Half-breed WARNING: Extreme violence, this is a historical tale of a young woman of two worlds but each of them spurn her. She grows up hard and fast as a half-breed. There is a lot of gun play and killing. If torture of humans offends you do not read this story. If the word Squaw offends you find another story to read. Not much sex in this one. It dose allude to lesbian loving. It is more of a western story set in the Oklahoma territory 1860's through 1890's. Gray Feather had been on her own since the tender age of 12 when her white father got killed in a crooked game of five card stud down in Amarillo Texas where he was buying guns for the tribe. Her mother a slave taken by the Pawnee had died when the girl was only six of small pox. The Cherokee woman had contracted the deadly illness from an intentionally contaminated blanket given out by the US government as an early form of germ warfare. The hard life the half-breed had led left her tough skinned and self-reliant. The sun had darkened her skin and stole it of the softness the ladies of privilege strove so hard to maintain. Her teeth were stained a dark brown from the tobacco she was addicted to and the lack of any real dental hygiene. Her idea of mouthwash was a shot of rye followed by a beer. When Gray Feather was a little girl her nose was broken several times as she had to fight to stay alive in the harsh life on the edges of the Indian camp. The Pawnee treated her as a non-human since she was the daughter of a slave. She was to her mother's people, the Cherokee, white by law and not a true human being. The whites just called her Indian squaw. The tribe tolerated her because her father was a rum and gun runner that provided goods the US Government tried to keep out of the Pawnee's hands. However once her father was killed she was driven out of the village, and his lodge was burned. She snuck back into the village and stole a rifle, an old Colt .36 CAL cap and ball revolver, and a good strong pony. She slit the side of a teepee and took a catch of pemmican. During the summer the Indians dried Saskatoon berries as well as meat. When the chokecherries were ripe the band assembled at some convenient spot to make pemmican. The women beat strips of dry-meat(a hollow log, up-ended, and bound with a thong of rawhide to prevent splitting served as a container) with stone pounding implements until it was almost like powder. The mass was mixed with melted fat in a bark trough, then packed very tightly into skin bags, and sewed up so that no air could enter, folding the skin over until no air remained in the bag. Saskatoons and chokecherries pounded up, pits and all added to the flavor, if not the digestibility. Some women, as in any society were very clean and careful when preparing food, and some were not. A well-known good pemmican-maker commanded a higher price as a bride. "Sweet" pemmican was made by cracking the big animal bones and boiling them with water. The melted fat came to the top, and when congealed, was used for mixing. Also the paunch or stomach of the animal was used as a container. People who are horrified by this idea should remember that until a very few years ago sausage casings were made from the cleaned intestines of pigs or lambs. If kept dry, pemmican would remain good for years. Even today, many native people embarking on long trips into remote areas make a supply, for it is one of the most concentrated foods known to man. It will sustain life indefinitely and needs no refrigeration. She hunted the fat bastard gambler that had shot her father for a year before she caught up with him in Oklahoma. She whored herself out to him. She cut his throat when he took the child to his bed. She still had his dried and eviscerated cock in a black leather pouch tied to her counting token. Gray Feather kept alive by selling her body to drunken men in cow towns that did not have a lot of women to choose from. She turned 16 and had enough of spreading her legs for men that would more often than not give her a beating rather than the two bits she charged for her services. Now if she bedded anyone it was another whore. She was laying with a mulatto whore in the dusty town of San Anglo when a drunken cowboy kicked in the door looking for his favorite prostitute. He was enraged seeing the nigger whore with a half breed Indian. He pulled Gray Feather off the bed and hit her breaking her nose yet again. She kicked him in the nuts and when he bent over she bit off his left ear. The fight moved down the hallway as the two fought and rolled on the floor. She got ahold of a broken banister and clubbed the larger man. Gray Feather got away from him and ran nude back to the room she was in. She retrieved her Colt .36 wheel gun from her clothes on the floor by the bed. She turned as saw the cowpoke rush at her with a drawn knife. She shot him in the head and he staggered out the door and fell over the railing on to a poker table below. This disrupted the game and spilled a lot of good whiskey. Gray Feather tossed on her cloths and kissed the whore and then crashed out the window and tumbled on a stack of