by Jocelyn Cross
It was a hot summer afternoon on the road that paralleled the Agua Fria River in central Arizona. It was 1873, not quite long enough to have forgotten the terrors and hatreds of the Civil War, and though Arizona was quite distant from the bloody battlefields, emotions still fostered sudden and violent outbursts that seemed quite unpredictable. Not that such outbursts would bother the cowboy on that road today, slowly meandering his way to the town of Gillette.
Even when he stopped in a town for more than a week, those who got to know the cowboy never really knew him; most were afraid of the man who exuded a palpable energy that was immediately noticed by livestock, horses and dogs. When he was around, animals were suddenly skittish and other humans would attribute that activity to the likely presence of a coyote or bobcat. But the animals knew something that people eventually got around to deciding on their own: stay clear of this cowboy.
Truth to tell, no one could ever claim that the man started a fight or any trouble at all. He was soft spoken, but his words hit like an iron fist beneath a soft leather glove: they were neat and polite, but the punch would break your jaw. One immediately sensed his confidence, though the cowboy never advertised it.
Oh, he got into his fair share of scrapes, and as his presence on the road this day would attest, he was always the one who walked away unharmed. Though he strove to avoid confrontation, conflict seemed to find him. He never backed away; that was for the other guy, and the man that was foolish enough not to turn around and leave more often than not ended up face down and dead in the dirt.
The cowboy knew the Agua Fria River was close by the road ... just off to his left as indicated by the sycamore trees that hugged the river bank. Sycamores could not live very far from water, and in this part of the west, water was sometimes hard to come by. It was an axiom of survival in Arizona: know where the water is or you'll likely end up dead.
The breeze shifted slightly and his horse sensed the sweet smell of the river and turned his head to the left. "OK, partner," the cowboy said to his horse. "Let's get a drink and take a break." With a touch of his knee, his horse responded and headed off the road towards the river. At the edge of the bank, the cowboy dismounted and took the saddle off his horse then led it down to the river. For a few long minutes his horse drank, and the cowboy knelt at the edge of the river to wash his face then dip his head down to slurp up some cool draughts of water for himself. He also took the time to refill his canteen.
There was a nice patch of vibrant green grass, and allowing his horse to quietly graze, he lay down in the shadow of the lone cottonwood tree amidst the grove of sycamores and rested his head on the saddle. The horse minded its own business, lazily grazing as the cowboy napped in the shade.
The lazy pleasant afternoon was shattered by the frantic yelling of "WHOA! WHOA!" and the onrushing hoof beats of a furiously galloping horse. The cowboy could see what looked like a young boy hanging on for dear life to a horse that not going to stop for his cries of ‘Whoa’, tree branches or other obstacles. The horse was lathered from its efforts and heading straight for the dozing cowboy and his now curious horse.
The cowboy immediately leaped to his feet, taking a few quick steps closer to the river and then stood up tall, hands waving right in the path of the runaway horse. "WHOA!" he bellowed in a deep and commanding voice and the horse stopped suddenly in the sandy berm of the river bank.
Unfortunately, the rider continued forward, flying over both horse and cowboy headlong into the river. The water was deep enough to soften the fall, but not so deep that the boy couldn't stand up and wade back to shore.
"What did you do that for?" demanded a high-pitched voice, shrill with indignity. The voice startled the cowboy and he immediately realized that he mistook the identity of the boy. The wet shirt on the fallen rider clung to breasts that confirmed what the voice had suggested - the rider was a woman!
The cowboy grinned and offered a hand to help her out of the river. "You're welcome," he said, adding, "I'm sure you meant to say 'thank you'."
Sputtering and indignant the woman, now literally and figuratively mad as a wet hen, said, "What do you mean, thank you? I had everything under control!" The woman noticed how clinging her shirt and pants were and tried to pull the wet cloth away from her body to maintain some modicum of decency.
Her comments did not exactly endear herself to the cowboy. "Under control?" he scoffed. With her horse now in hand, its chest heaving from the exertion, the cowboy led the horse to the shallow water. After removing the saddle he used his hands to splash river water up onto the sides of the horse and began to rub off the foaming sweat of the overworked animal. "You call this under control?" he demanded. "Young lady, are you in the habit of running your horse near to death? Don't you know you can't let a horse overheat like this?"
The cowboy's own horse had stepped closer and was nuzzling the heavily breathing mare. It sensed the need to calm the other animal as the cowboy continued to work the river water onto the sweaty beast. Despite his anger with the young woman's attitude, the cowboy murmured softly into the tired horse's ear to calm it. Slowly the runaway began to breathe more normally and bent her head to sip the cool river water.
