Posted by vorgous on May 14, 2005 at 21:50:22:
This continues the saga of Cowgirl Jill -- a politically incorrect western,earlier pieces of which are posted in the archives under Cindy (the introductory part to this chapter was previously posted but it has since been slightly reworked.
I've put this chapter and a rough diagram of Digger's Canyon at a Yahoo group that I've experimented in putting up located at:
http://groups.yahoo.com/group/WestStuff
If anyone wants to join that group, I would be interested in creating a collaborative storyline by back and forth messages. An example of what I mean is illustrated in the story below in the encounter between Feather Pigeon and Wendy, which switches back and forth between Wendy's and Feather Pigeon's perspective of their battle.
Anyway, I hope Cindy and Jen like it -- or at least the parts containing characters having their names.
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Cowgirl Jill - Final Assault at Digger's Canyon
Chrissy and Jill were on their horse-drawn wagon heading home from their battles by the Fetterman's Pass secret cave. "This is getting tiresome," said Jill, "them injuns keep ripping my shirts. It's time to put an end to this."
"So, what're we to do?" Chrissy asked. "Well, I bet them injuns all come from that there renegade tribe group up over in Digger's Canyon. There can't be more'n 150 or so left. I say we get Jess and Jen and Cindy and some others and finally wipe them out. We need to get them before they get us."
"Sounds like a plan, though maybe we might want to keep one or two of them bronzed half-naked braves alive -- you know, for stuff," Chrissy giggled. "You mean so you can be stuffed by them redskin pricks," Jill laughed.
After reaching their cabin, the two cowgirls split up, each to gather several comrades and then to meet up again at their ranch in a few days.
The renegades' camp was the one led by Chief Battle Scars -- at least before he was trampled by his own horse back at Fetterman's Pass. Many of the tribe's best warriors had been lost in recent encounters with the Jill and Chrissy. Left, though, were about 70 braves and 40 or so squaws, none younger than 20. All were embittered at the coming of settlers, and had joined the band of renegades. They believed that the white settlers wanted to take over their lands and force the indians out. These indians were united in their hatred of the white interlopers, and many of them were toned, strong, and vicious warriors and warrioresses. They had massacred quite a number of settlers, and had battled quite a number of U.S. cavalry soldiers.
The renegades hid out in Digger's Canyon, which straddled the desert and woodlands. Sentries watched the paths in and out, others kept watched from the ridges of the mesa's to the east and west that overlooked and formed the enclosed area that was referred as a "canyon." There was a lake in the canyon that was fed from an underground spring. During daylight, the guards could tell if anyone was within five or so miles of the camp.
Over a week had elapsed since Chief Battle Scars had taken several warriors to avenge many deaths. Neither the chief nor any member of his party had returned. Temporarily in command was Rippling Flesh, a large, some might correctly say obese, redskin. Nearly three hundred pounds, Rippling Flesh was a particularly nasty brave whose stomach flopped over his simple loincloth. His mate, equally fat, was known as Fulsome Bison. She dressed in the typical animal hide skirt worn by the squaws, but refused to wear a vest. As a result, Fulsome Bison's massive and ponderous breasts flopped about openly and defiantly at all times. Her mother was Raging Eye, a heavy-set, wrinkled matron who fiercely protected her daughter's place in the tribe. Raging Eye used a wooden cane to hobble about. These three completed the power triumvirate.
Rippling Flesh enjoyed his power and hoped Chief Battle Scars would not return. He had rejected several requests by other tribesmen to send out braves to learn the chief's fate.
In the chief's absence, Rippling Flesh permitted and encouraged a nightly war dance, full of drum-beating, loud chanting, and lascivious dancing. During these campfire-lit revelries many of the renegades worked themselves up to heights of frenzy. They released their energies either by fights amongst one another or, more often, vigorous sexual activity with one another.
With a week having passed, Chrissy and Jill had gathered together ten other rough riding cowgirls. There, the dozen western damsels planned their attack. As Jill explained, "We can expect that them injuns will have sentries and guards all about. We can't just ride in and attack. So four will hold back a few miles out from the north entrance with the two wagons that have the heavy-duty stuff - them gatling guns that Bertha brought. The rest of us, in teams of two, under the cover of night, will take out the north pass sentries, the south pass sentries, the east ridge sentries, and the west ridge sentries. The south pass team, once in, will set a fire that will smoke them damn redskins, or what's left of them, to flee through the north pass. The blaze and smoke will be the signal to the team with the wagons to move on in fast as you can ride them horses and use the gatling to cut down them fleeing marauders. The advance teams will converge and clean up the rest. It's time to get them naked renegades." The cowgirls whooped and hollered at the plan and the adventure awaiting them.
"Chrissy and Belinda will take the east ridge. Wendy and Cindy will take the west ridge. Jess and Jen will take out the sentries leading in from the north. Me and Kate will do the south pass and set the fires. Bertha, Mabel, Wanda, and Carmen will take the wagons and gatling guns," Jill continued. "We'll head on out, and begin our assault tomorrow night," Chrissy said, "and make sure you're properly suited up, including bandannas."
When they regrouped, some in jeans, others in brown trousers, some in flannel shirts, others in solid colors, some with long coats, all in boots, cowboy hats, and bandannas tied as kerchiefs around their necks, they were ready. So, with determination, the band of dust-kicking cowgirls set out to rid themselves of the renegades. When they were 15 miles from Digger's Canyon, they separated into their individual teams and rode off.
Chrissy and Belinda went off to the east. Jill and Kate rode with them, then continued past them on their way to clear out the south pass sentries. Wendy and Cindy proceeded to the west. Meanwhile, Jess and Jen awaited nightfall to move in from the north.
Ten miles west of the ridge, Chrissy and Belinda also separated. "You'll start on one end, I'll start on the other. We'll make our way to the center. Remember, no guns until the final assault. We can't tip them off," Chrissy said. Belinda nodded. Each was outfitted with their six-shooters, and carried a rifle slung over a shoulder. In addition, each had two bowie knives tucked in their belts, a garrote, and a 100-foot length of rope, coiled and slung over their shoulders. Their counterparts for the east ridge assault were similarly equipped.
