John Brioshe reined his black gelding in and sniffed the air inquisitively. Smoke! The soft spring breeze was blowing down off the mountains from the west. The smoke could be coming from the Sun River. It bent close in several places if he remembered right. This was Sioux country and it paid to remember right or die. At 27 John figured he was a mite young to die. He only hoped that the Indians agreed. The Sioux were just one of many tribes populating Montana. He would just as soon miss them all. He had no friends among the Indians.
The problem was, he had run out of flour and bacon seven days before. His coffee ran out two days before and he missed that even more than the food. Now he was left with the need to hunt in an area where a gunshot could be heard by any number of passing Indians. Of course there was the distant and time consuming prospect of finding food elsewhere, nut, berries, or a porcupine. The porcupine was possibly the ugliest animal on the face of God’s green Earth, but it was also the only animal which could be killed with a stick.
Smoke signified that somebody had food, possibly coffee. He needed to find out. John left his horse in the center of a cedar grove. The trees were so tight he had to break off lives to get his horse inside. It would not be found by a passing man. Lefty, the name he had given his horse, because it had one left white forefoot, nibbled at a few cedar bows for a moment, then gave him a deadly glare. He knew he had to work things out with his horse later, after leaving him with nothing to forage on. But at the moment John was more interested in his own stomach.
John paused within hearing distance of the river. The low roar of the river was comforting. How many rivers had he listened to, his only companion in the wide open wilderness? Hundreds? Possibly, but he never grew tired of them. The first sight of a river, with it’s roaring white water, pools just begging to be fished, and sunlit waters… well things like that made life worth living. John dreamed of growing old and settling on the banks of a high mountain lake, or stream, and fishing his life away, if he lived that long.
John moved closer to the source of the smoke. He stopped to listen again. He was wishful of hearing an ax, voices, or anything that would tell him if the camp was friend of foe. Only white men used an axe, generally. Only white men used a wagon and broadcast the fact with the telltale jingle of trace chains, the rub of leather, or the squeak of a doubletree. Indians were far more quiet. Children and dogs sometimes gave away their location, little else.
With a groan of hunger, John detected the smell of cooking meat. Once again it was neutral. Either white or red men cooked meat. He detected no smell of baking bread or coffee, which were white man foods. Pausing in indecision, he decided to sneak forward and find out for sure, being aware that he could be sneaking up on a Souix war party. He pushed the thong off his pistol, licked his dry nervous lips, and pushed some bushes aside.
Indians! It was a family of Sioux, not a war party, but just as bad if he was caught. A Sioux warrior could be as temperamental as a mother bear protecting it’s cubs. He counted two horses, a man and two women. It was a temporary camp. He saw no dogs, or children for that matter. The brave was young and proud. He sat watching as the women worked. One woman was nearing middle age, she looked what she was, a sturdy, dependable workhorse. She would plod along all day, stop and fix a man a meal, then fuck him until he couldn’t stand any more, all without complaining.
The youngest was a looker. She was absolutely ravishing. John had not seen a white woman in six years. It had been nine months since he had seen an Indian woman and that one had weighed close to 300 pounds. This girl was like a fawn, slender, quick, and beautiful. Now John was licking his lips. The reflex had nothing to do with food.
The girl came to the fire and knelt while she sawed a chunk of meat off a roast, from where it cooked on a stick. The roast looked heavenly, but John’s eyes were on the bare thigh showing where the deer skin dress rode up her legs. A slit up the side revealed her legs almost to her crotch. The light of the fire showed off her lightly tanned skin. It glistened.
John moaned slightly and backed away. He wasn’t afraid of being heard, the roar of the river covered all noise. Well not quite all. One Indian pony suddenly raised his head and whinnied. To John’s horror, Lefty answered the call. John swore as he ran up the hill toward his horse.
John knew he was in trouble long before he reached the cedar grove. He heard the crash of a body in brush, then the thunder of hooves behind him. His hair stood on end as he turned and faced the young brave. Even as he looked the boy was leaning over the side of his horse with a bow in his hands. John drew and fired. The boy was jerked out of the saddle. He rolled several times then stopped, his open eyes glistening as they looked at the blue sky overhead.
John felt bad. He didn’t like to kill, even Indians. But the kid left him no choice.
A bullet ricocheted off a rock, just inches from his face. John spun around and raised his pistol. To his horror he found himself facing the old workhorse. She reloaded the musket with the ease of much practice and raised it to her shoulder again. It was a long shot for a pistol, but John had no choice. His rifle was on Lefty. He aimed at the old woman, then raised the gun a mite. His first shot was way low. Shooting downhill was tricky, even at best. With a pistol at that range, any hit would be a miracle. He raised the pistol even more and shot again. The old woman flew backwards. The musket went off into the air. She kicked twice and lay still.
