Bad Day at the Greasy Grass

***** The Oregon trail was the acknowledged route to the Golden West. The problem was that it crossed Indian territory. And, by 1866, the Indians seriously resented our presence.

I had ridden all the way through Kansas and up to Omaha by myself. Now, it just made sense to join up with one of the wagon trains.

That was largely for self-protection. Because, once-in-a-while, large groups of Indians would appear as we bumped along the rutted trail. Wagons moved a lot slower than I did. But, there was safety in numbers.

The train I joined was happy to have a skilled hand. Two years in the horse infantry had given me the tools. I was handy with a gun, and I could ride and scout. Scouting was mainly what the Rifles did in the war.

Horizons are disorientingly vast out west. But, I had come a long way from the crowded streets and shanties of lower Manhattan.

I was good at describing topography and the threats to the wagon master. I knew how to use pistol and rifle. I had no scruples about killing. I could ride a horse like I was born on one; even sleep on it, while it plodded along.

Plus, I was used to living off the land, and in any weather. Enlisted soldiers, especially draftees weren't exactly coddled in Mr. Lincoln's Army. The cavalry had taught me all of that.

I was built like a bull, strawberry-blond hair and freckles, with a long, classic Mick face, wide set blue eyes, thin nose, high cheekbones and sturdy chin; the better to take a punch. My mouth conveyed all the ironic humor and larceny of the Irish soul. I smiled a lot, but it never quite got to my eyes.

The rest of me was pure rawhide. I ate plenty. But, I exercised more. It was the nature of living on a horse. I thought it was pretty ironic that a former Five Points tough guy was scouting for wagon trains. But it also served my purposes.

Mainly, I didn't want to be around any other human being. Riding ahead, meant that I only had to come back to the company at night.

The Immigrant Trail basically follows the course of the Platte River through the Nebraska territory. It had been in use as an "improved" route for twenty years. It traversed the lands of the Sioux and Cheyenne, until you get to the Oregon territory west of Fort Laramie.

By 1866 there were a lot of splits; which mostly led to the gold mining towns that were popping up in Colorado and Nevada. My job was to scout along each of them, to see where the best trail and terrain was.

I had found a young couple I could stand. Or perhaps more accurately, who could stand being around me. They let me unroll my blanket under their wagon. I also put an Army issue gum blanket underneath my bedroll. That way I was completely out of the elements when I slept.

The fellows name was Ezekiel, or Zeke. He hadn't been in the war. I had. So, it seemed like he was a kid, even though he was actually a couple of years older. He was one of about a dozen children of an Ohio farmer. His old man had given him a Conestoga wagon and sent him west with his blessing. That made one less mouth to feed at home.

His wife was a good German girl. She was blond with a pretty face. She had one of those aggressive bodies, all tits and hips. It seemed to beg to be fucked. Most nights I would lie under the wagon while the two of them banged around above me. Molly was vocal. But this girl could wake up the buffalo.

She was also the reason why I left the train. The trail crossed a lot of rivers, which we either had to ford, or take a ferry to get over. In fact, there were so many rivers that the ferries were big business back then. We were waiting for the Green river to calm down. The Green is a main tributary of the Colorado and it can be a bitch to cross. It was fordable, in all the usual places. But the spring rains had made it too deep for a Conestoga.

I had just gotten back from a trip to the other side of the river, and I told the wagon boss that we could make it tomorrow. It was past bed-time for the settlers and I was beat. So, I unrolled my blankets, rested my head on my saddle bags, and laid my trusty Army Colt by my side. I never wanted to let those bags out of my sight. They were my future.

I had a Henry rifle. But, I also had a Hawken. That was for long range work. The Hawken cost me a chunk of O'Brien's fortune. It was a muzzle loader, not a repeater. But it was deadly in my hands, even out to 600 yards. They were always in a scabbard on my saddle.

I was getting to be a real hand with the .44. That was my weapon of choice. I practiced a lot, just for the price of the powder. The Colt didn't use rim-fire cartridges, like the Henry, so the rounds were cheap. I got so good that I could pull and nail a prairie dog, coyote, or rattlesnake in one smooth motion. I could do the same thing to a man if I had to.

