Juicy Secrets Forbidden Tales of Lesbian Love

The story thus far: Seeking a missing Texas Ranger, our old acquaintance The Tequila Kid comes across a poor family named Miller. Like many others in the area, this widow Sarah and her two little girls, Amy and Cindy, have been brutalized by a wealthy scoundrel named McCuller, who intends to drive away all the owners of small farms and ranches in the area and take their land. Later, drying off from heavy rain at the local stable, Sheriff Lucas Clay comes in search of The Kid, demanding she surrender her guns. Knowing Clay to be corrupt (and in league with McCuller), The Kid asks to speak with him in private. Moments later at the jail, he threatens her, and she deals him a beat-down, then informs him that she means to arrest McCuller and Tyson Avidite (a banker who is part of the conspiracy) before she leaves.

From the sheriff’s office, she goes to the Silver Slipper, the town’s saloon, gambling house and brothel. There, she encounters a young man named Jud Nelson, who she’d seen Sheriff Clay harass earlier. Recognizing him as a decent sort, she hires him to watch the jail to see if Clay leaves. Then she meets a twelve-year-old girl named Dixie, who does menial work at the Silver Slipper and is bullied by Toots, the brutish bartender. The Kid asks Dixie which girl is the most popular of the whores. Star, the girl replies, and The Kid gives Dixie the money to pay for Star’s services that evening.

Upstairs in one of the bedrooms, The Kid enjoys an intense hour of sex with Star. Afterwards, she asks the prostitute a few questions about the town and its doings. She learns that Clark Hansen, the missing Texas Ranger she seeks, disappeared around the same time as Dixie’s older sister Dallas, who was one of the whores at the Silver Slipper. The Kid asks about Ben McCuller, but Star refuses to answer, claiming “it’s too dangerous.” When The Kid goes back downstairs, Jud returns to let her know that Sheriff Clay just left town, riding hard in the direction of McCuller’s place. Figuring she’s done as much as she can for one night, The Kid decides to join an ongoing card game.

And now, dear readers, we make our way into the next installment. Read on…

By Purple Les

The Kid stood for a moment by the empty chair at the poker table. The elderly man in the black suit rose and took a slight bow. “Allow me to introduce myself, Miss. I am Colonel Beauregard Haskill, though you can call me Bo. I’m sure I speak for all my fellow players in saying that we would be honored to have you join our game.”

“Reckon I will, then,” The Kid replied. She dumped her poker chips she had in her hat on to the table, right in front of the empty chair. Returning the hat to her head, she sat down.

The Colonel gestured to his right. “This gentleman is Mr Harv Benson.”

Harv Benson, a clean shaven middle-aged man who seemed average in every imaginable way, nodded his head saying, “How do, ma’am.”

“And this,” The Colonel paused, his jaw tightening slightly, “Is Mr Final Preston.”

Final Preston was overweight, sweaty, unshaven and, The Kid suspected, a born loser of his own making.

“The deck passes to the right. Dealer’s choice.” Preston told The Kid, anxious to get back to the game.

The Kid could see why: Preston had the smallest amount of chips left. Hmm. Bo’s doin’ fine, Benson’s holdin’ his own, and Preston’s desperate to win his money back.

She gave the players a brief nod “Nice to meet you, Bo. Howdy, gents. I’m the Tequila Kid. Who’s deal is it then?”

Colonel Haskill raised an eyebrow in surprise, but otherwise maintained his poker face. The name didn’t seem to mean anything to the other two men, or if it did, they didn’t let it show.

“It’s my deal,” Final Preston said. “Five card stud. Everybody ante up.”

The Kid played slow and quiet at first. Contributing to the kitty, folding early and watching others take the pot. She rolled a cigarette or two while observing the game, taking the measure of the three gamblers. There was a bottle of fine Kentucky bourbon on the table. “I abhor cheap whiskey,” said Colonel Haskill. “Luckily, this establishment stocks a few bottles of superior stuff at my request. Young lady,” he continued, signalling to Dixie, who came right over. “I’d like a clean glass for my friend.”

