On the Banks of the Bighorn Chapter 32 by Tracker (Conclusion)

 

Two Nights on the Lazy F.

 

Patrick Masters’s Narrative.

 

Smith didn’t talk much as I drove the Subaru towards the Lazy F and the decision on my fate.  He seemed a man comfortable with silences. I believe interrogators use silence to encourage prisoners to speak, to fill the uncomfortable quietness.  I didn’t say anything.  I am a lawyer, I use this tactic myself, to let a witness talk on, to say too much.  It is the rare witness who can force themselves to confine their answers to Yes or No.  More fools they.

 

I tried to marshal my thoughts; to prepare my arguments as to why Juli and I should be allowed to depart from the Lazy F, to return to San Francisco.  One thing I was determined on, I would not leave without her.  Not to ‘protect’ her, but because she was mine. Events and experiences had transformed us and our relationship.  One protects a Free Woman, one keeps hold of one’s property.  

 

Juli was property.  Our time on the Bighorn had transformed her.  She had called out that she was a slave; that she burned with slave fires. I would not leave the Lazy F without my property; I would not cravenly surrender my property to save my life. Juli was mine!

 

But beyond this atavistic drive to own my woman, I found it hard to form rational arguments to convince the Fricks.  My mind just could not concentrate. I tried to construct the concepts I needed; to gather the strands of argument together.  My mind just would not focus.

 

“Turn by the new guard-post”.  Smith issued the instructions.

 

The guard-post was new since I had last visited over a week ago.  It was crude, thrown up quickly no doubt, following the attacks on the ranch. The Fricks would not be caught napping twice. This caution, or paranoia, or heightened awareness of danger, call it what you will, did not bode well for escaping with my life. Worried people make foolish, hasty decisions.

 

I drove past a burnt-out barn, then by some newly constructed steel-mesh pens.  There were women confined there, more than I remembered.  It seemed that even when under attack, the Fricks had been adding to their herds.

 

Herds.

 

This herd was human beings, women kept as chattels.  And it seemed natural to me. Not only natural but right.  I regretted that it was only on the ranch, and other Luthan territory that it was legal. It was not only Juli’s mind-set and self-image that had changed it appeared.

 

Under Smith’s direction, I drove up to the Ranch House.  There was a marquee tent beside it and a burned-out log building.  It had been a large one.

 

“That was our mess hall, the banqueting hall, it was beautiful.  The tent is taking its place until the Fricks can rebuild. Wait in the car for a moment.”

 

I nodded, then yawned.  I realized I was exhausted, and that was why I could not form my thoughts.  The events of the day had taken more out of me than I had realized.  After all, I had never killed anyone before.

 

My first kills.  Dully I wondered why I had thought of them as first kills. Surely there would not be more, and anyway, was it not murder, or homicide?  Kills sounded so barbaric.  My mind fuzzily tried to grasp concepts like the difference between homicide and murder. Surely I should be able to grasp that. Kills had been the word Woodrow Frick had used.

 

But my mind refused to focus.  Even on simple legal concepts I could not concentrate.  I lazily reviewed the events of the day; the joy with Tiffani and Juli in the morning, the interruption by first two contractors, the sudden irruption of violence.  Then the frenzied labour of hiding the bodies and the ATVs, the long period of waiting for the second wave of the enemy.  The strain of keeping those killers in check while we waited for the Fricks to arrive using only words to fend off the impending violence. Then more killing and the long ride to the ranch.  I realized that it was the waiting periods that had drained me.  It was the waiting, all keyed up that had worn me out.  The waiting for action, for decision on the Banks of the Bighorn and on the drive to the Lazy F .  I had nothing left; I was nearly out on my feet.

Smith re-appeared and got my overnight bag out of the back of the Subaru. 

 

“Come inside. Mr Wilson Frick wants to talk to you.”

 

This couldn’t be good.  My bond, such as it was, was with Woodrow Frick and Smith.  Wilson Frick was an unknown quality, and as head of the ranch must have been under a great deal of strain in the past week.  I squared my shoulders with an effort and walked in to face Mr Frick. I hoped stress would not make him hasty.

 

The inside of the main room of the ranch house was a magnificent piece of building with wood.  My mind could just about grasp that; unfortunately, I could not grasp important things like the arguments in favour of the Fricks leaving me alive, even though I was a witness to the efficient way the guns of the rangeland had taken out the last of the enemy.

