actually, he was prepared to 
dislike any animal that ate what his cattle ate, 
including cattle belonging to other ranchers. Wyoming 
was a fine place to raise cattle, as long as you were 
the only one doing it. When more and more people began 
to filter into the land, the resources soon became 
stressed, and that stressed Jonas.

All it had taken was coming upon a sheep trail just 
once. He had smelled it first, and then came upon the 
mass of tracks that went from side to side as far as he 
could see from his horse. This flock of sheep had left 
a broad bare swath, weed less, grassless, flowerless, 
in their wake. Where sheep grazed they destroyed. That 
was what Jonas had against them.

He didn't know that the flock he had seen the results 
of were badly trailed, allowed to move much too slowly 
and thus over feed. He didn't know that, if sheep were 
moved properly, as nomadic people had done for 
thousands of years that their passage would be almost 
invisible in a few weeks time. He didn't know and he 
didn't care to learn. The solution was simple to him. 
He was there first. Take the damn sheep back to Oregon, 
where they came from.

Some of the other ranchers had been talking of 
proclaiming a "Dead Line" along the Green River. They 
wanted to post signs that said in no uncertain terms 
that any sheep that crossed the line was dead as soon 
as a cattleman saw it. Some of the hotter heads 
suggested that there wouldn't be much difference in 
shooting sheep, or the men who herded them.

Jonas was, despite his rough exterior and almost surly 
countenance, a thoughtful man. He was fully aware that 
a herd of sheep could easily contain five thousand 
animals. You could bankrupt yourself buying ammunition 
if you actually planned on shooting sheep. Even if you 
did, you were left with having to clean up the 
carcasses. On the other hand, if there were dead sheep 
lying around, maybe the wolves would leave the calves 
alone. He didn't spend a lot of time thinking about it. 
So far, the nearest sheep farmer, a man by the name of 
Brad Rocklin, hadn't caused him any problems. There 
were no sheep on his land, to his knowledge, and as 
long as it stayed that way, things were fine.

The only problem was that, like a lot of cattlemen in 
the late 1800s, Jonas Collins viewed a lot of land as 
"his" that many other people, including the United 
States Government, defined as public land, or open 
range. And, to those people, Jonas didn't have any 
right to keep anyone off of that land.

Brad Rocklin was one of those people.

***

Brad Rocklin was currently treating sheep that had been 
brought in for one ailment or another by Charley Kemp 
and Buster, the alpha male sheep dog of Brad's 
operation. Every so often the whole flock was run back 
to the ranch house and weak animals were culled out. 
Sometimes they were treated and re-inserted into the 
flock. Sometimes they became supper. It all depended on 
what was wrong with them. 

Buster had a sixth sense about which sheep were in less 
than perfect condition and when Charley worked him to 
find those sheep Buster went about it with single 
minded concentration.

First he'd just range through the flock. It looked for 
all the world like he was just running back and forth 
as the sheep opened corridors for him. In that 
situation the sheep seemed to know they weren't being 
herded, and didn't shy away from the dog like they 
usually did. That's how dogs herded sheep... by making 
them shy away in the direction the dog wanted them to 
go. The dog took his cues from the shepherd. A well 
trained dog only had to see the shepherd walk off in 
some direction, perhaps with a whistle or yell of a 
command, but not always, and the sheep would appear to 
follow as the dog went to work. 

It was actually a combination of things that moved a 
flock of sheep. There was a dominant ewe in the herd, 
the matriarch, and most sheep followed wherever she 
led. She too was trained to follow the shepherd, based 
on cues and commands. What the dog did was take care of 
the beasts that didn't follow the ewe.

But when Buster was "evaluating" the flock, it was 
almost as if he was counting how many of the animals 
would need to be culled out of the flock. Once he had 
done that, then, with little nips and the clacking of 
teeth, he picked out those animals he wanted and moved 
them through the flock toward Charley. Once there, the 
number two bitch, one of Buster's offspring named Lisa, 
was being trained to keep the chosen sheep bunched up. 
She did that by running in circles around them, which 
she loved. She had taken to it naturally, watching her 
mother work. Her two brothers weren't quite as smart. 
At least not yet. They were penned up when the flock 
was home, so that Charley could work on firming up 
Lisa's training without having to pay attention to 
their antics.

That had happened the day before, and Buster had culled 
out thirty four animals. Brad and Charley were now 
evaluating each one, having sent his two hands and best 
dog, Queen, who was also Buster's mate, out to graze 
the rest of the flock. Brad had told them exactly where 
to take the flock, a piece of open range that had good 
grass. As usual he told Buford not to leave them in any 
one place too long, but to keep them moving so they 
didn't overgraze the land. 

There was plenty of land for the twenty-five hundred 
sheep Brad ran in his flock, as long as they kept 
moving. Soon it would be time to run the flock up into 
the mountains, where the high meadows, lush with grass 
watered by melting snows from above, would feed them 
until late fall. While they were up there, he'd process 
the wool that had been shorn off the sheep when winter 
was over. That was still piled high in a barn.

Brad was cleaning an infected hoof when his son, Bobby, 
wandered up and stood watching. Bobby was a good boy, 
but he didn't have sheep in his blood. He did whatever 
his father asked of him, but Brad knew Bobby would 
never take over the business when his father was too 
old to do the work. Brad himself had gotten into sheep 
by accident, back in Oregon, when he needed a job and 
that was the only one he could find. Well, there had 
been the owner's daughter too. The first time he'd seen 
Amanda she had taken his breath away. 

A short girl, only fifteen at the time, with long 
strawberry colored hair and a temper to go with it, she 
had been upbraiding a cowboy who had ridden too close 
to her and bumped her with his horse. Dressed in jeans 
and a man's shirt, the girl had reached out and slapped 
the horse on the butt, making it jump and sidestep. The 
cowboy had almost fallen off, and two of his friends 
had laughed at him. He'd wheeled the horse, aiming to 
go back and teach the upstart girl some manners, but 
had found Brad suddenly standing between him and the 
girl. 

When the cowboy persisted, riding toward Brad as if to 
walk over him, Brad had taken the bridle of the horse 
in hand and, in a trick taught to him by an Indian 
friend, had caused the horse to dip his head and roll 
onto his side, trapping the cowboy's leg underneath.

Luckily, the sheriff had seen the whole incident from 
the porch of the jail, and arrived in time to stop 
anyone from shooting Brad. Amanda had given him a kiss 
as a reward and invited him to dinner at her house. He 
got a good dinner, a job, and another kiss in the 
process.

Amanda's father was the owner of almost thirty thousand 
sheep in the Oregon territory, and he had a hundred men 
working for him. He had no use for Brad, particularly 
when he saw how his daughter looked at the man. But 
Amanda was stronger than her father and when they got 
married, Brad was suddenly the owner of five hundred 
sheep. He had almost screwed that up, except Amanda 
saved him there too. 

It was Amanda who found the right dogs, and taught him 
everything he hadn't yet learned about sheep, and urged 
him to leave Oregon and establish a ranch in Wyoming, 
where they would be closer to the markets for both meat 
and wool. The United States Army had a voracious 
appetite for both, and being so much closer to Army 
points of delivery gave them an advantage over their 
western brothers. For one thing they could just trail 
the sheep to market, rather than having to pay rail 
fees. For another, cartage for wool was less expensive 
since there were no mountains involved.

"Dad," Brad's reminiscences were interrupted by Bobby.

"What?" asked Brad, wrapping up the hoof he'd just put 
salve on.

"My chores are done," said Bobby.

"Well find something else to do," said Brad, looking at 
a deep scratch on a lamb's hindquarters, trying to 
figure out what had caused it.

"Everything's done," said Bobby.

Charley snorted. He was Brad's foreman, and had been 
with him since he and Amanda had gotten married. Amanda 
had marched up to him one day and informed him that he 
now worked for her, instead of her father. Charley had 
grinned, packed up the few things he owned, and 
followed Amanda off the farm where she'd just stolen 
him. He was just a lead hand then. Amanda had made him 
"Foreman", but he took a cut in pay. He was Amanda's 
uncle. 

The only time Charley listened to her, or more 
correctly deferred to her after that was when they were 
in public, and non-family members were around. Their 
relationship was tumultuous and loving at the same 
time. Amanda would tell him what she wanted done and 
he'd tell her what he was going to do. More often than 
not, those two things differed, sometimes 
significantly. Amanda stomped her foot and made dire 
threats, all of which rolled off Charley's back like 
water off a duck. 

He just grinned insolently as she railed, and then went 
off and did what he knew was best. The fact that 
Amanda, who thought she knew everything about sheep 
ranching, but was smart enough to know when she'd made 
a mistake, kept things more or less peaceful. She was 
smart enough to know when Charley called the shots 
correctly, even though she had never once admitted she 
had been wrong. 
Charley snorted because he knew there was NEVER a time 
on a ranch when "everything" had been done.

"Go see what your mamma needs done," said Brad, peering 
at the lamb's injury.

"She sent me down here," said Bobby heavily. "Said I 
was under foot."

Charley snorted again, but didn't say anything. He knew 
Bobby's heart wasn't in sheep ranching too. He was the 
only one, however, who knew that what Bobby really 
wanted to do was be a mountain man, trapping furs and 
hunting big game. Bobby had confided in him around a 
campfire one night, while they were tending the flock. 
He thought it was a ridiculous idea, but didn't try to 
talk Bobby out of it, exactly. Charley had a wild 
streak in him too though, and knew how the boy felt. 
Instead, he set about teaching the boy what he'd have 
to know to be a successful mountain man, thinking that, 
when he found out how hard it was, and how much 
knowledge would be required, and how dangerous it was, 
the boy would change his mind.

That hadn't happened yet, to Charley's surprise. Every 
task he'd set the boy had been attacked with vigor, and 
completed successfully. Bobby was an ace shot with a 
Sharps buffalo rifle, or Winchester. He could track 
with the best of them, and he understood predators as 
well or better than Charley did. More than once he'd 
taken on bear or wolf and ended up the victor. 

But Charley didn't mention any of this to his sister or 
brother-in-law. He knew what Amanda would say if she 
found out the kinds of things Charley had been teaching 
her fair-haired boy, and he knew Brad couldn't keep a 
secret from Amanda to save his soul. He didn't know 
what he was going to do if the boy didn't tire of his 
dream soon. In the meantime, he just didn't mention 
Bobby's dream to either of Bobby's parents, and made 
sure that Bobby knew not to as well.

"Clean the stalls," said Brad.

"Did that already," said Bobby.

"Fence around your mother's garden needs work," said 
Brad.

"Did that too," said Bobby.

"How about the tack? Did you oil it?" asked Brad, 
looking up at his son.

"Yep. Finished that yesterday," said Bobby smugly.

