On the Banks of the Bighorn Part Seventeen – by Tracker

 

Processed!

 

Inge Andersen’s Narrative

 

The last thirty hours have been pure hell.  We were warned not to travel alone in America because of the violence, but until our raft was swept away everyone treated us so well.  It was almost like America was truly a civilized place.  I am not against America like some people are, it is just that the place does not have a long history of civilization like Europe does.  Everything is so raw and vital here.

 

The first really nasty person we ran into was that loud hectoring man who kept ordering his girlfriend to get out of the Bighorn River, like he owned her!  If only he had asked nicely or warned her gently that the flood was coming.  But he had to be the big bully! Sarah and I certainly showed him, we gave him a piece of our minds, and got between the girl and the awful man. 

 

Then we were all swept away by the flood.  Unfortunately, the girl was swept away too.

 

It was all that man’s fault.  It was his fault his girlfriend didn’t get out of the river because he didn’t ask her nicely, and his fault we ended up here naked in this corral with collars on our throats.  If he hadn’t had to try to rescue the girl, he wouldn’t have been taken by surprise and wouldn’t have tipped over our raft.  I definitely blame him for everything.  Then he shows up, and is the lawyer who won’t take our case and walks away with his girlfriend on a leash.

 

I feel sorry for the girl Juliette in the hands of that nasty lawyer, but I feel sorrier for myself, and for Sarah, who is not handling this well at all.  Of course how does one handle being legally condemned to slavery well?  Even if it is some old law that shouldn’t even apply anymore?  The European Convention of Human Rights should have outlawed all this nonsense!  However, here I sit on the ground, naked, in a cattle corral with no help in sight.

Early this morning, hours and hours ago, Sarah and I were roused from our tent just after daybreak. I had felt safe in our tent, once we finally got it up the night before.  All our gear was soaked of course, but by sundown the night before we had dried most of it.

 

We awoke to a crashing and a weight landing on us.  One of the cowboys had leapt on our tent and collapsed the whole thing, trapping us.  A knife sliced through the fabric and just cut a big hole.  Sarah and I were dragged out and tied and thrown into the back of a truck.  What can two girls in panties and T-shirts do against three big men? Then the terrible interrogation by that Granny Mowbray person, all about our sexual history, including an invasive exam! We were told we were Loose Women and taken to be hung up for exhibition in a Lost and Found! Like missing Pets in the Animal Pound! But we quickly found there is no Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Women!

 

Condemned to Slavery by some eastern European aristocrat!  Not at all like our fine social democracy we have in Denmark, but an aristocrat out of the Eighteenth Century!  Our appeal denied by a twenty-first century lawyer in America!  Is there no civilization left in the world?

 

There are twelve of us being ‘processed’.  Five of those ‘free soil’ survivalists, two Wyld Wymen, hippie man-hating types from off the grid somewhere, Sarah and I, and three University girls.  The Wyld Wymen and the Free Soil types just fight all the time about who hates the ranchers more, even as they are all captives of the same men.  The University girls sort of look down on Sarah and me because we have trades rather than degrees.  I am a photographer, and Sarah is an industrial designer. I wish I had my cameras, but they were smashed in our campsite this morning.  The light here is so wonderful, with the mountains in the background and the big sky.  The men, although brutes and not respectful of women, are handsome in a rugged way. Very manly. The women I am imprisoned with, they are very good looking too, except the survivalists and even they aren’t so bad.  I escape thinking about my present circumstances by imagining the photos I could take, grouping the women in different ways.  We women can be so lovely in all our curves. It is no wonder men pursue us. It is the way of nature. But the men should be more respectful and civilized about it.  Balancing nature and civilization is the modern way.