 

Ironically, I believe it was my very exhaustion that saved my life that night.  There was no mercy in Wilson Frick’s face.

 

“So, you have brought in another intruder for us to deal with, have you Smith?”

 

I felt my end was near. Then there was an unexpected interruption.  

 

“The poor man is out on his feet.”  It was an old severe looking woman dressed in grey and black.  Black laced boots, long sweeping skirt.  Never has an angel appeared in such a time of need.

 

“Let’s get him to bed and talk in the morning,” she continued.

 

Mr Wilson Frick looked up and gave her a tired smile.  

 

“Yes, of course, Granny Mowbray.  It has been a long day.  Maybe we should not do anything hasty. Give him a room and a bath.”

 

He turned back to the papers spread out on the coffee table in front of him.  The burdens of command were many and seemed to be heavy on Mr Frick’s shoulders.

And Just Like That, Granny Mowbray saved my life.

 

Looking back, I don’t think she did it at all for me.  But she had standards for the hospitality of the House.  Nevertheless, I am grateful.  

 

*******************

 

Smith carried my luggage upstairs, while Granny let the way, followed by two girls in very short sleeveless tunics with collars around their necks.  Despite my fatigue I was intrigued. 

 

Granny looked at me, amused, as we entered a bedchamber.

 

“So, even tired, you would prefer them less clothed?  Well too bad, there are standards in this part of the house.  Angela will draw a bath for you. You don’t look like you could stand up in the shower.  Debi, cut along to the kitchen and get a plate of sandwiches for Master Patrick, a thermos of coffee and one of orange juice. They can go in the mini-fridge, in case he awakes hungry in the night.  Move.”

 

“Yes Mistress.”

 

Angela was busying herself in the attached bathroom.  Granny pulled out a pair of pyjamas from the bureau and put them on the bed. She turned to me.

 

“We have standards of decorum in this part of the House, Mr Patrick.  There is a dressing gown in the closet.  Did you come alone?”

 

“Woodrow Frick is bringing in my girl.”

 

“Ah, well that will be some time. Do you want her brought here to you when she arrives?”

 

“Yes, I would, please.”

 

Granny sniffed.  “We will have her washed when she arrives and then brought to you.”

 

She bent over swiftly and from under the footboard of the bed, she pulled out a low wicker basket, like the basket for a large dog.  It has a thin pad in the bottom and the sides rose about eight inches.

 

“The kajira can sleep here, if you are inclined to spoil her.  You can attach her here.”

 

Granny revealed some hidden attachment points in the bedposts.  If she had not shown me the trick of it, I don’t think I would have guessed they were there.  There were chains coiled on the pad in the basket.

 

Angela emerged from the bathroom and knelt.  Granny nodded.

 

“Angela has your bath ready Mr Patrick. She will bath you and put you to bed.  Please do not detain her, especially as your own kajira will be supplied later.”  She turned and left.

 

The bath was soothing. Angela had removed her tunic as soon as Granny Mowbray had left because she ‘did not want to get it wet.’ She was a delightful sight, but I was exhausted.

 

She and Debi got me out of the bath and into the pyjamas and into bed.  I fell asleep immediately.

 

******************

 

I awoke to a huge crash and a flash of light.  It was the middle of the night.  Then another roll of thunder.  I got out of bed and stood by the window. Rain was lashing down; a real downpour.  I wondered about the livestock in the girl corrals.  They must be getting very wet. I wondered if they were given tarps or something else to shelter under. I was sure the Fricks knew best how to deal with their livestock and dismissed it from my mind.

 

“Patrick?  Master?  I’m scared.”

 

It was Juli, speaking in a small voice.  I could see her kneeling in her basket by the lightning flashes.  I stood her up and hugged her.  Then I removed her tunic (damn Granny and her ideas of propriety) and took her as a slave girl. After we cuddled for a while I had some roast beef sandwiches and juice.  Outside, the rain continued to pelt down.  Juli pouted when I returned her to the basket at the end of the bed and secured her left foot to the bed post.

 

It had settled in to rain steadily.  I kissed Juli’s forehead, covered her with her tunic and returned to sleep to the sound of the falling rain.

 

***************

 

When I awoke, it was nearly nine o’clock.  I had slept for over twelve hours, minus the time in the night with Juli.  The sun was shining brightly, and I could hear birds singing.  I showered, shaved, dressed and went down to face the Fricks.