hay at the rear of the saloon. She mounted her pony and got the hell out of town for she was not going to put her trust in the law. The half breed knew that if she lingered in Texas she would soon dance at the end of a rope. She hooked up with a cattle drive that was short handed and willing to take on the tough young half breed. She rode tail eating the dust the 3,000 head kicked up. She had to push the straggles to keep up with sea of brown that grazed their way north to the railhead and slaughter houses of Kansas City. It was dark when she pushed the small herd of old and sickly cattle to the main herd. She knocked the trail dust off her and went to the chuck wagon to get a supper of beans and beef with some hard tack biscuits washed down with bitter hot black coffee. She smelled as bad as the fucking cattle did and her sour disposition stove off any amorous advances by the horny cow punchers. She made the drive to Kansas City and parted ways with the drovers. She used her pay to purchase a new Remington Model 1875 chambered in 44 Remington Center fire. It held six rounds and was a single action which meant the hammer had to cocked and then the trigger pulled to let it fall on the brass cartage firing the lead bullet out the barrel. She got a used holster at a livery stable for a silver dollar. Her Model 1875 had a shorter 5-3/4 inch barrel. This cut down on the gun's accuracy at anything over 50 feet, but it came out of the holster faster and most gunfights were done under 40 feet. She shot up the rest of her pay practicing her quick draw and discharge of the black wheel gun. Gray Feather got as fast as a rattler and was just as deadly. She was walking back into Kansas City after a round of busting bottles with her gun down at the town dump when three drunken dudes from back east blocked her path. "Hay Injun, where did you steal that gun? Fucking redskin whore! Give us some squaw pussy bitch!" the big dumb Pollack said as he rushed at her. Gray Feather's Remington spat lead and in three heartbeats three men lay dead in the street. She grabbed a Pinto tied to a rail next to the express office and rode hell bent for leather out of Missouri. Her counting token now bore seven large knots. She ran through the badlands and rode with a band of renegade Oglala under Pawnee Killer as they fought a losing war with the 7th US Calvary. In 1875, the regiment also escorted a railroad survey of the Yellowstone River valley. This expedition brought the regiment into constant conflict with Native American raiding parties. Custer, contrary to popular belief, was a peace-loving man. He did everything possible to prevent war during his frontier campaigns. Custer repeatedly requested authorization to share surplus food and grain with the Native Americans under the jurisdiction of the Standing Rock Indian Agency, but was denied permission by the Department of the Interior, which controlled the Indian agencies. The cavalry, on the other hand, was under the War Department, and thus, had no recourse. Typically, the federal government had broken every treaty it had made with the Indians. Food, supplies, and weapons that had been promised to Native Americans were instead sold for gold to the settlers. The government promised these goods to the Native Americans if the latter would peacefully remain on reserved lands. What few supplies that actually were sold to the Native Americans were at unreasonable prices. Flour and grain sent to the agencies were often mixed with sand; meat was often unfit for human consumption. Given the Native Americans' traditionally nomadic lifestyle and the poor living conditions, it was no surprise that they migrated. In his conduct of the "Cleaning House Campaign" against the Indian agents, Custer found one of the worst culprits in President Ulysses S. Grant's brother Orville. Abuse, cheating, and dishonesty ran rampant amongst the Indian agents who were supposed to uphold treaties and act as liaisons among the Native Americans and the federal government. Indian agents, who were appointed, often paid bribes to secure their position. President Grant relieved Custer of his command in April 1876 for the latter's sin of speaking the uncomfortable truth about Orville Grant and the Indian agents. Meanwhile, the regiment had been in combat and had made its name as the finest horse cavalrymen on the frontier. Gray Feather escaped with her life and a US Army pony she took from an Osage scout. Her counting token now sported 19 men killed. She drifted south to the Oklahoma Territory. The rain came down in sheets turning the red trail dust into a morass of mud that tired both horse and rider. She rode into Tulsa and saw the glided sign for the Lucky Boy Saloon and found a spot for her horse. The half breed tied her gray gelding to the split rail and loosened her pistol in its' holster. She saw a young cow poke stumble out of the Bar and lean against a cedar post. "Hay Half-breed, you kind ain't welcome here. Everyone knows an Injun squaw can't hold her firewater. White man's whiskey no good for red devil." dirty saddle tramp said as he leaned against the post