Five Whores for Denver

The same was true with the girls. All of our charges were dressed in the best French fashion, and they comported themselves like highborn ladies, as May had trained them to. Still, most of the men on the boat guessed what they were.

Hence, Patrick and I had our hands full "convincing" the male passengers to keep their hands off the goods. I was bigger than most, at six two and two hundred and twenty pounds. So, all I had to do was gently encourage good behavior.

Patrick was a fireplug, perhaps five seven and a hundred and eighty pounds. And he got his Irish up if guys took liberties; especially with Aphrodite, who he seemed to have a thing for. That led him to toss a planter's kid into the Mississippi, which nearly got us kicked off the boat.

Luckily, they fished him out and Aimee smoothed his ruffled feathers. She didn't do it herself. That job was given to Abigail, who was happy to perform the task. Seriously!! there was something wrong with that girl's head.

The Natchez pulled into Hannibal Missouri like you'd park a wagon. As a sailor, I was disgusted by the inelegance of the process. They just steered it up to the dock and backed-water.

We unloaded our cargo, which included enough trunks and valises to accompany Napoleon's army on the march, and then loaded it all onto a private coach on the Hannibal to St. Joe railroad line. Thence we traveled on to the Missouri riverport of St. Joes.

The railroad journey took a half day. Then, early the next morning we and our charges were loaded abord the steamer Excel for the two-day run down to Kansas City. Kansas City was called "the City of Kansas" back then and it didn't have the trappings of a cow-town yet, because the railroad hadn't gotten there.

It bordered "Bleeding Kansas." Thanks to the Kansas-Nebraska Act, there'd been fights between bushwhackers and jayhawkers all over the Territory. President Buchanan had sent in enough Federal troops to calm the place down and we didn't linger there long anyhow. We just needed to outfit a couple of wagons to head out on the Santa Fe trail.

By 1860, that trail had been in operation for over thirty years. The deep ruts that marked its path testified to the thousands of folks who had made the trek through Kansas Territory to points west.

The wagon train that we joined was like a military expedition, with elected officers and armed men to scout and protect the main group. It operated on a fixed routine, up at 4AM, departure at seven. We traveled ten or fifteen miles a day, depending on the countryside.

We'd bought a Conestoga for the freight. The white cotton canvas cover on the Conestoga, was why they called them "prairie schooners." It was cantilevered out from the front and rear of the bed for better protection of the interior during storms. So, it looked like a sail.

Each wagon could handle a rough two tons of cargo. Oxen were the preferred team; since the greater number of mules required to do the pulling, would be a bitch to maintain. Oxen weren't guided by reins. So, we hired a couple of boys to walk alongside, to "steer" them.

Since prairie schooners had no suspension and the trails were rough, most people preferred walking, rather than endure the constant, painful jolting and lurching of the wagon. So, we bought an Overland stagecoach to give the girls some basic comfort. It had a suspension and the passengers didn't suffer the hard bumps and jolts. But it swayed a lot.

I sat up on the driver's box, with the reins, guiding the mules. Driving was tricky at first. I was a sailor, not a teamster. But you can get the hang of anything if you do it for hours a day. I'd traded my "gentleman's" attire for the boots, canvas pants, big neckerchief and checkered shirt that all the men in the train wore. It was topped off by a big Stetson that kept the weather off. I even had a waterproof duster if things got too inhospitable.

To my utter astonishment, Aimee rode up top with me. It takes grit and stamina to sit for hours in the heat and dust of the Kansas prairie. Being a whaler and blue-water sailor, I'd coped with adversity my whole life. But Aimee was by far the most beautiful and exotic of the women.

Yet, Aimee'd sit by my side, day-in-and-day-out. It was like she sensed that the endless vistas made me uneasy. I suppose people out west would be equally anxious in the open ocean, which was my domain. Her reassuring presence and her quiet strength encouraged me to be the man she needed me to be.

Aimee wore "men's attire" while she rode with me. That was just common sense, given the harsh environment. But her amazing ass in a tight pair of buckskin pants and her deep cleavage in a fringed buckskin coat, attracted too much unwanted attention from the other members of the train.