To reach the ridge on either side, one had to scramble up a rocky slope and cross the top of the mesa. Basically, Digger's Canyon was secluded because to its east and west there were nearly 100-foot high mesas, with nearly straight drops into the canyon, but sloped on the opposite sides. The top of the mesas, a half-mile long, but only about 150 feet wide at the widest spots, was not entirely flat. There was some low vegetation and many large boulder and rock formations. Reaching the top without alerting the sentries, and dispatching them without raising an alarm would not be easy -- particularly when sentries could be anywhere, the number of them unknown, and the cowgirls were weighted down with weapons and equipment.
Once darkness set in, the cowgirls began their assault. Those ascending the east and west ridges tethered their horses at the bottom and began the slow climb up the mountainsides, alert for clues of the sentries' whereabouts.
Meanwhile, in the renegades' camp, it was another night of half-naked braves and squaws dancing and prancing. Luck was with the east ridge cowgirls, because sentries on the ridges were watching with envy the campfire-lit festivities below -- rather than being attentive for intruders. Thus, the cowgirls met no resistance as they climbed to the tops of the mesas unnoticed.
Arriving at the top and crossing the mesa top, Chrissy soon saw her first indian guard. He was a young redskin clad only in a loincloth, tied about his waist with a thin rawhide strap -- typical attire for the renegades. The indian appeared to be looking down into the canyon. Chrissy slowly advanced towards her lone target.
Horned Beak, a 22-year old brave, watched the campfire-lit goings on with jealousy. How he wanted to be there strutting about with the others. "I'm as fierce and muscular as them. My flesh is as bronzed as theirs. I'm as good a warrior as any of them," he thought. He imagined what he would do if he had the opportunity to battle one of them haughty cowgirls. His loins engorged at the thought of defeating one of them white vixens. He imagined stripping the layers of clothing off of a long haired cowgirl, and using her for his pleasure. Unbeknownst to the nearly naked redskin, he was about to encounter a long haired white vixen.
Chrissy dropped her rifle and coil of rope. She removed her long duster coat and hat. Then she crept slowly towards the indian, knife in hand. The brave's attention was focused on the frenetic activity of his tribemates below. Then, he heard a sound seemingly nearby. He stood up and quickly turned.
Unfortunately for the brave, Chrissy was already upon him. As he turned and faced the cowgirl, she determinedly plunged her knife deep into his belly, and twisted.
Horned Beak stood there, his eyes wide open. He was barely able to understand his fate. His hopes and dreams of defeating a cowgirl, of being a hero to his tribe, had ended quickly and ignominiously. He stood there as the cowgirl twisted and turned the blade in him, then he slowly collapsed into oblivion.
Chrissy looked down at the dying indian. She noticed the engorged bulge under his loincloth. "Oh, what the hell," she thought to herself, "I've got some time." Then she cut away the redskin's loincloth, exposing his swollen member, and lustily gave herself a quick ride.
While Chrissy partook of her diversion, Wendy and Cindy scrambled up the west ridge. Cindy went up the north end as Wendy climbed up the south. Halfway up the steep slope Wendy noticed a figure ahead of her. She quickened her pace, but was careful to remain quiet even while removing her rope and fashioning a lasso.
Feather Pigeon had decided to have some nighttime fun with Clay Foot, a strapping brave that she fancied. She was brimming with desire and expectation as she ascended to the mesa top. She fantasized about being held by his strong bare arms, her indian hide vest pulled from her body, and then feeling the heat of his loins within her. She was lost in these lusts when suddenly she felt something grab hold of her, pulling her backwards and downwards.
Wendy's throw had been perfect. She had gotten to within 20 feet of the figure and had thrown the quickly made lasso so that it looped over the figure's head and torso. Wendy pulled hard, tightening the loop so that the squaw's arms were pinned to her torso, just below breast-level. Then Wendy pulled hard, forcing the squaw hard backwards and down to the rough ground.
Feather Pigeon was unable to move her arms. She felt the rope tighten about her chest. She was being dragged across the ground backwards and downwards. She was too startled to scream out. Wendy was pulling hard on the rope, dragging the caught package towards herself. When the indian was within ten feet, Wendy dropped the rope and knife in hand ran towards the indian.
Feather Pigeon saw her attacker approach. She saw the weapon, and her attacker swing the knife downwards in an effort to kill her. In a desperate effort, Feather Pigeon kicked at her attacker. Her feet hit their mark, causing the attacker to stumble and drop the knife.
The knife was inches Feather Pigeon's hand. She squirmed to reach it. Wendy quickly recovered and jumped on top of the indian and began thrashing her. The squaw's fingers were just at the knife's handle. The squaw thought that if she could just maneuver her bound arm to the front she could either cut her assailant or cut the rope, freeing herself to fight off her attacker.
Wendy was oblivious to the danger she faced from the knife. Laying atop the barely clothed indian, Wendy concentrated on trying to strangle the struggling indian.
Feather Pigeon violently squirmed and rocked in an effort to dislodge her attacker, all the while trying to move the knife in position before falling unconscious. Suddenly, she felt herself being pulled upwards.
Wendy, still choking the squaw, had decided to stand and pull the indian up as well -- all the while maintaining pressure on the throat. The indian unsuccessfully tried to resist. When they were half-standing, Wendy finally noticed the blade -- and how close it was to Wendy. With a violent effort, Wendy turned the squaw's neck so hard to the side that Feather Pigeon's neck snapped. The indian's entire body twisted around -- then Wendy threw the indian down hard to the ground face forwards.
Feather Pigeon felt her neck snap. Agonizing pain exploded in her body. She felt the force sending her hard downwards. Her left breast landed hard and squarely on a large stone -- which amplified her pain. Most unfortunately for the squaw, the knife was turned inwards at the time she landed on ground and it penetrated deeply into her belly, mortally wounding her.
