Sadistic Pioneers
by A. de Granamour

Each had a ruthless need to conquer; all had something to hide. Sadists and simpering 
malcontents drove covered wagons into the teeth of danger, leaving a trail of cruelty and 
savage sexuality in the prairie grass. Women of these pioneers were used to sate the 
sadoerotic needs of their male masters. Forced to submit to degrading and psyche-wracking 
acts of lust, the unfortunate females were reduced to mere sex-slaves. And more feared than 
their own masters were the whiskey-crazed red men. Women captured by these savages faced
fates worse than death. Used as prostitutes and objects of vengeance, the helpless innocents 
were tormented, tortured, raped and defiled. They begged for a swift end to their suffering 
and humiliation, but were greeted with replied of sneering sadism.


CHAPTER ONE

The year was 1876, marking the first century of life by the new nation whose thirteen 
original colonies had rebelled against the rule of George III. It was the year of the Centennial 
Exposition in Philadelphia, the year when the Democratic candidate for President, Samuel J. 
Tilden of New York, won the election by presidential votes and yet was defeated because he 
lacked one electoral vote. Rutherford B. Hayes was later, in March of the next year, to be 
declared the winner after a vote taken in both houses of Congress and resulting in his 
favor-again by one deciding vote.

It was the year when Alexander Graham Bell's telephone transmitted to an adjoining room 
the first complete intelligible sentence, "Mr. Watson, come here. I want you." It was the year 
when the Dewey decimal system of library classification was invented, when Thomas A. Edison 
invented the mimeograph, and when the first machine for cigarette manufacture was 
patented. It was the year in which Colorado was to enter the Union, and it was also the year 
when General George Armstrong Custer and his entire force were massacred at Little Big Horn
River in Montana by Sioux warriors led by the chief Sitting Bull, angered by the territorial 
advance of the pioneers, the slaughter of the buffalo, and the gold rush to the Black Hills 
which had left rape and rapine in the wake of the whites.

Just two days before Custer's calamitous engagement at the Little Big Horn, the Mardwell 
wagon train camped for the night in a broad ravine near Ardmore, at the southwestern edge 
of the Oklahoma Territory and a few miles away from the Texoma River. There were twenty 
wagons in this train, which had begun in St. Louis and was under the direction of Jacob 
Mardwell. He was a burly, black-bearded man in his mid-forties, and the death of his young 
wife in childbirth had saddened him to the point of selling his lucrative drygoods store and 
heading for California. His older brother had gone to Sacramento just a year after Sutter had 
discovered gold, and it was almost thirty years since the brothers had seen each other. 
Clement Mardwell was married now, with three strapping boys and two grown girls already 
married and with their own babies. But over the years they had kept track of each other by 
letters which took months to cross, carried sometimes by Pony Express riders, sometimes by 
several stagecoaches, or again passed on from hunters to trappers to fishermen until at last 
they reached their destinations of St. Louis and Sacramento.

Jacob Mardwell was prosperous now and he was not going to California for gold. He had 
been a thrifty man all his life, even as a boy, and he had married two years ago because he 
had devoted so much of his life to hard work and to turning a little store his father had started
into a flourishing enterprise. Then he had met blond Clara Dessauer, fallen desperately in love 
with her although she was only seventeen, and finally had overcome her parents' objection to 
their marriage. He had worshipped her as only a middle-aged man who knows fierce passion 
for the first time can worship; and his grief over her death in childbirth was agonized by the 
secret dread that in his own fleshly lusts he had brought her to her untimely end and the child
with her. What he sought in Sacramento was a new life with his brother and a chance to forget
his own bereavement and the loss of the only child he was ever likely to have. In the company 
of his brother's family he might be a spectator at the feast of love and so pass out the rest of 
his years in nostalgic envy and regret.

There were many others on this wagontrain whose motives were vastly different from 
Jacob Mardwell's. There was, for example, Clarissa Ames, a handsome, twenty-four-year-old, 
chestnut-haired woman from Springfield, Missouri, whose husband Benton, thirty-seven, slim 
and dandified, was an inveterate gambler and for the past year had made his living fleecing 
easy marks at the gaming tables. But four months ago he had met his match when one of the 
men from whom he had won a considerable amount had engaged two shills to sit in the 
game with marked cards and to foist them off on Benton Ames so that he was denounced as 
a cheat and made to forfeit his winnings and empty his pockets of every dollar he had. More, 
he was threatened with bodily harm unless he succeeded in raising several thousand dollars 
more. When Clarissa had learned of his disgrace and danger, she had given him the four 
thousand dollars left her by her grandmother so that he might buy his safety. Then she had 
urged him to join the Mardwell train and start a new life in California where perhaps by hard 
work and even the beginning of a family, the two of them might start a new life and forget his 
obsessive vice. At least, she told herself, it was not for women, though he had forsaken her 
bed for the gaming table on many a night.

There was Max Alviss, a stocky thirty-eight-year-old drover who had knifed a drunken 
cowboy in Dodge City in a quarrel over a dance-hall floozie. He had taken the girl with him, 
bribed a stable boy to sell them two fast horses, and had headed southeast to throw his 
pursuers off the track. He didn't mind facing trial for killing the cowboy, who had drawn a gun 
and was waving it about with witnesses to prove his story; but a trial would have revealed that
he was an Army deserter from Fort McPherson in Lawrence, Kansas, who had also robbed the 
paymaster at the time of making his escape from the Army. There would be a rope waiting for 
him back in Lawrence if he were taken. And so he and Darlene Jenson, the girl for whose easy 
favors he had killed, had joined the Mardwell train and he had given Jacob Mardwell all the 
money he had left from robbing the paymaster to buy an extra wagon that had been taken 
along at St. Louis for any stragglers or newcomers who wanted to get to California and could 
pay for it. Darlene started out with only some beads, a blouse, and gilt gaudily hennaed, with 
a feather boa, a dance-hall dress and gilt pumps hardly suitable for the rugged life on the 
overland trail to California. But Max had traded one of his prized revolvers for some 
homespun dresses and shoes and underthings, and so Darlene rode beside him, her makeup 
scrubbed off, haggard and weary of the endlessly slow journey between sunrise and sunset. 
The jostling of the wagon often bumped her against the man with whom she had fucked so 
casually and who had killed because the cowboy had made a slanderous remark about her 
being a cheap lay and not even a tight cunt to make it worth the fee. Max Alviss did not agree.
Oddly enough, this man who had been an orphan and then an apprentice to a butcher and 
finally a drover had fallen desperately in love with the Dodge City tart, who could scarcely bear
him now and who, each night he sought timidly to fondle or kiss her, had cursed him and told
him to jack off and leave her be.

There were those who sniffed righteously at Max Alviss and Darlene Jenson, and there 
were women in the Mardwell wagontrain in whose opinion that hennaed hussy ought to be 
stripped, thrashed, tarred and feathered, tied facing the tail of a horse and sent off into the 
prairie as a gift to the Comanches and Kiowas and the Sioux.

Such a woman was haughty Alberta Wilkins, twenty-eight, black-haired, the prim wife of 
Daniel Wilkins, seven years her senior and already a failure as both would-be lawyer and 
minister. Daniel Wilkins had been born in Boston, had a girl in trouble when he was sixteen, 
and his family had sent him to Chicago to live with an elderly aunt and uncle who tolerated no
nonsense. Frequent thrashings had sobered his outlook and finally driven him to study for the
bar, at which he had miserably failed. Then his parents had died, willing their money to his 
aunt and uncle, who were miserly and whose donations to the church was their only saving 
grace. Consequently, poor Daniel tried to become first a theological student and then 
ordained as a minister. He scarcely managed to pass his examinations, was grudgingly given a 
tiny, wretched parish in southern Illinois, and once again his fleshly lust betrayed him. The wife
of his deacon, much like Potiphar's wife to Joseph in ancient Egypt, lured him to her bed. 
When the deacon found them both naked and fucking, he had an apoplectic stroke; and again
Daniel Wilkins fled the little town one step ahead of the irate parishioners and the sheriff who 
had more than mayhem in mind.

He had made his way to St. Louis and there worked as a clerk in a grocery store. The 
haughty young Alberta Tompkins had espied him, observed his meek and deferential manner, 
and marked him as a suitor for her hand in marriage. A selfish, pampered only child, she had 
no wish to yield her ivory-skinned body and her prized chastity to the overly familiar, bawdy 
young men of her nominal acquaintance. And so, at his amazement, Daniel Wilkins found 
himself married to a woman the very sight of whom could make a man's prick stand at 
attention, except for the fact that Alberta would not tolerate him in her bed. "Mr. Wilkins, I'll 
have you know that we are man and wife, but you are on trial with me. I married you because 
you are a gentleman and not a lecher. We shall set out for California where my Aunt Bessie will
give you a parcel of the land she owns out near Fresno. There you will build me a home and 
become a man and perhaps then I shall condescend to be a wife in more than name only to 
you. But first you must prove yourself."

And so Daniel Wilkins found himself on a wagon train bound for California, seated beside 
an austere, maddeningly beautiful creature whom he dared not touch and rarely even kiss, for 
she permitted no familiarities. She was to this very day a virgin, though they had been wed 
nine months ago.

In Alberta Wilkin's mind, creatures like Darlene Jenson (who, of course, was known as Mrs. 
Alviss on the wagontrain) were not fit to consort with "decent people," a subject on which she 
often held forth with her meek-mannered husband. What she would have prescribed for poor 
unoffending Darlene, indeed, was that this very moment being inflicted on an unfortunate 
twenty-year-old dark-brownhaired girl who, near a roaring campfire, was bound to a wagon 
wheel, her dress and camisole ripped down almost to the small of her back, and her pale white
skin already viciously stripped by the lashes of a heavy-handled driver's whip, called a 
"blacksnake." The whip was five feet in length with a fiendishly pointed tip which, in the hands 
of a master whipper, could tear off a girl's nipple or shred the lips of her tender cunt.

A crowd of men and women stood around watching the spectacle, their sentiments 
diverse, but all of them fascinated by the frenzied struggles of the unfortunate victim, the 
lascivious contrast of the darkening red welts on her slim back and shoulders and the pearly 
lustre of her naked skin. Her hair tumbled down to her waist. The stocky, graybearded man 
who was flogging her uttered an angry oath, strode forward, tucking the whip handle under 
his left arm and seized the bunch of her tresses and twisted them around a spoke of the 
wagon wheel so that she should have no protection from the pitiless lash.

"I'll learn you, Florence, to shirk your tasks, I will that!" he snarled as he strode back to take
his place at the sobbing young woman's left, uncoiled the whip and cracked it in the air. "Oh, 
Mr. Grimsby, sir, for goodness sake, have m-mercy-oh no more, you're killing me, you're fair 
killing me!" the victim piteously sobbed as she turned her contorted, tear-stained face toward 
him.

She said nothing.

"You may well ask me that, Mrs. Carruthers," Benjamine Grimsby growled. "She sassed my 
wife, so now she's getting a taste of her own whip."

Forence Jones uttered a wild shriek, and jerked madly at her bound wrists, tied by heavy 
rawhide thongs to the sides of the wheel.

Benjamine Brimsby sensed that the tide of opinion concerning the whipping was turning 
against him so he stepped back and said, "When you've tended your hurts, Flossie, mind you 
come straight back to the wagon, or I'll give you another dose in the morning."

He seemed satisfied to the crowd. He did not bother to tell them how he was trying to get 
at Florence-how he sneaked into her bed every night and tried to get her, or how she 
defended herself with fingernails and teeth.

It was Benjamin Grimsby's hope that before the wagon train reached California, he would 
take Florence's cherry one way or another. Stripping her the way he had, his greedy eyes had 
seen the jouncy young resilence of her virgin titties, and it had been all he could do to keep 
from untying her himself, dragging her off into the bushes over on that little hill slope to the 
north of the camp fire and there peeling her raw and hosing her till he she howled for mercy. 
And by tarnation, as sure as his name was Benjamine Grimsby he was going to take her cherry 
long before the Mardwell expedition reached Sacramento.

CHAPTER TWO

On this same night, some thirty miles to the west, another scene of punishment was taking
place. But here the blazing campfires revealed the hideously painted faces of the Puma tribe 
of Comanches, those dreaded descendants of the Shoshone whose thousands upon 
thousands of fierce warriors infested the plains between Texas and Wyoming.

And it was no small territory.

Indeed, one of the largest Texas tribes was now at war with the Army of the United States, 
whose leaders found themselves fighting not only the Indians but the white and Mexican 
renegade allies known as the Comancheros. These latter were often deserters from the Army 
itself, or disgraced men or outlaws or simply those who opportunistically sought to become 
rich through the sale of whiskey and guns to the savages-though they themselves were often 
far more savage and diabolical in their cruelties than the Indians.

But this band of Comanches, headed by their young chief Guyastano, had waged guerrilla 
warfare against soldiers in Kansas and Oklahoma, and they had no land they might now call 
their home. Many of their strongest braves had died in battle, so that they numbered now 
some three hundred, including women, children, and elders whom they would not yet leave to
die of starvation along the weary, dusty trails of this bleak land where old John Brown had 
ravaged and murdered and himself died a martyr on the gallows to proclaim the viciousness 
of slavery.

Like the other Comanche tribes, the Pumas often took white and Mexican women into 
their wickiups, sometimes to become wives, but more often to be slaves, slaves not only for 
menial servitude and the performance of those tasks which even the wives preferred to shun, 
but also as sexual concubines and whores to their redskinned masters. And on this night when
Chief Guyastano had made camp after two days of arduous marching to escape a heavy 
cavalry detachment sent from Fort Sill, Comanche justice was to be meted out to three of 
these slaves who had transgressed against the tribal laws.

The penalty for rebellion against an order from a Comanche master was often death, but 
at the whim or pleasure of the warrior, it could mean banishment (equivalent to death along 
these lonely plains where coyotes howled and rattlesnakes whirred their sinister warning), or a 
degrading punishment involving torture and whipping. And even the weary, care-lined faces 
of the old women and old men were gleeful now with the prospect of the night's hideous 
entertainment.

The witchdoctor Mostillya emerged from the tepee of the chief of the Pumas, wearing 
atop his shaven head the hollowed-out skull of a buffalo with its horns intact, and a necklace 
of rattlesnake rattles, in moccasins and loinpouch, his chest painted with curious ciphers which
symbolized the good and the evil spirits who guided the destinies of the tribe. In his right 
hand was a forked stick, daubed with red paint made from berries and a little fermented 
tiswin. He held the stick aloft, and a howl of gleeful anticipation rose from the throng. Then 
Guyastano himself emerged, and a shout of homage burst from every throat.

He was over six feet tall, and had seen thirty summers. He was deceptively slender, for his 
arms and thighs rippled with muscular strength. The hawk-like nose, the high forehead, the 
keen, dark, piercing eyes and the thin, cruel mouth bespoke already his rank as chief. His five 
wives, the oldest of whom was Kiwata, but two years younger than himself, revered him 
mostly for his savage virility and his tireless energy of the fucking blanket. He would preside at
the punishment of the three condemned slaves, one of whom had been his own concubine.

He nodded to the witchdoctor, who lowered the painted, forked stick to the ground and 
scratched at it with a vicious swipe. Once again a howl of anticipation rose, and then two 
braves dragged from a nearby tepee, wrists and ankles corded with rawhide thongs, the 
sullenfaced, voluptuously exciting Mexican girl named Teresita.

Teresita was eighteen, and her father was a wealthy landowner near Nogales. On her 
wedding night, a band of White Mountain Apaches had abducted her and raped her, after 
torturing her young bridegroom by castrating him and then burying him to the neck in the 
ground near and anthill.

She had serviced a dozen fierce warriors on that wedding night, and then become the 
slave-bitch of a young Apache brave who was killed in battle a few months later. Teresita had 
escaped during the mourning ceremonial for her master and those other braves killed in an 
engagement with the United States cavalry. She had made her way, heroically, to the very 
border of Oklahoma, where Guyastano and his braves had captured her. For nearly two years 
she had been the slave of the Pumas. But she had tried to escape again, and this time she had 
committed the unforgivable sin of seizing a tomahawk and almost killing the warrior who had 
tracked her down. His companion had stunned her with a blow along the side of her head 
from his own tomahawk, tied her across the back of his horse, and returned to camp. Her 
punishment had been deferred until the Pumas could find refuge from the searching party 
from Fort Sill. But now that the Puma tribe had found a temporary haven, she would atone for
her crime.

She was naked and blindfolded, and now the thong pinioning her ankles were cut loose, 
and the witchdoctor commanded her to walk slowly forward. With a contemptuous, defiant 
look on her lovely, sensual face, the Mexican girl obeyed. The eyes of the younger men 
glittered, for the sight of the campfire's flickering light on her melon-like olive-skinned titties, 
with their dusky aurolae and ripe nipples, the thick black bush of her cunt, and the smooth 
goblet of her deep-dimpled belly as well as the round, lush and womanly curves of her 
shapely thighs inflamed them. They had drunk well of tiswin this night, and their chief had told
them that perhaps they might come upon a band of Comancheros as they headed out, 
perhaps there would be whisky there!

The women of the tribe had lined themselves up in a line brandishing switches, rawhide 
thongs, even branches of yucca, that flowering cactus with its myriad, prickly spikes around 
whose ends they had wrapped strips of cloth to serve as handles.

Teresita's sentence was death, but it was to be proceeded by a flogging ... a flogging that 
would draw blood and thus incite her dreadful executioner to carry out the sentence with 
ravenous ferocity.

"Now, run mestiza bitch!" the witchdoctor snarled in Comanche tongue, and Teresita, with 
a gasp, obeyed. Bowing her head and hunching her shoulders in a kind of peremonition of 
what awaited her-though she could not have possibly guessed the horrific finale-she began to
run swiftly through the two rows of Indian women who faced one another and awaited her 
with savoring joy.

The first woman's switch caught her across the thighs and drew a shrill yipe from her, and 
the woman opposite was able to deliver a slashing, diagonally placed lash with a rawhide 
thong across the sumptuous round, tightly spaced olive-skinned bottomglobes. With a stifled 
cry of pain, Teresita continued, but the women were experts at this cruel game and did not 
spare her. With all their strength, they lashed as she came towards them rather than after, so 
that many a blow from the switch and thong and yucca branch smacked against her big round
firm titties and her belly or inner things, and sometimes some of the most adroit were able to 
draw back their fustigatory implements and apply a final stroke across her bottom or back or 
things.

By the time she had reached the halfway point of the gauntlet she was bleeding from her 
titties, bottom, and the backs of her things, as well as her shoulders and arms. Groaning, she 
had slackened her pace and stumbled forward now, as viciously the switches whistled through
the air to bite into the succulent rounds of her shuddering, contracting posterior, or to dart 
against one of the dusky coral tips which pointed from the very centers of her heaving, 
sweating gleaming titties, drawing a wild shriek of agony. Twice she sank down on her knees, 
jerking at her bound wrists, while lash upon lash rained down, and the voice of the old 
witchdoctor harshly ordered her onward to the inexorable end of the gauntlet.

She managed to stumble to her feet, just as a fat, grinning middle aged woman swept her 
hazel switch right up between Teresita's thighs and bit into her tender cunt. With a mad shriek
of indescribable suffering, the naked Mexican girl doubled over, toppled to the ground, and 
lay writhing, while once again an avalanche of lashes flailed her bottom, thighs, and back. 
Then Mostillya called a halt, and advanced through the gauntlet. Lowering the painted forked 
stick, he dragged it cruelly along the welted, satiny thigh of the moaning young victim and 
commanded her again to rise and end the gauntlet.

At last she did so, stumbling forward, her shoulders heaving with sobs, blood streaking her
torn and swollen body. Then she came to the last two women who faced each other and who 
in unison applied viciously biting slashes of their switches across the juttingly rounded, 
inflamed and bleeding bottomglobes. With a maddened shriek, Teresita stumbled and fell flat 
on her face, panting and moaning, nearly fainting with her torment.

And then the hideous roar of a wild beast made her stiffen, raise her blindfolded, 
contorted, tear-stained face and listen with a terrible intensity while a death-like hush fell 
upon the camp who gloatingly relished the victim's final awareness of her doom.

Fifty feet beyond, in a wooden cage as high as a man's chest, a gaunt puma snarled and 
clawed at the strong, unyielding wooden bars. It was the symbol of the tribe of these 
bloodthirsty Comanches, and it had been purposely starved so that it would attack the 
condemned Mexican girl. As offered, she would be sacrificed to the Puma god, and thus her 
death would bring good fortune and success in battle to the warriors of Guyastano.

Perhaps because of the silence, the puma roared again, and Teresita raised her blindfolded
face and began to whimper: "No, no, piedad, por amor de la Madre de Dios!"

But the witchdoctor had already made a sign and two of the strongest braves ran down 
the gantlet line, bent, dragged Teresita to her feet, and forced her towards that awful cage.

Meanwhile, the witchdoctor was already at the door of the cage, ready to slip it back so 
that the unfortunate naked captive might be thrown into it. The puma would attack, and two 
of Guyastano's most valorous warriors were already levelling their rifles in the event that the 
animal should ignore the girl and leap towards freedom.

"Now!" Mostillya panted as he swiftly swung aside the heavy wooden grating, and the two 
warriors flung Teresita forward. So energetic was their effort that the girl's naked, bleeding 
body landed entirely inside the cage, and the witchdoctor slammed the grating shut and 
made it fast. A wild, prolonged shriek, mad and demented, unspeakable in its horror, burst 
forth, and then the snarling of the puma and the rending of bleeding human flesh. Comanche 
justice had been done, and there were two victims still to face its terrible rigors.

But could they face it?

It was easy to face but could they endure, then?

CHAPTER THREE

The wooden cage in which the still snarling puma crouched over its bloodied, lifeless 
victim was carried away to the outside of the camp, where the witchdoctor, the only man who 
had succeeded in taming the savage beast, would later entangle it in a net of strong bark and 
vegetable fibers while Teresita's body was removed and buried. Once having fed, for the 
deadly cat had been trained to become a maneater, the puma would offer no resistance to the
removal of the corpse; the sacrifice had been made to the Puma god and henceforth the tribe 
led by Guyastano would meet with great fortune at the buffalo hunt and in escaping the 
punitive cavalry troops sent after them to punish them for their raids on the little hamlets 
along the Kansas and Olkahoma plains.

Now it was time for the other two condened slaves to endure their punishment, and an 
expectant murmur rose from the eager savages as four warriors dragged the two naked 
females from the larger tepee next to the one the martyred Teresita had occupied before her 
gantlet and death.

One of them was a Comanche girl of not quite eighteen, Elora, and a virgin. She and her 
white companion, Bess Corton, had been discovered girlfucking in the woods late one night 
when the Puma tribe had paused from its flight from the pursuing cavalry. Nominally, such an 
abnormal transgression from the tribal law could be punishable by death, but since Elora was 
a virgin and betrothed to a middle-aged warrior who had distinguished himself on the 
battlefield, the latter had obtained what, for the Comanches, was a merciful reprieve; her life 
was to be spared, but she would endure punishment and then public violation. Thereafter she 
would take the place of Bess Corton as a common whore for all the camp, for Bess was to be 
put to death after a severe whipping.

Elora was tall and coppery-skinned, with proud, highperched, widely spaced titties, whose 
pert nipples and narrow brownish-coral aurolae, together with the narrow, flat belly with its 
deep kiss-nook and the crisp black bush of her cunt and the long, straight, beautifully muscled
columns of her thighs had already drawn the lustful admiration of even the elders of the tribe. 
Bess Corton, thirty years of age, had been abducted five years ago when Guyastano's warriors 
had swooped down on the tiny farm community in the southwestern region of the Oklahoma 
Territory. She had already been married for eight years to Matthias Corton, a dour, introverted
man who had married her in Cincinnati, where he had worked in a dry goods store and then 
brought her to Oklahoma to settle on the free land granted by the government to the hardy 
settlers.

She had borne him two boys, and both had died shortly after birth. Thereafter, deeming 
her barren, he had abstained from her bed and used her only as a hired hand, doing not only 
the domestic chores but working with him in the fields. After her abduction by the Puma 
Comanches, she had been staked out spreadeagle on the ground and fucked by ten of the 
most vigorous braves. To her own shocked surprise and horror, she had responded wantonly. 
And so she had become a whore for all the camp to use. The irony was that, just as she had 
yearned for affection from a husband who had never fucked her, so now by contrast she had 
sought tenderness after too much savage and impersonal fucking, and it was to cost her her 
life, for the crime of Lesbian solace.