holding up the wooden awning in front of the Lucky Boy Saloon. His black cotton jacket was unbuttoned and the butt of his Colt wheel gun rode high in his belt. Gray Feather looked at the young drifter and saw that he had been drinking rotgut rye. His eyes were bloodshot and he stank of stale booze and cheep tobacco. His un-gloved hand shook as he leered at her. She stepped away from her unshod pony and onto the boardwalk facing the drunken bastard 20 feet away. "Look you stupid Mick either use that big iron or get the fuck out of my way." the half Cherokee young woman said as she spat her chewing tobacco into the muddy street. "Fucken' squaw I will learn you a thing or two!" the drunken cowhand yelled as he made a play for the pistol in his belt. His hand had just touched the smooth wood of the gun when Gray Feather's Remington .44 spat flame and lead. The 350 gr. soft lead bullet slammed into his chest and threw him back into the muck of the street. He looked up into the gray sky as rain fell on his face. He coughed and dark red blood welled up out of his mouth for his lungs were filling quickly with his blood. "Fucken' squaw done killed me." he said in astonishment as his life drained out of his body and soaked into the red clay mud of the Oklahoma Territory. "Anyone else got a problem with me getting a fucking drink?" the wild young woman said as she spun the heavy Remington in her right hand and then slammed it home in the worn black leather holster slung on her wide hips. "No ma'am, not me. I seen it all. It was a fair fight. That cowpoke he drew down first. Shit I never seen anyone throw steel like you did. Holy shit did you see that?" a sodbuster dressed in denim pants by Levi Strauss said as he stood over the now dead cowpoke. "Well someone go get Marshall Hill. She has gone and killed Johnny Kencade. Someone has to ride out to the Flying K ranch and tell Sam Kencade that his no count drunken son finally pissed off the wrong pistolero. Ma'am I will be needing your iron. Just until the Marshall gets old Judge Butler to hold a hearing on the shooting. It will be self defense you got six good wittiness that saw him throw down on you." Sam Cook the owner of the Lucky Boy said as he reached out for the heavy Remington. "No fucking way. I may give my six gun to the law but until then she says right here on my hip. Now can I get my fucking whiskey? It is thirsty work killing a motherfucker." The dark skinned 20 year old woman said as she pulled a plug of chewing tobacco from her pouch and sliced off a chunk with a long Bowie fighting knife that she wore on her left hip. She had her long black hair done into two dirty long braids that hung to her hips. The gun slinger wore Cherokee deer skin moccasins that came up to her calf. She had Union field pants cut from wool over her legs and wore a gingham checked shirt under her horse blanket poncho. Her Bowie knife lived there on her hip. A battered ill-shaped black Stetson felt hat sat on her head. "Just try and not kill anybody else OK?" Sam said as he turned and swept his arm pointing toward the entrance to his dance hall saloon. The woman walked past the man she had just killed and tied another knot on the braided horse hair counting token that hung from her neck. The new knot marked an even 20 kills. "So long as they don't rile me." the killer said as she pushed through the swinging double doors. The Lucky Boy had been built with dark mahogany imported from the Spanish colony in the Philippines. A bar 40 feet long ran across the back of the main room. A brass pipe ran along the bottom of the paneled bar about a foot off the floor. There was a plate glass mirror on the wall behind the bar. Above the mirror hung lithograph prints of bawdy full figured painted ladies bent over to expose their assets. The center of the bar held a painting of the superstar of her day Miss Lilly Langtry a former British citizen who had affaires with English royalty. She was a society beauty who became the semi-official mistress to the Prince of Wales, Queen Victoria's son Albert Edward ("Bertie"), the future king Edward VII. She had a long career as a stage personality. Gray Feather walked pass the farmers and store clerks and would be professional gamblers. They had come to the front at the sound of gun play to see the show. There was a mummer going through the crowded bar that the shooter was a woman and a half breed. Such talk quickly died off when she walked by them to the bar. "Whiskey bar keep, two fingers of your good rye, none of that rot gut shit. Find me a good bottle and leave it." she said as she dug in her coyote skin tote bag and tossed a gold double eagle on the bar. Double eagles were so named because the largest U.S.. coin until the time of the California gold rush was a $10 face value (about ½ troy ounce) gold Eagle. When Congress in 1849 authorized the large $20 gold piece to coin efficiently the bonanza of gold coming from the California gold fields, it naturally came to be called the `double' eagle. "Hell gal you are going to fucking drink all month?" the bartender asked as Cowboys made $25-$40 per