Western Tale: Chapter 11

When I arrived at the cabin, I put my distress to one side, as I wondered who it was who had tied their horse up outside; it was a good looking beast with an elegant saddle and bridle.  I conjectured that whoever it was must have been there for some little time, as I had taken half an hour to walk back from town and had not been passed by anyone along the way.  

I opened the door to find a rather elegant looking gentleman sitting at the table, smoking a pipe.  He had a white moustache and goatee, and wore a suit with a matching waistcoat and string tie.  His hat was laid upon the table.

“Good afternoon,” I said.  The gentleman got to his feet immediately.

“Good afternoon,” he replied.

“I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure?”

“Ah, no.  I don’t believe we have.  I am Judge Arnold Lancaster.”  He held out his hand, “Pleased to meet you.”

“I am Mrs Mary Hayes,” I replied, shaking his hand, which held mine with surprising tenderness.  “The sheriff’s wife.”

“Ah yes,” said the judge.  “I believe congratulations are in order.”  He smiled and gave the slightest of bows.

“Thank you, yes,” I said, “Though right now, I believe you know why we neither of us feel inclined towards celebration.”

“Ah yes,” he frowned.  “I suppose your husband must have informed you of Joe’s intentions.”

“He has, just now.  Yes,”  I waved my hand at his chair, “Please, sit down judge.  May I get you anything?”

The judge sat, “No thank you, my dear.  Will you sit with me?”

I sat down opposite the judge at the table.

He cleared his throat, almost ostentatiously, and then began.  “I have listened carefully to the tale that Joe told me, and, on the one hand, there is the evidence of a bullet wound and town gossip. On the other hand,” he continued when he saw me try to interrupt, “We have your husband’s good name as sheriff, and the rather interesting timing of Joe’s accusation.  Only the day after you could no longer bear witness to the events which lead to his wound did he come forward.  Even though I was in town for two days before then.”

I nodded.

“Your husband should come to trial if I believe that there is sufficient evidence for him to stand trial.  But making that decision needs to take all factors into account.  I would also want to ensure that Sheriff Hayes could receive a fair trial--something that might not be possible if you were not allowed to testify on his behalf.”

“Although your testimony might not stand up in court, I thought that by speaking with you directly, I might better understand the events of that day and determine whether Joe should stand trial.”

“Anything I can do to help,” I said.

“Good,” said the judge.  “Perhaps you could start by telling me, in your own words, what happened.”

And so it began.  I talked to the judge about my visit to the jailhouse; though I skated over the precise events that took place there.  I did however, explain that it was then that Paul asked me to marry him.  I explained also how I knew Joe from the incident on the stagecoach, though again, I did not explain the depth of our relationship, nor Joe’s night time visit to my hotel room.  Then I described the altercation between Joe and Paul on the street that morning, critically, that Joe drew first, but that Paul was the faster and managed to wound Joe only to avoid injury himself.

“I see,” said the judge.  “At least I think I do.”

I looked perplexedly at the judge.

“What I mean is, that though it appears your recounting of the events matches very well with the sheriff’s and, as you might expect, is contrary to Joe’s account, I still struggle with motive.  I don’t understand why Joe’s depth of feeling for you would justify such a reaction; why he almost died, and certainly risked death to stop you from marrying Sheriff Hayes.”

I nodded.

“Have you told me everything, my dear?”

Oh how much we can say without opening our mouths.  My silence spoke volumes and my flushed cheeks spoke volumes more.

The judge gave me a knowing look.  Mrs Hayes,” he said, “I think you’re going to have to trust me.  If you do not, and you leave your account incomplete, as your demeanor confesses, then I believe that Joe’s account, as well as fitting the facts, will be believed by a jury.  Furthermore, it would be compelling enough that I could no no other than to present that case to a jury in a court of law.  If you trust me, and give me a complete account, then I might be more inclined to dismiss Joe’s account in favour of the sheriff’s and yours.  The only way to avoid a court proceeding is to tell not just the truth, but the whole truth.”

I stood up, and took a turn about the table.  I looked down at the judge, holding on to the back of my chair to stop my hand from trembling.  “Sir, I have not told you everything.  But can you not trust that it is only for the sake of my modesty and my husband’s pride that I say no more?  You have my solemn vow that every word I spoke of those events is true.  It was Joe who picked the fight, and Joe who drew first.”

The judge looked up at me, with a slight smile playing across his lips as he shook his head.  “I am afraid not, my dear.  The truth must out.”

I hit the top of the chair in exasperation, “Can you at least promise me that no other person need hear my account?  That it may be kept strictly between you and me?”

Once more he shook his head, “How can I make such a promise when I have not heard your account?  What happens next will turn specifically on your account, which, ultimately, may or may not be heard in an open court.”