"All of it?" asked Brad.

"All of it," said Bobby firmly.

"Find a tool that's rusty and put some lanolin on it," 
suggested Brad.

"Dad, I did that last week," said Bobby, a whine 
beginning to creep into his voice.

"Well find SOMETHING to do, dammit." Brad's voice began 
to rise.

"Can't I go out with the flock or something?" asked 
Bobby.

"You know I don't like you hanging around Buford," said 
his father, slathering a medicine on the lamb's injury. 
Amanda made the stuff from plants she knew about. Brad 
had no idea what was in it, but it worked well.

"You know you can't trust him to move the flock like 
he's supposed to either," said Bobby. "I can ride out 
and make sure he's not overgrazing. Didn't you say 
there's been some trouble with the cowmen about that?"

"Yes," said Brad firmly. "I DID say that, and you 
should know that if there's trouble with some cowboys, 
that's the last place you need to be."

"OK," said Bobby. "How about I take a wagon up to the 
high pastures and restock the shack up there?"

Charley snorted again. Now he understood. Bobby was 
trying to get up into the mountains, where he could 
have all kinds of excuses to do all kinds of things 
that had nothing whatsoever to do with pasturing sheep. 
The high meadows were up above the heat of the plains, 
with trees and wildlife and plenty of water from 
snowmelt. 
 
"You know I already stocked that camp," said his 
father.

"I could check on it then... to make sure nobody's 
messed with it," suggested Bobby.

"Who'd mess with it?" asked Brad. "Nobody even knows we 
go up there. The cowboys won't take their steers up 
there because they walk off too much weight getting up 
the mountain."

"Maybe a drifter has set himself up in our camp," said 
Bobby, reaching for any reason to go.

"And if he has?" asked Brad, looking at his son. "What 
exactly would you do about that? Run him off? How? All 
you'd do is get yourself hurt and then your mother 
would make my life miserable."

"Come on Dad, there has to be something I can do," 
complained Bobby.

Brad didn't want to argue any more. He was getting hot 
under the collar and he didn't like being that way 
either. "OK, ride out to the flock and tell Buford to 
start moving them up toward the high meadows. It's a 
week early, so tell him to take his time, and weave 
them back and forth between here and the foothills. 
How's that?"

"That will only take me a few hours," complained Bobby.

"Well, you could always oil tools you've already oiled, 
or clean stalls you've already cleaned. I bet you two 
ewes and a good dog there are weeds in your mamma's 
garden."

"OK, OK, I'll go out there and tell Buford and Chaps to 
start them up toward the mountain," said Bobby, moving 
off. Maybe he could stretch this trip out to four 
hours. "I'll take a look around and see if there's any 
wolf sign," he said over his shoulder.

Brad looked up and frowned. Then he looked at Charley. 
"What would he know about wolf sign?" he asked.

Charley grinned. "Oh, you know. Turds is turds, but 
maybe even he can tell the difference between dog turds 
and wolf turds. He's just lookin' for something to do 
anyway."

***

An hour later Bobby arrived at where, to his mind, the 
flock should be.

But it wasn't there.

It had been there. That much was plain. There were 
tracks everywhere, and the area had been grazed. There 
was a wide swath of tracks that led off to the East, 
but that was wrong. That was toward the Collins spread, 
and his father kept a five mile buffer zone between his 
sheep and the Collins cattle. He didn't want trouble, 
and there was plenty of other land on which to graze 
the flock.

Bobby followed the tracks, and grew even more unhappy 
as they led straight toward what Bobby knew was where 
there could be a thousand head of cattle grazing. He 
had gone six more miles and it was late afternoon 
before he spotted the flock. 

What he didn't spot was two horses that should have 
been easily visible standing above the sheep, or the 
two men who should have been riding those horses.

As he neared the grazing flock, Queen bounded up to 
meet him, barking and wagging her tail. Bobby got down 
off his horse which pawed at the ground and whickered, 
probably a greeting to the dog. After ruffling the fur 
on Queen's head he asked her where Buford and Chaps 
were, and then, knowing she couldn't tell him, got back 
up on his horse and began circling the flock, looking 
for sign. 

The first thing he saw was that the flock had been on 
this piece of ground too long, and had eaten the grass 
down to the roots. That was the difference between 
sheep and cattle or horses. Cattle and horses bit into 
a tuft of grass and pulled, tearing it, and then 
chewing. As they lowered their heads for another bite, 
it was almost impossible to end up at the same place 
the last grass had been pulled up, so there were tufts 
of grass left to keep growing and spread. 

Sheep's teeth were arranged so that they could bite 
through the blades, and then reach for more, biting 
through that too. They didn't raise and lower their 
heads when they grazed, and would eat a tuft down to 
the ground and then move their head to keep doing that. 
Unless they kept moving, sheep would eat the grass to 
death, so to speak.

Queen barked that special bark that meant "strangers" 
and Bobby looked around. He saw a horse in the distance 
and, as it got closer he saw a woman riding it. She was 
wearing a hat like most westerners did, commonly called 
a cowboy hat, with a wide brim that protected the eyes 
from the sun, and the head from rain. Bobby didn't know 
who she was, but it was unlikely she was just out for a 
pleasure ride, and the flock was now close to the 
Collins spread. 

She was still some distance off, so Bobby kept looking 
at the ground as me moved his horse along. He came to a 
place where the ground was scuffed, and there were a 
number of horseshoe prints in the dirt. He recognized 
two of them as belonging to horses that Chaps and 
Buford would be riding. There was a third set he didn't 
recognize. He got down again, seeing something that was 
the wrong color, and found a small patch of cloth stuck 
in the thorns of a plant. 

It wasn't so much a patch of cloth, as a large number 
of threads torn from the edge of a piece of cloth. They 
were blue. They were also faded, and could have been 
here for a long time. He was puzzling out something 
that looked like drag marks in the soil when he heard 
the other horse approach.

"What are these sheep doing on our land?" came an 
imperious female voice.

Bobby stood and turned to look up at the woman. He 
recognized her, having seen her in town.

"You're Miz Collins," he said.

"And you're the Rocklin boy," she said back. "Now, 
answer my question. What are these sheep doing on our 
land?"

"Ma'am, in the first place they're not supposed to be 
here. That's..."

"I already know that young man," interrupted the woman 
impatiently. "I want to know why they ARE here."

"Ma'am, if you'll let me finish, I might be able to 
answer your question," said Bobby. Adults didn't faze 
him. He had been around a lot of adults who were 
stupid, or vain, or just plain mean, so just being an 
adult didn't get you much respect from Bobby Rocklin. 
He was polite, or tried to be, but if you wanted his 
respect you had to show you deserved it. He stood and 
looked at the woman, who was still mounted. For the 
first time he saw she had a Winchester cradled in her 
arm, lying across her thighs. It was more or less 
pointed in his direction.
Neither of them said anything for a few seconds.

"You're impertinent, young man," sniffed the woman.

"No, Ma'am, I am not," Bobby disagreed. "You asked me a 
question, and I'll be happy to answer it if you'll just 
let me." He waited to see if she'd respond.

Her horse moved toward his and the woman spoke a 
command, backing her horse up a little. She was riding 
a mare. Bobby hoped that mare wasn't in season, because 
if she was, his mount might cause trouble. He looked at 
his horse, which was a stallion, but it was standing 
more or less placidly. Its ears were up, and it was 
looking at the mare, but that was all for now. 

"Well... get on with it then," said the woman in an 
exasperated tone of voice.

"Thank you," said Bobby. "As I was saying, my pa has 
told us not to graze the flock too close to your land. 
This, I believe, is open range, but he's trying to be 
neighborly." The woman's face screwed up and she opened 
her mouth, but he went on, not giving her a chance to 
complain, like he expected she would. Cow people all 
seemed to think that all land was "theirs" for some 
reason. "The two men who were supposed to be watching 
the flock are missing, and the flock has strayed over 
here. I was trying to figure out where they went when 
you rode up. There's some strange horse tracks mixed in 
with theirs, but I haven't figured that out yet."

"What tracks?" the woman said, sounding suddenly 
interested.

Bobby turned and went to one of the strange prints, 
which was clear in the dirt. He leaned over an pointed.

"Here's one," he said. "If you get down you can see it 
better."

"I can see just fine from up here," said the woman. 
"That track belongs to the horse my daughter was 
riding. I'm looking for her."

"Well, I haven't seen anybody," said Bobby. "I just got 
here a few minutes before you did. But something's 
wrong. Those men should be here. Well, not here, but 
they should be with the flock." He stood back up and 
looked at Mrs. Collins. "There was some kind of scuffle 
here too."

"What?!" she asked. Now she did step down from her 
horse. She brought the rifle with her. "What are you 
talking about?"

"See here?" he pointed. "These drag marks? They look 
like they were made by the heels of a pair of boots." 
He leaned down and pulled at the blue fibers. He held 
them up. "I don't know how long these have been here, 
but they didn't grow on that plant."

Molly peered at the fibers. She couldn't remember what 
Sarah was wearing that morning. Wait. Yes, she was 
dressed like a man. Now Molly remembered. She was 
trying to get Sarah to act like a woman, and it was a 
long haul. She had been wearing one of Frank's old 
shirts. And it was blue! She reached out for the fibers 
and took them, bringing them close to her face.

"I think this is from the shirt Sarah was wearing," she 
said. She frowned. "What have you done with my 
daughter?" The rifle came up and now it was pointed 
directly at his stomach.

"I haven't done anything with your daughter, Ma'am," he 
said, taking a step backward. He wasn't armed. There 
was a rifle just like hers in a scabbard on the side of 
his horse, but that was ten feet away. "I told you, I'm 
looking for our men."

Molly stared at the boy. He had been nothing but 
polite, but he was a sheep herder, and she had no use 
for sheep or their herders. But he had pointed out 
things that, if he were guilty of something, he would 
have tried to keep secret.

Queen had been making her rounds, keeping the flock 
bunched up, and she came around to nuzzle at Bobby's 
knee, wanting to be noticed. Molly's horse didn't like 
having the dog so close, and sidestepped away from 
them. Molly reached for the hanging reins, but missed.

"She won't bother your horse, Ma'am," said Bobby.

"She's already bothered my horse," Molly barked. She 
was worried now, and being worried made her 
argumentative.

Bobby ignored her combative response. "Look, Ma'am, I 
want to know just as much as you do what happened here. 
Those men aren't much, but they wouldn't have gone off 
and left the flock without a reason."

Molly wanted to be angry with this sheep herder boy, 
but his attitude was so different than what she'd 
expected that she was thrown off guard a little. 
"Sarah's horse came back without her. It was injured."

"Injured? How?" asked Bobby.

