Custer's little big Horn
Summer 1876, Dakota Territory
1. Great choking clouds of yellow-brown dust billow from under the spinning wheels of our rocking and lurching stagecoach. The thundering hooves of four galloping horses and the exhortations of the driver make conversation inside the nearly empty coach difficult.
Across from me sits a lone gentleman ... dapper looking, ruddy-faced, with a big drooping mustache and a long cigar. He has been regarding me curiously for some time now, and finally leans forward to shout, "I say darling, where are you headed?"
"Fort Abraham Lincoln," I reply after a moment’s hesitation, "and you, kind Sir?"
"The same, ma'am ... Rupert Wragg's the name."
"Barbara Moore," so pleased to make your acquaintance," I say, extending a white-gloved hand and smiling sweetly at him from under the long brim of my summer sun bonnet.
"Tell me now, what's a pretty young thing like you doing all on your own out here in the Wild West?" he continues, shifting over to sit next to me and tapping a dusting of gray cigar ashes on the dark floor of the coach.
"Well I am a very independent type, Mr. Wragg. If you really must know, I am a writer on assignment for a big Chicago daily. I am on my way to meet and write a feature story about the great Indian fighter, Colonel George Armstrong Custer. It's all very exciting, you see. This is my very first assignment and I hope to make a success of it. Now tell me, what do you do for a living, kind sir?"
"Ahem ....well my dear, back home I am lord of the manor. Quite upper crust, as you might imagine. It's called Cruxton Abbey. We Wraggs have held it for generations. But here in the colonies ... I mean the States ... I seek adventure. I am a man of chance, you might say. I am a master gambler, you see. In fact I am on my way now to the town of Deadwood, where I plan to make a killing. I was just run out of ... no, pardon, I mean to say I just departed the town of Omaha after a most successful tour of the saloons and gambling dens there."
"Oh, I see."
"By Jove, Miss Moore. We seem to be gaining speed here; and I swear I just heard a gunshot. What was that thing that just flew by the carriage window?"
"Well, it appears to have been the driver. I think we must be under attack. Tell me, don't those look like bandits out there riding alongside the stagecoach?"
"Yes, and they have guns. They must be highwaymen and this must be a hold-up. The driver has been shot, and they are bringing the team to a halt!"
"Oh, how thrilling. Perhaps my editor would like a first-person account of this too!" I exclaim, rummaging in my bag for a notebook and pencil.
The stagecoach slows and quickly grinds to a halt. Someone has jumped onboard and reined in the team of horses, shouting "whoa" repeatedly.
"I think the gentlemen would like us to step out, Miss Moore," observes my companion, "Follow me if you please. Here let me assist."
"Why thank you Lord Wragg." I coo, offering him my hand.
We step down to confront our masked attackers, two of whom look down at us from their heavily lathered and rather skittish mounts, six-shooters drawn and leveled menacingly. Our driver lies in a heap alongside the road a good distance back. Two more outlaws are un-harnessing the team of horses from the stagecoach and shooing them away, shouting "hee-haw" and slapping the horses' rumps with their hats.
"Your money and your jewels," growls one of the masked bandits, waving his revolver first at Wragg and then at me.
Wragg points at his satchel, and then retrieves it gingerly from the coach. One of the bandits grabs it away from him; reaches inside, triumphantly extracts a wad of greenbacks, and whistles.
"And now you miss!" snaps the bandit leader.
"I really don't have any money, "I stammer," perhaps a dollar or two."
"Then your fine city clothes, bitch! All of them! Strip now!"
When I protest, he cocks the hammer back on his six-shooter, leans forward over the neck of his horse, and presses the muzzle to my forehead. His horse whinnies nervously.
Slowly I comply, removing my clothing piece by piece ... first my bonnet, then my shawl, then the bodice of my dress ... dropping them on the ground, where they are immediately scooped up by one of the bandits.
My slow stripping continues until I stand stark naked under the blazing sun, nervously covering myself as best I can with arm and hand. Thank goodness my long brown hair, which I had let loose when I removed my bonnet, partially covers my bare breasts and tumescent nipples.
