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This is a work of fiction, using characters from the film, “The Quick and the Dead". No insult or invasion of privacy or infringement of copyright is intended. The story is for readers over the age of 18 only, and contains adult language. The writer is not responsible for any "discomfort" caused to the reader by this language and these situations.
This will be a ROUND ROBIN series of episodes. Anyone who wants to continue the story with her/his own twist or turn, have at it! I'll start it out... Begins 5 years after "The Quick and the Dead" ended.
What Came Next
Episode 5 by: Mare ©12/2005
During
the past few days Stewart Kirwan had helped clear the wreckage of the
felled bell tower and erect a temporary derrick to hang the bell from.
Maybe a mistake, that, as the exposed bell provided an attractive
target for the trigger happy. The
town had been renamed Big Bell post-Herod.
So Bones Hillman, the deputy who’d been left to keep peace in
Big Bell had to hire two idle drovers to stand guard at the derrick. At
night Stew blew his horn in the saloon with Susan Murphy’s mother on
piano. That battered antique
had several missing keys (now probably Mr. Murphy’s false teeth) and a
resident family of mice. Stew
had persuaded Katie’s distraught fiancé to join them on his cello.
Though his poor eyesight made reading sheet music impossible,
Kevin had a talented ear to play by.
He alternately paced circles around the fountain, manned his shop
and played his cello. Waiting
for news of Katie was excruciating.
Stewart, having the time of his life, felt guilty.
With Dean, Alan, Dave, Paul and Cort gone on posse duty, Stew
gleaned the rapt attentions of several young women.
But he was increasingly alarmed by the attentions of those
girls’ husband-hunting matrons. Particularly
by Susan’s mother. Not
that Susan wasn’t a tasty dish. Then there was Carmen Soldana’s
intimidating madonna. Apparently,
Sarina now deemed Cort too risky a mate for Carmen.
So Stewart was her new choice.
Stewart wondered how Cort would feel about that. By
ten-thirty Stewart and Bones in the Marshall’s office had eaten three
breakfasts. Bones’ sister
Irina, her moon-colored hair cascading loose down her back, had brought
the first. Her eggs
were scrambled with goat cheese and spices.
Then Carmen had come, shy and toting a delicious nutty porridge,
then the confident, hip-swaying Susan Murphy with potato-bacon
casserole. Rubbing his
stuffed belly Stew hoped the lunch feast would come late.
He wondered, did
the matrons load these meals with aphrodisiacs?
And should he select a contender, would the others’ mothers
send him poisoned food? Bones
was already taken. He had
married another of the Soldana clan, Rosario, older but as breathtaking
as Carmen, who sniffed each offering with pretended objectivity.
As she was pregnant, she also nibbled. ***** Just
before the red flag waved Katie was trying to describe Byron Starr.
No, he had not raped her. Instead
he had histrionically wooed her with talk of fate and love striking like
lightning and the great life they’d make together.
“He’s like...everything has to be big and important, real
dramatic, because he thinks he’s born to be a big important person.” Solemnly,
Tree nodded agreement. “He’s
real handsome. Not big, and
I think he likes me partly because I’m little; but he’s put together
nice. But he’s loco.” “I
wonder if it’s what he eats?” Selma
waved at the surrounding country. “When
you eat wild out there, you can eat things that make you crazy.” “Maybe
so. He sure likes to make
explosions. Big ones, little
ones, it’s scary. He’s
real proud of how the steeple blew up.” Again,
Tree nodded. Byron’s
robbery tactics invariably involved blasting his way in. Mattie
regarded Tree pensively. “So:
Byron is handsome, and that Garth is a fine specimen, too, and
Tree here is a Greek god. Does
Byron pick his men for good looks?” “Well,
now I think about it, we did have the prettiest gang in the
territory.” ***** Now,
the red flag was replaced by Garth leaning over the precipice waving his
arms. Dean went to the base
of the cliff to relay Garth’s message across the stream to the fire,
then across the road to the lurkers. “It
ain’t Starr!... It’s a
wagon... One man driving...