"I don't know for sure," admitted Molly. It had 
something wrong with its neck. It had been bleeding. It 
looked like it had been cut or something. There was a 
little piece of mane missing."

Bobby ranged around the area, looking at tracks. His 
uncle had taught him better than anyone might have 
known. Bobby saw where the strange horse had been 
standing, and then had jumped sideways. There were two 
hoof prints, walking backwards, and the bush the 
strands of cloth had been caught in was crushed. He 
located more prints heading off at a gallop in the 
direction the woman had ridden in from.
He went back to where the horse had been standing and 
found prints where the two Rocklin horses had been 
standing. He could see where Buford and Chaps had 
gotten down off their horses and walked toward the 
crushed bush. Then he saw one set of boot prints that 
straddled the drag marks on the ground. One of his men 
had dragged a body out of the bush. He followed the 
drag marks. The Rocklin horses had moved and the drag 
marks ended up where one of them had been standing. 
There were two sets of boot prints in the soil at that 
point.

Bobby stood up. The woman had watched him, saying 
nothing.

"Here's what I think happened," he said. He pointed to 
the things he'd seen. "I think your daughter fell off 
her horse when it reared. She must have been hurt, 
because they dragged her to another horse and put her 
up on it. She wasn't fighting, because the marks her 
boots made as they dragged her don't show any movement.

"My daughter," said Molly grimly, "wouldn't just fall 
off her horse." She looked at the marks on the ground. 

"I'm just telling you what I think happened," said 
Bobby. "Why don't we see where the horse tracks lead. 
Maybe they were taking her to get help for her." 

Bobby had a sinking feeling in his gut, though. Buford 
was the kind of man who, if he found you lying on the 
ground, was more likely to pick over your body than 
help you. And Bobby had seen this woman's daughter in 
town too. She was a looker, the kind of girl that made 
a boy's pants get tight. If Buford picked her up off 
the ground, it wasn't to help her. He didn't want to 
voice his doubts to the girl's mother though. She still 
had that rifle, even if it wasn't pointed at him any 
more.

Instead of waiting for her to agree, Bobby just started 
following the tracks. He soon found that one of the 
horses was, indeed, carrying double, or at least 
carrying a heavy load. Those tracks were deeper than 
the other horse's prints. The trail made it obvious 
that both Rocklin horses were in a canter too.
The problem was that they led in the wrong direction. 
They led toward the mountains, and not toward any ranch 
where someone might seek help for an injured person.

They had only followed the tracks for a quarter mile 
when the woman spoke. "Obviously, your men were not 
going back to your ranch."

"No, Ma'am, it appears you're right about that," 
admitted Bobby.

"So they took my daughter," she said. Her voice 
sounded... ugly.

"I don't understand it, Ma'am, but it appears that's 
correct," said Bobby.

"I should just shoot you where you stand," said the 
woman harshly.

"Ma'am, I didn't take your daughter. But I can help you 
find her. Well, I can help you find her if you don't 
shoot me. It would be pretty hard for me to track them 
if I'm lying dead."

He looked over at the woman. She still held the rifle, 
but, despite her comment, it wasn't pointed at him. 
Unknown to him, his coolness under her threat impressed 
her. She recognized that emotion had made her run her 
mouth... like a man... and she didn't like that.

"Why don't we work together on this?" said Bobby. "They 
can't have gone far." 

Technically, Bobby knew that wasn't true. The men had a 
good five or six hour start, maybe more, based on how 
long the sheep had been at this one place. 
Bobby whistled at Queen and yelled at her to follow, 
giving her the arm movement too, just to make sure. He 
stepped up onto his horse and started following the 
tracks of the two Rocklin horses.

"What are you doing?" asked Molly, as Queen darted into 
the herd and barked at the lead ewe, moving her toward 
Bobby.

"I can't leave the flock here," said Bobby. "They'll 
ruin the grass. They need to move."

"You can't herd sheep now!" said Molly, getting angry. 
"We need to find Sarah!"

"We'll find your daughter, Ma'am. I just told Queen to 
follow us, that's all. She'll keep them moving along 
our track, even if she can't see us."

"Why didn't your men do that?" asked Molly, confused.

"I'd say because they're hoping we won't be able to 
track them," said Bobby, unsure whether or not the 
truth was a good idea right now. "It would be easy to 
follow the whole flock. If they're heading for the 
mountains, there will be rocky areas, and they may hope 
to lose themselves that way."

"Are you saying they plan to KEEP my daughter?!" gasped 
Molly. Molly was a frontier wife, and the code of the 
west was firmly engrained into her. The code of the 
west said that women were to be respected... 
cherished... held inviolate. If a man abused a woman he 
often ended up dead as a result. It was unthinkable to 
her that the missing men might hold her daughter 
against her will... kidnap her, for all intents and 
purposes.

"I don't know what's going on," said Bobby. "But I aim 
to find out." He looked over at the woman riding beside 
him. "Are you with me?"

Molly looked at this self possessed young man and her 
eyebrow arched. "You, young man, are with ME! And if 
anything has happened to my daughter, you will answer 
to ME!"

"Let's just see what happened. Then we can decide 
what's going to need doing." replied Bobby. He had a 
bad feeling about this. There was just no good reason 
why Buford and Chaps would take the girl toward the 
mountains.


CHAPTER THREE


Jonas, Buckshot and Peter arrived in Ute Canyon and 
located Sarah's trail. Had they followed Molly's 
tracks, they'd have arrived at the scene of Sarah's 
kidnapping much sooner, but Jonas had gone with his gut 
instinct. As a result, they were four hours behind 
Molly when they arrived at the place where she had met 
Bobby Rocklin. Unfortunately, the signs that Bobby had 
read were gone. Two or three hundred sheep had walked 
over them.
 
"Been sheep here," said Buckshot needlessly.

"Do tell?" commented Jonas sarcastically.

By then it was getting dark, and the sheep following 
Bobby and Molly had wiped out all trace of their 
tracks. Buckshot rode wide, to the East, toward the 
Collins ranch, and located Molly's tracks coming into 
the disturbed area. Those tracks were lost where the 
sheep had wiped them out. He rode back up to Jonas.

"Found Molly's tracks coming in. She's riding Vixen, 
and leading Tulip," he said. "Nothing going back to the 
ranch, though."

They ranged through the mess of tracks, finding prints 
of three other horses, all strange to them. Two were 
hard to read because the shoes were worn down and left 
little detail. The third had the distinctive bumps on 
it that indicated they were winter shoes, made to grip 
ice better. Most stockmen took them off in the summer 
because they were expensive and it was no use to wear 
them down in routine conditions. That horse was also a 
big, heavy animal too, with large hooves. All that told 
them was that there had been strangers in this place, 
along with Sarah and Molly.

Had there been a little more daylight, and had they 
ranged wider, they might have picked up some of Molly's 
tracks heading toward the mountains, or the small cairn 
of stones with two large one piled on top of each 
other, and a smaller one set to the side. Bobby had 
left that sign for anyone who might be following them. 
The smaller rock pointed in the direction he thought 
he'd be headed for a while. But, while Charley would 
have known instantly what that meant, the cattlemen 
weren't used to following that kind of trail, and that 
wouldn't have made sense to them. In any case, darkness 
caught them, and they had no idea where to go next.

"What do you want to do, Boss?" asked Buckshot.

"Damned if I know," said Jonas. I thought to ride out 
here, find her and then get home. We didn't bring 
supplies to camp overnight."

"Maybe they went over to that sheep farmer's spread," 
suggested Peter.

"That sheep farmer doesn't have a spread," said Jonas 
angrily. "He's a squatter."

"Now Jonas, the way I heard it, old man Johansen said 
he sold his ranch to the man," said Buckshot. He 
immediately wished he hadn't said anything.

"Johansen didn't know they were bringing sheep here," 
said Jonas. "If he'd a known that he wouldn't have 
sold."

Buckshot didn't want to argue. His arthritis was acting 
up. He idly thought that it must be going to rain soon. 
"Boy could be right Jonas" he said, ignoring the 
outburst. "Mebbe they did go over to... Johansen's old 
place."

"Let's ride," barked Jonas. Jonas never apologized, but 
if he recognized a proper course of action, he took it.

The three men headed for the ranch now owned by a man 
named Rocklin. It would be the first formal meeting of 
men who, as the world saw it, were neighbors. Jonas 
Collins didn't think of it that way at all. He loosened 
the rifle in it's scabbard by his right knee.

***

In the house now owned by Brad and Amanda Rocklin, 
there was a serious conversation going on. It was 
almost dark, and supper was on the table, though no one 
seemed interested in eating it except Enid. She was 
fourteen years old and had a healthy appetite to go 
with the stocky body she'd inherited from her father, 
much to her mother's dismay. The only thing Enid had 
inherited from her mother were a pair of proud, 
thrusting breasts that, according to her, were a bother 
because they always got "in the way", whatever that 
meant. Amanda often looked at Enid, and then her other 
daughter, Elizabeth, and wondered how they had both 
come out of the same womb.

Beth was tiny, like her mother, almost delicate, with 
thin wrists, and a narrow waist to match. Like her 
year-younger sister, she had the same large, lush 
breasts that Amanda had, but Beth's figure was more 
proportioned to that of a woman, with swelling hips to 
match. Enid's hips were slim and boyish. Beth worked 
hard too, but it didn't show on her like it did on 
Enid. Beth's skin was milky white, while Enid had 
freckles and darker skin that was darkly tanned by the 
sun.

Enid was already taller than Amanda, and had the sturdy 
look of a young pioneer woman, with callused hands and 
short, usually dirty fingernails. Not that she didn't 
appear to be a female. Her long strawberry blond hair, 
not quite so red as Amanda's, was tied back with a 
ribbon. Her young, but already large breasts pushed at 
the soft buckskin shirt she was wearing, above pants 
made of the same material. Beth had on a proper dress. 
Amanda would rather have had both girls wearing 
dresses, but the only ones Enid owned were two or three 
years old and had been made for a much smaller girl. 

Amanda hated sewing, and, come to think of it, Enid had 
inherited that from her too. Beth, on the other hand, 
had probed to find what sewing skills Amanda possessed, 
and had pulled them from her on cold winter nights 
beside the fire. Beth made her own clothes. Amanda 
could spin wool into thread that made the finest cloth, 
like most women of that day, and Beth was fast on her 
way to becoming just as good with a spinning wheel. 

But the weaving and cutting and sewing of that fine 
wool cloth was something Amanda had no patience for. 
She'd just as soon buy ready made dresses. That 
happened infrequently, though. It was rare to get to 
town, and even more rare to have the money to spend on 
things like that. The only proper dresses Amanda still 
owned were the one's she'd brought with her from 
Oregon, and one that Beth had made for her. 
 