Elora would therefore take Bess Corton's place as the whore of the Puma tribe. In the 
middle of the clearing a pair of heavy wooden stakes had been hammered into the earth and 
tested to make sure they held solidly. The tops of the stakes had been hollowed out in a kind 
of groove, and in the groove a round, peeled, heavy branch of an oak tree had been laid. It 
would form a kind of spit. At the witchdoctor's order, the two naked women were dragged 
before the spit, still blindfolded, the thongs removed from their wrists and ankles, and then 
Elora Corton was lifted and placed astride, her wrists and ankles tied together a rawhide thong
lashing around her waist on the horizontal spit. Bess Corton was beneath her, compelled to 
embraced Elora with her arms and legs, whereupon her ankled and wrists were similarly 
bound and a strap led around the middle of her back and over Elora's. The round spit itself 
was only about four inches wide, and thus the women might, if they wished, exchange 
compassionate kisses in their agony, while they might also feel the friction of their naked 
bodies as the spit turned. Two of the strongest braves were stationed at each stake, and a 
metal ped had been, hammered into each end of the spit and bound with rough cloth so that 
it might be easily turned. They were placed thus about five feet from the ground, and on the 
ground beneath them was piled brush, wooden chips, hewn by the axe, and dried grass. Now 
tthe witchdoctor came forward with a burning brand from the campfire and touched it to the 
pyre.

At the first smell of smoke, Bess Corton shrieked, "Kill me, kill me quickly! Oh, for God's 
sake, do it and be done with it!" But Elora murmured in Comanche, which Bess had learned to 
understand, "Save your strength, they will not heed you. Be very brave, for you will die, and it 
is I who have brought this upon you with my wickedness."

The flames began to crackle, but they had been so placed and so calculated that they 
would not leap high enough to reach the naked bodies of the victims. Yet the heat would 
shrivel the skin, sensitized it, and make the sting of the lashing the more agonizing.

For now on each side of the spit the women had placed themselves with long pliant 
switches, and at the witchdoctor's signal they began to whip the writhing bodies of the two 
unfortunate sinners, while the four braves, grunting and exerting all their muscular strength, 
inexorably turned the spit round and round. Thus sometimes it was poor Elora whose 
oval-shaped, compact, satiny bottomcheeks received the brunt of the switches from both 
sides, and then again it became the turn of Bess Corton, whose spacious, rounded, 
well-divided assglobes jerked and clenched as the angry red welts leaped upon her skin which
had once been pale white and was now tanned and bronzed by the sun until she resembled 
very nearly her Comanche paramour.

Elora endured her thrashing with typical stoicism, wincing and grunting and gasping as the
curling tips of the pliant long switches whisked around to kiss the sides of her firm titties, or 
bit into the tender crease so sinuously separating her jouncy oval asscheeks, or again dug into
her furry armpits or stung the edges of her hips and the taut, smooth, perspiring flesh of her 
sides.

But Bess Corton cried out and was soon reduced to babbling, hysterical supplications for a
merciful death from the very outset of her flogging. Remembering Elora's terrible disclosure 
just before the punishment had begun, she at first implored a swift death. But then, as the 
women sadistically seemed to concentrate the most vindictive lashes of her livid, tethered, 
constantly revolving naked body, she began to cry out for a cessation of the lashing: 
"Eyeeehhhh!! Oh my God, not on my boobies, I can't stand it, aiiiii-Oh my God, have mercy-no
more-oh the pain-it's worse than the fire-eeeowwwouuu!!! Mercy, oh Mercy, Great Chief of 
the Pumas. Please, oh please don't let them whip me any 
more-arrrrrahhhhowwwwuuuuu!!!-not between thelegs-not on my spot-oh please, dear God, 
not on my spot-eeehhharrrrrowwww!!!"

Smoke now became an ordeal for the two naked women. A sudden nocturnal breeze 
fanned the flames, and thick clouds of smoke hid at times the faces of both martyred 
Lesbians. Coughing and choking, Bess Corton's gurgling cries and moans delighted the cruel 
Comanche women, in many ways more vicious than their men. They amused themselves by 
lashing her naked feet, much as is done in Turkish prisons when the bastinado is applied to 
the soles and even to the toes and the heels of the culprit. Or again, watching the spit 
revolved by the sweating, grunting warriors, they leaped the long curling withes right down 
the shadowy asshole crease of the unfortunate white slave-bitch or flicked out their 
implements to sting a nipple or the side of one lush round jiggling tittie.

Elora's face was bathed in tears and her sleek, long body jerked convulsively now each 
time the switches danced with a sickening crack over her naked bottom or thighs or back. Her 
plaints were inarticulate now, but they did not once demand mercy, for well she knew the 
futility of that.

And then at last, when the women had tired of the sport and the witchdoctor raised his 
forked stick and silence fell upon the howling, jeering spectators, the revolving of the spit was 
halted, the fir kicked away and extinguished, and the two women taken down from their 
agonizing perch.

At the witchdoctor's sign, Elora was dragged away by four cackling elderly women and 
flung down on her back. Her wrists and ankles were swiftly thonged to short wooden stakes 
pedded into the ground, and thus straddled hugely, so that the chafed pink lips of her cunt 
gaped lasciviously. Closing her eyes and turning her face to one side she said her prayer to the
Puma God, begging for courage to withstand the taking of her cherry and violation that 
would follow ... repeated fucking until each man who lusted for her had ejaculated his essence
into the tight confines of her virgin cuntsheath. By this act, she would be proclaimed whore of 
the camp and would thus replace the condemned white woman who had dared transgress 
against the inexorable law of the Comanches.

But she was yet accorded a little respite now, as one of the women doused her bleeding, 
welted body with corn oil, and then knelt down and lewdly massaged the lubricant all over 
those proud heaving titties, the sweet boss of the belly, the velvety-smooth columns of the 
shaking, shuddering thighs, and finally the raw-looking lips of Elora's virgin pussy, inserting 
her forefinger until she had come up against the maiden seal.

"Now you will learn that your cusu has a duty the prego of the warrior, you shameless 
whore," she upbraided the shuddering young Comanche beauty. "And now you will watch 
how that paleface lover of yours will suffer for the shame she had brought upon you and your 
kin!"

Elora raised her tearstained, pain-twisted face to utter a gasp of horror. To her right and 
ahead of her, a sharpened stake had been driven into the ground, about three feet of it 
protruding upwards from the ground. The witchdoctor, mumbling incantations, now touched 
the fiendishly sharp point of the stake with his forked stick. It was the signal for the execution 
of poor Bess Corton.

But even now, weaving and half-fainting from the atrocious multiple flogging she had 
received, the wretched blonde woman did not want to die, and assuredly not this way. She 
fought frenziedly as four men siezed her, removing the blindfold first so she might see how 
she was to die, and hoisted her into the air. Two strong braves held her by the calves and 
lower thighs, while two others behind them each seized a wrist and drew her arms back. Thus 
aloft, her legs were straddled hugely outward, until she performed a horizontal split, and thus 
she was carried towards the sharpened stake.

Her maddened screams burst upon the shuddering silence as she perceived the atrocious 
instrument of execution. Her body glistening with sweat, she writhed, jerking at her wrists, 
trying desperately to clench her legs-but of course that was impossible. Her eyes bulged, and 
her titties rose and fell in wild abandon as she fought for breath between her prolonged, 
desperate screams.

The four men centered her directly above that hideous, sharpened stake, and then, slowly, 
lowered her with diabolical sadism, inch by inch, while every muscle in play in her naked, 
whipped and bleeding body, Bess Corton strove frenziedly to hold herself back from contact 
with the ferocious point.

Then at last it brushed her cunthole, and her head flung back and a demented, clamorous 
bellow of unspeakable fear burst from her. Then slowly they forced her down, as her eyes 
bulged and rolled back to the whites and scream upon raucous scream deafened the 
lust-trembling witnesses to Comanche justice. She was lowered pitilessly now and slowly, until 
at last a gurgling spasm seized her and her head fell forward in death.

They left her impaled upon that stake, and then, as their reward, tore off their 
loinpounches and moved towards the horrified, shuddering, anked spread eagled Elora. With 
a sniggering chuckle of lustful anticipation, the first Comanche brave knelt down and 
squeezed the oily flesh of those long, quivering thighs, as his enormously swollen prick 
prodded against the gaping pink lips of the Indian girl's chafed cunthole.

CHAPTER FOUR

Captain Peter Lattimer raised his gloved hand and, quickly attentive, Master Sergeant Jim 
Downing bellowed out, "Column halt!"

It was the afternoon after Chief Guyastano had camped to carry out punishments on the 
three young women who had offended Puma law. The U. S. cavalry detachment, numbering 
some two hundred fighting men under the command of Captain Peter Lattimer and First 
Lieutenant Amos Doughton, had made their camp late last night and risen at dawn to follow 
the trail left by the renegade Comanches. By now the men were beginning to grumble. They 
had been riding for nearly a week, without once coming close to their hated foe.

Two of the privates, Joe Mullins and William Gerton, had their own individual scores to 
settle with the wily Comanche leader. Their wives had been seized by Guyastano's warriors a 
month ago when he and his braves had swooped down upon a tiny hamlet not far from Fort 
Sill. Martha Mullins and Jennifer Gerton, both in their mid-twenties, had left their homes in 
Kansas to follow their husbands to this desolate post. Since they could not live within the fort 
itself, they had both hired out as domestics to two farmer couples so they might be close to 
their men. Only a week before the Comanche raid, indeed, Martha and Jennifer had welcomed
their men who had obtained twenty-four-hour passes from Master Sergeant Downing for the 
occasion, and the two couples had lain naked in the thick grass just beyond the little hamlet, 
feverishly fucking and making up for the long nights of deprivation which had taken place 
since the last time they had enjoyed their connubial rights.

But Guyastano had raided the little hamlet, murdered nearly all the men and boys who 
sought futilely with their pitifully few guns and knives, had captued six young and mature 
women, including Martha and Jennifer. Howling in their triumph over the settlers, the Puma 
warriors had stripped four of these captives naked except for their shoes and stockings, 
pegged them out on the ground, and then gang-fucked them. One was a girl of thirteen, 
another a grandmother of forty-five, while the two others were sisters, both married and with 
tiny babies, twenty-one and twenty-four respectively. And when their ordeal had ended, four 
of the fiercest braves of the tribe had bashed in their heads with a tomahawk.

For Martha and Jennifer, however, captivity had been even more terrifying and their 
deaths had not been easy. They had fought against their abductors, and Guyastano had 
ordered that they be stripped naked also, their hands bound behind them, a rawhide lariat 
tied round their necks and forced to walk behind the horses of their captors. Three hours later,
when both women were exhausted, and their bodies bleeding from scratches and cuts when 
they had stumbled and been dragged along the rough ground, the Comanches halted for a 
brief time. Two young birch trees were peeled of their bark, cut off at a height of about five 
feet, and to these stakes Martha and Jennifer had been bound, roped round their waists and 
with their already bound wrists further secured by rawhide thongs which lashed round the 
stakes themselves. Then while the witchdoctor evoked the war god of the tribe, the braves and
the women sharpened sticks, cut switches, and built a small fire, taking care that there would 
be no smoke signals to tell the pursuing cavalry of their whereabouts.

And then began hours of hell for the young women. First the women circled the stakes, 
jeering at them, poking them with sharpened sticks, whipping them with switches across the 
titties, belly and thighs, while the younger and more imaginative Comanche females cut long 
pointed slivers from the wood or the rough bark and dug it into Martha's and Jennifer's cunts,
howling with glee when the tortured naked victims shriecked for mercy and jerked at their 
bonds.

Then five of the fiercest warriors, selected by the chief himself, approached poor Martha 
and in turn fucked her, while five others chosen by the witch doctor enjoyed poor Jennifer as 
viciously. Then the two women were asked by Mostillya in his broken English whether they 
would serve as slaves to the Puma men. Though agonized and terrified in their fear of cruel 
death, both naked women valiantly shook their heads. A howl of savage joy rose from the 
women, and at the order of the witch doctor, they now swarmed upon the sobbing, 
whimpering naked captives. With their knives and with wooden splinters, they tortured and 
gouged the tender titties, cunts and thighs and bottoms of Martha and Jennifer, until finally 
both women hung, unconscious and inert, from the torture stakes. But then the impatient 
chief of the Pumas gestured to have the sport ended, and Mostillya, fitting an arrow to a bow 
which a warrior handed him, sent the shaft whistling into the heart of Martha Mullins. A 
moment later, and Jennifer Gerton was given the boon of merciful death. When their bodies 
were found later by the soldiers, the two bereaved husbands swore that if they would avenge 
their wives in as blookthirsty a fashion, not only on him but on such Comanche women as 
should fall into their hands.

Captain Peter Lattimer turned to his second in command. Amos Doughton was 
twenty-nine, lean, with a short pointed black beard and moustache, his eyes cold and hard, 
and he had known the taste of battle. He had lied about his age and gotten into one of the 
last battles of the Civil War as a private with the crack Ohio 104th Volunteers, and killed two 
Johnny Rebs, one with his own bayonet, the other with a well-placed rifle ball between the 
eyes. He was an embittered man, old before his time. Back in Marion, after the war, he had 
hoped to marry Jenny Philbrook, who had pledged herself to him when he had run away from 
home to put on the Union blue. But he had found Jenny in a hayloft with her father's hired 
hand, her petticoats up and her drawers down, giggling as the lanky, nearly halfwitted hired 
hand humped her. He had taken one look and cursed her for a loose, faithless whore, and 
then, young as he was, had gone to Ma Portley's red-light house and gotten himself both 
drunk and laid for the first time.

He found his parents had nothing in common with him anymore, and so offered to sell out
his part of the farm for three hundred dollars in gold so that his younger brother might be the
sole heir. With that, he had first gone to Dodge City, where he spent two years as a cowhand; 
next, a year in San Antonio working on a railroad. But Army life had put its mark on him even 
as a boy, so he had reenlisted, was given the rank of sergeant and assigned to Fort Sill. Here 
for the past eight years he had ridden after Indian raiders, and he had killed his share. He 
thought all women were whores and on those infrequent times when he had leave coming, 
would find a Mexican harlot or some Eastern hussy working at the saloon and pay her to go 
upstairs with him. And invariably he would drink too much redeye, and wind up taking his belt
to the slut before he bedded her. He did that in memory of Jenny, and to him all women were 
as worthless as that yellow-haired traiteress.

He respected only a few things in life, and these were skill with a gun or knife, a hard fight 
with the redskins, and perhaps a bottle of good whiskey and a hot bitch who would give what 
a man paid for and make no bones about it. His commanding officer, Captain Peter Lattimer, 
was thirty, married just six months ago to auburn-haired Ruby Downs from Tulsa, whose life 
he had saved by leading his troops against a sudden Comanche foray on a cumbersome 
wagontrain.

Amos Doughton lusted for Ruby Lattimer, but he had too much respect for his 
commanding officer to try his skill at winning her away from the brown-haired, weatherbeaten
young captain. Thus far, she'd been polite and stand-offish, and Amos Doughton's motto was 
never to make a play at a woman who didn't encourage him. If she did, she was a whore and 
could be treated accordingly. That was his rule of thumb.

"Which way do you reckon that bastard Guyastano took from here?" he now drawled as he
eyed his captain.

"They've been camping not far from here and not more than a day or so gone," Captain 
Lattimer scowled as he shaded his eyes from the sun. "No smoke signals anywhere. But then 
they wouldn't send any. They're renegades, and the other Shoshone tribes will give them a 
wide berth. They really don't want too much trouble with the soldiers yet. But Guyastano is 
going to get cooped up and then he'll have to come out in the open and fight, or else wait for
us in ambush. It would be a big feather in his warbonnet if he could wipe us out, because then
maybe the other Shoshones would come over to him and start a blood-war against the 
whites."

'Let's hope we find him first, then, Captain," Amos Doughton growled. "But I'm for going 
on now while the trail's still fresh, with all due respect, Captain. They're heading east, so they 
can cross over the border whenever they get the chance and be away from our jurisdiction. 
They're pretty sure we wouldn't hunt them down in either Texas or Kansas, those clever 
redskinned bastards!"

"I'm in agreement with you, Amos," Captain Lattimer nodded. "Trouble is, we've got 
supplies for about two more days. We could live off the land, but it's sort of tricky around 
here. Not too many towns or even farming settlements to the east, but we'll have to chance it.
I've got good reasons for wanting to see that dirty renegade brought into Fort Sill, given a fair
trial and dangle at the end of a rope. And a couple of his braves along with him, like White 
Pinto and Igarte and Johnny Big Nose. Those two red devils have left their knife marks on too 
many white women's skins the last couple of months. I'm pretty sure they helped murder poor
Mrs. Mullins and Mrs. Gerton."

"So am I, Pete." There was no ceremony between the two officers, for they had worked 
together for at least five years. Each respected the other, but only Amos Doughton knew why 
he was really hoping that one day Peter Lattimer's wife could give him just one look or some 
other sign to let him know she wanted a good shagging. Then he would know that you 
couldn't trust any women in creation, and maybe he could take that red-haired, slinky piece 
away from Pete Lattimer and head out to California where a man could start a new life. He 
hadn't been drawn to a bitch since the time he'd thought that Jenny was all spoken for and 
promised.

Little suspecting his first lieutenant's thoughts, the captain turned back to bulky, nearly 
bald Master Sergeant Jim Downing: "Head east, and let's quicken our pace," he ordered.

There was a smart salute, the bawled-out call of "Eastward-ho!" and the men in blue rode 
on after the Puma Comanches. And thus both cavalry and Comanches were riding closer 
toward the Mardwell wagontrain....

* * *

By evening that same day, the lovely young Comanche girl Elora had managed to excape 
from the Puma tribe. She had been thoroughly enjoyed by the half-drunken savages last 
night, and it was considered that her spirit was broken and that henceforth she would be the 
camp whore to any Comanche who lusted for her. So they had not thought about guarding 
her, in their preparation for journeying eastward to escape the pursuing detachment from Fort
Sill and she had managed to slip her wrists out of the rawhide thong which had bound them, 
and when the Comanche band crossed a little creek at sundown, she had flung herself into a 
clump of thick reeds near the marshy bank and waited with pounding heart until she had seen
them vanish across the top of a little hill which led down into a broad plain. Then, when 
certain mat no one had missed her, she scrambled out of the reeds and ran like a deer in the 
direction whence they had come, a direction which would carry her exactly towards the 
galloping riders from Fort Sill.

Elora wore only a loincloth and the women who had guarded her had not given her back 
her moccasins. But, undaunted, her lithe, coppery-skinned young body still bearing the marks 
of her switching and the bruises left by the hands of her ravishers, she ran swiftly as far as she 
could away from the people to whom she had once belonged and had been cherished as a 
marriageable virgin but who now regarded her as nothing more than a sexual convenience for
the usage of anyone who yearned for her cusu and, hearing no fearsome sound, fell asleep at 
once out of sheer exhaustion. She had stopped only to pick a few berries and an ear of 
stunted seed corn, gnawing the parched kernels hungrily to give herself sustenance and 
strength. She knew perfectly well that if she were recaptured, she would die by fire. As to the 
possibility of being captured by the palefaces, about whom she had been warned since her 
childhood, she had no great terror; they could not treat her more brutally than her own kind 
had done. Even her parents had spat on her and turned and walked back into their tepee to 
signify that she was no longer their daughter, because she had lain with Bess Corton. Perhaps 
she might come across a small party of Sioux, or even the Cheyenne, neither of whom would 
molest her but would give her a chance to mate with a worthy warrior if she herself could pass
their tests of courage. And after what they had done to her last night there by the campfire, 
she feared no test of courage now.

And so when she saw the distant dust clouds rising from the trail across the plains which 
were raised by the hooves of the oncoming calvery horses, she began to hurry toward them, 
oblivious to the fact that she was almost stark naked and that her alluring young body, 
though cruelly marked from the whipping inflicted on her by the tribe, would rouse the most 
vengeful lusts of the white soldiers-particularly those of Joe Mullins and William Gerton.

Captain Peter Lattimer had called a halt at the sign of movement to the east, and trained 
his field glasses on the distant figure of Elora. Then he gestured for the troops to ride onward 
at quickened gaite, and within a few minutes the contingent from Fort Sill encirceld the 
beautiful young naked Indian girl, whose only covering was her loin pouch.

"Well, now," Jeff Montmerency drawled as he spat tobacco juice on the ground, "here's a 
purty sight for sure! Can't remember for the life of me that I ever saw a stark-nekkid Injun 
bitch running to get poked the way this one just did."

"Me, I'll sure stand in line for a piece of that sweet twat," his crony, Corporal Lennie 
Sturgiss, muttered with a lewd wink. "Don't forget, Private Montmerency, I rank you just in 
case there's a lineup!"

But Captain Peter Lattimer had dismounted and moved toward the wide-eyed young 
Indian girl. He spoke to her in Comanche, and her face brightened as she eagerly responded. 
Yes, the Puma tribe had gone eastward and would then head north in a sidelong move to 
escape the soldiers. And when Captain Lattimer asked Elora the strength of the warriors, she 
replied, "I cannot be sure, but at least as many as you, oh blue-coated one!"

"She's a Puma all right," Lieutenant Amos Doughton growled, his eyes narrowed and hard. 
Elora's magnificent young titties rose and fell with the exertion of her flight, and sweat 
glistened on her sides and in the mossy niches of her armpits. He felt the stirring of rut in his 
prick, for he grouped Elora with all the other faithless women he had known and judged. 
"They've most likely kicked her out-see all those marks on her legs and bottom and back and 
even her tits, Captain? She's done something wrong, because that's a tribal punishment, I'll be
bound."

"You're probably right, Amos," Captain Lattimer nodded. Then again he addressed Elora in 
her own tongue: "How is it that you run away from them, girl?"

"They have driven me forth, oh blue-coated one," the girl replied, modestly lowering her 
eyes and conscious now that the cavalrymen were staring at her titties and her long, supple 
legs. "I committed a great sin and so they punished me. It was their right. They are on the 
warpath and they try to run from you."

"You have been helpful to us, girl" Captain Lattimer said kindly. "I will have you given food 
and a coat to cover your nakedness, and you will ride in the supply wagon."

"You are good," Elora said softly. "But I see many here who would have me killed because I
am a Comanche."

"So long as you are under my protection, no one will dare," he fiercely retorted. Then, 
turning, he called to Master Sergeant Jim Downing, "Get this girl a greatcoat, see that she's 
fed and put her in the supply wagon with Privates Mullin and Gerton."

He did not know that he had just condemned Elora to a horrid ordeal and death, for the 
two privates were both assigned to cooking detail and Mullins himself was about to receive a 
corporal's stripe for his culinary skill under the most difficult field conditions.

The bluff noncommissioned officer saluted his commanding officer, hurried back to one of
the supply wagons and brought out a blue cloth greatcoat which he handed to the Indian girl.
The mutter of voices rose as many of the troopers angrily objected to this humane treatment 
for the hated Comanche, even though she was a woman and beautiful and young.

"Silence, you men!" Captain Lattimer exclaimed, "this girl has told us where the Pumas are 
heading, and she's earned protection. Besides, they drove her out of the tribe. She's not an 
enemy but an ally. I want all you men to remember that. If anyone so much as insults her, hell 
anwer to me-is that understood?"

The muttering subsided, but there were angry looks given as the sergeant, gesturing to 
her to make himself understood, led Elora back to the supply wagon.

And then the troops headed on in pursuit of Chief Guyastano....

It was nightfall, and there was no wind and hardly any moon. The soldiers had camped 
near a little creek with plenty of fresh water, had supper and bedded down for the night. It 
was midnight now, and the entire camp was asleep, all save Mullins and Gerton.

They had put away their pots and pans after washing them in the creek, made the supply 
wagon secure, and were now smoking cigaretts by the dying embers of the little fire. Elora was
already sleeping in the wagon, curled on a blanket with the greatcoat wrapped round her.

"How long are we going to sit here and let that dirty little Comanche bitch stink up our 
vittles and our stuff?" Joe Mullins hoarsely muttered to his crony. "Maybe you've turned Injun 
lover?"

"Hell no, Joe. You think I've forgotten what they did to my wife or to yours? I don't care if it
costs me a courtmartial, I'm going to cut her throat. The only good Injun is a dead one, you 
know that. And she's from the same tribe that did our wives in."

"I know, that's all I can think about too. But you heard the captain."

"He's asleep. We can gag the bitch, fuck and beat the shit out of her, then cut her throat 
and dump her somewhere. If they miss her, we'll just say she ran away. Everybody knows that 
Injuns can't be trusted."

"Let's go, then."

Extinguishing the remnants of the little fire, the two vengeful soldiers made their way 
cautiously and quietly back to the supply wagon. Glancing back at the rest of the sleeping 
camp they grinned at each other, and then very stealthily climbed into the wagon.