Wendy looked down at the indian twitching in death throes on the slanting surface. She turned the body over and saw the indian's vacant stare and the knife sticking out of her belly. Wendy pulled the dead squaw to a sitting position to remove her rope. She pushed the squaw away, causing the dead squaw to roll several feet down the slope before coming to a stop. Then Wendy continued on her way upwards.
Shortly after Wendy reached the top, Clay Foot, who was alert hoping for a nocturnal visit from Feather Pigeon, spotted the cowgirl. Instead of sounding an alarm, the brave decided to act on his own. The loinclothed indian came up behind the cowgirl and grabbed her about the waist and throat pressing his naked flesh against her clothed body.
Wendy acted quickly and decisively, stomping her boot against her assailant's naked, unprotected foot. Clay Foot released his grip. Wendy swung about and, grabbing a tomahawk held in place by the rawhide strap of the indian's loincloth, whipped it away from the brave. Then, with a strong underhand motion, she swung it upwards and embedded the blade through the front flap of the loincloth and deep in the brave's groin. The startled redskin looked down to see the handle rise out from his body at a 45-degree angle as if it were a thick, hard, long penis. Mortally wounded, the indian tried to maintain his balance, standing there with his feet apart and the tomahawk handle thrusting out and up. Losing strength, the indian began to totter back and forth, blood pouring down beneath his legs. Just before he tumbled backwards with a loud thud and fell dead the realization sunk in that his genitalia had been split open and mutilated.
Cindy, meanwhile, had also reached the mesa top. Hers was a dual task -- take out any nearby sentries, then quickly use a rope to slide down the canyonside wall, get to the horse corral, and release the horses -- thus minimizing the renegades' ability to escape.
At the mesa top, Cindy carefully combed the area, moving south along the ridge until she reached a favorable location to fasten a rope and slide down the 100-foot or so drop into the canyon. Finding a good location, she prepared the rope. She had encountered no resistance, but felt it prudent to scout a bit further south before descending.
She was soon glad she had been cautious. Blade in hand, a brave, bare-skinned but for the loincloth fastened with a thin rawhide strap, was patrolling nearby and seemed wary for intruders. Had Cindy started down the rope, he surely would have spotted her, cut the rope, and Cindy would have fallen to her death.
Cindy waited behind a boulder for the indian to reach her. Picking up a nearby rock, she came up behind the indian and brought it down hard against the back of his head. Stunned, the indian staggered. Then, throwing her heavily clothed body against his toned, naked flesh she knocked him face down onto the rough rocky, ground. The brave hit the ground hard. Cindy jumped on top of him. Sitting astride his buttocks, she rammed her weight against the lower region crushing and smashing his groin, unprotected except for the flimsy loincloth, into the hard, pebbly ground. Then she pulled his head back and smashed his face into the ground. She alternated back and forth between bouncing on his rear and smashing his face into the ground, putting the savage in utter agony.
Then, while continuing to ride him like a bronco, pounding his groin into the surface again and again, she grabbed a tuft of the half-dead injun's long hair, and holding it like a horse's reins started swinging his head about in the air. She continued the punishment, swinging his head by the hair to and fro while she continued to bounce atop him crushing and grinding his groin into the ground. All the dastardly deeds done by these injuns were turning in Cindy's mind, and she was taking it out on this one brave. Then she stood up and stared at the suffering indian. She kicked his torso repeatedly with her booted foot. Then she repeatedly stomped her boot heel down hard on his buttocks. All the punishment had left the indian's loincloth in tatters and its thin strap broken. Cindy used her foot to turn the injured indian onto his back leaving him fully exposed to her. His efforts to move -- to fight back -- were unsuccessful. His agony was extreme.
Cindy continued to kick his flesh, his torso. She crushed the heel of her boot into his exposed groin. Then she squatted over him, pounding her fists into his torso and face. All she could think of were friends maimed, raped, and killed by these savages. This, she felt, paid back only a small part of what they had suffered from these renegades.
The beating went on for minutes. Then Cindy stopped. The brave had long since stopped moving. For awhile she had been bashing a corpse. Cindy stood up. She spat upon the indian's naked body, then one last time she stomped her boot down on his exposed genitalia.
She began to walk away. She turned around, walked back towards him and while muttering, "this is for my brother Tom," she kicked the corpse once more in the abdomen.
"Time to get back to business," Cindy whispered to herself. She returned to the rope, throw the unsecured end down into canyon. Then, under cover of the night, she climbed down the rockface wall. At the bottom, she found herself at the northwest end of the lake in Digger's Canyon. Cautiously, she made her way around towards the horse corral just north of the lake. With daybreak soon to arrive Cindy knew she had to hurry.
Nearing the corral, Cindy made out the figures of two guards by the corral gate. Their backs were to Cindy, and the noise of the 40 horses fenced inside it covered her movements.
The two braves guarding the corral were bemoaning the fact that they were not part of the night's festivities. "Stuck with horses, again," said one, "more fun to do power chants." "Me wanted chance to do the naughty with Spider Fingers. She fiery squaw," said the other. "Oh, me would give her good thrusts to her . . . e r r r r k," the first started to reply.
A few seconds before, Cindy had taken out the two bowie knives she carried. "It's a good thing I'm ambidextrous," she had thought. Then, with a knife in each hand she readied herself and threw them. One caught the first loinclothed guard squarely in the back of his neck piercing through his throat. The other struck the other guard squarely in his back. That knife was so deeply embedded that it cut into his heart. He fell to the ground dead. The other one twirled towards Cindy. He was unable to sound an alarm, but was not dead. Cindy had relieved the dead brave on the mesa top of his knife. Taking it, she threw it at the indian, and it landed deeply in his chest. His eyes opened wide in stunned shock; he, too, fell to the ground.
Cindy quickly unlatched the gate to the corral, stepping carefully over the sprawled indians and removing her own knives from them. She observed that the indian who had been twice wounded seemed not quite dead.
Cindy entered the corral and motioned the horses to leave through the open gate. Slowly, at first, then faster, the horses trotted out, heading towards the north pass. Since it was not yet daylight, their departure went unnoticed by the rest of the camp.
