A Calico Girl's Revenge
The Last Western Story
By
Donald Mallord
Copyright December 2024. Exclusively Published on Literotica. 3,900 Words
Author's Notes
The sole sex scene is a non-graphic ravishment of a young woman. It touches on her feelings over her remorse for the way her body reacts to being ravished. If this is not to your liking, you should exit now.
Otherwise, I hope you stay for my Zane Greyish-style of a Western tale, as Jarvus Mackleberry adds to his recollection of yarns from a once vibrant town called Calico Creek.
A tip of a cowboy's hat to Kenjisato, a Lit editor, for his assistance. It's greatly appreciated and makes this a far better read.
Note: I expect this to be the last western story I'll be writing, as my life-pen seems to be running low on ink.
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A Calico Girl's Revenge
A way out west lay the dusty town of Calico Creek, which had long since lost its luster. Calico was a casualty of the gold rush's end and the railroad that bypassed it, diverting prosperity elsewhere. What once was a boomtown, alive with the clang of blacksmith hammers, the rowdy piano tunes spilling from the saloon, and the steady hum of commerce, had faded to the whisper of wind-blown dust and the occasional creak of a weathered sign. Buildings leaned left under the relentless winds, weakened by the blistering sun. The western winds had long sandblasted their cladding and each one showed scant signs of paint, looking like weathered bones or peeled old scabs. The once bustling boardwalks had become frequented more by tumbleweeds than people. Calico Creek was caught up in a long, slow sigh of forgotten days...
Yet, even in its decay, the old Wild West town held stories as vivid as a cyan sky at dawn--legends of lost gold, tales of betrayal that turned friends into foes, and mysteries that dared anyone to unravel them. One such story began on the splintered porch of the sole dry goods store, where a bent and wiry old-timer, named Jarvus Mackleberry, sat whittling a toy figure out of a weeping myall branch. That'd be an acacia tree branch if you're wondering.
Jarvus' knife moved with a sure, practiced hand, peeling away curls of wood that fell to the ground like swirling acacia leaves. A group of boys, their faces smudged with dust and curiosity, lingered nearby. Each one's eyes fixed on the delicate dance of blade and wood.
Mackleberry's face was a roadmap of creases, his eyes a stormy blue, sharp and probing even in their narrow slits shaded by the brim of a weathered hat. He paused, squinting over the nearly empty street, as if peering through the haze of bygone years. He coughed once, then cleared his throat and began to address the curious gaggle of boys with a voice that crackled like dry leaves.
"You know, boys, I came to this town no older than twenty when it was still worth a spit. Won this very store in a poker game, I did."
The boys shuffled closer, sitting on the steps, turning, listening, and eager for more. The old man's lips twitched into a half-smile, revealing a missing tooth. He could see by the wide-eyed looks, he had them eating out of his hand. As the town's undesignated historian, Jarvus enjoyed regaling them, and anyone who passed through, with a tale, a yarn, or two if he could hold their attention awhile.
"Course, old Buck Wilkins—the owner then—weren't so lucky, losing his store in a card game. His missus, she took the news with the grace of a grizzly bear, and before you could say 'ante up,' she pulled a pistol and shot him dead—a bullet through his left eye. Dead, right where he stood. Stood there, still as post 'til the wind blowed him over."
A collective gasp escaped the boys, their eyes wide as the old-timer leaned back in his creaky chair. "But here's the twist, boys," he said, lowering his voice. "With no kin and nowhere to go, she stayed on, living with Jarvus Mackleberry—the scruffy saddle tramp who won her husband's store." He chuckled as he enjoyed the dark humor in his own story.
Of one accord, the boys turned to peer into the store, taking in the bent figure of an elderly woman sweeping dust across the floor. From then on, the dry goods owner figured, they'd be more mindful of how they spoke to the former Mrs. Wilkins.
A tall, spindly kid, the oldest, piped up, "Did anything else as exciting ever happen?"
