Angel

Angel

soppingwetpanties

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, merchandise, companies, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. All characters in sexual situations are 18 years or older.

This is my first Western romance. I've taken a lot of literary license with history and geography so be forewarned. As always, your comments and votes are appreciated.

Mistress SWP

The horseflies seemed thicker than last year, and on the Howard farm east of Joplin pastured foals stood in a shallow pond choked with cat tails to escape them. The war ended just a year ago, and the countryside was still marred with the carnage wrought by the great armies of the North and South. Scattered among the horses standing in the tall grass were fragments of Union cannon and Confederate breastworks, where 5,000 men lost their lives on this now hallowed ground.

The end of the war presaged an unprecedented economic expansion, and land that had laid fallow for years was pressed back into production. Freshly turned earth in fields planted with corn and sorghum checkerboarded the gentle rolling hills in southeastern Missouri. Commerce was bustling in Joplin. With the Civil War ending, men that had been away from home for years straggled home. As the city rebuilt and expanded, wood skeletons of new buildings lined the main thoroughfare and the heavily used road bore legions of potholes filled with muddy water.

With the great influx of people came great change. Chief among the changes was the noticeable increase in crime. Young men, trained by their governments to kill without compassion, migrated to Joplin looking for work, either legitimate or otherwise. Cole Younger was one of those returnees, having served under General Robert E. Lee, and then Colonel Jeb Stuart for three years, and in a Yankee prison for two more. The hardships visited upon him made an indelible mark on an idealistic and compassionate man, the horrors of war and imprisonment forcing him to become cynical, selfish and often indifferent to the consequences of his actions. He initially settled in Cape Girardeau, finding odd jobs and sleeping in the loft of the local livery. Having lived in a Yankee prison for two years, sleeping in a hay loft and eating the scraps left at the local boarding house was a luxury after fighting rats the size of small cats for the crusts of bread left by his sadistic prison guards.

Cole grew up in Jackson County, Missouri, not far from the Mississippi River. He lived in a cabin with a dirt floor with seven brothers and six sisters, his father a successful farmer and Sunday preacher and his mother the daughter of another prominent Jackson County farmer. He had an idyllic childhood, having many outdoor activities to occupy his time and wanting for nothing. Oftentimes he would spend hours fishing on the river, his haul of crappies and perch making up the family dinner that night. The seclusion away from his gaggle of brothers and sisters gave him time to contemplate his future, envisioning that he would go westward to stake his claim to the abundant free land so he could make his own mark on history.

But the war changed his plans, as it did for all young men of his generation. Brimming with enthusiasm, he joined the Confederate Army along with three of his other brothers. After debilitating campaigns at Manassas and then the siege at Vicksburg, two of his brothers had perished and Cole and his remaining brother Jim were dead tired and the Confederate Army was in tatters. He and his brother were taken prisoner during the siege, and what remained of his unit was combined with other shattered units to form the Army of the South, a collection of soldiers and opportunists that fought to the war's conclusion.

One of Cole's brothers-in-arms, Archie Clement, organized a ragtag group of former soldiers to engage in petty thievery to sustain themselves. Cole was angry that there was no "welcome home" to returning soldiers, but rather disdain at their disheveled looks and tattered clothes. After living in the trenches at Vicksburg, and then the Gratiot Street Prison in St. Louis, he was disillusioned at the world the war created. As a member of the losing side, he and his comrades were subject to scorn by local businesses and government officials. He didn't begrudge himself the few comforts he could steal from others, and after a few such raids he no longer felt remorse in taking what he thought he was entitled to, and became desensitized to the violence that often accompanied such thefts. After seeing his trench mates blown to pieces by Yankee artillery, or dying of their wounds because of a lack of medical care, violence became second nature to him.

Cole was a skilled horseman as well as a tenacious fighter. Two of the men Cole became acquainted with, Jesse James and his brother Frank, organized a gang with loftier goals -- to rob trains and banks. It was an easy transition for Cole. Instead of petty theft or the occasional hold-up, his skills could be brought to bear for much larger pay-offs. His conscience still tugged at him when violence was involved, but there was too much water under the bridge for Cole to turn back. He was a fugitive from justice, just like his fellow gang members, including his brother Jim.