The horses though were less careful than Cindy had been as they passed through the opened corral gate. For the dead brave it made no difference that horses repeatedly stepped on his body, and that some occasionally defecated on his near-naked body as they passed over him. For the dying brave, the stomping and occasional release of manure was painful and agonizing. Death soon ended his suffering and humiliation.
Jill and Kate, meanwhile, had proceeded towards the south pass. South of and into Digger's Canyon was a wooded area. If a fire could be set successfully, it was hoped the injuns would flee north. There, the two gatling guns would prevent their escape. The cowgirls scouted the area together, listening for the sound of any sentries.
"Over there, in that tree," Jill whispered. Thirty feet ahead, a brave, clad only in a loincloth, was perched on an upper branch, looking around. "Good eyes," Kate breathed, "let me do it." "You go, girl," Jill said.
The brave was taking his job seriously. "You never know when you will get the honor of battle for the tribe," he thought. Looking in all directions, he imagined how he would save the tribe. However, he also waited for the brave soon expected to relieve him so that he could join the dancing back at camp.
The brave heard the sound of a twig snap. Alert, he noticed some movement below. He saw a figure approaching his tree, seemingly oblivious to him. "Perfect," he thought, as he readied himself to jump down on and capture the intruder. He waited for the perfect moment. His loins filled with excitement. He realized the intruder was one of them vicious cowgirls., and this was his chance to be the hero. "There, she's just below, now's the time to attack," he thought excitedly, "this is perfect."
And, then . . .
Kate had timed the moment perfectly. Jill had been the perfect decoy. "Stupid redskin," Kate sighed as she threw a knife that struck its target, the naked belly of the brave, just as he was about to leave the branch.
The indian staggered in disbelief, then fell from the tree. Jill sidestepped the redskin. He landed inches from her, face down in the vegetation and hard on the knife. This pushed the blade deeper into him right up to the handle. With the knife between him and the ground, his rump slightly arched in the air. Blood flowed on the ground beneath him.
"Nice aim," said Jill. "Shucks," said her blond-tressed companion, "it was nothing." Kate reached down and turned the limp corpse on its back. "I believe this is mine," she said as she removed her knife and used the indian's loincloth to wipe it clean. Brushing her hand against the indian's still erect penis she fondled it for a moment through the loincloth and commented on how it was a shame to waste it. "We've got a job to do," Jill chastened her friend.
After dispatching the first sentry Jill and Kate decided to split up to set the fires. "As soon as you reach the pass, set your fires then move forward and stay ahead of the smoke," Jill cautioned. Kate nodded. Kate continued straight ahead; Jill proceeded to the northwest.
Unfortunately, Kate did not hear the party of three braves who had been coming to relieve the tree-perched sentry.
Warted Plant first noticed the female intruder. He motioned to his two companions. They spread out and awaited the unsuspecting cowgirl. As Kate passed by the three hidden half-naked injuns, they attacked. Warted Plant came at her from behind. He grabbed her about the neck and pressed his body hard against her clothes. Then his companions made their presence known, scowling fiercely and waving their knives menacingly. Kate, knowing she was trapped, silently cursed. She felt the naked arm against her neck. She knew what these savages did with captives. "What a nice prize," one of braves boasted. Fear built in Kate as she heard the brave continue, "We'll strip the white interloper, fill her with our seed, then bring her to the nightly rights for her final punishment." And, then, struck hard on the head, Kate sank into unconsciousness.
Warted Plant and his two friends enjoyed stripping the blond cowgirl naked. Their loins filled with lust at seeing their blond-haired, white, naked prisoner sprawled on the ground. "Enjoy her while I get Silver Acorn; we must find out how she got past his sharp eyes," Warted Plant said. He then went in the direction Kate had come from.
In succession the two redskins moved their loincloths to expose their hardened members. In turn, each savagely violated the unconscious cowgirl, relieving themselves of their seed. Then second finished as Warted Plant returned. "Silver Acorn is dead," he said, "This wanton white must have killed him. I will add my seed in vengeance."
With that, Warted Plant exposed his hardened member. Pressing his weight against the cowgirl he entered her, thrusting harder and deeper. Kate awoke to this evil violation as it was taking place. She felt stickiness already in her. She twisted and turned to no avail. The other indians - she was surrounded by redskin flesh - restrained her. Then she felt the Warted Plants orgasmic explosion with her. The injun withdrew, as milky liquid from his flaccid penis dripped on her belly.
"Tie her with rags of her garments, gag her, and let's take her to the tribal council for Rippling Flesh to decide her end.
The braves tore Kate's shirt in strips. They tied her hands behind her. Then, Warted Plant took her rifle and, jabbing it into the doomed cowgirl's back. He commanded her to walk towards the indian village. Meanwhile, his comrades took her six shooters and knives.
Unaware of the sickening fate of her friend, Jill persevered in her mission. Shortly after separating from Kate she had come up behind a loinclothed sentry. Pressing herself hard against his flesh, her long duster coat against his naked back, she had with one quick swipe of her knife slit his throat. With a slight gurgle he became a dead weight against her. When she released her hold he crumbled to the ground.
She continued through the wooded pass. Shortly before daybreak she saw another sentry, or rather, two indians -- a brave and a squaw -- humping on the ground. The brave appeared to be thrusting hard into the squaw below him. Jill noticed a lance near the two redskins. The two indians, in the throes of passion, were oblivious to her approach. Their moans and grunts allowed Jill to pick up the lance and approach the writhing indians unnoticed. Using both hands and with a powerful downward thrust Jill pierced the lance through the brave's lower body and deep into the squaw beneath him. Jill's timing was such that she did it just as the pinned indians reached orgasm. Both died as their bodies continued in orgasmic tremors.
Jill figured she had gone far enough into the south pass. Shortly before dawn she began to light fires. It did not take long for a blaze to begin. She began to be concerned that she was not detecting any fires from Kate's side. She began moving east, setting additional fires at intervals.
Halfway across the path Jill spotted Kate's pants. "Damn redskins," Jill thought, "they've got her. I got to do something." Jill set the last remaining fires, then resolved to stay ahead of the blaze and enter the indian camp to locate her poor friend.