On the other hand, the Rocklins had good relations with 
the local wandering tribe of the Batcinena, or Red 
Willow Men of the Arapaho Indian tribe. In the uneasy 
peace between former enemies, enforced by the 
infrequent appearance of soldiers, the tribe traded 
with other tribes who wove wool into beautiful 
blankets, and the Rocklins were able to trade good wool 
thread for both good will, and fantastically well made 
clothing of animal skins. Elk skin made the best 
clothing, thick and almost indestructible, and as long 
as you didn't wear the same outfit too long without 
airing it, the leather maintained its sharp, pleasant 
smell. 

As a result, Amanda's children often dressed in clothes 
that were more suited for a wild Indian than a 
civilized sheep farmer. For that matter Amanda herself 
owned two sets of sturdy Indian garb. Her husband 
refused to wear leather clothing, preferring jeans and 
cotton or wool shirts, depending on the weather. His 
chaps, though, were Indian made. They were a gift to 
him by an Indian woman who had showed up on foot at the 
ranch, handing them over and saying her son's name. 
Brad had found the boy with a broken leg and had 
splinted it and carried him to where the tribe was 
located at the time. At that time, that had been thirty 
miles away, and the woman had made the chaps and walked 
the whole distance... round trip... to thank him.

The other nice thing about leather, Amanda had to 
admit, was that it stretched as the body grew into it. 
She glanced at Enid's swollen breasts, pushing the 
leather away from her chest, and sighed. Her worried 
mind was drawn back to the issue at hand as her husband 
spoke.

"I shouldn't have sent him out there," he said.

"Nonsense," said Amanda. "He's a grown man. Well, 
almost. And he should be back by now. I'll tan his hide 
good for making us worry like this!"

"He's probably dead," said Enid. She had argued with 
her brother that morning about whose job it was to 
clean the chicken coop. Being two years older he had 
simply informed her that he had other things to do, and 
it was her job, and if she didn't do it he'd tell their 
father. She realized it had gotten very quiet at the 
table, and looked up. Her mother and father, along with 
Buckshot and Xian Bai, their other lead shepherd, were 
all staring at her.

"Why would you say that?" asked her mother, her face 
darkening. "Why in the WORLD would you say that, Enid 
Rocklin?"

Enid knew that tone of voice, and knew she'd made a 
tactical mistake. But the odor of chicken manure on her 
hands... the odor she couldn't get off no matter how 
much she washed them... made her compound the mistake.

"Well? He's just so STUPID!" she said forcefully.

Oddly enough, Amanda relaxed and sat back in her chair. 
She recognized that tone of voice. Sibling rivalry. She 
glanced at Beth, who had her eyes on her food, like she 
was trying not to get involved in the conversation.

Charley tried to defuse a situation that really didn't 
need to be diffused any more. Of course he didn't know 
that. He was a man, and didn't recognize those tones of 
voice.

"Your brother is not a stupid man," he said patiently. 
"He should be back by now and your mother is worried."

Xian Bai spoke from the other side of the table. "Your 
Brother is very smart, Missy," he said, grinning. Xian 
Bai had somehow attached himself to the party as they 
moved from Oregon to Wyoming, herding five hundred 
sheep along the old Oregon Trail. He had been walking 
alone, with only sack hanging from a six foot long pole 
as he was surrounded by sheep. He had just kept walking 
until the Rocklins caught up to him. 

Queen, their lead dog, had ambled up to him, sniffed 
him and then ambled off. That, in itself, was an 
endorsement. Amanda had been exposed to Chinese 
immigrants, and invited him to eat with them when they 
camped. He'd been with them ever since. He picked up 
sheep ranching as if born to it, and he had an almost 
magical way with the dogs, as if he could speak to them 
somehow. He took his pay, when they had money to give 
him, but often Amanda found it back in the big clay jar 
she kept loose cash in. He was also a wizard with the 
weaving of rope, and made all the rope they used on the 
ranch.

Enid, knowing that she had gotten off easily, started 
eating again.

Buster, who had been lying in a corner of the room, 
suddenly lifted his head, his ears up. A soft growl 
issued from his throat. The three puppies who had been 
sitting patiently under the table, hoping for scraps, 
began yapping loudly. Brad kicked one and Amanda 
shushed at them, picking two of them up and holding 
their muzzles closed. Xian Bai grabbed the third and 
did the same thing.
 
Buster was standing now, rigid and facing the door. His 
growl continued, but he did not bark.

Brad and Charley stood. Charley went to the wall and 
took down the double barreled Damascus twist black 
powder shotgun. He knew it was loaded. Brad went to the 
desk and opened a drawer, pulling out a Navy Colt .36 
caliber pistol. Charley headed for the back door of the 
house while Enid, all business now, turned the kerosene 
lamp down until it gave off just a dull glow. Xian Bai 
had disappeared without a sound.

"Halloooo the house," came a faint yell from outside.

Brad opened the door, but stood to one side. 

"Who's there?" he yelled out into the almost dark. He 
could see the dark forms of three men sitting horses, 
out away from the house.

"It's Jonas Collins," came back the reply. "I'm lookin' 
for my wife and daughter. They've gone missing!" 

Brad frowned. He hadn't met the cattle rancher. That 
had been on purpose. When he'd moved onto an old cattle 
ranch with sheep he'd known that he would not be 
welcome. Cattlemen he saw in town wouldn't even speak 
to him, shooting him hostile looks instead. He'd 
decided on his own to try to lie low and keep the flock 
away from his closest neighbor's range, to avoid 
conflict. While surveying his new ranch he'd found 
grass that cattlemen wouldn't want to use, and had 
capitalized on that. 

He had four or five times as many sheep now as he had 
when he'd first arrived, and the operation was just 
beginning to make some money. He intentionally left a 
broad piece of free range untouched between him and the 
Circle C ranch. Brad was trying hard not to get caught 
up in the general trouble between cattlemen and 
sheepmen. The last thing he needed right now was 
trouble with Collins. He was uneasy about this "visit", 
but when kinfolk were missing, it was a serious thing.

"Come on in!" yelled Brad, and he stepped out onto the 
porch. He put the pistol in his pocket, but did not let 
go of the grip. He knew Charley was at one corner of 
the house, covering the three riders.

The three horses stepped slowly toward the house. It 
was too dark to see the men's hands, and that made Brad 
more nervous. As the men got closer he spoke to them.

"We haven't seen any strangers," he said, suddenly 
wishing he'd said "people" instead of "strangers".

Jonas sat his horse. He hadn't been invited to step 
down. "Found sign of your sheep where her trail 
disappeared," he said. "Over by that dry creek bed that 
comes out of Ute Canyon."

"That's impossible," said Brad firmly. "We don't graze 
the flock over there. 

"Well, somebody does," said a gravelly voice of one of 
the other men. The grass had been eaten to the roots, 
and there's sheep tracks all over the place."

"I don't graze my sheep that way," insisted Brad.

"Where's your flock?" asked Jonas.

"They should be on their way to the high meadows," said 
Brad. I sent my son out to tell the men to start them 
that way this afternoon. He's not back yet. We were 
just talking about that at supper."

Brad suddenly remembered his manners. "You men eaten 
yet?"

"No SIR!" came a young man's voice from the three.

"Shut up Peter," growled Jonas, turning his head.

Brad had heard that tone of voice before. He'd never 
talked to Jonas Collins, but others had shown their 
contempt for him and his sheep.

"Well, we've got plenty. You may as well come on in and 
have a bite. If nothing else tell me what you've found. 
Maybe we can figure out what's going on. My son should 
have been back by now and we're a little worried about 
him too."

Jonas sat there silent, thinking. He didn't want to act 
friendly in any way toward this man, but his daughter 
and wife were missing. At least he should get a look 
inside the house. He didn't think the man would just 
lie outright, but he'd like to look around a little... 
just in case. His saddle creaked as he put his weight 
on his left leg and he swung down. The two other men 
followed suit.

When his booted feet hit the boards of the porch, Jonas 
smelled the food and his stomach growled. He hadn't had 
anything except jerky since morning. He thought a curse 
to himself, but kept quiet. He didn't want to take the 
hospitality of a sheep farmer.

***

Sarah came to again, and through the fuzziness in her 
head she realized she must have passed out again. The 
terrible pain in her middle was gone and she realized 
she was lying on the ground. Her wrists still hurt and 
as she tried to flex shoulders in fiery pain, she 
realized she was still bound. The first odor to get 
past the burlap bag still covering her head was smoke. 
She heard voices.

"Keep it small you idiot. We don't need no smoke and 
flame giving us away."

"Damn it Buford, I want hot vittles!" complained Chaps' 
voice.

"You won't get any vittles at all if'n they find us 
before we're ready," snarled Buford's voice.

"'N that's another thing," went on Chaps' whiny voice. 
"Why'd you take her like that? They's gonna be mad 
Buford. Real mad."

"I already told you Chaps! That there pretty little 
slice of pussy's gonna get us the stake we need to 
light out to better parts you fool. They'll pay gold to 
get her back," said Buford, trying to be patient. He 
couldn't pull this off without Chaps' help. He couldn't 
manage the girl by himself. She was too damn heavy.

"What if she's dead?" whined Chaps. "She ain't moved in 
a long time Buford."

"She ain't dead," grunted Buford. "Least wise she'd 
better not be. She ain't worth nuthin' dead. Plus I aim 
to get me a piece of that pussy. I'm tired of fucking 
sheep."

"That ain't right Buford," said Chaps, his dim mind 
settling on sheep... and what Buford someimes did to 
sheep... and forgetting the girl. "You shouldn't ought 
to be doin' that anyways."

"You shut up. If you want to live with blue balls, 
fine. But I'm a real man and I need some real pussy 
once in a while. That there little filly's gonna feel 
real fine wrapped around my dick."

"I don't like this Buford," insisted Chaps. He was 
simple minded, but he was no fool. He knew the code of 
the West just like every man in that part of the 
country. He knew what was likely to happen just for 
carrying the girl off, if they got caught. If she was 
raped they'd swing from a tree for sure. 

But Chaps was scared of Buford. He'd seen Buford do 
terrible things to a sheep, things that hurt it... 
sometimes even killed it. And the way he was unnatural 
with them. It scared Chaps a lot. So Chaps subsided 
into unhappy silence as he stirred the beans over the 
tiny fire Buford had allowed him to build using only 
squaw wood - small dead sticks pulled from the lower 
trunks of trees, or found lying on the ground. While 
Buford wasn't looking he added a few sticks to the 
flames. Beans needed to be hot to choke down in his 
opinion.

Sarah heard all this as though it came through cotton 
stuffed in her ears. Her head hurt horribly, and her 
face felt hot. She knew she should be frightened, 
listening to Buford's plans to rape her, but she 
couldn't concentrate. Her eyes closed as her bruised 
brain cut off her consciousness once again.

