Mummy & Daddy’s Naughty Diary (Erotica)

I had persisted in not acknowledging Cutler with the honorific title of Colonel during the entire drive, and now the little martinet saw an opportunity to make me pay.

Without speaking, I allowed my body language to imply my compliance with his order. I turned to walk toward my wagons and caught a glimpse of the smug satisfaction of Cutler’s smile as he left to harass another unsuspecting victim of his self-importance.

I had suffered from too many needless incompetent orders during the war and the many cattle drives, and I used common sense to achieve goals rather than satisfy the thoughtless requests. Gordian knots were meant to be cut.

I hailed a nearby wagon in the process of attaching a team of mules to assist the Kohrs. Willi was drafted to walk through the camp and get volunteers to help us. I began digging out the mud-sunken wheels with a shovel and placed tree branches under the wheels to allow the wheels’ purchase when we were ready.

In ten minutes, with the assisting mule team and ten volunteers pushing behind the wagon, the wheels rolled over the branches and brought the wagon safely on dry ground. A cheer rose for the successful effort and the Kohrs family went around thanking all for their help. Kohrs was so happy he had taken to shake my hands twice as he went around thanking everyone.

I stopped short Mr. Kohrs profuse third attempt to shake my hand and thank me. Still, he grasped my arm in a comradely fashion and for a moment I thought he would hug me.

“Thank you, sir, for your help,” he gushed, “I’m Herman Kohrs, and you are…”

“I am Zebulon Russell, and I’m late attending to my own wagons,” I replied, bluntly rebuffing his attempt to be friendly. He recoiled from my cold response.

“I’m sorry, sir, I meant no offense,” he stammered. “I only wished to show my appreciation for your assistance.”

I interrupted his continued abject apology. “If you wish to show your appreciation, don’t camp your wagon so close to the river again. The weight of your wagon will always cause your wheels to sink, that close to water. I don’t feel the inclination to help you get your wagon free every morning for the rest of the trip.

Keep your wagon away from the water. It may be an inconvenience to carry water into camp, but it beats having to get you unstuck every morning.” I explained.

I could see the knowledge sink into Kohrs’ eyes as he digested the lesson he learned. Whether he was intelligent enough to grasp all the other lessons that would come quickly and harshly during this trip, remained to be seen.

For example, his wagon was loaded with heavy and bulky furniture. Already his team of horses was feeling the strain of the weight, and we weren’t even close to the Rockies. It was clear to me that he and his family would be stranded at some point when his horses died or pulled up lame. Whether his family survived after that depended on nature.

Cold, impartial, nature.

I turned and walked away and noticed the glare on the would-be Colonel William Cutler’s face as he realized that I circumvented his intentions to punish me. I would keep an eye on him. If push came to shove I would be prepared to deal with him like I had so many others. Whether he walked away from the experience or I did depend on nature.

It always came down to nature.

I climbed into my wagon and looked across to see Willi climbing into my second wagon. He firmly gripped the reins, concentrating on the trek ahead. It took all his physical prowess and willpower for the boy to drive the team of six oxen hauling the merchandise I intended to sell to the miners at exorbitant prices and make my fortune.Published by Nôv'elD/rama.Org.

Each evening, I had to literally lift him off the wagon as we set up camp. That sweaty ragamuffin boy never complained or slacked off. Well, he did protest if he thought I was showing him any favoritism. He insisted on working like a man, so, by God, I would treat him like a man.

When he was ready, he looked across and nodded at me. I took the bullwhip out of the holder beside me on the wagonseat and cracked it across the heads of the lead team of oxen on my wagon. As it lurched forward, I watched a tiny barefooted urchin kneel beside the forward wheels of Willi’s wagon, pick up stones and throw them into the flanks of his oxen’s team as she shouted a command in German that the oxen apparently understood. Willi’s began moving as he strained to steer his teams to follow my path.