Just after daybreak the four cowgirls with the wagons saw the first distant puffs of smoke rise above the canyon. "Time to move fast and hard. Time to get rid of them renegades," Mabel snarled. The others agreed. And they began racing the wagons containing the gatling guns towards the narrow north pass.
The north pass was much narrower than the wooded south path. Only a stone's throw separated one side from the other. During the night hours Jess and Jen had traveled together, leaving their horses a mile away and trekking that last mile on foot. Jen spotted a sentry sitting against a boulder halfway along their trek, the top of his head just visible above the rock formation. Motioning Jess to approach the brave from the front, she had come up behind the boulder garrote in hand. Jess startled the brave, naked except for his loincloth, asking if he "knew the way to San Jose." When the indian grabbed his knife and tried to stand, Jen whipped the garrote around his neck, pulling the redskin hard against, atop, and across the boulder he had been sitting against.
Jen's grip was strong and true. With the injun sprawled across the boulder, Jen lowered herself under his head, strangling the indian, the garrote cutting into his throat. His eyes bulged wide open and his naked legs and arms thrashed about helplessly. As gurgling sounds came from his mouth, Jess noticed a second bulge under the redskin's loincloth. As she watched, the bulge grew and the body thrashed about until there was a strong convulsion. The body went limp, except for the area under the loincloth. There was a pulsating motion for several seconds, then the bulge disappeared. There was a musty smell in the air and a damp circle formed on the loincloth.
"Gosh," Jess said, "I hope it was as good for you as it was for him." Jen stared at Jess blankly. "Let's get going." Jen rolled the completely limp injun off the boulder. He fell with a heavy thump face down. Then she dragged the injun and positioned him so that he was once again sitting against the boulder. This time though, he stared blankly ahead. Jess took one of the brave's hands and stuck it under his loincloth and against his genitalia. Then she pushed his mouth in the form of smile.
Jess and Jen slowly made their way into the north pass. With no other sentries to face, they arrived shortly before daybreak and positioned themselves on either side of the pass, ready to pick off fleeing indians, but protected by rock formations from stray gatling gun bullets.
Meanwhile, having vanquished the two corral sentries and released the indians' horses Cindy was about to take cover and await Wendy to join her. However, daylight was upon the canyon and Cindy was faced with a chilling sight. There in the indian campground, amidst numerous redskins, was a naked white, female captive. The captive was strapped to a wood frame, arms aloft and legs spread apart. Drumbeats could be heard. Male and female indians were rubbing their flesh against the captive, and toying with the vulnerable cowgirl, as they circled in feverish dancing. As she watched, the indians stepped aside, and the fattest indian Cindy had ever seen, a veritable blubber of flesh waddled up to the captive and pressed his body against the prisoner. "Damn," Cindy muttered, "them savages got Kate." It was then that Cindy noticed the first whiffs of smoke rising in the south pass.
Meanwhile, up on the east ridge, Belinda was making her way north to join Chrissy. Near the meeting point, she was surprised by an indian brave, Horned Goat, who had spotted her and come up behind her. Grabbed from behind, one arm with a knife to her throat, the other around her waist, Belinda silently cursed her predicament. She could feel the naked flesh of this injun against her clothes, and as he spoke, she could sense his rancid breath.
"Another white wench," the brave said, "another victory." Horned Goat had been watching the goings-on below and had been aware of the naked cowgirl being tortured below. Belinda, though, had not been aware of Kate's capture and predicament. As the indian spoke, pressing himself against his captive, Belinda could feel the brave's growing erection.
"Yes, another trophy, one that is mine to sample the fruits of before presenting to others," the indian continued as he moved his free hand to reach under Belinda's shirt to feel an ample breast. "Renegade bastard," Belinda breathed at the indian's unwanted groping. "Quiet," the brave replied, pressing his knife harder against Belinda's neck, almost cutting into her flesh. As his loins engorged, he pressed himself harder against Belinda and moved his hand down to and into her pants, trying to reach her intimate nether region. "Yes, pale woman, you are but a small trophy to our vengeance. You will suffer much to our delight. But first I shall have my deliiig..."
The redskin had stopped midword. Belinda felt his hand tighten on her groin, then loosen. The hand holding the knife fell limply to the side, and the knife dropped to the ground. All she felt was the weight of his nearly naked body against her. She reached down and removed his limp hand from her pants.
Belinda then shifted her weight; Horned Goat fell forward and face down. A tomahawk was embedded in his back. Belinda heard laughter. "I can't seem to find my tomahawk. Oh, there it is," Chrissy giggled, "Don't just stand there. Let's see what you missed."
Chrissy walked over to the indian's corpse, pushed her boot against Horned Goat's rump, and pulled out the tomahawk. "Oooh, it's dirty, yuck," she laughed as she used the bloody tomahawk to cut the indian's loincloth strap and then toss it aside. Then using her boot, she turned the indian on his back, exposing his still engorged member. "Not bad," she said, pushing the renegade's legs apart with her boot, "I should have given you a bit of time to have some fun. You know, you still can."
Belinda was not amused by her friend's warped humor. "Well, then, we best set them dynamite sticks, I think I see us some smoke out yonder," Chrissy said. In addition to everything else Chrissy and Belinda each carried a dynamite stick. The plan, once the fire started, was to create a small explosion that hopefully would cause part of the mountain face to rain down on the teepees below.
"You set yours over in that crevice, I'll set mine here. Then join me in a sprint north," Chrissy said. The fuse on Belinda's stick was a minute, some 20 seconds longer than Chrissy's stick. As Belinda went to place hers in the designated crevice, Chrissy dragged the naked indian to the edge of the ridge. Then she reached over and stuck the dynamite stick in an opening in the rock face. "Now," Chrissy said, "light it and run north."
Belinda lit her dynamite stick. Chrissy lit hers, pushed the naked corpse off the ridge, then got up and sprinted after Belinda. "Why did you do that?" Belinda asked. "Why not?" was the response.
