On the Banks of the Bighorn Chapter Thirty One – by Tracker

 

Tidying the Camp

 

Patrick Master’s Narrative

 

Woodrow Frick said, “Almost done now.  Our reports were that there were eight in this group, the last group of them there was.  We got six, once we get the last two, we will be done with this.”

 

“But there are all eight of them here.  The other two are buried under the tent. The tent has an internal frame that supports it.  The pegs just hold it down. I killed the first two, then wrapped them in tarps, unpegged the tent, buried them in shallow graves, and moved the tent back over the bodies.  No one could tell they were there.  Meanwhile the girls rode the ATVs to the river and sank them in a deep spot.  Then we made the camp look normal and waited for you.”

 

Juli, I could tell, was wondering why I was putting myself in Woodrow Frick’s power by admitting to two killings.  I knew that Woodrow Frick was the sort who would never want anyone to have something to hold over him.  He carried himself and had the aura of a dangerous man. Even more than when he had visited the camp earlier, he was now grim.  The events of the range war had not mellowed him.

 

Juli, Tiffani, and I had just watched Woodrow and his men kill four ‘hunters’ with no warning. That was potential trouble for the Fricks and the Lazy F, and by making myself an accomplice I had put myself in the power of this ruthless man. By giving him something on me, I had restored the balance.  Even if I had not done so, Tiffani would have eventually spilled the beans anyway, but I was worried about surviving the next five minutes.  Juli was already a prize worth killing over. I didn’t want to give the Fricks any more motive to cover things up by killing me too.  Even if I promised not to speak, he would always worry that I might crack if any pressure was put upon me.  In his place, I would worry too.  Life was cheap on the Banks of the Bighorn. I wanted to preserve mine, as well as keep Juli.

 

Woodrow looked at Tiffani and Juli, kneeling awkwardly in their free woman garb.

 

“Tiffani, you are in the presence of Free women.  You insult them by wearing the clothes of a Free Woman, remove them at once.”

 

What Tiffani did next was a pure demonstration of the power of a trained kajira and dancer.  The first things she removed were the sandals she had borrowed from Juli.  Not the most obvious of of things. It was only when I remembered it later that I appreciated the subtlety.  The sandals had shiny gold coloured buckles, far too fine for a slave girl, a kajira, who are often barefoot.  Delicately she flicked them off her feet, and they flipped a couple of feet away. Tiffani was most clearly showing she laid no claim to a free woman’s shoes.  When she removed her clothes, it was not with the teasing bump and grind and artificial mystery of a stripper; nor was it the efficient removal of covering of a free woman alone.  It was the baring of her skin by a woman who knew she was being watched and had no right to privacy.  She did not hurry in a panic, but she did not dally.  The whole thing was so nicely judged it must have come from long training.

 

Contrary again to my expectations, she started with her bottoms, her shorts.  The belt was undone in a smooth and graceful way, leaving the ends dangling suggestively, suggesting both slave draperies and the ends of a whip. How she did that, I don’t know.  The belt ends moved just that little bit more than normal, as Tiffani, undid the buttons of the shorts and undid the zipper; not hurrying, not dawdling, always exciting.

 

Then she hooked her thumbs into the waistband and began to pull down the only covering of her lower body. I noticed she had hooked both the shorts and the forbidden underwear. There was no need to remind us that she had on layers no slave should ever wear.  She rotated as the shorts came down, first her right hip, then as the shorts cleared her bottom, her bottom was what faced us, totally exposed as the shorts descended her thighs.  As the shorts reached her knees, it was her left hip that was faced towards us, clearly exposing her brand.  This was clearly a slave disrobing!  As the shorts descended below her knees, she was facing us, sex exposed now, leaning forward also showing some cleavage.

 

As the shorts came totally off, Tiffani fell to her knees and carefully, reverently folded the clothes of a free woman.  Then still on her knees she began to unbutton the shirt, but starting at the bottom, revealing more and more of her hips, then her belly, which was undulating just that little bit, just short of obvious. Then quickly, the shirt off, and again carefully folded, The bra next, quickly and folded. Then in a last bravura flourish she whipped off the bandana that was concealing the collar that proclaimed not just her slavery but her owner and bend forward in an obedience position.  A couple of the men thumped their right fists into their left shoulders.

 

Woodrow Frick turned and directed all the men, except Smith and one other who I did not know to “take the bodies of these four, and prepare to take them to Outlaw Caves.  Pack their weapons separately; they can go to the Lazy F.” The two captive women, ignored by all as they were securely roped, looked daggers at Tiffani.

