On the Banks of the Bighorn Chapter Twenty Nine – by Tracker

 

Slave Tiffani’s Narrative.

 

Juli screamed as Patrick fell to the ground.  The man beside us got off his ATV and grabbed her arm, spun her around, and threw her to the ground. I did not kneel; I stood and watched closely.  The man by us took out a pistol, and moved towards Master Patrick.

 

The other man, the one who had knocked down Master Patrick, had swung his ATV around, and drove in front of the first man.

 

“Not with a firearm, you fool.  Not on this side of the river where it could draw the attention of hikers or vehicles passing by. They might report it to the Sheriff’s office; we know that Deputy Morrison is on the Lazy F payroll.”

 

Juli was crying; it made her face ugly.  I understood, to find your Master and then immediately see him struck down must have been terrible.

The two men argued a little in low voices.  They stood nose to nose for a bit, near us and the picnic table.  I watched Master Patrick.  He still had not moved.  He was likely unconscious, or even dead.

 

The second man, the one who had struck down Master Patrick with the piece of firewood seemed to be in charge.  They parked their ATVs side by side and bound the wrists of Juli and me.  It was not Gorean binding, but it would be enough to hold us for at least fifteen minutes. The first man on the scene did not seem as though he trusted the man in charge.  When the leader made him leave his rifle on the ATV he demanded that the leader do the same.  No honour among thieves, I guess.

 

With the rifles on the ATVs and the pistols on a platter by the table, they tossed for who would cut Master Patrick’s throat.  The scruffy man won.  He took a knife and approached the still form of Juli’s Master.  She looked away.  She could not watch him die.

 

Slave Inge’s Narrative.

 

We are confined out of doors again.  The kennels in the cellars of the ranch house are reserved for the slaves that our captors brought in, “rescued” as they say, from the Wyld Wymen. We are confined in a new corral, oval in shape, made of steel metal pieces fastened together with chains, and topped with razor wire. No getting out for us.  I feel myself giving up any hope of escape from this ranch; maybe from wherever these monsters move us next. Our steel corral is divided down the middle, across the waist of the oval.  On one side are us, the original twelve captives, Sarah and me from Denmark, the three University girls, including my new friend Reading, two captive Wyld Wymen, and five captured survivalists, seized as prisoners when they attacked the ranch.  We have been branded and collared, we are called the processed.

 

On the other side of the fence dividing our corral are the captives taken by the Wyld Wymen and sold to the ranchers, our common captors and owners.  Three survivalist women who were accompanying their men as helpers and cooks, and loaders of guns and such like.  There are two women soldiers as well, contractors, or more accurately mercenaries, brought in to stiffen the attack on the ranch. In Modern Times, women can be soldiers too.  Brute strength isn’t the only thing that counts in warfare.  Of course if they are captured, they just revert to being women, stripped and raped and used as women always are in war.  The other three women among the unprocessed are to my mind the saddest.  They are actually ranch women, who were taken by the attackers in their retreat after the assault on the ranch.  The attackers seized them, and tied them and drove them off.  In the attackers camp, they were ‘put to use’ as our captors say.  When the attackers were ambushed and captured by the Wyld Wymen, these captives were stripped along with the survivalist women and the mercenary women.  

 

When the ranchers bought them from the Wyld Wymen, they were not returned to their families.  They were considered slaves like the rest of the captives; like all of us in the processed side of the corral.  The ranchers don’t even want their own women back if they have been stripped and used!  ‘Only a fool frees a slave’ I heard one of them say.

 

Meanwhile like us, they are kept naked, they sleep under the old horse blankets, huddling together at night, and are fed the tasteless slave gruel: Nutrigirl. The Nutrigirl is best in the morning, because then it is heated to warm us up and the heating and cooking smooths out the texture.

I have become better at eating the tasteless stuff straight out of the trough; all of we processed girls have.  As we kneel and lick it out of the feeding trough, we get much less on ourselves than we did at first; much less than the unprocessed girls still do.  I pointed this out to Mistress Fliss, the slave in charge of ‘improving’ our behaviour. I fear I was a little bit prideful comparing our group to the unprocessed. I know as a good Scandinavian, that I should not be prideful over other’s misfortunes, but those other girls are so sloppy when they eat!

 

Fliss just grinned at me, “slavegirls must learn to be neat and proficient with their tongues, of course.”

 

I blushed and shut up.  We processed girls are becoming proficient at many things now.  We are used to walking gracefully when chained together, whether by chains connecting our collars, or chains linking our left wrists, or left ankles, or even if we are all in leg shackles.  We are mostly chained together when we are exercised outside the corral, walking and even running.  I have noticed our bodies seem sleeker, our hair shinier, we seem to glow with health even under these appalling conditions.  Fliss tells me it is partly due to the Nutrigirl, partly to being constantly aware of our bodies.  With no clothes we cannot hide who we are; and yet we must strive constantly to please men.