month plus room & board in the 1870's. A shot of decent whiskey was 50 cents. "I'ill be needing a room for a week, a bath, a steak rare, that bottle of rye, and a whore. But not in that order." the tough talking, hard drinking, and fast gun said. "Coming right up. Which one of the whores you fancy ma'am?" the bar keep said as he pointed to the six well used "dance hall girls" standing around a black piano player. He reached behind the bar and pulled a brass key off a hook to room eight on the second floor and pushed it across the polished dark mahogany wood. "I reckon the one with the biggest tits. I like big tits." the killer said as she knocked back another shot of rye." "That would be Lilly then. She is a bit long in the tooth but she is an easy ride." the bartender said as wiped a stain from the figured wood. " Hill! You got to come quick. A half-breed done gone and kelt Johnny Kencade. She shot him dead quicker than shit. He called her a fucking squaw and then drew down on her. She was out of leather and back again before he hit the mud. I ain't never seen nothing like it. The breed be at the Lucky Boy now marshal. She be taking a room there." the sodbuster said as he shook his head. "You don't say? Well I wondered what damned fool was discharging a firearm in the city limits. Round up the witness and see if you can raise old Judge Butler. I reckon that he will be dead drunk and laying up at Red's place. I will go to take a look at Johnny and pick up this killing squaw. Johnny was a fast gun, that was when he was not in to the bottle. But then now a days, that wasn't't often. His daddy is going to be fit to be tied. He'ill want to hang the cunt for sure." The bent old man said as he spit a wad of tobacco juice at the brass spittoon in the corner of the office. He missed as was the norm as was evident by the stained floorboards. "Sure thing Marshall, I get old Judge Butler and round up them what seen her shoot the lad. You what to hold court down a Red's or at the Lucky Boy?" the farmer asked as the old man strapped on his Colt Peace Maker. He had not fired a shot in anger since the Civil War. "Well might as well use the Lucky Boy since that is where the deed went down." he said as he put on his vest with his tin star proclaiming him the law in this part of Oklahoma. He crossed the muddy street and saw that old Doc Baker had Johnny on a flat cart and had his two nigger helpers pushing it down the his office/funeral parlor. "Hay Doc, looks like poor old Johnny is having a bad day. What you make the cause of death, besides stupidity?" the old law man asked as he spit into the red mud as his feet. "Hay Ben, I would say it was a single gunshot in the chest. Bullet went in center of his rib cage and blew a hole in his heart. The lead came out his back taking a chunk the size of your fist with it. His gun was part way out but he did get off a shot. No need to perform an autopsy, save the county two dollars that way. I'ill put him on ice till his paw comes and fetches him. You know he will be coming hell bent for leather with his men. If I was you I would have the trial in the next half hour and send that killer squaw on her merry way. If not there will be hell to pay." Doc Baker said as he scratched his balding head. "You got that right Doc. Just why the hell did I take this fucking tin star?" Marshall Hill asked as he knocked some of the sticky red mud off his boots on the boardwalk in front of the Lucky Boy saloon. "Hell Hill, it was to get rich off the $47.50 the town shits out each month. That and to have the privilege of my sterling company." the old Doc said with a grin as he followed the cart carrying the dead cowboy. "That would be true if they did not charge me $20.00 a month for rent on that shack the Mayor call a house." the lawman said as he spit again into the rutted main street. Hill pushed the swinging door open and stepped into the Lucky Boy. He saw about a dozen of Tulsa's finest ne'er-do-wells clustered around a short ugly half-breed at the bar. The lawman hiked up his belt over his potbelly and squared himself to confront the young killer. "Hay, you the one that shot Johnny Kencade?" he said as he pushed through the small crowd of men at the bar. "Yea, I shot the fucker. The dumb bastard called me a fucking squaw and threw down on me. So I killed him, end of story." Gray Feather said as she took a long swig of the amber liquor from the bottle. "That is what I have heard. Look here Ma'am you will have to hand over your wheel gun so we can have the trial. I got that dumb Pollock Waslaskie fetching the Judge now. So hand it over and we can get on with it. You can be on your pony and out of town before noon. You will be on your horse and showing its' back side to the town for you cannot stay here. Johnny's old man will come ridding hard and shoot the shit out of my town to get to you. I can't have that so fucking hand over the iron now please." he said as he reached out his hand. "Shit, I was looking to get a fucking bath, a good steak, another bottle, and some pussy. But my mother did not raise a fucking fool." she said as she drew her