Montana Jane pumped .45 calibre slugs into the bellies of Sheriff Smith and his deputies. Her mouth was dried out with the taste of their spunk and piss, but her lips were twisted into a bitter gloating smile of vengeance and victory as she gunned the lawdogs down. Smith howled like an animal as the hot lead ripped his guts to shreds. Jane gave him three bullets barely an inch apart in an almost straight line with the center shot tearing right through his navel. His deputies were lucky, there was but one shot apiece for the rest of them. Jane sprang out of the cell, naked and covered with the whip weals and cigar burns that they had inflicted upon her for three long days and nights that she had been their prisoner. But they lay screaming and writhing about like rattlesnakes chopped in two, howling in madness in pools of their own blood. Indian Jack had sneaked into town and gotten unseen onto the roof of the jail and slipped a loaded Colt .45 revolver to Jane in the night, slipping it to her through the bars of the window with the deputy guarding the back not seeing a thing. And so the town would be cheated of a hanging and the four bastards who had raped and tortured her at will would scream out the little time remaining to them as their torn internals spewed forth blood and filth.
Jane came through the front door with two scooped up pistols blazing, cutting down townsmen in a deadly arc of accurate merciless fire. Her gang was hitting the town from both ends, savage whooping men on horseback cutting down all those who could not scurry into holes of safety in time.
Indian Jack grinned lewdly at the naked girl running out of the jail shooting down townsmen. Her wild locks of blonde hair blew in the winds that whipped the dried street sand to clouds of alkali dust.
"Come on, Boss Lady, over here," he shouted, holding the reins of the spare horse out to her. "Climb on, quick."
Jane vaulted into the saddle, howling with pain as her whip tom ass hit the leather. Screaming and cursing she emptied her guns into the fat mayor of the dirty hole of Wilson's Pass, as he scuttled into the general store he owned. The town had meant to hang her, and most of the men had had their sport and fill of her, but Montana Jane was riding out and the citizens lay twitching and dying, each in his own pool of scarlet blood.
"Shoot the buzzard bastards down," she shouted. "Let's ride out of her, muy pronto amigos."
The wild horde of pistol blazing killers went galloping out of town shooting down the few remaining men in sight and taking a few casualties in return. One man fell dead from his horse. The other fifteen went thundering out of Wilson's Pass leaving 22 dead townsmen behind them and adding another page to the bloody saga of Montana Jane Buchanan.
Indian Jack rode up beside his boss and grinning devilishly slapped her on her whip slashed bouncing butt.
Jane laughed and spit into his face. It was good to be riding free and not to be facing that rope this dirty morning.
They stopped five miles outside of town. Jane dressed under the stares of fifteen pairs of lust filled eyes. She was used to it, her favors were bestowed upon one and all in the gang, but at her choosing. Her power was the gun, a power that was one not to be defied.
With the black leather vest on over her shirt open to the waist, with her two hand guns once more strapped on; the colts with her initials etched in the gold plated handles; she was once more the most feared bandit queen of the West.
Pete and Willy Larkins rolled cigarettes as they nervously kept watching behind. It was unlikely that anyone would be coming after them from the shattered town they had decimated, but they were the worrying types.
"Where do we go from here boss," one of the men asked. They were flushed with their victory over the town, but thoughts were once more turning to empty pockets and a long losing hand of luck. They needed a big score and soon. Jane had been given plenty of time to think in that roach ridden jail, in between rapings and torture. She knew where they would turn, inevitable score, the untakeable town, the big pot.
"We're headn' for Trail City you mangy pack of no account trail bums. Let's move out of here."
Marshal Joshua Clanton brought the whip down hard on the back of the bleeding blonde haired saloon girl. Lily screamed in agony as the bullwhip sliced around her body gouging a deep furrow into her torn tit. Blood ran from yet another wound. Her back was a network of tom bleeding deeply engraved wounds, her ass was sliced to tatters, and strips of skin hung from her body. Drops of blood dripping off her made puddles on the wooden floor of the jail.
"This will teach you to hold out on your boss, you little bitch," the Marshal roared. He whipped her again. "This will be the last time you ever hold out on anyone you little coyote. I warned Black Jack about you, and I warned you about breakin' the rules. Now you have to pay for it with your blood, missy."
"I didn't hold out, I swear-rr it, oo-on the Bible. I... aaaiiieeeeeaaaah h... OH please stop it." She lapsed into moans of pain and muffled tearing cries.
Marshal Clanton rubbed his hands across the lacerated flesh. He probed the bleeding scourged flesh cruelly, and tore the ripped welts open, exalting in the flood of blood he brought forth. His prick was hard as a rock in the front of his pants, torturing people drove him mad with desire. It was his chief passion, and he was an expert at his work.
To be Marshal of Trail City called for a murdering killer of unusual viciousness. He admirably filled this role. Trail City was the worst of the Western clip towns that robbed and gouged the unfortunate cowhand. It was on the Colorado-Kansas border and smack dab in the path of the great cattle drives that came up from Texas. It was the hellhole of the West. Every man of importance in the town was a thief and a killer, and they victimized without mercy the cowhands that passed through the town. The whores who worked the many saloons could make out, if they could take the cruel discipline and depraved appetites of their bosses and the mobs of killers and bushwhackers who took refuge in Trail City. The front entrances of the town were in Kansas and the rear entrances of the town opened onto Colorado. A man could jump state and escape pursuing lawmen simply by running out a door.
There were anywhere from ten to thirty shootings and killings a week. It took a cold and deadly bastard to hold the lid down. Marshal Clanton was that man.
Lily sniveled and begged for mercy once more. Clanton grabbed her by her scalp of hair and shook her head until it was nearly ready to pop off of her neck.
"Where's the thirty bucks you held out, you little hoor. If you ain't ready to talk now I'll take you out to the anthill and leave you for them red chewers to gnaw on, slut."
"NO, no, oh God no. It's hid inside my bed post, I unscrewed it and put the money inside. I won't never do nothing like that again, please don't be throwin' me outa town."
Clanton smashed his fist into Lily's mouth. Her head snapped back and teeth and blood raced from her mouth. Another crashing punch in her belly hurled her down the well of unconsciousness.
Marshal Clanton went over to the Five Aces to talk to his crony Black Jack. Clanton owned a piece of The Five Aces and was particularly careful of the profits of that saloon. Anyone tangling with The Five Aces was as good as dead.
Clanton cast an appraising and approving glance at the security men of The Five Aces, the two burly men with shotguns sitting on balconies overlooking the saloon ready at a moment's notice of crisis to blast down any trouble maker with four barrels of heavy buckshot.
A killer at the bar was drinking redeye and burning the naked tits of a young Mexican girl with his cigar. The girl cried bitterly as the ugly faced murderer fried her boobs but she did not scream or try to fight him. The Marshal nodded a greeting to the man and continued through to the backroom gambling table where he would find Black Jack sitting at his private table. Whatever a man wanted to do was all right as long as he could pay for it.
Black Jack and several of his friends and business associates were playing their usual interminable high stake poker game that ran on from day to day. One of the dance hall girls knelt under the table licking and sucking Jack's randy hard cock. There was a pleased expression on his face due to this activity and the pile of paper dollars and gold eagles before him. Doc Spencer and Bill Kincaid were two of the players, also owners of massive saloons crawling with gambling tables and cheap whores. Mayor Porky Swanson was the fourth man playing in the usual quartet and Killer Joshua Kain, a wanted gunman in six states made up the fifth non-regular in the game.
"What did the little hoor have to say for herself," Black Jack drawled to his friend and business partner.
"The money's in her bedpost, a good place to hide it. I'm runnin' the slut outa town, after I finish whippin' her ass off."
"That's a waste of a good gal," Kincaid interjected. "Why not give her a good beating and put her to work for a while in one of Charlie Daudie's cribs. Working in one of those tents being fucked in cunt, mouth, and ass like a broken down floozie for a buck a shot would teach her some manners."
The Marshal was annoyed. His savagery had been aroused and he relished the idea of torturing the girl further before he ran her out of town.
"No chance," he growled. "I've already messed the slut up a bit so she ain't worth shit v j more. I gotta finish the job so people around here will know what the rules are and what happens when they's broke."
The Marshal would have sweated had he known the trouble coming his way. There was no outlaw band in five states more feared than Montana Jane's Raiders. All of them were top guns and merciless killers. Most had suffered at the hands of the law and therefore possessed a righteous feeling that the law abiding were no better and probably far worse than any band of outlaws.
A camp had been made for the night twenty miles beyond the first stop. Jane had drawn her second in command, Indian Jack aside for a conference.
"Some bastard sold me out," she whispered in his ear. Her eyes were dangerously wild and blazing with cruel fires of vengeance. "I know who it was too, that bastard Joe Harrigan. Look at that critter squirm, the stinkin' snake. I know he sold me out for the reward, the five thousand bucks, and then he couldn't git clear with you keeping close watch on this whole pack of bushwhackers."
Jack glanced out of the corner of his eye at the quivering man. He was convinced she was right.
"Leave the next step to me. I know how to make him spit it out."
He walked directly up to Joe. The big man had a tick working in the corner of his eye as Indian Jack stood there for a long interval just staring at him. The others had stopped whatever they were doing and watched the two of them.
In a cold voice Indian Jack stated, "We found the reward money you hid, informer."
The look on Joe's face was final proof. His face collapsed into a pudding of jelly, he feebly made a play for his gun.
Even as Indian Jack went for his iron, Jane had her .45 out and blew the gun clear from Joe's holster with a flurry of fanned and accurate shots that few could duplicate.
"Grab the bastard boys. Strip him down. I'm gonna show him what happens to bastards who collect rewards."
Whooping grinning faces surrounded the terrified man. He was stripped and beaten down. Heavy boots thudded into his vulnerable body. He was cursed and spat on.
"String him up by his thumbs," Jane commanded. The crying blubbering jelly of a man was hanged from the branch of a tree by his thumbs.
Jane walked up to him and kicked him in the balls.
"Where did ya hide the reward money, polecat."
He screamed in agony, his legs pumping and jerking in response to that unbearable pain in his nuts. Jane waited until he was able to speak. He was too scared to lie.
"It's inside my canteen I wrapped the bills in oil paper and stuffed them in my canteen. Please don't kill me. I didn't mean it, h-honest."
"Well, I won't mean what I do to you, either," Jane answered, laughing at his terror-stricken face.
The money was found. That settled everything, and Joe's cards had been decked and boxed up. It was time now for Jane to make him pay off his score.
Jane began with a bull whip. She slashed great ripping holes into his flesh. The powerful whip gouged long canyons clear across the breadth of his massive strong back. Jane laughed in satisfaction at the rivulets of crimson blood trickling down his back, running from cut to cut. She changed her position and crossed every one of the twenty great welts she had inflicted on him. She slashed the flesh, tearing it open. She whipped on and on. Her men cheered her efforts, encouraging her to increase the torture. They had no feelings of pity for their ex-colleague, he might have turned them all in.
Jane went lower to the white buttocks. The ass was dirty, Jane was certain to clean it in the bastard's blood. She smashed at the deep gorge between his bottom ridges. The tip of the whip on the third try slashed right between his two ass halves and ripped the skin open all along the inside of his ass crease. His ass literally shot up into the air as he somehow rose up despite hanging in the air. He screamed in total agony. Jane whipped his ass to shreds. Pieces of flesh dangled down from the torn bleeding slabs of beef. Jane continued to whip his ass, trying to gouge the torn beef and rip it open. She cut deeper and deeper with the whip. Hanging bits of flesh and pulp were torn away. Jane curled the whip around her victim, ripping great scarlet streaks into his chest and belly. His face slumped forward on his chest.
Jane was not going to let the bastard off so easy. Her gun flashed out of its holster in a motion too fast to follow, a dazzling blur of speed. The .45 blazed and a piece of ear flew through the air. Jane fired again and tore away half of the other ear. Joe came screaming back to awareness, blood streaming from his butchered ears, howling madly with pain.
Jane emptied her gun, blowing away bits of his fingers. The betraying rat howled and pleaded for mercy.
Jane picked up a running iron that has been heating in the fire.
"Betrayin' bastard git no mercy," she replied.
Jane touched the red-hot iron to Joe's chest, very lightly. The hairs on his chest sizzled and shriveled, the skin turned pink and crimson and then the sickening shade of black of burned flesh. Smoke arose from the frying meat. Jane kept the touch light, rolling the hot metal back and forth, moving it about. She ran a trail of blackened flesh across his chest and back again, tracing a huge burned swath, but not pressing with any great force. Then she suddenly moved behind Joe and before the half crazed man could gauge her intentions she plunged the still very hot iron into the valley between his buttocks, twisting and turning the iron, burning a black area between his ass cheeks. Joe screamed and howled until he bit through his own tongue. Blood jetted from his mouth to mix with the great streams of crimson already running down his body. Jane continued forcing the iron in, running the hot metal up the narrow resisting passage of his asshole, burning black the channel of his asshole, burning it as she twisted the iron into it and up it, inch by inch. She yanked it out on one movement, a trail of smoke following in its wake accompanied by a thick stream of blood.
Jane threw the iron into the fire with an expression of disgust on her face. She had given the bastard what he had coming to him, now she was becoming sick of the torture.
Joe's eyes rolled about in their sockets. The eyes were dead, strung out into emptiness. Saliva trickled from the comers of his mouth, he made sick mad sounds. Jane put a bullet through his brain and another through his heart.
"Throw this carrion over the cliff for the buzzards and let's get the hell out of here."
It was night and they had made camp but none felt stupid enough to argue. They had no desire to spend the night near the remains of Joe anyway. They rode on.
Indian Jack talked with Jane about Trail City as they rode.
"It won't be any easy pickins, Boss Lady. There must be 100, 200 good guns in there at any time. There are always large herds comin' up this time of the year and large parties of cowhands as well. Every rich bastard in that snake pit has his own bunch of gunnies. The Marshal has maybe half a dozen good gun deputies. I know, I been there. The bank is heavily guarded, and most of the money is in the gambling halls anyway. There should be a hell of a lot of cash, but how are we gonna get at it. Too many guns and too many places to hit with the men we got."
"Let me worry about that, there always is a way if you plan it out right."
Back in the hellhole town Lily was being run out by the Marshal. She had been dragged out the back of the jail, bound and gagged so as not to disturb any of the citizens with her outcry. Besides, the Marshal had been forced on a couple of occasions to gun down chivalrous cowhands who had tried to aid women he was mistreating.
Marshal Clanton twisted and pulled the poor pitiful girl's nipples. He yanked hard at the pitifully discolored tips, tearing and squeezing the sensitive bits of tissue. He laughed with vicious satisfaction. He snapped the tits back and forth, hard and fast. He enjoyed inflicting suffering up on the defenseless girl. It was more fun than pistol whipping some dumb drunken cowhand.
"Cheat on me, would you," he growled. "I'll ruin you, bitch."
He gave the sobbing girl a pistol whipping, slamming the barrel of his gun against her head, ripping deep cuts into her face. He broke her nose and knocked more teeth loose. They spilled from her mouth in small pieces in a torrent of blood.
"You won't be doin' so well with them looks, ya dumb cow."
He threatened Lily with shooting and forced her to walk in front of him mile after mile while he rode his Appaloosa stallion and guffawed at her suffering and ruined looks. She tottered and reeled, her head faint and dizzy from the beating. She fell many times, but he drove her to her feet, whipping new streaks across her skin with his whip.
Finally ten miles outside of town he left her, naked and bloody. He laughed and peered.
"It's only about twenty miles to the next town. Only they don't much like broken down whores there, so don't expect a warm welcome. You might strike up with some herders along the way, although I sure don't see what anyone would want with a busted up piece of trash like you. But don't you tell nobody 'bout this or complain or do anything dumb like that or I'll come after you and finish the job. Now get."
The Marshal sent the broken girl on her way with a volley of shots that scraped groves into her ass. He laughed with joy at the ludicrous sight she made as she tried to run.
CHAPTER TWO
The Citizens Committee had started things off with a farce of a trial. Most of them were the 'good' women of Black Creek Village, the men had mainly cowered in terror and shame under their beds. The farce of a trail of course ended in the guilty verdict for all concerned. It had then gone far beyond the usual turnings of such undertakings, beginning with the hanging of the gambler, Mississippi Collins from a large forbidding tree with jagged branches of evil aspect that had served the purpose of Judge Lynch in the past.
The women of the town had started out with the intention of whipping, tarring and feathering, and running out of town Madame Rose and her five whore saloon girls ranging in attractiveness from the beautiful Red Kate to the dilapidated Nancy who had worked the line of saloons and whorehouses across five states of the West and was fit now only to work in this broken down whorehouse saloon in this spithole of a town. She was the dreg of the establishment, a poor pitiful thing that had suffered before at the hands of such a mob.
The intentions of the mob had soon changed as hatred and bloodlust worked at the impassioned minds of the frustrated pack of hags and spinsters, neglected wives and dried out bitches that had gone down the identical path of deterioration that the slimy men of the town had followed. It was a nowhere stinkhole that would soon blow away, the remainder of the remnants of a ruin of a boisterous lusty mining town half-altered into a misconceived and ill founded gospel thumping storekeeper's community. Losers believing in the dry and hypocritical values of the meaner of those collections of dirty spirited towns of the old West had replaced the losers and had cleaned out the miners and moved on with them as the mines played out. Now the town was dying, this fresh infusion of purpose failing to bring prosperity, and the spiteful hating hags of the town were taking out their vengeance upon those that had remained from the old pattern of Black Creek Village.
Madame Rose screamed out her agony as Widow Cooper applied a red-hot branding iron to her breasts. She lashed out against the heavy ropes that had viciously been gouged deep into her naked flesh when they bound her to the tree with the hanging body of the gambler almost touching her. She screamed with all of her maddened might, ripping her skin bloody in her hopeless writhings. The hot iron sizzled at it slowly sank a half inch into the white meat of her breasts. The fiendishly leering Widow drove it in and twisted it back and forth, turning it about in the growing blackening crater she burned into the flesh of her victim.
The red haired Madame shrieked with the force of an animal being butchered as her ample and richly endowed body was ruined by the hot iron.
"Do it to her again and again," shrieked Hester Johnson, a half mad old crone who was finding for the first time in her dried out life true satisfaction and physical joy in the brutal torture of these nogoods.
The others crowded around to enjoy the spectacle. There were only two men in the group, the others quivered in their hiding holes too cowardly to keep the women from doing what they wanted with the saloon people.
Another woman handed a fresh iron to Widow Cooper. "Burn the dirty whorin' bitch again. She stole ma man away, the dirty whoor."
The fiendishly grinning widow touched the iron softly to her prey's unmarked breast. Rose howled in terror. The glowing metal was pressed more firmly upon her large and shapely nipple, turning it black and sending up a small curl of smoke. The sickening smell of burning flesh only stimulated the human wolf pack.
The five bound and savagely handled girls watched their Madame being tortured, sobbing in fear and misery, each awaiting her turn to suffer. The terrible sight of the hanging body of the gambler still filled their sights with fear and terror. They could expect no mercy, only hope that the mob wouldn't kill them.
Two of the women tied Sarah Jameson upside down from the limb of a tree. Her legs were spread wide, rough and evil fingers pulled and pinched the ripe lips of her much used sex. Her clitoris was squeezed and twisted until red flashes of pain lanced through her skull.
"Let's pour some hot coffee into the whore's hole," suggested Amanda Whitelaw.
A pot of coffee was emptied into the gaping cunt. The hot steaming liquid overflowed and ran down the twitching writhing body. Poor Sarah screamed with the pain of the damned in hell tearing at the insides of her cunt.