I slumped back into my chair, “And is there no other way in which I can protect my husband from these accusations?”

Was there a glint in the judge’s eye as he said, “Perhaps there is, Mrs Hayes, perhaps there is.  But that would be for you to identify and suggest; otherwise, my course is clear.  I must uphold the law, as I am sure your husband understands.”

I put my head in my hands out of frustration and tried to clear my head.  What should I do?  I would shame my husband and myself by explaining the past relations between myself and Joe; and that same relation might still be discussed in open court.  Otherwise, I leave Paul in the hands of a jury, and who knows what they might do.

I slumped to my knees at the feet of the judge, “Oh please judge, there must be something I can do.  Something… Anything!”

When those tender hands stroked my hair for the first time, I realised of course that there was something else I could do--another way I could sway the judge in our favor.  I grasped his thighs as I looked up to him, still pleading.  “Please believe me Judge Lancaster.  I haven’t told a lie; my husband’s a good man.  He had nothing against Joe, not until Joe pulled a gun on him.”

The judge’s response was stoic.  His expression hardly changed, even though I was pleading with him on my knees.

“I’d do anything to help my husband, but please, let us keep it between ourselves.”

There was a silence which hung in the air then.  The judge looked down at me, eyes glowing.  Me, looking up at him, tears in my eyes.”

“My dear, you limit our options, if our agreement is purely between ourselves.”

“Oh please,” I whispered.

The judge stopped stroking my hair.  One hand went to twisting the end of his moustache.  

“I would be as good as my word,” said the judge, “Would you?”

“Absolutely,” I said, “Absolutely!”

His hand moved from his moustache and moved instead to his pants.  To my amazement, he started to unbutton his suit pants.  I knelt back a little out of surprise and before I knew it, the judge had released himself from the strictures of his clothing.  There was already a certain firmness to his manhood, and that seemed to increase with every passing moment.

When I looked up at the judge’s face this time, his expression had changed; there was a steel to his eyes now; a resolve that, if he was going to give me what I wanted, then he wanted to exact a price from me.  And he’d just shown the price he expected me to pay.  I looked down at the judge’s display and thought how quickly it was I was breaking my marriage vow; but I also felt that I was upholding a deeper faith to my husband; by doing this I was keeping him from jail--keeping him from harm.

Judge Lancaster groaned as he felt my hand wrapped around his staff.  My hand slid up and down, and I felt that staff increase in stature as I did so.  His measure was not as great as my husband’s though substantial, none the less.  I leaned forward and let my tongue explore the tip of his protrusion.

The judge closed his eyes and groaned once more as my mouth enveloped him, my lips marking the circumference of his shaft.  I felt his hands grab handfuls of my hair and then he started to thrust himself further into my mouth, his hips bucking.  When he touched the back of my throat, I felt myself retching, but the judge’s grip was firm.  I put my hands on his thighs once more, and tried to lever myself from his grasp, but to no avail.  My mouth still full, I could hardly scream or cry out.  Then I heard the judge growl, “You said you’d do anything.  Do not resist me now, or this will all have been for nought.”

I relaxed my arms and surrendered to him, feeling his rod press against the back of my mouth as he thrust himself inside me.  Then he let go of my hair, and reached forward to caress my upper body; I could feel his hands through my clothes as he grasped my breast.  Though I was at once surprised by the judge’s behavior, I found also that my body responded to his ministrations at a visceral level.  My body enjoyed his attentions.

He grabbed my hair again, but this time to pull me from him.  “Take off your clothes,” he growled.  I stood up, and did as he said: removing my skirts, my boots, my jacket, blouse, bustle until I was left wearing my bloomers, my corset and my stockings.  All the while, he nursed his tower himself as I had done not moments before.

He reached forward and pulled down my underwear, leaving me in just corset and stockings.  Then he reached up and pulled at my corset, revealing my breasts.  With both hands he held my waist and pulled me towards him.  He turned me around and bade me sit on his lap.  However, as I began to sit, I realised his full intention.  As I lowered myself to his knee, he thrust his shaft between my legs and into me.

I gasped as I felt him part my precious lips and enter my most intimate place.  He pulled me down, down towards his lap, each time thrusting further and further inside me, until I gasped with both surprise and delight. Before I knew it, every inch of him was inside me and he was bouncing me on his knee.  The sensations were transcendent as I felt him enter and leave me by degrees with each successive thrust.  Then he turned me on his knee so that, when he leant forward he could take my nipple into his mouth and suck.  I gasped at that sensation combined with that lower one and wondered whether the judge too would have me climb that mountain of pleasure.

My gasping turned to panting as my climbing pleasure grew.  It would not be long before I peaked.  And just as I did so, I felt the judge’s grip on my waist tighten, and he bit at my breast tip.  I squealed and felt his body stiffen as he peaked with me--inside me.