Remington and handed it butt first to the old lawman. "It's fucking raining so you can get your bath on the trail, there ain't no good steaks in this joint, you can take the fucking bottle with you, and you would just get the clap from these whores darling." Hill said as he spit at a brass spittoon and missed. "Hell, Bar keep give me back my double eagle." she said as she tossed two bits on the bar. "Hay that bottle of rye don't cost no two bits, its two dollars." the bartender said as he dug her gold coin out of the cash box. "Shit Charley, let the women have the bottle she has gone and gotten rid of a pain in our asses so it is the least we can do." the lawman said as he grabbed a glass off the bar and led the woman to an empty table. "Here sit, and give an old man a shot of courage for I am going to need it when old Kencade rides into town." he said to the gunslinger. "Sure. How long you been a law man?" she asked not really interested in his answer but felt the need to make some kind of conversation with the man. "Let's see, shit it's been 40 fucking years since I pinned on a star. Fuck it seems like twice that long. Getting old ain't all it's cracked up to be darling. Here's to better fucking days." he said as he lifted his glass in a toast to the young ugly killer. "Fuck yea, to better fucking days" she said as she knocked down another shot of rye. Waslaskie came back with the Judge and three men that saw the shooting. The old man was dressed in a pair of dirty black pants and a long-john top. He did not look very happy to be out of bed and in a bar without a drink in his hand. "Fuck Hill, can't the trial wait till I sober up some? I got a fucking headache that won't quit." he said as he grabbed the bottle of rye and took a long pull on it. "No it can't. You know that Kencade will come to shoot up the town to get the woman that killed his halfwit son. So fucking pick a jury of 12 fine Tulsa men and get on with it. She is not guilty she done shot him in self defense." the lawman said as he poured another shot for himself. "Hay you 12 men, there are 12 of them arn't there? Raise your right fucking hands and be sworn in as jurist. You all swear to listen to the fucking evidence in this case and give a fair judgment here? If so say fucking I do." the old man said as he pulled the bottle from the lawman's hand and took another pull on it. The men mumbled there I do's. and the judge banged the bottle on the poker table.All right then who saw the deed go down?" he asked as he looked at the sorry crowd in the saloon. "I did Judge. Old Johnny he was in his cups and old Sam here the tossed Johnny out for busting up the place. Then the squaw, I mean this here woman come to get a drink and Johnny he got mean with her and smart mouthed her some and then the dumb fucker drew down on her. She shot him dead as shit as fast as you can fart. Johnny he fell in the mud and said "Fuck she done killed me." Then he died.That is what happened for sure." Waslaskie said pointing to Gray Feather. OK then, anybody else see something different? No, good. What is your fucking name woman?" he asked as he took another shot of rye killing the bottle. "Gray Feather." she said as she shook her head. "Good, What say the jury? And be quick about it. The fucking bottle is empty." he said as he held the dead bottle up for the bartender to see and fetch him another. "Well hell we all seen it. Not guilty by self fucking defense." a not too drunk Swede said. "Not guilty it is then. Case dismissed now get me a fucking bottle of Jack. Feather Gray you are free to get the hell out town. If I were you I would do that post haste." the now inebriated Judge said. "It is Gray Feather. I will as soon as I get my pistol back." she said as she took the heavy gun and slid it into the holster riding on her hip. "What ever just get going. Ride hard and long for old Kencade is a stubborn man." the Judge said as he popped the cork on another bottle of whiskey "Gray Feather I have to make that official. For the good order and peace of the town of Tulsa you are hereby given notice to be out of town in the next five minutes or sooner. Good luck and ride hard." the old Marshall said as he joined the Judge in a shot of whiskey. "I will need some supplies if I am going to take to the badlands. Where is the mercantile?" she asked as she went to the bar and took a bottle of Old Granddad Rye off the shelf. "Just down Dodge street. The Pollock will show you. Do not come back to Oklahoma." he said as he planed to get real fucking drunk. " I make my own luck with this." she said as she patted her big iron on her hip. The half breed left the saloon and followed the farmer down the street to the dry goods store. She spent most of the cash she had and left the store with enough goods to see her through a year of life in the Bad Lands. The woman had enough gold to buy a pack mule and the tack for the brown beast. The colored boy at the stable helped her load her supplies and she rode out of town. Gray Feather did not push her pony or the mule as she did not want to have one of them come up lame. She rode through the low