***

Molly sat her horse in the dark, next to the boy. They 
hadn't talked much. The boy's attention was all on 
tracks and bent twigs and flattened tufts of grass, or 
scrape marks on rock. Molly knew a little of tracking, 
though she wasn't much good if the trail was faint. But 
it was obvious this boy knew what he was doing. 
Whenever he lost the trail, he found it again within 
minutes. He seemed to have an instinct for it, or knew 
his men well enough that he knew what they'd do. 

The trail had not gone straight, like she thought it 
would. It often turned, for no clear reason at all. She 
realized that each time they came to rock that the 
trail would turn and go in a different direction. She 
wasn't stupid, and it didn't take her long to 
understand that the people they were following didn't 
want to be found. That made the pit of her stomach 
lurch, and a sour taste come to her mouth. Her baby 
girl was with men who didn't want to be found.

"It's too dark to go on," said the Rocklin boy softly.

"I didn't come prepared to camp out," she said 
irritably.

"Neither did I," he said. "Still, that's what we're 
going to have to do. We'll pick up the trail in the 
morning."

"We can't camp out here!" said Molly firmly. "It gets 
cold at night up this high." 

They had left the plains after a three hour ride, and 
had been climbing ever since.

"Yes, Ma'am it does." he agreed. "We'll just have to 
build a fire and live through it, I guess."

"That's insane." complained Molly.

"You can't go back in the dark, ma'am," said the boy. 
"And if you did you'd lose hours on the trail. I 
thought you cow people were supposed to be tough," he 
said mildly.

Molly bristled. "You watch your mouth boy," she 
grumped. But there was no heat in her voice. She 
realized she sounded soft and pampered to be 
complaining about a single night out in the open. She'd 
done that when she was younger lots of times. She'd 
show him tough!

Three hours later she wasn't so sure she was tough at 
all. He had some food in his saddlebags, which he 
shared with her. Then, finding a rock face, he built a 
fire right up against it. He dragged in two respectably 
sized logs and lay them next to the rock face, forming 
a V, and then built a fire filling the void between 
them. He added wood until the blaze was uncomfortably 
hot and she complained.

"The heat will soak into the rock and then reflect back 
out when the fire dies down," he explained. "Whichever 
one of us wakes up in the night will need to add wood 
to keep it going all night, but the fire will eat down 
into those logs, and it will be easy to get it going 
again."

"Aren't you going to stand watch?" asked Molly. It had 
been a long time since she'd slept out in the open. 
She'd been a girl the last time she'd camped.

"What for?" he asked. "The only folks around here are 
the Indians, and they won't be out in the dark. You can 
stay awake if you want to, but then you'll be tired in 
the morning."

"This is just ridiculous," moaned Molly. It was cold 
already. Well, her front was warm from the huge fire, 
but her back was freezing. She turned around to warm 
her backside. "Won't they see this fire and know we're 
after them?" She wanted to find something wrong with 
the way the boy was doing things.

"I picked this face because it's downhill," he said. 
They'll be up there somewhere. I think they might be 
headed for the high meadows. We have a shack up there, 
with provisions. That's where they were supposed to 
take the sheep."

When he mentioned the sheep Molly suddenly heard them. 
They were massed just below the ledge Molly and Bobby 
were on. Queen sat in the night, head up, watching over 
them.

"Doesn't that dog ever eat?" she asked. "Or sleep?"

"She'll sleep later, when the flock is quiet. She's 
probably been eating all day. She's a good forager. She 
probably caught her a rabbit or something along the 
way."

He got up and walked off in the dark.

"Where are you going?" asked Molly, more anxiously than 
she wanted to.

"I don't suspect you want to see what I'm going to do, 
Ma'am," he said. "There aren't any outhouses around 
here."

"Oh," said Molly, getting pink in the face. "Of 
course." She suddenly felt the pressure of her own 
bladder.

He was gone a long time, and when he came back it was 
from a different direction than the one he left in.

"I climbed up on the rock," he said as he walked 
silently into the light of the fire. "I can see their 
fire. It's maybe four and a half or five miles... 
straight line. They probably have eight or so miles on 
us by the lay of the land."

"You saw their fire?" asked Molly amazed. 
 
"Buford's not the smartest guy I ever met," said Bobby 
wryly. "But he's all we could get to work sheep. 
Cowboys won't touch them, and that's about all there 
are around here... cowboys."

"That's because no decent man works with sheep," said 
Molly without thinking. She realized her insult as soon 
as it was out of her mouth.

"My father's a decent man, and I will be some day," 
said Bobby with dignity. He recognized the cowman's 
mantra when he heard it. He also knew it was ingrained.

"I'm sorry," said Molly, not sounding very sorry. "But 
sheep ruin the range."

"Sheep don't ruin the range if they're properly 
herded," said Bobby. That was the shepherd's mantra, 
and he knew it. But he also knew it was true. 

"We haven't ruined the range on our land, and we've 
been here three years," he said.

"If your range is so good," questioned Molly. "Then why 
was your herd on our land?" She was a stubborn woman.

"First of all it's open range, and not your land. At 
least according to the register of deeds and the land 
office. My ma checked that before pappa bought our 
place." 

"Your mother! Why in the world would she get involved 
in man's business?" asked Molly.

"Are you saying you don't herd cows? Or help birth 
calves? Are you saying you don't have anything to do 
with your husband's cattle, Mrs. Collins?" Bobby could 
feel his face getting red. Why was this woman so hard 
headed? He was glad it was dark.

"Of course not!" snapped Molly. "But that's different."

"How is that different?" he asked. "Around our place 
it's a family business. We all take part," he said.

"Well... I mean..." Molly trailed off as she realized 
she sounded silly. She was an integral part of the 
ranch. Any woman was. Jonas barked at her whenever she 
interfered in... She thought about that for a minute. 
The last two times Jonas had argued with her had been 
times when she knew she was right, but he was so 
stubborn. HE was the one who kept saying she was 
meddling in man's business. She realized she had just 
accepted that... for years. 

"Let's talk about something else," she said suddenly.

Bobby chuckled. "OK, but it's been a long day and I'll 
admit I'm tired. I need some sleep if we're ever going 
to find out what your daughter did with our men."

He had meant it to lighten the mood, but her face in 
the firelight frowned. He could see how upset she was, 
and she didn't even know Buford. He tried to reassure 
her, even though he wasn't reassured himself. 

"They won't hurt her, Ma'am," he said quickly. "They 
know what would happen to them if they hurt her."

Molly slumped. She'd run off without thinking, chasing 
off after her daughter. Jonas was probably tearing his 
hair out looking for them both. Now she was freezing, 
and all she had with her was a boy. Well, almost a man. 
Well, she hated to admit, almost a man who was also 
smart as a whip. She thought about what she'd seen him 
do that afternoon. He'd gotten them ten times farther 
than she'd have gotten by herself. And now he knew 
where they were out there, only miles away. What was 
happening to Sarah right now? Was she all right? Was 
she alive? Tears welled up in her eyes and rolled down 
her cheeks. She scrubbed at them furiously, ashamed to 
cry in front of this boy.

Bobby reached out and touched her elbow with his 
fingers. "Really, Ma'am, it will be all right. We'll 
find them. We'll get her back to you."

Molly looked at his fingers where they touched her 
elbow. She wanted a hug. But she couldn't hug this 
boy... this shepherd.

"We'd better," she said softly. "I don't know what 
Jonas would do if something happened to her. I don't 
know what I'd do."

"We'll catch them tomorrow," said Bobby seriously. 
"Now, get some sleep. We're going to have to ride hard 
tomorrow."

***

It was tense in the Rocklin house, as the three 
strangers sat down to eat. Beth was suddenly animated, 
with the exuberance of youth seeing strangers for the 
first time in months, and one of them a boy not much 
older than she was, at least to her thinking. She 
smiled at Peter and served him first. Amanda saw and 
blushed at the insult to the older men.

"Beth, mind your manners," she said shortly. 

Beth looked up, confused, and realized what she'd done. 
"He was closest," she said. It sounded weak, even to 
her. Enid giggled. She knew her sister well, and could 
understand her sister's interest in the boy. 

Peter had never seen either of these girls before, and 
he was just as interested in them. Enid was strange 
looking. He'd never seen a girl wearing buckskin, but 
she looked like a girl for sure. While Beth looked more 
like other girls he knew, she was different too. Most 
of the girls he knew were simpering things, fawning on 
the boys, pretending to drop their hankies so the boys 
would pick them up. This was a girl who had a self 
possession about her. That, and her beautiful loose 
brown hair made him stare at her. When she looked back 
with wide brown eyes, he felt his stomach lurch. 

Jonas ignored the byplay and got right to facts. He 
described what had happened, the bullet wound on the 
horse, the tracks and obvious evidence that a lot of 
sheep had been there and wiped out the tracks. He 
mentioned that his wife had chased off before him, and 
he didn't know where she was either.

"We found her tracks going into the mess, but lost them 
where your herd of sheep wiped them out."

"Flock," corrected Brad. 

Jonas frowned. "Only other tracks we saw were a few of 
my daughter's and two sets of worn down shoes. There 
was also a big horse there, with winter shoes still 
on."

"That would be my son's horse," said Brad. "He rides a 
stallion he caught and trained. It's a big horse. He 
likes those shoes for when he has to go over rock. The 
others probably were the horses my two men were on. 
They weren't supposed to be that close to your place. I 
sent Bobby up there to tell them to start the move to 
the high meadows."

"Well, your son, and your men were where my daughter 
and wife were, and now we don't know where any of them 
are," said Jonas heavily.

Charley came in the front door with the shotgun. 
"Chores done Brad," he announced, as if he were coming 
in from work. He stood the shotgun in a corner near 
where he pulled a low bench up to the table. "Xian Bai 
should be coming in any minute."

Sure enough Xian Bai came in the back door. He had a 
rifle in his hands.

Jonas looked at Xian Bai, and then Brad. There was 
surprise on his face. Lots of people had seen Chinese 
workers, but not on a ranch. And not armed with a rifle 
either. 

"Got wolf troubles?" he asked, surprise spilling over 
into his voice.

"You never know," said Brad. 

Both men knew what had just happened, of course, and 
that the cowmen had been covered by weapons in the 
dark, but neither felt inclined to admit it.

Charley and Xian Bai sat down as if nothing strange was 
going on, and began to eat.

Brad held a piece of bread in his fingers, but didn't 
eat. "Like I told you, the thing is my boy should be 
back. All I told him to do is go find the flock and 
tell the boys to move them toward the mountains."