* * *

There was a plume of dust rising from the parched earth as the sun began to set behind the rolling hills of southeastern Missouri. It was dusk, and there wasn't more than a few minutes of riding left before they'd have to camp for the night. With the brilliant red sky at their backs, the six riders on horseback tied down just outside the town. The six men, including the James and Younger brothers, had just plundered a train in southwest Missouri and were riding flush with their ill-gotten gain burgeoning in their saddle bags. They decided to split up, Cole electing to go with his brother Jim to Joplin.

Cole's information on the train was eerily accurate. The Flyer from Topeka to Joplin carried the payroll for the Erie-Pacific Railroad, and there was much more than the $5,000 he was told would be in the safe. Two riders boarded the locomotive, bringing the train to a stop. The four others blew open the door of the car containing the safe. The safe was loaded onto a covered wagon and later dropped off a cliff to pop open the door. The men split the payroll equally, so each had $2,000, more money than they ever had in their life. Before going to Joplin, the Younger brothers visited their childhood home, now owned by others, and buried their loot in a heavily wooded area near their former house, keeping only enough to sustain themselves for the next few months.

* * *

Millie Littlecrow was a barmaid in Joplin. Millie was of mixed race. She was told her father was of American Indian descent, a trail rider for a cattle ranch in Montana who was passing through Missouri. Her mother was a washerwoman whose family immigrated from Tijuana, Mexico. She left her home at the age of fourteen and had drifted across Missouri, accepting jobs mostly as a kitchen or house maid in a local tavern or hotel. By the time she was eighteen, she was no longer a girl, but a beautiful woman, with long wavy lustrous dark brown hair, a smooth olive complexion, and generous breasts, luscious and full, her young body displaying the full bloom of youth.

It was two nights after the train robbery that Millie laid claim to Cole. She spotted him when he walked into the bar, wearing a sheepskin coat with a wide shearling collar. He took off his tan felt hat, showing his suntanned skin and ruddy complexion. Cole was smitten by Millie. Her personality wasn't tarnished by the war, and her sunny disposition lifted his spirits. With her, he could feel again, at least temporarily shedding the numbness caused by endless violence and death.

Millie was impressionable, and the hotels and bars she worked at attracted less than desirable clientele. She developed a taste for whiskey, and before long she found herself as a whore in a saloon in Joplin. As a young girl, she often dwelled in the shadows, watching the men and women carouse and pair off, often drunk. As a woman, she would choose the man she wanted to be with.

Cole visited Millie's saloon every night over a two week period, and even though he was a paying client, he was possessive of his relationship with her, often getting in fights with her other lovers. The sex between them was hot, passionate, and satisfying, with Millie having real orgasms during intercourse. Cole hungered for a loving relationship with a woman, and his nights with Millie were nothing more than a cheap facsimile of the relationship between his mother and father.

One night after a full night of drinking and gambling, Cole stumbled up the stairs of the hotel. He remembered Millie was in room 4, and banged on the door. He heard noises behind the door and banged again, this time with his fists.

"Goddamn it Millie, open the door."

There were more noises, then the door cracked open. Cole could see that Millie was wearing a robe with nothing on underneath, and was trying to hold the robe shut with her hand.

"Cole, it's late. You're drunk. Go to bed," she pleaded in a loud whisper.

"Let me in," Cole bellowed, bulling through the door. A beautiful dark skinned woman sat up on the bed, pulling up the bedsheets to cover her breasts. Her eyes were the size of saucers and her mouth opened with a silent scream.

Cole's eyes had a wild look. He drew his Colt and placed the muzzle against Millie's temple. "You two-bit whore. I ought to ..."

"I'm a whore, Cole ... a whore. I'm no good for you," Millie wailed, the feel of the cold metal against her head throwing her into a tizzy. She threw herself at his feet, her robe falling open and showing most of her nude body.