rolling hills that were covered with stunted Cedar trees and clumps of woody brush. The sky stayed a lead gray and it felt like rain. The wind picked up and the gray skies turned black and then green as a major storm moved across the Oklahoma hills. The clouds opened up and a cold rain came down in sheets driven by a wild wind. Gray Feather rode towards an out cropping of red sandstone that offered some shelter from the gathering storm. Lightning ripped the black and boiling skies and she had a hard time seeing three feet in front of her face. She reckoned that this qualified as a fucking bath. She dismounted and walked the animals into a clearing under a sandstone ledge. The high out cropping of red sandstone blocked the worst of the wind and rain. She decided to make camp here as going on in the raging storm was madness. Gray Feather tied the pony and the mule to the trunk of a tree and removed the saddle from her pony. She took off the canvas pack cover that also doubled as a one man tent from the mule. She unloaded her supplies and setup the tent and her bedroll. Gray Feather had a cold camp that night not wanting to start a fire as it would have been difficult to get one going much less keep it going in the driving wind and rain. She ate some hard tack biscuits and beef jerky washed down with a shot of rye. She tended to the animals and then hit the sack to sleep out the storm. The wind stopped blowing around five in the morning and the rain let up around seven. The high wind and knocked down a few trees and she had a hard time getting out of the fallen timber. The sun was high in the blue sky by the time she had broken camp and worked her way out of tangled downed trees. She rode on the north side of a ridge that ran more or less east to west. She could have made better time on the trail on the south side of the ridge but if there were anyone following her she would be harder to spot. The sun was sinking into the west and the sky was a riot of red and pink clouds. She smiled and recalled on of her father's favorite saying. "red sky at night hunter's delight, red sky at morning hunter take warning." The land slowly ran out of hills and ridges as she rode west. The countryside was now low rolling rises cut now and then by creeks and dry washes. The trees got smaller and further apart. The soil was red clay mixed with sand that supported only hardy scrub brush and tough clumps of dry yellow grasses. The summer sun quickly burned off the moisture from yesterday's storm. Muddy red water rushed through normally dry cuts and ate at the banks washing more red clay into the stream. She came to a now swiftly flowing river. The woman saw the bloated carcass of a small Mule Dear drift down stream. The mule would have nothing to do with the rushing water. No matter how much she pulled on his halter the stubborn animal would not enter the river. She swore and was forced to follow the river north in hops of finding a suitable forging point. "God Damn you Hill! You just fucking let that squaw ride out of town after she killed my boy?" Sam Kencade yelled as he grabbed the old lawman by the collar of his leather vest. "Sam, I had to. She shot him in self-defense. Hell six men him draw down on her first. That was after he had made an ass of himself in the Lucky Boy. Fuck you know how hot headed the boy was. He was drunk and spoiling for a fight. He just picked the wrong bitch to fuck with. We had a trial and old Judge Butler and 12 men found her not guilty. Hell man just let it go. There nothing good out of tracking her down and killing her." the marshal said trying to reason with the enraged man. "Fuck that, she killed him and I will have her ass dancing on the end of a short rope or fucking know the reason why. Give me that fucking tin star. You are fucking fired, get your shit packed up and be out of town by sundown or I will so help me blow your rotten head off." the rancher yelled as he ripped the star off of Hill's vest and stormed out of the office. "Well fuck you Sam, I'am tired of taking your shit. I have quit better jobs than this." the warn-out aged ex-lawman said as he spit at the back of the enraged cattle baron. "Mount up men! We are going squaw hunting. There is a hundred in gold for the man that brings her ass to me." he shouted to his dozen ranch hands. Most of them were hard men and all were quick with a gun and had fought in the Civil War, Indian uprisings, and the range wars that plagued the west in the 1870`s. "Three Teeth, you take point and track that bitch." Sam Kencade said to the old Sioux Indian. "I know of this Gray Feather, she has killed many white eyes. She has ridden with the Oglala under Pawnee Killer. We call her "Walks With Ugly Stick" but not to her face. The last brave that called her that now rides with the Great Spirit and is just a knot on her counting token. It is not a good day to die. You should bury your son and drink much whiskey and sing of his life. To hunt Gray Feather is to hunt death, I am old but I want to see many more moons before I go to the happy hunting grounds. I am going home to my squaw." the weathered