Overcoming her loss of words, the young lady snapped, "That is none of your business. And, I will kindly ask you to resaddle my horse so I may get on my way."
"Not a chance, little girl," replied the cowboy as he continued pouring handfuls of water on the heavily exerted horse.
"Little girl!" yelped the woman in complaint. "I'll have you know I am 18 years old and am not a little girl!" She stood with hands on hip with a pout on her face that contradicted her claim. Then she added, "I've a good mind to have my grandfather horse-whip you for what you did!"
The chuckles from the cowboy only made her angrier, and despite the mirth on his face there was a seriously threatening aura about him. "I think we should go speak to your grandfather about just that. I suspect he'd probably take you out to the woodshed for a good hiding if he knew you treated this fine horse the way you did."
That only made the young lady sputter and stamp her feet. "He would do no such thing! He is a gentleman and has never struck me once!"
"Uh huh," murmured the cowboy as he continued to aid the horse. "That explains it."
"Explains what?" she demanded, throwing in, "As if I care one whit about your opinion."
"That explains your behavior," the cowboy said. He stopped ministering to the horse and fixed a steely gaze on the young woman. "Maybe you needed a good tanning or two to set you straight. And if you don't change your tone of voice with me pretty damned quick, you'll get that tanning from me."
Her jaw dropped and her mouth looked as big and round as a full moon. Finally she said, "You wouldn't dare - and besides that, I won't let you!"
The two horses suddenly shivered as the cowboy's face clouded with anger. "You, young lady, are perilously close to getting something you have clearly needed for some time! And, if I dare to give it to you, there isn't a damned thing you can do about it. I suggest you be quiet and help me with your horse."
Her grandfather had often described his granddaughter as a firebrand, and there was no way she was backing down from this threat. She had always had her way, even with her flinty grandfather, and she was going to get her way now. Stepping up to the cowboy, she tried to wrench the reins from his hands. "Get away from my horse, you shit heel!"
The horses both tensed and shivered again and they took a step away from the cowboy. The horses could sense the change in his attitude and the young lady should have followed their lead.
In one deft motion, the cowboy picked up the wet young lady and draped her over his shoulder. She cursed him. She punched at his back and kicked her legs as he strode purposefully to a fallen log. As he sat down on the log he pulled the young woman in the wet clothing over his lap and began immediately to land one harsh and heavy swat after another on her upturned bottom.
"OWW!!" she cried out. "Stop that and let me up. You can't do this!"
"Hmmm," he mused. "Seems like I am doing this." His hand continued to rise and fall landing on the wet pants that clung to a rather well-rounded feminine bottom. Her wet pants made the spanks sound loud and sharp, but they also made his swats feel sharp and painful.
SMACK! SPANK! SLAP!!
"Let me up this instant," she demanded again between yelps and pleas. The spanking continued and she writhed and wriggled over his lap trying to free herself. But this cowboy was intent on delivering a lesson and she could not escape his iron grip.
"I'll let you up when you apologize," he said evenly, accenting each word with a heavy swat to her now rapidly warming behind.
"Go to hell!" she snapped back, and began struggling even more fiercely. The cowboy chuckled in his mind as he wondered how long it would take for her to back down. He also rather liked the feel of her round bottom beneath his palm. He liked the way it jiggled with each swat and the way it was warming so nicely. He noticed that the seat of her pants were now much more dry than the rest of her clothing.
"Be careful," the cowboy warned, "if you curse one more time I will take these pants down and use a switch on your bare sit-upon." He delivered two more heavy swats and was startled when the writhing hellcat over his lap suddenly quit struggling.
For her part, the threat of having her bottom bared and being hit with a stick was frightening. She had heard from others about switching's, and she was right to be fearful. But what really scared her was that she realized she sort of ... kind of ... maybe ... sort of liked what he was doing to her. She felt special in a way she hadn't felt before.
And that special feeling frightened her.
"I'm sorry," she mumbled.
Placing his hand on her bottom, the cowboy leaned closer to her and said, "I'm sorry, I didn't hear you. What was that you said?"
"I said I am sorry," came the reply with loud exasperation.
Another silent chuckle in the mind of the cowboy as he asked, "Should I make you tell me all the things you are sorry about, or should I just take your apology in a general way and let you figure out what it was for?"
"Please let me up," she said evenly. "I've apologized for my behavior."
Giving her rump one last squeeze (it drew a gasp from the spanked woman), the cowboy helped her to her feet.
Not to be reposted, reproduced or distributed, in part or whole.