Elora woke with a start, but before she could cry out, Joe Mullins had clapped his left palm 
over her mouth and shown her a heavy claspknife. "One peep out of you, bitch, and I'll slit 
your gullet, get me?" he muttered. His crony swiftly tied the girl's hands behind her back, as 
both men rolled her over onto her belly, tearing away the cords of the loin pouch. "Jeez, 
wouldja lookit that perky ass 'a hers!" Mullins breathed as Elora began to kick and squirm 
frantically.

Again they rolled her over onto her back, but this time to gag her. Gerton had a dirty 
handkerchief which he crammed into her mouth, while Mullins tied a black bandana kerchief 
over her mouth and knotted it securely at the back of her neck. Then, kneeling, each holding 
her by a shoulder, they gloatingly stared down at her. Her dark eyes were huge with terror, 
and her magnificent bare titties rose and fell turbulently. She tried to kick and her legs were 
free, but her wrists were bound behind her back and she was gagged and she knew that she 
was helpless.

"What do you want to do with this Injun whore, Joe?" Gerton panted, licking his bps.

"Poke her first and then kill her, because I've gotta pay her back for Martha," the lanky 
soldier panted. Already he was fumbling with his breeches, bringing out his stiff prick. "I'll bet 
she's no cherry, not this one!"

"I wouldn't bet. Let's hope we don't get some kind 'a pox out of her twat," Gerton growled.

"Hell, I wouldn't care. I just wanna make her feel a little of what poor Martha had to go 
through," Joe Mullins grunted, as his hands squeezed Elora's proud jutting titties till she 
winced with pain and twisted her face to one side.

"We ought to belt the shit outa her ass before we kill her," Gerton suggested.

"Sure we will. Only first, let's poke her. I haven't had a piece of cunt since poor old 
Martha-you know. You ain't neither, and you know damned well you wuz a guy who always 
liked his nookie reg'lar," Mullins replied with a snigger.

Cupping one of Elora's bubbies in his left hand, the glowering private pretended to slash 
at it with his claspknife. Elora moaned and squirmed frantically, drumming her heels against 
the floor of the wagon.

"She's sure got nice long purty legs on her, the Injun slut," Gerton commented. He stroked
his beard thoughtfully, then added, "You go on ahead first. I can wait. I just wanna watch how 
she takes it when she's got white man's prick up that twat of hers!"

"Thanks, buddy, I'll give you a good show. All right, you red-skinned bitch, I'm going to 
hooraw you good now, you'll see!" Mullins bragged as he flung himself down over the naked, 
gagged and bound Indian girl.

Desperately Elora tried to clench her thighs and prevent this rape, which now seemed 
more horribly odious than the gangshagging she had had from her own people. She would 
have given anything for a quick death, and she prayed to the Puma God to give her courage 
or cunning to goad her tormentors into killing her swiftly and without much pain. She was 
already weakened from the long escape flight away from the Puma camp, and her torture and 
violation had exhausted her.

For that reason, she could not put up too strenuous a fight as Mullins savagely rammed 
his stiff peg against the chafed lips of her cunt and burrowed deeply inside to the very balls.

"Hell, she's still plenty tight," he panted to his friend who squatted and watched with 
glittering eyes. "I'll loosen her up some for you, Bill!"

"Poke her, poke her good and hard till the spunk comes out of her ears for all I care," 
Gerton said savagely.

"Here goes!" Mullins gasped. Reaching under the struggling naked Comanche girl, he 
gripped the welted cheeks of the bottom, gouging in his dirty gingernails into the already 
tender and much-marked bare flesh. Elora groaned through her gag, arched and stiffened as 
he drew himself slowly back, only to dig home to the roots in a ferocious lunge.

"Gads, she's really tight! She's had some, yeah, but not enough to stretch her box so a guy
don't feel nothing!" Mullins exulted.

Then he began to fuck violently, for his bubbling, pent-up spunk was threatening to 
explode at any moment. Elora moaned, wriggled, lifted up one knee and swung it far away 
from her body, then clenched both together as if to hold him to her. Her eyes rolled almost to
whites, and muffled, whimpering groans could be heard faintly through the gag.

As he quickened his thrusts, Elora lifted her head, her eyes glaxed and staring without 
seeing. Her wrists jerked at the cords which cruelly chafed them. Her titties began to rise and 
fall with greater rhythmic fervor. Despite herself, she was being drawn towards the answering 
urge of coalescence.

But Mullins could no longer hold back his gism. With the last vicious dig, he exploded 
deeply within her, and Elora's sheath was deluged with his lava-like drench as he sagged over 
her, his flushed, hairy cheek cushioned on one of her swelling bubbies.

At last he pulled out with a squishy "Plop!" and Elora moaned, turning her face to the 
other side. Mullins stared hatefully down at her, his lips twisted in a brutal leer. Then he began
to slap her titties with the flat of his right hand, amusing himself in watching them jiggle and 
redden while the naked Comanche girl groaned and twisted, trying vainly to turn over. Finally, 
when the pain grew too great to bear, she managed to twist herself round onto her belly.

"That's just the way I want this bitch," Gerton panted. Pushing aside his crony, his prick 
already swollen and out of his breeches, he flung himself down between the girl's struggling 
thighs, gripped the cheeks of her ass and yawned them wide apart to expose the crinkly petals
of her asshole. Then, with a grunt of lust, he jammed his prick head against that tender orifice,
and shoved forward till he could feel himself absorbed by the protesting sphincter muscles 
which made the lips quake and contract against the tip of his imbedded prick.

Then he began to bugger her with savagely decimating thrusts that made her groan and 
sob from the pain of this dry, frictional probing. His hands reached under her to squeeze her 
titties, to pinch the nipples, and then Mullins, not to be out down, squatted in front of her, 
plunged his fingers into her glossy black hair and yanked up her tortured, tear-stained face, 
rubbing his half-stiffened, greasied cock against her forehead, nose and eyelids. "I'm gonna 
make you blow me, you filthy Comanche hellcat," he promised in a thick, shuddering voice.

"You're nuts, Bill," his friend gasped, as he continued to plow deeply into Elora's tight 
rectal sheath. "She'll bite it off, and then where'll you be?"

"No she won't, I've got this knife, and I'll cut her guts out and rub them in her face," the 
lanky private snarled, pitilessly yanking Elora's hair till she moaned again in pain.

"Cripe, but her hot bung is sure tight," Gerton hoarsely panted as he kept driving back and
forth, making the naked Comanche girl writhe and groan through her gag. Mullins, his face 
convulsively working, continued to twist her hair and to jab his now reinvigorated rpick 
against her cheeks and nose and forehead to taunt the helpless captive.

At last, with a bellow of triumph which drew a warning "Shush, you damned fool!" from 
Mullins, Gerton exploded his spunk deep into Elora's bowels and drew himself out, kneeling 
up, his chest heaving in the throes of sexual release. "Damn if that wasn't like taking a cherry," 
he gasped. "Now let's thrash this red-skinned whore till she's begging us to die, and then we'll
oblige the little lady."

Unbuckling his heavy black belt, gripping it by the buckle end, he moved back a little, 
lifted the implement and brought it down with a savage Thwackkk! over both 
coppery-skinned naked ass cheeks. Elora uttered a wailing cry which even the gag could not 
entirely suppress, and kicked her legs up and down as she strove to wriggle away. But Gerton 
followed her, crouching so that his head did not bang against the top of the wagon, and 
lashed her brutally over her thighs, bottom, shoulders, and back till at last in desperation she 
rolled over. He had been waiting for this; with a sinister chuckle, he brought the belt down 
across both titties, flattening the dark-coral buds of her nipples, and Elora almost sat up in her
desperate agony, a piercing cry muffled by her gag, as she tried to twist herself over onto her 
side. But again the belt was falling, marking her belly and then again right over her cunt. 
Frenzied with indescribably suffering, the lovely young Comanche girl at last rolled over onto 
her belly again, and Gerton sniggered, "That's right, I'd just as soon thrash your squirmy ass to
pieces, though it don't matter much 'cause you're gonna die damn quick!"

"Not too quick, though, pal!" Mullins reminded him, his eyes shining as he followed the 
struggles of the naked, helpless Indian girl under the lashing.

But Gerton, slavering in his fiendish rage for vengeance, was bringing the belt up and 
down with hardly a pause, stripping the girl's supple thighs with angry darkening splotches, 
raising new burning marks on her already welted bottom, until she was nearly fainting with 
the pain. Tears flowed down her cheeks, and she jerked madly at her bound wrists, her 
fingernails digging into her own naked sweating back in her torment.

"There!" Gerton panted, "that'll teach you damn red-skins just a little bit of what you're all 
going to get for raping and lolling our women! Want to try a couple of licks, Bill?" he handed 
the belt to his crony.

Nothing loath, the lanky private grinned, took hold of the buckle, and began to whip the 
moaning, writhing Elora. Desperately she twisted herself from side to side, but she could not 
avoid the burning swipes of the black leather band which crashed down against her 
unprotected naked flesh.

"Now," Mullins panted as he flung away the belt, "we're gonna do you in, you dirty 
red-skinned bitch, you!"

Again he squatted before her head, put his left hand to her hair and twisted his fingers in 
the dark glossy tresses and yanked his prick was rigid and dark-veined with rut again. Swiftly 
with his right hand he undid the bandana, pulled out the gag, and then he pointed to his prick
and mouthed, "Blow me! Suck me good, and maybe you kin live a coupla minutes longer!"

His partner had taken up the claspknife, and prodded Elora at the chinkbone. Whimpering,
moaning feverishly, her body trembling uncontrollably with her suffering, she saw through 
glazed eyes what her white torturer intended. She opened her mouth docilely, and with a 
growl of delight, Mullins thrust his prick between her open lips, tensing his fingers in her 
twisted hair. "Do it good now," he warned.

And then he let out an inhuman, prolonged shriek. Elora had clamped down her teeth, 
severing his cock head, hanging onto that gristle and cartilege despite the jabs of the knife 
against the small of her back. "Oouuuuueeeeyarrrhhh, make her let go, Gerton, fer Pete's sake,
she's bitten it off!" he bawled.

With a sobbing cry, his partner lifted the knife and brought it down with a savage blow 
that sent the steel to Elora's heart. She slumped in death, but even then her jaws remained 
rigidly clamped, and blood from her ravisher's severed cock head stained the floor of the 
supply wagon as Mullins, in his own inhuman torment, shrieked to be killed because he could 
not stand the pain.

And when Captain Peter Lattimer learned what had happened, he had Mullins placed in 
irons and promised that he would hang after a court martial once they got back to Fort Sill. 
Gerton was also placed in irons, with the warning of receiving a long prison sentence at hard 
labor. But those sentences were never to be carried out. The wily chief of the Pumas had other
plans for this troop of the United States cavalry.!

CHAPTER FIVE

Darlene Jenson yawned and glanced down at the lax, bearded face of Max Alviss who lay 
wrapped in his sleeping blanket with his back turned to her inside their wagon. It was 
midnight, and she had heard the hooting of an owl, and a few minutes later the call of a 
coyote far out on the plains. She shivered and carefully eased herself to the opening of the 
wagon, untied the cords and parted the folds of heavy canvas and peered out into the night.

She was sorry she had come along on an impulse with this stocky, strangely bellicose man.
She had heard him talk in his sleep about the paymaster at Fort McPherson, and she knew 
that if he were ever taken by the law, he would be a dead man. If the army didn't hang him, 
the sheriff in Dodge City would for knifing that cowboy. But he'd grabbed her, told her they'd 
have to beat it, and he'd had the bloody knife and she hadn't had much choice. Here she was 
in a wagon train on her way to California. She didn't have a copper to her name, and what she
was going to use for a grubstake when they got to Sacramento was something she didn't 
want to think about. More than likely she would go back to work in some saloon, hustling 
drinks and maybe, if the guy wasn't too ornery and seemed to have plenty of gold dust in his 
pocket, she might go upstairs to a room with him, and stash away enough money to start a 
new life. But it wouldn't be with Max, that was for damn sure!

He probably was a pretty decent sort when he didn't have any redeye in him or a weapon 
in his hand. He'd sure tried to get into her drawers, but she just couldn't see him for dirt. 
Besides, on a long journey like this, she was so damned tired, she didn't have much care about
fucking, and besides that, Max hadn't taken a bath since they'd set out on the train and he 
hadn't even shaved, and his beard was bristly and he looked like an old goat even if he wasn't 
forty yet.

She had kept on her homespun dress and the camisole and drawers under it, because the 
night was chilly. But she hadn't been able to sleep, just thinking about what was going to 
happen if they ever got through to California. She'd heard Mr. Mardwell talking about the 
dangers of Indian attack, and she was scared stiff, she didn't mind admitting. It would be all 
right if they'd just tomahawk you or spear you or shoot you with an arrow, but she was a girl 
and not too bad looking, and she'd heard a lot of tales about what redskins did to helpless 
women when they caught them. She glanced back again at Max Alviss, but he was still 
sleeping, and snoring too. She grimaced with disgust, eased herself down onto the blanket 
and took a deep breath. There wasn't a sound. Everyone was asleep and there was just one 
sentry way over at the head of the wagon train standing guard.

But she was wrong about thinking that everyone was asleep. Benjamin Grimsby had crept 
out of his wagon, after taking a look to be sure that his wife Cora and that uppity bitch 
Florence Jones were fast asleep. He sniggered softly to himself. He'd really given Flo a 
thrashing with the blacksnake. And one of these nights, she'd step out with him willingly 
enough and let him take her cherry, or else he'd find a way to have her trussed up and tie her 
to the wagonwheel again for an even worse dose. She had kept her distance from him, eyeing 
him fearfully and whimpering every time he raised his hand pretending to cuff her. And Cora 
had done just fine, scolding the little bitch as if she were a fallen woman already. It would be a
great joke on Cora, keeping her after Flo and calling her a tramp, when the real fact was that 
she was still a virgin and wouldn't let anybody get near her nice tits and sweet ass and pretty 
little twat. But he was going to, one of these nights for sure.

He primed his revolver after taking it out of its holster, to make sure it was in good 
working order and had plenty of ammunition in the chambers, then thrust it back into the 
holster, and strolled nonchalantly out toward the end of the wagontrain. He saw the shadowy 
figure of a woman out near a poplar tree, and his pulses quickened. Cora was dried up, a 
shrew with a nasty tongue, and a mean way of making him feel in the wrong even when she 
was standing up for him. Like as not she had just a notion that he had the hots for Flo's cunt, 
but she couldn't prove anything, and he'd get Flo there where she didn't dare utter a word if 
she didn't want herself lashed to the blood. That blacksnake of his was a real powerful 
persuader.

He moved closer to the figure of the woman in the distance and saw with delighted 
anticipation that it was that dance hall floozie. Oh, sure, she called herself Mrs. Max Alviss, all 
right, but all you had to do was look at her, even in the homespun and you could size her up 
and know she was just a lowdown whore who ought to be back in some saloon with her 
painted face, showing off her boobies in a nice lowcut spangled gown waiting for someone to
take her upstairs and spread eagle and hooraw her.

Well, by gosh, Benjamin Grimsby told himself, if he couldn't get into Flo's snatch, there was
no reason why he couldn't knock a piece off of Darlene Alviss' twat. She'd be more 
experienced, that was for sure, and she'd know what a man wanted and how to please him 
once he'd shown her who was boss. Come to think of it, that Alviss bastard didn't set so well 
with her, because they never held hands nor said much to each other, not the way newly 
married folks did, and they'd given out that they'd just got hitched.

"Evenin', ma'am," he muttered cordially.

Darlene Jenson whirled and gasped. "Oh, you-you scared me-I thought you were an 
Injun."

Benjamin Grimsby chuckled and shook his head. "An Injun wouldn't have made near that 
amount of noise, Mrs. Alviss. You'd have been a goner for sure if I'd been one, and you can 
count on that. So you can't sleep either, eh?"

"That's right."

"You know, ma'am, I've been thinking about you a lot, ever since you joined this train," he 
said, his beady little eyes narrowing and studying her lush figure. Floozie or not, she had what 
a man wanted and wanted lots of times, not just a quick poke and then goodbye. And it was 
still a long hip to Sacramento. What Cora didn't know wouldn't hurt her, and as for Flo, she'd 
just better not open her yap if she saw anything, or she'd get it closed on her.

Darlene Jenson turned to contemplate her interlocutor. "You have?" she drawled, knowing 
only too well and by instinct which was age-old what this bearded, sadistic man wanted. She 
had watched him lay that blacksnake whip around poor Florence Jones' naked shoulders and 
heard the girl's embattled supplications for mercy. Personally, she considered him a vicious 
louse who ought to be stepped on. Just the same, she'd be damned if she'd ask any favors of 
Max Alvis. The poor sap, to be in love with her with no return, after he'd got her entangled in 
this mess!

"You know, Miss Darlene," Benjamin Grimsby muttered as he moved closer to her, his left 
hand brushing her waist, "when you first joined up with us, I said to myself, I said, 'Now here's 
a real nice piece, a little lady who knows what she wants outta life, and it must be purty dismal
for you jostling along in an old wagon all the way to Sacramento."

"It is, Mr. Grimsby," Darlene Jenson faced him, her face cold and appraising. "Now, what 
have you got that's so much better?"

"Now, don't get huggy, little lady," he chuckled. "Anyone with half a mind can see you're 
quality, you're real paydirt. Only you don't seem to take much to that fancy man who drives 
your wagon. I was just thinking-"

"I know what you were thinking, Mr. Grimsby, you'd like to get me back there in the 
bushes and horrah me, wouldn't you?" Darlene Jenson suddenly took the wind out of his sails 
with her candid question.

He flushed, tugged at his black beard, looked down at the ground. "Well now, that's 
mighty unfriendly, Miss Darlene, Ma'am. I wouldn't be much of a gentleman if I was to say a 
thing like that to you, now would I be?"

"No. But I'd think a helluva sight more of you as being honest if you came out and said it," 
she said with a contemptuous sniff. "Why don't you be a man and come out from behind that 
blacksnake whip you took to that poor servant girl of yours and say what you really think."

His face darkened with anger. "Think yourself so high and mighty," he sneered. "Everybody
knows-sure, everybody in the train, they've been saying you're all whore and anybody can buy
you for two bits."

"My price happens to be a little higher, if you really want to know. And I think you'd better
go back to your wagon, because your wife might miss you, Mr. Grimsby," Darlene Jenson 
hissed. She turned her back on him and began to walk toward the clump of poplar trees near 
the clearing where the wagontrain had camped down for the night.

He swore an oath, clamped his left hand over her mouth, his right hand over her tittie, and
hustled her out into a thick clump of sumac bushes and flung her down on the ground.

"I'll learn you," he thickly panted, "I'll learn you to make fun o' Benjamin Grimsby, you 
cheap painted bitch! You ain't fit to be with decent women on this train, not likely you ain't. 
And I won't pay nothin' for a poke, savvy? You just open your yap and say I did anything to 
you, and I'll tell them all that you came to my wagon tonight and asked me to take a walk with
you out into the bushes, 'cause your twat was itching you somethin' fierce. You hear me?"

Darlene Jenson opened her mouth to scream for help, but with a leer and a triumphant 
laugh, Benjamin Grimsby pulled out his handkerchief and wadded it into her mouth. Then, 
tugging on his belt, he failed her over onto her face, swiftly drew her wrists behind her with his
belt, drawing it up to the last notch. Then, pushing her onto her back again, he began to tear 
at the homespun dress, rolling it up above her hips, while she struggled frantically, moaning 
through the gag, her eyes raging with fury and not fear. He tore the camisole in his blind lust, 
revealing a pair of round high perched, closely spaced titties, with pale white skin and soft 
pink aurolae, narrow and concentrated, centering around two dainty, perky pink lovebuds. 
Gripping her by the shoulders, he bent his bearded face down and began to suck them. She 
winced and writhed, struggling frantically with her bound wrists, but to no avail. Then, lifting 
his lust-congested face from her panting, naked titties, leaving them glistening with his saliva, 
he ripped at her drawers until he had them torn asunder, spreading them out on either side of
her hips and his eyes devoured the sight of the thick brown patch of cunt hair which fleeced 
her mount.

"I thought that was henna you had on your hair, sister," he chuckled lewdly, as he prodded
her cunt with a stubby, dirty forefinger, while she struggled frantically to draw her legs 
together and roll over to one side. "Now you lay still, or I'll take a switch to your twat, and it'll 
really hurt, Miss Darlene! Look what I got for ya!"

Exultantly, he fumbled with his britches, at last exposing his thick, dark veined prick, and 
Darlene lifted her head and tried to scream again through the gag. With an oath, he struck her
viciously with the back of her hand, her head striking the earth with a thud. Then, with a 
ravenous, lecherous madness in his blind sexual fury, he mounted over her and thrust himself 
against the soft petals of her slit. Frenziedly, Darlene Jenson tried to lift and arch and weave 
herself away, but he had penetrated between the outer lips of her cunt hole before she could 
bring all her strength to bear, and by then it was far too late. Grunting like an animal in rut, 
Benjamin Grimsby fucked the dance hall entertainer, his hands mauling her panting titties, 
reaching under to reach her widely spaced asscheeks, slavering over her in his delight and 
libricious joy. In the tight confines of her cunt, he found ample compensation for his rejection 
by the hired girl, Florence Jones. And in his brutish mind, he even contemplated what it would
be like to do precisely this to the unfortunate girl whom he had thrashed at the wagonwheel.

At last, with a shuddering groan of fulfillment, he spurted his essence deep into the 
quaking cunt hole of Darlene Jenson, and then withdrew. He crouched there, gloating over his
prey.

"You're not so high and mighty now, Miss Darlene, are ya? I didn't think so. Now I'm 
gonna let you up, but you better not do nothin' foolish, like maybe calling for help. And if that
man of yours, that Alviss fellow wants to know what's up, you can just tell him you got 
shagged by a Comanche. He might just believe you-he's that much of a fool."

He rolled her over on her face, lifted his hand and gave her naked bottom a ferocious 
smack which made her squirm frantically and groan in pain. Then, laughing noiselessly, he 
tugged up her ripped drawers, saw that they would no longer hold, then tugged down the 
rent camisole and homespun skirt before unbuckling his belt and replacing it. He watched her 
stagger slowly to her feet, wincing with pain, for he had bruised her viciously in his rapacious 
prick-thrust.

"And that's being right smart, Miss Darlene," he sniggered. "I thought you were that sort 
of bitch that wouldn't yell when some man had hoorawed her good. You take to it, don't you? 
Like as not, if you had more time, you might even let me pay you for another piece. Maybe I 
will, too, before we get to Sacramento. You've got a nice tight twat there, too, when you've 
got a man's peter crammed up your box. So I'll just say thanks and now goodnight, Miss 
Darlene, ma'am!"

And with another lewd snigger, he sauntered back to his own wagon, pulling at his beard 
and grinning in his triumph.

Darlene Jenson shuddered, closed her eyes, and then slowly retraced her steps back to her
own wagon. As she clambered in cautiously, she saw that Max Alviss was still sleeping. She lay 
there a moment, staring at his back turned to her, and then, very silently, she began to weep. 
It was ironic that this man whom she couldn't stand, who had grabbed her and pulled her out 
of a town where she was at least making a living, to come out to all these savages and brutes 
like Benjamin Grimsby, had at least appreciated her enough to tell her he was in love with her, 
and she'd told him he was a fool, but that bastard out there hadn't minced words, he'd just 
had her. And now she found herself wishing it had been Max Alviss instead.

CHAPTER SIX

The chief of the Pumas glowered as he paced back and forth in his tepee. One of the older
women, a widow whose husband had died fifteen years ago in a battle against the white-eyes,
had just hobbled into his presence and, prostrating herself, announced to him that Elora had 
vanished. He had a search instituted at once, and it had produced nothing. In the hectic 
preparation for breaking camp and hurrying onward to escape the cavalry, the guards 
responsible for the new Comanche camp-whore had simply overlooked her, and no one could
tell whither she had gone. Guyastano was a fatalist, and he believed that the savage god of 
war of the tribe knew the destiny of all his warriors and himself. He had a foreboding that this 
disgraced and shamed young maiden who was now the lowliest of the low carried with her 
the future destiny of his tribe. It would be as the gods willed. But at least he would try to 
escape the soldiers pursuing him. Perhaps by diversion he could throw the white-eyes off the 
trail.

And so, deep in planning he ignored the sobbing of the old woman who crouched before 
him, rubbing her forehead against the ground to signify her shame and disgrace in having to 
report such wretched tidings. But already the virile leader of this renagade band of 
Comanches had clapped his hands to summon two of the swiftest couriers and he gave them 
orders to find the trail of Elora and, if they should come upon her, to kill her quickly. For he 
had no doubt that in her attempt to escape her degradation, she might come across the 
soldiers in blue and betray him and all his men, the women and children of the Pumas.