"Well, the tracks of your herd... flock... went off in 
the direction of the mountains. It got too dark to 
follow them. But I can't think of any reason why my 
wife and daughter would throw in with your men. 
Something must have happened out there. You had any 
Indian trouble since you've been here?" asked Jonas.

"None," said Brad firmly. "We do some trading with 
them, but that's all. Hardly ever see them. They seem 
to keep to the north of here for the most part."

Amanda spoke for the first time. "Is it possible, Mr. 
Collins, that your wife found your daughter and took 
her home?"

Jonas looked surprised, as if he hadn't thought of that 
possibility.

Buckshot wiped his mouth and spoke. "Ma'am, that's a 
right nice thought, except I didn't see no tracks going 
back to the ranch. Only coming into that mess. If she'd 
a done that I'd a seen some tracks, don't you s'pose?" 
His voice had a hint of derision in it.

Amanda wasn't going to be looked down on. "You did 
mention it was getting dark. And you, Sir, are 
obviously aged. Perhaps your poor old eyes didn't quite 
catch the sign."

Brad's head snapped toward his wife. "Amanda, that will 
be enough of that. These men are guests."

Jonas laughed suddenly, his eyes on Amanda. "You'd get 
along fine with my Molly, that's a fact." He elbowed 
Buckshot, who was suddenly busy eating. He was smiling, 
though.

Jonas stopped laughing. "I guess we might as well go 
back to the ranch and see if maybe Molly DID find her. 
Maybe she found her someplace else and they went back 
from there. The sign doesn't support that, but we might 
have missed something. We can't do anything until 
daylight anyway."

"You sure you want to travel at night?" asked Brad. "We 
could put you up here."

Jonas stared at the man. For a sheep herder he was 
mighty neighborly.

"No, if Molly and Sarah are back there they'll be 
wondering where we are. Thanks for the supper, Ma'am." 
he nodded toward Amanda.

"You're quite welcome," she said sweetly. "It's nice to 
finally meet our neighbors."

It was Buckshot who snorted that time.

"You say the trail led off toward the mountains?" asked 
Brad. "In the morning we'll need to go up and find the 
flock. If my men, or Bobby had to leave them for some 
reason I don't want them wandering around up there with 
just the dog."

"That's your business," said Jonas. "If you happen to 
find my daughter or wife, hold on to them for me. If 
she's not home, then I suspect we'll be trying to find 
that flock of yours too."

The men stood to leave and got to the door when they 
realized Peter wasn't with them. They turned to find 
him and Beth staring in each other's eyes, oblivious to 
the rest of the people in the room. 

Enid giggled again.

"Oh Lord," said Buckshot.

"PETER!" said Jonas harshly.

Peter jumped and then blushed, standing up and knocking 
his chair over backwards.

"Oh Lord," said Buckshot again, as Peter hastily picked 
up the chair and, blushing put it back in place. He 
scurried to stand by his father, looking at the floor.

"Bye!" said Beth, standing and waving. Her smile was 
beatific.

"Oh Lord," said Amanda, putting her head in her hand as 
the door closed behind the men.

"Bye mister big strong cowboy," mimicked Enid, her 
voice in a high falsetto, obviously teasing her sister.

She got an elbow in her ribs from her older sister, and 
a dark look from her mother.

***

It's interesting how something small can make such a 
big difference in a person's life. Something so small, 
say, as someone unexpected dropping by to visit.

Elizabeth Rocklin, at almost sixteen years of age, was 
almost an adult in that day and age. She had the 
knowledge of how to run a house, and the skills to cook 
and clean. Her body was ready to bear children, and had 
been for several years. On the other hand, her social 
development was more or less stunted by the fact that 
living on a ranch in the middle of Wyoming meant she 
didn't get much time with people outside her immediate 
family. 

While the hormones flooding her bloodstream were 
normal, her knowledge of men and what to do with those 
hormones was more or less... deficient. Oh, she had 
seen both her father and brother naked many times. The 
family all used the horse trough to bathe in. Being 
isolated like they were, there was little modesty. 
Charley and Xian Bai generally bathed in streams or 
ponds while they were out tending the flock, and on 
bath night they took Chaps and Buford, if they were 
even around, and disappeared into the dark to check on 
the sheep so that the women could bathe comfortably 
without non-relatives seeing their nakedness.

Beth was quite aware of the change in her father that 
inevitably happened on bath night. The women went 
first, standing in line and assisting each other with 
back scrubbing or handing towels to each other. That 
meant there were three grown women, for all intents and 
purposes, standing around the horse trough naked. 
Brad's reaction was to take his wife behind the curtain 
that prohibited a view to their bed and make all kinds 
of noises with her. 

Brad and Amanda had told their children long ago that 
those noises were natural, and that some day each of 
them would understand what was happening behind that 
blanket. The term "Making Love" was not unfamiliar in 
the house, though the actions of what that meant were 
somewhat misty and undefined to the three teens. Of 
course all three teens had seen animals mating, but to 
try to visualize their parents that way just didn't 
seem real somehow.

Beth had looked curiously at both her father and 
brother when it came their turn to bathe. Amanda had 
bathed the children all together until they had set up 
house on this ranch, and had meant to establish some 
rules for privacy and modesty as the children entered 
puberty. Somehow she just hadn't gotten around to it. 
But for Beth it was mostly just curiosity. She didn't 
feel anything in particular when she looked at what 
hung between her father's and brother's legs. 

Her father had lots of hair on his legs and stomach and 
around that thing that hung down. She did notice that 
it didn't look much like what sheep or dogs or horses 
had. Her brother had much less hair everywhere, and his 
penis was pinker somehow. All these things were 
academic, for the most part, and she noticed them just 
like she would have noticed that the wind had broken a 
tree branch or something like that. It didn't "mean" 
anything to her. 

She was, therefore, completely unprepared to feel the 
things she felt when Peter Collins walked into her 
house that night, and sat down. She noticed literally 
everything about him. She noticed his eyes, with their 
long lashes, and his nose, and his chin and the way his 
hair fell to almost his collar, but wasn't greasy or 
stringy like that of the men who worked for her father. 
She noticed his shoulders, and had blushed when her 
eyes had been drawn to the rear of his tight pants as 
he pulled out a chair to sit at the table. When she 
served him, and he smiled at her, she felt her stomach 
doing flip flops, and a strange, tight heat in her 
chest. She was, on some level, aware that she was 
staring at him, but she couldn't help it. 
 
As supper progressed, and the men talked, Peter looked 
at her too, with little darting glances that landed all 
over the parts of her he could see. She noticed his 
eyes landed on her chest frequently, and that made her 
feel funny inside for some reason. Buford stared at her 
too whenever he was around, but this was completely 
different from that. 

When Buford stared at her it made her feel dirty and 
she wanted to take a bath. But Peter's looks made her 
feel light enough to float away. Once, when his eyes 
slid from her chest up to her face, and locked with 
hers, he smiled shyly. Beth wanted to wiggle in her 
chair at how that made her feel. She had never been in 
love in her life, and she had no concept of love-at-
first-sight.

But the fact was, that Elizabeth Rocklin was probably 
experiencing something very akin to that concept while 
she sat... and occasionally put something in her 
mouth... during dinner.

After it was over, and she tried to recall what had 
been discussed, she had a hard time remembering much of 
what was said. But Peter Collin's blue eyes were burned 
into her memory lie they had been put there with a 
branding iron.

***

Peter Collins, riding slowly in the dark, couldn't see 
much beyond the ghostly shapes of bushes and the soft 
shimmer of moonlight on the tips of the grass as the 
wind moved it gently in the cool breeze. His eyes took 
that in, along with the sound of the clopping of 
horse's feet. He didn't pay any of that much attention. 
It was chilly, but he didn't notice that either. While 
his eyes saw, and his ears heard, they reported to a 
part of his brain that was on standby. 

What Peter saw and heard in most of his brain were the 
smooth curves of a blue gingham dress, resting on the 
frame of a girl he'd seen only once, and the voice of 
that girl. He had only a few words to concentrate on, 
remembering that voice, because she hadn't spoken much. 
But he clearly remembered the timbre of her voice. He 
remembered her lips, dark and soft and lush. He 
remembered her hands, slim and white as they served him 
food. He remembered her eyes, locking onto his... 
something no girl had ever done before. 

It had made him feel like shouting at the moon. 

He STILL felt like shouting, but he knew his father 
would yell at him if he did that. Not, perhaps because 
he was making noise in the dark, but because of why he 
made that noise. You couldn't just let loose with a 
howl and then not be able to explain what it was all 
about. Not only had her eyes stayed on his... they had 
stayed on his after catching him looking where a boy 
wasn't supposed to look at a woman. 

He knew that because just a few months back his father 
had caught him looking at his mother one night, while 
she was in her nightgown. She had been standing in 
front of the fire place, pulling his father up out of 
his chair to take him to bed. The gown was thin, and 
the fire bright, and Peter Collins had been given his 
first view of what a woman's body looked like under all 
that clothing women wore.

Somehow his father had known what he was looking at, 
and had stood in front of his wife, staring down at his 
son. "Don't be looking at a woman like that." he had 
said gruffly. Then his mother had wanted to know what 
was going on. Peter had been ashamed. He knew women 
were supposed to be respected, but he couldn't tell his 
eyes not to see.

It had been a very uncomfortable moment until his 
mother realized what had happened and pushed her 
husband toward the bedroom. Then she came back and, 
standing with the fire to her back again, she leaned 
down to kiss Peter on the top of his head.

"You're normal," she whispered to him. "And I'm the 
only girl around, so don't let your father make you 
feel bad." she added, smiling at him. "We need to solve 
that little problem pretty soon I imagine. We'll just 
have to find you a girl you CAN stare at."

She had gone off to bed then, and Peter had been 
further ashamed to find that his penis was stiff.

Now, almost as if his mother was some kind of 
prophetess, he had stumbled upon a girl. He wondered 
what she'd look like standing in front of a fire in a 
thin gown. Then he was glad it was dark, because he 
would never have been able to either explain to his 
father or live down what was happening in his pants.


CHAPTER FOUR


Molly woke, shivering. 

There was a horse blanket draped over her upper torso, 
which helped, but her legs were cold and her feet 
leaden. The fire had died down, and the two logs 
smoked, above red embers. She levered herself up on one 
elbow and looked around. The boy was right beside her, 
covered with another horse blanket. She was between him 
and the fire. "He must be freezing," she thought, but 
his breath came softly and steadily from under his hat. 
She reached out and threw several sticks of wood on the 
embers, piling them up. They started smoking 
immediately and burst into flames as she lay back down 
and pulled the blanket up to her chin. 