 

 

 

Smith’s Narrative.

 

I was sent into Town first thing in the morning to collect more building materials and supplies that had been ordered for the Lazy F.  We are going to be doing a lot of building.  I welcomed the job as it would give me a chance to be in touch with my mysterious contacts.  More and more my loyalties incline towards the Fricks and not those who sent me to the ranch.

 

I retrieved my message, dropped the truck at the lumber yard to be loaded and retreated to the café to read my message.  They did not seem all that interested in the range war and their interest in the Livestock operation seemed to come down to one thing.

 

Please report if the two women you have reported being on the Lazy F, Tiffani and Fliss, could be these two sailors who disappeared at the end of their enlistments and have not reported back to claim their bonuses and sign up for their pensions and entitlements.

 

Teresa Smith and Florence Fabricant. Pictures enclosed.

 

If Smith and Fabricant are Tiffani and Fliss, please report your assessment if there is any chance they can be rehabilitated from their current lives and returned to live as useful citizens.

 

That was what this was all about?  Two stray sailors who hadn’t filed their paperwork at the end of their enlistments?  This was taking tidy paperwork too far.  Someone had an overdeveloped sense of curiosity.  It would likely get them in trouble someday.

 

It was Fliss and Tiffani of course.  I prepared a quick answer.  Yes, Tiffani and Fliss were the former Teresa Smith and Florence Fabricant.  It was my considered opinion that neither of them could be “rehabilitated” to fill any position in society other than the ones they currently fulfilled.

 

I did not tell them that my assessments were based on the way that Tiffani had danced for the men last night.  The way she had teased and exposed and begged with her body showed there was no way she was fit for another life other than that of a collar.  As for Fliss, the way she had served me in the furs last night during the rainstorm meant as far as I was concerned, she should never be freed for rehabilitation.

 

I sent off my response, picked up my loaded truck and drove to the Lazy F.  My loyalties to the Fricks were now undivided with my obligations to the Pension Department concluded.

 

 

 

Slave Viki’s Narrative.

 

Master Robert Desjarlais has taken the plane and flown from Billings to the Lazy F ranch to consult with the Fricks on catching Fred the spy, who betrayed us by allying with another entity to attack the Lazy F.  The Fricks must never discover that we first placed Fred on the Lazy F as a general spy.  Master Robert will discover what the Fricks know.  It is ironic that the Fricks are paying Master to find Fred, when in self-preservation we would need to do it anyway.

 

Master would have flown to the Lazy F last night but severe thunderstorms made it inadvisable. As a result, Janice started to learn her slavery last night.  Now she is whimpering in her travel kennel while one of the men guards the hanger, Janice, and myself. She thinks her slavery began last night, but it truly began when a collar was locked around her throat and she could not remove it.

 

An urgent order has just come in from Master.  The Fricks want all the information possible on a Patrick Masters of San Francisco.  Well, that should be easy.

But it was not as easy as I thought.  The superficial stuff was easy, but I kept finding roadblocks that were hard to get around.  This man is way wealthier than he appears.  His percentages of many, many tech patents has made him very rich.  Not billionaire rich, but way richer than he presents.  He has been hiding his wealth away in property and other non-tech investments for years.  Because the money is not in the Silicon Valley space, his associates have no idea how much he has.

And he is the same man who used me in the alcoves at the Three Moons Saloon!  I wonder if he is a Gorean agent, but I will keep that to myself.  My master wants facts, not fancies.

 

Oh Gods, Janice is mewling again. Give it up girl, you’re collared now, the only sounds that masters want to hear from you is ecstasy in the furs.

 

 

 

Slave Juli’s Narrative

 

A slave, Debi, came and got me at 6:30 this morning.  Slaves start work early on the Lazy F.  Living on the Banks of the Bighorn with Master Patrick and Tiffani, I had not considered this aspect of being in a collar.  Debi snuck me out of the room, after Granny Mowbray unlocked my ankle bracelet. I was reprimanded for being out of my tunic, even though it was Patrick who removed.it.  There are no excuses when one is a kajira, or so I am finding.  By reprimanded, I mean my calves were switched by Granny as we went down the back staircase to the kitchen where I was put to work. We prepared breakfasts for all the men and mixed up a huge pot of slave gruel - tasteless NutriGirl - for the girls in the corral.  It was only after we carried it down to the corral so the men could ‘slop the slaves’ that we were allowed to cook up some NutriGirl for the slaves in the house.  Because I was the junior they tried to give me the least.  But I am taller than average and in great shape. Angela pushed me, but she was the one who went down.  We both ended up with our food on our clothes instead of in our bellies. Now we are both working in the laundry. Already she has fallen into the wash basin twice.  Once when she tried to push me, and once when she boasted about bathing Master. Slave sisters seems like a bunch of hooey so far.