Sometime in the middle of the night I had to piss, so I wandered off into a nearby buffalo wallow. I was just giving it the last couple of shakes, when a pair of arms circled me, and I felt huge, naked, pillow-tits pressed into my back.

I nearly jumped out of my skin. There were plenty of savages who'd slip a knife into you for no other reason than you were handy. I turned like lightning and there was Gretchen. She stepped back, startled.

I looked into her cornflower blue eyes and they were full of lust. I didn't think twice. I had had some women since Molly. Generally, they were prostitutes. But I DID bed a couple of Indian maidens. The Indians don't have the Puritan hang-ups of the white girls. So, they were an adventure, even if they smelled like bear- grease. But, I had to go back three and a half years to remember what a really superb body looked like.

I have found that the women you fuck are a lot more appreciative if you behave like a gentleman. So, I said, "Please dear lady," and gestured toward the nearby prairie grass, which the bison had matted into a nice soft bed.

She lay back looking like she couldn't wait. She had been wearing a flannel nightgown, which she had shucked before she approached me. That revealed an exceptional pair of tits. They were so big and full that, now; whenever I see a pair of ripe, luscious watermelons, I think; "Buffalo Wallow!!"

Gretchen had a surprisingly narrow waist and big, solid, round hips. Her legs were a little too sturdy for my taste. But, I wasn't marrying her, I was fucking her.

There were no preliminaries with this girl. As soon as I knelt between her widely spread legs, she grabbed me and shoved me into her red-hot love-nest. She let out an unearthly groan and rocked her hips up to take me to the hilt. Her insides were churning like the ocean.

She grabbed her own knees and we started that age-old motion. She was making loud, "Ugh! Ugh! Unnnnhhhh! Unnnnhhhh!" noises and gripping me with those strong legs. I looked into her face and she was totally lost in her passion.

Then she commenced vocalizing, "Ahhhh!! Ahhhhhhh!! Ahhhhhhhhhh!" and she started to writhe in a fit. Even Molly couldn't match her convulsing and twitching. I just continued on my merry way pounding her. I had yet to get my own satisfaction.

By this point she was scratching and clawing like a wildcat, making a keening animal noise and pounding back at me in response. Finally, she made a loud grunt and began to flop like she had lost control of her body. Her insides literally fizzed. Her eyes were wide open, and she actually looked frightened.

I came at that point. So, I was too busy to keep track of what was going on with her. But I have to say that the build-up from a three-year layoff might have contributed to her excessive frenzy.

Afterward, I looked at her lying there. It was like she had been knocked out. Finally, she opened her eyes and wordlessly removed me from herself. It made a sucking noise.

She stood and without a word donned her modest cotton nightgown and walked back into the dark toward the wagon. Barely a word had been exchanged in all that time we were together.

That was perhaps the strangest bout of sex I had ever had. We fucked almost every night after that. Gretchen was an amazing piece of ass, wild as the prairie wind. But except for those moments of pure unadulterated sex, we acted like we didn't know each other.

The wagon train had finally gotten down to Rawlins. Chappie Clayton, who was the boss of the train, greeted me as I rode in from a scouting expedition. We were a little way in front of the train itself. He said, "You've been a good scout Tim. So, I'm going to give you fair warning. A few of the boys are going to kill you if you go back to the wagons."

He didn't need to tell me why. I'd been rumbled. I didn't know what was happening to Gretchen. But she wasn't my problem. She had started things. I figured that a girl with her kind of abilities would probably influence her husband into believing whatever story she had concocted.

Without a word I tipped my hat, turned my horse and said, "Thanks for the warning Chappie." Then I headed off toward the Yellowstone Country.

***** I spent the next couple of months backtracking up the Yellowstone River. I had no desire to tackle the mountains to the west. And I had had enough of the society of the wagon trains. The Great Plains were awful; far too dry at times, and too wet in others, too hot and too windy and the horizon was infinite. I loved the beauty of the area along the Yellowstone.

But the leaves were turning, and winter was coming. I needed a place to wait it out. They had struck gold along Grasshopper Creek, north of the Yellowstone. I had all the gold I would ever need. But someone had established a town along the Bozeman trail that was ideally suited to service the frenzied pack of would-be miners; headed for the gold fields in western Montana.