 

With clothes, one can be a person and claim an equality with men.  Without clothes, it is clear we are women, weaker, curvier, softer and more compliant.  I want to please men who are stronger than I.  Their strength is clear when my curves and body are revealed.  I am not equal; I am clearly a woman.

 

Yesterday they made us run, for the exercise they said.  It is hard for a woman to run, when her breasts are unsupported and uncovered and when her feet are bare.  They ran us over a timed course, and then against each other.  Sarah was the fastest; one of the survivalist women and Harvard the university girl were last.  

 

There was a taste of the quirt for the slowest; Sarah was given a hard candy to suck.  She was so grateful.  I never thought I would be jealous because a friend had a piece of candy!  But the Nutrigirl is so devoid of taste that a piece of something tasty, something sweet seems infinitely precious.  I can’t get the baklava that our local bakery in Copenhagen makes out of my mind.

 

While Sarah was sucking on her piece of candy I was given something hard to suck as well.  I was the prize for the cowboy who bet the most wisely.  I gave him pleasure right in the middle of the corral, with all my slave sisters around, the cowboys watching, and the captives from the unprocessed corral jeering at me for being a slut.  I could never have imagined that I would do such a thing; I would have thought I would have died of shame, but I accepted the cowboy’s penis and my situation, and his praise for my performance happily.

 

Becoming a slave is a process; and I am being processed.  I don’t know if I could go back to being the same Inge Carlsen I was before.  I am slave Inge now, I have been processed to this state; maybe that is why only a fool frees a slave.  

 

After having tasted the slavery of the ranch, how could I be free to be Ms. Inge Carlsen again?

 

Slave Tiffani’s Narrative

 

Juli looked away as the scruffy man approached Master Patrick with the long knife. I kept an eye on the other man.  I was looking for a chance to get away to get back to my Master.  I had to obey these men of course, but until they changed my collar, I still belonged to Master Willard Frick and the Lazy F. My hands were free, but I could not touch a weapon.  To do so is death for a kajira.  I glanced at Master Patrick, just lying there, so vulnerable and unconscious, but kept my eye on the other man as he fondled Juli and talked of what he and his friend were going to enjoy from us.

 

Suddenly I heard a great cry of pain!  I turned expecting to see Master Patrick dying but saw something else instead.  Master Patrick was on his feet, his straight razor in his hand; the scruffy man was looking at the wrist of the hand that had held the knife.  It was cut deeply and gushing blood.  He had dropped the knife and was grasping his wrist, trying to stop the bleeding.

 

The man holding Juli turned to grab the pistol from the platter on the table.  Master Patrick would have no chance against the gun, and him with only a razor.  Juli delayed the man for just a moment by grasping at him, and I kicked the platter which sent the gun spinning away.  There is nothing in the slave codes forbidding a slave dancer from kicking a platter!

 

Of course this could only postpone things a little bit. A pistol vs a razor is no fair fight.  As I turned again to Master Patrick I was surprised at how quickly the Master could move.  And he had dropped the razor and picked up the axe he was using earlier to split wood for the fire.  He covered the ground amazingly quickly and as the man turned with the pistol in his hand, Master Patrick split his skull open.  He was immensely strong.  The enemy’s head was a mess.  Master Patrick had dropped the axe, and picked up a fighting knife and turned back to his first assailant.  The scruffy man was still staring stupidly at his almost severed wrist when the Master shoved the knife into his throat and twisted.

 

Master Patrick just stood there, gasping for breath.  Juli was crying as I slumped on the ground. 

 

Patrick spoke, “It is unlawful to steal the property of another, or to take property that person holds legally in trust.”  

 

He looked at me as he spoke the last bit.

 

“Robbery with violence is illegal as well; as is murder in the pursuit of a crime.  I am satisfied that what I did was entirely legal.”

 

I recalled Juli telling me with pride of Master Patrick’s legal mind.  I filled a cup with water and took it to Master Patrick, serving, even in these circumstances, with a formal and proper serve.

 

As we all regained our breathe, we looked at each other in relief.  We were now safe and all was well.  Master Patrick could contact the Lazy F and all would be well.

 

That was then the radios of the two killers squawked into life.  

 

“Delta Force calling detachment, Delta Force calling detachment.”

 

We just stood there looking at the radios in horror.  There were more of them.  It was true we had the guns of the dead men, but Juli and I could not touch them, and I am sure she was untrained in their use.  And what could one man do against a force, even if Master Patrick gave permission to me to use a weapon?