 

At least I am clean now. Half an hour ago, we were put in a communal shower in a cave or cellar under a big ranch house.  It was glorious, all that hot water washing away the sweat and the grime accumulated in the hot sun.  And the juices and emissions too.  Standing under the hot water with my eyes closed, I could imagine myself safe, back home.  The free soil women were especially gleeful, as the cabins they are squatting in apparently don’t have such luxuries. The Wyld Wymen mocked them for their primitive living as they have electricity generated from water driven generators.  The fast rushing creeks of the mountains generate lots of power for them, or so they claim.  They even have solar as well. The two groups got into it again, as Sarah and I huddled for safety with the University women.

 

The stupid quarrel between the hippie wyld wymen and the crude peasant free soil women attracted the attention of our guards.  Abruptly the lovely hot water turned freezing cold.  We looked over at the guard, and he stood grinning by the water controls. That was the end of our lovely time of cleaning.  At least I was clean and my hair washed!

 

The guard lined us up.  I was first out of the shower area. 

 

“What is your name?”

 

“Inge  Andersen.  I want to see the Danish consul, not the Grand Duchy of Lutha one!”

 

His nasty cattle whip touched my thigh.  He didn’t swing hard but it hurt!  By now I knew that meant I should shut up.

 

“You don’t have a name.  Any more than a puppy brought home from the breeder, a slave doesn’t have a name until her owner gives her one! Still Inge will do for now, just Inge.  Last names are for people, for humans.  Slaves and other beasts get one name if they are lucky.”

 

He took a marker and wrote Inge on my left breast.

 

“She looks like a number two.” He addressed this remark to a man who had just come into the room.

 

The man went over to a table and from a box marked #2 collars, he removed a narrow band of steel, about three centimetres high and locked it around my throat.  It was snug, but not confining.

 

I had spent the day stripped first of my clothes, then my dignity.  Now I was stripped of my name.

 

As I was taken from the room, I heard Sarah confess that she didn’t have a name.  Sarah is a quick learner and so did not receive a stroke from the whip as I did.

 

When Sarah, a collar now around her throat joined me in the next room, her breast read Sara.  So her name had been changed.

 

“What size collar did you get,” I asked her. She was still shocked of course by the events of today.  She is not as resilient as I am.

 

“Size two.”

 

The next two into the room were the Wyld Wymen.  Their names according to the marks make on their left breasts were Velma and Lita.  I think these were the names they had had before.  The first of the University women came in.  Her name was now Harvard. She was followed by the short curvy girl, now named Stanford.  The snotty English one was now named Reading. She was very beautiful in that English way, which is softer than our colder Scandinavian looks. Men want to cuddle and protect them.  She looked like it had been a while since she had been cuddled or protected.

 

A man walked into the room; a different man to the ones who had been processing us.  He looked at us, taking in our exposed beauty.

 

“On your knees, sluts, you are in the presence of a man.  From now on, when you are in the presence of a man, you fall to your knees.”

 

The University women acted like they had heard this command before. They dropped to their knees, their thighs spread wider than modesty would allow.  Sarah and I followed their example.  Our legs were not widely enough spread, and our knees were kicked apart. It took the application of the cattle whip to get them to obey, but the men were strong.

 

When the Free Soil survivalist women came in one at a time, their names had been taken away entirely.  They were, according to the marks made on them, now named in honour of their cause, Dirt 1, Dirt 2, etc

 

We were chained up by lengths of chain attached from one collar to the next and we were marched off from the cellars up a flight of stairs that led directly outside.  I guess they didn’t want the animals making a mess in the house.  We had difficulty learning to walk in step; the wyld wymen and the free soil girls refused to cooperate with each other.  My ankles got stepped on more than once, and Reading actually fell. The men used their little whips on her, and did not help her up. Stanford helped, but Harvard said something about Reading likely not being a real University.  This seemed to be a discussion they had been having since before their capture. Despite the fights of the Wyld Wymen and the free soilers we finally got to the corral, a fenced enclosure with a couple of lean to shelters inside the barriers.  Two men, two of the official party from earlier when I was pronounced a slave, were looking out at the ranch buildings.  They glanced at us briefly, then resumed talking.

 

“Mr Frick, where do you confine your slaves at night?”