All the rest are women!... Unless
the others are men in dresses with onions stuffed down their fronts.” “Holy
guacamole!” “What
the hell?” Katie
gasped. “It must be my
family! Dad went and
telegraphed them in El Paso as soon as Kevin and I set the wedding date.
With all this happening I plumb forgot!
We didn’t know who all would come, but that has to be them.” Relief
at the postponement of a gunfight made the posse a bit giddy and
jocular. Dean
and Garth watched the joyously tearful reunion of Katie with her kin.
“Hey Garth, were you telling the truth when you said you never
shot a man?” “It
was the truth. Now, I
can’t claim I never shot AT a man.
When one shoots at you, you kind of need to.
I just can’t aim worth shit.
Couldn’t hit a buffalo at ten yards.
And believe me, I tried – fucker was bearin’ down on me at
the time, and I was runnin’ backwards.” Ellen
and Cort met under the willow and watched, too, as Katie’s kin broke
out a large jug of something amber colored and passed it around. “More
women!” Cort threw his
hands skyward in appeal. “Just
what we don’t need here!” Ellen
chuckled. “Your posse’s
in danger of becoming a sewing circle.” “It’s
looking more like a brothel,” Cort lamented, watching his men abandon
vigilance in favor of courtship. Dave
Kelly had a blue ribbon from Mattie’s coiffure tied around his long,
black wavy hair (an homage to Bill Hickok along with his full
moustache). And the redhead
was scolding him for evincing interest in the new girls.
Alan and Selma expressed their relief with a kiss, then another.
And Jennie on tiptoes was feeding Tree a bite of apple.
Katie’s feminine cousins already had Garth and Paul dancing
attendance. And the
masculine one had pulled a guitar case from the buckboard.
He was accompanied by his paramour, a statuesque lady of mixed
heritage and an infectious smile. Like
Dave, Alan and Garth, Tone-deaf wore his hair long.
Since Wild Bill’s murder in Deadwood in ‘76,
romantic young men had let their locks flow in tribute. “So
you still concern yourself over the virtue of women?”
Ellen cocked an eyebrow at Cort. “What
virtue? Virtue is its own
reward, they say. If a girl
wants to pass on that reward, who am I to argue?
I’ll hang a sign on this tree:
‘Meet Marshall’s Maverick Misses Here.’” “Or,
‘Preacher’s Pussy Palace.’” Cort
groaned. “Hell, why not
‘Cort’s Cunt-and-Run.’” They
fell back under the draped willow boughs and chortled like children. “You
know,” Ellen pointed out, “If that wagon made it through unmolested,
Starr and those boys must have taken off south.” “Or
else they stayed where they were.” “Either
way, we could ride back to Big Bell – Big Broken Bell, now? – and
get Katie and Kevin safely hitched, and worry about Byron Starr later.
Those two, the mighty Tree and Sir Galahad Garth, well, something
tells me the siren song of easy women is louder than the lurid call of
easy money.” “Gonads
over greed. You’re probably right.
And I sure would like to see you in a dress again.” “You
prefer ladies in dresses?” “Sure.
A man can get his hands up a skirt.”
Audaciously Cort stroked her leather thigh.
“And my hands are free now...” “Oh,
yeah? If memory serves me,
Marshall, there’s a lot more you could put up my skirt.” “You
will find,” Cort murmured, bringing his lips near hers,
“that minus those damn manacles, I’m a harder man to
handle.” “You
were plenty hard back then.” Their
lips met. Tongues followed. They
let the party go on without them for a time, reclining and nuzzling
under the willow. Dappled
patterns of sunlight played on Cort’s gleaming mane and his eyelashes
brushed Ellen’s cheek as he kissed her neck.
Wondering if he had a real bed in his room above the office, she
ran her hands down his muscular back and slid fingers under the belt
band of his Zuni cotton trousers. Her
mind returned to the delicious, overheated experience of bathing him,
that desperate night years back...exploring every part she had managed
to free from his clothes... Cort pressed his belly against hers,
captured her legs between his strong ones.