The two women began to whip her hanging swaying body. Sarah soon bled from dozens of vicious streaks and deep gashes. They concentrated on the well fleshed area between her legs. Her deeply wrinkled ass and thighs were soon streaming lines of crimson. The whip slapped across her cunt, tearing the lips. Amanda Whitelaw then tore her pubic hairs out, ripping the thick tufts out at the roots.
"Give it to the pig," one of the lynchers shouted.
The Madame was still suffering at the hands of the majority of the maddened pack. Her long thick locks of red hair were torn from her head in handfuls. The deep brand burns in her breasts were clawed and ripped by dirty hands with long jagged nails. A long hatpin was plunged into her boobs time and time again, even into the burn marks.
"Let me handle the bitch with this," Widow Cooper yelled. "This will tear her up good." The widow held a long horsewhip in her hand, the long thick handle covered with silvery knobs.
The whip snaked out and ripped its path across the twin disfigured breasts. Blood spurted. Once more the tearing implement flashed out and danced across the bouncing tits. Blow followed blow, the sharp crack of the whip filling the as yet untortured four remaining girls with sickening dread as they waited their turn. The two soft twin hills of white were reduced minute by minute to bloody sacks of pulp and blood. They were slashed and torn and pummeled out of shape, blood shot off with every fresh blow. The unrelenting horsewhip continued to strike and strike. The laughing chanting wolf pack peered the Madame's suffering and counted the dozens of lashes that ruined her burned tits.
"Let's start using some of the tar on these bitches," a young dried out girl suggested. Her thin mouth twisted into a mirthless grin. She had once been a dance hall girl herself unknown to her pious neighbors and she hated whores worse than any of them for some strange twisted reason.
"Who will it be first," Widow Cooper asked her fellows.
"The tar is shore hot nuff," the sallow dried girl commented. The heavy iron pot of thick black tar was bubbling nicely over the fire. It sure would burn and sting whoever got the benefit of its treatment.
"Give it to Emma Suggs, the dirty tramp," sang out Lucy Jordan, her voice harsh with hatred for the whore that her husband found preferable to herself. Her washed out blue eyes were for once bright with glee at the thought of the suffering Emma would endure.
She ran over to the poor saloon girl struggling futilely against the ropes that bound her. She grabbed two fistfulls of the girl's hair and began to yank at them with all her strength.
"You dirty whore, you dirty stinkin' rotten clap carryin' rotten filthy piece of shit. I'll murder you, you dirty rotten tramp. She raked the face of the screaming saloon girl with her sharp nails, pulled her mouth wide open and spat into it repeatedly. She kicked Emma in the belly and crotch. Her friends urged her on. She grabbed Emma by the hair and another woman, a heavy bullish fat figure of a woman, grabbed Emma by the thick curly hair of her cunt and they lifted her off the ground that way, by the hair of her head and cunt, lifted her screaming and spurting saliva and threshing as the hair ripped loose between her legs and she dropped to the ground leaving handfuls of black cunt hair and bleached blonde scalp hair in the hands of her two tormentors. She went through pain contortions that made her difficult to grab hold of again, but Lucy Jordan laid her cruel hands on her and began to rip at her tits, squeezing and crushing the two bruised orbs together, trying to mash them flat.
"How do you like that, you bitch." Lucy shrieked, her eyes wild and maniacal. Spit ran from her mouth as she almost went berserk with the desire to maim and destroy.
Lucy cupped the boobs and pressed them tightly together, grinding and pounding, smashing and pressing. She lunged to her feet and tried to tear the tits loose, tried to lift the girl by her boobs. She knelt down again and spread Emma's legs wide, then rammed her fist right into the soft crotch. Emma jackknifed in agony. The hurting treatment was repeated, blow after blow ripping into the crotch which turned purple and black under the repeated hammerings.
The good ladies intent upon inflicting pain failed to notice the approach of an ominous large band of riders.
Indian Jack watched the lynching torture from a small rise through a pair of binoculars. He was dumbfounded by what he observed.
"What the fuck in going on over there," he asked Montana Jane, who was equally perplexed by the strange lynching.
"Sure is a damn queer thing. But I always did hate a rope mob, and that bunch is handing out the works for damn sure. Let's git down there and put a stop to it."
Widow Cooper had almost finished with Madame Rose. Rose's blood seeped out from an uncountable accumulation of wounds. Burns, whip welts, slices, pin holes. The poor pitiful woman was almost finished, and Widow Cooper had no intention of finishing the women off as they had killed the gambler, Mississippi. They would simply be ruined and left out on the open prairie, more dead than alive. It would be up to fate. Even if any survived, they would probably not be in any condition so that a man would ever want one of them again. The purpose at the beginning had not been so dreadful but once they had tasted blood all civilized restraint had disappeared.
Red Kate had suffered the least of the entire crew and the widow turned upon her. The fleshy red-haired whore would get the hot tar and feathers treatment. That would take the shine off her for fair.
"I'm gonna tar you, missy," Widow Cooper threatened her. "Git ready for something good and hot."
Jeeters Gruggs, one of the few men along, a pious holy rolling hater of others pleasure handed her the large thickheaded torchstick that had been dipped into the bubbling black liquid.
The stick was touched to Kate's long heavy tits. The redhead screamed and recoiled from the hot sticky tarstick, snaking away, rolling to escape from it.
"Hold her you damn fools," the Widow snarled. "Don't let her git away from this tar."
A Winchester sang out. The stick flew from the vicious woman's hand. Another shot. Gruggs went down screaming murder with a bullet through his butt. A series of shots followed in bewildering succession. Heavy Winchester rifle slugs ripped into soft asses, spilling the panic stricken madly running women. They snaked around and bellowed and filled the air with more unholy blood chilling screaming then the victims they had been torturing seconds before. Bullets tore accurately into soft buttocks, channeled deep bloody grooves into fat and shriveled and decrepit buttocks of all shapes and sizes.
Jane's gang of marauders came galloping full thunder into easy pistol range. They fanned out with the practiced skill of professionals, picking off the wildly fleeing pack of vigilantes, glorying in the absolute certainty of being on the side of right for once, cutting down the vicious lynchers. The few men were finished off fast, salvos of .45 slugs smashing them down. The women had their asses literally shot to ribbons.
Jane emptied her gun into Widow Cooper's enormous fat ass. Six heavy slugs ripped her bottom to mush. Blood leaked in torrents from her shattered butt. She lay in a pool of thick blood flopping feebly with her arms and legs resembling a fish out of water. She was finished, most of them were finished, it was a question of how long it would take for lifeblood to seep out of multiple bullet holes in shot up butts.
Jack cursed as he rode close to the hanging gambler. He hated lynchings, his brother had gone that way. He shot the rope through, dropping the corpse onto the contortion wracked figure of one of the shot down vigilantes.
The rescued girls were dazed and shocked. The Madame was far gone into madness. Jane put her out of her misery. The rest would recover. It was an ugly thing. Red Kate attracted Jane. She could be useful. An idea was forming in Jane's cunning mind. She needed some inside information to hit Trail City effectively, someone who knew the layout and the location of money. She needed a spy, and who would better circulate and discover than a whore, who would suspect one.
Jane made her decision. She would take Kate along and also the Mexican girl, Carmen. Two were enough, the rest of them were dog meat anyway, all broken up and worn out.
"We're moving out of here now boys," she ordered. There were murmurs of disapproval, most of them had expected a crack at the whores. Jane tossed a handful of silver to the three she was leaving behind. It would be enough to get them to some other broken down hole of a town to set up again.
The vigilante women were crawling along the ground like caterpillars leaving trails of crimson slime behind them. Several had already ceased their movements. Very few would survive, not that anyone would care about this shit heap of a town they came from anyway. Probably their own men would miss the whores more than them.
Jane helped Kate up onto a horse. She took the opportunity to caress the redhead's thighs. Very fleshy and soft, the texture of a young girl's skin showing none of the wear and tear that years of working the circuit from house to house and town to town would have branded in the flesh of most women. Kate looked at her, their eyes met for a long interval and an understanding was there. Kate was a realist and took things one day at a time. She now belonged to this strange and terrifying woman who had saved her life. Well, it was a lot better than being dead and more interesting than working a saloon.
The wild band went thundering away leaving another scene of devastation behind them. If it was laid to her, Jane wondered what the reward might be upped to. She was running out of time and places, her big score would have to come soon or her luck would run out for keeps.
* * *
Marshal Clanton ran his fingers over the lumps under his right eye. He cursed his carelessness, allowing a drunken punk cowhand to get in those punches. He had pistol whipped the cowboy's head to mush afterwards, but nevertheless it had happened in front of half the town and many of his acquaintances, they had witnessed Clanton knocked on his ass by a scrawny shirttail kid of a cowhand. Well, the bastard would pay for it now.
The cowboy cowered against the back wall of his cell. His eyes clearly revealed the terror he felt at the mercy of this killer with a badge whose brutality was a legend even among those brutal marshals who kept the lids on gunhappy trail towns.
"You had your little fun sonny, now you pay for it. Git the little yella dog outa there," he ordered his chief deputy, Grimes, a massive bull of a man who specialized in busting heads. "Git him out now. He's gonna git a session on law and order out in the back."
The sniveling, protesting cowhand was dragged out of his cell and kicked along the corridor out the back door. He quailed at the sight of the whipping post and his knees turned to water.
"Tie him up Grimes. I want to really open that back of his."
The brutal deputy did as he was ordered. He chuckled at the terror of the cowhand. He tied him up with his arms stretched out wide and ripped his clothes off. He leered at the boy's ass and pinched the cheeks of his rump. The cowboy wailed and shrieked as Grimes felt up his ass and took his long cock in his hand.
"Later, you stupid ape. You kin have him after I've finished with him."
The whip in the Marshal's hand began to rip and flail at the small framed body. It looped around him slicing red weals into his chest and belly. Clanton concentrated on these more vulnerable targets, slashing great scarlet tears into the front of his prey. He then began to whip the cowhand's back, hitting him with a series of savage blows spaced an inch apart, first across his bony shoulders blades, then lower and lower, descending to his soft ass which Grimes wanted a piece of. Clanton grinned sadistically at the thought of Grimes plugged into the young cowhand's asshole. That would teach the little piece of shit to hit a Marshal.
"Don't bust that cute ass of his up too much, Boss," Grimes pleaded. "I hate to go into a hunk of blubber that's all jellied up with blood."
"All right, you mangy bastard," Clanton answered. "I'll leave enuff meat on him for you to get a good grip on."
He whipped criss-crossing patterns of long spider webbing welts into the boy's skinny ass cheeks. The cowhand bucked and writhed probably in the same way wild horses had tried to buck under him. Clanton wondered if the little punk could buck Grimes offa him. He gave him a last flurry of welts up and down his thighs, whipping all round the front of his legs as well. The boy tottered and slumped forward, his tied wrists holding him up out of the red stained dust.
He was all played out, whipped from his neck to his ankles. Crimson flows of blood ran down his whipped body. Grimes ran his hands soothingly over the whipped butt, mouthing obscenities to himself, his moronic eyes alight with lust.
"Well, ya big horsehaid, whatta ya waiting fer. Git yer piece of him now." The Marshal did not have to tell him twice. Grimes unbuttoned his fly and his huge horse sized prick, hard as a pistol, shot out. He spread the soft ass cheeks with his hands and rammed forward, grinding his way in, shoving inch by inch into the asshole of the screaming maddened cowboy. Clanton laughed and laughed with inhuman glee, thinking that it was a far worse punishment than the whipping.
The sight of it made the Marshal horny as well. He had a whore locked up for knifing a faro dealer in the gut. She wasn't bad. He went into her cell. Her tits and ass bore the marks of his whip. She quailed in terror. It made him feel good, powerful. He whipped her across her bouncy, red streaked boobies, slicing her tits bloody. Then he took her, his rough brutal hands grinding and crushing those heavily marked tits as he slammed his huge cock into her cunt. It sure was pleasure, being the Marshal of Trail City. As long as he could shoot straight and hit hard, anything he wanted was at his fingertips.
CHAPTER THREE
A new girl sauntered down the streets of Trail City. This was generally nothing worth getting excited about, new whores were always arriving and old ones departing, but this one had a special brazen quality to her. She marched up and down the streets showing herself off.
"New whore in town," she proclaimed to a group of old cowhands, grabbing at their balls. She popped her fleshy tits out of her dress-front and let them feel her boobies up. She lifted up her dress and shook her ass in their faces, turned around and showed her cunt.
She crossed the street, her red hair blowing in the wind, her exposed tits bouncing. She cupped her hands under her tits and offered them to a gunman. She smiled as he played with them.
"New whore in town boys," she announced. "Come over and git a free look at the goods. Cause after today, there ain't nothin free goin." goin."
Red Kate had made a sensational impression as she had intended, just as Montana Jane had it planned. Carmen had come quietly into town the day before and was set up in the Mexican whore cribs that were not in the lowly class of the one buck cribs for busted up whores that Charlie Daubie ran. Together the two of them should be able to get the layout of the place. Along with the gunmen of Montana Jane's who had infiltrated the town inconspicuously in ones and twos, just gunmen and outlaws on the dodge like many others, no one suspecting them. Jane's net had spread over Trail City and Kate to admire the planning. As soon as she was set up in a good first rate gambling hall the net would be complete and Trail City would be all set up to fall like a ripe apple into Jane's hands.
Kate spotted Indian Jack leaning against a hitching rack up the street but took no notice of him as she had been instructed.
Kate headed for The Five Aces. It was the most lucrative and dishonest operation in town. Black Jack, the Marshal's partner ran it so it had an extra degree of protection. There were five roulette, and poker tables and fifteen to twenty girls working it at any one time, day and night. Kate swaggered in the front door, the crowd she had collected following her up to the swinging panels.
"I just got into town and I'm lookin' for work. I want to see the boss," Kate informed the barkeep.
A big, ugly man, with black bushy brows and a massive shock of equally black hair came out of the back room. He surveyed the whore with her tits hanging out with approval, his eye experienced in appraising female flesh. She had a brazen quality and fine looks. A bit fleshy, but good facial structure, just perfect. He wanted her for The Five Aces, in his mind he could calculate the effect on business she would have until her novelty wore off.
"I'm the boss here, lady," he drawled. "I'm Black Jack McCallister. Mebbe ya heard of me?"
"I heerd some good things about that name," Kate replied. She ran the tips of her fingers over her nipples.
"Well, you got yourself a job, honey. Come upstairs and meet some of the other girls."
Kate began her first day at The Five Aces. It was a rough ass place. The cowhands we're all right, good natured boys most of them, wanting a little fun, but the killers infesting Trail City and the even worst buzzards who ran the place were something else again.
Kate had her first taste of the brutality of Trail City that night after she had put in her first shift on the job. Dozens of hands had fondled the ass and tits of the new whore. Fingers had been prodded up her ass, hands had measured and groped the softness of her boobies. Her tits were covered with black marks from strong fingers. She had been fucked by over twenty men in cunt and mouth, and her body was exhausted and bruised. She had earned a pile of money for herself, but even more for The Five Aces which took half of her earnings for board and food, plus the profit on all the drinks she hustled and the dollars squeezed from the suckers she lured to the crooked tables. Even the drinks they bought for here were fake, tea or colored water. It came to a heap of Eagles and Half-eagles, a pile of paper dollars as well.
"The gals like to throw a kind of initiation for a new sister," Black Jack announced to her blithely as they passed on the stairs. "They sometimes git a bit rough, but it's all in fun. No harm intended."
Red Kate had been through whorehouse initiations before. But none as harsh as this one.
A dozen girls were waiting for her, their bodies naked, covered with the whip welts and cigar burns that were almost a trademark of girls working in Trail City.
Nancy, the unofficial head whore of The Five Aces walked over to the new piece and strutted around her, examining the goods. Kate stood still and allowed it.
Nancy slapped her across the ass. She raked the large pendulous breasts with sharp nails. Still no reaction.
"A gal working here has to learn a bit of discipline. You have to favor the customers demands, no matter what they are. You have to be willing and know how to take it. Let's see if you got the stuff."
She stripped off the rags of undergarments that Kate still wore. Two girls grabbed Kate's arms. They pinioned them behind her back, twisting cruelly. Nancy grinned in her face and pried Kate's mouth open. She spat into the pretty redhead's mouth. Kate swallowed the gob, managing not to choke or retch.
Nancy was impressed, but still hungry for blood. "When a new gal comes to work here we usually treat her to a bum ass breaking to see what kinda stuff she's got in her."
Two girls seized Kate's arms, pulling her into a bent over hunch, her head down almost to the floor, her arms painfully twisted up behind her back levering her and holding her fast, with her ass upraised for the punishment to come.
"Let's see what those white bottom hills of yours can take, bitch."
A heavy strap arched through the air. It cracked into soft jiggly hillocks of white flesh. A red weal marked the spot where it had fallen. Kate stoically muffled her response to it, maintaining a valiant silence. She braced herself for the next one. It cracked across both cheeks of her ass, leaving a swath of pain in its wake. A quiver ran through her body, a deep moan escaped from between her clenched lips.
The whores crowded around, eager to see the punishment that they so often endured being dealt out to the brazen newcomer. The strap rose and fell in unhurried measured time, spreading a thick network of intercrossed and overlaid crimson streaks on the rounded butt hills.
"She can take it pretty damn good," commented Grace, a somewhat faded blonde in her late thirties, a trace of admiration in her voice.
A vexed look crossed Nancy's face. Her efforts had failed to invoke the frenzied screaming and begging reaction she was hoping for. Cursing the new girl's stubborn pride and physical endurance she began to redouble the force of her blows, laying a new pattern of heavy tracings up and down Kate's back. High pitched whimpers and mewings began to escape from Kate's mouth. Beads of sweat stood out on her naked flesh. Lines of flame ran up and down her twisted arms. The agony flooded through her back and ass, worse than she could have imagined, building and building, growing in its unendurable power. The whores crowded close around her, gloating over her sufferings, glorying in her total misery. They waited impatiently for their crack at her.
Black Jack dealt the cards at his table and grinned broadly, fully aware of the activities going on upstairs. He approved and condoned the brutality exhibited by the whores toward each other, it kept them from making trouble for him and accustomed them to the rough treatment that whoring in Trail City was guaranteed sure to bring, rain or shine.
The other whore spy, Carmen was not enduring such treatment working the Mexican whore girl cribs. There was an easygoing camaraderie among these girls, a kinship lacking in the cruel settings of the flesh palaces that the big boys ran.
The whoring was still damn rough, but at least the girls were freer and not usually receiving the notice and attention of the gun scum who infested the big places. Carmen had a bed in a tent, 3 squares a day, and half of the money she took in. It was not too bad. Her main task for Montana Jane was to draw her fellow whores out on the subject of money and gun-power, whores always knew the sum total of what went on in any town.
At the same time as Kate was having her ass whipped off, Carmen was bucking and threshing in pleasure under Indian Jack. As he fucked her, driving into her depths in long slow pleasurable strokes, he whispered instructions and orders into her ears, giving her advice and prompting her to get her information and get it fast.
In the next crib another man lackadaisically and in an almost distracted manner pumped away at a fat bored whore in whom he was totally disinterested. But he was totally concerned with the man in the next tent, the much wanted Indian Jack Reynolds whom he had recognized instantly from a much handled wanted poster among a stack of such posters that the cold eyed man carried in his saddle bag. Willie Stranton was a bounty killer, an expert in his line, one of the very best, a merciless backshooter but a tough opponent in a shootout when such a style was required. Stranton had recognized a few more of Jane's boys in town. They had drifted in and drifted out again. The town was full of wanted killers, and Stranton could not ply his trade in the face of the Marshal, part of Clanton's function being the protection of these men as far as possible in this haven of lawlessness, but Stranton knew that the presence of these men in Trail City had a purpose of quite a different nature. Montana Jane's band had to be close by, the whole gun crazy pack of them, and they were quite evidently there to raid. Stranton could not as yet gauge the extent of the gang's appetite, perhaps they intended a quick lightning hit and grab raid on one flush target and then a fast getaway. Perhaps they had the guns and the ambitions for a more elaborate strike, a gutting of the entire golden lode that was Trail City. But one thing Stranton was certain of, Montana Jane was close by and aiming to hit the town sooner or later. He was probably the only one in town that had caught on to the menace and thus he was in an enviable position to cash in on the knowledge. He would watch carefully for the next few days Indian Jack and those others who were taking in the layout of their target, seeing but not being see. He would discover the location of the band and then after due and careful planning he would put that knowledge to its most rewarding use.