Somewhat earlier, Kate, stripped bare, had been led to the renegades ceremony area. Her capturers had strutted there proudly with their prisoner. "We present a gift to you," one proclaimed to Rippling Flesh.
Kate trudged forward, still dazed from the savage violations of her body. Every few steps she was sharply prodded by the redskins escorting her. "Tie her to the frame," said Rippling Flesh. Fulsome Bison cooed at the situation. "All should partake of revenge on this white bitch," she smirked as she stroked her large exposed right breast. Nearby, her mother, Raging Eye, looked on with a desire to have her time to play with and torment this captive. Her mouth seemed to salivate at such opportunities.
Kate was dragged to a frame that consisted of two seven foot long tree branches, lashed together midway. The result was a large X that was firmly embedded in the ground. Each arm was raised and strapped at the wrist to a branch end. Each leg, spread the distance between the branch ends in the ground, was lashed at the ankle. Kate was helpless and utterly vulnerable to the tortures facing her.
Although it was near daybreak, the arrival of this captive created a second wind for the revelers. Tens of braves and squaws began to chant and dance about the captive, often taking liberties with her body as they, half-naked, swirled about her. Some stroked her flesh with their hands. Others used tongues to lick her. Still others either just slapped or punched her. And some fully pressed their own sweaty bodies against her helpless body. Powerless to resist Kate endured the onslaught praying for the mercy of a quick death.
Then Rippling Flesh called for the ceremonies to stop. The obese indian strode towards Kate. Kate looked in terror at the monster of fat and flesh that approached. She saw a massive bulge in the skimpy loincloth worn by this beast. Right up against her he strode. Then, he spoke with putrid breath, "You shall now feel the taste of a true warrior. He pressed hard against the cowgirl. Then he stepped back and ripped off his loincloth, exposing amidst rolls of fat a massive erection. "You shall satisfy me now. Cut the straps," he ordered. Two servant squaws obeyed. From the back, Fulsome Bison cackled at the humiliation about to befall this white bitch.
"Now kneel and satisfy my urges," Rippling Flesh said. Kate did not move. Raging Eye came forward. She struck the cowgirl with her wooden cane, then pushed Kate to her knees. Then the large, wrinkled matron grabbed Kate's head and pushed it over Rippling Flesh's engorged member. The obese redskin roared with laughter. "Satisfy me," he commanded.
Kate, nearly choking, did the only thing she could think of -- she bit the indian's penis as hard as she could. The redskin grunted in pain -- though to those around him it was unclear if he was in agony or in the throes of ecstasy.
At that moment, cries of "fire, fire" were heard. Renegades turned towards the woods and saw a raging blaze with dark smoke spewing. And the wind was blowing the smoke and fire towards the indians.
Kate let go and Rippling Flesh yelped, blood dripping from the toothmarks that peppered his fat swollen member. Fulsome Bison, along with several other indians had run towards the teepees. Others had run towards the fire to see how bad it was. Still others had run towards the lake to fill containers with water.
Rippling Flesh, naked and in agony, and holding his stiff penis in his hand, was oblivious. Raging Eye started striking Kate with her cane.
Just about that moment Chrissy and Belinda had lit the sticks of dynamite at the edge of the east ridge -- just above the teepees. There was an explosion and large chunks of the rock face came down, crushing tents and indians alike.
Fulsome Bison was one of the casualties. When the explosion occurred, she looked up. Above her large chunks of rock and debris were falling. She had tried to run, her ponderous breasts moving to and fro, but had stumbled, oddly enough, over a dead naked brave who had appeared seemingly out of nowhere. Off balance, she had collided into another, this time alive, indian brave, causing them both to fall hard to the ground. The poor brave fell on his back under her heavy fleshy weight his face smothered between her massive breasts. As he tried to push her off him, several large boulders rained down around on atop them, pinning her massive frame to him and the ground and crushing her breasts into his face, leaving the brave unable to breathe and suffocating. Her own bones broken and unable to breath, she was in agony as several braves struggled to free the two indians. Some tried to lift the boulders, others pulled on her legs, and still others pulled on her arms to no avail before giving up and fleeing.
Other half-naked squaws and braves also had been killed by the debris, some crushed in their own teepees. Others, bruised and scraped, decided to flee towards the horse corral and the north pass.
In the wooded area, everything was ablaze, including some large trees. It did not take long for the indians who had gone there to realize that there nothing to be done but retreat north.
Unfortunately for a brave named Rattle Skies and a squaw named Whisper Sands, a blazing tree fell, one large branch striking and pinning the brave to the ground, another the squaw. Neither had been killed, although each wished they had. As they struggled unsuccessfully to escape, the flames of the fiery tree came closer and closer to each's unprotected flesh.
For Whisper Sands a heavy branch lay across her belly. For Rattle Skies, also face-up, a branch pinned him down at thigh level. The smoke and heat of the fire became unbearable. The fire reached Rattle Skies first, and his loincloth caught fire. Whisper Sands had to endure the agonized screams of the brave as his nether region burned and smolder. When her turn came, shortly thereafter, the screams were just as loud.
As Chrissy and Belinda used their ropes to slide down the east ridge, Wendy slid down a rope on the west ridge. After doing so, the three cowgirls took up vantage points and began shooting renegades. Even before the gatling guns had arrived, half-naked injun bodies littered the canyon. When the gatling guns arrived, the carnage would be complete.
Meanwhile, Kate had grabbed hold of the matron's cane, and wrenched it away her. Then Kate swung it hard between the indian squaw's legs. Dropping the cane, Kate lunged herself at the indian. Both struggled on the ground, clawing, punching, squeezing, and slapping. Raging Eye's animal hide skirt and vest ripped and tore off, leaving the wrinkled indian as naked as Kate.
Kate, exhausted from her earlier indignities, found herself being overcome. Raging Eye rose above and straddled above the exhausted Kate. "I will shower you with a final humiliation, white bitch, before you die," the squaw said, preparing to urinate over Kate. With a final effort, Kate reached out to the cane, grabbed hold, and plunged an end deep into the squaw's cunt. "I think not," Kate replied. Holding the other end still in her hands, Kate, with her remaining strength slid out from under the indian and plunged the free end hard into the ground, embedding it several inches in earth loosened by their struggle and the much indian trampling and dancing over the past several days.
