Her Bad Day

Picture a lonely cowboy, riding carefully through Apache country, when he spies trouble:

Before him was the remains of someone’s Conestoga wagon and their belongings. Most of the wagon was gone, burned down to a pile of glowing ashes and the metal rims from the wheels. There were pots and pans and the metal parts of tools scattered around and some clothes, no more than scorched rags, now. The Apaches had taken all they wanted and burned the rest. There wouldn’t be anything useful left.

Disappointed that it hadn’t been a cabin with a pot of stew on the fire, Fallon nudged his horse on, circling the wreckage. With a sharp jerk he reined the horse to a stop and sat in shock at the sight before him.

On the ground, naked and staked at her wrists and ankles was a blonde woman. The first woman Fallon had seen in over three weeks. He blinked to make sure he wasn’t seeing things.

Fallon scanned the area around him, again, and then looked down at the woman. Her face was turned away from him, but even in the moonlight Fallon could see the damage the sun had done to the skin normally covered with clothes. Her breasts were large and soft looking but smudged with dirt, as were her stomach and hips. Her blonde pubic hair was plastered and pressed flat and the insides of her white thighs were dirty. Fallon could see her chest rise and fall with her breathing.


She jerked her head around and popped her eyes open to stare at Fallon. “Oh! A white man! Thank the Lord! You are a white man! I thought the savages had returned. Praise be!”

Fallon noticed she was fairly young and maybe would even be more than just pretty, in a different situation. “Yes, Ma’am, I am a white man. What happened to you?”

The woman looked up at Fallon and began talking. She talked with one sentence rolling over the next, with one word flowing in to all the rest of the words. Barely taking a breath, she shot through her story with a rhythm that reminded Fallon of a Gatling gun.

“The eight savages that were left ignored me as they picked through every item in this wagon; eating all the food and drinking all the cider and water. When they were satisfied, they ripped my clothes off me and tied me down like this — and then, one after the other, they violated me. Some, more than once!

“I begged them to kill me. So I wouldn’t suffer their abuse. I never heard them utter one word of English the whole time. Finally, when they were all done with me, and could no longer mistreat me, they got on their ponies and rode away, whooping and hollering.

“They left me in the desert sun to die.

“And then, thank the Lord, you come along.”

Fallon eased the Henry back into the scabbard. He slid off the horse and looked down on the woman. Her skin glowed in the moonlight. The marks on her round breasts and open pubis where she was ravaged and raped were obvious. He moved closer to her.

He thought about what she had been through in one day. Losing a husband, four children, all her earthly belongings and her respectable womanhood. It was more than you could expect one person to take.

He dropped his chaps and pants and pulled his hard cock from out of his stained longjohns. He knelt between her spread legs and spit on his prick’s knobby head.

He had been wrong — for once, the Apaches had left something useful behind.

The woman looked up at him in surprise, with large round eyes, and he sadly informed her:

“Well, Ma’am, this sure ain’t been your day.”

From A Long Day, a 1991 story by J. Boswell.

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