They mounted wild mares, and rode out in the direction which they believed Elora had 
taken and in the direction to which the cavalry troops from Fort Sill must take to find them.

Then Guyastano summoned his witchdoctor Mostfllya and commanded, "We must make 
war upon the white-eyes at once, so that the soldiers with the long sticks that puff smoke and 
the balls of death will be taken off our scent. We must put some little town or farm settlement 
of the accursed white-eyes to the fire and the arrow and the spear and the tomahawk, so that 
the men in blue will halt and exclaim over our cruelty and thus forget their cunning in tracking
us as the wild god tracks the deer. Call all my bravest warriors and bid them arm for battle. We
shall leave havoc in our wake, we shall claw and rend as is worthy of our God of the Pumas."

So it was that an hour later the camp was broken and the renegade tribe set out on 
horseback, but the women and children and the oldsters took a route slowly to the souteast. 
Meanwhile, fifty warriors rode with Guyastano to the northeast and in two hours had come 
upon a tiny group of farm houses where a dozen families from Pennsylvania had found their 
haven in the border of the Oklahoma territory.

It was nearly dusk upon the prairie, and as he brandished his feathered spear to signal his 
warriors to the attack, Guyastano's dark eyes gleamed with hatred for the whites. They had 
driven off the buffalo, and they had ruined the ground and profaned the burial places of the 
sacred dead in their greedy lust for the shining yellow metal which meant life to them. They 
should pay the price for having offended the gods of the Comanches!

And then with hideous warhoops, the Comanches circled the tiny farm houses in a terrible 
death-arc, drawing their bows and fitting arrows from their quivers, and striking down the 
men who rushed out from the cabins and the little shacks to defend themselves against Indian
attack. A dozen men fell at once the boys as well as their fathers clutching at their breasts and 
throats in a welter of blood. And the cries of triumph which rose from the renegade Pumas 
made the air horrid with cacahinating sound as they now dismounted from their wild ponies 
and, tomahawks in hand, rushed towards the little houses and cabins to destroy and rape and 
kill.

Chief Guyastano himself led the foray against the largest house, obviously that of the 
leader of this hamlet. He; found the door bolted, and four of his braves hurled themselves 
against it until at last it burst inward and with howling cries of glee they surged inside. There a
fourteen-year-old boy was priming a rifle, but he was brained at once by a tomahawk flung 
from the doorsill. As he fell, a young girl hardly more than sixteen shrieked and turned to flee, 
but the grinning Comanches seized her by her long pigtail and dragged her back and out of 
the house to fling her down upon the group. There two other warriors seized her, and swiftly 
stripped her of her clothes till she was naked but for the woolen stockings which sheathed 
plump rounded calves and thighs. Her straw-blonde hair was at once yanked up by the braid 
and cut off with a knife at the skull. Then, whimpering and mewling, she was flung down on 
her back and one of the sturdiest warriors covered her, his prick digging into her tender cunt 
and rending her maidenseal.

In that same house there was a handsome, buxom mother, perhaps thirty-two years of 
age, and she fought valiently with a kitchen knife, stabbing one Comanche in the belly until 
another lunged at her from the side and caught her round the waist and flung her to the 
ground. Then two howling braves leaped upon her and stripped her naked, dragging her by 
wrists and ankles like a sack of potatoes out beside her daughter and threw her down beside 
the shrieking girl. Two warriors held her ankles and two her wrists, as the man who had seized 
her tore off his loinpouch and covered her, brutally fucking her with rapid digs and thrusts 
while she shrieked endlessly, her eyes glazing as they fixed on her weeping daughter who 
already was being mounted by a third and then a fourth Comanche warrior.

Guyastano watched, his eyes glittering with triumph. Out of the corner of his eyes he saw a
young woman sneak round the edge of the house, and he pursued her. Catching her by her 
long floating brown hair, he yanked her back to him, and with a grin, his mouth tight and 
cruel, stunned her with a blow of his tomahawk at the side of the temples, stretching her out 
on the ground sprawled and half-conscious. Then, grunting with lust, he fell upon her, ripping 
her clothes until she was naked but for the hose, and mounted her, thrusting deeply, his 
fingers gripping the round compact cheeks of her naked behind.

And when he had finished, he lifted his face to the dark sky and howled in triumph. Then 
moving back, he gestured to the witchdoctor, who gave an order. The whimpering young 
woman was seized by four braves, taken to the fence, made of split rails. They made her 
straddle these, at the very top, binding her wrists together under the flat rail, her ankles at the 
lower end, and corded her waist with a rawhide thong. Then one of them mockingly seized a 
corncob and, yawning apart the cheeks of her shuddering bottom, thrust the implement to 
the hilt inside her asshole. Even as she shrieked, one of the Comanches tugged her hair 
backwards, lifting up her contorted, tearstained face, and traced the outline of the Puma God 
with the point of his knife along her naked satiny pale-tawny sheened back.

There she was left, groaning and sobbing, while the other warriors dragged out the female
captives from the other cabins and houses. Soon eight girls and women, stripped naked 
except for their stockings, found themselves spreadeagled on the ground, their wrists and 
ankles tied with rawhide thongs to wooden pegs hammered into the ground. And in front of 
each, a line of naked warriors waited, one covering a girl while the others awaited their own 
turn, till the cries and whimpering sobs and piteous supplications for mercy drowned the air. 
The smell of smoke from the burning houses and cabins rose, and even the moon cast a sickly
glow upon this ghastly scene.

When all of the men had their pleasure Guyastano turned to the witchdoctor. He raised his
forked stick, and with gleeful cries, the braves who had ravaged these naked, whimpering 
female captives crouched over them, lifted their tomahawks or knives and put a swift end to 
the lives of these sullied and tortured female victims.

Then the Comanches mounted their horses, and rode off into the distance, while the smell 
of smoke and dead flesh mounted to the pitiless dark sky.

It was the will of Guyastano that when these men in blue upon their horses came upon this
decimated settlement, they would lose time by halting to bury the dead. And in that time, the 
men of Guyastano would flee them, putting greater distance than ever between the avengers 
and themselves.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Darlene Jenson had said nothing to Max Alviss about her rape by Benjamin Grimsby the 
night before. Aloof and laconic as had been her won't all through the journey of the Mardell 
wagontrain, she sat beside him as he clucked at the horses, jerked the reins and led his wagon
in its proper place in line as camp was broken just after dawn and the pioneers moved onward
toward their goal of Sacramento.

But Max Alviss was not exactly a fool, despite being impulsive and at times decidedly 
homicidal. He lusted for Darlene Jenson especially because she denied herself to him and 
because he knew of her past and how any man with the right price could buy her favors. On 
this arduous journey, he had hoped that the proximity with each other and communal battle 
against the elements, the savages and the untold dangers of this long trek across virtually half
the continent would have made her inevitably turn to him at night for fucking and all the 
loving comfort that a man could give a red-blooded woman.

Now that he had time for reflection because she shunned him save when conversation was
absolutely necessary, he had time also to think back on his life and how he had gone wrong. 
Now more than ever he regretted having killed the paymaster. But he also loved life too much
to make restitution by turning himself in so he could be hanged. If he could reach California, 
and start a new life, he would pay his tariff in his own way, he thought.

And as he glanced at Darlene under the bright sun which poured down on this flat stretch 
of prairie, he observed bluish bruises at the sides and back of her neck. He frowned, not 
wanting to start and argument with her and yet almost furiously angered that something or 
someone should have flawed her desired body.

In the wagon just ahead, Daniel Wilkins sat holding the reins and covertly glancing at his 
beautiful austere and still virginal wife, Alberta. He yearned to take off her bonnet and to undo
the prim glossy black bun of hair, strip her naked and see her on a blanket with the firelight 
playing upon the nooks and shadows of her voluptuous body. He thought rather plaintively to
himself that she was twenty-eight and might as well have been a nun for all the pleasure he 
had of her. The only hope he had was her icy remark at the outset of their marriage that if he 
proved himself a man, she might condescend to be more than a wife in name only. But how 
he could prove that when he knew so little of the plains and the unknown terrors lurking 
about, he could not foresee. Even as he was thinking this, she turned of him and in her usual 
disdainful voice remarked, "For heaven's sake, Daniel, do pay attention to the way you handle 
those horses! I declare, I thought you knew more about such things, being a man. You 
certainly don't expect me, a frail woman, to drive them, do you?"

"No, Alberta, I'm sorry. I-guess I was just thinking" he replied meekly.

"Humph!" she sanctimoniously sniffed. "And kindly don't acquaint me with your 
daydreaming, if you please, Mr. Wilkins. I have no doubt you've set your mind on cruder 
things which should never be discussed between husband and wife. And you know my 
feelings on that particular subject, I trust."

"Oh yes, I know them. But Alberta-"he stammered.

"Please! Let's not discuss the thing ever again. You know I meant what I said to you and I 
still mean it! At least, I will say you've been a gentleman and not tried to force yourself upon 
me. And it's just as well, because I would hate you to your dying day if you ever tried that 
brutal, coarse act. And now I beg of you, please be silent. I only wish there were more people 
on this wagon train with whom I might converse on spiritual and uplifting things."

Poor Daniel Wilkens sighed inaudibly as he jostled the reins to get the two solid horses 
moving at a quicker gait. He had seen Benjamin Grimsby's blacksnake whipping of the 
indentured girl Florence Jones, and though he had been horrified at the man's brutality, he 
had not been able to forget the victim's beautiful white back and shoulders, nor the glimpse 
of her panting titties as she twisted and writhed under the lashes which so viciously welted her
tender naked flesh. He thought to himself that if he could only have a girl like that beside him,
he would be tender and kind to her, win her affection and perhaps at night her connubial 
embrace. Yet the paragon of icy virtue who sat beside him was so much more beautiful and 
enticing that he continued to hope against hope that one day she would relent and yield her 
cherry to his aching and so long denied prick.

In the wagon just ahead, Benton Ames, a grimace on his handsome, cynical features, 
shook out the reins to quicken his own horses, while lovely young Clarissa glanced sidelong at
him. Since they had embarked on this journey, he had not once fucked her. At least she knew 
he had not shown any interest in the other women on this wagontrain. But she also knew he 
was longing for the gaming tables, for the artificial excitement of trying to build a small stake 
into a fortune, and worst of all, because she had saved him from physical harm and 
blackening disgrace by paying off his debts with her grandmother's legacy, he found himself 
beholden to her in a most uncomfortable way. For all his faults, she knew that her husband 
was self-reliant and also the kind of man who existed by a rigid moral code. He would not 
easily forgive her for having saved his face and skin, even though she had known at the time it
was the only way to keep him beside her. And desperately the chestnut-haired young woman 
was in love with Benton Ames. Their first nights had been exquisite, had initiated her into the 
mysteries and pleasures of fucking. He had not been ruthless or cruel as so many men were 
the first time with a virgin bride, but had caressed and kissed her, murmured words of 
endearment, eased her fears until when the pain of cherry-breaking was gone, she began to 
feel the wonder and the glory of coalescence with her mate.

But since they had joined the Mardwell train in St. Louis, not a single night had found the 
two of them entwined in each other's arms. She wondered desperately if, by the time they 
reached Sacramento, he would forgive her concern and love enough to make a go of it 
between them again, to begin a family, and to have a new life that would be unflawed by the 
past.

Jacob Mardwell puffed at his pipe and clacked the reins at the head of the train, his eyes 
considering the landscape. There was an emptiness and desolation to this unending role of 
prairie, broken only by a tiny hill or a ravine or a small dried-up creek. There was no refuge 
here in case of Indian attack, no shelter.

There were in all some twenty wagons and at most of these about thirty fighting men, 
including the two teenaged sons of Herb Macllliney and Bud Mallows, the twelve-year-old 
towheaded son of Widow Mallows, whose father had taught him to pick a squirrel out of a 
tree with a rifle at fifty yards. But they did not have the repeating rifles, only guns that had to 
be reloaded. And he had heard that the Comancheros sold repeating rifles and whiskey to the 
Comanches and even to the Apaches, the Kiowas and the Cheyenne. He had carefully planned
this route touching along the border of Oklahoma so as to be out of Comanche territory as 
quickly as was feasible.

Two scouts rode ahead of the wagontrain about a quarter of a mile beyond Jacob 
Mardwell's lead wagon. They were Clark Dolliver, a weatherbeaten, lonely man in his late 
forties who had been mustered out of the Union Army after a wound sustained at Gettysburg. 
The other was Esau Felton, now thirty-five, who ten years ago had been a cattle rustler along 
the Texas border and had narrowly escaped hanging. The news of his father's death had 
sobered him, and he had found a small inheritance awaiting him in a little town in Missouri 
where he had been born and where his mother had died two years after his birth. He had two 
brothers, but they had died at Shilow on the Confederate side. He alone was left to carry on 
the line, and he become a scout for wagontrains. He had misgivings about old Jacob 
Mardwell, because there weren't really enough men and enough firearms and ammunition to 
hold off a really serious Indian attack. Sometimes in one of the little settlements where they 
had stopped just after leaving St. Louis, he had heard wild tales of Sitting Bull and the 
renegade Guyastano. He was thinking to himself that if they reached Sacramento, if they did, 
he might just settle down and find him a girl that he could fuck and get a passel of brats out 
of and wind up as a storekeeper but at least save his hide from these damned redskins with 
their mutilations and their burning at the stake and the way they treated helpless women.

And by late afternoon, the warriors of Guyastano had caught sight of the Mardwell 
wagontrain, and the wiley leader of the Pumas deployed his forces so as to take the settlers by
surprise. Though many Indian tribes would not wage war after sundown, fearing that if they 
were killed in battle, their spirits would never find the abode of Manitou, Guyastano would not
hold with this ancient superstition. He had learned the tricks of the white-eyes and he meant 
to profit by them. They would not be prepared at night, once they were sleeping. And there 
would be women in these covered wagons, women like Bess Corton, white flesh to be 
whipped and tortured, white cusus into which he and his braves might thrust their gonis until 
all the ferocious, hot come in their loins was spent.

And so a dozen of his finest fighters acted as scouts, following the slowly plodding wagon 
train until at last it camped for the night near one of those dusty little hills which alone broke 
the sight of this barren landscape. Meanwhile, the main body of the Pumas waited about a 
mile beyond these intrepid dozen whose task it would be to sound out the strength of the 
settlers, to learn how many wagons there were, how fighting men, how many firearms could 
be seen.

Guyastano himself only six months ago had purchased a box of repeating rifles from a 
Comanchero named Hank Dalby. Dalby, a grizzled outlaw wanted in a half-dozen frontier 
town for murder and horse theft, had broken into an Army Post, clubbed the two sentries to 
death and got away with just a single box of the prized repeaters. What Dalby didn't know 
was that the very box that he had risked his own neck for contained defective weapons which 
were about to be returned to the manufacturer with a caustic note from the colonel 
commanding the post. Hence Guyastano, who had paid gold for the rifles, discovered that out
of twenty-five, only four would shoot with any accuracy. The others either jammed or would 
not fire at all.

And so, a week after Hank Dalby had received his Judas payment and was boasting of his 
exploits in a Oklahoma bordertown saloon, he emerged, drunken and staggering, towards an 
alleyway to the left of the saloon and was seized by three Comanches wearing the clothes of 
settlers they had murdered in a little farm settlement about five miles from the bordertown. 
They gagged and blindfolded and tied him, and rode back to the camp of the Pumas. There 
Hank Dalby expiated his treachery of which ironically, he was not really guilty at all by being 
put to the torture stake. Naked, he was first given over to the women, who thrust burning 
slivers of sprucewood into his naked body. One of the old hags seized a burning brand from 
the huge fire beyond, and touched the tip of his prick with it until it shriveled and blackened. 
They whipped him with yucca branches until his body bled in a dozen places, and another 
ingenious old woman thrust a sharpened sliver of sprucewood into his asshole So diabolically 
and ingeniously did they torture him that he managed to last until dawn when, his tongue 
torn out by the roots, his eyes put out by burning slivers, he at last expired.

At that same campfire, before he had been blinded, Hank Dalby had seen a 
sixteen-year-old white girl, the daughter of one of the murdered farmers whose clothes the 
three Comanche captors had taken, pegged out on the ground, her young ripe titties lashed 
with switches by the cackling women while a warrior knelt over the girl's agonized face and 
forced her to suck his prick, while another grunting and squirming, took her maidenhead. And
long after he was blinded, the unfortunate girl was subjected to the lust of every Comanche 
warrior who desired her, till she lay feebly conscious and groaning, bruised and welted and 
bleeding. Then they tortured her too as if she had not endured enough already; the insatiably 
sadistic Comanche women thrust lighted splinters under her toenails and fingernails, cut off 
her nipples with hunting knives and then cauterized the bleeding wounds with a firebrand. 
Then the warriors amused themselves by shooting arrows high into the air to arc and fall onto 
her straddled, hardly quivering naked body, till at last a chanced arrow winged its way into her
heart and put an end to her hideous martyrdom....

But on this night Guyastano had given orders to his braves that instead of torturing and 
killing the white-eyed squaws whom they would capture, these were to be carefully tended 
and brought back to a new camping ground of the Pumas where they should entertain the 
lustiest warriors and become the whore litcher of the Comanches. There would be no quarter 
for the men. Guyastano did not wish any survivor to reach an Army post and tell of his 
whereabouts and his latest depradations against the hated white-eyes ..,..

And so while the settlers in the Mardwell wagontrain slept peacefully, little suspecting 
what awaited them, the painted Comanches moved closer towards the clearing.

Clarissa Ames could not sleep. She turned and stared at her husband's back, at his sleek 
black hair. She remembered how she had shivered with girlish fear and secret longing 
combined when on their wedding night he had blown out the candle and clambered into the 
featherbed. She had seen his handsome face tautened and flushed with yearning and then she
had felt his long thin fingers, those fingers which could shuffle a deck of cards faster than 
anyone she had ever seen, touching her titties and the sides of her hips and her quivering 
thighs until she thought the sweet agony of expectancy would make her swoon away.

Even now, her pussy twitched and burned with recollection of how loving and tender he 
had been their first night together. And now he was so cold and insolent towards her, so very 
polite, and yet there was a glacial chill to his every look and word. She knew that he hated her 
for having bought his safety and that he would never forget how she had taken the role of a 
man to redeem him. It was a debt that could not be paid, certainly not in money, and it would 
never be paid in love, she told herself with dismal anguish. And yet her loins and swelling 
globes of her young titties burned for consolation now, and very timidly she reached out and 
touched his shoulder and murmured, "B-Benton-oh my dear one-Benton, won't you speak to 
me?"

He was always a light sleeper, and her touch made him sit up with a start, blinking his eyes,
"What-what is it? Oh, it's you, Clarissa. What the devil's wrong now?"

"You know what is," she said reproachfully, sitting up, too, her thick long chestnut hair 
tumbling almost to her waist. In the long homespun night shift, her supple body with her 
large, almost heavy but magnificently firm and highset titties was throughly dissembled. Her 
tanny skin rippled and twitched with a feverish excitement now. If only he would take her now,
forget the past, use her as she was meant to be used!

"Come off it, Clarissa! Get back to sleep. We've hundred of miles before we reach 
California, yet, you know. I'm fair exhausted driving those damned balky horses. Now for 
God's sake, Clarissa, go back to sleep and let me get my rest."

"Why yes, Benton," the young woman quavered. She sniffled, choked back a sob that was 
close to her lips, and then waited there, staring down at him. When again she heard his 
regular breathing that signified that he had gone back to sleep, she carefully drew aside the 
blanket, slipped out of their rude bed, and putting on her cloak, got out of the wagon. She 
had to breathe the air, she had to commune with herself or else go mad. Would it always be 
like this?

There was a dense clump of popular trees just beyond their wagon. She had always loved 
trees like that back home. She moved towards them now, her eyes filling with tears. She could 
not see the shadows moving slowly and guardedly just beyond. And when the hand of a Puma
Comanche clapped over her mouth and a wiry arm pinned her slim waist, it was too late to 
realize that she had offered herself as a decoy for the savages.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Clarissa Ames, sickened and horrified at her unexpected capture by two of the scouts 
which Chief Guyastano had sent on ahead to learn the strength of the Mardwell wagontrain 
and to bring back such female captives as they might be lucky enough to garner, whimpered 
as the two braves bound her wrists behind her back with rawhide thongs, stuffed an 
improvised gag of leaves into her gasping mouth and then tied a dirty scrap of cloth over it 
and knotted it to the back of her neck, then lifted her between them and trundled her off like 
a sack of potatoes behind a clump of poplars and into a little gully where there had orfte been
a tiny creek.

There they bound her ankles with rawhide first, laid her face down at the bottom of the 
gully, then scurried back towards the covered wagons in their semi-circular row.

There was the sudden hooting of a screech owl as the two warriors signalled their mates 
further on to indicate that they had taken the first captive.

Benjamin Grimsby couldn't sleep. His lecherous mind was filled with images of Darlene 
Jenson whom he had brutally stripped and fucked, and of Florence Jones, the lovely slave who
had refused him. Shit, he told himself, maybe that dance-hall hussy liked what she got the 
other night. Maybe if I take me a stroll and pass me some water, I'll find her out there mewing 
like a kitty in heat, wanting another good hard poke and waiting for me. Yes, and I'll 
accommodate her, by the Eternal!

He had on his boots and nightshirt, and his straggly black beard lifted as a gust of sudden 
night wind rose. He sniffed the air, and found it cool and humid. There'd be rain before dawn, 
if he was any judge. This was just the time for a good hot poke into a woman's tight twat. And
he knew that if he came across Darlene Jenson again, he'd really give it to her this time.

Slowly he ambled toward the wagon in which he knew her to be. But lechery had not 
entirely clouded his mind to the point where he could not entirely make out the shadows in 
the woods beyond, and then again he heard the hooting of a screech owl, and he pricked up 
his ears. And then suddenly a naked Comanche lunged out of the shadows, tomahawk raised. 
Benjamin Grimsby had just time for a shriek, "Injuns-oh shit-" when his life ended with a 
sickening, violent crunch, and he fell in a welter of his own blood.

But the cry had roused Jacob Mardwell at the head of the wagontrain, and seizing his rifle, 
he fired a shot, echoing Benjamin Grimsby's final yell. Instantly the occupants of the wagons 
woke, fumbling for their revolvers or rifles and the warriors of Guyastano hurried back toward 
the main body of the Pumas. Their only prize was Clarissa Ames, who wept, not that she had 
been captured by the Comanches, but that her last attempt to establish a tender reconciliation
between herself and her husband had so wretchedly failed and now she might never have 
another chance.

Benton Ames was roused by Jacob Mardwell's rifle shot, and when he turned to look 
around him and lit the oil lamp, he saw that Clarissa was no longer beside him. Swiftly tugging
on his breeches and giving his revolver a hasty examination, he hurried towards the wagon 
where Jacob Mardwell was already directing the wakened men to prepare for a possible battle
with their Indian attackers.

"My wife's gone, Mardwell!" Ames panted. "Those murdering devils have got her. I'm 
going after her."

"Don't be a fool, man," Jacob Mardwell gasped, "even if you should find her now, probably
they sent a party of war scouts ahead and those were the ones that got her. They'll be taking 
her back to where all the red devils are waiting. You'd be massacred, and you wouldn't do her 
much good."

"But I can't let her go and be kept by those fiends. I know what they do to women. I've 
heard enough from some of the Pony Express riders who stopped by here on their way to 
Dodge or Fort Sill. I'd rather put a bullet through her head than watch her at a torture stake or
being pegged out on the ground and used by those filthy brutes!" the dandified gambler 
hoarsely exclaimed.

"I can't stop you, Mr. Ames, but I can send a couple of men with you, just to see how far 
you can track her down. Leastways, you can find out how strong they are. And they won't be 
expecting us to be coming after them. Ho, you there, Jemmy Adams and you, Bruce Alsten, git
your guns and go along with Mr. Ames here. If there's any trouble, shoot off your guns, so at 
least we'll be ready for those bastards!"

But the scouts who had seized Clarissa had decided, before taking her into the presence of
their chief, to amuse themselves with her. After all, they reasoned, Chief Guyastano would not 
know whether she had already been used or not. And so, halting about an eighth of a mile 
before the ravine in which the chief of the Pumas and his whole force awaited, four of the 
scouts carried Clarissa Ames down into a gulch formed between two sandy little mounds. 
There, grinning and cackling to themselves, they stripped her naked of her nightshift.

Since her ankles and wrists were still tied and she was still gagged, she could do nothing 
but squirm and writhe, her eyes filled with tears of anguish and terror, as their hideously 
painted faces loomed above her and her big, full titties felt the pinching, gouging attentions 
of their stubby fingers. They saw the dark, chestnut tufts that covered her cunt, and they 
amused themselves by tearing out sprigs of pussy hair, laughing again at seeing her arch and 
twist and try vainly to twist herself onto her belly, and to hear her sobs muffled through the 
gag.