 

Slave Juli’s Narrative

 

When Master Patrick told me to get out of my free woman’s clothes, the clothes that had been mine when we came on this trip, I knew I could not duplicate what Tiffani had done.  I had to lot to learn, it was clear.  I didn’t even know how to take my clothes off properly!  So I did things in a different order than Tiffani, but like her I started by removing my boots and my socks. Then top, bra, shorts and underwear.  Then like Tiffani, the Bandana, and ended up kneeling in nadu with all my clothes folded neatly in front of me.  Then Patrick order Tiffani and I to pack up all the camping gear.

 

“It will be easier if you empty out the tent and pack things on the picnic table.”  So that is what we did.  All around us, the men of Woodrow Frick were collecting pieces of gear and bringing it to us for we slave girls to pack.  Their efficiency was amazing.  They had already wrapped the bodies of the four slain mercenary contractors in tarps bound with ropes and had them stacked like Patrick’s log pile over near where the horses were picketed.

 

Woodrow Frick’s Narrative

 

I was very curious to see how this Scribe, this lawyer from San Francisco, had killed two mercenary contractors who were presumably on guard against him.  Shot them in the back with a little pistol would be my guess, or maybe poisoned their coffee.  That would be how a lawyer would proceed.

As soon as the girls had emptied the tent, I spoke to him.

 

“All right Patrick of San Francisco, let’s see these ‘kills’ of yours.”  I was pleased and a little surprised to see he did not flinch or protest at the word ‘kills’.  He just helped me pull the tent off the shallow graves.  As soon as the tent was out of the way, Smith and Keogh started striking and packing the tent.  I wanted to be away from this place as soon as possible. The law was in our pocket, but the less that was known by anyone the better.

 

With the tent gone, the graves were clear: three mounds.  

 

“Three mounds, I thought there were only two of them.”

 

“I buried their weapons as well.  One man could not fight all of the main group, and I wanted no sign in camp that they had been there.”

 

I had to respect that, a man who would disarm himself to face the enemy unarmed if it would give him a greater chance to win.  Not many would do that. It is a warrior’s choice.

 

We unwrapped the first kill.  His throat was torn open by a knife that had been inserted and twisted and the right hand was nearly severed.  

I looked at this Patrick Masters.  No poison or a shot in the back.  This was hand to hand.

 

“I cut the wrist with my razor.  It held the gun.”

 

“Then you cut his throat?”

 

“No, I had to deal with the other one first.  He was going for his rifle.”

 

“So you attacked a man with a rifle with a knife?”

 

“I split his head open with the camp axe.”

 

Patrick Masters was certainly laconic enough; but the tale was dramatic, without embellishments. Smith and I looked at the second corpse.  The skull was split open in the front, the nose had disappeared, the mouth was open in either surprise or pain.

 

I liked this man.  But I have had to kill men I liked before this.  I would take council with my uncle.  Maybe we could spare this man.

 

“Well Patrick Skullaxe, we will feast tonight on the Lazy F.  And you will join us. Do you by chance have any Viking ancestors?”

 

Patrick Master’s Narrative

 

I wasn’t wild about going back onto the ranch, but it was better to go there alive than dead.  If Woodrow Frick was going to put me out of the way, here was as convenient as the ranch.  Either I was safe, or the decision was postponed.

 

There were now six corpses lashed onto the back of the horses.  They were to be dumped in Outlaw Cave, wherever that was.  Probably safer if I didn’t know.  I sure was not going to ask.  Juli and Tiffani were loaded with our camping gear and supplies to carry to the base of the cliff. While I watched, the captive female mercenary contractors were stripped of their camo clothing.  Even before that was done, already they looked less fierce; they looked defeated.  Interestingly, one of them actually wore camo underwear as well.  All that went into a dunnage sack.  Their necks were placed in steel collars and roped together.  They were set to carrying gear to the cliff foot as well.  I don’t know if the Lazy F men knew that there would be women in the enemy group, or if they always carried collars.

 

It seemed best not to ask.

 

I looked them up and down; not a patch on either Juli or Tiffani, and certainly not on Fliss.  They protested Smith and I looking at them.  They were not allowed to cover themselves with their hands. We paid no attention.

 

Smith had some climbing experience.  He climbed to the top of the cliff where the Subaru was parked.  He would pull up the supplies while I tied them on down below.  They were not going to let me reach the top of the cliff first, nor would they let me be above Smith.  