At The Five Aces Kate was enduring further variations of the sufferings of hell. Her welted ass and back had been rubbed down generously with horse liniment. The liquid fire increased her sufferings of course rather than alleviating them. She rolled and writhed in agony, putting an incredible amount of strain upon the efforts of four of the women to hold her down.
"That put a bit of fire into your tail, didn't it honey?" Nancy sneered with obvious delight. "It should take some of that uppityness outa you."
When her strugglings had subsided and the pain dulled within her skin. Kate was roughly jerked into a kneeling position. A coarse mat of hair was thrust against her mouth.
"Suck me bitch." The command was harsh and the voice was Nancy's.
Kate focused her dazed senses and began to comply. Her tongue snaked out and pressed between the puffy and well worn pussy lips that had seen a great measure of activity. The slit began to heat up in short order under the skilled probings and lickings of Kate's tongue. As Kate licked away at her chief tormentor another woman knelt behind her and applied still further torture, kneading and slapping the wealed and liniment inflamed slabs of Kate's rump. The sore burning hillocks of meat were twisted and beaten, pain once more were being hammered in mercilessly, with total disregard of her sufferings and her limits of tolerance to the pain. Other pairs of hands joined in, a mass of hard strong hands locked onto the meat of her butt and tried to crush it to paste. Kate screamed within the hot hole she was reaming out, and Nancy could actually feel quite distinctly the sound of vibrations reverberating upon the hot wet walls of her gash.
After Nancy had been finished there were the other women to be sucked, a seemingly unending line of them, until with exhaustion pressing into her brain Kate collapsed in a heap of ruin before the last women, insensible to anything further they might do to her that night.
Montana Jane bathed naked within the waterhole the gang had camped around. It was twenty miles outside of town and off the track of the cattle drives. It was on the Colorado side of the border and few travelers passed that way. It was an ideal sight.
The men watched hungrily the jiggling teasing body, wolfish ravacious desire tearing through their loins. Jane gloried in her ability to arouse and taunt them, and the strength and deadliness that allowed her to deny them except when it pleased her. She bent over repeatedly to dip her arms into the pool, flaring her water dripping ass up high, wiggling and jiggling the fleshy piles of alabaster white flesh. She splashed water on two of the men close by the edge of the waterhole. She was getting into the mood for a general orgy.
"Come on in here boys," she proclaimed, beckoning to the entire bunch in a sweeping gesture, "The water sure is fine. Her gesture ended with her hand resting between her legs.
That was all the prompting they needed. A mass of mouths and hands were soon locked onto the struggling giggling, splashing body of Montana Jane, as the whole mass made a many backed animal in the waterhole. Jane was covered with bite marks and her entire skin tingled from the sweepings and gropings of hard leathery hands by the time the unruly pack had gotten her out of the water. They spread her out, one on each arm and leg, a mouth closed on each nipple another working away between her legs, the way she wanted it at those rare times that she allowed this activity.
It was a bad time to let the reins go slack. One of the men sent into town was winding his way back along the trail, his senses dulled by too much alcohol. Even fully alert he probably would have not spotted the bounty hunter who trailed him all the way back with the cunning of an Indian. The lookout was busy with Jane and so the bounty killer was not spotted at all, but he now knew the location of the camp and the approximate number of the band and riding back to town in the heat of sunup he considered it a good day's work. He knew who he would have a talk with in town. But not immediately, he would have a few ace cards up his sleeve before he sat down to deal with a cunning devil such as Marshal Josh Clanton.
That bright and sunny morning the Marshal had his own pleasures to satisfy. He had pistol whipped two drunken cowhands that night and then to top it off had gunned down a local rancher who had the audacity to go for his gun when he had cheated at Faro. The Marshal had beaten the idiot to his gun readily and shot him down. He had even beaten out the shotgun guards who were fixing to blast the rancher. It would all add another line to his legend.
The Marshal had spent the night with Ruby, his own private whore, who spent half of her time with one nonpaying and incredibly brutal customer. Ruby was frightened to death of Clanton, and despite her total loathing for him was forced by circumstances, fear, and the orders of her boss to satisfy his sadistic whims.
Clanton gloated over the damage he had inflicted that night on Ruby. He traced the arc of a blackened area around her right eye with his fingers. She winced from the rough touch and drew back. He slapped her face. She whimpered. Clanton felt the need to do further things to her.
"I think gal, you're about ready for another dose of the whip. You're beginnin' to forget your manners, and I gotta remind you of your place."
Ruby trembled at the mention of the whip, remembering the last time he had used it on her, how he had whipped her entire body to bloody ruin.
"Please Josh," she cajoled him in her most placating tone, "Don't give me another beating now. Wouldja like for me to suck you again Josh, right now? Woudn't that be a lot more fun than you whipping me? I could make you feel right good, honest I could."
The Marshal took the long whip out of his top desk drawer. He flourished it before her.
"Stand up you stupid bitch. Stand against the bars of that cell. Put your hands back through those bars. Get your arms through them. That'll hold you up while I work on you. If''n you fall down I'll really skin you."
The terrified weeping whore did as she was commanded. She braced herself against the bars of the cell, her naked front part of her body exposed and vulnerable to the onslaught of the whip.
Clanton lashed out. The black tip of the whip swept across Ruby's breasts above her nipples. A red streak marked the path across her skin. Her breasts jiggled under the force of the stroke and a scream escaped from between her clenched teeth. She turned her head and closed her eyes, pressing into the hard iron bars behind her, trying not to see what was coming next.
"Damn you gal, open your eyes and look at me. Watch me whip your white skin off or I'll give you a few across that dumb face of yours."
When Ruby was staring straight at him with her pathetic begging eyes he let her have another one across her titties, crossing the tracks of the first whiplash, breaking the skin open at the joining point, causing a thin scarlet trickle to run down Ruby's breast. A third lash swept across one large nipple, the fourth raked its twin. Five more lashes in rapid fire succession left a pattern of bloody streak all across her breasts. Ruby howled like a wolf with its foot caught in a trap. The Marshal sneered and laughed at her, rejoicing in her torment.
A flurry of blows ripped up her belly. Crisscrossing and overlapping welts dripped a stream of blood down the soft furry triangle between her legs. Other runnings of blood poured down from her breasts. She hung unconscious, dangling from her arms wrapped through the cell bars. The Marshal poured a bucket of water over her. She revived sobbing and groaning to await further pain.
Clanton worked on her lush thighs, causing ripples of flesh to shimmer in her padded thighs as he whipped wide deep cracks into the skin. The tip of his whip slashed twice across the sensitive lips of her front passage. Every inch of her body spasmed in agony. She threw her head back against the bars of the cell in her maddened distress.
"You'll bat your dumb brains out if'n you do that gal," the Marshall jeered.
"Oh please, I c-can't take no more... I . .
Another three lashes across her bloody sagging tits shut off her pleadings, which were an exercise in futility anyway. Clanton whipped the soft sides of her hips, the warm and luscious flanks. The tip of his long black snake caressed her ass with its bite. He carved deep crevices into the lush hemispheres which soon oozed thick leakings of blood. He whipped her plump heavily fleshed bottom repeatedly. The tip of his whip tore dozens of deep slashes into that most fleshy whippable part of the anatomy. He kept at it on and on until consciousness once more left her, her head fell forward in a swoon, the locking of her arms through the bars preventing her body from falling face first onto the floor.
Clanton walked up to the unconscious girl. His cock was hard as a rock, and lust boiled at him. He opened Ruby's mouth and spat into it. He laughed triumphantly, and spat again. Then he opened his fly and began to savagely fuck the unconscious body of his victim.
CHAPTER FOUR
A week went swiftly by. Jane plotted her raid with the information fed her by her men casing the town and the two whores she had infiltrated into Trail City. Of them all, Red Kate was her primary source of information. Within 5 days Kate had come up with the location and probable amounts of ready cash in the five biggest gambling and brothel houses in Trail City, the possible reserves of the bank, and the names and holdings of the big boys who ran the clip city. It was fairly simple to drag out of boastful, half drunken arrogant big wheel who tried to impress her with their wealth and power.
Trail City would not be easy to take. Jane decided to hit the safes of the five big casinos and the bank. With her fifteen men it would mean moving hard and fast, three teams hitting two targets each by a time planning schedule, with sharpshooters keeping the streets clear. The Marshal and his deputies would have to be gunned down to start things off. There would still be at least twenty or more guns guarding the gambling halls and banks to overcome. They would have to depend on luck to a large extent. A relay of fresh horses would insure the getaway of those who survived the raid. Jane was essentially depending on panic and fear to see the job through, if the horde of bummers and gunmen took much of a hand in it, if outsiders made it their fight, the whole gang would be wiped out in short order.
But other plans were afoot. Willie Stranton had put his operation in to order and laid his aces before Marshal Clanton.
Clanton listened carefully to the bounty killer. He had little use for the breed, they were an unwanted service in Trail City, an outlaw's sanctuary. But Clanton knew that the buzzard sitting across his desk had something big to hand. He heard him out with growing astonishment.
"It would take an army to take the loot out of Trail City," he said.
"Montana Jane is crazy enuff to try it. If'n she gets you and your boys outa the way fast when she makes her play, she might pull it off. Those jaybirds guarding the big places got no stomach for a real shootout. Surprise can whittle down big odds. I know, I've had the drop on a lot of fast guns and a lot of tough jayhawkers, and I'm still here and they ain't. Anyway, the thing is hit her first, and not wait on her. She's got a few scouts here in town and most of her boys are out at that camp of hers across the line. If'n we was to make a circle round them and hit them from the Colorado side just before dawn with about twenty men we could wipe 'em all out. There's twenty thousand bucks total for that whole bunch. You and me could split the big money and pay the boys off a hundred apiece. Think bout that. You don't get much chance for big money like that."
Clanton thought about it. It would be far better to hit Montana Jane on her own grounds than to wait for her to hit the town. More profitable that way, he would be able to split the reward with Stranton whereas in town there would be many fingers in that pie.
"All right amigo, it's a deal. We'll hit them tonight. I won't take any of my deputies. They'd want a bit too much of the pie. I'll round up about twenty good guns for a hundred bucks a man. As for that bastard Indian Jack, I'll have my deputies settle his hash a few hours after we ride out. No chance of a slipup that way They can have the reward on his ass, should satisfy them. Any other details?"
"One thing. I've figgered out that they have a few whores here in town passing them information. One of them is a Mex gal in the Greaser cribs. Name of Carmen. Indian Jack's been to see her regular. He's also had a few meetings with that new prime whore working for your partner, Black Jack. That one they call Red Kate."
The Marshal's face went white with rage. "I'll make those two bitches sorry they ever saw Trail City."
"Have your deputies grab hold of them before they skip out." The cold eyes of the bounty killer flickered with a strange foreboding light. "We can have some fun with them to celebrate once the job is done on their amigos." Clanton appraised the bounty killer and a smile of deep satisfaction showed on his cruel face.
"I think we think the same way, friend. Maybe we kin take that bitch Jane alive and have some real fun."
The two grinning killers understood each other. They drank a toast and then talked on for a few more hours outlining the finish on their plans.
The Mexican whore Carmen struggled in the hands of two burly deputies. They had come for her an hour after sunset. They had dragged her through the back streets to the jail and thrown her into a cell. She screamed in terror as they dragged her in, for there was another occupant in that cell already, Kate, lying unconscious on a bunk with a huge knot on her forehead where a pistol butt had been used on her. Carmen knew that the game was up, the Marshal knew about them.
She had time for one long sustained scream before Grimes walked up to her and smashed his huge fist into her jaw. He threw her unconscious body down on top of her friend.
"Leave the two bitches here for a while, let's go settle the hash of that half-breed bastard."
Indian Jack sat in the back corner of a small saloon sipping a whiskey and feeling a warning tingle of apprehension run up his spine. His sixth sense told him something was very wrong. But he couldn't just bolt out of town because he had a bad feeling.
A deputy came into the saloon and strolled up to the bar. He ordered a whiskey and a beer. His total innocence and seeming lack of any interest in any of the persons within the establishment triggered the alarm in Jack's mind. The man's disinterest seemed phony. Jack rose from his seat and inconspicuously began walking to the back door. There was something wrong for sure, he could feel gun play coming. He kept an eye on the deputy, and now he knew the man was watching him out of the corner of his own eye as well.
Two of them came through the front door together, guns in hand. Jack went down fast, pulling leather. His gun roared first, sending a heavy .45 slug ripping into the chest of one of the deputies before he could fire. The other one shot wild and Jack dropped him with his second shot clean through the deputy's heart.
The third would be making his play. Jack rolled frantically as the deputy at the bar fanned three fast shots into the floor just behind his rolling body. Chance helped Jack at that point. A drunken saddle bum with a small price on his head sprawled across a table came wide awake at the sound of gunfire almost in his ears and pulled his iron, instinctively going for the man with the badge, coming out of a drunken slumber to the sound of gunfire and not knowing that he was not the target. He put a slug through the deputy's shoulder, and the deputy put one through the saddle tramp's brain. An instant later Indian Jack fanned three shots dead center into his chest. His body shot back against the bar, and he slumped dead to the floor, eyes rolled back and staring up into nothingness.
Jack was out of the back door running in a flash. Three figures loomed in the darkness. Jack's second gun pumped lead into them and it came back in return. Four Colts spat death across a few dozen feet of darkness.
* * *
Montana Jane had not survived so long by being careless, but she had not expected an attack on her camp from the Colorado territorial depths. Her lookout in any case was jumped and knifed without making a sound. The first warning of attack was a flurry of Winchester rifle shots from point blank range cutting down the howling screaming outlaws. Some tried to run and others to fight but few lasted past the initial seconds of the gun battle. Montana Jane herself was caught bathing once again in the waterhole, cursing profanely she lunged for her iron.
Marshal Clanton put down a pattern of shots right before her, causing her to hit the dust. He shot her gun away and came charging in with his men. The last outlaws were cut down in that charge. Three of Clanton's men also went down. There was a further casualty, Stranton the bounty killer took a bullet in the back from the Marshal running a few feet to his rear. It was Clanton's way to cut out his partner. No one to share the money with.
Montana Jane almost got her hands on a gun before three heavy forms crashed into her, beating her down. One of the posseemen pistol whipped her head. The Marshal waded into them fiercely pulling the three off of her.
"Don't kill her, you damn fools," he raged. Clanton grinned down triumphantly at the naked form sprawled at his feet. He had ideas for her. She would pay for her outlawing, and he would take out satisfaction on her body such as he had never conceived possible.
The entire town turned out to greet the returning posse which had left secretly in the night. They bore with them more than a dozen dead bodies draped across saddles, and the Marshal had a live body across his lap, a naked girl, whose unconscious form he casually and proprietarily pawed.
"Where are my deputies?" he asked the dumbfounded Black Jack who stood gaping in astonishment at the harvest of dead men.
"All of 'em are dead, Josh. They went hunting for some fella last night and he dropped all six of 'em, Grimes, the lot."
The Marshal cursed. "Did the bastard get away?"
"Maybe not, Josh. He left a lot of blood behind. Your boys put two or three holes into him before he blasted them down."
Well, it was not important. What was important was the wiping out of the band, the money in his pocket, and the women at his mercy.
Montana Jane awoke to a nightmare. She was tied to a Mexican stakeout. A cross had been set up out of heavy wooden bars. Her arms were stretched out wide, rawhide thongs bind-her wrists. The hot sun overhead was drying out the rawhide, and her arms were being stretched out wider and wider, the cruel bonds slicing into her wrists. Her hands were swollen and there was blood on her wrists. She did not need an introduction to know that the man in front of her was Marshal Clanton.
"We wiped out all of your boys, you bitch," he whooped derisively, his evil face leering into hers. "Only that breed bastard and mebbe a few others that might have been in town got away, not that it matters a shit. You're all finished you bitch. I'm gonna take you apart piece by piece, and what's left I'm gonna hang in a week. I'm gonna whip you to dogbait in front of the whole damn town and then hang you up naked to a tree. I'll let the buzzards strip your bones clean, bitch. How does that sound to you. Ain't it gonna be a picnic?"
Jane spat in the bastard's face. His eyes went mad with rage, but it passed. He grinned as he mopped the spit off. He laughed.
"You ain't gonna get out of it that easy. Don't think you can make me mad and get me to finish you off fast. It sure ain't gonna be that easy, whore."
Clanton stripped off his jacket, shirt, and gunbelt. He stuffed a rag into Jane's mouth. Jane frantically looked around, desperately eager for any sign of hope. There was none. She was in a fenced off courtyard in back of the jail. Nobody could or would help her.
"Let's begin, slut."
Clanton began with cactus needles, long prickly sharp cactus thorns. He pressed one to Jane's voluptuous nipple, twisting it round, indenting the skin without piercing it, and yet already inflicting a sharp stabbing pain upon his victim. Jane strained her outstretched arms and wide bound legs against her bonds. There was no response, no give to them. The needles pierced her nipple. Clanton burrowed it through the aureole of her nipple, digging into the white rich flesh. Jane screamed into her gag. Veins stood out in sharp relief on her neck, beads of perspiration began to run down her body. The Marshal plunged the needles three inches into her titties with sharp jerking heaves. A small drip of blood ran from the hole. The Marshal picked up three more needles from his pile and thrust them together into the underside of Jane's breast. It was hard to force all three into her simultaneously. Jane's head shot back, she rolled her eyes in sheer agony. Clanton clawed and screwed them into her flesh. One broke and he twisted the broken off end into her flesh, and twisted her tit in his hand. Jane could feel the cactus needles all breaking into pieces under her skin as he twisted and squeezed and mauled her boobs. The pain was intolerable.
Streams of saliva ran from the corners of her mouth. The torture went on. Clanton filled her other breast with needles, a dozen of them, one by one. Then he plunged a needle through the center of each nipple. He mopped away the streams of sweat running down her body, and the long thin trickles of blood snaking down her belly.
"Very good, bitch, but only getting started."
He thrust another half dozen cactus needles into the pincushioned titties. Spasms of pain caused a rippling movement to run through Jane's flesh. The Marshal laughed with satisfaction. He pulled on her left arm with all his strength. Blood ran from her torn wrist. The pain caused his prey to pass out.
Clanton picked up a bucket of water to revive the girl, but changed his mind. He had a better way. He lit a long thick cigar. He puffed it until the end was red and bright. Then with one cruel motion he ground it out in Jane's hairy gash. The blonde awoke with a lunging spasm that almost broke her back. The Marshal grinned into her contorted features. He shoved his crushed out cigar up her ass. She shuddered, white with shock, agony, and nausea. Clanton pressed the needles in her tits in a bit deeper.
He shoved pins into her belly. The white alabaster flesh contorted into tight knots under the punishment. He shoved the pins in hard, until they were stopped by the stubborn walls of her intestines. He plunged them in shallow angles under the skin. He plunged more cactus needles into her boobies, gratified by the copious streaks of blood leaking down her curves. He put three dozen needles into her thighs, taking his time prolonging the torture. He was going to make the bitch last a long time. She passed out on him twice and he revived her both times by burning her nipples with his cigar.