Another warrior prodded her tawny-skinned, long, supple thighs with a sharp twig, 
giggling like a woman as he saw the marks spring up on that smooth, satiny skin, as he heard 
her whimper and groan in her torment.

Another warrior leaned down and bit her in the shoulder, playfully, his fingers twining in 
her chestnut tresses, yanking them until her throat was tautened. Grinning at her, he drew his 
hunting knife and showed it to her, muttering: "Goni cusu! Me Tomatchee, me fuck cusu 
good! Or you die!"

Clarissa whimpered, trying to nod, trying to tell the savage that she would do anything to 
live, because as long as she had life, she could try some day to get back to Benton Ames, to 
try to make up to him, to overcome his stubborn pride by telling him that she would do 
anything he wanted her to, even be his slave. Yes, he could whip her and treat her like this, if 
only he would show a spark of tenderness as he had once done when they had first been 
lovers in the honeymoon bed.

Now they roiled her onto her belly and they smacked her bottom and reached under her 
belly to pinch her titties, to yank at her hair, to pull out sprigs of hair from her sweating 
armpits. She prayed for death, and at the same time she yearned for life. She was willing to be 
their things, their whore, if only they would spare her life. And by dawdling thus with her, they 
sealed their own doom and unknowingly brought about the very reconciliation for which she 
had prayed.

The two men whom Jacob Mardwell had sent with Benton Ames were in their early thirties,
and they were expert hunters and trackers. They could follow the marks left by the Indians' 
moccasins, and suddenly Jemmy Adams put his finger to his lips and then jerked his thumb 
forward. The three men lay flat on their bellies, their guns and rifles at the ready. They could 
see just beyond and into the little gulch, and they saw the four painted Comanches, and they 
could hear the muffled sobs and groans of the victim.

Jemmy Adams whispered to Benton Ames, "You any good with a knife, Mister?"

"I don't know. But I think I could pick them off with my revolver here."

"Too chancey. Me'n Alsten here, we'll try to sneak down there and knife them. Time 
enough to use your gun if they come after us. We just don't want to make too much noise 
and rouse the rest of those itchy bastards down on us."

"Good luck! But if there are too many for you or for me, the last thing I will do is kill my 
poor Clarissa so they can't torture her," Benton Ames muttered as he inched forward on his 
belly.

Holding their breaths, the two other men moved upon the unsuspecting scouts. They were
too intent upon their lustful purpose with the naked, whimpering, bound and gagged Clarissa.
Only when Jemmy Adams leaped into the gully and drove his knife into the back of the savage
who had been smacking Clarissa's bottom did the lustful Comanches realize the danger. They 
uttered war whoops and, their loin pouches already doffed and their pricks already erect in 
anticipation of fucking this white bitch, tried to retrieve their tomahawks and hunting knives 
which they had laid on the ground, so sure they had been of being safe and uninterrupted at 
their sport.

Bruce Alsten drove his hunting knife through the throat of the tallest Indian warrior, the 
one who had yanked Clarissa's hair and shown her the knife. He received a cut on the forearm,
but his attacker died even while he was inflicting it, and then there were only two left and 
already Jemmy Adams had sent his knife up into the belly, as, withdrawing his knife from the 
Indian's back, he sent it arching upward into the pit of the brave's stomach.

The other Comanche, with a howl of fury, leaped to the top of a trench-like gully, and 
began to lope towards the waiting Guyastano and the other braves.

"Get him!" Jemmy Adams panted, and Bruce Alsten flung back his arm and hurled the 
knife through he air. The young brave flung up his arms and pitched forward on his face and 
lay still.

Benton Ames ran forward, his revolver cocked, and he stared down at the whimpering, 
naked beauty who was his wife and who had been estranged from him.

And despite the marks left on her, and the tears and the agony, he felt a strong surging of 
his prick as if he was seeing her for the first time, as if he lusted for her as for no other woman 
who had ever been born in all of creation.

"Be gentle with her, she's my wife and I love her," he said in a choked voice, glancing 
around to make certain there were no more Comanches about for the moment, and then he 
helped the other two men undo her bonds and lift her to her feet. Jemmy Adams turned 
respectfully away as he retrieved the torn nightshift and tried to improvise a kind of wrapper 
around her bosom and loins.

"There, Clarissa, my sweet Lissa," Benton Ames panted. "Think you can walk?"

"Yes-yes, Benton. Oh my darling, I wasn't afraid of what they'd do to me, I was just afraid 
I'd never see you again. Oh Benton, I'm so sorry-I didn't mean to hurt you-I know how proud 
you are-I love you-"

"Let's get back to the wagon. Not now, Lissa," he muttered, and there were tears in his 
eyes and for once his face was not cynical and cold. Then, as she put an arm around his 
shoulders and he an arm around her waist, they hurried back to the wagontrain.

Jacob Mardwell ordered every man to be on the alert for the rest of the night. But Benton 
Ames and Clarissa spent the night in each other's arms, as he soothed her hurts, kissing them 
all, stroking her pussy, sucking her nipples. She groaned and squirmed once more, but this 
time with ecstasy. And when he finally mounted her, she locked her arms around him and 
murmured, "Oh my sweet darling Benton, fuck me, fuck the hell out of me! I'm your woman, 
your slave-bitch. Do to me what the Comanches would have done, but love me any way you 
want."

And so at least there was one happy reunion, one joyous triumph of love, one 
reconciliation on this singular trek across the plains, beset by treachery and the savages and 
the petty jealousies and lusts which eternally consume the minds of men.

CHAPTER NINE

Aroused by the brief attack on the Mardwell wagontrain which had succeeded in killing 
brutal Benjamin Grimsby and momentarily abducting lovely Clarissa Ames only to reunite her 
with her husband in a new understanding and love, the settlers urged their two scouts to ride 
on through the night to see if they could locate the Comanche camp and determine the actual
strength of the attackers. So Clark Dolliver and Esau Felton spurred their mounts and rode 
carefully through the dark forest of spruce and poplar until, skirting a branch of the Texoma 
River, they saw in the distance the twinkling fires of Guyastano's camp ... ,.

Captain Peter Lattimer's cavalry contingent was about an hour away from the wagontrain 
when a scout who had ridden a half mile ahead galloped back, his horse foaming and damp 
with sweat, nearly foundered. The scout's face was ashen-pale as he hastily saluted the 
commanding officer and grasped, "Captain, sir, Comanches almost got me. They're in ambush 
just behind the wagontrain. I circled off as far a'. I could, but they've got about fifty braves just
beyond the clearing. The rest of Guyastano's war party must be further beyond. They chased 
the hell out of me, sir, and I got an arrow through my sleeve."

"It could have been worse," Captain Lattimer chuckled dryly. "Better get another horse 
from the quartermaster. That one's pretty badly foundered, Davis."

"Yes, sir. You going to take the troop in to stand by the wagontrain?"

"Looks like I'll have to. And these red devils don't mind attacking at night," the 
brownhaired captain grimly declared.

In the distant clearing where the chief of the Pumas waited with his main force, Mostillya 
and Igarte, the war lieutenant of the Puma tribe, were conferring with the wily Guyastano. 
"They will always be ready for us," the witch doctor angrily averred. "It is best now to attack 
before the horse soldiers of the white-eyes come to aid them."

"That is true," the chief of the Pumas nodded. "And I have just heard that four of my best 
men have been slain because they stopped to amuse themselves with a white-eye squaw they 
had taken. The fools, to risk so much for a moment's pleaure! We shall ride upon the camp. 
Igarte, divide my men into three bands. One will send fire arrows into the wagons, another will
circle round them, and a third will hold back at the edge of the little woods to lend their 
strength at the weakest point. Go now!"

Back at the Mardwell wagontrain, the aroused settlers waited, keening for the slightest 
sound in the darkness around them. New campfires were lighted so that the men defending 
the wagons could more clearly see their hidden attackers. And then suddenly there was the 
whoosh of an arrow out of the wood, striking the heavy canvas of the Wilkins' wagon, and 
then another.

"Fire arrows!" Jacob Mardwell bawled. "Get some of the men with blankets, we can't waste 
water, we're ten miles away from the nearest waterhole!"

A flurry of fiery arrows pierced the darkness now, thudding against the wagonwheels, or 
into the ground, but many others found their mark in the canvas and in the wood of these 
covered wagons. Five men directed their rifle fire into the woods, but there were no targets. 
Yet one of the bullets must have found its mark, for there was a gurgling cry beyond, and 
Jacob Mardwell nodded: "Save your powder and your bullets, men, wait till you get something
to shoot at. Fifty bullets to kill one man is no odds, not for us. Those bastards have the 
repeating rifles they've bought from the Comancheros, likely as not." Now with hideous war 
whoops, the braves on horseback rode out of the woods and towards the end of the 
wagontrain, making that terrible circle which so many of our nation's pioneers could 
remember to their dying day as an endless circle. The appointed and almost naked warriors of
the Puma tribe, brandishing rifles and tomahawks, bows and arrows and lances, surrounded 
their intended prey. Two of them rode straight for the last wagon which was that occupied by 
Max Alviss and Darlene Jenson. The stocky driver leveled his rifle at one of the hideously 
grinning braves and fired, toppling him from the saddle.

But at that same moment a tomahawk whizzed through the air, twisting at the last 
moment to strike the flat of its blade instead of the terrible edge against Max Alviss' forehead,
and he slumped unconscious.

With cries of glee, two Comanches dismounted, ran to the wagon and dragged Darlene 
Jenson down. Max Alviss had given her a revolver, but as she pulled it, the trigger jammed, 
and in her frenzy, she reversed it and used it as a club, braining one of the warriors who was 
dragging her to the ground. The other twisted her wrist till the revolver dropped, and struck 
her a brutal blow on the side of the jaw and knocked her unconscious. Hoisting her over his 
shoulder, he mounted his horse and rode off towards the woods and beyond the line of fire. 
For the fire arrows and the circling contingent of the first attacking force were pinning the 
settlers down, and they had not seen the action at the last wagon in the train.

Now Guyastano launched another fifty braves to the right side of the train, and the armed 
pioneers fought back this new assault. But that terrible circle which continued its hideous 
enfilade now broke and moved in against the last few wagons which were cut off. Cora 
Grimsby, still weeping for the death of her brutal husband whose knifed body had been found
but without a trace of his murderer, leveled an old flintlock, a relic of early hunting days, and 
fired. The ball missed, and the jeering Comanche at whom she had aimed flung his lance and 
speared her through the heart. Lovely young Florence Jones, the girl whom Benjamin Grimsby 
had whipped because she would not let him fuck her, pulled the gun from the dead woman's 
hands, and tried to use it as a club, as three braves laughingly leaped at her and tugged her 
down, bound her and then, flinging her over the saddle of one of the Comanches ponies 
disappeared into the woods with their second captive.

In the distance, there came the sound of a bugle, and Jacob Mardwell shouted, "It's the 
cavalry, boys, keep up your fire, we'll drive these murdering devils off until they get here to 
relieve us!"

For already the settlers were running low on ammunition, and now the arrows whistling 
from the wood had no fire but only death. A dozen of the pioneers fell dead, and Jacob 
Mardwell himself was wounded in the left shoulder.

Now the Comanches struck at the Wilkins wagon, and Daniel fought more valiantly than 
he knew how out of sheer terror of death by torture, remembering all the horror-tales he had 
heard along the trail of how the Indians put to slow and merciless death the male captives 
who fell into their hands. When the shots from his revolver were emptied, and when three 
Comanches sprawled on the ground, their horses aimlessly continuing the terrible circle, he 
tried to reload but a tomahawk caught him in the shoulder, breaking his arm. In his pain, he 
toppled over unconscious. His prim blackhaired wife Alberta shrieked and tried to slap at the 
two braves who lunged at her. She too was taken captive and ridden off into the woods with 
Florence Jones and Darlene Jenson.

But now Guyastano, having heard the bugle call, uttered three times the loud screech of 
the owl, and his warriors turned and disappeared into the woods whence they had come.

Igarte, a man with burning hatred for all whites because his own young wife had been 
raped and bayoneted by two drunken soldiers from Fort Sill, angrily urged his chief to 
continue the fray even against the horse soldiers. But Guyastano shook his head: "It shall not 
be, Igarte. They will outnumber us, they will have more firearms than we. Let us take our 
hostages and have our joy with them, and know that we have sent many of those white-eyes 
to their graves here on the plains. I see that there will be blood on this land when the 
white-eyes come to take it from us, but it will be their blood and we have shed enough of our 
own. Let us go now to the southeast, back to the River of the Arrow, where we shall make our 
camp and have a great feast of our victory over the accursed invaders of our land!

And so the Puma Comanches, headed by their renegade chief, wheeled about and soon 
lost their pursuers, knowing the land far better than even the cavalry in the dead of night. 
Captain Peter Lattimer sent fifty men on ahead to try to cut down the stragglers, but soon 
they reported back that the Indians had vanished without a trace.

Jacob Mardwell's apprentice boy, Dan Weinnold, was tending his master's wound. Captain 
Peter Lattimer dismounted, and came up to the sturdy pioneer, "I wish we'd come sooner, Mr. 
Mardwell. We heard of your wagontrain and wanted to drive the Pumas off, but they 
outdistanced us and were waiting for you. I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault, Captain. But we've had some terrible things happen to us. One of our 
men was knifed long before this Indian fight, and it may well be that someone on this very 
train did him in. But that's not the worst of it. They have taken three women and God alone 
knows I wish them dead. It would be the kindest thing that could happen to them in the 
hands of those redskinned fiends!"

May Alviss and Daniel Wilkins recovered from their wounds, and by dawn refreshed by 
strong coffee and hot biscuits, the two men begged Jacobs Mardwell to be allowed to go 
along with the cavalry to bring back their stolen wives. Of course Max Alviss still called Darlene
his wife, so that there would be no scandalmongering on this journey to Sacramento. But now
he was deeply in love with her, and he swore that he would bring her back even if he had to 
die in the process.

"We can't allow civilians on an Army mission, gentlemen," Captain Peter Lattimer shook his
head. "I appreciate your sentiments, but we'll follow the Comanches. We won't give them any 
rest and they won't have the chance to amuse themselves, believe me. But we'll have to get 
some provisions from you if you can spare them. We were just about to turn back by now if 
we hadn't found you or that bastard Guyastano."

"We'll give you what we can," Jacob Mardwell weakly gasped. "But go after those women, 
men, and in God's name save them."

Max Alviss and Daniel Wilkins silently echoed his prayer. But neither could foresee what 
fate would befall the three attractive women, so opposite in temperament and circumstance, 
one a dance-hall hostess who had never wanted to come on this ill-fated journey, the other a 
snobbish, autocratic young woman who had nothing but contempt for her husband and who 
had not once let him fuck her even on their wedding night, and the third a bound girl who 
was as virginal as that young wife.

CHAPTER TEN

The three captives from the Mardwell wagontrain had been stripped naked, bound with 
wrists and ankles cruelly thonged with rawhide, and put into a small teepee to await the 
victory celebration of the Puma Comanches. For Alberta Wilkins, the shame of having had her 
nightshift ripped from her by a wiry, mockingly grinning Indian had been almost death itself. 
She who had not yet let Daniel Wilkins, her own husband, view her in the bridal bed in almost 
ten months, who had not so much as allowed him to see her remove her gown back home, 
now found herself huddled in the small, bark-covered little tent-like structure with Darlene 
Jenson and lovely young Florence Jones on either side of her and just as naked as herself.

She closed her eyes and wept silently, her cheeks crimson with shame. Her firm little chin 
was trembling violently as she fought back the sobs and tears of bitterest anguish. Each time 
she tried to ease the painful bind of the rawhide thongs at her wrists and ankles, she was 
made still more conscious of her nakedness on this rough ground. And outside, the sound of 
chanting and the monotonous beating of drums intensified her blood-congealing 
apprehension. For she too had heard the lurid tales, first learned by the male settlers on the 
wagontrain from farmers and riders along the way from St. Louis, and then passed on by the 
men to their women and the women in turn to one another, of what fate a helpless female 
would endure if she were luckless enough to become a captive of any of the redskinned devils
who dwelt in the lands through which the wagontrain must pass.

And yet even with her black hair bound into a prim and austere bun, she was in some ways
the most voluptuously enticing of the trio of captives whom Guyastano's advance assault 
team had seized from the clustered wagons in this sudden after-midnight ambush. About five 
feet six and a half inches in height, Alberta Wilkins possessed a wonderfully soft ivory skin, and
since her homespun dress concealed her arms even on the hottest days, only perhaps the 
back of her neck and her face had become tanned form the hot sun which bore down upon 
the pioneers as they made their way across the continent towards Sacramento. Her titties were
high-perched, widely spaced apart and proudly uptilting, lovegourds embellished with narrow
dark-coral aureolae, in whose centers protruded crinkly, well-developed lovebuds. They had 
given suck to neither babe nor man, and now they were turgid as if she were in the mood for 
being fucked, but it was the cold of the wind which crept into the chinks of the bark as well as 
her own cold, numbing terror, which made them so.

Her belly was flat and smooth, adorned with a wide, shallow kissnook. Her mount of love 
was prominent, and thicketed with an almost shaggy mass of black, silky curls. Of this 
phenomenon indeed, Alberta Wilkins was almost morbidly ashamed, since she regarded that 
part of her body as "sinful" and back home she had always worn the thickest and longest 
drawers that she could find at the drygoods shop. Now, she could not even cover her bush 
with her hands, since her wrists were bound behind her back. She had rolled over onto her 
belly to hide herself, however, and in so doing she disclosed spacious ovalcheeked buttocks of
a marvelous resilience, creased very narrowly so that when she tightened her muscles the 
amber gap was almost entirely concealed.

Her back was wonderfully sculptured, and she had adorable dimples at the shoulders and 
one at the chinkbone. There was a tiny oval-shaped brown birthmark high on her left thigh 
near the inside, just below the base of the buttock. Her thighs were elegantly long and yet 
retained the gracious womanly curve so appreciated by the opposite sex when viewing a 
bedpartner on the sheets preparatory to a good hot fuck.

Her calves were high set, ripplingly muscled, sinuously shaped. Altogether, she was by far 
and certainly to a connoisseur, the most mouthwateringly fuckable of all three. To a 
sophisticated white man she would be immediately the preference, if only because of her late 
virginity, and the circumstances of that retention of her cherry.

But to be sure, Florence Jones, the youngest of the trio, whose blossoming and 
creamy-whiteskinned charms had been displayed for all to see during her thrashing at the 
wagonwheel by the now dead Benjamin Grimsby, must necessarily appeal to the savage rut of 
the virile warriors of the Puma Comanches.

Florence Jones was weeping too, because she was also a virgin and because the 
knowledge of what her late employer had tried to do to her was now magnified a thousand 
times over as a helpless captive in this squalid little tepee.

She had found herself left to the none-to-tender mercies of Cora Grimsby, who had cursed
her and upbraided her after the latter had learned of her husband's murder, saying such 
things as, "You filthy little hussy, I shouldn't be surprised to find out that you had a part in 
Benjy's death, you make out to be so innocent and you're nothing but a teasing little hussy-I 
wish to heaven he'd flayed you alive with the blacksnake that time!"

But now that Mr. Grimsby was dead too, Florence Jones was alone in the world with no 
one to care what happened to her. She did not even know if she wished to go on to California,
for she had no kith or kin, and could look forward only to be a slavey again with perhaps as 
unfortunate a choice of employers as she had with the Grimsbys.

Darlene Jenson, however, was more physical. It seemed to her that she had always been 
the victim of men. At fourteen, she had run away from her home in Mason City, Iowa because 
her drunken stepfather had tried to fuck her, and had on several previous occasions prepared 
her for that incestuous surrender by whipping her mercilessly with his heavy leather strap.

She had seen a group of ten wagons a few miles away from her stepfather's farmhouse 
moving slowly towards the west, and had on foot overtaken the last and tearfully begged 
sanctuary.

There again her luck had been the worst possible. A bearded preacher and his dour fat 
wife had grudgingly let her join them.

He had been fifty and his wife a decade younger, and she had thought to herself that here 
was a man ordained to give mercy to the unfortunate.

But Jebediah Hoskins was a fraud, and his real profession was as a medicine man who sold
bottles of health-giving elixir to the gullible in the little towns back in Ohio, Illinois and 
Indiana. He had very nearly been lynched in Galena for peddling his worthless merchandise 
when the deaconess of the Presbyterian church discovered that this man who proclaimed 
himself a minister and who also sold bottles of amber-colored liquid purporting to cure 
everything from rattlesnake bite to catarrh, had got her twelve-year-old daughter in the barn 
and fucked the girl and made her suck his prick and then warned her not to dare tell her folks 
or the earth would open up and Satan himself would drag her down to hell.

And so it wasn't long before poor Darlene found the bearded, sanctimonious and 
lecherous Jebediah Hoskins crawling into her bed while his fat wife snored only a few feet 
away, warning her that she would be consumed in fire and brimstone if she did not yield 
herself.

Finally, after about a week on the trail, the fat wife woke one night from a bad dream to 
find her husband grunting and huffing as he fucked the softly whimpering but surrendering 
girl. In a jealous fury, she had taken a skillet and lambasted first her husband till he rolled off 
the weeping, naked girl, and then she had thrashed poor Darlene and kicked her off the 
wagontrain, abandoning her thus naked somewhere in Kansas.

Darlene had spent the night in a hay-field, found some clothes on an old scarecrow and 
put them on to cover her bruised young nudity. She had gone to work as a slavey on the farm
where that scarecrow had stood. There had been two sons, aged fourteen and seventeen, an 
insolent ten-year-old daughter, a brooding, melancholy wife who rarely spoke a word and 
whose mind was to give way a year later, and the bluff, strapping husband himself who had 
come from Albany to become a farmer because he believed it was the good life and the 
healthiest one possible for his mentally ailing wife who could not endure the rigors of the city.

Darlene stayed there a year, and she was used by both the sons and the man himself. And 
then one night the mad woman rose up and with a butcher knife wounded her husband, killed
one of her sons and the insolent young daughter, and tried to stab at Darlene who ran 
shrieking out into the night. A rider carrying dispatches to Dodge City had seen her stumbling
through the fields, reined in his horse, and had given her a ride to his destination ... not 
without exacting payment by making her dismount a few miles from Dodge, take off what few
clothes she had on and let him fuck her vigorously before he again hoisted her behind him 
and left her in front of the gawdiest saloon in this den of iniquity-of gambling, gunmen and 
drunken cowboys and trailhands.

Weary of running always from one disaster to another, Darlene had shrugged her 
shoulders and fatalistically accepted her lot. She had gone to work that very night for Madam 
Caro, who had once been Caroline Smith back in Schenectady, who had been jilted at the 
church by her fickle bridegroom, and who had managed to become not only a whore but 
manager of her own "stable."

And there Darlene had worked unremittingly, sometimes taking on five or six cowboys on 
a busy Saturday night, until Max Alviss had entered her life, paid for her favors, fucked her 
quickly and then grinned at her and said, "I could use a girl like you, cutie, just to have around 
when I get horny."

And she'd laughed at him and they made some small talk, and then there had been that 
killing and the next thing she knew Max Alviss had been dragging her outside to a waiting 
horse and thence to the Mardwell train.

But even on the train, though she had not allowed him to touch her after that, she had 
been fucked by Benjamin Grimsby, who had sized her up as a dance-hall harlot, which she 
assuredly was. And now she awaited what she was certain would be violation by many men, 
probably staked out on the ground, perhaps tortured first and murdered afterwards.

There were tears on her cheeks, but there were tears because she wanted to have one 
chance before she died to tell Max Alviss that she wished he were still around. Maybe things 
would have been different if she had let him poke her every now and then along the journey.

He was more of a man than a lot she had seen on that wagontrain. People who were so 
high and mighty that they had to say that she was a whore probably never had to scratch for a
living or the next crust of bread the way she'd done. And she knew one thing more; he had 
already saved her once by killing that filthy bastard who had black-snaked poor little Flossie 
Jones, she was sure he had. He hadn't said a word to her, but then she heard from Mrs. 
Carruthers how that cruel brute had been found stabbed to death. And she knew that Max 
Alviss was handy with a knife. And there wasn't any scalp taken, so it couldn't have been an 
Indian. Well, she told herself, if she lived-and it didn't look very likely now-she'd sort of try to 
make it up to Max Alviss. He had earned the right to poke her all he wanted to and for free, 
too!