In response, Aimee would visibly disdain the ogling of the immigrant men and she exuded nothing but anger and contempt at their wives. Aimee always did what she thought was right and she hated petty-minded judgement.

We traveled behind the Conestoga during the day. We had to keep the pace of the lumbering oxen. Pat oversaw the big wagon, along with a random team of kids. They made sure the oxen stayed in line and kept plodding.

Surprisingly, Aphrodite walked the entire time with Pat chattering and laughing. It was comical, Pat was five-seven and Aphrodite was nearer six feet. But apparently the two had become close at their former place of employment and they were in love in their own peculiar way.

Pat was Irish, and the Irish suffered a lot of bigotry back then. While, Aphrodite was a black prostitute. So of course, that evoked tons of moral outrage from the "righteous" members of the train. Still, nobody ever said anything openly provocative to them, because Pat had already thrashed a couple of fellows for various offenses. He had a temper.

Both Pat and Aphrodite knew that there was no changing human nature anyhow; people will believe, what they believe. So, they ignored the sanctimonious stares and enjoyed each other's company. In many respects that was the best revenge.

Aimee and I never talked. We just sat there companionably, mile-after-mile. It was as if she was making the statement that we were in this together. I respected her steadfast spirit and our partnership grew as we plodded west.

You might even call it falling in love. If such a thing could happen between an itinerant sailor and a prospective madam. She'd even shoot me the occasional companionable glance as we bumped along. We were indeed a pair.

The journey across Kansas followed the north bank of the Arkansas river. That was what the guides called the "wet route" since it featured plentiful grass and water. The "dry route" took much less time. But there was very little water. Only the eager beavers went that way.

The trail split again at Fort Dodge. That was where the people who were in a hurry could take the south fork following the Cimarron River. That passed through Comanche territory and those fellows were notoriously inhospitable. So, the folks who took that route often regretted it.

We took the mountain fork. Every mile was a test of physical strength, even with six oxen pulling. The trail itself. was an eternal mass of ruts, mud, and steep elevations. I was one of the biggest and strongest of the men. And they needed my muscle to move the wagons through the various gullies and fords.

After we made camp, Aimee spent all of her time with the women. Of course, that was to be expected. Still, I missed her company. That feeling of discontent was an alien emotion. I hadn't felt close to anybody since the day I kissed Faith goodbye.

Oddly, Aimee seemed just as lonely as I was, even while she was sitting among a gaggle of gossiping women. Once in a while I would even catch her gazing pensively at me. It was as if we were an actual couple. I kept telling myself that she was a whore. But she had been nothing but steadfastly loyal, and reassuring throughout the journey.

The presence of eight gorgeous and clearly sexual women was an issue in a camp full of men. So, Pat and I slept under each end of the Conestoga, which was were the girls bedded down. We kept two fully loaded Army Colt 44s under our pillow. We also kept a .45-70 lever action Henry repeater and a ten-gauge shotgun in the drivers box.

Our destination was Bent's old fort, which was located on the Arkansas River. It was about 500 miles as the crow flies from Kansas City. From there, we would turn north along the Cherokee trail toward Denver. That was another two month's journey.

We had gotten into Colorado, west of Fort Lyon, to the site where the two trails split and were camping in the cottonwoods along the Arkansas River. It was the middle of the night. I was asleep when I heard somebody creep stealthily out the back, directly over my head, and walk off toward the banks of the river.

I hastily pulled on my boots, grabbed a Colt and followed in my long-johns. I was feeling both anger and curiosity. It was certainly one of the women. But he shouldn't be by herself at this hour. The figure was easy to track. It was one of those classic moonlit starry nights on the great plains of Colorado.

When the figure reached the riverbank, she knelt down and appeared to be praying. I lingered behind a cottonwood and just watched. All I could hear was the rushing current of the river.

Then, to my amazement, the choking sobs started. Those morphed into anguished cries of "WHY?!!" She fell face-down on the ground, arms above her head in supplication and made primal sounds of agony.

I jumped out, ready to rush down to her. Then it occurred to me that she had chosen that time and place because she wanted privacy. I needed to just wait there and make sure she was safe. So, I stepped back behind my tree.

I was also mystified. Which woman was it, and what had caused so much anguish?