"How could you?" he snorted. She thought for a moment he was going to fire his gun and shoot her dead. She prepared herself for it. She closed her eyes, waiting to hear the click of his gun's hammer. A moment passed and she opened her eyes. He was gone. The door was wide open, and her lover was sobbing in the bed.

* * *

The next morning, sober but hung over, Cole splashed water on his face in his fleabag hotel room, the clothes he slept in still reeking of cheap whiskey. This would be the day of their planned bank robbery. Cole pulled his boots on and sat on his bed, looking out the dust covered window at the street below. The bank was across the street, and had just opened for business. Their plan was to wait until just before closing, when there were less customers inside, to carry out their heist.

Cole dawdled the day away, reading the local newspaper and eating his meals in the hotel's dining room. He saw no trace of Millie, and his fuzzy recollection of the previous evening told him that she may have left town because of his drunken threat. He regretted his actions, but given the downward trajectory of his life since the war started, he saw no hope of salvaging his life.

It finally was nearing the end of the workday, and Cole assumed his assigned spot outside the rear of the bank building. The gang had spent two weeks planning the robbery, casing the largest depository in the state. He was to head off any help that might be coming from the east so that the gang members with the money could escape to the west. He camped out an hour early, wanting to get a feel of the place and to observe. There weren't many people wandering behind the bank building, as all of the buildings lining the street had their entrances on the other side. He rolled a cigarette and sat waiting on his horse.

Even though it was late afternoon, the sun was still blazing overhead. Cole watched vultures circling slowly to the east, and then saw that there were storm clouds gathering to the west. He checked his Colt one more time, and then tried to amuse himself for another hour so he wouldn't be tempted to fall asleep. His thoughts returned to Millie. He wished she hadn't been corrupted by men like him. He should have known that their relationship wasn't meant to last. But something inside him craved something more than a marauder's existence, always on the run, and always in danger that each day might be his last. He felt that way almost every day of the five years that he was away, and was tired of the emotional pressure.

His mind wandered to his earlier years, before the war, when he was young and carefree, dreaming of exploring the untamed West. He wished he could erase the last five years, but of course that was just a pipe dream, just as his wish that Millie was the one.

He checked his pocket watch. Only five minutes until the gang members would enter the bank, force the bank manager to open the safe, and then escape on a prearranged route to a heavily wooded area about twenty miles west of town. Cole was to protect their flank as they escaped, and to meet them later when his departure from Joplin wouldn't raise any suspicion.

His ears perked up when he heard what sounded like a shotgun blast from within the bank, followed by a series of gunshots from revolvers. Since gunfire wasn't part of the plan, Cole knew that the robbery had already gone off the rails. He pulled his gun out of his holster, prepared to stop anyone coming from his direction. His eyes stayed focused eastward.

Two of the town's deputies heard the gunfire and raced to the bank, one going to the front entrance and another heading to the rear. Cole was so focused on protecting the flank that he didn't see the deputy coming from the west until it was too late. He whirled his horse around when he heard the footsteps behind him, but by that time it was too late. He started to raise his Colt when the deputy squeezed off one round, hitting Cole on his left side, near his waist. Despite the searing pain of being hit, Cole was able to shoot the deputy in the leg, disabling him, but not killing him. With the westward direction blocked, he rode east. As the adrenaline wore off, the pain became strong and incessant. He clutched his left side, his shirt soaked with blood.

Wounded and bleeding, he rode on his horse out of town, clinging for life to the reins. He went for miles before he spotted a house up a winding road at the top of a small hill. The sun had set long ago, and the cold wind that kicked up increased Cole's discomfort. The gate guarding the road up to the house was closed. Cole dropped off his horse, his saddle slippery with his own blood. He staggered to the gate, feeling behind for the latch. He had to move the sliding bolt over. His side now awash with red, he grunted as he forced the balky bolt over. He pushed the wooden gates open and then walked with more purpose to his horse, mounting it and pretending he wasn't in agonizing pain.