 

 

 

Master Patrick’s Narrative.

 

I came down for breakfast around 9:30.  I was afraid that I had missed it, but Granny Mowbray graciously said that Debi would serve me in the dining room.  I asked about Angela and Juli, but they are apparently in disgrace. Granny told me not to concern myself with disputes among the kajirae.  Seems like sound advice. When I was finished breakfast, Granny informed me that the Fricks were in an emergency meeting and suggested I might want to take a stroll with Count Franz Rupert, the visiting Premier of the Grand Duchy of Lutha.  Nothing could have suited me better, I was curious about the status of Luthan consulates, I desperately wanted a way to legally retain Juli as my slave.  Legality is very important to me.

 

The morning sun was already very bright, that sun and a slight breeze were quickly drying things out.  We kept to the gravelled paths, but I could see that off the paths it was still quite muddy. The count told me that the Fricks had offered him one of the captured mercenary contractor women to take home as a present.

 

“I don’t approve of women in combat.  Women are to protect, if Free, and possess, if not. They are prizes not warriors.”

 

The livestock corral containing the women was metal mesh sections topped with razor wire.  There was a cowboy stacking tarps outside the fence as we arrived.

 

“Good morning, Hawkins,” the count greeted him then added to me, “Mr Hawkins has just been promoted Assistant Foreman of Special Livestock.”

 

He then turned back to Hawkins, “I did get that right, didn’t I?”

 

Hawkins nodded, “Yup, Special Livestock”.

 

The pen was divided into two sections by a line of fencing down the middle.  In one section the girls were much better groomed than the other.  The other pen was full of bedraggled women, their nude bodies splashed with mud.

 

“Did one pen get tarps while the other did not?”  I was curious about stock management procedures on the Lazy F.

 

Hawkins grinned and spat in the mud.  “They both got tarps, course they did, we know how to handle our stock.  He nodded at the better-groomed group in the near pen.  “They have been here longer and had some processing.  They’re better adapted to their new life.  We will get better coin for them when we ship them to Gor.  They co-operated like good little slave girls; those others over there, they haven’t been processed, they squabbled among themselves and fought for the tarps.  Silly bitches, there were enough tarps if they had shared.”

 

He spat again.  His contempt for the girls who hadn’t learned to co-operate in their slavery was evident.  The girls from the closer pen had drifted over, their curiosity evident. They looked fine in their condition, collared and in good condition.  

 

Suddenly the count barked out a word.  “Brand.”

 

Instantly all the girls adopted a sort of kneeling position, extending their left legs, outer left thigh facing the count.  Each girl had a healing burn, a brand on her thigh.  One was a flower like arrangement, the others were a cursive k, with some curling feminine fronds.

 

Hawkins looked happy at their response.  “Good girls”.  The girls seemed to glow with his praise.

 

He turned to us. “Training girls is not just a matter of force; they respond well to deserved praise as well.  Like dogs.”

 

“Nadu”

 

The girls knelt in the mud, thighs spread, shoulders back, hands delicately on their thighs.  I recognized a couple of them.  

 

“Aren’t you one of the girls who interfered with my orders to my girl Juli in the Bighorn?”

 

“Yes Master, I’m sorry Master. If I hadn’t I likely wouldn’t be here.”

 

Hawkins said, “Lucky you did, otherwise you would not be one of the fortunate girls who are going to Gor to be a kajira. So things worked out for the best.”

 

The girl did not look totally convinced but only said, “Yes Master.”

 

“May a girl speak Master?”

 

“Go ahead.”

 

“I know I am in a collar and must go to Gor, but my friend, Sarah, it will be very hard for her, for she gets extremely homesick for Denmark when we are away for very long.  For her to go to Gor would break her heart, she would die of homesickness.  Please Master, is there any way she could be a kajira in Denmark instead of Gor?”

The girl put a strange emphasis on the word Gor, as if she did not believe it was an actual place, which I didn’t really believe either.

 

Hawkins just shook his head, “You are all ticketed for Gor, except Luta, who will be given to Aaron.”