The little girl continued to trot alongside his wagon. Occasionally, she would stoop to pick up rocks in her small hand and throw them at the oxen as she assisted Willi in guiding the oxen to follow my path. Willi had to use both hands on the reins so he couldn’t use the bullwhip like I could. He was dependent on his little sister, Gretchen, to help navigating the way.

Gretchen, a ball of infinite energy, would walk/trot nonstop alongside Willi for the duration of each day’s segment of the drive. Her voice would pierce the sky nonstop as she shouted invectives and abuse to the oxen in her broken English.

“Move, damn lazy bastards!” She yelled while tossing a rock to the flank of the ox she wanted to direct attention to. The equanimity of the oxen to the verbal barrage continued as she bantered at them.

She would only pause to quench her thirst from a canteen slung across her shoulder. Then, she would sprint to her position alongside Willi and start with more spirited insults. If I could hear her, I knew all was well behind me.

As we continued our slow and steady pace, I would occasionally stand up in the moving wagon and peer across the horizon to assure myself there were no surprises looming in our path. I would take the field glasses I liberated from a prisoner of war in some skirmish in Mississippi and study in detail the terrain.

All it would take is dipping suddenly in a precarious rut and losing a wheel and we would be in trouble. Luckily, no perils were present as we continued crossing the Llano Estacado, the staked plains of western Texas. Before long, we would be overtaken by the wagon train powered by horses and mules, and we would steadily lag behind until at last we met them at the appointed camp rendezvous.

That was why I preferred leaving early instead of being too far behind for support if I left when Wagonmaster Cutler wanted me to leave in his parade march fashion at 8AM sharp. Just another bone of contention Cutler had with me. Before our paths separated, I was sure there would be more.

As predicted, wagons began passing us on either side, the yokels’ drivers hooraying as they proceeded to pass us. I paid them no mind as I allowed myself a moment to reflect on how I had gotten to this point in my life. All due to nature.

Cold, impartial, nature.

I was riding drag on a cattle drive as we entered Medicine Lodge, Kansas. Drag riding a cattle herd is a hellish task, and one not that befitted my seniority and expertise, but the rancher’s son had allowed too many steers to get lost through his incompetence, so I was paying the price as I hustled through the dusty cloudy, trail, spitting out grit to keep my mouth wet as I maneuvered the recalcitrant beasts lagging.

By the time I got settled, all my co-workers had staked claims to the whores, saloon tables, and dining tables in just that order. I stood watching with little hope that anyone of the three pursuits would have an opening soon for me. As I continued to watch, I noticed a large group of the towns-people mingling and getting increasingly agitated. It didn’t look like any of our bunch caused the problem, but then, you never could tell, so I moved my back to the wall and my hand resting on the butt of my pistol.

“Hey mister, do me a favor!” The bartender motioned to me, “Take these plates across the street to the jail and give the prisoners their meals.”

“Why can’t you do it?” I asked.

He gave a hard grin, “We caught a couple of hombres robbing the bank today, they killed some of our citizens and we had to catch them after we got up a posse. Now, we’re deciding what to do with them.”

From his countenance, there was little doubt what was in store for the prisoners. I shrugged, took the plates and went across the street to the jail. I entered the bare one cell unguarded building and the two miserable men sitting on the dirt floor looked up to me.

“Got your meals here. Was I y’all, I’d hurry up and eat them,” I said and handed the plates through the bars.

“Wait a minute!” One of the two stood up, reached through the bars and gripped my arm in desperation. “How would you like to have a thousand dollars? All you have to do is unlock this door.”

“Friend,” I replied, “I do that and I’ll be swinging alongside the both of you in just a few minutes. Besides, it doesn’t look like you got a thousand dollars on you. Otherwise, why did you try robbing the bank?”

He nervously licked his lips, “My name is Henry Newton Brown, I’m the Sheriff over in Caldwell, Kansas. I used to ride with Billy the Kid as a Regulator in the Lincoln County War. Billy will pay you!”

I laughed.