Jane tried to brace herself, to endure under the torture with Indian composure. But Jane was no Indian, she could not take the treatment. The Marshal kept on piercing her soft hide with the cactus needles. He planted a few in her arms, in the fleshy parts. He walked around behind her and began to work on her ass. He slowly pressed the needles into her hind cheeks, running low on his supply of the implements of pain and rationing them carefully now. He twisted them in slowly, turning then and corkscrewing crooked paths through her flesh. He would yank back a cactus quill, causing little leak-offs from each thin hole he bored into her body. He spread the cheeks of her ass wide and plunged them in sideways into the inner slabs of the crease between her buttock ridges. He saved the last five for her crotch, shoving them into the soft pelvic triangle, twice piercing right through the petal lips of her cunt.
Clanton proudly surveyed his handiwork. The girl was a living pincushion, blood running down her shaking, spasming carcass.
"You kin rest yer weary bones a bit, honey. I got two friends of yours I gotta show some tension to. I'll bring them out here and get started on them."
Montana Jane could guess who he meant. Sure enough, he vanished inside his jail and came back with Carmen, the girl bound and gagged and stripped naked, her breasts black with the marks of cruel fingers. Her eyes went wide with horror when she saw Jane and the condition she was in.
Clanton punched the Mexican girl in her stomach. "Take a good look at the great Montana Jane, you greaser bitch. I got your boss lady and I got you two sluts, and I'm gonna make you pay for what you done."
He threw a length of rope over a tree limb and tied it to the rope binding the girl's wrists behind her back. He began to haul her up, hand over hand, dragging her to her feet and then pulling her arms up until they were rigidly extended behind her and she was standing on the tips of her toes, her arms hot wires of agony and tearing cramps already ripping through her legs. The Marshal patted her ass affectionately.
"You ever been whipped on a skinned ass honey. That's the little surprise treat I got in store for you."
Clanton pulled out a knife. The Mexican girl recoiled in horror, straining at the rope that held her fast, trying to move away from him on the tips of her toes with her arms bound up and her body bent forward. Jane felt nausea tear at her guts sharper than any of the needles dug into her body as she realized what the murdering bastard was fixing to do to Carmen.
"Watch this careful, Jane," he taunted her. "I might do the same to you before I get around to the hanging party."
He pressed the blade of the knife to the girl's ass, holding her tightly around the waist with his other arm. He drew the blade in a circle, leaving a red trace behind him. He had made a thin cut that covered almost half of Carmen's left buttocks. He sliced an X across this crude circle and then criss-crossed it once more. He began to peel at the skin, ripping away slices, flaps of loose skin dangling from the bloody pulp showing underneath as he skinned Carmen's ass. The girl's jerking twitching body struggled to break free. Madness flashed in her rolling tear drenched eyes. The Marshal kept on at his work, stripping all of the skin away from the large patch he had traced. Finally he had cut all of the skin off from half of the buttock. He stepped back to admire his artwork. Standing there, his knife red with blood, he looked like the very devil himself to Montana Jane. She wanted to kill him worse than she had ever wanted to gun a man before.
"That's just the first step. Now that I've skinned her, I get to whip her."
The Marshal picked up his bullwhip and snapped it around. He lashed out, cutting the air inches from Jane's fearful face. Then without warning he cracked it clean across the skinned ass of Carmen. The Mexican girl shot into the air, she hit the ground and her feet shot out from under her. There was a straining tearing sound from her shoulders as her arms were almost wrenched from their sockets. The Marshal sliced her again. The whip tore the skinless crimson flesh wide open. Blood spurted freely. Clanton whipped effortlessly, with firm easy strokes, effortless underhand snappings that always tore into the same skinned area on the left buttock ripping and gouging the flayed meat. Liquid ran from between Carmen's legs evoking peals of Satanic laughter from her torturer. He still did not cease the punishment but kept on whipping.
When Jane thought she could not bear it any longer if she had to watch more of the torture the Marshal moved on to other areas of Carmen's body.
He whipped her ass, and back, her thighs, and her soft finely breasts to red ruin. The ground beneath Carmen's jerking dancing feet was soon covered with spatters of red gore. Strips of skin hung from her back which had been flogged to shreds. The girl was in such deep shock after over one hundred lashes with the bullwhip that it was pointless to continue.
"I'll let your greaser friend rest for a while. Right now I'm gonna bring out your other buddy and give her some treatment."
CHAPTER FIVE
Josh Clanton drove the whip home into the bloody flesh of the red-haired whore swaying from the limb of the tree in the courtyard behind his jailhouse, swaying on the ends of leathery thongs from which she was suspended by her thumbs, her feet were clear of the ground.
Black Jack Newton nervously mopped the sweat from his brow with his handkerchief, and rolled the stub of his cigar between shaking fingers. There were times his partner did things that made the blood run cold in Black Jack's veins.
"God man, are you sure she was one of them. She was just about the best bitch I ever had in my place. She won't be good for dog shit when you get finished marking her up."
Clanton spat. "She's one of them all right. They're all gonna get busted up good. Look at those other two bitches." He gestured at Montana Jane whose bloodstained needle riddled body slumped in its bonds and Carmen who lay crumpled in a heap, her butchered ass swarming with a mass of flies. A thick swarming of the black insects also buzzed over the blood webbed flesh of Montana Jane.
Clanton focused his attention on the whore he was whipping. The bullwhip slashed a deep vertical gorge into her left buttock, and he overlaid it was another whiplash that tore a small bit of flesh away. He whipped her fast and hard, twenty times across her ass, the whip swinging around his head in a great circular sweep ending each time in a cracking slash across the blood-drowned buttocks. Droplets of scarlet shot off her every time it hit. Her legs lashed out in wild contortions as she jerked about on her bleeding torn thumbs.
Clanton mopped his sweaty brow and took a long drag from his bottle. It was getting hot as hell. He brushed away the flies clustering thick in the air and hovering about him. He stepped up to the hanging body of the luscious whore and looked up into her pain twisted face. Great floods of tears ran down her face and a low keyed moaning sound constantly welled through the rags stuffed into her mouth. He poured out the remainder of his bottle over her bloody ass. She lashed out in all directions and one of her feet caught him under the chin before he could dodge it, spilling him on his ass.
Black Jack began to laugh, but the maniacal expression of fury on Clanton's face choked it off in his throat.
"Reckon you got yourself a big reward coming for Montana Jane, don't you old hoss," he asked, changing the subject hastily.
"Yeah," Clanton boasted, "big enuff. I gits the head money on her whole wolf pack, just about. Except for that halfbreed who got away from my dumb ass deputies. Gotta get me a new pack of gunboys as well. A Marshal needs some deputies, long on gun and short on brains."
"That may not be so damn easy," Black Jack muttered. "Your whole bunch got the hell shot out of them by that halfbreed. He planted the lot of them in boot hill. With those kinds of casualties you're gonna find it tough for a while getting replacements."
"Shit, I think yer right. Damn it."
Clanton took out his rage on his helpless targets. He lit his cigar and walked over to Jane. He touched the tip carefully to the needles dug into her flesh. The needles burned slowly. A maniacal laugh began to build in his throat as the needles burned down lower and lower. Jane came awake in agony, her eyes straining in their sockets, the veins in her throat filled and bulging. Beads of sweat jumped from her jerking head. A smell of burning flesh was present in the air as the needles burned down inch by inch within the imprisonment of her flesh. Clanton took his cigar and traced lines with it back and forth across her belly, then up and down crossing those tracks, leaving a crude scorched checkerboard pattern seared on her skin. It was not a bad series of burns, but the searing that followed was more painful. Clanton poked the heated puffed hot butt of his cigar repeatedly into the squares he had traced on her stomach. Her flesh recoiled and knotted under the assault of the burning pain, but her bondage effectively prevented her from moving even a fraction of an inch to escape.
"You're gonna kill her if you keep on that way," Black Jack cautioned his sadistic friend. "Shit, you can be one hell of a mean bastard."
"Yeah, ain't that the truth. But don't worry, this trash stays alive long enuff for me to hang her. I'm gonna string her up naked, with blood running down her torn flesh from the whipping I give her first. Ain't nobody around to say different or call me out for it neither. The shit and piss will run out of her as I haul her up that rope, inch by inch. I'll let her down a few times before I finish her off, to prolong the fun a bit. She'll be glad to go when I finally finish her off."
"Man," Black Jack exploded in alarm, "this is still the West. They got a code out here that we live by. You can't go doing a woman that way, not in public. I seen cowhands gun down fellas for talking rough to low slut whores. You just can't torture and hang her like that before everyone."
"You been readin' some stupid ass dime novels or something? I been beating shit outta women half my life, so have you, so does every other highroller in this shit hole. I never been called for nothing, and I never will be. Her wolf pack must have one hundred or two hundred notches toted up on their pistol butts. No one's gonna complain if I finish her off, no one in Trail City anyways, and that's what counts." Clanton yanked a still smoldering cactus needle. It crumbled in his hand. He pulled out some of the unburned ones. Blood oozed fresh from the holes he emptied. He doubled up his fist and punched Jane in her belly, in the space he had cleared. He laughed at the look of sickness on her face. He hit her again.
"I'll work on that bitch Carmen for awhile." He walked up behind her and kicked her in the torn mass of her buttocks, sending a swarm of flies buzzing through the air to escape his blows. The girl's body twitched but she remained unconscious. He kicked her again, cursing.
"Wake up you fucking bitch. You're gonna spoil my fun if you can't feel it happening."
"She looks half dead," Black Jack ventured. "Half dead ain't the same as full dead. What's eating you anyway Black Jack, getting squeamish or something? Time was when you done worse than this yourself. Hell man, you got a hard rock in the front of your pants watchin' what I'm doin' to 'em. So don't horseshit me that you give a fuck."
Montana Jane roused herself enough to focus her mind into a flow of hatred that blazed from her eyes at her inhuman tormentor.
Clanton laughed his low mean chuckle. "Coming around a bit, you gunhappy slut? You're starting to show a bit of fire again. Good, that will make it more fun bustin' you up."
Clanton went over to Jane again and clipped her across the mouth. Blood leaked down her chin. He pulled the cactus needles embedded in her pelvis loose, and then kneed her savagely in the groin. She went sick, retching sounds banged against the rags stuffed down her throat.
Clanton decided to use a branding iron on the women. He started a fire going and plunged a half dozen running and branding irons into the fire. Jane's eyes went staring wide with horror and sheer terror at the sight.
"That takes the starch outta you, don't it bitch? Kinda jellies your backbone a mite?"
"I'm leavin'," Black Jack proclaimed, waving his hands to absolve himself of responsibility. "I want no part of any of this."
"You can leave, friend. If you can't stomach it, I don't want you makin' old woman noises around me. Just leave me to my fun."
Clanton sat down on a tree stump and opened another bottle. He hummed and whistled merrily while the irons heated up. He threw pebbles at Kate's ripped ass, laughing when he hit his target. He flipped a few times at Jane, aiming for her tender cunt. She winced when they hit her belly or thighs. Clanton opened himself another bottle and pulled down long rich mouthfuls of the potent first class liquor.
The irons were turning red-hot. Clanton put his glove on and picked up one of the irons. He tested its heat against the bark of the tree Kate hung from. The wood sizzled and blackened, smoke rose.
"These things are hot enuff, which one of you three pigs gets to feel it first, huh?" Clanton walked over to Carmen still slumped unconscious and touched the hot running iron to the center of the flayed and whipped area on her left buttock hill. The raw flesh sizzled and smoked, he turned the iron and pressed it deeper into the blackened wound. The girl came awake threshing in a spasm of pain. Her face was indescribably twisted in agony. Madness glimmered in her eyes. Jane turned sick from the awful sight. Kate shuddered although she could see what was happening. The Mexican girl lapsed into coma once more. Clanton left her lying in a heap and went back to the fire.
"What do I use next, pretties? Hows 'bout a branding iron 'stead of a running iron?" He selected an iron with the sign of the letter T and approached Montana Jane with it. "This here T stands for thief, bitch. It should suit you just right."
The hot glowing iron approached Jane's flesh. She tried to struggle but her arms were numb from the pull of the rawhide bonds that had dried in the sun increasing the pressure on her an causing her wrists to drip blood in the dust. She could not budge a fraction of an inch. The iron came closer and closer until it was within a fraction of an inch of her skin, blistering her with the heat its proximity inflicted. Then it was against her cracking, sizzling, blackening flesh. It remained there for eternally long seconds, inflicting its carnage.
Jane looked down at the T burned into her flesh. Her shocked mind could not comprehend it all. Her eyes clouded and then she fell into darkness once more, soothing unconsciousness.
"Well bitch, it looks like you carry that thief's brand with you from now on. It won't be long till your hanging though."
He turned his attentions to the unfortunate Red Kate.
"No hanging for you, red-haired tramp, but I'm gonna make sure when you leave this here town that you won't be working in no high price cathouses no more. These here irons leave marks that last for a while. Like for life, bitch."
He picked a running iron out of the fire and held it up close to the frightened girl's face, forcing her to gaze upon the red-hot metal. She knew that it would be searing her flesh in a matter of seconds and nothing could stop it. She tried to spit out the rag stuffed into her mouth, to scream, but it was useless.
Clanton touched the iron to the girl's belly. He raked it across her stomach branding a four inch long black line into it. Then he touched the iron to the center of the line and brought a vertical bar down to the hairy triangle between her thighs, inflicting a huge T upon her guts. He threw the iron back into the fire and surveyed his artwork. He was getting tired and wanted to rest for a bit. He had no damn deputies left to help out. He should be making his rounds.
The three prisoners were thrown back into a cell together, without any tending of their injuries. There were no other occupants of the tier of cells, Clanton had emptied them out so as not to have prying eyes witnessing his fun.
Clanton spent the next few hours scouting around Trail City trying to round up a few deputies. He had no luck with any of the gunmen he approached, even some of the gunnies who had ridden out with him against Montana Jane's gang. He received a lot of stupid congratulations from dumbass cowhands and idiots who thought maybe he was some kind of hero. His cronies wanted something quite different, a crack at the three women he was holding in his jail, or at least to watch the fun and games.
In the end Clanton went over to The Five Aces to make a deal with Black Jack for some men.
"I gotta have me at least two deputies," He complained. "I walked by three fights and a shooting in the last two hours. I got other business to take care of and I gotta have some help. Suppose you loan me Pete and Whitey, you got more gun guards than you need right now, considering what's happened. Hell, I git no one guarding the jail, right now."
"All right, I'll send the boys over. You can use them for a week or two but one thing, go easy on them gals. There are some things that people just ain't gonna stand for."
Clanton had his deputies. He sent the town doc over in the afternoon to tend to his prisoners. The old drunk spent a long time patching up injuries and wounds and left the jail muttering to himself, needing a drink, and cautioned by Marshal Clanton not to make a big noise about Clanton's sport with his prisoners.
The following night Clanton rode out of town leading a horse across which two limp bodies were slung. He rode along for a time on the Colorado side of the border until he came to the waterhole where he had ambushed and destroyed Jane's Raiders. He dismounted from his horse and unpacked the two bound up bundles and dropped them into the water. He dragged them out and cut the ropes that bound them. The two badly scarred and marked whores tottered to their feet on weak legs. Nausea and pain tore at them.
"Get outta here you two bitches, and don't never come back along these parts. Here's twenty bucks in gold and three days food supply is in the saddle bags. You can fill them water canteens right here. If'n I ever sees ya back in Trail City I'll nail your asses up to a tree for the vultures to feed on. Now get the hell outta here, move it."
He kicked the two bedraggled sobbing women in the butts. Kate fell screaming as his heavy boot tore a section of dried up welts open once more. He pistol clubbed Carmen on the shoulder, slicing open a half healed whip welt.
"So long bitches. If I stay around here much longer I might be tempted to finish the job on ya. I gotta get back to town anyway, Jane's getting lonely for my company."
The abominable law man went riding off at a slow pace, whistling to himself. The ruined women he left behind him nursed their injuries in the cooling waters.
Carmen gingerly touched a wetted rag to her scraped raw and welted buttock.
"W-what are we going to do. We have one horse and I can't ride, that bastardo flayed my ass. AAAiieee, the pain it never stops. Oh I wish I were dead. I can't ride away from here, what are we going to do." She squatted in the water immersing her flayed buttock and splashing water on her half healed back.
Kate ruefully gazed down at the brand on her belly. "We're finished for sure, and that bastard knows it. I can't ride, I can't even walk. I don't know if I could even stand up for very long. This is where we stay until our food runs out. Maybe we can get somewhere in a few days if we're stronger. There must be a town further along that will help us."
The women had one bit of luck. Some extra clothing that had belonged to the gang members had been left scattered around as unwanted rubbish when the gunman posse had divided up the possessions and money of the annihilated band. At least they would not have to ride out naked, with their injuries displayed for all to see.
Clanton was soon back in town. There was a large riotous fight going on in the streets. A cattle driving crew had rolled into town and there was a fight going on between members of the crew and some local owlhoots. Clanton waded in and broke it up. He pistol whipped one stubborn trailhand, but did not bother arresting anyone. He wanted a cleaned out jail as long as Montana Jane was his guest.
Jane was waiting for his return to the jail. She clenched the bars of her cell and glared at him with all of the hate she could muster in her face showing. Clanton was amazed by her recuperative powers. She should have been weak as a kitten, but looked capable of putting up a little fight again.
"I showed those two friends of yours outta town, slut. You ain't gonna be that lucky, I got a rope waitin' for ya. You got any thing to say about that."
Jane fingered the deeply ugly brand in her breast. Her body was marked with the traces left by whip, cigar, and cactus needles. A few bits of broken needles were still lodged within her flesh, Every inch of her body throbbed with pain. But her spirit was still strong.
"I'm going to get outta here, you fuckin' polecat. And when I do I'm going to skin you alive, an inch at a time. Then I'll cut off your clap ridden balls and stuff them down your Goddamn throat. How do you like that program, you son of a bitch."
Clanton's bull face flushed crimson with rage. He lunged for the taunting girl. Jane managed to spring back as his arm reached through the cell door for her throat.
"That won't help none, you slut. I'm gonna get my keys and come in there for ya. A dose of the whip will teach you to behave."
Clanton stormed into his office. There was a group waiting for him. The big men were there, Mayor Porky Swanson, Bill Kincaid, Doc Spencer, and Charlie Daubie.
"Hi Josh," the blubbery fat mayor greeted him, "we ain't seen too much of you lately. Thought we'd drop over to see how things are going."
"Yeah, and to get a good look at your prisoner," Bill Kincaid interjected.
"I see," Clanton replied. His face was sly. "I reckon you boys come here for more than a look, right. You wouldn't be a turning down a chance to have a crack at her tender ass would you?"
"Hell no, Josh," Swanson blubbered. "Just let me at that blonde spitfire bitch."
"Well, she's right back here all by her lonesome in the cell block. Just follow me. Watch your vital parts and members, though fellas. The bitch has a mighty hard bite to her."
Jane recoiled against the back wall of her cell upon the entrance of the leering, evil mob of sadists. She knew what the bully boys had in mind. None of them could be as bad as Clanton but there wasn't one of the bastards who didn't look capable of killing his own mother for two bits.
"Shit Josh, you sure have prettied the lady up. What did you use on her to get those little black pock marks," Charlie Daubie exclaimed in wonderment.
"Those I made with fired up cactus needles. I sure did inflict a bit of damage on the bitch, didn't I? Well, now you boys can have your share."
Montana Jane began to scream as Clanton unlocked her cell door.