 

Master Patrick’s face and body were still.  At that moment he reminded me of my own true Master, Willard Frick. He did not panic, he stood there for more information.

 

“Delta Force to detachments.  Can you hear me?”

 

There was a reply, “Detachment two, I can hear you.”

 

“Delta Force to detachments, we will rendezvous at the hiker’s camp on the East side of the Bighorn.  We need to check out the camp, maybe we can make our escape that way.  We should be there in about 30 minutes.”

 

“Detachment two here, we can be there in about 35 minutes, Roger.”

 

“Rendezvous in half an hour then, out.”

 

Master Patrick took a deep breath.  

 

“We can’t get away.  The cliffs are too high to climb up to the Subaru in the time we have, and Tiffani isn’t a climber anyway.  The routes along the river bank going north or south aren’t safe, we don’t know from which way they are coming, probably both. I am calling the Lazy F.”

 

Master Patrick called the Lazy F and reported.  The news was not good.  The closest group from the ranch was mounted on horses and likely 45 to 50 minutes away.  Patrick told the ranch we would make everything as normal looking as possible and try to hold them in conversation until the riders from the ranch could arrive.

 

I did not see how we could prevent the enemy from killing us immediately.  Juli looked at Master with absolute trust.

 

“Okay, I need to bury the bodies so they won’t be found.  You girls will take the ATVs and dump them in the Bighorn, in that deep quiet pool by the swimming place where they won’t be found. But first, into the tent and change into hiking clothes, both of you. Tiffani, you are a different size than Juli, but in shorts and sandals, and baggy clothes, it won’t be apparent.  Wear underwear, clothes drape differently over underwear.  Quickly now, move.”

 

Slave Juli’s Narrative

 

I had complete faith in my Master, but I didn’t see anywhere he could bury two bodies and not have the graves apparent as soon as someone walked into the camp.  But there was no time to waste.  I pulled Tiffani into the tent and started to pull out some clothes for us. I hadn’t worn clothes in a week.  They felt strange on my body.  Tiffani was holding a sports bra.  “I haven’t worn something like this for four years.”

 

I pulled it onto her, it was loose, but it was best we could do. She almost shuddered as she pulled on the panties.  I didn’t blame her, wearing someone else’s underwear must be strange.  We got ready quickly and left the tent, me in hiking boots, Tiffani in pair of sandals.

 

Master had already wrapped the bodies in tarps, and he was putting their rifles, pistols, and other weapons in a third tarp and wrapping it up as well.

“We don’t have a chance if it comes to a fight. Best the guns are hidden away against accidental discovery. Get those ATVs into the river and get back immediately. They said they would be here in thirty minutes, we’ve already used five, and anyway, we can’t count on them not being here early.  Move, Move.”

 

Patrick was grabbing for our little camp shovel as Tiffani and I went to the ATVs.  They were simple to operate and we roared off to the river. I said a prayer for Patrick, having just found my Master, I didn’t want to lose him so quickly.

 

We found the deep swimming hole at the bend of the river.  We pushed the ATVs in and watched them sink out of sight. We turned to hike back to camp as quickly as we could.

 

“I liked riding those ATVs, always good to have something hard and powerful between my legs.”  Tiffani grinned and I giggled at her joke.

 

“One thing I am not used to between my legs though,” she continued, “it has been a long time since I have been allowed a nether closure.”

 

“Nether closure?”

 

“Something closing off my sex from a man’s attention. Now I have shorts and underwear.  Very strange.”

 

“You are walking differently now you are wearing clothes and underwear,”  I observed.

 

“It is strange to be wearing free woman clothes. Forbidden as well.”

 

“Master commanded it.”

 

“It still feels strange.”

 

It was hike from the swimming hole where we ditched the ATVs, and it took much longer to walk back then to ride to the river.  I guessed it had been almost all of twenty-five minutes since we had heard the message on the radio.

 

When we reached camp, I looked around for the bodies, but I could see no sign of digging or graves anywhere.  What had Master done with the bodies of the enemy?  My only guess was that they were in the woodpile.  Master say me looking around, but did not say anything.  I was about to ask where they were when Tiffani spoke up.

 

“Curiosity is not becoming in a kajira.”

 

Patrick was holding out two western bandanas. “Cover your collars, make it look like a fashion statement.  If they see them, it will be a dead giveaway.”

Dead, I didn’t like to think about dead.  Tiffani and I adjusted the bandanas around each other’s throats, making sure the collars were completely hidden.  We looked dashing.

 

So we tidied up the camp and waited for the enemy.