His hands caressed her breasts.
Responsive nipples, delectable mounds.
He had almost forgotten what they felt like. “Your
marshal,” she whispered, “is one hell of a lot more fun than your
preacher.” Yelling
their names, voices brought them to the fire to meet Katie’s cousins. Her
cousin Dave Wilkins was “Tone-deaf” to his family, and the moniker
had stuck. Beautiful
and brown-skinned, his lover and companion was Ramona, a trained nurse.
His sisters were Becky and Theresa.
And the amber drink was the best hard cider anyone had ever
tasted. Ramona,
Tone-deaf informed the posse, was a dead-eye shot, and Becky was getting
there. They had three rifles
with them. “We
stopped by one of the pueblos east of here,” Tone-deaf said, “and a
lady there gave us something to deliver to Alan Doyle.
She said he was a deputy – you know how they are, they know
everything.” When
Alan stepped forward Tone-deaf handed him a perfect basket. Among the
Pueblo people there were women who wove them so tightly that they held
water. Furthermore,
they could be cooked in. Pinon
nuts required roasting, which was done on open fires as deft hands
gently shook the baskets over the dancing flames.
Perhaps the nuts imparted some oil that fire-proofed the
fibers... Admiring this
gift, Alan found something inside it.
Gasping, Alan laid eyes on a beautiful sketch of a girl he knew
was his daughter. At this
age they grew and changed so fast...she had her mother’s merry twist
of lips and Alan’s eyes. “My
sister Theresa is the artist. The
mother of that little beauty, well...” Tone-deaf’s eyes got dreamy
and Alan knew Jane’s magic was as potent as always. “She was
concocted with a good shot of sass, that gal...
I tried to get her name, but–” “–
But it went on for a mile,” Alan finished.
“Jane, I call her.” “Right.
She said to tell you, you can come see your little girl any time.
Then she said...” Tone-deaf
summoned his memory and repeated words of her tongue. Alan
sighed wistfully as he mentally translated:
‘Pecker-Alan no come see Honeypot-Jane.’ “Ah.
So she still has a man.” “Well,
there’s one living with her and the kiddies.” “Bearish
brave, looks like he could rip your fuckin’ arms off?” “That’s
the one. Say, man,
he...well, if it’s any consolation, he seems to care for her real
well, and the children.” Alan
nodded. “Jane wouldn’t
stand for less.” ***** Cort
and Ellen consulted Paul Giamatti on the choice to ride home now, pursue
Starr later. If truth were
told, Paul was almost as bad a marksman as Garth.
For Cort it was his grasp of human motivation that made him
invaluable. He possessed a
keen faculty for anticipation. Cort
found Paul with a giggling Becky. “You
men are just what I imagined a posse to be.
Bandoliers and guns, lots of whiskers
and such long hair.” “Except
for me, obviously. I’m
incapable of Hickok hair. My
hair has been deserting me of late.
And the hardware is just for looks.” But
Cort knew Paul’s sense of humor made women like him despite a lack of
glamour. And ladies sensed
his reliable yet passionate nature.
That Jennie’s interest had switched to Tree, Cort deemed a good
thing. She was too young for
Paul and Paul’s taste ran to woman of broad experience, deep
character, and – as he had once jested – weak eyesight.
Becky might lack the last qualification, considering her skill
with a rifle. But she made a
very positive impression on Cort and Ellen. Paul
pondered Ellen’s proposition. “What
if Starr doubled back to the pass? We
don’t want him stationed between us and Big Bell.
Just in case he’s got an ambush planned, I suggest we get our
party to the north side of the pass before he gets over it. Camp where
we camped two nights back. It’s
noon now. We should make it
by dark, assuming the horses haven’t been drinking this cider.”
He burped comically. Ellen
suggested, “Let’s get Galahad Garth and the Mighty Tree weighed in
on this.” She struck off
and the men followed her; men enjoyed following Ellen.
As Paul put it, “Damn,
she’s a fun woman to walk behind!
Like two puppies wrestling in those britches.” “Even
better to ride behind,” Cort revealed.