The astonished Raging Eye looked down at what had torn through her insides. Her hands curled round the cane. Not urine, but blood, spewed from her. Her eyes glazed over as she pitched forward, but did not fall. Her weight against the cane only pushed it deeper into her and more into the ground. She remained aloft supported not only by the cane, but by her feet, which formed a tripod of support for her wrinkled, fat flesh. She twitched for a few moments, before becoming a still, human scarecrow.
It was to this cacophony that Jill and Cindy arrived nearly simultaneously. On their way towards Kate, each had shot one or two of the redskins. Due to the pandemonium each had met little resistance. Each also had protected themselves from the smoke that was beginning to permeate the canyon by tying their bandannas about their faces.
Jill and Cindy had arrived nearly simultaneously when Raging Eye was straddling over Kate. About to fire their weapons, they saw Kate take care of the indian on her own. Rippling Flesh, naked and still holding his wounded penis, had run off north. Cindy fired a shot that struck him in the buttocks, causing him to yelp.
Rippling Flesh continued amidst the dead and dying indians trying to escape. His only thoughts were to save himself. He had reached the empty horse corral just as the gatling guns had set up at the north pass. Suddenly the air was disturbed by a dual barrage of deadly bullets. Indians were being mowed down everywhere. Rippling Flesh was right in the path, and tens of bullets struck all over his fat flesh. He staggered into the corral in the desperate belief that it might provide protection. But he was mortally wounded. He fell to the manure-covered ground, his naked flesh became smeared with the excrement. He tried to crawl, in no particular direction. Reaching part of the corral fencing he tried to pull his obese frame up, again for no clear reason. He fell backwards, face up on the ground, his body riddled with bullet wounds and smeared with dirt and excrement. Oddly, the dead indian was still holding his member.
Meanwhile, Jill gave Kate an extra bandanna to protect her face from the smoke, as well as one of Jill's revolvers. They heard the arrival of the gatling guns, and knew to be careful to avoid being hit by a stray bullet.
Wendy, who had slid down to find herself on the far side of the lake also knew to be cautious. From a safe location, she was using her rifle, and the extra ammunition she had brought, to kill the indians trying to protect themselves from the fire by getting in the lake. Floating nearly naked bodies dotted the water, the result of Wendy's foresight.
Belinda and Chrissy, on the east side, were also picking off indians trying to hide from the intense spraying of the gatling guns. Jen and Jen, too, were shooting stray indians from their locations on either side of the north pass.
In a few short minutes, the gatling guns went silent, having spewed out thousands of rounds. The four cowgirls manning the two large, long-barreled guns rested for a moment, surveyed the smoky carnage, and then began to drive the two horse-drawn wagons into the canyon to locate the other cowgirls.
All over the canyon dead and dying indians lay sprawled on the ground and floating in the lake. Moans and groans could be heard throughout. Meanwhile, the fire had pretty much burned itself out, though the south section continued to smolder.
Through the smoky mist, the various cowgirls began to converge, strolling towards the wagons. Wendy came from the west. Jess and Jen followed the wagon into the pass, each with their revolvers drawn -- just in case. Jill, Cindy, and the still nude Kate (except for the bandanna tied about her face) walked from the south. The other cowgirls stared in puzzlement at Kate's condition. Then Chrissy and Belinda appeared from the west. "Done got ourselves a souvenir," Chrissy smirked. With them at gunpoint was a still-alive brave. "Found him hiding over there curled up like a baby," Chrissy continued. The indian appeared terrified. His loincloth was soiled by a large wet stain. "Looks like he peed on himself," Cindy laughed. "Sure does," Chrissy agreed.
Kate was amazed. The prisoner was Warted Plant, the renegade who had led the gang rape violating her. She seethed with anger. "This one's mine, he's the bastard who stripped and violated me," Kate said. Warted Plant recognized Kate; he was so terrified he peed again. "Yuck," said Chrissy, pushing the indian away. Take him, the stinking injun's all yours," Chrissy continued.
Kate pondered her vengeance.
Back at the teepees, Fulsome Bison stirred. Her eyes opened and she stared at the ground. She was pinned by a couple of large boulders. She could feel a face pressed between her naked breasts. Pain existed in every part of her large body. She tried to move. It was difficult, but as she maneuvered the indian beneath her, she found space to push out from her predicament. Though the hard rocks scraped her bruised and battered body and ripped her skirt to mere tatters that concealed little of her intimates she persevered. Slowly pushing and turning this way and that, she released herself.
Fulsome Bison staggered to her feet. All around her lay the corpses of her people, sprawled upon the ground over rocks, and atop one another. Smoke permeated the air. She staggered, as if drunk, in no particular direction. She stumbled frequently.
Fulsome Bison saw a figure standing in the smoky mist. The fat squaw lumbered towards it. Then she recognized it.
Overwhelming joy quickly turned to overwhelming shock. Before her was her mother, grotesquely standing, propped up by the wooden cane that gutted her through her cunt. In her daze, Fulsome Bison continued forwards oblivious to the occasional moans.
Jill first noticed a large figure in the smoky mists approaching towards the cowgirls. "What have we here?" she said. Kate immediately recognized the indian as one of her earlier tormentors. "Let's get her here. I've got an idea," Kate said.
Cindy and Jen went to grab Fulsome Bison, and brought the confused indian squaw to the group.
"Get down," Kate ordered. Fulsome Bison hesitated. Cindy and Jen pushed the obese indian to the ground. Kate turned to the stripped brave. "You like to mess with women, get to it with that one. She should be woman enough for you," Kate sneered.
When Warted Plant hesitated, Kate screamed, "NOW! On your knees, crawl over, climb on her, and screw her brains out. GO!"
Chrissy pushed the brave to the ground. On his hands and knees the naked brave scampered over to Fulsome Bison and got on top of her large fleshy frame.