Meanwhile the Puma Comanches held their council to determine what was to be done 
with the three lovely naked white-eyed captives. Igarte, the fierce warrior, was all for having 
them fucked by every brave who could rouse his goni to ardor against the hated white-eyes. 
Mostillya, the witchdoctor, urged his chief to take one of them as wife, to have a valuable 
hostage thus against the horse soldiers.

For if the cavalry pursued them, then one of the Puma interpreters who spoke the hated 
tongue of the white devils could tell them that the nobel leader of the Pumas had taken a 
white squaw and was thus at peace ... and should the soldiers wish war upon the Pumas, they 
would endanger the life of one of their own people.

This advice was shrewd and good, and Chief Guyastano decided to take it. He ordered that
one of the women should become the camp whore, to take the place of the faithless Elora. 
And the third should be offered to all the warriors as a kind of prize for valor against the 
wagontrain, and finally put to death as a sacrifice to the war god of the tribe.

The shouts of the Comanches greeting this tripartite decision reached the ears of the 
trembling naked captives in the tepee. "Oh, goodness," Darlene Jenson muttered between 
clenched teeth, "they've made up their minds for something, you can bet your boots on that. 
Well, here's hoping they finish us off quick. But they won't, the dirty red devils!"

"Oh heaven please have mercy on us. Oh what do you think they'll do, Mrs. Alviss?" 
Alberta Wilkins whimpered in her terror and shame at being naked and bound and a captive 
for all these vicious fiends, the prim blackhaired wife of Daniel Wilkins had quickly forgotten 
her animosity towards this painted dance hall slut, whom she had wished to have tarred and 
feathered and whipped out of camp at the very outset of their long trek. Now she thought 
only of herself, and she even wished that Daniel might somehow save her.

"Better not think about it, honey," Darlene counselled in a gentle voice. She was well aware
of how Alberta Wilkins had thought about her. But now it didn't seem to matter. Nothing 
mattered much, except gritting your teeth and taking what you had to take and hoping that 
you could die quickly. Maybe if you spat in their faces, or insulted them, they'd get so mad 
they'd kill you right off. The only thing she didn't want to think about was the fire.

She could take just about anything but that. She'd heard some horrible stories back in 
Dodge of a wagontrain of settlers without enough men to defend them, going only from 
Dodge to Laramie, who had been overrun by Sioux, a renegade war party of some fifty braves 
way out of their own natural hunting grounds who had been fleeing the soldiers. They'd 
bashed the babies' heads against the spokes of the wagonwheels, they'd scalped all the 
wounded men and women, and then they'd fucked and whipped and tortured the girls and 
the women, yes, even the old women, and then finally herded them into two of the wagons 
and set fire to them, shooting arrows at those who tried to emerge from the holocaust.

"Oh can't someone help us, won't they try to find us back there from the train?" Alberta 
Wilkins whimpered.

"Don't hold your breath waiting, honey," Darlene said with a humorless little laugh. "Nope,
I figure we might just get lucky enough to be their wives. Or what they call wives, which ain't 
much better than what I used to do back in Dodge. I'll tell you one thing, if it means a couple 
of redskins poke me so I don't get my guts cut out with a hot knife or get tied to a stake and 
burned to a crisp, I'll sure let them. And the two of you better think the same way, if you've 
got any hopes at all of seeing the sun come up in the morning."

Florence Jones burst into tears, "Oh I don't want to die, I don't want to die, I haven't done 
anything, I never wanted to come on this awful trip, oh what am I going to do?"

"Don't cry like that, honey," Darlene compassionately turned to the sobbing naked young 
chestnuthaired girl. "You've probably got the best chance, you're the youngest. I don't think 
they'd kill a sweet piece of pokemeat like you. I wouldn't, if I was a man."

But at this moment the flap of the tepee was pulled aside and the chief of the Puma 
Comanches himself entered, wearing a war bonnet, his loinpouch, and moccasins, his chest 
and face painted with the red and green and yellow of the war signs. With him was the 
witchdoctor, wearing the buffalo skull atop his head in ghastly symbol, and with the forked 
stick, which now would be used as the fateful scepter of choice.

And there were three choices for these three naked white woman-violation and death by 
torture, life as concubine to the Pumas and finally marriage to the mighty Guyastano himself.

Young Florence Jones rolled over onto her belly with a cry of shame as the two Comanches
entered the tepee. Behind them came Igarte, the brawny warrior who had aspirations of 
replacing Guyastano as head of the Puma tribe. His gleaming eyes swept the shuddering 
naked bodies of these three helpless females, and his thin lips curved in a vicious smile of 
anticipation. If he were leader, all three of these white-eye squaws would at this moment be in
his wickiup, serving him and the mighty demands of his huge goni.

Guyastano studied the quivering bodies, and Alberta Wilkins whimpered as she pressed 
her titties and cunt flat against the ground to hide her shame at being naked thus. The 
witchdoctor leaned down and raked his forked stick over Alberta's creamy naked ass, and 
when she glanced back in terror over her shoulder, gestured for her to turn over.

"Oh no please, don't make me do that, oh please, I don't want to die, have mercy, don't 
hurt me!" she wailed.

"Shut your trap, you got a yellow streak a mile wide down your spine, lady," Darlene 
Jenson muttered with a sneer. And then, boldly, she rolled over onto her back and stared up 
at Guyastano. But he had eyes for Alberta Wilkins, whose lush ivory skin, whose full bottom 
cheeks, and whose heavy but wonderfully firm and beautifully contoured gourd-like titties 
fascinated him as did the thick black bush of her cunt hair. Then he murmured to the 
witchdoctor, "It is this one I would take to my blanket, oh Mostillya."

"So be it then, mighty lord of the Pumas," the witchdoctor touched each panting tittie, and
Alberta Wilkins's eyes widened in terrible apprehension, not understanding what was to be 
done with her.

"And this one," Mostillya pointed to sobbing young Florence Jones, "she shall serve our 
warriors when their gonis are swollen with the juices of life. And this one," with a 
contemptuous gesture towards Darlene Jenson, "shall be our sacrifice to the God of the 
Pumas this very night."

"You have chosen wisely, and it shall be so," Guyastano solemnly intoned. Then, turning to 
his capable lieutenant Igarte, he demanded. "Do you walk with me on this, or do you 
challenge?"

Igarte studied the cruel, determined face of his leader. The time was not yet ripe for revolt, 
though already many warriors had told him in secret that they would support him if he were 
to kill Guyastano and assume the war bonnet of chieftan of the tribe. But why should he risk 
his life now for the sake of a white-eye squaw or two? And so, lowering his eyes and with a 
fatalistic shrug, he muttered, "I walk with you, mighty Guyastano."

"Then let the ceremony of marriage begin. Have the women anoint this one," Guyastano 
said, as he pointed down at the whimpering Alberta Wilkins, "and take that young one with 
the hair that is the color of the chestnut tree to the center of the clearing of our camp. There 
she too shall have the ritual of sacrifice performed upon her, but she shall house the gonis of 
our braves between her white thighs. And this one," as he turned to gesture towards Darlene 
Jenson," she shall he beside the chestnut-haired one, and she shall first know all the warriors 
and then be put to the torture that her spirit may please our mighty Mani, who rides the 
heavens and guides our stars."

Then, turning, the chief of the Pumas strode out of the tepee, followed by the witch doctor
and Igarte. And the three trembling naked women from the Mardwell wagontrain were left to 
wonder what their fate was to be, since they understood not a word of Comanche.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The howls of sadistic anticipation and the quickened beating of the drums announced the 
emergence of Chief Guyastano from the rude tepee in which the three white-eye squaws 
awaited judgment. The leader of the Puma Comanches lifted his arms for silence and then 
declared to his people what decision had been made. First there would be a wedding 
ceremony, in which one of the squaws would be wed to him and thus cement a kind of 
guarantee that the horse soldiers of the white-eyes would not fall upon his camp and 
massacre, lest they kill one of their own. And when the camp was broken before dawn, a 
trusted courier would ride out to intercept the soldiers and tell them what had been done.

But the greatest approbation of the savages was reserved for Guyastano's announcement 
that a white-eye squaw, young and toothsome, had been chosen to replace faithless Elora and
should be the property of any warrior or even oldster who desired to thrust his mighty goni 
into her young cusu. Finally, the third of these captives would be given to violation and torture
and eventually death as sacrifice to the Puma god. She would die as Bess Corton had done, in 
the cage of the killer cat.

And when the hideous ululations had died away, Guystano gave an order, and two of the 
oldest women of the tribe hobbled to the tepee to bring forth Alberta Wilkins, the chosen 
bride of the mighty leader of the Puma Comanches.

As they bent over her, the haughty brunette wife of Captain Wilkins pressed herself 
against the earth, shrieking piteously, "Oh no, I don't want to die! Oh my goodness, don't 
touch me, oh I don't want to die!"

"Honey, wake up and get some sense," Darlene Jenson snapped, "don't you know that the 
more you show you're scared, the more fun they'll have with you. Keep your chin up and say 
your prayers, and maybe you'll get some guts to die at least bravely, seeing as how you don't 
even know how to live. Hell, I saw you back on the wagontrain with that hubby of yours, and 
the way you dangled him around your little finger, I'll bet right now you wish he were back 
here to help you."

The two women, cackling with joy to see the terror of the captive, bent and seized her, 
dragged her to her feet, and led her out between them, whimpering and sobbing in her 
mortal terror. As she saw the grimacing faces of the painted savages out in the clearing and 
then the large tepee of the chief who stood in front of it, his arms folded across his chest, 
wearing the war bonnet which designated him the Puma leader, she began to sob and plead 
brokenly for mercy.

They took no heed of this, and the two women dragged her before Guyastano and laid her
down on her face before him. Slowly he raised his moccasined foot and put it down upon her 
naked back to symbolize his acceptance of this white-eye squaw as bride and slave.

Then again the women hauled her to her feet and Mostillya intoned the words of the 
wedding ceremony which made the two one. The cachinations and the beating of the drums 
signified the end of this ceremony, and Alberta Wilkins, almost fainting in her terror, lolled in 
her bonds.

Now it was Guyastano's turn to lift her to her feet, and he stood there with an arm around 
her shoulders, his eyes feasting on the heaving turrets of her big ivory-skinned titties, on the 
thick black fleece of her cunt. His already felt his goni swell with anticipation under the 
loinpouch, and he knew with relish that when the other rituals of violation and torture and 
sacrifice to the Puma god were at an end, he would mount this white-eye squaw of his and 
plant his seed deeply within her cusu.

Now Mostillya turned towards the tepee in which Darlene and Florence waited their own 
fate, and barked out an order. The same two elderly women who had brought Alberta to their 
chief hurried back to the tepee, and emerged with Darlene Jenson. Meanwhile, the warriors, 
the old men, even the boys, and the other women had formed a double row, the terrible 
gauntlet of initiation and trial. Switches, sticks, rawhide thongs, even straps from blanketrolls 
and harnesses which had been stolen by the Comanches on their raids against the settlers, 
were brandished in the hands of the eager executioners.

Upon an order from the witch doctor, the two women cut the rawhide thong binding 
Darlene Jenson's slim ankles, but left the wrists still bound behind her back. The dance hall girl
comprehended what was to be done to her. She drew a deep breath, bravely squaring her 
shoulders, and a murmur of admiration ran through the throng who awaited her coming. 
Their eyes laved her round, closely-spaced titties, the soft, pale white skin of her quivering 
body, the thick brown patch of pussy hair and the slim, beautifully muscled thighs, as well as 
the widely and deeply creviced round ass cheeks on which the brunt of the whipping 
implements would fall.

Then the witch doctor approached the naked captive, touched her on the shoulder with 
his forked stick and in his gutteral voice, commanded, "White-eye squaw, run, run good!"

Darlene murmured a prayer for courage, took another long breath, flexed the muscles of 
her legs where the circulation had been numbed by the long sojourn in the tepee with the 
tight rawhide thongs binding her ankles. Then suddenly she dashed forward, taking those in 
the gauntlet by surprise. She had passed by three before the first switch cut wickedly across 
her right bottom, drawing a gasp and leaving an angry red line across both globes just above 
the summits.

But now, with whoops of glee and sadistic relish, they cut at her as she swiftly ran, 
clenching her shoulders instinctively. A heavy stick thudded across her shoulder blades, and 
the pain was so excruciating that she uttered a wailing cry of agony, stumbled, regained her 
footing and moved on.

The straps and switches and thongs smacked noisily against her slim, deeply hollowed 
back, over the edges of her hips, across her thighs and calves, and one whitehaired Comanche
woman, licking her lips with relish, stepped forward and cut her straight across the titties with 
a hazel switch. Daelene threw back her head and uttered a shriek of indescribable suffering, 
twisted herself this way and that, her pace slackening, but stumbling onward bravely.

She was past the middle of the line now, and her body was marked in a lascivious pattern 
of stripes and bruising splotches and livid welts. Even her belly and the insides of her thighs 
knew the excoriating torment of the switch and the thong.

Now a smirking eleven-year-old boy, egged on by his grandmother who stood beside him,
drew back his switch and cut up between Darlene Jenson's shuddering naked thighs, attaining
the tender grotto of her cunt. A maddened cry was torn from the courageous dance hall girl. 
She stumbled and fell flat on the earth, while those in the opposing rows bent down to whip 
her thighs and bottom.

Summoning all her strength, groaning and sobbing, Darlene Jenson got to her knees, 
staggered to her feet, and then in a desperate burst of energy, ran on. As she passed the end 
of the rows which faced her, sticks thudded across her back and bottom and again she fell flat,
moaning and gasping with the waves of searing pain. But the ordeal was over ... at least, that 
of the gauntlet. And there was admiration for her courage, even though they avidly awaited 
her death by torture after she had been violated.

Two braves now dragged her to her feet, and led her, stumbling, her head lolling, to the 
very end of the clearing, where four stakes had been hammered into the earth. They flung her 
down on her back, then rolled her onto her side and swiftly cut away the thongs binding her 
wrists only to spreadeagle her to the stakes with fresh rawhide bonds at wrists and ankles, 
hugely gaping her cunt till her body was taut under the light of the moon and the flickering 
camp fire. There they left her, for now it was the turn of the new camp whore.

But there was to be a ceremonial which would welcome Florence Jones as replacement for 
the beautiful Elora, and when the two old women dragged Florence out of the tepee, a howl 
of joy rose from the young warriors, who began to doff their prickpouches in anticipation of 
their sport.

At the left of Darlene Jenson, two heavy round stakes had been driven into the earth. The 
two young warriors took Florence from the old women, dragged her to these stakes, knelt her 
down, and then, after slashing the rawhide thongs around her wrists, dragged her arms out in 
a cross and bound her wrists once again to these stakes which stretched her arms to 
maximum and so thrust out in taut glory the creamy rounds of her virgin titties. They left her 
ankles bound.

Darlene, emerging from the waves of torment which attacked her naked body everywhere,
turned her head and panted, "I'll pray for you, Flossie, but don't show them that you're scared.
For heaven's sake, don't do that. I don't know what they're going to do, but I don't think 
they'll kill you. Me, I'm not so sure. Right now, I hurt so, I almost wish I was dead."

Florence had begun to whimper, tears running down her cheeks. Now the two old women 
who had taken her from the tepee moved behind her, brandishing freshly cut hazel switches, 
and Igarte, an eagle feather thrust into his toplock, approached, his prick already bobbing 
between his hairy, wirey thighs.

"Oh, what is he going to do to me-Oh gosh, Darlene, don't let him-Oh heaven-Ohhh, oh, 
that hurts so-Ohh, please don't-whip me-ahrreeeaarrrrrrrrr!"

The frantic clamor of Florence's agonized prayers for mercy were suddenly changed into 
shrill shrieks of torment as the switches whisked wickedly over her jutting creamy bottom and 
her dimpled shoulders. Again and again, the women cut at that lovely white flesh, licking their 
lips to see the angry red marks which instantly appeared on it, and Igarte, with a grunt of lust, 
knelt down, his strong fingers kneading Florence Jones' panting round titties, and thrust his 
prick agains; the dark-brown snatch of pussy hair and the delicate lips of her virgin cunt.

As her head tilted back, her eyes upturned to the moon in a rictus of agony and suffering, 
terns streaking them, Florence Jones at last gave up her cherry which she had tried to valiantly
to defend against the ferocious lust of her now dead employer, Benjamine Grimsby.

Darlene Jenson closed her eyes, praying silently. Florence Jones uttered shriek upon shriek 
as Igarte, pitilessly, jammed his prick head against the membrane of her maidenhead, until at 
last it gave away and he burrowed himself to the balls inside her tight young cunt sheath. 
Then, squeezing and pinching and slapping her heaving titties, the Comanche warrior began 
to fuck her violently, while the women still cut her buttom and thighs and back with the hazel 
switches. And as she cried out, the avid warriors among the spectators heralded her advent 
from girlhood into womanhood, announcing that the Puma Comanches had found their new 
camp whore.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Guyastano, ferociously aroused by the sight of the ordeals of Florence and Darlene, held 
up his hand and spoke in Comanche to his tribe: "Let the rituals go on, but the sacrifice will 
not take place until I have consummated my marriage to this white-eye squaw of mine."

And then, with a gloating laugh, he seized Alberta by her elbows and forced her into his 
wickiup as she cried out in horror, not knowing what was to be her fate and nearly fainting in 
terror at what she had already seen out there in the clearing.

Now Guyastano, his big prick prodding Alberta Wilkins' jouncy round ivory bottom cheeks,
his fingers like steel against her dimpled shoulders, forced her towards the blanket of mating.

"Oh don't! Oh, what are you going to do to me? Oh, heaven help me! Oh Mother, Mother, 
I don't want to die, oh please, please, don't hurt me," she cried.

His face was contemptuous as he shoved her down on her back and then, grasping his 
sharp tomahawk, began to rasp the blade against the thongs which bound her slim ankles. 
Alberta Wilkins flung back her head until the ripe column of her throat was a taut curve of 
indescribable fright, her eyes rolling to the whites, her nostrils flaring and shrinking, and the 
magnificent goblets of her titties rose and fell with turbulent frenzy. Mockingly he sawed 
through the rawhide, and then her ankles were free, but it was his will that her wrists be 
bound behind her back so that she could not by some chance seize one of the weapons lying 
about and interrupt his consummation of this marriage.

For a moment, Guyastano admired the superb body of this mature young woman, this 
bride who was still virgin, and then, keeping the tomahawk gripped in his right hand, he 
reached out and fondled one of her titties. Mad with revulsion, Alberta Wilkins twisted her 
face to one side and shrieked aloud for succor.

"Oh Daniel! Oh heaven! Oh Daniel!" And thus, even in her moment of duress, the haughty 
St. Louis beauty prayed for the very man she had so contemptuously and condescendingly 
married in order to dominate him and show her superiority.

Guyastano devoured the shrinking, bound, naked body of his prey with greedy eyes. He 
kept the tomahawk in hand to let this white-eye squaw know her first attempt at treachery or 
attack would be rewarded by death. But the aching of his swollen prick was such that he knew 
he would not kill her. She was not, in some ways, so tempting as that young girl whose hair 
was the color of the chestnut tree, yet there was a kind of challenge in this creature for him, 
for her hostility and shrinking dread towards him made all his sinews ache with rut to possess 
and tame and master her to the very fullest. Besides, if she were older, she would feel the 
more shame at being his thing, for even in the role of life, Alberta Wilkins could not hope to 
be honored in such wedlock to the renegade chief of the Pumas. She was but one step 
removed from the camp whore, Elora, in that only Guyastano-or such intimate cronies or 
trustworthy allies as he might deign to present her to-had the power to enjoy her.

But as a hated white, she was being kept as hostage to protect the Pumas from attack and 
massacre by the horse soldiers.

He laid the flat of his tomahawk against one of her round, heavy titties, remarking with 
delight at how she shrank and winced at the mere feel of the cold blade. His other hand 
fondled the tittie, and she gnawed her underlip, shrinking from the fetid smell of the buffalo 
and bear grease with which he had rubbed his body and his hair, the strong, rank smell of his 
armpits, and the reek of whiskey on his breath-for he had downed half a bottle before the 
bridal ceremony which had made him and Alberta Wilkins, pampered daughter of a St. Louis 
green-grocer, one.

On the blanket on which she lay, too, there were the smells of other women long before 
her, and the smell of dried sperm from his many tributes to the cucus of his previous mates. 
He stretched himself now over her, till she could feel his stiff, hard prick prodding her inner 
thigh, just at the groin, rasping its tip against the thick black muff of pussy hair which covered 
the plump virgin lips of her hitherto unprofaned though mature cunt hole.

"Oh merciful heaven, deliver me from this, if it be within your power! Oh Daniel, for 
heaven's sake, Daniel, save me, I don't want him to do it to me-oh, please, don't let him have 
me! I'll be dirtied for life-it'H kill me-oh, and if I should bear his brat-oh, the horror of it!" she 
wailed.

Guyastano understood but a few words, but he sensed the shrinking apprehension and 
the loathing which this beautiful white-skinned white-eye had for him. And he resolved 
fiercely to state himself upon her, to prolong this consummation so that it would be a long 
while before he appeared at the door of his tepee to signal the beginning of Darlene Jenson's 
martyrdom.

He kept squeezing and fondling the gourd of her tittie, while the cold blade of the 
tomahawk continued to press against the other love-globe. Her teeth were chattering with 
stark terror, and she had screwed up her eyes as tightly as she could to blot out the smirking 
painted face of the renegade leader of the Pumas which loomed above her.

She prayed for death, and yet, cravenly, she yearned for life. She made a thousand 
whimpering resolutions in the seething and irrational realm of her mind, all of them begging 
time to turn back, things to start over anew, her husband to be restored to her affections, and 
she berated herself for having treated him like a child and a culprit. Oh, his failures were as 
nothing to her now, if only some miracle would ensue and take her from this squalid Indian 
hut and take her back to Daniel again! Oh, how she would make it up to him for having 
denied him all these months of their marriage!

But time did not turn back Guyastano, prolonging himself by the sheer dint of his mighty 
manhood, pleasured himself by cramming his cock tip here and there, sometimes against the 
base of Alberta Wilkins' ivory rounded ass, sometimes against the insides of her thighs, 
sometimes against her belly as he arched himself up on one elbow to demonstrate his superb 
muscular skill.

In a way he performed the ritual of preening, like a rooster who parades before the hen in 
the barnyard to display its unsurpassable mastery over the other cocks. She glanced down 
once and saw the thick, gnarled, dark-veined shaft of his prick pressed against her lower 
abdomen, and she uttered a sobbing groan and turned her face away as scarlet blushes 
flooded her cheeks and forehead and as she knew at last the implacable and loathesome 
destiny to which she had come, far away from her pampered home and her devoted 
parents-yes far away even from the arms and protection of Daniel Wilkins, who had been a 
man despised and kept on ridiculous probation by this sheltered and cloistered and 
emotionally immature woman who was well past the age of mating and of childbearing.

Her thighs were straddled, and the hard dig of his knees kept them from clenching and 
covering her maidenhead cunt. Grinding his teeth, summoning all his mastery over his own 
body, Guyastano dallied with this white squaw, wanting to prolong to the very fullest degree 
of sadistic nuances his complete domination of her.

He was well aware how the white-eyes prized their squaws, and the fact that he had taken 
one of their most attractive women from this defiant wagontrain of settlers who dared to 
cross the lands ruled by the Pumas, made him the more intent upon demonstrating to the 
unfortunate Alberta Wilkins that he was not only the equal of any white-eye who might put 
his goni into her cusu, but by far the most potent and tireless.

But the warmth of her body, her frantic twists and squirmings she could not help but make
as she felt his body bear down against hers agitated all his erotic senses. The shrinking white 
flesh, so soft and immaculately clean, for Alberta Wilkins was extraordinarily fastidious even 
amid the hardy rigors of a trek hundreds of miles from home and across the continent, excited
his lust beyond measure.

Now, laying the tomahawk down on the blanket beside him, he seized her titties in both 
hands and squeezed and fondled them to his heart's content, while tears flowed down Alberta
Wilkins' cheeks, and she tilted back her head and tried by the desperate closing of her eyes to 
obliterate him and thus, like the ostrich with its head in the sand, to deny his very presence 
and his profanation of her virgin nakedness.

Then suddenly she screamed. He had abruptly decided upon a bold course, and even as 
he pinched her nipples with thumbs and forefingers, he steeled himself and arched, the tip of 
his gnarled, heavy prick actually rubbing against the thick bush which covered her cunt lips, 
forcing his way through the rubbing with rigorous assertion of what he meant to do.

"Oh no-oh, don't do that-don't ruin me-oh, for the love of stars in heaven, kill me instead-I
don't want you to do that-please-oh, Daniel, don't let him-oh please, have mercy, have mercy 
on me!"