“That ass moves in mysterious ways.
Just made for the saddle.” “Well,
hell, bless the ladies, aren’t they all?
But when we get back to work, I’m riding between you two.
My ass will keep your mind on marshaling.” “My
mind,” Cort confessed, “is not on marshaling.” Ellen
guessed what their muffled chuckles were about, and added a few degrees
of arc to the swing of her hips. Garth
and Tree were cut out of the feminine herd and asked what they figured
Starr’s next move would be. “Damned
if I know,” Garth answered. “He
don’t give up easy. He
truly believes Katie is his by right of ...something.
But without recruits he can’t come charging in to town to get
her. He needs more
firepower.” Tree offered, “Cocksucker likes to blow things to smithereens – oh, sorry, Ma’am.” “No
problem.” “This
Lady,” Cort informed him, “can cuss with the worst of you, and shoot
with the best of you.” “And
drink you under the table,” Ellen added. Cort
thought, and fuck me under the table or on the table or – damn, back
to business. It
was decided that Cort and Ellen should follow the wagon and carriage as
far as the pass, then station themselves at the north side of its
entrance with Paul and Dave. Becky
with her rifle, Selma and Katie would ride in the carriage out of sight,
while driving the carriage would be Garth’s job, with Ramona armed
beside him on the bench. By
his deserters’ reckoning, Byron would never shoot at a driver with a
woman at his side who might be hit.
Tone-deaf would drive his wagon with Mattie beside him and his
rifle on his knees. Theresa,
Jennie and Dean would ride in the wagon’s bay.
Alan and Tree on horseback would bring up the rear. Since
Cort was required as chaplain on the upcoming wedding day, he and the
other sentinels would linger for no more than thirty-six hours after the
rest proceeded north. If
Byron and his boys hadn’t shown by then, it could be assumed they had
made another plan. The
party made a noisy parade leaving camp.
To ensure his full attention to the slopes and promontories above
the trail, Cort rode beside Ellen, not behind her. ***** Overnight
a thunderstorm brought brief but heavy rain. Forecast by distant
lightning, the downpour gave the travelers the chance to stretch shirts
and underclothes over rocks for rain-laundering.
The deluge was the only excitement of the night.
And the morning departure was rapid and calm, to Cort’s relief. Paul
and Dave spent most of the next day watching hawks and buzzards, betting
on how many turns it would take each of them to snag an updraft in the
cooler air ushered in by the rain. Cort
and Ellen told each other stories. They
had agreed to keep their bodies apart while on duty. Around
three o’clock the posse watched attentively as four natives, probably
Zuni traders, emerged from the pass.
One tall man, three women, by their garb.
The women wore voluminous cotton skirts and colorful woolen
blankets as scarves around their heads and shoulders.
They rode burros, the tall man a saddled horse.
They led two other horses and a fourth pulled a contraption more
a sledge than a wagon, full of bundles, presumably produce.
Cort immediately thought of peaches and pumpkins.
His mouth watered. It
was early for pumpkins, but some peach trees might have fruit.
Corn and beans and melons...the Zuni were prodigious
horticulturists. And their
cotton and woolen woven goods were treasured for their complexity. Zuni
women were never to be flirted with.
White seducers had turned up dead.
Although it was quickly decided that these Zunis – probably
aimed at the wedding where celebrants would be eager to trade – needed
armed escort, the posse would keep a polite respectful distance.
It set off with frequent pauses to scan the terrain left behind.
Just in case. Using
the spy glass borrowed from Tree, Cort curiously inspected the Zunis.
Their home ground was to the west, not east through the pass
where the pueblo dwellers lived. But
there was some trade between the two groups as the Zuni had the best
agricultural land in the territory.
The tall man wore what looked like Army boots, the women’s feet
were wrapped against the chill with fabric.
The man had a rifle butt protruding from his bedroll.
Had Starr’s gang attacked, that one rifle would not have been
much help. The lack of
attack was more evidence that Starr had made another plan. *****
Want to add the next chapter? Email it to me at darrinlee7@gmail.com!
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