"Raise your hands and turn around slowly now," orders the one with the gun.
"Bastards!" I hiss as I pirouette, exposing myself fully to their leering view.
"Nice bush and tight little ass!" chortles the man holding my clothes admiringly.
"I say now gentlemen. I know what you are contemplating and I really must protest," pipes up Wragg. "Miss Moore is a lady, not a saloon floozy, I must remind you."
"Shaddup or I'll put an extra hole in your head, barks the horseman irritably."
The sky darkens. A late afternoon thunderstorm is gathering. Ominous rumbles of thunder can be heard approaching.
"Looks threatening, let's get out of here," says one of the bandits nervously. The leader nods.
"Wait," I say, "you can't just leave us out here like this! May I at least have my clothes back please?"
"Yes, You have our money and you got a good gander at our dear Miss Moore in the altogether. Let's be civilized about this shall we now," adds Wragg soothingly.
"Thought I told you to shaddup, Tinhorn," barks the lead bandit, before proceeding to make poor Wragg dance a little jig with a fusillade of shots into the ground around the terrified Englishman's feet.
Laughing uproariously, the four bandits wheel their mounts about and gallop off in a cloud of dust.
I look at our useless horseless carriage, at the dead driver, glance up at the darkening sky, and survey the treeless expanse of nothing going off to the horizon in all directions.
I turn to Wragg, sigh, and say with as much sincerity as I can muster given our situation, "Sorry about your money. How much did they take?"
"All of it," he replies, eyes roaming a little too intently over my nakedness, "sorry, about your clothes."
"Stop staring at my tits!"
He takes off his coat and with a gentlemanly flourish, drapes it over my shoulders and says good-naturedly, "now never you mind Miss Moore. It will be fine; we will get it all back, including some new finery for you to wear, as soon as we get to Deadwood, and I can fleece a few of the locals. Come on then, let's start walking, shall we?"
Together we trudge off, following the wagon ruts, as a bolt of lightning flashes across the sky, followed by an earth-shattering clap of thunder and the first heavy drops of rain impact the dry earth at our feet.
TO BE CONTINUED
Summer 1876, Dakota Territory
1. Great choking clouds of yellow-brown dust billow from under the spinning wheels of our rocking and lurching stagecoach. The thundering hooves of four galloping horses and the exhortations of the driver make conversation inside the nearly empty coach difficult.
Across from me sits a lone gentleman ... dapper looking, ruddy-faced, with a big drooping mustache and a long cigar. He has been regarding me curiously for some time now, and finally leans forward to shout, "I say darling, where are you headed?"
"Fort Abraham Lincoln," I reply after a moment’s hesitation, "and you, kind Sir?"
"The same, ma'am ... Rupert Wragg's the name."
"Barbara Moore," so pleased to make your acquaintance," I say, extending a white-gloved hand and smiling sweetly at him from under the long brim of my summer sun bonnet.
"Tell me now, what's a pretty young thing like you doing all on your own out here in the Wild West?" he continues, shifting over to sit next to me and tapping a dusting of gray cigar ashes on the dark floor of the coach.
"Well I am a very independent type, Mr. Wragg. If you really must know, I am a writer on assignment for a big Chicago daily. I am on my way to meet and write a feature story about the great Indian fighter, Colonel George Armstrong Custer. It's all very exciting, you see. This is my very first assignment and I hope to make a success of it. Now tell me, what do you do for a living, kind sir?"
"Ahem ....well my dear, back home I am lord of the manor. Quite upper crust, as you might imagine. It's called Cruxton Abbey. We Wraggs have held it for generations. But here in the colonies ... I mean the States ... I seek adventure. I am a man of chance, you might say. I am a master gambler, you see. In fact I am on my way now to the town of Deadwood, where I plan to make a killing. I was just run out of ... no, pardon, I mean to say I just departed the town of Omaha after a most successful tour of the saloons and gambling dens there."
"Oh, I see."
"By Jove, Miss Moore. We seem to be gaining speed here; and I swear I just heard a gunshot. What was that thing that just flew by the carriage window?"
"Well, it appears to have been the driver. I think we must be under attack. Tell me, don't those look like bandits out there riding alongside the stagecoach?"