Jarvus' eyes clouded briefly before he leaned back in his chair and sighed. "Reckon there was once or twice, maybe a few more," he said. "I remember a time when the schoolmarm had a run-in with a stranger."
The boys leaned forward, anticipation crackling like static in the air. The old-timer's gaze drifted to the horizon, as if conjuring the memory from the dust.
"It was a day like any other, but then I spotted a lone wagon coming down the road, pulled by a mighty fine-spirited grey saddle horse. It was out of place, that stallion—and so was the beautiful woman driving it, pushing the beast 'til it was lathered and frothing at the mouth. Her dress was in tatters, the dust clinging to her like a second skin. She reined him hard in front of the saloon—right there."
He paused, the glint of the past sharpening in his eyes. The boys cast their eyes toward the saloon as if, by magic, the frothing steed might still be seen there.
"She stepped down, as fierce a look as I'd ever seen on a woman," Jarvis added conspiratorially to his eager audience. "She raised a hand to help a young girl—could have been the marryin' age—out of the wagon. And there, as she turned, I saw it slung across her back, a long-barreled Sharps rifle as tall as the young'un was. Without a word, they made their way toward the sheriff's office. Those long, sharp shadows cast behind them didn't seem able to catch up."
Jarvis halted his speech to study the carving a bit. He was setting the hook into his crowd of boys.
"Come on. Don't keep us waiting, old-timer. What happened after that?"
The old man's eyes narrowed, a smirk playing on his lips. "Well, boys, I don't know what they said to the sheriff 'cause I wasn't there."
"Dang liar," Billy Cyrus, the older boy, blurted, earning a chuckle from the others.
"Just 'cause I don't know what they said then don't mean I don't know what happened next," the old-timer said, his voice deepening. "You don't have to know everything to put two and two together to get four."
The boys leaned in, holding their breath as he continued.
"Boys, I tell you, Sheriff hustled out to that wagon, eyes wide as a gambler's. He lifted the tarp and hollered into the salon, 'Somebody, quick, fetch the doc! Tell 'em we finally got Johnny Dagger, and we need an undertaker.' In those days, boys, the docs were also the undertakers. Whatever the sheriff saw, boys, was enough to make the toughest lawman in three counties turn pale as a ghost."
A shiver passed through the boys, the weight of the old-timer's words settling over them like an ice-soaked blanket. The wind picked up, sweeping dust down the empty street as if to whisper its secrets.
"When word reached the doctor, he hustled out the door, grabbing his tape measure. By the time he arrived, a crowd had begun to form around the wagon. It was stone quiet, like a graveyard scene, rather than filled with excitement."
"Jack Thatcher, the doc, lowered the tailgate and pulled off the tarp. Everybody looked in the wagon and gasped in unison, 'Lord, God, Almighty!'"
Two of them wretched in the street that I could see from here. Some were wide-eyed and open-mouthed, while others backed away, eyeing the two women with shocked looks."
Jarvus Mackleberry whispered, "Boys, it stunned them all into silence. None had seen such in all their born days!"
In silence, he carefully turned the small whistle and cut a small notch into it. To a boy, they held their collective breaths waiting.
The youngest broke the spell, "So, what did they see? Come on, the suspense is killing me!"
The old codger looked at the youngest and slowly laid the whistle down. Jarvus moved his hand up like he was about to take ahold of his manhood to piss, then drew the knife up and made a slicing motion.
"Son-of-a-biscuit!" the eldest exclaimed, as his knees bowed inward, instinctively feeling the imagined pain of Jarvus' swift slicing motion. It took the others a couple of seconds to get it.
"It was a blood-curdling sight, boys. It was stuck between his clenched teeth, and his eyes were gouged out, too. I heard it said the women told Sheriff the crows did that. Some others, later visiting the ranch, said the women had his—you know, the other parts nailed up to the barn door. But truth be told, I don't reckon that to be truthful. Yet, some say so. The curious part of the spectacle was nobody asked why his bloody... thing was in his mouth."