The wailing finally stopped, and the woman got shakily to her feet. She began to walk up the trail past me, still gently sobbing. She came into the clearing that we had created cutting wood for the fires, when the full moon bathed her face. My heart almost stopped. It was Aimee!!

I was hunkered behind my tree peering out as she passed. She never noticed me. Her eyes were downcast. I was turning to rush back to the wagon, before she discovered what I'd witnessed, when I heard a voice say flirtatiously, "What are you doing out here little lady?"

I recognized the voice. It was Wilbert Cooper, one of the train's guards. He was a scruffy fellow, about Pat's general height - a rootless drifter. He was mostly useless but apparently, he was the guy tasked with patrolling the camp tonight.

Aimee stopped. You could see her doing the calculations. Her long raven hair was in a braid and she was in a light sleeping shift, just pantaloons underneath. She knew she was helpless if this guy had ideas.

Of course, Aimee was no shrinking violet. She was an experienced whore. She turned and said in a seductive tone, "Just had to do some nightly business. What do you have in mind, Cher?"

It was obvious that Aimee was simply playing for time. But her tone of voice and the way her body shifted into a suggestive stance killed me. I thought to myself, "You know what she is!! She's protecting herself in the only way she knows how."

But the thought of Aimee giving herself to this rancid cowhand, as the price of her grief, was just too much. So, I stepped out from behind my sheltering tree and said in a menacing tone, "I've got this cowboy. So, why don't you just go back to whatever it was you were doing."

That startled both of them. Aimee jumped and covered her face. She began to make a high-pitched keening wail. She realized that I'd seen her at the riverbank.

Cooper pulled a fat Navy Colt. He leveled it at me and said with a smirk, "I'm going to fuck this little lady right here. We all know she's a whore."

The first thing that you learn in a focsle fight is that the best option is instant attack, the more unexpected and violent the better. I was holding the .44 down by my leg. So, Cooper thought it was harmless. He knew I'd never get a shot off before he drilled me. But he'd missed the fact that the barrel extended my already long reach by that essential foot.

I stepped to his left. It took him a fatal second to move the barrel of his Colt. That was all the time I needed to sweep my own gun up and knock his hand into the air. I followed that with a devastating punch to his ribs. Something went "crack." He went "oooofff" and staggered back.

Then I was on him like an enraged grizzly. I pulled the pistol out of his hand, threw it into the underbrush, spun him and pinned his arms to his sides. God! He stank. I had considered snapping his neck. He was much smaller than me and wiry thin. But I didn't want Aimee to see that. So instead, I said, "Apologize to the lady cowboy."

He hesitated. I tightened my grip. He cried out in agony. I could feel his ribs actually move. He gasped, "Sorry!!" I released him. He staggered forward and landed on his hands and knees.

I administered a kick to his head that put him out for good. He would have a serious headache in the morning and maybe some broken ribs. But at least he'd still be alive. Aimee was looking at me through veiled eyes, I knew I had to say something.

I spread my hands in a heartfelt gesture and said, "I wasn't spying on you, honest. I followed you because I wanted to make sure you were all right. That's all... You're very important to me." She looked shocked. Then she gave me a long glance and said, "Je comprendre, très bien. I'll tell you about it someday."

With that, she walked daintily past me and climbed back into the wagon. Aimee was her usual private self the next morning. It was like the previous night never happened.

*****

Most of the train continued along toward Raton Pass and Santa Fe. But five wagons plus our stage turned up the Arkansas. There was a wall of mountains in the direction we were headed. Fortunately, we weren't going any further than Pueblo.

Then we would turn north on the Old Trappers Trail, which was the preferred route up through the Sierra Madres. The Trapper's Trail was forty years old. It had been used by Freemont and Kearney in their early expeditions west. It led north from Pueblo along the front range of the Rockies east of Pikes Peak and thence over the continental divide, between the Arkansas and South Platte Rivers.

We were making our tedious way across high plains, with endless short-grass prairie. That terrain looked like it supported anything that had hooves... buffalo herds, deer, even cattle. The Indians stayed invisible, which was fine with me since this was Apache territory.