“You stupid potlicker,” John swore bitterly. Why did they make him do it? Wasn’t life short enough as it was, without trying to end it prematurely?
Suddenly John remembered the other woman, the young girl. Was she still at the camp? John tried to catch the Indian pony, but it would have nothing to do with him. It ran off to the North. He turned and sprinted toward the cedar grove. He pulled Lefty lose and jerked him out of the grove, then ran him down the hill.
John burst through the bushes to find the girl hunched down near the fire, with the knife in her hand. John rode lefty up to the girl and knocked her flying. The knife slid out of her hand, planed across the water, and sank. The girl turned, but John leaped onto her back, driving her into the sandy bank. She struggled, but John had the upper hand. He took a loop over her hands with a pegging string, then put another around her legs. He dragged her toward Lefty. She screamed and fought, to no avail. John took down his rope and looped it over her hands. He pulled her to the nearest tree, tossed the rope over the limb, and tied it off. She hung with her feet on the ground, but her hands straight up in the air.
John pulled his knife and cut her feet lose. She immediately tired to kick him. He slugged her on the jaw. She hung limply for a moment, then groaned and stood. A fiery look entered her eyes. John knew she wanted to kill him.
“I don’t suppose you speak American?” he asked casually. “I didn’t think so,” he said as he approached the fire. He bent and cut a piece of meat from the roast and sat wolfing it down, while he looked her over. An eagle screamed far up the mountain. He turned and watched it’s lazy progress across the sky. When he looked back he found her watching it too. He remembered that an eagle was sacred to most Indians. But on the other hand, most other things were too, including buffalo, deer, and owls.
“You are one fine looking female,” John said, before biting into the meat. He looked at her slender, nicely- tanned legs. They were exquisite. She must be real popular back in camp, he thought to himself. Of course Indians had a different idea of beauty. For some Indians the old workhorse would have been downright beautiful.
With her arms raised he had an excellent view right up to mid-thigh. He planned on having more than that in a moment. But first things first. John laid down at the edge of the river and drank, then stood and approached the Indian beauty. The look in her eyes was almost deadly enough to kill. He moved close, slipped out his knife and cut along the seam of her dress, where sinew had was woven into the hide. The seam parted easily. He pulled the remains of her dress off, leaving her standing naked before him. His breath caught in his chest. His eyes widened at the sight of her slender, beautiful body. The unmistakable gleam of aloft pride filled her eyes, before she spat in his face.
He calmly slapped her with all his mite. Her head jerked savagely and she spun limply on the rope. He was afraid that he’d killed her. But eventually she straightened, looking at him with tears in her eyes.
“No more of that,” he cautioned. He lifted each small, perky breast, then ran his hands over them. She hissed, before clamping her mouth shut. Her nipples were tiny, but the areolas were large, taking up the entire end of each breast. He ran his hand down over her slender waist, then paused, looking at the black pelt of hair. It glistened in the fading sunlight like the feathers of a raven. He sank down more and stared at her naked pussy. The lips were large and protruding. He touched the puffy lips of her pussy, and she jerked violently. He looked up into her face. She was still angry and defiant, but the glare in her eyes seemed to have lessened. He forced her to turn. He sat staring at her shapely ass. He couldn’t have imagined anything more beautiful, or more sexy. His hard throbbing cock immediately wanted to part those fleshy cheeks. He rubbed each cheek lovingly. He leaned closer and kissed her left ass cheek. She spun around, threw up her legs and placed them behind his head. Before he could move she clamped her legs shut and began twisting.
Fighting for his life, John pulled at each leg, to no avail. She was trying to break his neck. He was so close to her pussy that he could smell it’s wonderful aroma. It reminded him of smoked fish. John decided he did not want to die this way, although there were worse ways to die. He turned his face slightly and bit into the golden thigh on his right. She screamed and pulled away.
John fell to the ground, gasping for breath. He rubbed his sore neck and looked at her accusingly. Her eyes were also filled with pain, and defiance. John wanted the little bitch more than ever, but he no longer trusted her. Tied hands made her no less dangerous. He felt bad, as blood ran down her leg, until he remembered what she tried to do to him.
“Ok, bitch, you want to play that way, I’ll play too,” he said, standing and unbuttoning his pants. He dropped them around his ankles and stepped out of them. Her eyes widened as she looked at his hard cock. She quickly turned away and clamped her legs shut.
John smiled as the shapely ass appeared before him. If she knew what he intended, she would not have been so quick to present it. It was exactly what he wanted.
John spit into his hand and rubbed it over the head of his cock. He slid up behind the woman and held her with a hand around her waist, while he rubbed his cock in the crack of her ass. Even as she struggled, he pressed his rock hard cock into her asshole.
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