CHAPTER SIX
Indian Jack had come close to dying when he had traded shots with the three deputies in back of the Red Dog Saloon. Grimes had put one slug into Jack's shoulder and another in Jack's chest on the right side before he went down himself with a .45 slug drilled right through his right eye. Jack had staggered from that bloody battleground leaving three dead men inside the saloon and three others behind it. He had holed up in an old dilapidated shed until he could tie off his wounds.
He fell into a coma like sleep. When he awoke it was the following day. He was too feeble to move out of there that day. Toward evening he took a desperate chance and removed the bullet lodged in his shoulder himself. He began to bleed badly again. An ordinary man would have died, but Indian Jack had reserves of strength that carried him through. He left the shed and made his way along the side alleys and back streets to the doctor's office.
The doctor was persuaded to tend to him at the point of a gun and at the flash of a pocketful of gold and silver. It was fortunate for the outlaw that he had money. He bought the doc's silence, the old man hated the Marshal anyway. He had enough of his professional ethic left not to turn in a patient.
Jack spent the next few days hiding out at the doctor's place. His strength gradually began to return. He learned from the doctor the full extent of the disaster that had overtaken the outlaw band. All were dead except Jane, himself, and two others he knew to have been in town at the same time as himself but were undoubtedly long gone. He would have to rescue Jane somehow, battered as he was, all on his lonesome. He rested up and pumped the doctor for information that would enable him to pull off the breakout.
Montana Jane cowered on her bunk as the cell opened and the fat bulk of the mayor wedged its way through the door. There was a look of indescribably obscene lust on his fat pigs' face that sent pangs of nausea through Jane's guts. He reached out a sweaty hand for her. Jane kicked the fat man in the balls. He reeled back screaming and cursing, his hands clutched to his injured crotch.
"I'll get the whore," Doc Spencer roared.
He pushed past the fat mayor and yanked Jane off the bunk by her hair. She lashed out with both hands, raking his face bloody with her nails. She followed up with a short chopping punch to his balls. As he staggered back from the hellcat she lunged forward on tottering weakened legs and slammed his head back hard into the iron bars. The piggish mayor grabbed her throat. Jane brought her knee up in one fast powerful movement into his balls once more. He staggered back, retching up his dinner. He disgorged it all over Doc Spencer who staggered out of the cell cursing and shrieking murder like a girl being assaulted. Montana Jane sent the mayor following with a shove of her foot upon his massive fat piled backside.
"Shit," Clanton jeered. "You boys are a real disgrace. This her bitch has kicked the shit out of both you two babies. Kincaid, you fetch the rattlesnake out of her hole."
Kincaid edged carefully into the cell. He kept his eye warily on the surprisingly fast and dangerous outlaw girl. She tried to deliver a kick to his crotch, but he was ready for it and her strength had faded away. He pulled her in and dug his clawed hand into the brand scar on her tit. Jane screamed as he raked crimson nail weals into her much abused flesh. Blood spurted from the blackened T mark. She perked away from him any staggered back. He punched her in the belly doubling her up. He seized her by her long tangled disheveled blonde mane and sent her flying out of the cell.
Half a dozen brutal hands seized hold of her. Her tits were crushed and twisted in strong hands. Her thighs were spread wide and fingers wedged up her soft cunt tunnel.
"Hold her steady," Clanton bellowed brandishing his bullwhip. He slammed the handle whip up Montana Jane's vagina. The blonde screamed in agony and her body jackknifed out of the hands holding her. She dropped to the ground. Seizing her brief chance she grabbed the Marshal's ankles and twisted, sending him sprawling, spilling one of the others. She scrambled away, the narrow corridor restricting the others wedged behind the fallen pair. But in a second they were on her again, she never even reached the door to the front office. There was a gawking, thunderstruck deputy standing there, anyway.
The raging group of sadistic men fell upon her with a vengeance. Keen with anticipation they bore the thrashing pain contorted body into the front office. Jane was slammed down across the desk scattering a motley mess of papers, reward posters, and empty bottles onto the floor.
"Lock that front door Pete, you jughead idiot," the Marshal ordered. The temporary deputy jumped to it, not missing the veins working in the Marshal's purpled face.
The fat mayor jammed his massive bulk between Jane's spread wide legs, snorting and blowing as his body imitated its piggish appearances.
"I get my piece of the bitch first," the fat man giggled, trying to press the pain in his balls out of his mind and get down to the job of raping her.
Bill Kincaid lit a cigar and set to work on her bobbies, burning the already amply marred breasts flesh. Jane tore a leg free of grasping twisting hands as the fresh pain triggered her muscles and drove her foot into the malevolently grinning face of the mayor, dropping the fat slob on his ass.
Doc Spencer grabbed the leg, locking the ankle in both hands and then turning the leg against the alignment of the bones. Jane's torn and beaten body arched in response to the pain provoking leverage and a terrible scream was torn from the depths of her being. Spencer slid himself into the eagle spread embrace of her thighs and plowed hard into the soft vital center of the girl, his long veiny thing standing out rigid as a flagpole through the opened front of his fly. He hammered his path into her, the hard brutal thrusting causing the girl to go brokenly limp, voicing her agony and humiliation in small animal sounds that went on in sobbing spatters throughout the short savage course of Spencer's raping. The tall, gangly thin man with a cruel death's head skull and a face made up of chiseled, overlaid slabs ground and wallowed between Montana Jane's legs until his thick spurting filled her with hot sticky fluid. His putrid piece of beef went flaccid and he stepped back out of her, cackling and snickering his triumph to his laughing friends who congratulated him and slapped his back. He half emptied the residue of a bottle of red eye and seated himself on a chair, smoking and drinking, content with his masculine performances and eager to watch the play of his cronies.
Jane sobbed her humiliation, her raped body a mass of limp, unresisting meat.
"She ain't no damn fun this way, I want a little kick to a woman when I prod her."
"Mebbe she kin do some good with her mouth," piped old Daubie, his voice the high pitched squeal of an old school master which had been his profession once long ago before he had gone into the whore business.
Pete the deputy watched the proceedings with his tongue actually dangling from his mouth. He ran his hands nervously over his scalp, mopping away pools of greasy sweat which he cleaned off on his foul smelling dirty rag of a shirt. The Marshal looked the rummy gunbum over, noticing almost for the first time what a hulk of filth and decrepitude the slow witted temporary deputy was. The others were at least half way clear, but this dirty pig of a man would be the perfect finisher to the gang rape of the blonde bandit queen.
Meanwhile, the snorting amost apoplectic mayor was ready to make his play once more.
"You touch me wrong one more time you fucking little piece of shit," he bellowed, "and I'll gouge your eyes out of their sockets." He seized two thick handfuls of yellow mane and shook Jane's head until her mind reeled with dizziness topping the pain she felt.
"Get the bitch on her knees. I wants a visit into that bitch mouth of hers."
"I said she was probably better with her mouth," Daubie crackled.
Two of them held her on her knees, arms twisted up behind her back. The mayor's small white wormy thing pointed at her mouth. Jane opened her dry, moistureless mouth to embrace the foul meat offered to her. She closed her eyes and fought down the gagging rippling through her guts. She began to lip and tongue the hot prick, fluting and rolling the dirty dong. In a short time the paltry manhood of the mayor was spent into her mouth. The mayor sheepishly stepped away into a corner adjusting his fly and realizing that he had not overly impressed his buddies with his mediocre performance. He ruefully realized that he was capable of little better even on the best days he had ever seen.
Bill Kincaid wanted a crack at Montana Jane's ripe and lovely bottom butts. The map work of welts and markings completely obliterating the white smoothness of her hillocks only whetted his appetite for the spicy targets.
"Heat the beef up first before you dig into it," Clanton encouraged him. He slid off his gunbelt and handed the wide and heavy leather belt inlaid with silver to Kincaid.
Kincaid needed no further prodding. This was what he had intended to open up with anyway. He doubled the belt in his hand, aligning the twin emptied holsters together. He raised his hand up and slashed across the white upturned bottom with it. Jane bucked and plunged against the restraint of the two men holding her down across the desk. The cartridge loaded heavy belt slammed across her tortured rump and the silver raised patterns of the holster scraped the skin on her thighs.
"This is too damn clumsy," Bill grumbled. "Give me a regular strap to lay into the scum with."
With a handier implement Kincaid whipped massive mounds of welted flesh up and down Jane's behind. The punished flesh bucked and dipped under the ferocious onslaught. Jane's renewed screamings were music to the calloused ears of her torturers. All were long seasoned veterans of the attitude in insensitivity to the suffering of their fellows and the profiting and enjoyment of such sufferings. Kincaid kept whipping away until he had whiplashed a blood pudding upon which to vent his lust.
His fly was unbuttoned and an instrument far larger and imposing than the puny dangler of the mayor was proudly displayed. Kincaid positioned himself and burrowed into the crease between the upturned buttocks. He plowed the head of his cock through the closed doors of Jane's rear tunnel and lanced inch by inch in tearing pain provoking jerks and thrusts into her depths. Her jiggling heated blood balls of once alabaster as flesh made a rolling protesting movement against the front of his thighs which invoke greater surges of lust within his heated loins and helped him to vent himself sooner within the prison of her asshole. Jane's body went tight and rigid as she felt the hated disgorging straining her third bodily cavity. She started involuntarily to reward the pig's efforts with the whimpering and sobbing that they had intended to provoke from her. Kincaid drew himself free of the asshole with a ploshing sound and patted the bloody bottom he had buried himself in.
"That was damn nice," he commented. "Very warm and cozy in there. I'll have to pay a return visit sometime."
"Better make your return visit soon Bill," Clanton cautioned him. "This scummy bitch ain't gonna be round here for very much longer. I gotta proceed with the hanging in a few days and collect the gold on her scalp." He yanked a handful of her yellow plumage. "Sure is a pretty scalplock. I just might collect it off'n her head fore I hangs her like the Injuns do." He slapped her hard across her face. Her temper flared but there was nothing she could do to reply to his ill treatment. "What do you think bout me having your scalp? Might also cut off your head and pickle it. That would be something to show off. Like they done with Joaquin Murietta, that greaser outlaw in California. Might collect different parts of you, tits in one jar, ears in another, like that. Something to show the Eastern dudes to make them drop in their drawers."
"Shit, you're gonna make me drop my breakfast with talk like that," Kincaid interjected, unable to repress a shudder or disgust. "That kinda stuff gives me the creeps."
The Marshal's voice turned deadly and controlled and cold. He articulated ever word in an even tone that warned of his mounting displeasure at the reproach voiced toward him. The animosity of Marshal Clanton was quick to arise and not to be regarded lightly. "Nobody called you out for fuckin' her ass and whipping it first. Don't go implying that I'm some sort of dirty bug."
"Bill didn't mean nothing," Porky Swanson cut in placatingly, his voice smooth as silk. He tossed a bottle of two buck whiskey to Clanton. "Drink up Josh and let's get on with our little party. Old Charlie gets the next turn to rut the whore."
Daubie cackled in glee and circled his prey.
"Sure would like to have something like this working in my cribs. Could really clean up."
The old man opened his fly and let out his old wizened and shriveled gun. It slowly sprang up to full swell under the driving of his lust.
"Turn the bitch belly up boys. I'm not one for working the back door when the front door is wide open." He laughed at his own joke.
He grabbed hold of Jane's breasts, digging his bony fingers into the mounds of warm softness. He could feel the finely chiseled nipples in the palms of his hands with the long, pyramidical center points that were a third of an inch long when hard and filled out. The manipulations of the many hands had accomplished this rather than arousal, Jane's soft center core was bone dry.
"Shit," Daubie proclaimed, "her waterhole is dried out. I can see the sand blowing round inside her. Woudn't be a bad idea to grease her up before I go in there."
But the dry arid hole did not deter him. He thrust his cock slowly up Montana Jane's cunt. The smelly dried up old man was even more repellent to her than that fat lardbelly of a mayor. She worked the muscles of her midregion and thighs to try to evict him. The wrigglings of her flesh stimulated the old bastard but had no effect whatsoever in preventing him from obtaining his dastardly pleasure. He shoved and plunged and gunned away inside her pussy hole and soon the terrible spurting of spunk once more filled Jane's internals. She could feel the loathsome sticky clottings thickly vented into her ass, cunt, and mouth. The sea water salty taste of the fluid spent in her dry mouth sickened her. She had to have water. "Water," she croaked hoarsely.
Marshal Clanton held out a whiskey bottle. "You can have a swig of this, but no water, you trash. Do you want some of it."
"Y-yes. I'll take some."
The Marshal slammed the neck of the bottle into her mouth, chipping a tooth. The brownish liquid filled her mouth and gushed out in a thick overflow. The Marshal forced a great gulp of the potent brew down her throat. It burned but refreshed her. It was some help.
With that small charitable act the Marshal was now ready to inflict the greatest degradation yet upon her.
"C'mere Pete, it's your turn to play with the bitch.
The scummy deputy gulped and went bug-eyed with disbelief.
"Ya really mean that Mister Clanton? Can I really have a poke at that little piece of fluff ball?"
"Sure you can," Clanton assured him with a dirty wink. "You're a damn good boy and you do your job for me just like for Blackie, so I say to dig into her. Go dig your gold mine, Pete."
Jane did not know that there were further depths of loathing and repulsion that she could find herself face to face with. From the top of his pockmarked greasy head to the toes of his scruffy, filthy rotting boots the creature that approached her was a caricature of repulsiveness. He grinned to display a rotten blackened mouthful of uneven and crooked teeth. He was the sort of thing that had to pay crib women and get them when they were blind drunk.
He started to take off his pants, an act the others had not bothered with. The stench he unloosed brought an instant chorus of universal protest.
"Lord, what a goddamn stench," Kincaid gasped. "Put those britches back on and keep them on. I'm going in the backroom to drink for a while. Call me back when this is over. Shit, a fella could asphyxiate in here with that moron plugging her."
The bell of opportunity rang in Jane's mind. Kincaid, Swanson, and Daubie all went into the back room, drunkenly swaying and carrying a bottle apiece. There were now only three of them in the front office with her. Whipped, branded, beaten, burned, pierced, raped, and half starved as she was Jane felt the adrenalin pumping a spurt of strength into her. It all came together in her mind, the Marshal had removed his guns, only Pete still had a gun on his hip, Spencer was holding her hands, it could all be made to work, a second to snatch free and grab for the gun and if if-if... "
CHAPTER SEVEN
Jane gritted her teeth and braced herself for the attack. She let her eyes go vague and staring, all the time concentrating as hard as she had ever done in her life, readying herself for action.
She let the swine move between her legs. The Marshal leered at her, watching the sport with avid glee, but still sitting and not moving close to her. She let the human gob of spit take his thing in his hand, his face red and flushed as he readied the lunge into her. Then she whipped her legs up and around his waist, pulling him forward and mashing him against her. At the same time bracing against this applied leverage she tore her hands free of Spencer's grip and grabbed at the gun in the holster of the slow witted temporary deputy.
Pete had perhaps a fraction of a second to realize what was happening as the flashing hands pulled the Colt out of his holster. He had no holster guard loop and that proved fatal to him. As the gun left the holster Jane twisted the gun around and sent a bullet dead center through the center of Pete's chest to lodge in the front door. Jane quickly reversed the gun in her grip and shot over her head, blowing away the top of Doc Spencer's head. The drunken Marshal instinctively made a diving lunge to the floor and rolled to the chair, his two Colts rested on. Jane sat up letting the jerking shocked body of the deputy loose from the grip of her legs. Her hands trembled a mite from the grip of the pain raging in her body, but she quickly braced her right hand over her left forearm and squeezed off a round that ripped through Clanton's shoulder. The Marshal screamed in fear feeling the spectre of death positioning its sickle for the slice that would cut away his life. He stared up into the great mouth of the Colt and the determined wrathful face behind it, and his bowels turned to water. Jane aimed right between his eyes, her ears judging the sounds of scurrying in the doorway to the cell block for the instant of danger that would have to be dealt with but first she had one last shot for the Marshal and time to deliver it. Then she suddenly shifted her pistol and put a bullet right through Clanton's gunhand, almost tearing two of his fingers loose, obliterating the knuckle of his index finger, blowing a hole right through his gunhand.
A quick whirl and she was facing the doorway, squeezing off her last two cartridges into the fat bloated belly of the mayor and the groin of Charlie Daubie.
She jumped down off the table, wincing suddenly as the sharp movement sent a renewed flood of pain through her, causing her to falter for a second. But she had to move, move, move fast.
She flung the empty gun against the back of the screaming Marshall and swept his twin Colts up off the chair. They were gunman's weapons, hand tooled and fitting hard and smooth in her hands. She sent another bullet into Clanton, shattering his right angle. She turned toward the doorway and fired a salvo into the screaming mass, there, killing the fat mayor and Charlie Daubie.
Kincaid reared up with his Smith-Wesson in hand but she put two shots through his chest, firing both Colts together simultaneously in her deadly style.
Only she and Marshal Clanton lived within that charnel house. She squatted down and pressed both guns close to his head. He frantically clawed at them with his one good hand. Jane calmly fired the barrels alongside his ears, deafening him. He went into convulsions of agony, his shattered hand drumming upon the floor, his shoulder leaking blood, broken ankle spurting it, the scarlet also oozing from his ruined ears. Jane had finished with him for the present.
"I'll return for you, scum. I want you in no condition to stop me, you foul bastard." But she cursed with regret as she realized her warning was wasted on a dead man.
Montana Jane came through the front door of the jail seconds later after getting the key and unlocking it. She reeled and tottered, but stark naked and scarred from neck to ankles she was a terrifying sight, two guns in hand and her face a mask of death and fury.
The Marshal's horse was handily hitched to the rack in front of the jail. Jane almost fell off as she mounted, but she made it anyway.
She spurred the stallion and he hit dust. The galloping action sent further rips of agony lancing through the parts of her body which felt as if they had been dissected and sewn back together with a sail sewing needle.
One lone figure came from the front of a saloon carrying a rifle and ready for business. Jane gunned him down. The dozens of other onlookers watched the golden fury ride out of Trail City too awestruck and dumbfounded to act or do anything except maintain an unnatural silence.
"Jane, hey, Jane."
The voice was a welcome one. Indian Jack came reeling out of the doctor's office plummeted down the flight of stairs, but he was instantly on his feet again, and pulled his gun from his holster. He hit the saddle of a horse tied to a hitching rail and tore the reins loose with one continuous movement while seated on the stallion. Then with a shot through a gas lamp that was one of the prodes, the modern conveniences of Trail City, he went galloping after the figure receding in darkness at full gallop.
It took a long time for the dumbfounded and chaotic town to realize what had happened.
Working in the jail the doctor laughed out loud in fierce glee at the carnaged broken sobbing body of the Marshal as he worked on him. He tended to his shoulder and ankle and hand. The ankle was taped up and the broken bone splintered, the shoulder sealed off, and the two ruined fingers of the once deadly trigger hand cut away and that hand bandaged in thick swathings of gauze. The other five were stone dead, in huge pools of blood. There was little sorrow at their loss. The town was shocked and would soon panic when the economic consequences became known, but nobody loves a boss, and their misfortunes are usually a reason for general rejoicing.
There was nothing to be done about the Marshal's ears except to bandage them up after staunching the loss of blood.
Two gunhands carried the Marshal over to The Five Aces on a stretcher. The doctor wanted no part of the miserable bastard in his own office. He thought with quite a bit of glee that Clanton would cut a sorry figure once he had healed up. His gun hand was ruined, he was deaf, and would hobble and limp for months on that shattered angle. He appreciated the diabolical revenge of Montana Jane. He expected her to return sometime for the Marshal. But before she did, he would die a hundred deaths, waiting. A deaf man could be taken advantage of. His many enemies would be quick to vent their long repressed grievances upon him now. A deaf cripple could be beaten to shit, killed with impunity. The Marshal would soon learn what it meant to be weak and helpless, and he would have it coming to him, a long overdue lesson.