He slumped back in the chair and I tried to stand. Though he let me do so, I felt a sting as his slapped me across my bare backside.  “If you continue to do as you are told and obey me as you have today, neither you nor your husband have anything to fear from my court.”

I bit my lip: this wasn’t over.

“However,” he went on, “If you ever decide you are willing to risk your husband’s freedom in court, you may do so through my displeasure.  Do we understand one another, Mrs hayes?”

I nodded.

“Pardon?”

“Yes, judge,” I croaked, “I understand.”

With that, he righted his clothes, put on his hat, bade me good afternoon, and left.  Moments later I heard his horse following the path back towards town.

Western Tale: Chapter 10

Paul didn't want to wait.  It was only two weeks before we were married.  The ceremony was strange because Paul insisted that we ask the pastor to conduct the ceremony but I had not explained the more intimate history between myself and Reverend Brown; once Paul had proposed he conduct the ceremony I found it impossible to explain an objection without embarrassment, so bit my tongue and accepted his suggestion.

When it came to that point in the ceremony where the congregation is asked if there is any reason why we couldn't be married, I swear I received the strangest of looks from Reverend Brown.  After the ceremony, we had a gay old time with a party in the saloon at which I must have danced with every man in town, except the pastor and Joe.  The former sat in a corner sipping at a sarsaparilla; the latter, with his arm still in a sling, could not bring himself to attend at all.

Afterwards, Paul took me outside to the street and we had a send off; the two of us riding out to his cabin atop a little wagon, pulled by an old chestnut mare.  I think he must have spent a good long time tidying and cleaning that cabin, but there were still little signs that only a man had lived there for a good long time.  On our wedding night, though, that hardly mattered and neither of us slept a wink.  In the morning, we stirred when the sun shone in upon our marriage bed.  Very gallantly, Paul got up to make some coffee, while I lay in repose under the blankets.

It may seem, dear reader, a little strange to you that I do not describe my wedding night in more detail than I have; however, if you consider the privacy and intimacy of that moment of consummation, and how that differs from the other experiences I have been relating, perhaps you will better understand my reticence to go into details.  Suffice to say, our mood that morning was one of satisfaction and happiness.

Well, the job of a sheriff can be given no hiatus for a honeymoon.  Paul would need to be back in town during the day.  We agreed that I would stay at the cabin during the morning and meet him at his office around lunchtime.  He’d take his horse and I’d walk into town later; it was only half a mile or so.  I spent the morning spring cleaning the cabin; it took a whole morning’s effort to transform the cabin from being clean and tidy to Paul’s standard to being clean and tidy to my standards.  It was with the satisfaction of a job well done that I then set out for town, through the noon day sun.

The road into town was along a wooded creek and it was pleasant to stroll through the dappled sunlight that made its way through the trees.  It didn’t take me long to reach the sheriff’s office; but I was startled by the mood of my dear husband when I arrived.

“Oh Paul,” I said, “Whatever’s the matter?  You look as if someone’s died!”

“I… I don’t know what I’m going to do.  I can’t believe what’s happening, nor how to set things straight.  I thought our marriage was the beginning of a new life, but it seems to have brought troubles of its own.”

“Why whatever do you mean?  Tell me--tell me what’s happened!”

“The judge returned to town two days ago.  He has been elsewhere in the district for the past month or so.  Apparently Joe went to him yesterday and insisted that charges be brought against me for attempted murder.”

“Attempted murder?  Attempted murder of who?”

“Why of Joe himself, of course.  When we faced off against one another in the street.”

“But that was all Joe’s doing!  He started that, and he drew first!  I’d testify in court; I’d swear on the bible that you were merely defending yourself.”

Paul signed.  “I know you would, my dear.  But… you can’t.  A man’s wife cannot testify in his defense.  It’s the law.”  

“We must be able to do something!” I said in desperation.

“I don’t know what.”

“Perhaps I could speak to Joe.”

“My sweet, if he’s willing to draw a gun on me and then lie about it to a judge, I can’t imagine you being able to talk him out of of having me charged.”

I fell silent.  I knew he was probably right.  Even if I were to seduce Joe, it would probably just remind him of our time together and deepen his resolve for revenge against Paul.  I collapsed into a chair and set to thinking about what else we might be able to do to save Paul from a lengthy prison sentence and losing his job: we would have only the shortest of times together if Joe had his way.  

We ate the lunch I had brought in silence.  This was the last thing I would have expected.  I had had such high hopes, such a light heart as I walked into town.  My walk back to the cabin was quite a different affair; there was a chill in the air, and the dusty ground was blown into my eyes by a chill wind and the thoughts turning over in my head did nothing to lighten my mood.  When I arrived back at our cabin, I was in quite a state of distress. 