Thus her frenzied cry of utter desolation and despair, but her ordeal had not yet even 
begun. For her frantic cry deafened the the ears of the savage and halted his savage 
impatience, and taught him, as if he were a white voluptuary, the exquisite sadistic bliss of 
holding her in dire suspense until her very flesh crawled at the knowledge and thought of 
certain fucking.

He rolled over onto his side to contemplate her. Playfully, he rubbed his bare foot against 
her naked toes, and then as playfully, rubbed the pad of his big toe against the lovely, ivory, 
satiny-skinned calf and thence to the dimpled knee. Then he put his mouth to one of her 
heavy, ripe, round titties, nuzzling it with his lips, then with his teeth, pretending to bite, until 
she shrieked and threw herself over onto her side. But this sight of her ripe, opulent bottom 
with the broadened, shadowy groove which separated those luscious ass cheeks and indicated
the way to the temple of Sodom which was her virgin asshole as well as to that pristine jewel 
of her maidenhead vithin her cunt, caught his imagination now, and playfully raising his hand, 
he brought it down with a sharp smack on the bottom globe raised uppermost toward him. 
The flesh at once turned red, and Alberta Wilkins burst into hysterical sobs, not only from the 
pain of the spank but from the ignominy of being thus dealt with by a cruel savage.

This had again inflamed him, and with both hands he took her by the hair and savagely 
pinned her on her back. Now, since her feet were not bound, Alberta Wilkins was able to 
clench her thighs and offer some defense, and this she did, as if sensing that her doom was 
near. She lifted up both knees and planted both feet on the earth just beyond the blanket. 
With an oath, Guyastano took up the tomahawk and menaced her with it, raising the weapon 
high as if to dash out her brains with it. Then, as she shrieked in terror, he tapped one of her 
kneecaps with the blunt side of the tomahawk, to indicate to her to lie perfectly flat and to 
spread those thighs for the coming of his goni.

Again she obeyed, whimpering hysterically and this time he flung himself over her and this
time he wasted no more time with dalliance.

Her wild shriek clamored out as she felt his prick head drive through the thick bush of 
pussy hair, sink inwards and bang against the door of paradise which was her virgin cherry.

Frenzied, Alberta Wilkins once again dug her heels into the edge of the blanket, trying to 
arch herself, to throw him off her body, as a restive mare might try to unhorse a rider, but he 
was too deeply implanted for that. And with another dig, he burst through the membrane 
which proclaimed her prized and proud virginity.

Then again her shriek rang out, even more deafeningly, as Guyastano smiled with joy to 
know himself the fortunate possessor of this maidenhead. It was a bounty totally unexpected, 
a bounty from the god of the Pumas and a sign of victory from the white-eyes.

He found her cunt walls tight, gripping him in a convulsive spasm at this moment of her 
maiden loss. But now his hands clenched against her bubbies, the thumb pads pressing the 
pert, crinkly nipples back into their coral halos as he completed his digging thrust which sent 
him hairs-to-hairs into passionate cohesion with this vaunted virgin bride.

Then, his beard thudding, his lips twisted in a rictus of victorious pleasure, Guyastano 
began to fuck Alberta Wilkins with masterful deep lunges which made her jerk and buck upon 
the blanket. She wrenched at her wrists, but he had crushed her down with her wrists under 
her, and the thongs were too tight to be freed.

Nor did it matter now that her legs were free, because he was planted between them and 
she could do no more than dig her heels into the blanket, scuffling it as her body throbbed 
with the pain of maiden loss.

There was blood as well upon the blanket, proof to him that he had really taken the 
maidenhead of this white-eye squaw's cusu with his coni. And he could feel the tightening 
clasps of her cunt walls as he waited there, merged with her, so that she could not move 
without feeling his ramrod crammed to the hilt inside of her tight love sheath.

Then again, feeling his spunk bubble up in him as from a deep well summoned by an 
incantation or a magic wand, Guyastano hastened his pronging of Alberta Wilkins' cunt. 
Pitilessly he crammed her, and her moans and sobs and tears only served to kindle new fires 
of merciless lust withing his being. Her head began to turn back and forth and her eyes 
opened now, rolling to the whites, nostrils flaring and shrinking, as inchoate sobs and 
incoherent, babbling words escaped her trembling, parted lips. Then suddenly with a bellow 
of joy, Guyastano felt himself explode, and all his torrential gism spurted into Alberta Wilkins' 
churning womb.

He drew himself out, staring down with a bold, fierce pride to see his cock greasied and 
bloodied, a true proof that no man before him had entered the cusu of this delicious 
white-eye squaw. Alberta, promptly twisting over onto one side, burst into helpless tears. He 
could see again the upturned bottom cheek, with the faint red print-splotch of his hand upon 
the fair skin, and this restored his lust, for he was by no means finished with glutting himself 
over his helpless prey.

Outside he could hear the cries and groans and sobs and prayers of the two captives 
being fucked by his warriors, being switched and prodded and poked and tormented by the 
squaws and the children. He grinned savagely. It was good. Then he moved to the other side 
of the tepee, rummaged under blanket to find the half-empty bottle of whiskey, uncorked it, 
tilted it to his lips and swigged down a goodly draught, before corking it and tossing it aside. 
Smacking his lips with gusto, he then smote himself upon the belly, and turned back to stare 
greedily at the sobbing, helpless woman on his blanket.

Her fingers were clawing at the rawhide thong, as poor Alberta Wilkins tried to free herself.
But with a shout he rushed to her, set her down upon her back again, and then playfully 
slapped one of her bubbies till it jiggled and jounced. Finding this new game delightful, he 
amused himself with spanking her titties with both hands, until she wailed and pleaded with 
him to stop, for the excruciating pain began to agonize her.

But this game served to invigorate his prick, again becoming menacingly turgid. Glancing 
down at himself, he grinned again, and then he flung himself once more over the shuddering 
body of his new white bride. This time his cock thrust easily in, and with the same single lunge 
was hilted inside her lovesheath. Then, reaching under her to find her plump, opulent bottom 
globes, he began to fuck her. But this time, it was in a more leisurely gait, while she groaned 
and squirmed and begged him to have mercy and to stop.

But she could not know that within her body, the long-suppressed desires of the flesh 
were rising now as tides summoned by the moon. She, who had denied even the sight of her 
naked charms to the sight of her husband for nine long months, now felt a Comanche chiefs 
hard rutting prick begin to waken the innermost and uttermost emotions within her being.

She, who had looked with disdain upon Darlene Jensen as a cheap slut, now began to 
experience the tingling presentiment of pussy passion, induced by a rigid male prick that was 
not even her husband's, but that of a savage of the plains. This was annihilating to her. As she 
closed her eyes, ground her teeth and tried to make herself small and inert under him, he 
fucked away with long, slower thrusts.

His hands found the widening groove of her ass cheeks, and she felt a fingertip prod her 
dainty bung. Her eyes widened and her face twisted in horror and shame, as she tried to 
wriggle herself away from that prodding invasion of the most intimate spot of her entire body.

But he was far too concentrated in fucking her, measuring his digs, feeling her writhe and 
jerk under him, to care what she did at this moment. Slowly and fiercely he bladed her, and 
there began the quivering, titillating surge of response deep in her womb for this virile savage
who had taken the most prized possession of her body in rending her cherry and the emblem 
of her austere and aloof untouchability.

Now again his finger prodded her asshole, but this time thrust inside. Even as he did so, 
she uttered a shriek of horror and despair and tearfully begged him to desist from that 
abominable caress, he quickened his fucking thrusts within her, until Alberta Wilkins arched 
and squirmed under him, uncontrollably taken over by the turbulent sensations now surging 
inside her ravaged cunt hole.

And then once again, as he felt himself nearing climax, Guyastano buried his face against 
her heaving titties, tightened his grip on her throbbing ass cheeks, and fucked her with long, 
hard, rapid digs that brought her to the pitch beyond all the heroic self-denial that she sought
to match against his loathesome violation.

Her head lifted, her eyes humid, very wide, unseeing, then fell back. Her titties rose and fell
in erratic rhythm, and her toes clawed the air as he continued his relentless friction inside her 
quaking quim, and then suddenly she uttered a sobbing groan: "Oh my goodness, I can't help 
it-Oh Daniel, forgive me-forgive your helpless wife-ahrrrr!"

This time it was she who, caught up in the holocaust, was carried away by lust like a straw 
in a whirlpool. She wriggled and squirmed, arched and jerked, and she felt her belly and inner 
thighs quiver and go molten with lust.

She felt the tight sheath of her cunt contract around his digging cock and then blackness 
surged over her and she heard her own shrill cry, not knowing that her body arched under 
him and then glued tightly to him, as she felt the stab of his sperm splashing her quaking 
cunt.

And this to him was the most glorious symbol of all, the proof that he was truly master of 
this white-eyed squaw, and not only the first to take her cherry but also first to teach her the 
response of the female to her male overlord. Again he pulled out of her and stood, staggering
and panting, his gleaming eyes surveying her squirming nakedness.

There were marks on her titties where he had slapped them, profaning her white skin and 
yet making it more exciting to his gaze. Then he squatted down, running his hands over her 
hips and belly, fondling her titties, and then at last rolling her onto her belly so that he might 
squeeze the plump satiny cushions of her voluptuous whiteskinned ass.

Moaning with shame, Alberta Wilkins did not struggle. Visions of death-for she could still 
see that gleaming tomahawk lying alonside of her-enforced her submission and overcame her
loathing. Playfully again he raised his hand and brought it down with a noisy smack on the 
ripest curve of one of her ass cheeks and then on the other, and then raising both hands, he 
began to spank Alberta Wilkins with both palms.

It was humiliating and it was also painful. Soon she was tilting back her head and sobbing 
for mercy, promising to do whatever he wished, if only he would let her alone.

And again this sport restored his manhood. And this time, roiling her over onto her back, 
he again got over her and thrust his rigid prick home to the hilt with an easy stroke. Then, 
slipping his hands under her ass cheeks, grabbing hold of them, Guyastano began to fuck his 
new bride with a rapacity that stunned and dazed the young woman, who was still weak from 
this unwanted and unexpected response to her savage ravisher's fuck-friction.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

As Chief Guyastano exultantly bellowed out his joy at having taken the cherry of his 
beautiful white-eye bride, Alberta Wilkins, an answering cry rose from the Comanches out in 
the clearing near the campfire. It meant that soon they would be able to continue their ghastly
rituals of violation and torture, with death reserved for Darlene Jenson, whom the witch 
doctor had decreed was to be sacrificed to the mighty god of the Pumas as a propitiatory 
offering to win his protection in the coming battle against the blue-clad horse soldiers.

But Guyastano was in no hurry to slake his lust on the ivory body of the struggling, 
whimpering Alberta Wilkins. The triumphant joy of having taken her cherry and of finding her 
thus virgin was an unexpected bounty from his gods, he believed. And thus he must prove 
himself grateful and worthy of this token of their acceptance of his reign over his tribe by 
proving to the white-eye squaw that he was the most virile of all the Puma warriors. And so 
pitilessly, heeding not at all her plaints and whimpered prayers and agonized entreaties in 
which she even called upon her disdained husband for salvation, he kept her on the blanket 
with her wrists still bound behind her, wafting the tomahawk above her contorted face to 
warn her that the least resistance might mean death.

The witch doctor had already given orders and now lovely young Florence Jones had been
tugged out beside Darlene, wrists and ankles hugely straddled and thonged with rawhide to 
the short stakes driven into the earth. The younger girl, crushed by the shame of losing her 
cherry to Igarte, her bottom and back and thighs cruelly smarting from the switching which 
the old Indian women had laid on while he had ravished her, sobbed pathetically, and Darlene
tried her best to comfort the girl: "Oh come on, kid, the worst is over. For sure they won't kill 
you. That guy who had you, he must be one of the big chiefs of this outfit. If he'd wanted you 
to die, he'd have killed you right after he had you. But me, I'm still not so sure. So I'll say a 
prayer for both of us. Just keep your chin up, Flossie."

"But I'm so ashamed-oh Mrs. Alviss, it was so awful when he-when he did it to me. He-tore
me-and he hurt me bad. I know I'm bleeding-oh I wish I'd never come along with the 
Grimsbys. I knew it would all end up badly just like this," the chestnut-haired girl sobbed.

The moon shone down on these two naked young bodies, though Darlene's was marked 
the most spectacularly from her having run the gauntlet. Her beautiful, pale-whiteskinned 
titties were marked with livid and darkening lines from the switch, as was her belly and the 
insides of her tender thighs.

But now a dozen warriors, their pricks stiff with longing, clad in only their moccasins, 
moved in a single file before her. Lifting her head, she understood only too well what was to 
be done with her. And now another line of braves moved to face the terrified and whimpering 
younger girl, who also lifted her head and uttered a shriek, "Oh no, not all of them! Oh, I'd 
rather be killed, oh please kill me, kill me quick!"

"Shut up," Darlene panted. "Listen, Flo, take it from me, I used to work in a saloon in 
Dodge. The only difference was that I got some dough and drinks out of spreading my legs 
for a guy, and there were nights when I had a lot of guys who wanted to shag me. Makes no 
difference now 'cepting I don't rightly guess they'll pay me for their fun. And they look pretty 
husky so they're going to give me a real hoorawing. But you're younger and you can take it. 
Just close your eyes and pretend that nothing's happening, and say your prayers.

"But for heaven's sake, don't let them catch on that you're scared. Those crazy woman, 
they're the worst, they'll torture you just to hear you yell. Oh, oh, I guess the time for talking's 
over. Here they come!"

For already two braves had flung themselves down on their knees, one before each naked 
and sprawled and straddled captive, and a mature, barrelchested Comanche smacked his lips 
as he ran his hands over Florence Jones's shaking, yawningly pinioned creamy thighs, while 
the unfortunate young girl twisted her face to one side and closed her eyes as tightly as she 
could, mumbling prayers to heaven to sustain her or at least to take her swiftly and not have 
this odium prolonged.

Her first ravisher was swift and brutal. Stretching himself out over the quivering, 
whimpering girl, his fingertips dug into her mossy armpits, and his heavy prick prodded the 
yawning pink lips, on which the dried blood of her maiden loss could still be seen. For a 
moment poor Florence tried to escape this ultimate degradation by squirming her naked hips 
this way and that, to the amusement of the other warriors and the old women who watched 
so feverishly.

They called out derisive and obscene encouragements: "Ho, Tecumway, can you not thread
the needle? Does the fish elude your mighty hook? You, who have the scalps of so many 
white-eyes hanging from your tepee, are you to be bested by so young a squaw who has only 
once been bloodied?"

At last, with a growl of frustrated anger, Tecumway managed to insert his prick head just 
inside the yawning outer lips of Florence's soft cunt. The girl uttered a piercing cry of shame 
and anguish, and then began to weep convulsively, as the Comanche lunged forward and 
imbedded himself to his brutal, heavy hilt.

Once planted, he began to fuck her with savage rapidity, making her body jerk and twist 
uncontrollably as her face turned helplessly from side to side, her lips trembling pitiably, her 
nostrils flaring and shrinking.

But Darlene was enduring her own first violation, for a young brave had crammed his cock 
to the balls inside of her in a single prodding lunge, and now was pinching and slapping her 
heaving, switch-marked titties as he had his way with her.

She bit her lips at the chafing hurt his rapid fucking caused her tender cunt sheath, and 
then a moment later uttered a groan as she felt his bubbling lava lash the walls of her love 
canal. Florence too knew the odium of feeling her ravisher's spunk splash deeply inside her 
womb, and her weeping grew louder and more piteous as he drew himself out and pounded 
his chest in triumph, then made way for the next in line.

Already Darlene's second ravisher adjusted himself over her, grabbed her again by the 
titties, and, his face screwed up with concentration, crammed his prick, leaner and seemingly 
longer, into her gism-stickied pussy. Grinding her teeth, till they could see the muscles of her 
jaws stand out against her sweating skin, the dance-hall girl endured what she needs must 
and without complaint. But the warriors with Florence Jones, finding her younger and fleshier 
at thighs and bottom and titties, added to her shame and anguish by pinching and tweaking, 
one of them by gouging a forefinger into her virgin asshole and working it back and forth as 
he crammed his cock in and out of her dripping quim. From the tepee of Guyastano, cries and
sobs and groans were heard, those of Alberta Wilkins who was enduring another violent 
fucking from the virile and insatiable chief of the Pumas.

Captain Peter Lattimer had made a decision. He had tracked the wiley Guyastano for many
days and nights, and he had taken what little provisions the Mardwell wagontrain could spare.
If he waited till dawn, the Comanches might be far away and beyond his reach. He could not 
hope to replenish his food supplies in a long and questionable pursuit.

And his knowledge of Indian habits led him to believe that this renegade tribe, with their 
three white women captives, would have made camp somewhere in a camouflaged place of 
hiding where they might pause to enjoy the spoils of their triumph.

He knew that the men of Guyastano were particularly lecherous in their treatment of white
women captives. And he believed that by setting forth now with all his men he might overtake
them and surprise them at their horrid orgies.

He turned to his chief aide, First Lieutenant Amos Doughton. "Amos, it's a long chance, 
but I'm going to take it. I'd like to put an end to that Comanche bastard's life once and for all. 
If we could get him, chances are we could stop one of the big sources of profit for all these 
yellow-bellied Comancheros who make their money selling guns and whiskey and don't give a
damn how many of their own white women and children are killed by these murdering 
redskins."

"I'm with you, Captain. I'd like to see some action myself. Maybe we can take a couple of 
Injun squaws and hooraw them a little to make up for what Guyastano's done."

"I don't like that kind of talk, Amos. We've got orders, we're in the United States Cavalry, 
and we act like soldiers and gentlemen."

"Don't give me that, Pete, you and I've done enough soldiering together to know that the 
rules don't work out here on the plains. Let's get going."

And so the contingent of cavalry set out in the direction where the scouts had told them 
Guyastano had last been seen, moving quietly but surely through the night to find the hidden 
camp of the Puma Comanches.

It was nearly dawn, and at last Guyastano emerged from his tepee, smirking with his joy of 
conquest, while inside, sobbing with shame, her body bruised, stickied with his copious 
gism-drenching, Alberta Wilkins lay on this rumpled blanket, having known at last what it was 
to be vigorously fucked and plowed by a dominant male.

And the name on her lips was that of her own husband Daniel, and the prayer in her heart 
was that it could have been him who had done this to her and made her body respond 
against her own prudish will!

By the time Guyastano reached the clearing where the two naked young women were 
staked out, Florence and Darlene had each endured the fuckings of no fewer than twenty 
savages. The Indian women revived them both now with buckets of water sloshed over them, 
by stinging their titties and even their cunt holes with hazel switches, prodding the tips 
against their armpits and against their tender inner thighs. Florence Jones opened her eyes 
and whimpered, "Oh isn't it over yet? Oh my goodness, I want to die, I feel so bad I want to 
die!"

"It's over for you," Darlene said huskily, her welted, streaked, bruised and finger-marked 
titties seething as she fought for breath, "but I think my number's up. They've got a torture 
stake over there, and they're looking my way. Say a prayer for me, little Flossie, and good luck 
to you. Hey, one thing more, if by a miracle you ever get out of this, and you get back to the 
train, look up my husband-it's Max Alviss, you know-tell him-well, just tell him I wish to hell I'd
been nicer to him. That'll do, I guess. Goodbye, kid, they're coming for me now."

They were indeed. Four braves ran forward toward the stakes to which Darlene was tied, 
cut the rawhide thongs and lifted her up, carried her by arms and legs between them towards 
the torture stake where Mostillya presided, a necklace of rattlesnake rattles and puma claws 
dangling round his scrawny neck, and on his head the hollowed-out buffalo skull with its 
horns to symbolize the good hunting which the Puma Comanches had once enjoyed before 
the advent of the settlers.

He gestured with his forced stick to the stake, and the braves hastened the trembling, 
hardly conscious Darlene Jenson towards it. They stood her against the round pole which 
reached just above her head, drew her arms behind her back and round the pole and tied 
them at wrists and then again at elbows with new thongs.

Then they squatted and thonged her ankles even more tightly. More wood was flung onto 
the campfire near her, to illumine the horrid scene. The women and children crowded round 
to watch the torture-death of a hated white-eye. Even Guyastano approached, folding his 
arms across his chest, his war bonnet once again resumed, but his prick limp from all its 
tributes to Alberta Wilkins' tight and now unvirgined cunt.

Mostillya turned back to his chief, his eyes questioning. Guyastano nodded. With a cackle 
of joy, the witch doctor pressed his forked stick against Darlene Jenson's matted cunt hair, 
stickied with the gism of her many ravagers. A howl of joy rose from the crowd of spectators, 
all of whom yearned to administer some ' cruel torment before the spirit of this detested 
white-eye should be taken from her.

Then Mostillya nodded, the sign for the torture to begin. A young warrior ran forward with
a firebrand plucked from the campfire, held it towards one of the naked dance hall girl's 
welted titties, and her eyes widened as she stared at the leaping flame at the end of that 
charred stick, then pressed herself back against the round pole with all her might, whimpering.
For now death by fire, the most hideous of all possible torture deaths, appeared to be her lot, 
and even her brave courage began to waiver in its face. But this was only the start, for her 
death would not be hastened. The warrior laughed, spat in her face and moved aside.

Another warrior from the other side of the crowd ran forward with a flaming stick, to 
describe an arc near her cunt, though not touching her, then he too passed beyond her. She 
began to tremble as with ague, and her body was suddenly flooded with agony-sweat.

Gathering all her strength, she spat into the witch doctor's face, praying that the insult 
would make him kill her quickly. But he only grimaced with anger, made another sign with his 
forked stick, and an old woman hobbled out of the crowd, lowered a hazel switch into the 
campfire until the end caught fire, and then came forward. Drawing back her arm, she slashed 
Darlene diagonally, from left tittie down to belly, and the sting and the burn cumulated to 
draw forth a harrowing shriek of intense and indescribable agony as Darlene Jenson flung 
back her head, thumping it against the round stake, writhing in her bones.

An answering howl of glee greeted this first sign of anguish from the condemned captive. 
Now another old woman, with a blunted spear, prodded the flesh of Darlene's inner thighs, 
then the navel, and pressed home until a tiny spot of blood followed the retreat of the 
spearhead. A warrior lowered his spear to the campfire, heating the blade, and then came 
forward and pressed the flat of it against Darlene's naked left side. Once again her body 
convulsively twisted and jerked, and a maddened, hoarse shout of unspeakable suffering was 
wrenched from her.

And once again this proof of suffering was greeted by the howls and jeers of the 
Conanches who lusted for her blood.

Now there was a pause, while poor Florence Jones lifted her head and stared at her 
companion, praying aloud for mercy for Darlene. Some of the women were dipping spruce 
slivers into a cauldron of heated oil, to be driven under her toenails or into her soft calves and 
thighs and breasts.

One of them came forward now with such a sliver, and Guyastano nodded. Cackling her 
joy, the whitehaired woman advanced and cupped Darlene's right tittie in her gnarled, bony 
hand as she advanced the splinter toward the aureolae. Darlene closed her eyes and began to 
whimper.

And just then there was a shot, the woman crumpled in front of the stake and lay sprawled
in death. And then there were more shots, and Igarte, who had been standing nearby with a 
tomahawk he had let heat in the fire, ready to press against Darlene's belly, dropped the 
weapon, clutched at his belly, and pitched forward onto the ground.

The troops of Captain Peter Lattimer had surrounded the encampment, and now a volley 
from every side cut down the startled Comanches. Guyastano leaped toward his tepee to find 
his repeating rifle, but just as he reached the entrance, he stiffened, his eyes rolled, and he 
sprawled dead from a bullet in the brain.

The murderous career of the renegade tribe of Puma Comanches was at an end. And so 
was the suffering of three women from the Mardwell train, yet their lives had been indelibly 
altered.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The main body of Captain Peter Lattimer's cavalry pursued the fleeing Comanches in a 
mopping-up operation that virtually decimated the renegade tribe. The witch doctor himself 
was felled by a saber in the hands of Private Bill Mullins. He and his crony Gerton, though 
technically under arrest and facing court-martial when they returned to Fort Sill for the 
murder of Elora, were needed here out in the plains as fighting men against the savage 
Indians.

And Captain Lattimer thought to himself that perhaps both men, who had had their wives 
tortured and ravished, then put to death mercilessly by these same Puma Comanches, could 
very well plead extenuating circumstances, even temporary madness.

He knew they were both good fighting men and what court-martial officer, learning of the 
hideous death accorded their wives, could really find it in his heart to punish them for having 
taken vengeance into their own hands and committing it upon the body of, after all, a female 
Comanche?