aged scout said as he mounted his pony. "God damn it, she is just another fucking squaw half-breed. I will make it 150 in gold!" Sam Kencade yelled as he mounted his Pinto horse. "And a new Hennery rifle and a horse. For a 150 in gold, a Hennery, and a horse I will ride her down, but you should bury your hate with your son. Three Teeth has spoken." Oglala Sioux warrior said as he headed his pony west out of the white man's big village. They made it a few miles out of Tulsa when the sky opened and sent sheets of cold rain and lighting bolts crashing into the earth. Kencade drove his men forward in the raging storm. When the storm clouds blotted out the sun and the land was washed in darkness they had to stop to ride out the tempest. They rode to a Sodbuster's house and Kencade called to the man in his dugout house. "Nelson, its me Kencade. I need to use your barn to wait out the fucking storm." he yelled over the raging wind and rain swept land. "What the fuck are you doing out on a night like this?" the farmer asked as he came to the wood plank door and held up a lantern. "I am hunting a fucking red skinned half-breed what killed my boy. You seen her?" he asked as he got off his mount and walked it to the front of the dugout. "No I ani't seen shit, not in this fucking rain. Sure use the barn I got the cows up on the north fork of the Arkansas River. You say she killed Johnny? Holy shit he was a fast gun. She fucking bushwhack him?" the soddbuster asked as he held the oil lantern over his head. "No they say that it was a fair fight, but he had been on a ten day bender so your grandmother could had out drawn him. I mean to nail her tits to the wall and watch her die." he said as he turned and led his men to the barn for the night. The sun had just started to shine through the breaks in the clouds when he had his men up and ridding west. They followed the rutted road for a mile or more when the old Indian called a halt. "The storm has washed away any sign of her passing. There is no way to know where she has gone. You should make seven teams of two men each and have them search the river, the road, the four cattle trails and the ridge line leading to the bad lands. You and I Kencade will ride the ridge line for if I were on the run I would ride on the north side of the hills. We may find her there." the scout advised as he stood looking at he muddy road. "Hell's bells, Fuck you are right. When you catch her I do not care what you do to her but keep her alive and drag the cunt back to the ranch. Send one man to find me on this ridge. If we leave the hills we will mark the new trail. Now ride this cunt down." he said as he paired his men into seven teams. The rancher followed the Sioux up the slope to ridge. They rode about six miles when Three Teeth pointed to an out cropping of red rock. "We are on her trail. She made a cold camp here last night." he said as he poked around the ground behind the freshly fallen timber. "Here is where she slept, and here is where the pony and a mule were tied for the night. She is not far maybe three or five miles. Let us ride for we are losing the sun. I do not want to ride in these hills in the dark. Too easy to turn a horse's ankle and it is a long walk back to the ranch. My bones are too old to do such a thing." he said as he smelled a clump of horse shit and checked how moist it was. The wetter the shit the fresher it was. "There! She is following the river bank north looking for a spot to ford the river." the old Indian said as he read the sign of her passing in the mud of the river. "How far ahead of us is she?" the impatient rancher demanded as he sat on his Pinto. "Not far. This is fresh mule shit. See it still steams maybe an hour not too much longer than that." Three Teeth said as he got back on his horse and rode slowly looking for more evidence of her passage. The two men rode wide around a bend in the river and saw a mule grassing in the lush green grass growing in the rich soil of the river bank. They did not see the horse or the half-breed woman anywhere around. "This is not good Kencade. She knows that we trail her." the old red-man said as he held his hand over his eyes shielding them from the glare of the sun. He saw the white puff of smoke just before he heard the report of a heavy rifle's shot. The Indian turned to Kencade and saw him thrown from his saddle as the round took him in his chest. He wheeled his pony and put his spurs to its' flank and urged the old horse to flee the killing ground. Three Teeth left the dying white man to the tender mercy of the half-breed. He had no wish to meet the ugly woman. "You fucking asshole! Come back and help me! Shit I am gut shot." Kencade called out as he lay on the muddy bank of the Arkansas River. "I told you to burry your son and drink much whiskey. Now the crows will dine on your eyes white man." Three Teeth said as he bent low to the neck of his galloping pony. Gray Feather moved her long gun and led the old scout's pony and fired where he would be when the heavy lead slug crossed his path. The big Hennery bucked again in her shoulder and a puff of white