Chapter 4

I had a very good night playing poker and getting to know Pen Smythe. He was one of those colorful characters that made the American west such an amazing place.

Pen had immigrated to the United States when he was about my age. He was drawn by the idea of wide-open spaces and a chance to strike it rich without sucking up to English Royalty. He had packed a lot of living into the twelve years he'd been here.

Pen was delighted when I told him I was an attorney, and he immediately became my first client. He had some paperwork he needed drawing up for the purchase of some land on the northern side of Fort Bliss. I did the ritual collecting of one dollar for a retainer, so we'd have the attorney-client privilege. He liked the hell out of that idea. Pen was not so delighted, however, when I cashed in on his bluff on a big hand that he'd been setting up. The money wasn't anything to him; it was the losing that he didn't like. I let him bluff me out of half of it an hour later and still headed to the Gold Nugget at midnight, thirty-five dollars richer.

I didn't gamble at the Nugget; instead, I danced with Liz. When we took a break from dancing for a drink, I asked her if she wanted to go on a picnic the following day. She liked the idea, so we ended up making arrangements to meet at the stable. Liz had a horse there, she said, so we could ride for a while then stop for our lunch. We danced a few more times before I headed back to the hotel.

Back in my room, I sorted out my money and carefully entered my winnings and expenditures for the day on some paper I'd bought at Pritchett's store. I back entered the same information from the day before. It was nice to know that I was ahead of where I started, cash wise, even after buying clothes, the books and a watch. I had sorted the money into gold and silver, US currency and railroad script. I was planning on unloading the twenty dollars worth of script I had left, put the gold and silver away and operate on the currency.

US currency was starting to be grudgingly accepted in the late 1870s, because with the establishment of the Bureau of Printing and Engraving, only one type of paper money was being issue. The government had been buying back all the various notes printed by the national banks since 1874. I would be a lot happier walking around with folding money instead of a poke full of heavy coins.

As I sat there on the bed with my three sad little stacks of money, I briefly thought about ways I might get rich by taking advantage of my knowledge of future events. I thought about it and forgot about it in the span of about thirty seconds. I was enjoying life just the way I was living it, and being rich was never a priority of mine anyway. As I said before, except for a hot shower in the morning, I had yet to miss anything about the twentieth century.

That lack of ambition to be wealthy was a big factor in three of my wives leaving me. It never got to that point with Cora Leigh, (Mrs. Tyler McGuinn the fourth). It was never an issue with Cora Leigh, because she was a psycho. Here's a little free advice from your old buddy Ty: never, ever marry a woman you meet in a bar in Las Vegas on the same night that you meet her. I don't care if the Elvis Chapel is running a discount; it is still a bad idea.

On the fourth day after we were married, Cora Leigh tried to run me over in the parking lot of a Waffle House, because she said I was flirting with the waitress. Which might have been valid except the waitress was about eighty years old. The police became involved, because Cora Leigh hit two other cars while chasing me with my own pickup truck. It took six deputies to subdue her, but the kicker was that she turned out to be an escaped mental patient from a hospital in Birmingham, Alabama. I would have been the second husband she had offed, if I hadn't been trained to avoid large objects hurtling toward me. I was crushed; she was beautiful and had the sex drive of a chinchilla on steroids. It just didn't seem fair somehow that her only character flaw was being a homicidal maniac.

The sun didn't awaken me the next morning, thanks to the blanket I hung over that southeastern window. As a result, I slept in until nine. After doing my morning thing, I visited Clem at the barbershop for my shave, and to put out the word about opening a law office. I also asked Clem about Pen Smythe. As usual, Clem had all the pertinent information.

"You mean 'English Penny'? He's quite a fella, comes in here about once a week for a trim. I hear tell he was a gunfighter and riverboat gambler before he bought that saloon of his. He fancies the ladies and they seem to think right well of him, too. He's about the only man in town that will stand up against Judge Howard, that right there takes some cajones."

Judge Charles Howard was a besmirched character in El Paso's history that we suffered through learning about in the eighth grade. As I remembered it, Howard was a lawyer from Missouri or some place back east, who came to Ell Paso and smoozed his way into becoming district judge. Before anyone knew it, he was the richest and most powerful man in town. It was Howard, some railroad people, and a crooked Catholic Priest who were responsible for the El Paso Salt War.

Howard and the other two tried to buy up access to the natural salt flats near El Paso, so they could profit from the salt. The Mexicans on both sides of the river who had been gathering salt there for centuries objected. The Salt War was going to happen about four months from now, in October of 1877.