 

The girl Inge sank a bit, dejected.

 

 

I thought I recognized another girl among the group at the fence.

 

“You, aren’t you the English college girl, the one who begged for release, even though legally already a slave under Luthan law?”

 

The girl nodded, “Yes Master, I was that foolish girl.  I did not know then that only a slave begs to be freed, I didn’t know then that I was a slave in my belly and my heart.  I was so foolish. I beg master to forgive me. They call me Reading now, if it please Master.”

 

Hawkins called her over to stand by the fence.  

 

“English girls often bring a good price. I think it is the soft pink of the nipples they have.  Pink like lovely roses.”  He was exciting her nipple with his fingers.

“See, lovely.  They look lovely when pierced, nipples like that.  But this one is headed for the Gorean market, and they don’t favour that.  They go crazy over ear piercings though.”  

 

He turned  Reading’s head. “See, three piercings in each ear.  They will think she is a total hot slut. She will go for a good price to a Paga Tavern.”

 

“Too bad about that girl, Sarah, though.  If she is pining for the fjords, it will lower her price and our reputation for providing quality merchandise.”  He shook his head.

The count led the way to the other side of the pen, the one with the muddy women, the one where the captive women mercenaries were.  He had them all led out, and looked them over, checking their teeth, and feeling the confirmation of their bodies.  He did it with an accustomed air, as if he had purchased women many times before.  Delicately I broached the idea of Lutha expanding its network of consulates around the world or the United States, including San Francisco.  He was not encouraging.

 

“There would need to be a suitable site, and a suitable consul, one who was wealthy enough to sustain a proper place to represent the Grand Duchy, and one who would understand our special culture and commerce.  But until the old Grand Duke dies, there will be no change, he is adamant that we don’t need more consulates or to expand our commerce.”

 

He shrugged.  “I am sorry Mr Masters, it is impossible.”

 

He lifted the breast of one of the women and spoke to Hawkins. “I will take this one, she can be branded this afternoon.”

 

The girl had a sulky expression and lank dark hair.  Her curves were alright, but she was squat and stubby.  Not the girl I would have chosen, nor what I would have expected the aristocratic Count to pick, but each man’s taste is individual and I made no comment.  We walked back to the ranch house where I was summoned to a meeting with The Fricks.

 

 

 

Slave Inge’s Narrative.

 

I was disappointed but not surprised by the negative result of my plea on behalf of Sarah. I know she will wither and perish if she is far from Denmark for a long time. I don’t believe in this planet Gor of course, it is just a code-work to hide where on earth we are really bound for. I know Sarah and I will remain slaves. These people don’t slip up with their property. I just wish that Sarah could be a slave in Denmark. As for me, one place in servitude is the same as any other. I fear Gor, by any other name, will be the death of her.

 

 

 

Woodrow Frick’s Narrative.

 

I had thought that Patrick Skull-Axe would not inform the authorities on the actions on the Bighorn and that he might make a valuable ally in San Francisco, a city which had no Resident Family.  Expanding there would strengthen us in the years to come.

 

Tiffani was serving in the small library when we met with Masters.  She knelt by him after serving us all coffee.  Her affection for him after being in his camp was a small mark in his favour. She would not respect a weak master.  I don’t know the kajira who would.

 

He was forthright in his answers to our questions.  His description of the killing of the mercenaries on the Bighorn was forthright.

 

“It was clearly justifiable homicide.  It was pre-emptive self-defence action in protection of life and property. Specifically, my life, and this property as well as mine.”  He patted Tiffani on the head.  She purred.

 

“The correct action was to return to the Lazy F and report the matter to deputy sheriff Schlesinger on this side of the river as that is where the offence had originated.  Clearly that was the proper course, even though he is the brother of your foreman, Randy Schlesinger.”

 

He went on throughout the whole situation disposing of every instance that we could foresee and even some we had not.  My uncle was impressed. At the end of Patrick’s presentation, he shook his hand and called him friend. I hope that Patrick Masters understands what my uncle means by that. To be a Friend of the Fricks is more than just a word. It is an agreement, an alliance, that contains both benefits and obligations.  I think he is smart enough to understand that.

 

I asked if he wanted us to brand his girl, Juli.

 

Patrick declined, which surprised my uncle.