In the weeks ahead a terrible time set in for Trail City. Much of the order and stability of the town came undone. A new Marshal was appointed when it was evident that the disabled Clanton could no longer fill that post. He was promptly backshot by a killer who had a grudge against lawdogs. Another one was appointed. He was trying to oust a drunken bunch of cowhands from a gambling hall where they had been cheated at a crooked roulette game when he met his end in a thick pall of gunsmoke.
The holdings of the dead men were fought over and killed over. There were five claimants to Bill Kincaid's two saloons and five cathouses within three weeks and there were eleven killings over this. Black Jack was the strongest man left in Trail City, and he wound up with most of the pie, the office of mayor, and a new fresh set of business partners and cohorts. With the help of Cliff Jameson, the banker, a new hierarchy was finally shakily established and order set.
The office of the Marshal was vacant for a time and order was maintained by a mob of some twenty or thirty gunmen working as a guard unit for Black Jack, Jameson, and the other big dealers. It was not the best of solutions, but it held the hole together for a time.
The cowhands grew bolder. A large trailherd avenged their many grievances by shooting up Trail City, burning three saloons, killing a dozen dealers and gunmen, taking five fatal casualties themselves, and putting a further tear into the reputation of toughness that helped keep the town on top of its victims. There were numerous other shootings throughout this period. Profits fell way off.
The person who suffered the most of course was the low fallen Marshal. His favorite girl and victim, Ruby, was one of the first to vent her vengeance upon the almost helpless cripple. He was walking about some ten days after his injuries with the aid of a crutch. Ruby came up behind him as he painfully hobbled back and forth in front of The Five Aces and kicked the crutch out from under him. She followed through by kicking the miserable man repeatedly in the balls to a round of general applause.
His friend Black Jack rescued him and dragged him back inside. But Black Jack was becoming more than a little put out by the helpless state of his cohort and the whining self-pity of the bully boy who had been thrown down and trampled into the dirt like so many of his victims. Black Jack's friendship with Clanton had been based essentially on mutual need rather than any liking for each other. He realized that Clanton was no longer of much use to himself or any one. He would be better rid of than hanging like a stone around Black Jack's neck. He could not even understand what people had to say to him, and his reading was rather inferior as well.
A few more weeks passed. Clanton drank heavily but recovered his nerve a bit under the necessity of remaining alive. He took to wearing a gun again, on his left side. He practiced with it in back of The Five Aces. He was not too fast but he could shoot straight. He regained a degree of hope. If he could find a good man to watch his back, if he could live long enough to regain full use of his leg, he might have a chance. He knew that Black Jack was fixing to cast him off, pay him a paltry amount for his share of the place and get rid of him. Clanton had some money left in the bank, and could leave the place, but he was not ready to let go yet.
His helplessness was soon dramatized once more. A cowhand he had pistol whipped on a past occasion as well as whipped behind the jail with a rope, came up behind the deaf man and deftly lifted the gun from Clanton's holster. He kicked the crutch out from under Clanton and set to stomping the shit out of him. Clanton tried to defend himself, but not with much success. He could not form a fist with his right hand due to the damage to it and the two missing fingers. Fighting with a bad leg and one hand he had the shit beaten out of him. Half of his teeth were kicked loose, his jaw broken, two ribs cracked, nose mashed, and head stomped to bloody paste. A few enthusiastic bystanders added their quota of kicks to the ex-marshal's broken body. He was carried back to The Five Aces on a doorframe and this time Black Jack had enough of the ruined man. After another week to recover from these injuries he was sent packing with two thousand bucks and one set of clothes.
Clanton went to the bank for his money. He was given five hundred dollars, and informed that this was the total extent of his cash deposits. Clanton knew he had over ten thousand in the bank. He protested vehemently. Two of the bank guards came up behind him, pinned his gun hand and pistol whipped new knots and lumps upon his hard skull. He was thrown out the door. He went reeling off to drink his sorrows away.
More time passed. Clanton regained the full use of his ankle. He became a good hand with his gun once more, gaining full skill with his left hand. He was now a dangerous man once more. His ruined broken face took on an aspect of total savagery. He drank heavily, and let his beard grow long and straggly. He took on a back-watching partner and the two began to hire out their guns. Black Jack became somewhat uneasy at his continued presence in town, but tolerated him.
Josh Clanton killed a few men and gained a new reputation. He was not widely feared, but he was left alone. He had no power any more but he could defend himself.
One night Black Jack was sitting in his office late at night counting receipts. The place was almost empty, it was a slow night and the big herds had gone past weeks ago. It was the slow season. Down below on the ground floor there was still some desultory activity, but it was not much. Most of what little action went on occurred in the rooms where the whores sported with their customers.
Suddenly Black Jack felt the barrel of a gun hard against his neck.
"You cheating bastard," a harsh voice rasped. A heavy blow thudded at the base of Black Jack's skull. He slumped across his table. Grinning at the easy action Indian Jack scooped up the cash. He took Black Jack's gold watch, rings, pocket money, and cufflinks. Then he pistol whipped the unconscious big wheeler, breaking his nose, knocking out teeth. He went out through the back window he had come through.
Outside of town five miles he met up with Montana Jane.
"Did you do it just the way I told you too," she questioned.
"Sure I did. He'll remember me calling him a cheating bastard and go after your old pard, Clanton. He probably won't kill him off, but he'll break him in two trying to get him to talk."
Jane's face assumed a look of savage triumph. "One more nail in that bastard's coffin."
"I got nearly six thousand," the halfbreed added. "That's a sweet topping to the cake all right."
* * *
Several hours later Clanton quailed before the glowering Black Jack who dabbed at his smashed face with a wetted towel while shrieking accusations at his ex-partner. Clanton had been jumped by five of Black Jack's enforcers, his partner gunned down and Clanton taken alive.
Clanton flinched and trembled under the shouted abuse, ringed by a burly crowd of Black Jack's henchmen, Black Jack screaming words out faster than Clanton could read his lips with this newly acquired skill.
"Of course it was you, you fucking son of a bitch. Who else would have called me a cheating bastard before busting my head. Don't you think I recollect the way you used to bust skulls when you was the cock of the walk. Well, you picked the wrong pigeon this time. I want my money back or I'll have your mangy hide. Don't think I'm too damn soft either. I remember the way you used to do things, bastard."
Black Jack's favorite gal, Carol, dabbed at his battered face. Her eyes were inflamed with anger.
"Let me make that son of a whore speak," she pleaded. "I got me a streak of Apache blood. They knew how to make a son of a bitch own up."
"I may let you work on him at that," Black Jack replied. "Tie the bastard to that post boys. I'm gonna let the lady work him over."
Clanton was bound struggling violently and vainly to a center post in the office. His clothes were cut off breaking his skin in several places, drawing traces of blood from him.
Clanton was a total coward when it came to the subject of his own suffering. He could inflict punishment without compassion but he could not bear to be hurt.
"Oh Jesus, Blackie, I swear it wasn't me. Why would I rob you and leave you alive. No, I didn't mean that the way it sounded. I meant that I'm innocent, I swear I am. You gotta believe me, you gotta."
"Get to work on the swine," Black Jack ordered Carol.
The black eyed beauty with the wild streak of Apache blood swaggered up to Clanton. He had killed a friend of hers once, and fried the tits of some of her close gal buddies with his cigar. She had no mercy to spare him whatsoever.
Carol raked his chest to bloody furrows with her nails. Up and down, left and right, crisscrossing scores of tracks. She ripped his chest until he bled as if a whip had been used on him.
"Talk you gutter rat," she screamed in his blubbering cowardly face.
She kneed him in the balls. He screamed. Carol picked up a length of rope and began to whip him with it after doubling it up and then spinning the ends in her hands to wrap it up into corkscrewed knots. She whipped his clawed chest and whiskey blown gut, whipped his cock and balls until he screamed in maddened torment from the depths of his evil heart. She whipped and slashed at him, over and over again. Blood was drawn through ripped skin and began to spatter the thick rug.
"Shit," Black Jack cursed, "we should have taken him somewhere else, the damn carpeting's gonna be ruined."
"You want to move him out of here, Blackie," Carol asked.
"No, since we started we might as well finish."
The whipping went on. They stifled his screams with a gag. He could nod his head when ready to tell the truth. Carol whipped his nuts, swinging underhand chops at his most tender area with the rope, slashing his body with unbearable sensations of pain.
Black Jack lit a cigar, grimacing at the effort to smoke through broken teeth. He threw it away, bitterly. He would make that ugly bastard pay for this.
Carol kept on working on him. She ground his toes with her high heeled shoes. He remained apparently adamant, refusing to nod his head when asked if he was ready to divulge the whereabouts of the cash. The stench of fear from his ugly carcass was sickening.
"Where are some of those Apache tricks," Black Jack demanded. "Make him talk."
Carol procured a hatpin and began to use this implement on the quaking wreck. She pierced his ears. Trickles of scarlet ran down neck. She pierced the fleshy sunken pouches under his eyes. His screams from under the gag rose to a sickening crescendo. Carol bent down and began to prod the hatpin under his toenails one by one, piercing the resistant skin. A pool of blood grew under his feet. His fingernails came next. Several nails were split by the merciless piercings of the thick needle. Carol pinched up his nipples. Holding the loose pink buds of flesh between two fingers she pierced the nipples once, twice, over and over again. It became a blood leaking sieve of flesh. Carol explored the roughen texture of his skin with the needle, piercing it as will wherever she felt so inclined. His body was drowned under its stenchful coating of sweat. Great beads ran down his paunchy body. Carol plunged the hatpin into his beerbelly, piercing the hard resistant walls of his guts, plunging the needle all the way into his guts. Every vein in his purpling contorted face filled out and stood out in relief from the pressure of the pain welling up within the craven hulk of a once feared gun killer.
He had never known that pain could be so terrible. It ripped into him, his guts felt as if they were being eaten out by rats. He lost control of his bladder and a leak of reeking yellow liquid poured out of him.
"Get the bastard out of here," Black Jack roared. "Take him back of the jail. That's where he used to like to work. Keep at him until he's ready to tell where he hid my greenbacks."
The miserable bag of flesh and bones was hauled out of the back door by the scuff of the neck. Montana Jane's vengeance was coming full circle back upon the perpetrator of her wrongs with incredible fury. Clanton would shortly be wishing for death.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Carol continued her work on the broken shell of a man behind the jailhouse. Two of the gunmen beat the shit out of him for a start. Their heavy fists battered his ruin of a face beyond all recognition. His broken nose was redented and mashed almost flat. His eyes were buried under black slates of swollen flesh. Blood streamed from numerous cuts and contusions. He bled steadily from the tears under his broken and loosened fingers and toe nails and his torso was a sickening mass of punctures and welts.
Carol flipped lighted matches against his body. The long matches flickered momentarily scarring his body with black burn marks. His sweaty bloodied carcass twitched constantly under the fiery missile impacts. Carol held a lighted match under the heavy hang of his scrotum, frying his nuts just a little bit. He went white and his eyes bulged at their sockets. Carol felt disgust at his ugly foul smelling ruin of a rotten carcass and his refusal to cooperate. The business was losing its appeal.
Black Jack showed up. The grotesque and horrifying condition of Clanton turned his stomach. His own injuries were almost healed up and the bleeding had stopped. The swelling had taken final form and would slowly diminish and return to normal save for the missing teeth and the new knot planted upon the broken column of his nose. Rationality was returning and he began to realize that a coward like Clanton could not hold out unless he was telling the truth.
One of the gunmen was beginning to scrape flaps of skin away from Clanton's flanks. Clanton had the face of a man gone completely mad, and scarcely seemed to feel the flaying of his hide.
"Hold it, boys," Black Jack ordered. "If that son of a bitch knew anything he would have told us by now. Cut him down."
The groveling thing that was released from the tree that had been used many times for interrogation and torture made dog sounds and snake movements on the ground. It curled into a ball and tried to disappear into its own skin. It became absolutely still as if the lack of movement rendered it invisible.
Black Jack felt ill.
"God, I never intended to go this far with the critter. It would be really shitty if he had nothin' at all to do with that holdup."
"If it weren't him, who else'd do you that way? Who'd have the nerve to backjump the boss of Trail City?"
Black Jack let his brains do a bit of work for a change. "There's one would do it this way, letting me put the blame on Clanton. That bitch, Montana Jane. She hauled her ass outta here clean away, but she left Clanton alive after shooting him up. She killed off all the others but left his ass behind. But she wouldn't let it go at that. She had to come back sooner or later to finish the job on him. What could be a better revenging than to blame the bastard for her own job and have me bust him apart making him own up to it. Son of a bitch. But if she did this, then she must still be around. Damn, I want that wildcat found. And whoever the hell she's got with her. She can't have much of a gang yet, after the whole pack got blown to boot hill. I want men out scouring the hills all around here. Both sides of the border. Search every old shack, look at every watering spot, hit all the shitass towns within twenty miles. But find that bitch."
One of the gunmen muttered at these orders. "Hell boss," he protested, "that would just about empty this place. We could be roaming those hills for days and not find anything. What if anything big breaks out here while we're gone. We won't have enough men left here to be worth a shit. We're gonna need twenty or thirty guns to scour those hills and this whole territory right. That won't leave anything in Trail City expect for the saloon guard details and a few street patrols. And we still ain't got no Goddamn Marshal or deputies or nothing." Black Jack pondered his words for a long time. What he had said made sense, but action was still imperative. The money had to be retrieved, his reputation upheld, and his vengeance satisfied.
"You lead the search posse. Chuck. Everybody back here in two days if you don't find nothing. As for a Marshal of this shit heap, I guess I can fill that post myself until you get back."
Within an hour a disgruntled and apathetic band of gunmen went thundering out of Trail City, few of them hoping to run into their quarry despite the rewards still open and the money they had been promised by Black Jack. The memory of the six dead men in the jail-house and the broken wreck she had made of Clanton was still fresh in the minds of the town, expanded and flourished up to the level of a legend.
Montana Jane watched them ride out of town. Indian Jack played with her boobies which almost popped out of her half open shirt-front. He ran his fingers tenderly over the T brand on her tit and squeezed her nipple. Jane impatiently removed his hand, annoyed at his oft expressed amorous intentions at the most impropitious times.
The two had ridden back into town from the Colorado side, merging unseen into the dark shadows of the back streets. There were five dusty, dangerous looking men with them, Floyd Miller's bunch, mostly ex-cowhands who had tired of the negligible wages and prospects of cowherding and turned to robbing stages and banks. Now they rode with Montana Jane for the moment, for the run of this one job in Trail City.
"We won't hit this rathole tonight," Jane explained. "We'll let those bastards get good and far out of this shit pile. Maybe they'll find the trails we left for them. Maybe not. Anyways they won't be back here for probably a couple of days. Tomorrow we can hit the bank in broad daylight, strip it clean, and light out fast.
"What 'bout your private plans," Miller inquired. His voice had a peevish quality to it that irked Jane.
"My private business will be taken care of before the sun comes up. Don't sweat water, Miller, I don't aim to let it interfere with the profits."
"Maybe you should have finished that bastard the last time," Indian Jack cautioned. "You might let the cat out of the bag goin' after him tonight."
Jane patted her binoculars. "I watched those bastards take him to the jail. He's less than two hundred yards from me right now. He hasn't come outa that fenced off enclosure he's got back of it neither. If they didn't kill him that's where he's gonna be in a couple hours, and that's where I'm gonna go git him."
Two hours or so later just before sunup Jane vaulted the fence that surrounded the enclosure of torture behind he jailhouse. A broken sniveling bloody figure cowered in a ball of pain against the base of the tree. There was no one else around. Jane felt a surge of triumph and a wave of hatred run through her. She cautiously approached the figure, pulling the long Mexican knife she carried out of its sheath. She cast a sidelong glance at the door of the jail as she passed by. The interior was dark, apparently deserted. She had spied a group of prisoners being released when the ex-marshal had been brought through. Black Jack probably didn't want any witnesses.
Jane bent over the thing with foam flecked lips and moronic wandering eyes. Her guts went cold. Shit, what a disappointment if he was too far gone to know what was happening to him.
Jane cracked Clanton across his face with the hilt of the knife. A shallow, but bloody cut was sliced across the ridge of his cheekbone. He glanced up, terror twisting his broken features into a mask of fear that erased all resemblance to the swaggering torture dealer he had once been.
"Remember me, you son of a bitch," Jane hissed." She tore her shirt open displaying the T brand burnt into her left boob and the faint marks of needles and whips that still remained. "You remember this, don't you, prairie dog? Now I'm back to collect for it."
Recognition and understanding slowly emerged from the ratcage of his mind. The cobwebs of madness cleared away to be replaced by the far worst reality that had overtaken him. He looked up into the terrible merciless face of his doom. He saw the knife in her hand. He whimpered, too far gone to articulate words of pleading. He clawed out at her with his good hand. Jane kicked him in the groin.
The knife slashed out, amputating an ear. He screamed, an almost soundless scream, his vocal cords unable to throw out the energy for a loud scream. Jane slashed him across the throat. His mouth drowned in blood as he continued trying to scream out his death fear. It bubbled thick and heavy out of his gaping mouth and poured in thick streams from the new mouth slash across his throat. Jane ripped his belly open, two terrible tearing slices across his midriff. He doubled up in a knot, legs churning in death spasm, trying to hold back the gore and blood and thick tubings of intestine spilling out of his ripped open guts. He bit the dust literally, chewing the sand as blood gushed from his mouth. He went rigid, his eyes stared out into a black nothingness, he assumed the position of a foetus in death.
Jane cleaned off her knife and climbed the fence. She passed close by a cowhand fucking the mouth of a saloon whore. His sidekick stood by drinking from a bottle, reeling drunkenly, awaiting his turn. He spotted Jane.
"Hey l-lady," he stammered drunkenly, "how about giving me some of the treat my partners gettin'. I'll give ya three bucks." Jane had some time to kill. Her men were situated in saloons throughout the town by now awaiting the moment to strike. The killing of Clanton put her in the mood for weird sport, such as playing the part of a whore.
The drunken drover was completely flabbergasted when the girl in cowhand's clothes knelt before him and unbuttoned his fly. His flaccid long porker flopped out. Jane cupped the prick in her hand and squeezed it as she manipulated it in her hand. Jane took the end into her mouth, sucking and tonguing it. She began to give the cowhand his blow job. She had chosen a bad time for it however, her judgment had indeed been impaired by the demands of vengeance.
Black Jack had gone to Jameson the banker, the last good brain in Trail City other than himself. Jameson winced at the sight of Jack's busted up face. When Jack had related the occurrences of that night, Jameson's face had become drawn and infuriated.
"You jughaid idjit," he lapsed into the dialect that betrayed his origins when he was infuriated and dropped his banker's jargon. "You sent most of our men outa town on a wild goose chase. That thieving slut wouldn't come back her for any lousy five thousand and ride out again. She wouldn't be on her lonesome neither, you horse's ass. Damn, she might be in town right now. You get back over to that jailhouse with six or seven of the boys. I'm gonna scour the saloons and see if I kin rope in ten or twelve short time hands with hard cash. Oh, go around the back way while you're at it. Maybe they got someone watchin' the front of the jail. She might have her eyes all over this town so try not to attract notice. Do everything on the quiet."
The pack of gunhands led by Black Jack came sneaking quietly through a back alley to go around to the side entrance of the darkened deserted jailhouse. Black Jack was sure now that Jameson was right. If Clanton had been snuffed that would clinch it for sure. Trail City would be in big trouble once more. Black Jack spotted two whores sucking two cowhands. But one of the whores had long blonde hair, and he recognized that long proud will mane even in the darkness.