She lay there, uncomfortable. She should have emptied 
her bladder, but she'd been too stubborn to go off in 
the dark. Groaning she sat back up. When she got to her 
feet she stumbled. She couldn't feel anything in them 
as her boots scraped across the ground. The boy moved, 
rolling toward the fire a little, but didn't seem to 
wake.

She only went ten feet, and felt the cold air on her 
pale buttocks as she dropped her jeans to squat, 
leaning back on a rock. Her urine splashed and hissed 
so loudly she was sure the boy would wake up, but he 
didn't move. She sighed as the pressure vanished inside 
her. She was so cold she didn't want to wait for things 
to drip dry and she stood, quickly pulling her pants 
back up. She wrapped her horse blanket around her 
shoulders and walked around a little until she could 
feel her feet again. Then she sat with her boots close 
to the fire, until she saw the soles smoking. She put 
more wood on the blaze and felt welcome heat bathe her. 

What was she doing out here in the wilderness, alone 
with this strange boy? Her thoughts went to Sarah. Was 
she freezing too? She looked up at the stars. The moon 
was setting. What time of the month was it? How long 
was it until dawn? She looked at Bobby again. He could 
have taken his sheep and just gone home. Why did he 
care what had happened to her daughter? He obviously 
did, though, and was going to some lengths to help her. 
Would she have done that if his sister was missing? Did 
he even have a sister?

Eventually Molly lay back down. This time she lay on 
the outside, so the boy could get some heat. She lay 
down close to him, and could feel his body heat. She 
draped her blanket over their legs and feet and then 
lifted his blanket, and snuggled in close to him, 
pressing her breasts against his back. It felt odd to 
be so close to a strange man, but it was warmer.

It was the least she could do for this strange boy who 
cared about a girl he'd never met... and for that 
girl's mother.

***

It was past midnight when Jonas and his men got back to 
the ranch. The three of them made enough noise though 
that Frank was up and awake when their weary feet hit 
the planks of the back porch and they entered the 
house. Frank expected to hear news. What he heard 
instead was his father's terse question "Are your 
mother and sister back?"

"I thought you went to get them," said Frank, getting 
even more anxious.
Jonas was tired, and he knew they were at the end of 
their strength for the day. He gave Frank only the 
minimal information that it appeared that the 
sheepherder's boy and Frank's mother had either found 
Sarah, or had followed after her and two of the Rocklin 
men.

"We've got to go find them!" cried Frank.

"We're worn out, boy," said his father heavily. "And we 
don't even know where to look."

"But that man - the sheep herder - he has to know which 
way they went." objected Frank.

"He says he doesn't know, and anyway, we don't need the 
help of any sheep-lover to take care of our business." 
retorted Jonas.

"But..." started Frank.

"Go back to bed!" ordered his father. "We'll decide 
what to do in the morning. Do as I say, boy!"

The men began dragging off their clothing, getting 
ready to get the sleep Jonas had just ordered. Frank 
went back to his room, but he didn't go back to bed. He 
couldn't stand the thought that his sister and mother 
were out in the dark somewhere, maybe hurt, and that no 
one cared enough to go after them.

It was a typical reaction in a fifteen year old boy who 
felt like the adults around him didn't appreciate his 
skills and talents. He had no idea what the men had 
gone through already that day, or the details of what 
they'd found. It was fixed in his mind that the 
sheepherder knew where to find his missing relatives, 
and he intended to get that information out of the man, 
one way or the other. And if he could help, then it was 
foolish not to accept that help. 

He dressed quietly, and then waited until he was sure 
the others were asleep. Knowing the floor boards would 
squeak, he climbed out the window of his room. Then, 
saddling his horse, and with his cherished pearl 
handled revolvers strapped on, he walked the horse far 
enough away from the house that he could mount and ride 
without making noise that would wake anyone. He was 
sure he could find the old Johansen place in the dark.

***

Sarah woke again. This time, while the pain in her 
wrists and shoulders was just as bad, her head felt a 
little clearer. She realized she didn't smell the 
burlap bag any more, and opened her eyes.

It was dark, and cold. A small fire flickered ten or so 
feet away. She was lying on her side, with her hands 
bound in front of her. She tried to move and couldn't 
stifle a groan of pain. Her whole body hurt.

"Oh, little miss cow girl is awake, is she?" came 
Buford's voice.
Sarah turned her head to see Buford bent over, pulling 
things out of her saddle bags.

She tried to speak, but her throat was so dry she 
couldn't make words come out. She swallowed and got 
some saliva in her mouth.

"Leave that alone," she said weakly, her voice 
cracking. "Those are my things."
"You ain't the one giving orders here missy," said 
Buford more or less pleasantly. "What's this here?"

He pulled the paper-wrapped package that contained her 
new dress out of the leather pouch. Tearing it open he 
shook out the dress.

"Now ain't that purty?" he said. "I bet you'd be a lot 
better lookin' with this on." He held out the dress 
toward her. "Course we're gonna have to get you all 
nekkid to put it on you." he leered.

"You're a dead man," Sarah spat.

Buford let his hand fall, and the hem of the dress 
puddled on the ground. He looked himself up and down.

"I ain't nowheres near dead." His eyes glinted in the 
dim light as he looked at her. "And I'm gonna prove 
that to you right soon now. But first I want to see you 
in this purty little dress."

"You go to hell," said Sarah.

Buford unbuckled his gun belt and dropped it to the 
ground. Then he walked over to her, dragging her new 
dress in the dirt. He casually leaned over and slapped 
her face hard enough that her head bounced off the 
ground. His handprint would remain on her face for over 
a week. Sarah cried out and rolled. His foot came down 
on her stomach hard, pinning her on her back. He 
reached out and grasped her brother's old shirt, 
pulling, and the old, worn cloth ripped easily in his 
hands. Sarah tried to fend him off with her hands, but 
she had been tied over the rump of a horse, with her 
wrists roped to her ankles. Her shoulders wouldn't work 
right and she cried out at the pain.

Buford pulled a knife from a sheath on his belt and 
pressed the tip right between her now-naked breasts.

"You fight me and I'll carve you up like a turkey on 
Thanksgiving." he snarled. "You're gonna put this here 
dress on." He dragged the tip of the knife down off her 
ribcage, to her belly, until the blade went between her 
wrists and came in contact with the rope still binding 
them. He gave a savage flick and the rope parted. The 
tip of the knife was too dull to penetrate her skin, 
but the cutting edge was razor sharp.

Sarah's arms fell limply to her sides as her shoulders 
refused to support them. She lay, her naked breasts 
heaving, pale in the dim light of the small fire.
Chaps appeared in the dark. "What are you doin' Buford. 
We're in enough trouble already. Don't you go hurting 
that girl."

Buford didn't turn his head, but it was obvious his 
words were for Chaps.
"You just shut your yap. I told you I'm gonna get me 
some pussy. If you had a brain in your head you'd be 
standing in line."

"It ain't right Buford," whined Chaps.

Now Buford did stand and turn to face Chaps. The knife 
glinted in his hand.
"You get in my way Chaps and I'll gut you. You hear me? 
If you got no stomach for prime pussy, you just go off 
and jerk yourself off or something. But don't mess with 
me Chaps, or I'll kill you dead."

Chaps held up his hands, trying to sooth the angry man, 
and took a step back. He didn't feel like turning his 
back on Buford just then, and stood quietly.
Buford turned back around to Sarah, who had been trying 
to get her arms to work. Her vision was fuzzy. The pain 
was still severe, but she could move her lower arms a 
little. She'd managed to get her numb hands up to cover 
her breasts. Buford leaned down and grabbed a tender 
wrist, pulling her to a sitting position. Her shoulder 
shrieked at her. Her head swam, and she almost fainted, 
her upper body lolling back and twisting as it tried to 
fall back to the ground.

With a muttered curse Buford let her go and knelt 
beside her limp body. His knife made short work of the 
jeans she was wearing as the cut them off in strips and 
pulled them away from her body. He ripped at her shirt 
again too, cutting off her what she wasn't lying on.

He stood back up and gazed at her youthful nakedness. 
He kicked her ankles apart and stared at the fluff of 
hair that stuck up into the dim light.

"I changed my mind," he growled, kicking her new dress 
to one side. "I don't care about the dress any more."

He worked at his own jeans, pushing them down to reveal 
his erect phallus. He stroked it a couple of times and 
stepped between her legs without taking his pants off. 
He got to all fours and, supporting himself with one 
arm, reached to hold his stiff dick and nose it into 
the dark area that he knew contained the opening he 
sought.

Sarah moaned and raised her hands again, only to have 
them slapped away by the hand that had been down by her 
crotch. She felt pressure in a place she had never felt 
pressure before.

"I'm gonna like this," leered Buford. "I can tell 
already."

He was enjoying the feel of being at her portals, and 
began to push. She was dry, and he couldn't force 
himself in her. He rearranged his knees to try lunging. 
Suddenly there was a soft hissing noise and a thump, 
followed by a gasp from Chaps.

Buford paused to turn his head. Chaps was standing 
there, eyes wide, an arrow magically sprouting from 
dead in the middle of his chest. With a sigh, Chaps 
collapsed in a boneless heap beside the fire.

Buford reacted instantly. Forgetting the girl, he 
rolled sideways into the dark, pulling at his pants to 
get them back up. He lost the knife in the process, but 
didn't care. He'd taken off his gun belt so he cold get 
his pants down, and so the girl couldn't try to grab 
for a gun, and it was lying on the ground not far from 
the fire. Seeing the girl's dress, he dashed into the 
light, snatching up the dress and throwing it on top of 
the fire to blank out the light. He kept running, 
leaning over to grab at his gun belt. He pulled at the 
pistol frantically while he ran toward the horses. He 
saw the horses, and a figure standing between them, a 
hand on each bridle. Part of his brain cursed the 
animals for not having given them any warning about 
strangers being about.

Buford brought his pistol up and pulled the trigger. 
The pistol wasn't cocked and he swore as his thumb 
scrabbled at it. The muzzle flash as he fired lit up 
the Indian that was guarding the horses, and he saw the 
man jerk and fall backward. The horses bolted, one to 
each side, but Buford had expected that, and he veered 
left. He didn't know which horse he was going for, but 
he didn't care. Grabbing the reins, he pulled the 
horse, running until he was away from where he had 
shot. 

The horses had been on the high side of the little 
meadow they'd stopped in, and he ran upward. He'd left 
the horses saddled on purpose, something that wasn't 
good for them, but he was nervous about pursuit, even 
though he didn't admit it to Chaps. Now he was glad he 
hadn't pulled the saddles off of them. When he thought 
it was safe, he vaulted up onto the horse. He could 
tell by the saddle that it was Chaps' horse, but then 
Chaps didn't need it any more... did he?

He rode hard into the dark, hoping the horse wouldn't 
stumble.