The town itself was pretty-rough. It was five years old and it had every conceivable kind of person in it; from cowboys, to cardsharps, to tenderfoot easterners, to businessmen, and even some foreigners, who were there to hunt and fish. It sounded like just the place for a Mick named Timothy O'Hara. I wanted to see what opportunities a Paddy could find in a booming cattle town like Bozeman. So, I decided to make my way up there.

There were plenty of Indians in the Yellowstone. They were no worry to me. By that time, I had their sign-language and could speak some Cheyenne. They were decent people if you left them alone.

They had their warrior societies, like the Dog Soldiers. You had to steer clear of them. But I'd been out in the wild long enough that I knew all the rules of the wilderness. I would even occasionally go into one of their villages to trade for pemmican, or a little black powder.

It was at one of those villages that I first saw Anovoo'o. That is a Northern Cheyenne word that means, "Girl Beautiful." It was a perfect description.

To me, Cheyenne women come in two varieties. Most of them are moon faced, with high cheekbones, almost oriental eyes and a prominent nose. Or, they have longer, oval faces. Combined with the same high cheekbones and eyes, those types of faces can be exotically, heart-stoppingly beautiful.

Anovoo took that precept to the absolute limit. She had a stunningly beautiful face with satin skin. Combined with a wide sensuous mouth, her odd, very light skinned coloring, and her perfectly proportioned features, gave her an almost unreal aesthetic attraction.

Her body was lean and pantherish with full and ample boobs on a long-waisted, long legged frame. To me, she was even more beautiful than Molly.

The first time I saw her, I just stopped and gawked. I asked the man I was trading with, "Who's that?" He spoke decent English. But he used a Cheyenne word that meant "undesirable," or sometimes, "unclean."

I said, "She's beautiful. Why would you call her that?" My friend said, "She is not one of us. Her father was a white man."

I understood what he was saying. A white man meant that, as stunning as she was Anovoo'o was not a full-blooded Cheyenne. They had accepted her into the tribe. But It must have been very difficult for a lovely young girl to grow up with the stigma of white blood.

I finished my transaction, packed the pemmican in my saddle bags and departed the village. On the way out, I locked eyes with the woman. She was pounding clothes in the river. She gave me a glance that was equal parts wretchedness and despair.

I nearly fell off the horse. Her eyes were bright blue! No wonder she had a hard time fitting in, I almost stopped to talk to her. But I realized that would violate every social convention in the Cheyenne culture; and probably get me called-out and shot by her husband, or father. So, I rode on.

Several days later I was working my way up the Gallatin toward where I heard Bozeman was located. It was a beautiful fall day in the high country. All the colors were out, and the air was crisp. There was a V of geese flying overhead and the hint of winter was in the air. I had just started along the river bank trail, when I heard a commotion across the river. It was in a red and yellow leafed grove of trees to my right.

The struggle was followed by a muffled cry of anguish. It was a woman's scream. I hastily galloped across the shallow river and directly into a stand of cottonwoods.

There were three people there. The first two were scruffy looking cowboys. The third was a woman with her hands tied in front of her, being led by a long rope. She was wailing and crying, and her two captors were laughing at her.

They stopped laughing when the shot hit the ground in front of them. Their horses screamed and reared in panic. The cowboys spent a little time calming them down. Then they both faced me angrily.

I said in a voice as calm as death, "Where are you two going with that woman, fellas?"

The first of them snarled, "None of your business," and pulled out a Remington.

The thing about gunfighting is that you have to kill without thinking. People like this guy had never seriously shot at a man before. So, his brain ruled his aim, not his hand. He fired two wild shots before I got one off. Both of his missed me. Mine blew his head to pieces.

The one who had been leading the girl dropped the rope and spurred his horse in a desperate effort to escape. He knew that judgement day was nigh.

The problem was that witnesses can be inconvenient. And he made the mistake of riding in a straight line. I took a second to sight the Hawken. It was no different than the sighting I did when I was sharpshooting.

The guy was only 300 or so yards away. It was an easy task for the Hawken to administer the death sentence. The birds and animals would take care of the rest.

