On the Banks of the Bighorn Part Five – by Tracker

 

Mata Hari and The Lancer in Paradise

 

Juliette Chen’s Narrative

 

Patrick and I walked around the cliff base of the hidden valley all the way from where we had climbed down to the river, along the river to the other cliff and then back to our starting point.  The place was perfectly hidden and nearly inaccessible to anyone who wasn’t a climber, unless they came along the river bank.  The walls weren’t sheer, but nearly so, in most places an intermediate climb, easy enough for someone who was experienced and had equipment, but dangerous to those who did not.  At two points we found piles of very old bones, where the First Nations Indian people had stampeded bison over the cliffs as an efficient way to hunt these huge beasts.  There was a little stream that cascaded down from the prairie above and flowed right by a perfect place to camp, a grove of trees about 100 yards from the river on a rise that gave a good view around.  People had camped there years before, there was still a partial ring  of stones around an old fire pit, and some logs for seating.

 

We had found plenty of dead wood and branches in our walk. There would be plenty of dried fire wood and we were better campers than to cut living wood.

“It’s perfect”, I said to Patrick.

 

He smiled, “It is.  Camping on that rise is safer, I am worried of the river rising with all the rain this area has had.”

 

“No one to bother us, no one to see us, no one to come by and chat.  It is perfect. I know nothing bad can happen in this Vale of Contentment.”

 

We dropped our packs and climbed back up to the Subaru.  Patrick found a stout tree with a couple of branches that projected out over the cliff.

 

“I can rig a rope sling to lower our gear so we don’t have to pack it down and risk falling.  You climb back down to the bottom and untie the gear.  When it is untied, give a tug on the rope and I will pull it up and send down another rope.”

 

I nodded and put our coffee making gear in my pack.  I am not the type of person to shirk a load when making a trip.  ‘Never go up or down stairs with empty hands’ had been drilled into me as a child.

 

It took three loads to get our gear down.  We were car camping, so were camping in style, with the big tent we could stand up in, not the little backpacker tent we used on hiking trips.  Patrick lowered from above, while I belayed and steadied the swinging of the load with a rope from below.  We were a good team.  The loads swung down to the base of the sixty foot cliff, we then carried the gear to the campsite.  Patrick put up the tent, while I made coffee like the good little housewife I hope to be once we are married!  We sipped the coffee and took in the mid-afternoon breeze.  What a paradise.

 

“The river is going to rise a lot tomorrow or the day after,” Patrick said.  “In addition to the rains, the state is going to release a lot of water from the holding dams on the tributaries.  They don’t want to overfill the reservoirs. I heard them talking on the radio as I was moving the Subaru.”

 

“I wanted to hide the Subaru from passers-by for safety, so I found a place back in the rocks sheltered from sight of the road, or even of hikers.  Left the spare keys there too, hidden in the bumper.  It would be embarrassing to climb all the way up just to find we forgot the keys.”

 

“We should be okay on this rise though. And we never forget the keys.  You never forget anything.”

 

“Prepare for everything you can.”  Patrick is a planner.

 

We spent the next hour preparing camp.  Patrick cut up some of the dead dried wood for the fire, using our camp saw and axe, while I prepared a cache in the trees for the food.  With the food box hanging high from a branch, animals cannot be attracted to the food.  Keeping food in a camp, or worse, in a tent, is just foolish and dangerous.  As I stowed our gear I watched Patrick chop the branches into firewood and kindling.  He had his shirt off, and the muscles in his torso were moving easily and smoothly.  He takes such good care of his body, like a warrior, or a Greek hero.  He was sweating from the hot work, but he wasn’t the only one getting hot.  Good thing dark is coming soon!

 

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Patrick Masters’ Narrative.

 

Once I had a good supply of firewood chopped and neatly stacked I looked around our camp.  Juliette had done her usual superb job of organizing and putting away all our gear. She was bringing water from the stream in two of our collapsible buckets and putting it through the gravity water filter system.  She had one filter set up and was just setting up the other.  She used simple but effective knots, suitable for the purpose. If I had been alone, of course I would have used something more artistic.

 

“Let’s go for a swim while the water filters!” she smiled.  We were both hot and sweaty.  I could think of other things to do while we waited, but swimming was good too.

 

“You can wear the two-piece,” I grinned.  I like Juliette’s two piece.  The pieces aren’t that large.

 

“The one-piece,” she said firmly. Juliette’s one-piece has a lot of material.  Not unsuitable for an Amish grandmother.

 

In the tent I pulled on my swimming trunks.  Until there I had checked out the river to ascertain whether there were any leeches or snakes in the river, I was not exposing my bit by nude swimming.

 

Juliette came out from behind the hanging partition that screened the back of the tent.  The one-piece she was wearing was not the one I remembered.  This was more like the suits used by competitive swimmers and divers, cut very high on the hips with a narrow piece of fabric covering the crotch.  Her hips were well exposed, front, back, and sides.  Unlike a competition suit though, it did not have a high neck but the cleavage plunged deeply at the front.  Diving in that suit would make a wardrobe malfunction almost certain.

 

She almost blushed when she saw my gaze.  “It is so private here, I thought I could risk it.”

 

We walked towards the Bighorn.  We found a break in the bank and approached the river.   I plunged in.  Jesus, it was cold.  Mountain water and a late spring.  I came up from under the water.  ‘Bracing’ is how my Scout leader would have described the feeling.  I had other stronger words.

 

“How is it?”