"Yes, and they have guns. They must be highwaymen and this must be a hold-up. The driver has been shot, and they are bringing the team to a halt!"
"Oh, how thrilling. Perhaps my editor would like a first-person account of this too!" I exclaim, rummaging in my bag for a notebook and pencil.
The stagecoach slows and quickly grinds to a halt. Someone has jumped onboard and reined in the team of horses, shouting "whoa" repeatedly.
"I think the gentlemen would like us to step out, Miss Moore," observes my companion, "Follow me if you please. Here let me assist."
"Why thank you Lord Wragg." I coo, offering him my hand.
We step down to confront our masked attackers, two of whom look down at us from their heavily lathered and rather skittish mounts, six-shooters drawn and leveled menacingly. Our driver lies in a heap alongside the road a good distance back. Two more outlaws are un-harnessing the team of horses from the stagecoach and shooing them away, shouting "hee-haw" and slapping the horses' rumps with their hats.
"Your money and your jewels," growls one of the masked bandits, waving his revolver first at Wragg and then at me.
Wragg points at his satchel, and then retrieves it gingerly from the coach. One of the bandits grabs it away from him; reaches inside, triumphantly extracts a wad of greenbacks, and whistles.
"And now you miss!" snaps the bandit leader.
"I really don't have any money, "I stammer," perhaps a dollar or two."
"Then your fine city clothes, bitch! All of them! Strip now!"
When I protest, he cocks the hammer back on his six-shooter, leans forward over the neck of his horse, and presses the muzzle to my forehead. His horse whinnies nervously.
Slowly I comply, removing my clothing piece by piece ... first my bonnet, then my shawl, then the bodice of my dress ... dropping them on the ground, where they are immediately scooped up by one of the bandits.
My slow stripping continues until I stand stark naked under the blazing sun, nervously covering myself as best I can with arm and hand. Thank goodness my long brown hair, which I had let loose when I removed my bonnet, partially covers my bare breasts and tumescent nipples.
"Raise your hands and turn around slowly now," orders the one with the gun.
"Bastards!" I hiss as I pirouette, exposing myself fully to their leering view.
"Nice bush and tight little ass!" chortles the man holding my clothes admiringly.
"I say now gentlemen. I know what you are contemplating and I really must protest," pipes up Wragg. "Miss Moore is a lady, not a saloon floozy, I must remind you."
"Shaddup or I'll put an extra hole in your head, barks the horseman irritably."
The sky darkens. A late afternoon thunderstorm is gathering. Ominous rumbles of thunder can be heard approaching.
"Looks threatening, let's get out of here," says one of the bandits nervously. The leader nods.
"Wait," I say, "you can't just leave us out here like this! May I at least have my clothes back please?"
"Yes, You have our money and you got a good gander at our dear Miss Moore in the altogether. Let's be civilized about this shall we now," adds Wragg soothingly.
"Thought I told you to shaddup, Tinhorn," barks the lead bandit, before proceeding to make poor Wragg dance a little jig with a fusillade of shots into the ground around the terrified Englishman's feet.
Laughing uproariously, the four bandits wheel their mounts about and gallop off in a cloud of dust.
I look at our useless horseless carriage, at the dead driver, glance up at the darkening sky, and survey the treeless expanse of nothing going off to the horizon in all directions.
I turn to Wragg, sigh, and say with as much sincerity as I can muster given our situation, "Sorry about your money. How much did they take?"
"All of it," he replies, eyes roaming a little too intently over my nakedness, "sorry, about your clothes."
"Stop staring at my tits!"
He takes off his coat and with a gentlemanly flourish, drapes it over my shoulders and says good-naturedly, "now never you mind Miss Moore. It will be fine; we will get it all back, including some new finery for you to wear, as soon as we get to Deadwood, and I can fleece a few of the locals. Come on then, let's start walking, shall we?"
Together we trudge off, following the wagon ruts, as a bolt of lightning flashes across the sky, followed by an earth-shattering clap of thunder and the first heavy drops of rain impact the dry earth at our feet.
TO BE CONTINUED
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