 

“We will leave them here.  There was a raid by the survivalists a couple of days ago. Once we ship this group out and the round-up is over, we will build a new corral for them so we don’t keep getting escapes.  We will build a bison fence. You know, our north American buffalo. If it holds a buffalo, it will hold these girls. Especially once we top it with razor wire.”

 

“You keep them here, not in that fine structure over there.” He indicated a wooden painted structure, well-maintained, like American barns in the movies

 

“In the horse barn?  It is full of horses right now, for the round-up.”

 

“So, horses inside, slaves outside?”

 

“Indeed Captain, which do you think is more valuable?”  Then they both laughed.  They laughed at the fact I was considered an animal, less valuable than a horse. I had always been led to believe that trafficked women fetched enormous sums, but it turned out the comfort of a horse was more important than my well-being.

 

“Look Captain von Tarleheim, they are to be fed and watered.”  He pointed.  There were two troughs low to the ground, like animal troughs.  One was already filled with water, into the other, one of the cowboys was pouring an ugly glop, it looked like porridge.  It looked like a kind of porridge I ate when trying to keep to my ideal weight.

 

“That gruel is scientifically formulated to give these girls all the nutrients they need to survive and prosper.  It will make their skin shine, and their pelts grow glossy.  It apparently doesn’t taste like much, but they can’t be picky. There was only room for five girls at a time at the trough. The stuff tasted of nothing really, but was hard to choke down.  It reminded me of something, but I couldn't place it.

 

“This slave food is made by Emery Feed Mills, run by one of our allied Families.  They make feed for swine, for cattle, for chickens, and of course, under a different name, for people.”

 

“What name to they use for people?”

 

Mr Frick grinned, “Nutri-girl. The diet food for girls who want to look good for men.  But that formulation has seasonings, and flavourings that do not go into this basic food.  This is Nutri-girl K or basic.  No flavour or seasoning.”

 

I was shocked.  I had had Nutri-girl when I was going on holiday to the Mediterranean and wanted to look good in a bikini. There was an American girl on the label in a vibrant sixties mini skirt. But that stuff came in six flavours. This was bland. I was outraged that the American company Emery was selling animal food to people, and selling slave food to unsuspecting free girls. Then my rage deflated, I was on my hands and knees, eating this stuff out of a trough, putting my head into the trough to lick it up, forbidden to use my hands.  I was an animal.

 

I ate as much and as quickly as I could. I felt favoured to be eating first and determined to take as much advantage as I could.  I was determined to escape, to get this collar of my neck, to get some clothes.  For that I needed strength, so no false pride would keep me from eating.

 

As I lapped my Nutri-girl K, Frick and the Captain, kept talking.  “There is the schoolhouse there, and those three cabins are for the schoolmaster, and one each for the boys and the girls, when winter storms prevent them from travelling back to the ranches after school.

 

“One for the boys, and one for the girls, of course.”  

 

“Of course, the girls delicacy must be protected.” Who was going to protect my delicacy, I wondered, eating naked in an animal pen from an animal trough”

 

“A school master rather than a school mistress?”

 

“Yes, you can’t expect the boys to respect a woman teacher.  There is a female assistant though to instruct the girls in domestic skills so they can make good wives and mothers.  And a Granny to help with discipline for the girls.”

 

The captain looked back at us, the slaves in the corral. “Won’t these girls get cold at night?”

 

“We have some old horse blankets, they might use.”

 

“Ones no longer good enough for the horses?”

 

“Precisely, now let’s go back up to the house. We have some trained girls there, and Tiffani, a dancer of skill. They are all much better than this raw collar meat here.”

 

After we were fed and watered, disputes began again.  The free soilers, women who apparently believed that if they drove away the ranchers they could just move onto their land, were boasting again.  They claimed they would be rescued this very night, that they had reinforcements, and better yet, they had an inside man, an informant and helper who would help with the overthrow of the ranchers.  “He is being paid very well, and he will be given his own ranch once we win. We have the backing of a tech millionaire, a billionaire who will help us.”