As wars go, the one over the salt flats weren't much. Fewer than ten people lost their lives, but it set back relations between the Anglos and Mexicans for decades. In addition, the Salt War resulted in the only case ever where a Texas Ranger Detachment surrendered.

Here's another bit of trivia for you: the man Uncle Ty supposedly shot that day in Rosa's Cantina, was Charles Howard's son, George T. Howard. The fact that it was Howard's son was why Ty Ringo McGuinn was hunted down and killed, even though George drew first that day.

I made my decision right there in the barbershop to make sure George Howard lived, and the Salt War either never happened, or ended differently.

After I left the barbershop, I hustled over to Pen Smythe's saloon. Pen was a sophisticated guy for 1870s El Paso, so I was hoping he'd have a bottle of wine to impress Liz with. Pen didn't mind a bit overcharging me for a bottle of red wine, the label written in French. He even loaned me a corkscrew.

The hotel kitchen staff fixed me up with a picnic lunch to include a wicker basket and a checked tablecloth. Juanita Lopez actually prepared it while I stood talking to her.

"My sister was unhappy that you were here last night with the saloon puta with the big chi-chis," Juanita said as she held her cupped hands in front of her chest to simulate Liz's bounty. "Now you are taking her on a romantic picnic."

Juanita almost sounded jealous. I laughed and eyed the front of Juanita's straining dress.

"Hers can't be much bigger than yours, Nita," I teased. "Yes, I had dinner with someone last night, but she is not a whore. I brought her here as a way to discourage your sister. Sunday I think I will chase after you to make sure Maria gets the message."

Instead of laughing, Juanita just nodded.

"In that case, Gringo, I probably won't be hard to catch."

Liz was already astride her horse when I walked into the stables with the picnic paraphernalia. Her horse was a big bay Tennessee Walker gelding. She was perched on one of those little English saddles that easterners prefer. Her outfit was all brown, long split skirt, high leather boots, long-sleeve fitted top, and flat crowned hat. She looked the way cowgirls should look.

Melosa was out in the corral, munching on some hay with her back turned toward me, when I whistled a few notes of "Amazing Grace". Her head came up as soon as I started whistling, she spotted me and came trotting over. She followed me down to the gate of the corral. I let her out and saddled her up. The whistling thing was something I started doing on the trail during the endless hours riding drag. To relieve my boredom, I whistled and sang every song I could remember. Melosa seemed to enjoy it too, as she appeared to almost strut when I was whistling or singing. For some reason, I fancied Amazing Grace was her favorite.

Melosa and I looked like Liz and her horse, Gentleman Jim's, poor country relations. Melosa was a pretty little thing, but nowhere near as impressive as Jim, and my old saddle and tack looked shabby beside Liz's glittering rig. Jim was at least seventeen hands high, so Liz even sat taller in the saddle than me. I have to give it to Melosa though, because she wasn't intimidated a bit. When Jim swung into that smooth walker gait, she pranced along side him with her head held high.

Liz knew a place down by the river that she thought wouldn't be flooded yet by the spring runoff, so that's where we headed. It was a nice peaceful little spot in the shade of a large willow tree. We let the horses get to know each other, grazing on the lush river grass as we set up our picnic. It was one of the most enjoyable afternoons I've ever spent in the company of a woman. Equally, if not more important, Liz seemed to enjoy it too.

For me it was one of those rare days when everything I had planned turned out right. The cold fried chicken, bread and cheese were delicious, and the bottle of wine I produced with a flourish impressed the heck out of Liz. It also impressed her when I whipped the last law book volume out of my saddlebag and showed her the Latin glossary.

"You weren't jesting were you, you really do want me to help you study," she said, her green eyes sparkling. I gave her my best self-deprecating smile.

"Yes, I was telling you the truth, Elizabeth. I really could use your help. Of course, that doesn't mean I won't have designs on your fabulous body afterwards."

We sat side by side on my Navaho blanket as Liz quizzed me on the terms. After a half hour, I called a halt. Throughout the study session, we both tippled a few glasses of wine.

I took the book out of her hands and tossed it aside, then slowly moved my face towards hers to kiss her. She looked skittish, but didn't resist as I touched my lips gently to hers. I held the kiss and deepened it as I put my arms around her and drew her close. She sighed when I leaned away from her.

"I've never been kissed so sweetly and softly before," she said.

When I said, "Then the men before me must have all been stupid." Her expression turned serious.