Western Tale: Chapter 9

I didn’t regret my decision--at least not for a good while.  But, looking back, I am convinced that the combination of whiskey and our intimate relations colored my response.

“Why Sheriff--I mean Paul--we’ve hardly met.  But then we’re hardly mere acquaintances either.  I… I have never received a marriage proposal before.  I… I don’t know what to say!”

“Then say yes, Miss Mary.”

“I… I…”  Life was like a bull ride--or like the stagecoach journey when the bandits were pursuing us.  I hardly had time to think, but was challenged to act.  Something told me that Paul was a good man; the kind of man who I could depend on.  Life was precious and short; those were my lessons from the stagecoach trip.  When decisions are required, like that presented by the sheriff I felt I must not shrink from them, but go with my instinct.  My instinct was, “Yes, I will.”

Paul beamed and hugged me tight.  Then he stood up, grabbed our glasses and returned with the full to overflowing with whiskey.  I sat on the edge of the cot, and pulled up my drawers.  

“Then let’s drink to it.  Let’s drink to us,” he said.

He drank his shot in one swallow and I tried to do likewise, but stopped short; I spluttered to a halt having taken half a glass.

As my coughing abated, I looked out the window and realised that the rain had stopped.  The water still dripped through the roof, but there was blue sky in evidence.  We walked back into the office and out onto the porch.  A wagon or two were already trying to make their way through the mud and about their business.  I stood next to the sheriff, who put his hand around my waist, grinning from ear to ear.

As the sky brightened, more traffic appeared both on the boardwalks and along the street.  Every so often, someone would tip their hat to Paul with a “Mornin’ sheriff,” and a “Mornin’ Miss.”

We returned those greetings as we watched the world go by.

Paul still had his hand at my waist when Joe turned the corner and approached us along the boardwalk.

“Well,” he said, “This is a fine how-do-you-do!”

The sheriff turned to me, “Do you know this man?”

I nodded, blushing furiously.  “He… Joe was on the stagecoach with me.”

As the sheriff turned back to Joe, Joe’s punch hit him square on the jaw, knocked him off his feet and flat on his back on the boardwalk.

Paul shook his head, then stood back up; Joe circling him, ready to throw another punch.

“Joe, don’t!” I cried.  “He’s the sheriff.  You’ll be in terrible trouble.”

“That don’t give him the right to put his hand on your waist,” he replied.

“Nope.  Her response to my marriage proposal gives me that right,” replied the sheriff.

Joe dropped his hands to his sides, his jaw slack. “Her what? She what?”

“Miss Mary and I are to be wed,” explained the sheriff.

“Mary, say it ain’t so,” said Joe.

“I can’t say that, Joe,” I replied.  “I’ll always be grateful for all that you’ve done for me,” I paused, hopeful that Joe would understand the wealth of meaning in that phrase.  “But I have acceded to Paul’s request.  I am going to marry the sheriff.”  I put my hand in Paul’s as if to display my resolve.

“But only last night,” started Joe.

I interrupted him quickly; though I might need to tell Paul about what had happened between Joe and me this was neither the time nor the place.  “Last night I received no proposal from you, Joe.  And gave no response.”

“Sheriff, I think you needs to know something about Miss Mary here,” said Joe.

“Joe!” I replied.

He looked at me, his blue eyes steely.

The sheriff seemed to have a wisdom born out of the experience of his occupation.  “Joe,” he said.  “There ain’t nothing you could tell me about Miss Mary that would alter my desire to be her faithful husband.”

Joe stepped back a few paces, his hands by his sides.  “In that case, Mister, sheriff or no, I’m a callin’ you out.”  Paul pushed me away from him and faced off with Joe.  My hand went to my mouth involuntarily.  What was happening?  Both men stared at the other, unblinkingly.  Both men’s hands hovered above their holsters.  My heart pounded in my chest as if it were trying to escape. I heard a woman's scream only to realise the cry had erupted from my own mouth.  Without warning, Joe reached for his gun.  Before he had even raised the barrel, there was the sound of a gunshot as Paul drew his own weapon in response and shot Joe.  He fell to his knees and then on to his back.  I ran to him, seeing his blood seep out onto his shirt at his shoulder.  

Townsfolk were aroused by the sound of gunfire.  A handful ran up to Joe.  He lay there, stoic but conscious, as a doctor examined him.  “He’ll live,” were the only words I heard before Paul wrapped his arm around me and whisked me away from the scene.

Western Tale: Chapter 8

“Pardon me?”

“You ought to tell me what happened with Miss Patsy O’Sullivan and then we’ll see if I blush or not.”

The sheriff blustered on for a minute or two, and drank a good deal more whiskey, but I wouldn’t let go.  I was intrigued to know better the way other women behaved with men, to perhaps better understand the change that had come over me the past week.