 

“Fine, almost warm.  Just jump in and get wet all over.”  I smiled. “Dive in, the water’s fine”.

 

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Juliette Chen’s Narrative.

 

I woke up, cold, shivering in the pale light of dawn just penetrating the thicket of brush with the calf licking my face, her rough tongue licking the salt of my tears from my face.  I was still naked, still alone, still with Patrick’s rope around my neck.  I was still on the wrong side of the river, vulnerable and cold. Things had changed so much since Patrick tricked me into jumping into the freezing Bighorn two and a half days ago.

 

I had been standing on the bank, in my daringly cut one-piece, a surprise I had sneaked into my luggage, just in case we were camping in a truly private place.  I wanted to be more like the girl he wanted, less afraid of being seen as immodest.   I trusted Patrick and jumped in. The shock almost killed me as the cold sapped all my strength.  I came up sputtering, cursing him, and smiling at the same time.

 

“You liar, this is freezing.  And this skimpy suit is no protection at all to me.”

 

“What about me, think about the shrinkage!”  He swam lazily away.

 

I followed.  Patrick didn’t need to worry that much about shrinkage. We swam for about half an hour, we got accustomed to the temperature of the cold river water and it was fun in the bright late afternoon sun.  When we got out Patrick suggested we select some rounded river rock to take back to the campsite to repair the stone ring surrounding the fire pit.  We each picked up a good sized rock and went back to the campsite.  We were so happy before it started to get a little weird. And then things got worse.

 

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Patrick Master’s Narrative.

 

When I got back to the fire ring with my second load of rocks, Juliette was on her hands and knees busily fixing the stone circle around the fire pit.  She was making a double high circle of stones, the upper level resting on two rings placed one inside the other.  The ring, when complete would protect against the accidental spread of fire. There would be a ledge on the inside to place a cooking grate.  Juliette was a perfectionist in almost everything she did.  She did not hear me come back to the camp, I was almost standing over her, in just my swimming trunks, as she worked on her hands and knees, wearing that thin suit.  More of her rear was uncovered than covered, and I knew that when she stood up the bones of her pelvis would be clearly visible.  It was such a powerful feeling.  I knelt down and traced my initial P on her exposed hip.

 

She jumped.

 

She screamed.

 

“Patrick!  You scared me to death.  Never ever do that again.  Whatever possessed you!”

 

“You just looked so pretty and vulnerable there, at my feet.”

 

“What did you do to my hip? What was that about?”

 

“I was tracing my mark, my initial, P.  I noticed on some of the herds we passed the ranchers had branded their cattle, their property on the left hip.”

 

“I’m not your property, so don’t think of putting a brand on me.”  Her breathing had settled down, and she was regaining some of her good humour.  “I saw those cows too.  I googled cattle identification, before we lost cell coverage.  The brand is mostly old fashioned now, though still required, but mostly all the information about the cow is contained on scannable tags secured in their ears.  All very modern.”

 

“Brands and pierced ears, eh?  Sounds like some kinky bondage thing to me.”

 

We changed the subject, but I could still feel on my left hip where Patrick had traced his initial.  It was warm, like I was recovering from a burn.

 

We prepared a meal and ate, but there was still some tension. Sometimes I forgot how much stronger and bigger that Patrick is.  Even though I am strong for a woman, I know he could easily overpower me and that makes me nervous. After food and wine, I relaxed a bit, but his muscles were still more alarming than reassuring. 

 

“Are you going to want to do another role-play out of that book of yours again tonight?” Patrick looked eager, but then he is always trying to initiate intimacy.

I nodded.  I was trying to be less of a denying bitch to him, but I didn’t want to let him get me so hot I would get carried away.  Men don’t marry girls who are too needy. We need some mystery.  I thought the role-playing might let us get a little bit hotter without seeming to be too personal.

 

“My turn to pick one out,” he said.  “How about the Lancer and the Spy?  It says on the eve of WWI, a cunning female spy tries to worm military secrets out of an upright cavalry officer.”

 

I sniffed, “A Lancer.  Nothing subtle about that.  Awfully phallic, that big long stiff pointed stick, ready to pierce and slay the innocent maiden.”

 

“’Imaginative Sex’ remember? And the Lady isn’t so innocent if she is a sexy spy.”

 

“You could be a Lancer of the Grand Duchy of Lutha and I could be in the pay of the Austrians trying to get your war plans out of you in case we invade.”

 

“Sounds good”

 

So we tried it, but it did not go well.  Patrick was still felling masterful after our encounter at the fire pit and was more overbearing than in a mood to be seduced; while I was feeling vulnerable and it was hard to put myself in a seductive mood. It sort of fell apart and half way through we gave it up and had boring unimaginative sex.  The whole thing felt tawdry, like the whore at the Three Moon Saloon.

 

Later we drifted off to sleep, Patrick’s hand resting on my left hip, in the place where he had earlier drawn his initial.  In my uneasy dreams, I heard hoofbeats and dreamed I was carried off, for some reason entirely naked, across the saddle of a charging Lancer.  The first time I had the dream I was uneasy, later in the night it occurred again and I felt more aroused.

 

Now, hiding in the thicket with the cow and her calf, I can hear actual hoofbeats.  Cowboys are hallooing.  I need rescuing, but not by these cowboys.  I am naked with  a rope around my neck, and I don’t want to be rescued by strange men.  So I hide.  I know Patrick will come and rescue me, his naked barbarian.  After all, he put his initial on my hip!