"Get up real slow you bitch, or we'll blow your ass to kingdom come."
The drunk cowherder screamed as Jane bit into his cock in startled surprise. She spat the thing out of her mouth and looked behind her. Half a dozen or more men were emerging from an alleyway pointing irons at her. She had no chance. She was roughly disarmed and searched. The two cowhands and the whore scrambled away under the iron toting promptings of the guards and Black Jack.
Jack gestured at his battered face. Jane could not suppress a smirk of satisfaction. His fist smashed into her mouth. She reeled, was braced up by two of the burly guntoters, and spat out a mouthful of blood and a piece of broken tooth.
"How many guns you got in this town, what are your plans, where are your men," he bellowed at her.
Montana Jane maintained an adamant silence.
"Take her back to the jailhouse," Jack ordered. "Stay with her until you hear from me, keep a careful lookout. I'm gonna round up all the boys."
By the time Jane's crew realized what was going on in the early morning the town was crawling with shotgun toting killers and gunnies hired for one or two days at top pay. The banker and the gambling entrepreneur had called the shots correctly and played their ace card. A couple of men were out combing the hills to bring back the posse that had ridden out. The five men who had hired on to Montana Jane and Indian Jack wanted no part of the heavy odds. They rode off. Jack realized that if he stayed he would be caught for sure, with his face known to anyone who had the eyes to look at the wanted posters on him prominently displayed. He would come back in a few days to attempt another rescue, but he failed to see how he might pull it off. Jane was probably caught for good this time. She had played the last hand awfully dumb.
The town buzzed with rumors and speculations. The word was that Montana Jane had returned for a raid, and been captured. The speculation was proven true early in the afternoon. A group of shotgun wielding men with deputy badges filed out of the jailhouse escorting a stark naked girl. Her hair was long, blonde, and blew wild in the wind whipping up the alkali dust.
She was escorted to the gallows on the edge of town.. An enormous crowd soon gathered to watch her get hung. There were a few sympathetic faces in the throngs, most of them cowhands, whores, and bummers. The gunmen and riffraff, the gold dripping killers who ran Trail City laughed and gibed at her exposed lush body.
Jane flinched and reddened under the obscene mob of eyes that viewed her and mouths that insulted her. It was degrading to be finished off in this way. It was her own damn fault for so stupidly jeopardizing her plan to finish off the broken pile of shit. Clanton. Now it was all through with her.
But Black Jack was not in the mood to let her ending be even relatively merciful and easy. She was not hung. Instead the noose was fastened around her wrist and she was hauled up off the boards kicking and cursing. Rough brutal hands fondled and felt and pinched her ass. One of the gunnies jabbed his fingers up her asshole to the uproarious delight of the mob. They stepped back from her, one catching Jane's foot in his face when he moved to slowly, to the further delight of the vulture pack.
Black Jack and Jameson the banker walked up the steps of the gallows and approached the blonde bandit queen who knew what they had in mind from the implements of torture they carried. Black Jack flourished a massive black-snake whip. He brandished it before Jane's terror stricken eyes and addressed the crowd.
"This here scum has wiped out entire towns with her pack of bushwhacking, murdering thieving trash. She was planning to clean out our town, to wipe this community out. There can be no mercy for her kind. She would have destroyed us. I'm gonna teach her some respect for Trail City and teach any other trash with such notions never to try them out on us."
"You fucking scum bastard," Jane roared. "This is the rottenest thieving cheating asshole of a town that ever stained the West. You're the biggest thieving bastard left in this town. You're fixin' to use that thing on me 'cause you're a low shitty animal and you want revenge for the way my man busted your head. I should have had him kill you, letting you live was the biggest mistake I ever made."
"You fucking bitch," Black Jack roared in blind fury. His whip crashed into her ass, ripping deep into the tender meat. A wide deep crack was left, filled and overflowing with blood. The mob roared. Black Jack ripped an equally large gash into the other curve cheek and then whipped the first one again. Jane wailed in pain and kicked her legs out in every direction. Black Jack whipped the white alabaster ivory cheeks, looping the whip around her thighs, cutting vicious scars into the soft flesh. Pools of blood ran down Montana Jane's legs, which kicked with diminishing force as her screams increased in intensity. Strips of flesh hung down from her shredded pulpy hind quarter stew of meat and blood. Black Jack whipped her tits and belly, slashing long red streaks into the white sweat sheened beef. He whipped her titties until they were striped and overlaid and bleeding red welts. Strips of skin dangled from them. Black Jack felt the overpowering desire to whip the screaming girl to death, it pulled at him overpoweringly. But he did not want the town to know the true depths of viciousness he was capable of.
At his command one of the gun deputies splashed a bucket of water over the nearly unconscious blonde. She hung free by her wrist, blood dripping down from her torn flesh. Black Jack lit a cigar. He approached her and gestured toward her ass. One of the deputies held the bleeding cheeks wide, exposing the crease line at the bottom of the gully between her ass hillocks. Jack puffed his cigar hot, then ground the end out into her asshole lips. Jane screamed in agony and kicked out, sending Jack reeling. But he only laughed at her spasm of resistance.
"Guess that put a little life back into the bitch's tail," he roared to the cheering, bellowing throng which was enjoying the greatest show any of them had ever seen. Black Jack realized that they were all caught up in the blood lust of his carnival of pain, and he felt the satisfaction of it sweeping over him, to have them all in his palm.
"Don't go away folks, there's more to come," he promised to a roar of applause.
CHAPTER NINE
Volunteers were allowed to come up on the gallows and use their technique on Montana Jane. Grace Burdow, a huge blowsy whore who specialized in putting on sex shows with horses and mules took up the offer. She procured a large, strong curry comb and used it to rake the bleeding welts that covered the blonde's attractive body. The cruel implement scourged and ripped fresh the bloody flesh. Grace began with the ass, sweeping the tearing points of the curry comb up and down, repetitively, over and over again over the bloody flesh, teeth sinking into the blood trenches torn by the whip, snagging and pulling small bits of torn flesh, ripping and deepening the awful wounds.
"AAiiieee... you fuckin' bii... aaaaiiieee." Jane's frenzied curses and imprecations ending in terrible heart rending wails of agony.
"Tear her apart, Grace," Black Jack roared. "Rip that ass to pieces."
Some of the onlookers went into maniacal states of arousal and horniness watching the torture spectacle. The blouse and dress front of whore's clothes were torn open spilling out white tits crested with purple nipples. The tits were grabbed, groped, squeezed and manipulated into their hardened, nipple rigid forms. The girls spilled discharges of cunt come into their drawers. Some of them toyed with each other, sinking well trained hands down the fronts of petticoats and pantaloons to grope into hot wet pussies, biting and handling each others boobies. Asses were clutched, hand jiggled, spanked hot and pink. Cowhands, townsmen, killers and thieves all mixed together groping and savaging the flesh of the enfevered sluts.
Grace had no eyes for this horny circus, her attention focused upon the twitching flesh under the bite of her curry comb. After those long, interminable, degradations with horses and mules, being fucked by animals in front of great gaping hordes of cowhands paying three bucks a head to watch her act, after all of that it was wonderful to have a victim at her mercy to vent her years of pent up hatred on.
Grace raked the white belly, tearing long scratches into it across and through the harsh bloody whip marks. The torn boobs were her final target. She raked over and around them, bringing the comb all the way across from armpit to armpit, over and over. The welts were so badly gouged and torn that bloody drops splashed all over Grace. She ran her tongue over her lips, tasting the salty flavor of blood. She dug the length of the comb into the jiggling tits, into the shallow trench of a permanently scarring whip welts and pressed it in, twisting and turning the teeth, tearing deeper rips and abrasions into the floor of the welt rip, splashing blood in spitting arcs through the air. Montana Jane's screams rose to a terrible flooding crescendo as bloody saliva flew from her mouth.
A gunman heated irons in a charcoal brazier behind the dangling body. He wanted his crack at the broken girl. Black Jack pulled a glowing iron out of the fire. He turned it in his hands, holding the red-hot metal up to the sun, brandishing it to the bloodthirsty mob, pleading for him to use it. He touched it to a rounded thigh.
Jane screamed under this fresh type of pain. The flesh sizzled, a long black mark was left. The unbearable torture continued. An iron was dragged down the length of her spine. The terrible heat ripped right through the core of her backbone. Another iron was simultaneously wielding by the gunman who had heated them. This one was thrust between the bloody sacs of breast meat and pulled in a long flesh searing line down Jane's body between her boobs to the hairy golden bush between her legs. Her eyes rolled and choking hiss was emitted between teeth ground together so hard that the gums bled.
Grace went back to work with her comb. She centered her attack on the hairy cunt mound, pulling and tearing out clumps of the blonde hair with the comb torture implement. Slowly the cunt lips were revealed in their nakedness as the hair was ripped out at the roots. The mob roared encouragement for Grace's obscene task.
Black Jack sank his two hands into the enormous rolls of flesh padding Grace's ass.
"Go on horse raper, let's see what that gob of spit has between her legs." He lifted up the back of Grace's dress revealing her white ass to the crowd. He slapped the mammoth piles of meat to their immense approval.
Sometime later the half broken butchered body was taken down and dragged feet first down the gallows. Two of the gunmen then unceremoniously clutched Montana Jane under the arms and dragged her back to the jailhouse, unconscious and trailing a slime of scarlet blood behind her. The guards surrounding her used their rifles to club off the multitude eager for her blood and attempting to rip her apart in their madness.
Rough hands reached out for her, some coming home on soft flesh, to rip and pull at it. A saloon girl managed to catch hold of a double handful of blonde hair which she ripped out at the roots. Half a dozen gals and gunnies fought like animals for the yellow strands, tearing the hair to bits to grab souvenirs and trophies for themselves.
Back at the jailhouse the blonde was thrown head first into a tub of ice cold water. Black Jack looked into the cold water, amused at the reddening tinge of it. He reflected on the cruelty he had displayed, more than worthy of Joshua Clanton. But he felt neither guilt nor shame anymore, there were certain things that went with the territory, and if a man was to climb to the top and not be pulled back down he had to be hard and without any soft core. Besides his face would never be the same thanks to that bitch. His nose still throbbed with pain, and he ruefully ran his tongue over the gap where his teeth had been busted loose with a gunbutt.
Bubbles of air breaking the surface of the churning water assured him that the girl had revived and was struggling for air and life. Her head splashed up through the water, splashing the icy liquid all over Black Jack. Jane tried to scramble out of the tub, but collapsed weakened by her injuries. Blood spilled from her ripped flesh in steady continuous leakings that turned the tub water crimson.
The doctor showed up, his face pale and wan. He turned sick at the sight of the ripped body and had to down half a bottle before he could begin his patchings. Some of Black Jack's boys held the broken form immovable over the desk while he worked on her, applying bandages and ointments. Jane needed a better physician than the Trail City sawbones, but he was all she had.
Several hours later Black Jack loomed over her unconscious body. He brought a bottle of smelling salts up under her nostrils. Her head twitched, her eyelids flickered. She awoke to the reality of unbearable pain screaming from scores of hideous wounds and burns.
"You ain't ready to cash in your chips yet, are you slut?" Black Jack sneered. "The whole town enjoyed that little show we put on for them. Should have an even bigger turnout for your hanging. I might go easier on you if'n you'll tell me what you did with that money you stole from me."
Jane feebly gestured for Black Jack to bend over so she could whisper her answer to him. When he did so she calmly spit in his eye. Black Jack cracked her across the mouth with the back of her hand. Jane hardly felt the small increment of pain in the overwhelming texture suffering inflicted by the myriad deep welts and terrible burns. Black Jack grinned malevolently down at her suffering features. He cupped her chin in his hand.
"Well if you ain't ready to talk now I reckon you ain't ever going to. So I see no reason to prolong things beyond a reasonable length of time. This town ain't had a good necktie party for three weeks, and we ain't hung no woman since some girl in The Silver Dollar shot the boss through his ass. That was some turnout for her hanging. But yours will top it. I'll give it a couple of days for the excitement to build up. Should do a hell of a lot of business that day. Folks will be coming in from all over to watch the thing. And don't count on your boys coming through. I got reward posters printed up on that halfbreed bastard, Indian Jack scattered all over this town come tomorrow. As for whatever other mess of saddle trash you might have pulled together, I don't think they're gonna like the odds. By tomorrow all my regulars will be back in town from that wild goose chase you sent them on up in the hills. So I got everything in firm control."
Jane felt herself giving way to despair. There seemed at last to be no way out for her. Black Jack leered down at the scarred body. The tits were pulpy soggy masses of rips and tears still leaking small oozings of blood despite the docs ministrations. The belly was a discolored mass, criss-crossed with welts and the tears of the curry. The thighs were patterned with welts that overlaid and intercut each other. The cunt was pink and swollen, the lips bloated and puffed from the scratching of the comb that had almost completely stripped away the billows of golden curly hair.
Back Jack spread Jane's limp thighs apart, locking the legs up under his armpits. He unbuttoned his fly and let his prick poke out. Montana Jane's eyes showed her reaction to this fresh torment.
"After all that whipping and branding a little fucking ain't gonna hurt you much, you dirty bitch. Hell, it might even do you some good. What's the mater, don't you like me? I looked a mite better than I do now before I got my head pistol whipped. I don't think you done that one yourself, probably that halfbreed bastard done it for you. He almost busted my head for good. Would've been better for you if he had. But you hadda have your revenging on old Clanton. Then you had to come back here and get him out back, which was real dumb. Then you hung around which was dumber still. Guess your brains are all played out. Think I'll give you a trail tomorrow, just to get some more fun in. I'll hold it at The Five Aces, should be damn good for business."
"You dirty rotten bastard."
"I sure am honey," Black Jack sneered. "And here I come right through you."
Jane screamed as the hard driving cock seared its way in one vicious lunge right up her dry hole. Black Jack pulled her tail up high, locking her legs under his arms. He plowed and sawed away inside her, trying to hurt her as much as he possibly could with his vicious raping. Jane's back was scraped against the desk setting off her bleeding once more. Her welts trickled fresh leakings of blood. She had no strength left to fight him off with. Her long mane of hair hung down over the edge of the desk trailing in the dust on the floor. Saliva dribbled out of her slack jaws. Black Jack kept plowing away inside her, and she was unconscious again long before he shot his heavy load into her. He felt the full weight of his triumph at long last. His victory was complete and total.
Back in his suite at The Five Aces he related every intimate detail to Nancy. She licked his balls as he narrated his breaking and raping of the blonde bandit queen. Nancy felt uneasy at his delay in finishing her off.
"That bitch is big trouble, Jack. Look at what happened to Clanton. You shouldn't mess about with her. You should of hung her ass up already. Better being safe than sorry."
"You worry too damn much. She ain't getting away from me like she did from Clanton. She's too busted up to even crawl, let alone ride. I'm holding a trial here tomorrow. Should do a hell of a business. Have the guards tripled, and tell everyone to keep a good lookout for that halfbreed. He's the only one I got to worry 'bout."
Nancy let his words allay her fears. She took the cock into her mouth and worked on it to harden it for herself. Jack ran his two grimy hands through her hair. Nancy wiggled her soft bottom, rearing it up in the air for the attention of Jack's strap.
"Whip my ass, Blackie," she gulped between long drags at his cock buried in her soft mouth. Black Jack was more than eager to comply.
His hand groped out and closed over his thick, wide leather strap. He raised it over his head and slammed the heavy coil down across Nancy's upturned bottom. The shock that exploded through her body caused her teeth to grip his cock just a little bit tightly, increasing his own horniness. He whipped her ass once more, raising another broad crimson streak on the soft curved globes. Nancy's mouth tightened spasmodically as the harsh slashing leather strap ripped and danced upon her soft hillocks. Black Jack's spurtings poured down her throat as the strap raised the welts on her butt.
The following day Nancy evince none of the sting that gnawed at her tail during the high festivities of the kangaroo court. The Five Aces was loaded and overloaded beyond capacity. The bartenders worked a triple shift to handle the thirsty throng. All of the gambling tables closed down and the girls ceased their fucking work in the upstairs rooms as the whole pack of them came trouping down to watch the trial.
Montana Jane was brought in naked, her terrible wounds evident for all to see. She looked more dead than alive. Black Jack grabbed her bloody bag tits and jiggled them to the delight of the throng. It was a real lynch mob, eager for an even greater harvest of blood than on the previous day.
Jane was strung up by her wrists from a chandelier. Her body swayed and tremors ran through it. Small trickles of blood mixed with the steady outpouring of sweat that ran down her. The guards stationed near her continually thrust fingers up her cunt and asshole, jiggling the swell of her buttocks and groping the tattered globes and the purple nipples. One of them kept thrusting the chicken leg he gnawed at into her cunt, making wry faces of delight at this seasoning of the meat.
The jury consisted of twelve men who had some forty murders and thirty robberies between them. The judge was Black Jack himself.
"Order in the cocksucking court," he bellowed. "The accused slut is found guilty of all crimes hereafter to be mentioned in this court. The court clerk will read the indictment."
"You dirty bastard," Jane managed to shout.
One of the guards slashed her right across both boobs with a whip. A fresh bleeding welt appeared.
"I would have thought you had your fill of the taste of the whip," Black Jack drawled. "Let's have some respect out of you for the dignity of this here court."
The indictment was read. Jane was accused of murder, bank robbery, train robbery, horse theft, rustling, rape bestiality, crooked gambling and back shooting.
One of the gunmen whipped Jane's ass as the indictment was read. The leather strap beat a continuous tattoo upon the already sore and bloody scarred globes, causing long wide red ridges to break out upon the once alabaster curves. The strap was soon red with blood, and a small pool began to form from the red drippings off Jane's curves.
"The prisoner is showing disrespect for the court," the judge roared. "Find her guilty of all charges and sentence her to hang."
"What about the jury," inquired the foreman of the panel.
"The job of the jury in this case is to examine the prisoner and see if her carcass is fit for hanging." Black Jack gestured toward the hanging body. "Turn the prisoner over to the jury."
A swarm of hands tore Jane down from her bonds and her bleeding white body was passed into the hungry paws of the jury. Hands probed up her cunt, into her ass, squeezed her tits bloody. She was held out in midair while they took turns fucking her cunt and he mouth. Jane half choked on the dirty unwashed cocks forcibly rammed into her soft mouth. She was locked in the cruel pinching grip of many strong hands and had no strength left to fight them with.
A long thick cock that resembled the pistol of a bull was rammed up her ass by a fat pockmarked killer who specialized in backshooting unarmed men. He forced eight inches of thick beef sausage up Jane's rear entrance, bloodying her buttocks in the process as he ripped the welted slabs with dirty broken fingernails. Somehow Montana Jane remained conscious throughout the entire ordeal.
A general orgy was triggered off by this carnival of rape. Whiskey flower and was consumed as if it was water. The Five Aces almost sold out its stock. Every dance hall floozie in sight was stripped naked, fucked in cunt, ass, and mouth. Nancy leaned over the judge's bench in front of Black Jack with her ass revealed to him. He sucked and chewed and bit the white globes bearing the harsh strap marks he had inflicted the previous evening. He picked up his judge's gravel and began to beat a tattoo of pain into the wiggling backside hillocks, hammering the jiggling globes as the screaming, bucking Nancy tried to escape from this unforeseen punishment.
Through a side window an angry pair of eyes watched the orgy. Indian Jack had gotten back into town. He had cut the throats of two out guards in the night and ridden in, sporting a concealing beard shaved from the face of one of the men he killed and cleverly pasted to his own smooth shaven face with a glue extracted from roots and barks. The makeshift disguise was enough to pass him by without close inspection. The town was full of strangers anyway and there were few who were thinking of trouble. The Five Aces contained the majority of the population in town at the moment anyway.