***

Water Man, as he was called by his tribe, walked into 
the light of the fire. Sees Long Distance followed, his 
bow still in his hand. He had fired the arrow that had 
killed one of the two men abusing the woman. Both had 
heard the other man shoot, and the sounds of a horse 
being taken from where Little Pine should have been 
guarding them.

Water Man looked around. He paid no attention to the 
naked white woman. She was no threat. He hoped, against 
hope, that Little Pine would walk into the light. If 
Little Pine had been killed, there would be trouble in 
the tribe. The old ways were dying out, and when Water 
Man wanted to take the two young men on a vision quest, 
the elders had argued. But both young men had been 
eager to prove themselves, and a vision quest was the 
only way to do that any more. In the past there could 
be honor gained in honest battle, but the white eyes 
had ruined all that. Now if natural enemies fought, the 
white man would come and kill indiscriminately. Often 
they killed women, and the young. Most white men had no 
honor.

Just as these two men had no honor. 

No civilized person treated a woman like this. Water 
Man and the two young braves, flitting through the 
trees, had watched the men for a whole day. Little Pine 
had been careless, and should have been seen, but the 
two white men had been oblivious. The men treated this 
woman badly, never feeding her, or giving her water. 
They tied her to a horse like baggage, instead of 
letting her sit. Why didn't they just make her walk? 
Why must they cause her such pain? Then, when it became 
clear that the men intended rape, Sees Long Distance 
couldn't take it any more. He had not asked if he could 
attack. He had simply pulled an arrow from his quiver, 
knocked it and let fly in a moment of passion.

Water Man frowned. Had he known what Sees Long Distance 
was going to do he would have been ready to take care 
of the other one. Now, perhaps, Little Pine was dead, 
and the elders would be very unhappy. He walked toward 
where he was afraid he would find Little Pine's body.

Little pine's body was there, but it was not dead. He 
sat, holding one hand to his head. His face was stained 
dark, and Water Man knew that must be blood. Silently 
he pulled Little Pine's hand away and saw a shallow 
crease on the side of his head, where the bullet had 
skimmed the skin. Water Man heaved a sigh of relief.

"He was just there!" complained Little Pine. "The horse 
blocked my vision."
"Just as the horse blocked his shot?" chided Water Man.

He pulled the young man to his feet and back into the 
light. Sees Long Distance was standing over the white 
woman. No, she was only a girl. Water Man could see 
that now. Still, he knew what was going through Sees 
Long Distance's mind.
"I think our quest is over," said Water Man.

Sees Long Distance turned his head. "She is mine. I 
claim her as my right of conquest."

"What do you want her for?" asked Water Man. "She is 
skinny and white. She will only be trouble."

"I have no woman yet," said Sees Long Distance simply. 
"It is tradition to keep women taken in battle."

"The white eyes do not let us do that any longer," said 
Water Man, unhappy that he had to say so.

"She is mine," said Sees Long Distance stubbornly.

"Then you are responsible for her," said Water man with 
a sigh. This would cause trouble too, but maybe, given 
the chance to think about it, Sees Long Distance would 
realize that and let the girl go.

Little Pine was unhappy. He had been shamed by the 
white man, and now Sees Long Distance was able to claim 
a woman. "The horse is mine then," he said. "I claim 
the horse."

Water Man looked up at the dark sky, sighing. Young men 
were so impetuous.
"The white men brand their horses," he said. "If you 
are found with a branded horse, they will think you 
stole it."

"Then I will eat the horse, and the brand will be no 
more," said Little Pine, just as stubbornly as his 
young friend.

"I need the horse for my woman," said Sees Long 
Distance.

"What do you have to trade?" asked Little Pine.

Water Man groaned as the two young men argued. He stood 
over the girl and examined her. She was indeed skinny, 
in his opinion, but her milk bags were large and firm, 
and would serve little ones well. 

She looked dead to him, so pale was her skin, but he 
saw she breathed. He felt his own loins tingle as he 
looked at the impossibly light colored hair that rimmed 
her sex. Feeling his own reaction to the naked white 
girl Water Man sighed again. Yes, she would cause 
trouble. 

He listened as Little Pine demanded to be allowed to 
lie with the woman in exchange for letting her use the 
horse. Sees Long Distance finally had to agree. It 
would tire his mount too quickly if he had to ride 
double. Then they haggled over how many times Little 
Pine would be allowed to mate with the girl. Sees Long 
Distance insisted that he must be the first to get her 
with child. Finally they came to an agreement that Sees 
Long Distance would have her for one moon, and then 
Little Pine could mate with her.

The girl had covered her milk bags again, and she 
looked up at him from the ground through half closed 
eyes that glittering in the firelight. He offered her 
his hand, but she lay limply and licked her lips.

Little Pine went to get his new horse, while Sees Long 
Distance came to them. The girl's eyes opened wider now 
and she spoke the white man's language. Water man knew 
a little of that talk, but ignored her. They needed to 
be moving. Someone might have heard the shot the other 
man fired.

Little Pine bent down and got the shivering and 
obviously frightened girl to her feet. She was 
babbling, about being taken home. Two of them couldn't 
understand her. The other didn't want to talk. Water 
Man went through the saddle bags on the Little Pine's 
new horse but found nothing for her to wear. He cut the 
strap holding the saddle onto the horse and tipped the 
saddle to the ground. He took the blanket and threw it 
at the girl, who wrapped it around her, still babbling. 
She would just have to be tough as they rode to get 
away from here. He was tired of young people making 
trouble, and just wanted to get back home. Maybe the 
old ways weren't so great after all.

When she was finally up on Little Pine's new horse, 
which required entirely too much help in Water Man's 
opinion, she lay forward, letting the blanket cover her 
to her thighs. Water Man looked around and did one 
other thing. He pulled Sees Long Distance's arrow out 
of the dead man and, using the man's own pistol, shot 
him right where the arrow wound was. The girl screamed.

Let the white eyes think one of their own had done 
this.

***

Sarah didn't know what was going on. It was dark, and 
she was naked and cold. The horse blanket the Indian 
man had given her helped, but she was still cold. She 
had to hold it on with one hand, and try to stay on the 
horse with the other. They had cut the saddle off the 
horse. Why had they done that? It didn't make any 
sense. She couldn't run, because one of the Indian boys 
had hold of the reins. She knew she didn't have the 
strength to hold on even if she managed to get the 
reins free and kick the horse into a run. Then they led 
her to a place where there were more horses... Indian 
ponies, and trying to get her horse free was moot.

She tried to think. They had saved her, but they 
weren't acting all that friendly towards her. Where 
were they taking her? What was going to happen next? 
Where was Buford? She had seen him run toward the 
horses, and heard gunfire. Had the wounded Indian boy 
killed him? They hadn't dragged his body back to the 
fire.

They didn't understand when she spoke. That much was 
clear. But they hadn't hurt her either. And they'd 
saved her from Buford. That caused her to think about 
the last place Buford had touched her. There hadn't 
been any pain to speak of. She'd heard there was always 
pain the first time. She didn't know if he'd actually 
raped her or not. She had nothing to gauge by. There 
had been that pressure digging into her softness, but 
that was all.

Sarah suddenly realized that the area of her body she 
was thinking about was trying to talk to her. As the 
horse walked under her, her bare sex pressed against 
the rough hair on its neck. She rode bareback a lot, 
and while she had felt twinges of delight down there as 
she did so, they had never been more than that - 
twinges. 

She had never been on a horse naked, of course, and 
that, in itself, was strange enough. But the feelings 
coming from down there were distinctly more than just 
twinges. She was amazed to find that it felt GOOD to 
feel that coarse hair pushing against her. She shook 
her head. She didn't WANT to feel good down there. Not 
right now! She was cold and miserable and still 
kidnapped, as far as she knew. She had no business 
feeling good.

But she couldn't get away from that delicious feeling 
as the horse moved under her. She tried sitting up and 
leaning back, the way she usually rode, and that helped 
a great deal, but the blanket wasn't big enough to wrap 
around her and it was too cold. She had to lean back 
down so that the blanket covered more of her.
The rubbing was causing something to happen, and she 
felt like there was some kind of pressure building 
inside if her that threatened to tear her apart. It was 
all coming from right where her sex rubbed the hide of 
the horse. She moaned, and the Indian man barked 
something at her. It didn't take understanding their 
talk to know he wanted her to be quiet.

She couldn't be quiet though. The pressure was building 
more and more and she began to help the horse rub at 
her. Then she was blinded as she saw spots of light 
where there shouldn't be any, and a wave of sweet 
pleasure shot through her. She realized that, where her 
breasts were pushed against the horse's neck, her 
nipples felt pain that wasn't pain and her whole body 
seemed to vibrate as the sensations washed through her. 
It was indescribable and she thought surely she must be 
dying to feel this good while her whole body hurt as 
much as it did.

Then it was gone, and she was left panting for air as 
she realized she had been holding her breath. She 
wasn't dying after all. A few minutes later, as her 
breathing neared normal, it all started to happen 
again. With horror she suddenly knew that it would keep 
happening as long as the horse rubbed her sex.

Sarah tried to fight it. At one point she shoved her 
hand between herself and the horse. That helped a 
little, but then her hand made the sensations come 
again. She sat upright as long as she could stand the 
cold, but inevitably she had to lie back down on the 
horse.

It happened to her six more times before they stopped. 
She had to be helped off the horse, and collapsed onto 
the ground, heedless of the rocks that bruised her soft 
body.

Water Man looked at the girl on the ground, and then at 
the back of the horse. The horse's hair was dark and 
wet where she had been sitting. He rubbed the area with 
his fingers and sniffed at them. His eyes opened wide 
as he realized it was not urine he was smelling.

He laughed out loud. No wonder Little Rabbit, his 
number one woman, loved to go riding so much. And no 
wonder she yipped and yelled as she did so.

***

Molly woke and found that her arm had gone over the boy 
in the night, and she was snuggled close to him. He was 
warm, and she didn't want to get up. Still, it was 
almost light, and she didn't want him to wake and find 
her like this. It would be embarrassing.

She rolled away from him, and out from under the horse 
blankets. She felt amazingly good once she got some 
blood into her toes and could feel them again. She 
hadn't slept on the ground in years and years and 
though she felt the pains of doing so, she felt more 
alive than she had in a long time.

The boy rolled and reached to lift his hat onto his 
head as he sat up, blinking and looking around. He 
looked up at her and his eyes swept down her body. 
Molly couldn't help but feel the thrill of being looked 
at and appreciated.

"Get up lazy bones," she said tartly. "I've been up for 
hours."

"No you haven't," he grumbled. "Until about a minute 
ago you were the only warm thing within a hundred 
miles."

Molly flushed as she realized he knew she has been 
pressed hard against him. Her...