Eventually, the sheriff began after taking a big swallow of whiskey.  “Miss Patsy was jailed after the general store keeper claimed she’d taken something from his store.  Of course Patsy denied it, and there weren’t no one saw her do it, but I was pretty sure she had.  Anyways, ruther than waiting for the next occasion the judge was in town, I agreed I’d keep Patsy out of trouble for thirty days and we’d call an end to it.  The store keeper didn’t much like it, but he saw the sense in my suggestion.

“To keep the peace with the storekeeper I couldn’t exactly let Patsy out before the thirty days were up, though she did try a few times to entice me to change my mind.  One time, when I came through to check on her, she showed me an awful lot of her leg, clear up to the stocking tops.  My,” he said, “she does have pretty legs.”

“Well, it had been hotter ‘n hell--excuse me--hotter than hot and the jailhouse had gotten pretty funky.  But then the weather broken and the next day it was raining like today.  I had got caught out in the rain and came running back into the office to get dried off.  I stuck my head around the door to check on Patsy, and there she was, as nekkid as the day she were born, taking a shower under the rain as it poured through the roof and into the jail cell.

“I exclaimed as you might imagine anyone would.  Patsy turns around and laughs when she sees me.  ‘Cain't a girl take a shower without you a gawpin’?”

I took a sip of whiskey as I thought about what happened.  I could only imagine how it made the sheriff feel when he saw Patsy like that.

“What did you do?”

“I'm not rightly sure I should say, Miss Mary.”

“Why ever not?”

“I… I… I wouldn't want you to think any less of me.”

I smiled and sipped my whiskey.  “That's very chivalrous of you sheriff, but not to worry.  I believe I understand the… urges that drive the behavior of men.  I won't think any less of you.”

The sheriff took a long draw on his glass and swallowed down his whiskey.  “I carried on watching her and drew closer to the cell.  My she’s a pretty thing is Patsy.  Her legs, her… Her body.  The sight of her had an… impact on my physique, you might say.”

“I believe I take your meanin’”

“Patsy looked over at me and saw what she'd done to me; I was standing awkwardly in my pants.  Made her smile.  She stepped out from under the shower and drew towards me.  She reached out between the bars and touched me.”

“Where?”

“She touched me just below my belt.  And I reached out to touch her at her heart.”

I nodded.

“She stepped forward so that her naked form was against the bars, with parts of her sticking out between them.”

I took another sip.  The whiskey was making me distinctly light headed.

“We kissed. ‘It's been a mighty long time since I last kissed a man,’ she said.”

The sheriff paused.  For a moment, all I could hear was that same water pouring through the hole in the roof.  It was so evocative--as if Patsy was still standing naked against the bars in the cell next door.

As I took another sip of my whiskey, the room started spinning and I felt my legs buckle beneath me.  The next thing I remember was the sheriff’s face looking down at me, a concerned look in his eyes; I realised I was lying on a bed in one of the jail cells.

“Miss Mary,” he said, “You fainted clean away.  How are you feeling now?”

I smiled and looked up at him.  It still felt like the room was slowly spinning around me, but that might have been the whiskey.

I took a moment to answer but said, “I… I think I am all right.  I’m not in the habit of fainting, really I’m not.”

“I carried you through to the cot here.  Thought you’d been more comfortable, and I didn’t know how long it might be before I could rouse you.”

“Thank you, sheriff--that was really very thoughtful.”  I smiled again.

“You really don’t have to call me sheriff,” he said.  “My name’s Paul, remember?”

I bit my lip and nodded. Then before I could take another breath, he leaned forward and kissed me.  I was surprised, and gasped a little; I suppose he must have thought I was opening my mouth to accept his kiss because he then snaked his tongue into my mouth, his lips pressed hard against mine.

“Oh Mary,” he whispered as he knelt next to the cot.  “I… I think you must be the prettiest gal I’ve ever laid eyes on.  I just couldn’t help myself.  Please forgive me.”

As if in response, I reached up my hand to the back of his head and pulled him down towards me.  Kissing him as our lips met.  I felt his tongue plunge back into my mouth; I could taste the whiskey.  The whiskey and the story about Patsy had had an impact on my state of mind.  Now, that was made even more powerful by Paul’s passionate kissing.  I could feel a tingling across my body.  That same tingling I had felt with Joe and with the pastor.

The sheriff pulled away.  Looking down at me with a funny look on his face.  Did he--could he know what I wanted?  He might need a more clear and explicit signal from me.  I reached out my hand and put it on his thigh, slowly sliding my hand up his leg until it brushed against the now rather obvious bulge in his pants.  The look in his eyes then was unforgettable.  It was as if Christmas had come early that year.