Water was critically important in that arid landscape. So, the trail meandered along a series of creeks. We'd been travelling for days, basically northwest, when we got to a place called Jimmy Camp. Jimmy Camp was a former trading post, named after a crude adobe hut, that Jimmy Hayes, an early trader, had built on the lowland near a creek. It was rumored that he was killed and buried there.

Jimmy Camp was known for its crystal-clear spring and there was plenty of grass for grazing along with the cool shade that the pine and cottonwood trees afforded. The Trapper's Trail branched north at that point and we planned to pick up the Cherry Creek trail. It ran along a tributary of the South Platte and led directly into Denver which was our destination.

I was beginning to feel serious discontent as we neared the end of our journey. For months, Aimee had been my constant companion. She was always sitting next to me in her buckskins, with the Henry across her knees, self-sufficient and enigmatic. It forged a deep bond. Even though neither of us acknowledged it.

Yet in actuality, my faithful partner sold herself to men for money. I had no thoughts about the right, or wrong of that. I had righteous indignation to fall back on with Faith. But it was never a matter of betrayal with Aimee. From the moment we'd met I'd known what her profession was.

Then again, my closest, and really only, companion in life would be open for business as soon as she got to Denver. And THAT ate at me. I even sensed the irony in our circumstance. It was clear that Aimee just wanted somebody to love. While, at the same time, she could never have that love because of what she did for a living.

That impossible paradox was like a dam holding back the river of our mutual desire. I assumed that Aimee sensed it too. And she was keeping me at arm's length to save both of us the grief. Yet, it made us the closest pair of strangers in the entire west.

We'd never said two words to each other about our past. But there was no circumstance that I could conceive of that would cause such a clearly strong and intelligent woman to become a whore.

I understood why the rest of the women were in the trade. Aphrodite and Bathsheba were free now. But they had been sold to May as slaves. I never knew for sure, but Lin and the three Mexican girls were probably in the same boat. Abigail was a whore because she had several screws loose. Nevertheless, what had led a strong, spirited and absolutely stunning creature like Aimee to debase herself like that?

Added to the mystery, was Aimee's performance by the riverside, back a month ago. I had never seen so much grief in my life. It made the mourning that I'd done the day I learned of Faith's betrayal seem almost lighthearted.

Whatever motivated THAT would no-doubt unlock the mystery of the woman, who I had fallen so hopelessly in love with. But alas, the only way I was going to find out would be if Aimee told me. And up to that point she had shown no inclination to open up.

Most of the time, Aimee treated me like I was her man. She did all the solicitous things a wife would do, cooking and taking care of my day-to-day needs. Once in a while, she'd even wash my union suit. She said the trip was a lot more pleasant if I wasn't stinky - Women!!!

The one thing she didn't take care of were my sexual urges. But I didn't expect her to. And it wasn't because she sold it for cash. It was clear that Aimee "the prostitute," was the armor she put on whenever she had to face the harsh reality of life, red in tooth and claw.

The other Aimee behaved exactly the opposite. The occasional flash of the deeply loyal and caring woman underneath the false flag of the fatalistic whore was heartbreaking.

I had unhitched and tethered the mules and I was sitting in the late afternoon sun pondering our bleak situation. That was when I heard the boom of the ten-gauge. It came from the direction of the spring. I grabbed both .44s and dashed down the path toward the sound. There was the rattle of gunfire and then cries and shrieks.

I dashed into the clearing around the spring. When I got there, I found five panicked women in shifts. They'd obviously been bathing. Aimee was also in a revealing shift. But she was levering the Henry for another shot and Aphrodite was vigorously reloading the ten-gauge.

The sight of Aphrodite's monumental body in a shift was slightly more intimidating than the vast mountain range to our west. I had the inappropriate thought, "How can Pat EVER survive THAT!!"

Pat was just getting to his feet, obviously woozy. There was what looked like a dead Indian a short distance away and there were whoops coming from the direction where Aimee was shooting.

Everything stopped when I appeared. Aphrodite turned to Pat and smothered him in her vast bosom. I was thinking "serious suffocation." The girls were all yelling and pointing in the direction of the whoops, which were diminishing in the distance.

Aimee fired one last round and then walked quickly over to me clutching the Henry. For the first time in forever I saw her agitated. She said in a strained voice, "They've taken my sister. We have to go after her."