smoke billowed up in front of the gun. She heard a cry and when the smoke had cleared the Indian's pony ran on alone its' rider laying in the weeds of the river bank. "Sorry old man you should have stayed home. I will send your spirit on to the last ride." She said as she got up off the ground and mounted her pony and went to see what she could loot from the two dead men. Life in the bad lands was hard just about as hard as the half-breed was. He lay in the wet weeds and pain stabbed his chest every time he drew a shallow breath. He coughed and red blood ran down his chin. His eye sight dimmed and he felt so cold. He was jerked back to consciousness by cold river water thrown onto his face. "Wake up mother fucker. I want you to feel this." a woman said as she bent over his body. He tried to move his hand to draw his six gun but he found that he was tied to stakes driven into the muddy ground. He looked down and saw that he was nude and spread eagle. He saw that a cattail had been shoved into his chest wound to staunch the flow of blood. "NO!" he screamed as the half-breed dumped a bark scoop full of glowing red embers on his penis. The hot coals ate into his soft flesh and tuned his white flesh red, then black, and then back to white ash as his genitals were cooked while attached to his body. She use a bent willow branch as tongs to hold the red hot coal as he put one on each of his man tits. She plaid his screams like a fine instrument. She pushed glowing coals into each of his eyes. They bubbled and then burst the fluid extinguishing the now black bit of oak wood. She sat on his chest and pissed in his face. Gray Feather pulled two pointed burning twigs and rammed them in each of his ears. The fucker thrashed and screamed as she tortured his body. It was getting dark and his screams were now not much more than piteous whimpers as he begged for death to claim him. She used a slab of bark to scoop up the last embers of her torture fire. She held his mouth open and dumped the hot coals down his throat. His death was not the easy one he had prayed to God for. The burning coals blocked any air from entering his lungs and they burned holes in his esophagus. The agony of the burning embers smashed his brain and it only faded as he died. She left him there for the creatures of the wild to dine on. Gray Feather packed his horse and took everything that the rancher had brought with him including a small bag of gold meant to be the reward for taking her life. The old Indian she tied to his pony and hit its ass sending him on his way home. She led the mule and Kencade's horse across the river and followed it north to Wichita. There she headed west to Dodge City. She spent the winter hold up with a fresh little gal just off the train from back east. Spring came and she slipped out one night and rode north to the bad lands as a wanted poster had been tacked up down at the express office. Thankfully she had never been photographed so the drawing could have been any ugly woman. She did not use her Indian name instead she now called herself Shelly Long. She had thrown away her men's clothing and now wore a yellow gingham store bought dress. Her new whore had her taking a bath once a week and even had her using that new flanged tooth brush on her brown teeth. She even gave up chaw for the little cunt. But she still knocked back a shot of rye now and then. She took a plug of Red Man from a cloth bag and chewed the rich flavor out of the hard pressed tobacco. Her legs were covered in a new pair of blue denim pants and a warm red flannel shirt was tucked into her black leather belt that carried her new Colt .45 Peace Maker. The butt of a brand new Winchester Model 1876 sat on her right side as it rode in its' scabbard. The Winchester Model 1876 or Centennial Model was a heavier-framed rifle than the Model 1866 or Model 1873, and was the first to be chambered for full-powered centerfire rifle cartridges, as opposed to rimfire cartridges or handgun-sized centerfire rounds. It was chambered for the new .45-75 WCF cartridge. It would knock a buffalo down at 200 yards. It made a hell of a mess of a man. She rode away from the soft life and soft body of her teen lover but the call of the wild and her somewhat image tacked to the wall of the US Marshal's office had more to do with her leaving if the truth was to be known. Her familiar counting token now hung around her throat. Its' bag now held the dried ears of Sam Kencade along with the nut sack and cock of the man that had killed her paw so many years ago. The badlands called her and she answered that call as she rode west, ever west across the next divide. She roamed the west killing the buffalo for the gold they brought her. She died alone when at the age of 39 her horse's hoof got caught in a prairie dog's burrow and broke its leg and fell crushing her chest as it rolled over her. She lay undiscovered save by the vultures that circled over her. This is a work of fiction from my twisted mind. Any connection to persons living or dead are circumstantial save for historical persons. Feed back at wordweaver69@gmail.com Arlin