Indian Jack had one small chance to accomplish something against the unbearable odds arrayed against him. He casually sauntered over to the hardware store. It was closed and deserted. The owner was obviously enjoying the show in the saloon. Jack found two large cans of lamp oil and walked down the side street with them. He was unseen. Keeping in the shadows against the sidewall of The Five Aces he emptied both cans over the dried wooden wall and then struck a match to it. The wood blazed up instantly. It burned out of control in a matter of seconds. It took little time for someone inside to catch sight of the blaze.
"Fire." The dread cry shattered the air Great sheets of flame ripped into the interior of the huge rambling building. Draperies and curtains, furniture and gambling tables instantly flared up. A screaming clawing panic stricken mass made for front, back, and side doors. The strong smashed down the weak in their frenzied flight and trampled over them. Flaming human torches spilled screaming out of front and back doors. Many of the panic stricken ones went running out of town, making no attempt to fight the blaze or help the injured. Others began to form a bucket brigade as the racing flames leaped to the nearest building and it became all to evident that the entire town would go up.
One man entered the saloon instead of scurrying from it. He plowed grimly through the screaming mob, pistol whipping heads to clear his path. Through the smoke filled hall he caught sight of a white blood streaked body slumped on the floor where it had been thrown down. He forced his way to it, threw it across his shoulder, and fought his way out the back door on the Colorado side with flames tearing at him. He threw the still form across a horse and mounted another. He shot down two cruising gunhands who tried to take their horses back from him. Then he went riding out of town, making tracks at full gallop leading the second nag with its limp tortured bundle draped across the saddle.
Black Jack watched with shocked horror as his Five Aces flesh and gambling place went up in flames. The great sheets of red fire flashed from the building. The firefighters sorted themselves out, organized, and grimly set to the task of saving Trail City. But it was useless. The town burned and chaos prevailed. Frantic men ran about opening safes, rescuing tens of thousands of dollars. Other men took advantage of the opportunity presented to them, shot the big shots down, took the money that Trail City had clawed from the blood of its victims and suckers, were themselves gunned down by still others who looted the money from their bullet torn bodies. Half a dozen gun battles raged in the blazing town.
CHAPTER TEN
Trail City blazed as gun battles raged through the streets. Two killers shot down the boss of the Red Garter as he came scurrying out his back door a step ahead of the racing flames clutching a sack overflowing with more than thirty thousand dollars in gold, silver, and paper. They were promptly shot down by shotgun wielding patrolmen who then engaged in a running battle with half a dozen gamblers and gunfighters over the sack of money. The same mad scene was repeated all over the streets of the blazing town under a heavy pall of smoke.
As the last of the major buildings collapsed into a pile of blackened charred embers there were upwards of forty dead and dying littering the streets, and a dozen more citizens had succumbed to the fires.
Black Jack and Jameson stood bedazed in front of the ruins of the bank. The fire had swept through the structure after the safe had been opened. More than one hundred thousand dollars in paper money had been incinerated. A box of gold coins had been hauled off by the core of tough gunmen working for the two headmen. They had left a trail of corpses of those who tried to stop them. The banker had taken a bullet through his shoulder. The gunmen had triumphantly ridden out of town on a buckboard.
Trail City had been burned out and cleaned out. Half of the citizens had left. The remainder wept over their dead and losses, or picked over the gutted town for loot. But some began to think of vengeance.
A grim and angry mob formed around Jameson and Black Jack. There were saloon owners, gamblers, whores, gunnies who were out of work and out of luck. With the death of Trail City their rich pickings had blown away. The girls from the cribs gathered around the two men in ominous clusters.
A scar faced faro dealer took command, rising to the leadership of the mob.
"This is all your fault, Black Jack. You was the one who started this thing going with that blonde bitch. If you would have hung her right away none of this would have happened. I seen some cowhand ride off with her cross the border. Her gang must have started the fire. You didn't do a lick of good against them, you and your whole shit ass passel of gunnies. Now the towns burned out and shot to hell, on account of you. Well, that bitch is gone and we ain't gonna go after her, but we got you and you're gonna pay for all this trouble. We lost everything and we're gonna take it outa your ass."
Panic showed in the big shot's eyes. His hand went for his gun, but a shotgun was pointed at his gut. He lowered his hand, and his gun was yanked from its holster and smashed into his mouth. Jameson was pistol whipped to his knees and shot through the head. His head was then blown away with a double barreled shotgun. Black Jack was splattered by bits of flesh, brains, and gore from the pulped head of his dead friend. He went sick and spewed up his breakfast.
"You won't get out of it as easy as he did," a whore promised him kneeing him in the balls.
"Look, looky there," someone shouted, "the gallows ain't been touched by the fire. Let's get him up there and work him over."
Black Jack was dragged along the street with his head trailing in the dust. He choked and coughed on the alkali dust and burned ash that filled his nose and mouth. Everybody in sight joined in the procession, cursing the fallen big dealer who had destroyed the luck and life of the town with his stupid tricks.
Half a dozen Mexican whores dragged him up the stairs of the gallows. They hanged him up by his wrists. His clothes were slashed away. He screamed and pleaded for mercy, promising to make good their losses. His pleas were greeted with a chorus of jeers and cries for his blood.
One of the whores grabbed his balls and began to twist and squeeze them from side to side. She cupped the dangling sacs in both hands and put on the pressure, slapping and twisting them right and left. She wrapped one hand around the sac of testicles at the roots, closing her hand tightly compressing the meaty filled sections of his nuts into her other hand, her palm pressed up against the hanging tightly gripped pouch.
"Rip them off of him," she was encouraged by Nancy, who had turned upon her former lover along with all the others.
"You rip them off of him, you were his puta," the whore replied.
Black Jack screamed and begged the whore to let go of his balls. She did so but only to deliver a terrific smash at them with her knee.
Another whore began to whip the man's ass. Black Jack was heavily padded and his butt was thick and broad with beefy flesh. The whore whipped his ass with the whip he had used on Montana Jane. Crack. The heavy lash sliced a tear into his beefy butt. Another crack ripped a neat slice into the other side. He kicked madly, trying to hook a foot over the railing so he could gain some leverage. Blood spurted from his torn thumbs straining at their sockets under his weight. As one whore whipped his ass another began to tear his moustache out, ripping small clumps of the black hair loose. A friend brought a box of matches out of a handbag and the two began to use these on the man who was turning to a quivering hulk of jelly under the merciless treatment.
"Burn the moustache off of the dirty bastard," Nancy yelled. "Make the shithead scream."
Black Jack frantically jerked his head about to escape the lit match that one whore waved close to his face. Animal sounds of panic escaped from his foam flecked lips. The whore teased him with the lighted match, frightening him first before applying the hot stick to him.
All the time the whip wielding whore concentrated in her task of ripping his ass off. The whip tore into the flesh, carving deeper and deeper tears into it as the lashes were overlaid and overlapped until great bloody grooves were torn into which the whip repeatedly sank, inflicting welts that were slicing the ass into segments. The left buttocks was struck repeatedly on the same vertical accumulation of welts until it was almost split in two. The whore than began to spread the damage over Black Jack's tortured body, whipping his back to ribbons, tearing up his chest and belly. Black Jack screamed as the whip looped all around his thighs and slapped against his dangling balls. He went chalk white and a tremoring spasm began to run through his body. The whore whipping his body to little pieces started in on his ass again, slicing the segments up into smaller and smaller pieces. The ripped parcels of butchered meat were lashed and flogged until a stream of thick scarlet blood cascaded down his thighs. His back was chopped up, his shoulder blades flogged until strips of skin and flesh hung down from the chopped up meat.
The whore with the matches lighted them one at a time and flipped them at Jack's torso. They left small black spots on his flesh before flickering out and falling to the wooden floor of the scaffold. She lit another, held it close to his face, and then touched it to his straggly moustache. The hairs flickered and sizzled, burning strongly for several seconds. Black Jack screamed with new intensity while the hair under his nose burned away. A burned area remained, a patch of black skin where his moustache had once been.
Another whore, a faded thirtyish blonde took a handful of matches and thrust them between the tortured man's toes. She lit them. He frantically tried to dislodge the burning sticks of wood, but received a punch in the balls for his effort. The flames reached his toes. He bounced and bobbled like a puppet on the ends of the ropes he hung from.
The whore with the whip continued whipping his ass. She lashed the blood dripping tip right into the crevice between his buttocks, lashing the crack to a bloody mass. She whipped cross patterns overlaid on the torn and bleeding patches of pulp she had reduced his backside to.
"Finish the bastard off," yelled one of the mob, brandishing a noose.
But most of them were not ready to let the man go so easily to the next world. The whore with the whip kept on working on the butchered ass. She whipped and whipped it. The whip cracked around his thighs, biting into the tender vulnerable flesh between his legs. It cracked across his knees, and his calves. The whore walked around in front of him and began to work on the front of his body. The whip slashed his belly to shreds.
His chest was whipped until patches of black curly hair were wrenched loose. His armpits ran blood. He received a few cuts across his face. His eyebrows were gashed open. His lip was split. He was now transformed into a mass of bleeding wounds.
The cause of his downfall had ridden five miles out of town on the Colorado side of the border with the unconscious body of Montana Jane. He stopped at the spot where they had met the night he had robbed Black Jack. Indian Jack tended to the girl's still fresh wounds. Most of the bleeding had stopped. She would carry whip marks and hot iron brands all her life, if she survived. Jack revived her and gave her water. He broke some of his rations out and started a small fire. As he worked he noted knots and herds rushing by. Three men came by on a buckboard. Several came by on horseback. A man in gambler's clothes came riding by with two gunhands pursuing, blazing away at him. The cause of the conflict was probably not clear to any of them. They took no notice of the two they passed in their flight from the town. It was as if the rats were deserting a sinking ship. More of a sunk ship. A huge cloud of black smoke hung over the site that had once been the prosperous community of Trail City. Indian Jack had not expected the place to burn to the ground. But it was all to the good.
Montana Jane had recovered her composure enough to begin functioning.
"What about the five thousand we left here when we went into town," she reminded him.
"I'm not forgetting that, boss lady." Jack uncovered the pile of bills. "This isn't much but it's all we got out of all that sweat and effort. As for Trail City, it must have burnt to the ground. I don't think it will ever be rebuilt either. The cowhands bringing their herds up from Texas won't miss it much, if you ask me."
"There will always be a place like Trail City," Jane answered. "Another bunch will come along and build something in its place. As long as there's a dollar to be had and some dumb ass to lose it, that business will go on. Hey, look over there."
A buckboard with five men was coming slowly up the trail. Three manned the rig and two rode horses. But the most noticeable thing about them was the huge strongbox they carried on the buckboard.
Jane's face went hard. She recognized two of her friends from the jury. She staggered to her feet and drew a Winchester from its holster on the horse she had left town on.
"What the hell's going through that head of yours?" Jack asked. "You ain't got the strength to fight. There are five of them. Let's quit while we're ahead and let them go on their way."
Jane began to stalk forward into a clump of bushes. She cocked her rifle.
"They don't even see us yet. I want that box and I want those men. Get your gun and back my play."
The wagon came on. The men were the gun-hands who had made off with the gold money from the bank. They were not expecting any trouble to hit them. The burned out town was five miles behind.
A flurry of shots rang out. Two of them dropped instantly. Two others were wounded. They dropped to the ground, confused and dispirited.
"Surrender you bastards or we'll drill daylight through you. We got you all sighted and can pick you off like rabbits. Throw down your guns and hand over that box."
The men did as they were ordered. They were unaware of the numbers or position of the attackers, and with two of their number dead and two of the remainder wounded they were in no condition to make a stand.
Their faces went white with horror when they saw the scarred body come through the brush brandishing a Winchester rifle. The look in her eyes was enough to chill the marrow in a man's bones.
Indian Jack checked out the two dead men and then turned the team of horses and brought the buckboard off the trail into the camp site area. He dumped the bodies into deep brush and brought the two riderless horses over to the two he and Jane had acquired in town.
"We can use these mounts, Boss Lady. We'll leave the buckboard behind and carry whatever we got ourselves off with these spare mounts. Let's see what we got now." Jack shot the lock off the strongbox. He opened it up and went pale when he saw the contents. "Shit, it's full of ten and twenty dollar Eagle pieces. We hit it big at last."
"What you gonna do with us," asked one of the gunmen, clutching his bullet shot arm. Jane laughed, an evil laugh full of hate.
"I got me some notions I want to try out on you bastards, before I leave here."
Meanwhile back in Trail City the mob was almost ready to finish off the broken shell of the former strong man of the town. The wreckage of the brunt town had been picked clean. Most of those remaining had come up empty and were more than anxious to move on from the wreckage of the devastated Trial City.
The whore with the whip shoved the handle up the ass of the pathetic whimpering man. He begged for mercy in a cracked choked voice. The whore cursed him in Spanish and drove the leather handle up his tightly closed asshole. She gripped her hand into the torn tissues of his ass slippery with bloody gore and shoved it in inch by inch. A drunken gun toter pulled leather and shot off a fusillade at Black Jack, scattering his torturers and forcing them to hit the ground. The gunman blew away part of Jack's ear and carved his ass with four shots. The bullets ripped up the already torn meat.
The whores lunged to their feet cursing the gunman in both English and Spanish. It sent a general round of hysterical laughter through the mob.
Nancy strode up to the gallows.
"Get that bastard down here. We'll finish him off the way a vaquero finishes off a piece of carrion."
Black Jack was cut down and his broken body carried down the stairs. He was sent sprawling the dust. He was vaguely aware of ropes being bound to his wrists. He shook his head, trying to clear the cobwebs. Pain flooded through him everywhere. Blood flowed into his eyes from the whip cut across his brows. He winced and managed to bring his hands up to his eyes, clearing some of the blood away. He saw then what was going to happen to him. The end of the rope was being tied off to the saddle of a black stallion. It was the horse he had given to Nancy.
Nancy loomed over the cowering man, gloating in his downfall. She turned around and pulled up her dress, revealing her strap welted ass to him.
"All those years of putting up with you, with your rotten smelly carcass rutting on me. And now the whole thing's come undone and it's your fault, you worm. I'm gonna make you pay for this, you bastard."
"Oh, aaaahh, don't do it, please let me go." Nancy kicked him in the mouth, smashing several teeth out.
"I'm gonna run you through the cactus, lover man. I'm gonna tear you apart."
Rita, one of the Mexican whores came up beside Nancy and seized the front of her dress. She reached in and played with Nancy's huge tits. Nancy groped Rita's ass.
Rita looked down at the broken man and laughed.
"Don't you wish you could do this one more time, hombre." The two women laughed and embraced each other.
Nancy stripped off her clothes. She squatted close to the sobbing man.
"Take a look, dude. This is the last time you get a look see at a naked lady. You can look at me all you want, right up to the time you hit that cactus."
Nancy strode through the gaping, laughing mob. Hands cupped, massaging and pinching her body. Her ass was walloped and pinched, poked and prodded, fingers plunged home up her asshole and into her wet pussy that was fired up by the thing she was about to do to Black Jack. A whiskey bottle was offered to her and she half drained the potent red eye, feeling the strength race through her veins. She was ready for it.
Groping ass grabbing hands lifted her into the saddle. The entire mob mounted horses, mules, crowded into buckboards and wagons, whatever remained of the mounts and transportation in the gutted town.
Nancy put the leather to her mount. The spirited stallion shot forward into a full gallop, dragging the screaming, howling man along the streets. Black Jack tore up a cloud of dust as he was dragged along the streets. His skin ripped and tore, his already badly torn up body was ripper to shreds. He left a red slimy trail behind him.
The procession galloped out of town, heading for a huge patch of cactus close by. Black Jack bounced and rolled from side to side, sometimes on his belly, sometimes on his back. Rocks and pebbles ripped him up, welts were torn open bone deep. His ass was half torn loose. He screamed and screamed, hoping to be unconscious when he hit the cactus.
Nancy rode head on for the huge clump of cactus bushes. She galloped between two large cactus trees, drawing her dragging bundle close by the trees. She swerved, sending Black Jack rolling into a huge clump of cactus. The plants broke and shattered under his careening impact. Hundreds of cactus needles pierced his flesh. Nancy cut the rope loose and went riding out of the cactus patch. Black Jack writhed and screamed in convulsions, piercing himself with uncountable hundreds of needles. His inhumanly maimed body shot bolt upright. Cactus needles pierced him everywhere, his skin had been flayed away, his flesh whipped to the bones, he was a great living mass of wounds, covered all over with spurting blood. Then he toppled forward with one last inhuman shriek and it was all over.
Montana Jane was weak as a kitten but she could still use a whip. She lashed the bodies of two men she had bound together naked, back to back. The long strip of buckboard harness leather she wielded tore bloody gashes into their smelly hides. The spasmodic and unwelcome twitchings of their buttocks tightly mashed skin to skin increased the agony of their torment. Jane whipped their chests and belly, slapped the long strips of heavy leather against their cocks and balls. The dangling objects of their manhood danced under the impact of the leather striking repeatedly, and their inhuman screams were muffled by the dirt and grass stuffed into their throats and tied off with strips of their clothes.
The third man had been staked out between four stout wooden posts driven into the ground. He hung in midair, a few inches off the ground, suspended by strong, unbreakable leather thongs. A shallow hole had been scooped out under his ass and a small fire blazed under his hanging rump, slowly roasting his ass. He screamed and bucked against his bonds, gripping the posts with his hands and trying to arch his bottom upwards away from the flames. But he could not hold this posture long and always fell back, close to the hot fire that seared and roasted his butt, turning it brown red as strips of skin cracked, curled up, and peeled off his ever darkening roasting rump.
Indian Jack busied himself loading up the horses with the gold and the supplies they had. He filled all the canteens from a small muddy water hole. He selected the least stinking and tattered worn clothes for Jane.
"Finish those bastards off fast, we've got to make tracks out of here."
"We'll head up for Hole-in-The-Wall. They got old Doc Carter up there. He can tend to me till I'm back to normal. Then we head for Mexico and spend some of this loot."
"Shouldn't we call it quits, now," Indian Jack ventured. "We got enuff to retire. Why go on and get shot down for sure."
"Where could we ever retire to," Jane answered. "The rewards on us goes up all the time. They'll bump it up another few thousand for this last little stunt. No, we know how its gonna end, but we can get a few more licks in first before that happens."
Indian Jack fell silent. Jane continued whipping the two gunfighters. Streams of blood ran from their ripped chests. Jane slashed at their tender groins. One went sick and vomited into the filth filling his mouth. He slid his jaw clear of the gag and spilled it all out, filth, dirt, and grass clumps in one stinking mess.
The smell of roasting meat filled the air from the man over the fire. His ass had shed its skin turned a deep shade of brown. His bottom continued to fry. He went limp and slumped unconscious with his ass almost hanging into the excavation scooped out under him.
"Time to finish these buzzards and haul leather out of here," Indian Jack insisted.
He helped Jane to painfully don the clothing he had selected for her. He was appalled by the ruination that had been inflicted upon her body. Still, it might not be so bad once it had all healed up. But the brand burns and some of the deeper welts would remain with her permanently.
Jane selected a six-shooter. It was a good Colt .45, well balanced, a hand crafted piece. Not as good as the pair she had carried for so long on her hips. But good enough to get the job done. She drew it out fast as lightning and fanned three shots into the brains of the three tortured gunmen. She hit them all dead center through their rotten skulls.
"Very good, you ain't lost you touch," Jack commented. "Now let's haul ass for the high country."
The two rode off for Hole-In-The-Wall, bearing forty thousand in gold and over five thousand in paper bills. Behind them a thick pall of black smoke still hung over the site of the burnt out town.