As his chestnut mare plodded up the dusty road, the oil lamps in the windows of the mansion cut through the darkness. He tried to keep his head up as the horse approached the tie-up. He dropped off the horse, restraining a groan, and dusted off his pants with his gloved hands. He secured his horse and then staggered up the walkway to the house, and despite the pain of his journey, noticed the magnificence of the prized rose garden in the soft yellow light emanating from the living room windows.

A silhouette moved across the curtained window as Cole limped the last few feet to the porch. He dropped to his knees, gripping his left side. The front door opened, and a woman wearing a high necked white lace dress looked into the darkness and at first saw nothing. Cole raised his hand from his prone position. Blood dripped off his fingers.

The woman's eyes focused on the movement and saw Cole in the dim light, laying on his side and about to bleed out. She rushed down the stairs to the dirt walkway, kneeling next to the wounded man.

"Blanche!" she called out. "Blanche, for heaven's sake come right away."

In the muted light Cole saw the woman in the white dress, with the white hair he guessed fifty and then saw a younger woman, the skirt of her dress trailing behind as she burst through the door. She was beautiful, he thought no more than twenty-five, golden hair in curls to her shoulders. She had the kind of beautiful that exuded sophistication and wealth. She was wearing a canary yellow chiffon dress, and looked as if she was attending a social occasion at the house. He wondered if he was dead, and that she was simply an apparition -- an angel. She stopped when she was standing no more than ten feet from her mother and the strange uninvited man.

"Florence ... ". Her voice trailed off as she saw her mother cradling the head of a man who was bleeding in his waist area. From his prone position, she guessed he was recently shot or stabbed.

She knelt next to the man's waist area and gingerly pulled out the tail of his grimy shirt. Beneath it was an angry red wound, the damage inflicted by the deputy's Colt revolver.

"Put pressure here." Blanche demonstrated with her hands to her mother. "We'll bandage him right here."

Florence continued to talk to the man, now becoming delirious from the pain and the loss of blood. Blanche dashed through the house with measured purpose, gathering the things she'd need for a battlefield wound repair. Fortunately for Cole, she and her mother were just about to sit down for dinner. Blanche was finishing dinner preparations and it was her mother, who was sitting in the front parlor and heard the approach of someone on the walkway, who responded first. Blanche had boiled water for hot tea.

She brought out the tea kettle, wash basin, several clean towels and bandages to dress the wound.

Cole wasn't used to being handled, and even in his depleted state he resisted Blanche as she tried to unbutton his shirt. She gripped his arms as he flailed, pinning them to the ground. She pressed down with her weight to stop his fight as their eyes locked together for the first time, his revealing loneliness and hurt and hers showing love and compassion.

"Blanche?" Florence asked, watching her daughter as if in a trance as she stared at the stranger who was bound to bring nothing but trouble.

"Huh?" Blanche broke her gaze. Her eyes settled and then reengaged with the stranger. "Can you hear me?" she asked him.

Cole nodded his head almost imperceptively in response to her question. His eyes were now hazy, and all he saw was a halo of golden hair and her lips moving.

"Sir?" she asked again.

He blacked out and his head slumped in Florence's arms. Her body lurched forward at his added weight on her lap. His gun fell out of its holster and his hat rolled on the ground before settling upside down.

Blanche made a quick repair, cleaning and dressing the wound. Fortunately, even in poor light, Blanche could see both the entrance and exit wound of the bullet and that nothing major had been hit. With decent care, he might just live.

* * *

The botched bank job had the town abuzz. As the gas street lamps burned, the sheriff and his two remaining uninjured deputies were plotting their strategy to capture the escaping robbers. As Cole was getting his wound attended to, the law of the town was still interviewing witnesses to make sure they understood exactly what happened.

The best Darwin Nickels could tell after talking to his deputies was that five masked men attempted to rob the Joplin Great Western National Bank right before it closed and that a sixth was standing guard in the rear. The bank manager, lying dead in his office, had apparently killed one of the robbers with a shotgun and had then fallen from wounds from the other men. The only person who witnessed the getaway said that she counted five horses, which would account for the five wanted men. She said they were going west. The deputy who was shot behind the bank had blacked out, and had no recollection of which direction Cole went.