Mummy & Daddy’s Naughty Diary (Erotica)

“Well, Sheriff, you’re in one helluva fix, cause I never seen anybody pay another person that kinda money on just somebody’s say so.”

“Wait, I got something else,” he continued as I prepared to walk out. “A month ago, we robbed the bank in Newton, Kansas. We had to hide the money because it was all gold coins and it was too heavy for our horses. We hadn’t had an opportunity to ride back that way. That’s why we tried robbing this bank.

Now, I drew a map. Just let us out and the map is yours!” He grasped a sheet of paper with some diagram on it.Property of Nô)(velDr(a)ma.Org.

Just then a roar came from the gathering mob across the street. The noise was getting louder and closer.

Henry Brown blanched as he dug out a letter from his coat pocket.

“This is a letter to my wife. Will you see that she gets it?” he requested.

With that, he handed me the map and the letter. No sooner than I stepped away than the door burst open and the crowd mashed me against the wall as they vied to manhandle the prisoners.

“Going to hang you sorry bastards!” the bartender crowed as the door swung open.

As soon as the door opened, Brown and the other prisoner rushed through the door and initially fought their way through the surprised crowd in a desperate bid to escape. The mob followed them and I straightened back up away from the wall when I heard the blast of shotguns firing and a cheer coming from outside.

As I walked outside the broken corpses of the prisoners in the muddy street were surrounded by the cheering mob as they quenched their bloodlust. They began propping the bodies on long planks so a photographer could make daguerreotypes with the bloodthirsty crowd. I walked unnoticed back to the saloon, waiting patiently for the bartender to return to serve me a drink.

Finally, with drink in hand, I ambled over to the boss to collect my pay so I could get a meal, a bath and with any luck, entice a barmaid or whore to spend time with me.

His look soured as I sat down at the table. He barely glanced at his ledger on the table before he dug into his pocket and handed me a dollar bill.

“Must be some mistake, boss. You owe me five dollars.” I looked at him puzzled.

“That was before you lost all those steers, Zeb. I got to dock you for that,” he grumbled.

“You mean the steers your son lost. That wasn’t my fault. You want to hold someone accountable, make sure it’s the person that is responsible!” I angrily replied.

“Nope, it is your fault, Zeb. That’s my decision,” he answered nervously.

As well, he should. People lost their lives for a lot less than an argument over four dollars these days. I noticed some of my co-workers paying attention ready to defend the boss if need be. Should I start a ruckus I would be shot down like a dog, like Sheriff Henry Brown.

I looked back at the miserly son of a bitch that I hired on with. For a year, I worked, starved, sweated, bleed for this man and my value wasn’t even worth four dollars to him.

I relaxed my posture to show no threat, stood up and wordlessly walked away with my dollar bill.

Two days later, on the trail, I was awakened to take my shift guarding the herd at midnight. I saddled my horse and made a loop around the resting slumbering herd. Everything was well as I steered my horse away from the herd. By daybreak, I would be too many miles away for the crew to intercept me as I journeyed to Caldwell, Kansas, to deliver the letter to the widow of Sheriff Brown and then to Newton to see if the desperate lawman had told me the truth about his treasure.

I studied the detailed instructions on the map and was pleasantly surprised by the existence of the saddlebags filled to the brim with golden $20 double eagles coins. Judging from the heft, I agreed with Sheriff Brown, the weight was too much for a horse to bear with a rider.

I left the treasure where it was and went back to the community of Newton. I had five coins with me. Enough money to buy a pack mule and the rest to spend on a splurge like I never had before. Before I was through I’d drink the town dry and fuck every whore they had, or I would die trying.

I had just settled in with a bottle of rye whiskey at Tuttle’s Dance Hall in Hyde Park. An old friend, Jim Martin, greeted me and I invited him to share a drink. We were just getting caught up with our lives when a commotion started.

“This ain’t good, Zeb,” he warned. “That gang of men have bad blood with that McCluskie fellow. He doesn’t have any help at all except for that kid over there.”

He nodded over at a thin boy, looking deathly ill cough up blood on his sleeve.

“You’re right, Jim. That boy needs to see a doctor.” I said.

“That’s James Riley,” Jim responded, “A doctor won’t do him any good. He’s dying from consumption.”

“Zeb, I better go see if I can quiet things down,” Jim announced, and he got up to make his way over to the confrontation.

Before he got there, the group of men were tired of arguing, they pulled their guns and shot McCluskie before he had a chance to defend himself. They continued shooting him as he collapsed to the floor.

The stunned crowd went quiet as the room continued echoing the retorts of the gunshots. Acrid gunsmoke filled the air. My friend, Jim, looked helpless at the scene.