My fingers fumbled with the buttons on his pants, but he knew what I was after.  He reached down and undid the buttons in a flash.  My fingers slipped inside his pants and wrapped around his manhood.  With a little tug, it was free of its confines.  My goodness; I realised why the bulge had appeared so big.  The sheriff’s endowment was much larger than either Joe, or the pastor’s.  I looked down the bed to see what was perhaps just shy of a foot long.  My eyes widened, and you might suppose they would.

I tugged at him and, still kneeling, he moved along the bed.  Then I could kiss the end of his pride.  As I did so, I looked up at him, and Paul was even more surprised than before.  I can’t imagine he thought that a young school teacher would ever do something so improper. Or that he ever expected to be as lucky as this.  I opened my mouth as wide as I could and accepted his offering, though only four or five inches would fit inside my mouth.  My lips were tight around him and I could feel him throbbing inside me; throbbing and twitching.    

Paul’s hands were exploring my body, tracing the contours of my bust, following the shape of my legs--pushing my skirts up as he went.  I felt him thrust himself into my mouth and I almost choked, he was so big.  His rough hand grasped my thigh and I knew we would have congress.  Paul almost completely withdrew from my mouth before thrusting himself almost down my throat.  I was at the point of choking when he withdrew, completely this time.

He found my drawers and pulled them down to my knees, then pay on top of me, still fully dressed from the waist up.  I felt his magnificence between my legs, rubbing and teasing at my glory, before a new sensation started.  I felt as if his indulgence was tearing me asunder.  It was the most astonishingly delightful experience I had ever had; inch by inch he entered me, and with each successive inch, I drew further from the physical world and into an existence of pleasure--only pleasure.  Eventually, at the point where I was sure I’d split in two, he had finally entered me completely, and began to withdraw, only to enter me again.  Over and over, he entered and withdrew, my pleasure increasing with each repetition.  The only sound was of his breathing, the rain on the roof and the water pouring onto the floor from the hole in the roof.

My pleasure increased and increased until the room was spinning once more and I thought I was on the point of fainting for the second time that day.  Then, suddenly that world of pleasure exploded around me and every muscle in my body tensed.  It was like sunrise and sunset at the same time.  Like church bells and lightning.  Impossible to describe.  I collapsed into a heap of tingling sensation as Paul continued to thrust until his own completion a few moments later.  Then I felt the weight of his body upon me.  I was spent--as spent as a newly broken mustang, but with an as yet unsurpassed feeling of elation.

We lay there in silence for a few minutes then Paul rolled off me and lay on his side next to me on the narrow cot.  We smiled at one another, and he kissed me lightly on the lips.  “I ain’t never met anyone like you,” he whispered.

“Not even Patsy O’Sullivan?”  

“Ha!” he replied, “You’re beyond compare.  Beyond my wildest dreams and aspirations.”  He beamed at me.

We lay there in silence a minute more.  Then he said, “You know how you said you were plannin’ to become a school teacher?,”

I nodded.

“Well, I wonder if I might be able to persuade you to the contrary.,” he replied.

“How so?”

He paused, then almost whispered, “Miss Mary, would you be so good as to consent to be my wife?”

Western Tale: Chapter 7

Half an hour later I was walking along the boardwalk on Main Street--I'd left Joe to get some breakfast.  

An older gent, perhaps in his forties, approached me wearing a leather vest under his jacket, and a black hat with a silver band.

"Excuse me ma'am, but are you Miss Mary Blythe?"

"I am," I replied, "And you are?"

"Sheriff Hayes, ma'am.  Glad to make your acquaintance." He held out his hand, and I shook it.

"Is there something I can do to help you sheriff?"

"As a matter of fact, there is," he replied.  "I have heard rumours about what happened to your companions on the stagecoach, but I'd really like to hear from a witness to the events.  Could you please explain what happened?"

The sheriff escorted me to the jail and sat me down to explain the events of the last few days.  He had long dark hair, swept back under his hat, and big hazel eyes. The more I explained the wider those eyes became.  He was rapt--leaning forward in his chair as I told the tale.  I didn't even mention the more intimate parts.

"And what do you plan to do now?" Asked the sheriff when I finished.  Before I could answer there was a crack of thunder and rain started to hammer against the shingle roof of the jail house.  I jumped up from my seat--the sound was too much like a gunshot.

“It’s all right,” said the Sheriff, “It’s only thunder: nothing to be afraid of.”

I gradually sat back down in my seat.  I felt flushed.  Sheriff Hayes looked over at me and smiled.  He opened a drawer of his desk, pulled out a liquor bottle and two glasses.

“Seems to me, you’ve had a bit of a shock,” he said as he poured two generous shots.  “Here, have this.”  He handed me a glass and took the other for himself.  Thunder cracked again and a little of my whiskey spilled over my fingers when I jumped involuntarily.