"There haven't been any other men, only my husband. He was rough and demanding, and it hurt every time we joined. I guess I have some physical problem or something, because to me, sex is painful and scary. You are the first man I've accepted an invitation from since I left New York."

I looked at her incredulously.

"Liz honey, your husband wasn't making love to you; he was asserting his power over you. That is the same thing as rape."

I could tell by the hopeful look in her eyes that she wanted to believe me, so I pressed on.

"Look, I'll make a deal with you to prove I'm right. Go along with me for half an hour. If, at the end of that time, the thought of intercourse still scares you, we will stop and study law some more."

Liz hesitated a second, but the hope, and maybe something else was still in those green eyes.

"What do you want me to do?"

"Trust me, relax and enjoy what I'm doing."

She gave it another few seconds' thought, then gave me a slight affirmative nod. She told me later that what tipped the scales in my balance was the way I had treated Melosa back at the stables. When I'd whistled for her, she had come up to the corral fence and stuck her head right against my chest so I could scratch her ears. That my horse trusted and liked me impressed Liz more than all my blathering.

I took her in my arms and kissed her again, this time getting my tongue involved, Liz kissed me right back. Liz really liked the kissing and seemed disappointed when I stopped and leaned back. I gave her a reassuring smile, moved the law book off the blanket and gently laid her back. She had that skittish look about her for a second, but it passed when I started kissing her again. Liz picked up the art of French kissing very quickly. Since she was learning from me, she kissed me just the way I liked: Soft but firm closed mouth pressure, with our tongues playing tag in her mouth then in mine.

When her breathing quickened signaling her increasing arousal, I gently cupped her breast through her shirt. She stiffened slightly then moaned and pushed her breast into my hand. I couldn't feel much more than the pendulous weight of her through all those clothes, so I moved my hand to the top button of her heavy blouse. It was then I discovered something about women's clothing in the 1870s: they wore a lot of them, and they were fastened really, really well. I almost panicked when I thought it might take my allotted thirty minutes just to bare some of her skin.

I finally figured out the way the fasteners on her blouse worked and conquered the laces on her corset. Soon enough, I was nibbling the velvety smooth and creamy white skin at the top of her breasts, as I worked in Braille on the rest of her tops.

When I had her unlaced to the waist, I was surprised at how small her nipples were in relation to the size of her breasts. I was also gratified that those small little nubs were extremely sensitive. She cooed and sighed as I laved them with my tongue and lips, her fingers in my hair holding my head close. I figured if she liked that, she was going to love the heck out of what was next.

I moved one of my hands down and started sliding it under the wide leg opening of her split skirt. Her hand came down and grasped mine tightly. I pulled back from her breast and looked into her eyes. They were heavy lidded with passion, but frightened at this new development.

"You promised," I reminded her.

She looked into my eyes for a few seconds, then her hand fluttered away from mine and fell to her side. When I resumed my journey up under her skirt, she spread her legs slightly to give me room. When my fingers slipped into her silk bloomers, I found her wet and ready. I traced up and down her slick lips a few times, then slowly penetrated her with my finger. She made a small whining noise and lifted her hips a little. I was kissing her other lips as I probed her hot, tight slickness with my finger. She had both arms around my neck, pulling me tighter against her.

When she orgasmed, I had two fingers curled in her, massaging her g-spot and my thumb stoking her clit. My mouth was glued to her nipple, and her fingers were clenched tightly in my hair. She came hard, her hips pumping as she squealed out her pleasure. When she was finished, I moved up her body and held her in my arms as she shuddered through a few after shocks. Her breathing eventually returned to normal and she rolled against me, kissing my face and laughing.

"That was incredible, Ty. I have never felt anything like that in my life," she gushed.

"You mean you never do that for yourself?" I asked in wonder.

She gave me a scandalized look.

"Onanism is a sin I do not commit Tyler McGuinn," she said frostily.

"You better reread Genesis, Elizabeth Collins. Onan didn't masturbate; he pulled out of his brother's widow while they were having intercourse to keep from getting her pregnant. His crime was refusing to impregnate her so his brother would have heirs. The sin part is fiction made up by prudes."

I think Liz wanted to believe me, but she said she'd look it up when she returned home. She did concede my point about sex being nice, though, so we packed up and headed for my hotel room for round two.

It was pretty much of a toss up as to who was the most anxious to continue our experimentation as we galloped back to town. As soon as we had the horses into the hands of the stable boy, Liz practically dragged me the two blocks to the hotel...