 

“Using you more like,” scoffed the wyld wyman Velma, “ You will fight and die and he will reap the benefit.”

 

They were about to get physical but a man came and pulled away Dirt 3.  

 

“Time for you all to be marked”.  I had seen the P marked on the girlfriend of the lawyer, I did not want that at all.

 

Dirt 3 was dragged into a narrow chute leading from the corral and penned there.  A second later, Dirt 3 gave a blood-curdling shriek.  She was howling like a wounded animal.  When she limped back we could all see why.  To our horror, a mark, a K like mark, had been burned into the flesh of her thigh.

 Her hands were held above her as an ointment was applied and then a clear plastic covering or bandage.

 

“Just so you don’t clutch at it or spoil it.  You wouldn’t want to spoil your brand would you?  It would lower your value.”  He laughed.

 

“Where’s Lita, we have orders for a special mark for you.”

 

Lita tried to shrink behind Velma, but the wyld wyman, Dirt 5, pointed her out, and she was dragged to the branding chute.  When she returned, bawling like a calf, she had been branded with what looked like an f on its back.  

 

I was dragged away next.  I was put in the chute.  Two bars came together and caught my neck, immobilizing me.  Clamps were placed above and below the place on my thigh where I was to be branded.  I have never felt pain like it.  The man with the iron brand counted slowly to three then I was released.  I was in shock. I was in pain.  I could not stand and was dragged back to the feeding troughs.  The salve was applied and I could feel some of the pain ease, but my thigh still felt hot.  I looked down, I had the K burned into me.  Branded like an animal!

 

The man applying the clear cover to my brand nodded.  “Yes you understand now.  Men like to brand their property.  It makes you more attractive because it marks you as property.  In time you will grow proud of your brand.  But maybe not tonight.”

 

Sarah was looking at me, at my marked thigh.  I have never seen her as pale as she was then. Even though we were both naked and collared, I felt that there was a distance between us, a difference between a girl who was branded and one who wasn’t.

 

Two more Dirts were marked and then Sarah was dragged off.  She had been marked the same as me, with the K.  I hugged her.  “Now we are both marked, we are sisters again.”  She smiled bravely.

 

One by one the girls were dragged away and branded.  All received the K, except Lita, already marked with the f, and Reading, who was marked with a flower motif.  “Just for variety,” the cowboy laughed. “A flower for an English rose”.

 

It grew dark, and with the dark came cold.  We huddled together under our old, smelly, used horse blankets. We were twelve women, twelve slaves, twelve branded animals.

 

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Exhausted, we slept.

 

In the middle of the night, we all awoke, for there were explosions; there was what sounded like shots.  The free soil women exulted.  They shouted that they were saved, that they would be rescued, that the ranchers would be wiped out at last. The excitement went on for almost an hour.  No one came near the corral. The fighting seemed to rage around the big house and around the barn.  The horse barn went up in flames, the horses whinnying in high pitched alarm, as someone seemed to be trying to lead them out through the flames and the fighting.  Then slowly things quieted down, and the fighting died away.  Still nobody came near the corral. The free soil women were not rescued. They retained their slave names.

 

In the morning nobody checked our corral for a long time.  Riders went by on horseback, while trucks raced around with armed men in the back. It seemed the ranchers had beaten off the attack.  The horse barn smouldered. We had no idea what had happened.

 

It seemed forever, but I guess it was around midmorning that a boy came to the corral.  He put water in our water trough and mixed up some gruel for us.  It was quite lumpy.  He ignored all requests for information.  He looked like he had been crying.

 

One of the free soil women kept pressing him for information.  He turned on her.  He looked exhausted.  “Shut up, just shut up, you people have done enough evil.  Ol’ Trelawny is dead, and my friend Alex is likely dead, killed getting the horses out of the barn, and Donna Black too when she was helping him, and old Granny Dallas and two or three others, so you just shut up.”

 

He wasn’t going to cry in front of us, so he left the corral quickly, securing it behind him.  The barn smouldered and the smell of burning and death hung over the ranch.