I swapped the glass to my other hand and sucked the whiskey from my fingers.  It tasted good, and tickled my tongue.  The sheriff was watching me intently, and, when he saw I was looking back at him, took a big swallow of whiskey.  I took a little sip in response and coughed.  I wasn’t prepared for how strong it was, and how it burned on its way down.

“Goodness!”

“You feeling better for that Miss Mary?”

I raised my eyebrows.  “If you are going to call me that, I think it only right that I know your Christian name.”

“Paul,” he said, “My name is Paul Hayes.”

“Paul,” I repeated.  I took another sip of whiskey, this time without the coughing.  I smiled at my own success.  The thunder rumbled and the rain pounded down.

“I think,” he said, “That you were going to tell me what your plans were for the future, Miss Mary.”

I smiled, nodded and took a larger sip of whiskey, this time needing to suppress a cough, but very much enjoying the burn of its descent.

"I would love to retrieve the carpet bag containing my possessions, and then continue my journey so that I may begin my position as school teacher."

"Well," he replied, "Let me see what I can do to help."  He poured himself another shot and raised the bottle to me.  I nodded and held out my glass.

I returned his smile.  “How long do you think it might be before I can continue my journey?”

“Probably only a day or two, Miss.”

I nodded.  The bandit’s money would be enough to keep me at the hotel for longer than that.  

Paul looked out at the weather.  The rain was falling in buckets, and the street was awash.  “Weather gets like this sometimes in these parts.  Ain’t nobody goes out ‘til the rain calms down.  I reckon we’ll be here for a couple of hours at least.”

I stood and walked to the doorway.  There was no one visible on the streets, no horses, no pedestrians.  The sky was grey, the air thick with rain and the street a sea of mud.

I took a sip of whiskey, “I hope you don’t mind me taking shelter here, until the rain passes, Sheriff Hayes.”

“Paul, Miss.  Please call me Paul.  I would be only too pleased to make you comfortable until the weather passes.”

I smiled back at him, and he finished his glass of whiskey once more.  This time when he poured more for himself, I declined.  I still had quite a bit left in my glass, and could already feel my head was a little woolen.

“In the meantime, if there’s anything else I can do--absolutely anything--please let me know.”  He threw down the remaining whiskey in his glass and put the empty glass on the table.  I took another tentative sip of mine.  

With nothing better to do, I wandered towards the back of the room.  Through a door, I realised that there were a couple of jail cells at the back of the building.

“Do you have anyone incarcerated at the moment, Sher… Paul?”

“No, Miss.  Not presently.”

I stepped through the door into a short corridor that ran in front of the two cells.  The walls of the cells were iron bars--both between the two cells and between the cells and the corridor.  The back walls of the cells were the stone of the building.

“Do you ever have occasion to lock up women?” I asked, a propos of nothing.

Paul came to the door, his glass refilled, and leaned against the doorpost as he answered, “Very rarely, Miss.  When we do, it is generally on charges relating to drink.”

“I see,” said I.  “But in those circumstances, they would have no privacy, would they?”

Paul took a sip of whiskey, “That’s right.  I suppose they forego that kind of privilege when they get themselves arrested.”

“Would you ever have men and women in the same cell?”

“No,” he replied.  Then before he thought any further he carried on, “Not that that stops…” Too late he realised he’d said too much.

“Stops what?”

Paul looked at me with those dark hazel eyes and poured the rest of his drink down his throat.

“I’m not at all sure I should say, Miss Mary.”

“But I’m asking you directly,” I replied.  “I would be obliged if you would answer my question.”

“I’m afraid, you might find the answer a little embarrassing.”

I still had little idea of what he was going to say.  Maybe it was the school teacher in me, maybe it was the whiskey--most likely it was both.  But like a dog with a bone, I held onto my question and asked again.

“None the less,” I said, “What were you going to say?”

“Well,” he was still hesitant, but carried on, stumbling over his words, not sure how best to explain, “There was this one time, when I had a young lady--she worked in the saloon as a dancer, and waitress.  I had jailed her for smashing a bottle over some cowboy’s head.  She’d only knocked him out, but she’d had a skinful (pardon my language Miss).  Miss Olivia was her stage name, as I recall.  Anyways, in the other cell was a young cowpoke, name of Charlie Butcher.  Now Charlie had a way with the ladies, if you understand my meanin’?”

I did, and nodded, so Paul continued.

“I had been out taking a walk in the night air around midnight.  And when I got back, I found Charlie and Miss Olivia were… well… having relations.”

“But they were in separate cells?”

“Yes, Miss Blythe,” he replied.

I looked quizzical, took a sip of whiskey, and asked, “How?”

“Through the bars,” he said.  A multiplicity of images erupted in my mind.  None of them would have occurred to me a week ago, but, given my own awakening over the past few days, I realised all kinds of things might be possible through the bars.