Without notice, James Riley walked to the door of the building, shut the door and locked it. With another blood-sprayed cough, attention went to him as he said, “That was my friend, you sons of bitches!” He drew two Colt Peacemakers and began firing indiscriminately into McCluskie’s murderers.

Panic and chaos ruled the scene as he emptied his guns. The men tried valiantly to battle back, but not a single bullet of theirs stopped the wrath of Riley. Yells and screams continued even after the firing stopped. Due to all the shots, visibility was nil.

I was crouched underneath my table, above me, the overturned bottle of rye was pouring down my back. I had instinctively dived once the fracas started; if I was going to get hit by a stray bullet it was going to have to do its damndest to find me. I looked across the floor and saw my friend, Jim gasping with his dying breaths, blood spurting from his neck wound. He had been struck in the crossfire, dying while trying to do a good deed.

James Riley continued to look over this scene from Hell he had unleashed. Then, without a word, he unlocked the door, opened it and walked out into the night, mounted his horse and rode off, leaving behind the carnage of four dead souls and three wounded on the floor of Tuttle’s Dance Hall.

I slowly arose from the floor with my gun drawn. I wanted to show the shell-shocked victims that I posed no threat to them, but I wanted to be ready just in case. I went over to Jim, but I was too late, the light of life had already left his eyes.

Screams for assistance and for medical help filled the air. It didn’t really register with me as I grieved for a man I counted as a friend on the cattle drives. Then it struck me how little I even knew him. I had no idea where his family was, where he was from, or even where he wanted to go before he had been cut down.

Then the epiphany came that my life was in a similar state of flux. Had I died there, Jim would be looking askance at my corpse. The only things I had in this harsh world were my pistols, my Henry repeater, my horse, and some gold coins to assure my coffin and burial in this God-forsaken town. The knowledge of my newly discovered treasure would be lost for eternity.

My first plan had been to burn through the money as quick as I could. I had estimated that I could live high on the hog for three to five years before I would have to get another job.

But what then? Go back and hire on for more cattle drives? Have my body, mind, and soul broken down that much more?

Jesus, I had the answer to change my life right before me! I could take the treasure and start a trade…. Better still, I could reinvest the treasure and make a quick profit and then settle down to a respectable job.

Word came, even to the plains of Texas, of what the gold miners of California were paying for shovels and pickaxes. All I had to do was find a cheap source of goods, freight them to California, sell the goods for five times what I paid for them and I would start a bar or a mercantile store with the profits.

My thoughts were interrupted by a dour thin man dressed in black who walked up and stood beside me.

“Did you know the unfortunate soul?” He asked. I knew immediately that his concern was more of a financial matter than a spiritual one from his oily demeanor.

“Yes,” I replied, Jim Martin was his name, we rode together on some cattle drives. I want to see him in a good coffin and have a stone marker for his grave. See to it, that the preacher gives him a good send off.”

His eyes gleamed as I dug out the gold coin to pay for the services and handed them to him. “I’ll be attending the service in the morning,” I warned, “You’ll be burying him with his boots on.”

He gulped, and nervously nodded his acknowledgement. I left to find a room. My desire to have a party had left and instead, I continued thinking of my new plan.

The next morning, I attended Jim’s service. When it was over and I had paid my last respects, I went to the stable and bought a pack mule. I rode off with my caravan to pick up the gold and head east to St. Louis.

It took me two weeks to ride to St. Louis. As I rode into town, people took notice of me briefly before they went back and attended to their own affairs. The city had grown by leaps and bounds since the war. It had evolved to a thriving metropolis, one which I had anticipated would allow me to purchase goods cheaply, purchase two well-constructed wagons and the livestock for steerage, and hire a driver for the second wagon.

I would then hire a freight car to ship everything to Independence, Missouri, the gateway to the Oregon Trail, my path to California. I would join a wagon train consisting of 500 wagons. Families secured by the safety found in the sheer numbers of fellow travelers as we headed westward, 500 vessels that held bright dreams and futures. I estimated that only one in five would reach journey’s end.

I rode up to the nearest stable, dismounted and stretched my stiffness away from the last leg of the journey. As I tied the reins of my horse and pack mule to the hitch, a child approached me.

The boy was roughly ten years of age, unkempt shaggy blonde hair had been quickly slicked down to be more presentable. His clothes had the dust briefly beaten away, but still, the accumulation of dirt and tears in the fabric showed the misfortune of the boy.

“Excuse me sir. A dollar to see to your horse and mule?” The soft quiet politeness of his voice almost hid the desperation in his offer.