 

I did not protest; I did not even show that I had noticed.

 

When the last of the gear was up, all four of the girls were led away.  The plan was for the two captives to be roped over a horse and led away with the bodies.  The dead bodies would be left in the Outlaw Cave, while the girls would be taken to the Lazy F.  Frick, Keogh, and the rest of the crew would ride the ATVs to the ranch house, and because of numbers they would allow Juli and Tiffani to ride an ATV by themselves.  They hugged each other with excitement.

 

At the top of the cliff, Smith and I loaded the Subaru and drove off.  Smith had me drive, again to keep his hands free and concentration undivided.  These people are good. I would find no opening as I had found with the mercenary contractors.

 

As we passed Town and turned off to the ranch, I briefly wondered if we could take a short detour to the General Store.  Smith said there was no time, and clearly he was not going to trust me in a crowded street. 

 

“What do you want from the store?”

 

“Just some property I left there.  No matter, it has likely been unlocked or claimed as abandoned property anyway.”

 

As we turned onto the road leading to the Lazy F, we passed a Greyhound bus travelling west.

 

Slave Viki’s Narrative

 

I kissed Patricia goodbye at the hotel.  We both cried a little.  She had to finish work so she could not see me off. It is funny how you can get to be such good friends with someone in only a few days.  She made me promise to send her an anklet just like mine.  I promised.

 

“Just like yours, Viki, I want it just like yours.”

 

My master will send her one just like mine.  We have lots in stock.

 

I got to the bus early enough to get the seat I wanted - the pair just behind the driver.  People who want to sit up front usually sit on the right-hand side, where they can see the highway ahead.  The problem with that seat for me is if the driver wants to talk.  And they usually want to talk.  Sometimes about surprisingly interesting and weird stuff, which is up my alley, but sometimes about how lonely they are and how the wife doesn’t understand them, or how they are divorced because the wife did understand them.

 

I sat by the window in the seat by the window behind the driver and put my little backpack on the seat next to me to discourage anyone from sitting there.

 

The bus was over half full, when a woman got on late.  She had a bandana around her throat.  This was interesting.  She looked down the length of the bus. It was clear she did not want to sit in one of the empty seats by one of the men.  What women there were on the bus were sitting in pairs.  Women did not usually travel alone in this country.  I moved my backpack off the seat.  She sat down with a sigh.

 

“Thank you.  I’m Janice.”

 

“I’m Viki.”

 

We didn’t speak after that for a couple of hours.  This suited me.  By then it was dark, many of the passengers were dozing.  The dark gave her confidence; that and speaking to a stranger.  As she poured out her tale of woe, of the cruel trick a stranger had played on her, making impossible her life in that town, I pretended to be shocked.  This role of sympathetic listening stranger is a great one for an operative or agent.

 

Boo hoo for her, I thought.  As if she was the first female to be collared, especially within a half day’s trip of the Frick’s Lazy F.  But I was ever so sympathetic.  I told her about my friend, Robert Desjarlais, who was so good with locks, and how he would help her remove the cruel collar from her throat.

 

She was so grateful I thought she would babble forever, but eventually she shut up  and we passed the last hour of the trip in peace.  At the bus station, I signalled to my Master’s man who was meeting the bus to pick us up at a spot outside the view of the cameras.  This was standard anyway.

 

The car took us to the airport, where Master’s plane was hangered.  As we got out of the car, a needle to her neck and she collapsed. On my knees, I explained Janice to my Master. I also mentioned the possibility of taking Patricia.  The idea of taking women out from the noses of the Fricks pleased my master.

 

Robert Desjarlais and his security group may work for the Council of Families, but he doesn’t like the Fricks much. I think Willard Frick took a girl away from him or something. The Security Group works for the Council like Murder Incorporated used to work for the Mob Commission.  Master doesn’t like the comparison but it is accurate.  

 

I was collared.  It was a relief having the security of a place in the world again.  Having the collar taken off and using the anklet instead is the main thing I dislike about missions for Master.  In the collar, I know who I am, but with it off, I am adrift.

 

I watched as Janice was stripped.  Then my master’s collar was placed on her.  He used the unlocking device to remove the old collar. A girl should never be without a collar.  Janice was foolish to run. Where can a girl in a collar run to, on Gor or Earth?  Who she is, is told by the collar.  If she flees one master, another will replace the collar of the old master with his own. Abandoned Property.  I slept that night, secure in my crate.  I was home with my Master.