The girl had collapsed on the ground in a weeping pile of deerskin. She had clearly been taken captive by those two. They were leading her back to their lair for a little fun. That is, before they killed her. After all, she WAS just an Indian.

A lot of the high-plains trash consider Indian women fair game. The crazy part is that they never understand why the Indians were hostile.

I dismounted and walked over to the woman, trying to look as non-threatening as possible; even though I probably seemed like Satan in buckskins. I had no idea how to handle a crying female. In fact, I'd rather deal with a diamondback rattler. But this one was my concern, now.

I squatted down next to her and said, "It's okay little lady. You're safe. Those two scoundrels have gone to their maker. All I want to do is get you back to your people."

She stopped crying for a second and looked at me. The eyes in her pathetic little face were a stunning shade of bright blue. It struck me like a thunderbolt. This pitifully crying bundle was the woman from the village!!!

I began to sign that I was a friend. She said resignedly, "I speak English." Of course, she would. Her daddy must have been a trapper, or trader.

I said, "Where are your people? I can return you to them."

She was beginning to get her composure back. The speed of her recovery was miraculous; since, she had to know what was in store for her if I hadn't come along. It showed a lot of personal strength.

She said resignedly, "They don't want me. I was digging roots when those two captured me. It wasn't THAT far from the village. Nobody even came after me. I'm all alone now!!!" And she went back to weeping.

Well, that made two of us. We were both outcast for reasons beyond our control. So, we were going to have to face the world alone together.

She was beginning to shiver as she wept. It was part from shock, and part from the cold. I retrieved my blanket from the back of the saddle. I brought it back and wrapped it around her. She looked at me gratefully. Her eyes were astonishingly beautiful, and deeply intelligent.

I made an instant decision. It was partly out of charity. But it was also partly because I felt an inexplicable affinity for this woman. There was just this incredible sense of attraction. It was more than I had ever felt for anybody, even Molly. She compelled me.

It might have been her incandescent beauty. It might have been her obvious intelligence. She spoke excellent English and she radiated determination and strength. It might have been her courage. Most women facing rape, torture and death would be in hysterics. This woman was crying. But, she was still in control of herself.

I said tentatively, "You aren't alone. I'll take care of you until you can find your way back to your tribe." Her look of sheer relief and gratitude told me how she felt about that.

Both of her captor's horses had run off. So, all I had was my horse. I didn't want to tire it. Hence, I walked and Anovoo'o rode. Like all Cheyenne, she rode astride; as if she was part of the horse. She was wearing a lovely soft deerskin dress with intricate beading and feathering and sturdy moccasins.

The dress hugged her fabulously nubile body. It also put the lie to any misconceptions about the Cheyenne being savages. It wasn't an item of clothing. It was a work of art, fitting to be displayed in any museum in the world.

I asked her if she knew where her tribe was. She said that she was a member of Black Kettle's band and that they sometimes drifted south for the winter. That was all she knew. There is a lot of empty space out west. So, that didn't help at all.

I said, "How did you get separated?"

She said, "I was digging camas in a field on the other side of the river. I was by myself, because none of the other women would work with me." Camas was a root that was a staple in the Cheyenne diet. But, it was harder to find at this time of the year.

She added, "They must have been hidden in the tree line. They rode up to me, grabbed me and threw me over a saddle. I struggled but it was futile.

They traveled all day. I think they wanted to get as far away from my village as possible. They tied me up last night. But they didn't touch me. Today, they led me with a rope. One of them stopped to make water. I tried to break away then and that's when you rode up."

I said, "So your Band may be miles away?" She nodded glumly.

The solution was obvious. I said, "You are welcome to come with me. I am going to a town called Bozeman. I intend to winter there. You are welcome to stay with me. Then in the spring we can find your Band."

She recognized the salvation I was offering. She said in a voice dripping with gratitude, "I'm a hard worker. You will never regret taking me in."

We camped the first night near a little creek. I had been following the Gallatin because it led directly into Bozeman. Neither of us talked much. We were both solitary people, for our own good reasons. But the bond between us was so intense it was almost tangible.

I had never felt a greater sense of well-being in my life, even with Molly. It was like this woman, Anovoo'o, completed me. I was whole again.