I put my hand to my mouth, “Oh my!”  My cheeks were bright red--through embarrassment and alcohol, I’m sure.

The sheriff stepped away from the doorway and reappeared in moments with his glass refilled.

I lifted my glass to my lips and drank the remainder of my glass.  The burning sensation in my chest felt wonderful, and let me concentrate on something other than the images playing in my mind.

“I’m sorry, Miss Mary.  I…”

“That’s all right.  I understand--it was me.  I asked you to tell me, and you did warn me.  I didn’t think for a moment that… well… that… You know.”

He nodded and took a swig from his glass, rolling it around his mouth before swallowing.

“I can’t imagine,” he said, “That you had any notion as to the kinds of things that might happen in a jailhouse.”

Thunder rumbled outside, and I turned away from the sheriff.  I saw water pouring down from a hole in the roof onto the floor of one of the cells, spattering on the stone floor.

“Neither can I imagine what it feels like to be locked in one of these jail cells.”

The sheriff reached up to the door frame and lifted off a key ring.

“I can show you how that feels, Miss Mary.”

He walked over to the closer cell and unlocked the door.

“Step inside,” he said.

I did as I was told, and walked into the cell.  Before I had turned around to face him, he had closed the door, and was locking it.

“Now I ain’t never been convicted of a crime, but when I was a little ‘um, my pap sent me to the sheriff and had the sheriff put me in a cell.  I still remember how it felt, though I was only inside for a few minutes.  it’s a powerful feeling.”

I nodded.  He was right.  The sheriff had stepped away from the door, and I realised I couldn’t get myself out of that cell.  My heart started racing, and I became a little anxious.  I looked at him pleadingly.  “Oh sheriff,” I said, “There is an unsettling feeling which is starting to overcome me.  I don’t think I could hardly stand to be in here for more than a few minutes.  If I were locked in here, I don’t know what I wouldn’t do to try to get out.”

Though I said no more, it occurred to me that female prisoners might well use their sex in order to assure their freedom.

The sheriff nodded.  “Many’s the folks who’ve felt that,” he said, “And many’s the offer been made.  I don’t think you’re alone in those feelings, Miss.”  He unlocked the door and pulled it open.  Immediately I walked through the doorway, I felt better; the anxiety flowed out of me.

I turned to face the sheriff and lifted the glass to my lips.  I was so distracted, I didn't realise it was already empty.

“Here,” said the sheriff, “Let me help you with that.”  He brushed passed me into the office and took the bottle from his desk, then poured us each another measure.

“Anyone suffering that kind of… containment would quickly feel desperate.”  I took a swig.

“Certainly they do.  And for some, once they've spent some time in jail, they know the last thing they want to do is go back.”

I nodded.

“But when the judge sentences them to thirty days, it’s here they're going to come.  I’m sure glad there ain't no one locked up right now.”

“Why’s that?”

“Well, after the first week, the smell can get pretty ripe.”

I raised my eyebrows.

“Well, not to be too indelicate, I'll give ‘em a chamber pot, but they don't get more’n a bucket to wash up in.  And they cain’t ‘xactly change their clothes.”

“I see.”

“So last week, old Curly left me after a two week spell and I needed three days with the windows open to get rid of the funk.”

I smiled.  Lightning cracked, with the thunder only a heartbeat behind it.

“Storm’s getting closer,” said the sheriff, “It’ll still be a while before the rain dies down.  Why don’t you come back through and sit down?”

I followed the sheriff back into his front office and took the chair he offered.  I took a sip of whiskey and he mirrored me.

“So what’s the longest you’ve had a lady locked up here?” I asked.

“Hmm,” he replied, and took a sip as he pondered, “Probably Patsy O’Sullivan, last year.  She was here through the month of October.”

“Goodness.”

“Lucky for her there weren’t no one else got locked up around then, so she had the place to herself.”

“She managed to maintain her modesty then.”

Paul guffawed.  “Seems you ain’t never met Patsy.”

“No.  I can’t say I’ve had the pleasure.”

“Well, one minute she can be as ornery as a bobcat, and the next minute as beguiling as a pussy cat.  Trouble is, you never know which one you’re gonna git.”  He took a sip.  “And when she’s like a pussy cat, well…”

He glanced over at me, once more realising that the whiskey had loosened his tongue.

“What, Paul?”

“I… I can’t say.”

I took a sip of whiskey, “Would it make me blush?”

“I should think so, Miss Mary.”

“Are you certain?”

“Pretty darn certain.”

The combination of whiskey and that brief moment in the jail cell had left me in a strange state.  I don’t think I was quite myself.  Perhaps that’s just an excuse for my behavior.  At any rate, I do believe that what I said next was somewhat out of character.

“Well, there’s only one way to find out.”