He swung himself now into his saddle, gesturing to his bugler to sound attack as they 
would pursue those who had survived the surprise ambush. For most of the remaining 
Comanches had hurried to their ponies, swung themselves astride, and were galloping off 
towards the northeast in a futile effort to outdistance the avenging horse soldiers. With the 
death of their leader and the witch doctor, their morale was shattered.

But first Captain Amos Doughton remained behind, a revolver in his hand, directing 
operations of the forty or more troopers who had dismounted and were searching for the 
tepees abandoned by the Comanches. The women and children were not harmed, but they 
were herded to the very end of the camp and far opposite the clearing in which the two naked
ravaged young women lay.

At his command, two troopers carefully and tenderly cut the bonds around Darlene 
Jenson's wrists and ankles, and carried her from the torture stake to one of the empty tepees 
and laid her gently on the blanket. A sobbing cry from a tepee nearby drew their attention 
and, after covering her with a blanket, they hurried to the next tepee where they found 
Alberta Wilkins, lying naked and with her wrists still bound behind her, her black puss bush 
coated with the sticky spunk of the chief of the Pumas.

"Oh, don't look-oh for heaven's sake, cover me, cover me! I'm Alberta Wilkins, back in the 
wagontrain! I want my husband back with me! Oh please!" she wailed.

"Hush now, ma'am," one of the troopers muttered, glancing at his companion. "It's all over
now. You'll have your man to comfort you. Now don't fret so. Captain Lattimer'll see you're 
back safe and sound, once he's finished wiping out those murdering bastards-begging your 
pardon, ma'am!"

Amos Doughton stared down at the luscious creamy body of young Florence Jones. She 
was conscious now, and she stared up at him with widened eyes. Then she blushed violently 
and turned away, murmuring, "Oh please, you mustn't look at me now. They've done awful 
things-oh please!"

"You poor girl! Good thing we got here. Were they going to kill you?"

"I-I don't think so. Mrs. Alviss-that's the woman you just took into that hut there-she said 
they'd just use me all the time-but they were going to kill her."

"The murdering red devils! We'll get them all, don't you worry any," Captain Amos 
Doughton said grimly. But he couldn't help looking at Florence Jones's lovely titties, her round
thighs, the gaping pink lips of her chaffed cunt hole, and he felt a strange stirring in his crotch,
the kind he hadn't had in longer than he cared to remember. He'd always thought women 
were bitches, but here was one who'd been done badly by those red bastards. It wasn't her 
fault she was like this.

"Who are you anyhow, Miss?" he said as he took off his uniform coat and laid it over her 
titties and belly. "I'll get you back to the camp as soon as my men are done here, so just take it
easy. But who are you-please tell me."

"Florence-Florence Jones-I-I belonged to the Grimsbys. I was an orphan and they took me 
in and I worked for them. They were going to California. Somebody killed Mr. Grimsby on the 
train, and then-and then the Injuns got me-" she faltered faintly.

"Poor little bitch! You've had a helluva life. You'd have been better off staying in the 
orphanage," he said with a rough laugh that hid his rising emotions. He couldn't help looking 
at her cunt and those nice firm young thighs of hers. They'd switched her and poked at her 
and marked her up some, but she was still alive and a luscious morsel. He felt his prick harden 
with a sudden lust.

"You know, Florence," he went on in what he tried to make a casual tone, "I could do 
better for you. A soldier has a pretty lonely life, especially out at Fort Sill. When you get all 
fixed up, how would you like working for me? I mean, mending and sewing. Why, hell, I could 
even marry you! 'Course I wouldn't expect you to care any for me but-"

To his surprise, Florence Jones had begun to cry. No one had spoken to her so kindly in all 
her life. And she didn't even mind being naked before this brooding, black haired man in the 
soldier's uniform. She had a feeling he was awfully lonely too, and maybe he'd been an 
orphan before. He had the Army, though, and she didn't have anything, not now, not ever.

"Now wait a minute, it can't be that bad," he tried to joke. "Oh hell, stop crying, girl!"

"But-but I'm not-I mean-it's awful that you have to see me this way. I've got nowhere to 
go and I don't want to go to Sacramento with Mrs. Grimsby-" she stammered, turning scarlet 
to her hair roots.

"Then it's settled. Directly we get back to Fort Sill, Flor honey, I'll put in with the captain to 
hitch us up. Maybe I can make you forget being an orphan and what happened here. It's 
going to do me good, too."

"You're awfully nice. But-but if you're going to marry me, I ought to know your name."

"It's Amos-Amos Doughton. Well manage. Gee, but you're built, Flossie girl!"

"If-if you want to-want to look at me-I don't think I'd mind so much. You're awfully nice," 
she blushingly whispered.

It was indeed a strange dialogue of proposal to be carried out at dawn near the Oklahoma
border after a night of ruthless violation, but Amos Doughton felt the nameless urge of 
passion and desire for her own person and not a selfish despoilage of it.

She uttered a groan, her head began to roll from side to side as she jerked at her bonds, 
as he began to fuck her with long, stabbing digs. She had been wakened, too, by the repeated
fuckings of her Indian captors, virgin though she was. And suddenly her body arched and 
thrilled and quivered as his prick head rubbed her dainty clitoris, and she twisted in agony and
murmured, "Oh Amos, Amos-now-it's so good-oh, I'm so glad-so glad you saved me from 
them-oh, it's going to be so nice for us-I'll make you a good wife-oh Amos, hurry-oh Amos!"

* * *

It was nightfall now and the wagontrain had camped near the Texoma River. They had put 
perhaps twenty miles behind them and that site where they had been ambushed by 
Guyastano and his braves.

Florence Jones sat beside Jacob Mardwell, who was gently telling her how her employer, 
Mrs. Cora Grimsby, had died during the Indian attack.

"You're welcome to come along with me, girl," he said compassionately. "Maybe my 
brother will grub stake you. You've had one helluva time. But everything turned out well, 
thank heaven."

"That's awfully nice of you, Mr. Mardwell, but I don't think III be going on to California. 
There's an officer-his name's Amos-he-he as much as said maybe we'd get hitched as soon as 
he gets back to Fort Sill. He said he'd come back after he got leave and catch up with the train
and see me safe and well, Mr. Mardwell," Florence Jones confided, blushing prettily.

In Max Alviss' wagon, Darlene Jenson lay, weary but smiling. The stocky driver had made a 
great fuss over her when the troopers brought her back from the torture stake of the 
Comanches. He had ordered them about as if they were children, telling them to go easy with 
her in laying her down on the blanket. He'd made some coffee and brought it to her, made 
some corncake and brought that to her with a bit of jerky meat. He'd growled with anger 
when he'd seen her hurt, and his face had turned livid when she told him she had thought she
was a goner when they fastened her to that torture stake. He'd been all for taking a horse and 
going off by himself to find the rest of those murdering fiends and tearing them apart with his
bare hands.

"I don't want you to do, husband, not ever again," she murmured.

"What was that you said, Darlene honey?"

"You heard me plain as day, Max Alviss. Oh sure, we've been calling each other that but I'd 
sort of got used to the idea."

"Do you think maybe we could find a preacher before we get to California who could hitch
us up and make it real legal-like?" he smiled.

"Hell, Max, you don't have to do that. You've done more than any guy could do-like you 
killed Benjamin Grimsby for me-"

"How th' hell-"

"Shhhh! Never mind how I know. You did that for me when you knew you might get 
yourself hanged. You're more of a man than anybody else in this wagon train, and I'd be a 
plumb damn fool if I didn't latch onto you the first chance I got. And seeing as how you're 
already calling me Mrs. Alviss, I don't think I want to give up the name 
ever."-"Darlene-you-you-"

"Oh, for heavens's sake, Max honey. Quit simpering at me like a dying calf and come over 
here and give me a good hard kiss and a hug. And if you feel like it, maybe you could shag me
a little. They didn't do me up too bad, and if I can take all those Comanches, I can sure as hell 
take on a sweet guy like you. Especially one that I'm in love with."

"Oh darling, it's so good-oh Darlene!" Max Alviss's voice broke. He crawled under the 
blanket and found her ready and naked for him, and her thighs made way for him as his prick 
thrust gently into her cunt. Then her arms and legs wrapped around him and she joined him 
in the union that had been forged out of agony and terror and near-death

* * *

"Daniel," Alberta Wilkins' voice was very timid and little-girlish, "I'm so sorry, Daniel. Do 
you think you can find it in me to forgive me?"

"Sure, Berta. But you shut up now and go to sleep. You've been through a helluva time. I'm
sure glad you're back now, though."

"You know something, Daniel?"

"What's that, Berta?"

"I-when they-when they were doing all those things to me-I wished-I wished it had been 
you. I've been a b-bitch, Daniel. I don't know if you want to go on being my husband, but I'd 
sure be proud and honored if you would."

"Do you really mean that, honey?" he turned to her, his eyes wide and shining.

She nodded. "I never wanted anything so much in my life. But you know what?"

"What, baby?" He was beside her now, in just his drawers and a blanket around his 
shoulders for the chill night air as she lay under her blanket at the back of the wagon.

"I ought to get a good sound fan-tailing for being so naughty to you. Here we've been 
married nine months, and a dirty Indian had to go and take what should have been yours. If 
you kicked me out of this wagon right now and turned me back over to the Indians, Daniel, I 
wouldn't blame you."

"Don't talk like that, honey. You know I wouldn't do a thing like that."

"I know. But you ought to spank my bottom right now. I'd feel an awful lot better if you 
would."

Daniel Wilkins grinned and Alberta pulled the blanket up closer and blushed. But when he 
bent over and pulled the blanket away, she didn't try to cover up her bubbies or her titties, 
but lay there blushing violently, with her eyes demurely lowered, as he drank in the sight of 
her voluptuous white-skinned nakedness to his fill.

And then he rolled her over onto his lap, pressed his left hand down on her back, and 
began to spank her bottom lightly with the flat of his hand. She squealed and kicked 
delightedly, and looked back with loving eyes at this man of hers.

So much so, in fact, that a few minutes after the spanking she allowed him the very first 
fuck he had ever had of her in nine months of marriage. Her arms locked around him, her 
thighs around his bottom, her head tilted back in joy as she arched and squirmed and 
wriggled while she felt his hard, stiff prick work back and forth in her cunt, waking her to a 
new life of bliss.

Darlene and Max themselves employed connubial discipline after they had had their first 
enjoyment of each other. Darlene also felt contrite, and ruefully said she thought she deserved
a good sound spanking for having kept poor Max dangling at her fingertips so long.

And so, playfully, grinning at his lovely wife-to-be, the stocky driver held the naked dance 
hall girl over his lap and resoundingly spanked her naked bottom as she kicked her legs and 
squealed, until she finally begged, "Oh, you've got me so hot, oh fuck me now, Max-I want 
you so!" And Max Alviss didn't ignore her plea, as her groans of joy soon attested.

And the wagon train slept that night, but there were new problems to be reckoned with. 
The prisoners had survived the Indian attack, but they still had to get to Sacramento. For 
Alberta Wilkins and Darlene Jenson, it really didn't matter at all how long it took. As for 
Florence Jones, she could hardly wait until that handsome Amos Doughton claimed her.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The next day was hot and rugged-nothing unusual for pioneers used to "roughing" it all 
the way across the country. They all knew they had much more in store for them than they'd 
ever imagined, but there was nothing about their constitutions that would prevent them from 
reaching their goals.

Darlene and Max certainly had enough energy to keep the whole wagon train going, as far
as that was concerned. Their sex-sessions together were something that renovated their 
strength, so to speak. The days on the prairie, driving the horses through the rough terrain, 
couldn't destroy the energy they felt for one another.

A couple of days after the wagon train had pulled safely away from the Indian territory, 
and the danger they had all faced, Max's wagon was stopped under some bushes. The horses 
were grazing in some nearby pastureland, and Max and Darlene were sitting near one of the 
wagon wheels, watching the sun set.

"It's beautiful, Max," Darlene whispered out into the darkening silence of the night. All she 
could hear was the murmuring voices of the other pioneers, settling down, and the occasional 
lowing and neighing of the cattle and horses. It was a quiet she always enjoyed.

"It is," answered Max, but his mind was on something else. He turned towards Darlene, 
and looked at the smooth, full forms of her body, etched out in the twilight of the evening.

"You're more beautiful than the sunset," he said to her, reaching out to touch the rounded 
flesh of her right breast, poking seductively at the material of her flimsy dress.

"Now, Max, can't you enjoy anything without getting involved in sex?"

"No," answered Max. "Why should I?"

He reached his hand further out and took hold of some of the flesh of Darlene's breast. 
Between his fingers he molded the shape of the soft, pliant, warm breast, and rubbed his 
thumb into the cleavage.

The valley between her breasts was warm, slightly wet with perspiration from her own 
growing excitement, for even though she had chastised Max on his comments, she herself felt 
the growing need for his touch, his passion, his manhood.

She turned to him and touched his face with her own hard-working, but soft hands.

"Oh, baby, you know I was just kidding," she smiled at him with the winning kind of grin 
that always melted him down to a mass of pulpy flesh.

"Don't get so smooth with me, baby," he said to her. "You know I don't like to be so soft 
with my women."

"I didn't ask you to be soft, Max," smiled Darlene. "I just thought I'd humor you for a bit."

Max twisted his body suddenly, and pressed his face down hard on Darlene's, mashing his 
hard, hot lips on hers and rubbing his stubbly beard into her wind-blown face.

Darlene responded readily to the forceful, imposing method Max had of introducing the 
beginning of their sex for the evening. She, too, twisted her body into a rather uncomfortable 
position just to let one of her arms reach around Max's shoulders.

"Oh, baby," she moaned, pushing her breasts into the man's strong, broad, heavy chest. 
"Oh, baby, hold me tighter."

Max would have held her tighter even if she hadn't asked for it, but in any case, he 
grabbed her around the back and squeezed her own small body into his.

She let out a cry of joyful pain, and thrust her breasts up again, pressing them harder into 
the body of the man she adored. Her hips, even in their twisted position, gyrated slightly as 
her sexual arousal continued to grow.

Under the strength of Max's arms and pushing face, she could barely move. She cried out 
to him in a mumbling voice. "Mmmm!" She struggled to get the words out of her throat.

Max just pressed harder, not letting Darlene move for one instant. His mouth was opened 
wide, and his teeth bit out at Darlene's tongue. He stuffed his own tongue fully into her 
mouth, canvassing the wide open areas of her orifice.

He found the liquid receptacle a thrilling place in which to excite himself, and used his 
tongue to probe into its depths.

He lifted his face for a moment from the battered one of Darlene.

"Oh, baby, you are really something!" he whispered to her passionately, pushing her 
dripping wet hair aside from her face.

"I know!" laughed Darlene, lifting her face away from Max's prying hands. "Do you think I'd
be no good after all the experience I've had?"

"Hell, no, baby," replied Max. "I was just complimenting you on your continuing good 
service!"

Darlene laughed, and turned her body into a comfortable position, so that she was 
stretched out alongside Max. Down the length of her thighs, and around the curving of her 
belly, she could feel the warmth of Max's body circulating into her own, as if through osmosis.

She couldn't help squeezing her thighs together to feel the heat that was growing in her 
own cunt. She ached for Max, and she knew it. But he wasn't moving. When would he act? she
thought desperately to herself. If she made the move first, he might not like it, and she would 
get beaten to a pulp before he fucked her.

She just wasn't ready for that at the moment, and so Darlene continued to press her thighs
together, waiting for Max to make the move.

Finally he did. In a sudden movement, he rolled over on top of her body and pressed his 
groin into her own.

Thrashing his hips crazily, he tumbled back and forth on top of her, his prick raging inside 
his pants, aching to get out and do its business.

In a movement just as sudden as the first, Max tore himself off Darlene's body and stood 
up, tearing at his pants and shirt.

Darlene had enough presence of mind to get up and rip off her dress, too, and as she did, 
she cast it off to one side of the wagon, uncaring about where it fell. All she wanted was her 
man, fully and passionately.

As she lay back on the ground, Max fell down upon her, the whole length of his body 
crashing into her own.

"Oh, shit!" she grunted, feeling the force of his strength crushing into her softer flesh. "Oh, 
Max!" she cried out.

But Max didn't care. As a matter-of-fact, he liked it that way-it made him feel like a man. 
Being a man was all that really mattered to him, after all, and his toughness as a pioneer 
always carried over into his toughness as a lover.

His mouth opened again and bit down on Darlene's vulnerable flesh. His teeth gnashed 
into her breasts, almost tearing at the red, hard nipples that erected themselves up at his face.

"Oh shit!" screamed Darlene, twisting wildly underneath his body. "Oh, Max, let me go! Let 
me go!

But of course Max wouldn't let her go. He couldn't, and he didn't want to. Nothing, 
absolutely nothing, would prevent him from fulfilling himself inside this piece of wanton, 
womanly flesh. Nothing could make him stop.

And of course, Darlene didn't want him to stop. It was the furthest thing from her mind. 
She screamed in the exquisite agony of her pain, the joyful hurt she found in her relationship 
with Max.

Her body writhed beneath his, and with her own heated, sopping cunt, she searched out 
Max's prick.

"That's it, baby," he murmured to her, taking his mouth off her breasts for just a moment. 
"That's it, baby."

Darlene's thighs opened and reached around Max's body. It seemed hotter and more 
eager than it had ever seemed before, and Darlene herself seemed more anxious. Moans and 
groans emanated from her throat, and she manipulated her arms around Max's body so they 
could reach up and down his back, and push him down on her even harder.

Her cunt finally opened, and his pecker jabbed down inside of it, quickly and with a terrible
thrust. The skin on the tool tightened and throbbed against the squeezing walls of her cunt, 
and he pounded down on her, anxiously and passionately.

Darlene moaned out in ecstasy. It didn't matter to her how much pain she felt, because the
happiness was so much greater. Her hips writhed wildly against Max's until she felt the 
passion of her orgasm burst through her body, and the force of his own come filling her cunt 
with warmth.

Then they lay still together, and listened to the sounds of the night.

Florence lay on her back trying to doze, but she couldn't get the thoughts of Amos out of 
her head. She thought of his long fat cock and his strong muscular arms, and felt herself 
getting very hot.

Every time she heard the sound of someone walking past her wagon her heart leaped into 
her mouth. If only he would come tonight, she thought.

She could not sleep. She stripped down naked and lay under the soft, warm covers. The 
material felt very nice against her exposed nipples. She closed her eyes and imagined Amos 
under the warm covers next to her, feeling up her tits with his hairy hands and rubbing his 
hard cock along her white thighs.

She lay in bed for a long time before starting to doze. A tear rolled down her face as she 
thought of Amos.

All at once she heard a loud sound outside the wagon. She bolted up in the bed and saw 
Amos climbing into the wagon, pack on his back.

"Oh, Amos," she cried. "I can't believe it."

"What's the matter?" he asked.

"I want you so much," she said.

Amos threw his pack down on the floor of the wagon.

"I want you too, Florence," he said. "Right now."

"Fuck me, Amos," she said.

She threw back the covers of the bed to expose her nude body to Amos's feasting eyes. 
Her tits swelled on her chest. Her bush glistened with sweat between her smooth white thighs.
Her hair hung lightly over her shoulders.

Florence spread her legs, parting the lips of her cunt to reveal her pink clit wet with 
moisture.

Amos ripped off his shirt, exposing his hairy chest and his strong muscular arms. He 
peeled down his pants and toosed his drawers on the floor. He stood next to the bed, looking 
down at her nude body, his hard cock throbbing for her.

"Amos, now," she said. "Fuck me, fuck me now."

Amos dove onto the bed and embraced Florence. He felt the warmth of her nude body 
against his, and the smoothness of her thigh against his stiff rod.

Florence kissed Amos hard on the lips, shooting her tongue deep into his mouth. Amos 
held her tight, his tongue intertwining with hers in the confines of their wet mouths.

Amos caressed her on the neck, kissing her once on her white ear lobes, then moved down
over her soft neck and licked her full round tits with the tip of his tongue.

Florence pushed her tits together with her hands to drive them into Amos' mouth. He 
sucked on one, pulling it into his hot mouth, then tickled her nipple with the tip of his nimble 
tongue.

Florence was breathing hard and loud as she pushed his head down over her belly. He 
licked her navel, then spread apart her thighs with his warm hands and dove into her bush, 
licking along the length of her cunt.

Florence moaned loudly as she felt his tongue worm into her cunt and tickle the tender 
flesh of her clit. Amos sucked hard on her cunt, tasting the juices and feeling the heat of her 
body in his probing mouth.

Florence held Amos's head tight in her crotch as he sucked, her chest heaving. Amos 
rammed a finger into Florence's asshole, working it up with slow deliberate thrusts.

Florence twisted her body on the bed and dove between his hairy legs. She licked his balls 
with her wet tongue, leaving them glistening in the faint light of the wagon.

Florence licked along the length of his cock, caressing the head gently. Amos began to 
moan.

She took his balls in her hand and squeezed them softly, sending bolts of pleasure 
through Amos's body. She licked his head, stroking the long vein-imbedded staff.

Amos sucked hard on her cunt, ramming his finger in and out of her tight asshole. She 
swiveled her hips in time with his thrusts and circled them slowly under his snaking tongue.

Florence took his cock in her hand and slid it into her mouth. Amos could feel her tongue 
circling his cock as she went down to the root.

Florence sucked hard on his long cock, tickling his balls with her fingers. He could feel the 
heat of her mouth and throat on his swollen rod, and the wetness of her tongue on the staff. 
She went down and then back to the head, licking the tender red ball with the tip of her 
tongue before plunging back down to the root.

Florence felt herself rising to a mighty climax. She could feel Amos's rod throbbing in her 
mouth. She pulled away from him fast and released his pulsing cock just before they entered 
their climax.

Florence returned t j the head of the bed and pulled Amos's warm body onto hers. He 
kissed her on the lips and shot his tongue into her mouth.

Florence felt the weight of Amos's body on hers and the heat of his hands against her tits. 
She felt his cock probing for her cunt, and spread her legs wider.

She reached down and took Amos's thick rod in her hands, guiding him into her spread 
cunt.

Amos felt his cock sliding smoothly into the warmth of her cunt. He thrust in hard, then 
pulled back. His cock was wet with the juices of Florence's hot cunt.

She pumped up with her hips slapping them against Amos's as he thrust down hard. The 
sound of their skin slapping filled the room, mingling with the loud moaning of Florence and 
Amos's heavy breath.

Amos caressed her on the neck as he drove his cock deep into her wet cunt. He could hear
the sound of his rod slicing through the juices of her cunt.

Florence pumped back to meet his incoming cock. She felt the thick rod tearing and 
sliding through her cunt as she soared towards her climax.

Amos pumped furiously into her hole. His balls swung under his rod freely, slapping 
against the sides of his leg. He could feel the come rising into the staff of his cock as he drove 
it deep into the wetness.

Florence crushed Amos's body against hers, pushing him down on the bed. She could feel 
the muscles in his back tensing each time he thrust.

Amos embraced her, sliding his arms under her white body and pulling her up towards his 
as he drove home his long cock. They kissed hard on the lips.

Amos moaned loudly and Florence screamed like a bird as they entered their climax. Amos
pumped like mad, sliding his cock into her cunt in quick hard thrusts as she pumped back with
her hips to meet his cock.

Amos felt his cock swell and then shoot his come deep into the warmth of her cunt in long
hot spurts. He still pumped furiously as Florence peaked, feeling her trembling and quaking 
under him.

The girl screamed and flailed Amos's back as she reached her climax, kicking wildly as she 
felt Amos's hot juice spurting into her cunt.

When they had finished they slowed to a stop, still locked in an embrace. Amos kissed her 
on the cheek.

"That was great," he said.

"It sure was," she agreed.

Amos felt his cock limp in the wetness of her cunt. "That was one of the best fucks I ever 
got," he said.

"Yeah, I can't remember a fuck like that," she replied.

Amos withdrew his wet cock and sat on the bed. Florence bent over and took the rod in 
her hands, licking off the come with her tongue.

When she had licked it clean, she sat next to him on the bed. He bent down and licked out
her wet cunt, until it too was almost dry.

They kissed again.

"I don't think I'm going to leave you again," he said.

"I don't want you to," she replied. "The two of us will go west together," he said, getting up
off the bed and standing by the back of the wagon.

"I'd like that," she said. "We'll have a good time."

Amos stood by the open back of the wagon. His body was silhouetted against the 
moonlight outside.

Florence stood up next to him by the back. Her nude body glistened in the light.

"It won't be long now," Amos said, staring out at the black sky imbedded with stars. The 
plain stretched out before them as far as they could see.

"No, it won't be long now," Florence said.

They embraced in the door of the wagon, clutching their warm nude bodies against one 
another, feeling the cool air blowing through the opening. Just outside the wagon lay the 
long road west.


THE END
