Whores and French Women
Howdy, folks. This here’s an excerpt from my Western yarn ‘Blood on the Ground’, which you’ll find in the rip-roaring anthology ‘Soul of the Universe’. Folks who know about these things reckon it’s as fine as cream gravy, or “a stunning collection” as they put it.
The protagonist, Rence, something of a chancer and a ne’er-do-well has sneaked into an Indian camp in order to purloin whatever the hell takes his fancy.
The next tipi was the same: a right lot of clutter but little of value. He did pick up a beautifully decorated stick, some three feet long. It was decorated with odd carvings, notches and feathers, with an eagle claw fixed to one end. He figured that he’d likely manage to sell it for a pretty price to some unsalted dude visiting from the East, and slipped it into his bag, tying a beaded decoration to the bag-strap so that the stick would not fall out.
He was readying to move on to the next tipi when he heard loud female laughter from outside. He threw himself into a dark corner, hastily pulling up a blanket to cover himself and hauling his boots under it.
Four laughing Crow women ducked into the tipi, yammering away nineteen to the dozen. The woman at the rear, a little older than the rest and ugly as a mud fence, said something in Crow that caused her companions to burst into wild laughter. She reached down and caressed the buttocks of the young girl nearest to her, who smiled.
The girl turned and pulled old Plain Jane to her, moulding their two bodies together, swaying. Rence had never seen the like. He had heard of such fancy goings on back East, but had imagined that they were confined to whores and French women. This was…
The two other women approached the pair and stooped to lift Plain Jane’s dress over her head. She swayed naked in the dim light.
Rence stifled a gasp. Although her face looked like the hindquarters of bad luck, her body was something else. He stared for a spell while kissing and, well, other things went on. Then, as much as he wanted to stay and watch the other women get unshucked too, he got set to make tracks. He was not such a fool as to ignore such an ideal opportunity to leave undetected.
He edged quietly towards the entrance, silent as a bone orchard. Silent, that is, until the purloined stick poking out of his bag clattered against a large pot.
“Iaxassee bacheé!” screamed one of the women. Rence leapt to his feet and legged it out of the tipi full chisel. He sprinted lickety-split towards the wolf’s head rock. Screams and yells rent the air behind him. A swift arrow whipped close by his ear, and a dog snapped at his heels as he vaulted astride Red’s ready back and spurred the horse into action. They rode like Sam Hill himself was after them, away from the hollering camp”