"I want to see some action," Kate said, as she kicked the brave's backside with her naked foot (Kate was still naked herself.) Kate then asked if there was any rope left in the wagons. Carmen brought over a couple of lengths of rope. "Perfect," Kate cooed.
Meanwhile, Warted Plant was going at it with Fulsome Bison. As Fulsome Bison lay there, the brave humped her mounds of soft fatty flesh. Ironically, being pushed hard to the ground had been the final blow to her already mortal injuries. Unbeknownst to the cowgirls, just before the brave reached her body, Fulsome Bison had convulsed and died from her agonizing injuries. The terrified brave was humping and pumping a fleshy corpse.
Kate soon realized the situation. "Come on," she laughed, "go to it. Let's see some action. I want to see the indian bitch respond."
Kate knew the request was now an impossible one for her rapist to fulfill. Kate continued to kick the brave occasionally, urging him to go at it harder. The other cowgirls circled the spectacle, all alternately urging the brave on, taunting him, and giving tips a if at a sporting event:
"Rub them boobs."
"Push harder."
"That's it, go, go, go."
"What a puny prick."
"Make her beg."
The brave orgasmed inside the dead squaw. He lay on and in her exhausted. Kate lay a length of rope over the brave's back. Then, asking Wendy to help, she rolled the fat corpse over so that Warted Plant landed on the ground with Fulsome Bison's smothering weight pressing against him.
"We're not done yet," Kate said as she tied the rope around the two naked indians (so little of the squaw's tattered skirt remained that it was no exaggeration to call her naked) and bound them at the hips.
Warted Plant's penis was still inside the dead squaw. He was pinned in and to her. "I want more action," Kate directed, Such a virile brave, a rapist of white women, surely can show us more."
Warted Plant tried to thrust again. He was barely visible beneath the large frame of Fulsome Bison. Her body's dead flesh quivered from his efforts. The cowgirls chuckled.
Kate noticed a couple of the indian horses had wandered back into the canyon. "Can someone grab me one?" she asked. One was brought over. Kate then prepared for the final act. She looped one end of the rope over the horse's neck. She tied the other end to the squaw's left foot and the brave's right foot.
Then she slapped the horse's rump and yelled, "Go." Spooked, the horse sprinted off, dragging the two naked indians behind her. Warted Plant's agony was intense as, crushed by the corpse's weight, he was dragged across rocks and debris, banging into dead indian corpses, and pulled through horse manure.
There was little more left to do then find Kate something to wear, gather up the cowgirl's horses from where they had been left tethered, finish off, out of mercy, any of the dying renegades, and dispose of the bodies.
Carmen observed, "This canyon ain't a bad place. Too bad them indians forced us to burn them woods. But vegetation will come back soon, the smoke will dissipate, and this will be a right nice place. Maybe we should bring some folks here and start a bit of a community. No one else seems to be using it."
Using the wagons, indian corpses were gathered and brought to the far east part of the south pass rock face. There, coverings retrieved from the teepees were stretched out on the ground and the dead and dying renegades were stacked up on top. The cowgirls saw fit to put many of the wounded out of their misery. In a few instances, a redskin recognized as a perpetrator of a prior particularly heinous act against a settler was left suffering in the pile entangled with naked and near-naked corpses. Mabel and Bertha were kind enough to climb up the east and west ridges and toss down the indians vanquished above. Kate, tiring of her au natural look, had fashioned herself a rough skirt and top from the hide covering of a teepee, and had located some of her own weapons.
A few of the corpses were not so easy to move. It took three of the cowgirls to lift Rippling Flesh's obese body. Raging Eye was brought over and carefully re planted in front of the pile of intertwined flesh. A few indians found smoldering in the wooded area were left there.
As Jill said, "I guess we're done" a horse came trotting over dragging something behind it. "Plum forgot," Kate giggled, "Plum forgot about that bastard." The horse came to a stop and Kate walked to the back of the horse. There, covered with all types of muck and debris was Fulsome Bison's corpse and the bruised, scraped, broken, filthy, naked figure of Warted Plant. Though they still remained tied to the horse by a foot each, the rope binding them had long since shredded off. It was apparent that the brave had at times been dragged face down as well as face up. It was also apparent that the two naked redskins had been dragged through mud, water manure, ashes, burning embers, and anything else that the horse had happened to trot through. In fact, it appeared that the horse had stopped and stomped on her unwelcome passengers a couple of times.
Yet the brave still appeared to breathe. "Help me, girls," Kate said. Two of the cowgirls came over and lifted the mass of flesh that had been Fulsome Bison. They carried her past Raging Eye and set the corpse in a sitting position against the pile of renegades behind her.
Then they returned and picked the brave up. Barely conscious, the brave looked towards the mass of intertwined flesh that had been his tribemates, and stared in stunned horror. He was dragged over to them and thrown on top of Fulsome Bison upside down such that his head rested in the corpse's lap, his groin lay on her breasts, and his buttocks became a resting place for her face .
"Time to say goodbye for now," Jill sighed, "I guess things are going to be much quieter. Perhaps I'll take some time away and explore the world a bit. I hear there are many interesting places. In fact, I've been thinking of going on one of them Mobanga safaris in the African jungles. Who knows what might be there? Well, it's something to think about."
"Boy, you talk a lot," said Chrissy, who had collected certain souvenirs from some of the dead male indians that she thought better not to mention for the time being. Then the cowgirls set fire to teepee coverings underneath the indian pile. The sun was beginning to set -- it had been a long 24 hours. The cowgirls solemnly thought of friends and family they had lost from prior rampages. They left as the pile glowed with the growing fire, a memorial to those friends and family. Here and the scraps of loincloths and squaw vests would catch fire, then the naked flesh. At times, a still breathing redskin tried to move, causing a tremor in the pile. Occasionally a scream here and there was heard, as a still breathing renegade agonized in his or her final doom. As the skies darkened, the flames grew, illuminating the grotesque statue that had been Raging Eye. When, by the next morning, all that could burn was finally consumed her naked, wrinkled corpse still stood, held upright by the cane gutting her privates. Soon, vermin came to nibble her flesh, followed by larger scavengers.