 

“I won’t brand her until I can do it legally in San Francisco. Legality is very important to me. Here on the Lazy F, she is a slave, but when I take her away, she is not.  I will have her sign a contract agreeing to behave as a slave.  But under that contract, she would have to consent to be branded.  And what kind of branding or marking is that?  As I understand it, a mark is something that is imposed, not something that is agreed between Master and slave.  So until I can do it legally in San Francisco, she will not be marked by other than ink.”

 

“I don’t see how you could ever brand her legally in San Francisco,” my uncle said.  Even though he knew that there were plans afoot to make that possible, those plans were at least a decade away.  We were not ready to share that knowledge yet with even Friends of the Fricks.

 

“I am a very good lawyer,” he returned.  When he said it, it did not sound like an arrogant boast, but a matter of fact.  I would not bet against him.

 

Later that afternoon Patrick and I went with the Count and with Patrick’s slave girl, Juli, to watch the rest of the slaves be branded.  First was the girl the Count had chosen to take home as our gift. She was branded with a crown over an L.  The rest were branded with the common kef, just common slaves for the ordinary markets of Gor. Patrick made his girl watch as the other girls were marked.  The last to be marked was the mother of the girl, Donna, who had been badly injured in the fire at the barn. Donna and the boy Alex were being sent to Gor for special treatment they could not get here.  Her mother had begged to accompany her, even as a slave, but now tried to renege. She wailed as the clothes were stripped from her and she was marked.  She cried that she had changed her mind, her daughter could go for healing without her, but Hawkins was adamant.

 

“You spoke the words.  You said, ‘I am a slave.  La Kajira’.  There is no reprieve or change from that.”

 

On the Lazy F, as on Gor, slavery is permanent.

 

We had a grand party that night.  The food was superb, and Tiffani danced.  Patrick Skull-Axe Masters chose the company of the slave girl Angela, rather than his own kajira, Juli, which surprised me a little. But as Juli was free, or rather unoccupied, I tasted her.  Patrick is a lucky man. Juli is yielding and happy in the furs.  In a way too bad that Patrick has been named a friend of the Fricks, else he would not leave with this morsel. But something as insignificant as a slave girl should not come between Friends.

 

To solidify our Friendship with Patrick, we took him, at my uncle’s insistence, to the handover of the livestock to the Silver Ships.  

 

We emptied the corrals except for three: the girl we had given to the Count, the former wyld wyman Luta, who is promised as kajira to Aaron, her childhood companion, and surprisingly one of the Danish slaves, Sarah.  Hawkins is concerned she will be one of the ones who is excessively homesick for a place on Earth and will lower our reputation.  She will go instead as a present to some of our Friends in Denmark.  It is good to keep Friendships in good repair by little gifts such as Sarah.

The two gurneys holding the children, Alex and Donna, were loaded first.  We, the Fricks, owe them for their bravery. They were loaded into the medical stasis capsules. The now nameless slave known only as Donna’s mother cried as her child was loaded directly from the medical helicopter into the Silver Ship. Then came the quick routine loading of the kajirae.  The other Danish slave, Inge, kept repeating over and over that she didn’t believe it.  Why she was surprised, I don’t know, she has known for almost a week that Gor was her destination.

 

Then the door closed, and the ship rose and then it was gone.  It was with a sense of anti-climax that we returned to the ranch house.

 

I hope and trust that there will be no more unexpected happenings for the Fricks this summer.

 

 

 

Slave Juli’s Narrative.

 

It was a shock, but also not a shock to see the spaceship. Gor is real, a real place, with warriors and slaves, thallations and adventures.  I wonder if Patrick and I will go someday.

 

The next day, Patrick and I drove back to San Francisco; he wearing a suit, I wearing a collar and a short slave tunic. I have signed the slave contract; I am to be in all respects except legally, permanently Patrick’s slave until he figures a way around the law.  He will find a way, I am sure.  He is a very good lawyer.

 

Until then, I belong to him totally anyway.  

 

He is a man, he wants more, he wants it legal and irrevocable.

 

As I said, he is a very good lawyer.

 

I asked as we drove into the city, “Master, will you brand me?”

 

“The day I own you totally legally.  Then I will put the iron to your thigh. You have my word.”

 

 

This is the conclusion of the Story of what happened on the Banks of the Bighorn between Patrick and Juliette, who arrived as friends and partners and left as Master and slave.

 

There are some loose ends in other stands of the story, which will be tied up in a nice knot (as Patrick would say) in the Epilogues.