“Yes, sir,” the young girl murmured, then hastened to fetch.

As the game continued, Haskill told stories of his life before, during and after the Civil War. The Kid saw an old rogue with blue eyes, a smile on his lips, and an underlying touch of sadness that he was nearly able to conceal. He looked tired, but explained, “Unfortunately, all the beds here are already occupied. True, I could share one, but I’d rather enjoy myself at cards than lay in a crowded bed with a snoring stranger.”

As for Harv Benson, he was married and owned a freight business. He was using the bad weather as an excuse to postpone his trip home. “Told my missus I had to wait up at the office for a late wagon.” He told them. “If she knew what I was doin’ right now, she’d call God’s wrath down on me. See, my wife caught the religious bug ‘bout a year back. Now she hates card playin’ worse than damn near anything. Tells me, ‘It’s Satan you’re a-gamblin’ with, and your soul is the stakes’.” Sighing, he laid down a pair of cards. “Dealer takes two.” Benson won often enough that his pile of chips didn’t gain or lose much.

Everything about Final Preston marked him as a loser. His greasy brown hair hung limply over his forehead. His stubbly face and shifty brown eyes gave him a feral look. Sort of like having my mornin’ coffee with a Gila monster, The Kid thought. Occasionally Preston would win a pot, then lose it and more besides on the next few hands.

The Kid began to rake in some of the bigger pots as the night wore on, all the while pretending to be a novice. “Now what beats a pair again?” she’d ask, scratching her head. Plenty of men were quick to assume no woman could possibly know her way around a deck of cards; an error The Kid often used to her advantage. Before long, she had more chips than anyone.

As she continued to play, The Kid watched the customers thinning out; settling their tabs, then vanishing into the night. Eventually, the piano player closed the lid on his battered instrument, clapped a derby hat on his head and exited without a word to anyone.

A few minutes later, The Kid saw Belle, Kitty, and Star hand over any tips they’d made to the bartender Toots. He was about six feet tall with a high head of black hair that had been greased and combed back. His face was pockmarked and clean shaven.

Once he’d taken the girls’ money, they turned to leave. Dixie was with them, looking utterly exhausted. The Kid’s jaw tightened when Toots gave her one last smack to the back of her head. The other girls gave him dirty looks, but none of them said anything.

I don’t rightly know if there’s a God up above or not, The Kid mused, but if I ever see him face to face, I’ll ask why it is women and girls have such a hard row to hoe in this life. What’s that Dixie child ever done that she should get treated so bad?

Memories of her own younger days flooded The Kid’s mind. At the age of twelve, she went through her tribe’s initiation rites into womanhood, where she’d been named White Raven and given the dark blue tattoos on her chin and around her upper arms.

A week later, the U.S. Cavalry attacked the Indian camp when the warriors were away. The blue coats slaughtered the elders, then raped the women and killed them, along with the children. Many of the corpses were mutilated for souvenirs. The white men laughed as they piled the bodies high, doused the heap with coal oil and set it ablaze. Years later, The Kid could still recall the hideous stench of the burning.

She, however, had survived. A cavalryman who had intended to rape White Raven noticed her blue eyes. Quickly realizing she was white, he saw a better use for her. Instead of forcing himself on the girl, the blue coat took her with him, hoping to find her family and collect a handsome reward for her return.

She was brought back to the Army fort and the nearby town. The Kid remembered how the town folk gathered to see the mysterious girl who had been raised by Indians. The blue coat asked the crowd if there was a good Christian family among them who would take the girl in, at least until her family could be found.

There were no takers. The onlookers shouted things like, “She’s a heathen savage,” or “She ain’t white no more.” The local preacher just shook his head, muttering, “This girl’s been ruined by their men. No respectable family would have her now.” The men ogled her near nudity, the woman turned away in disgust, and the children spat at her, throwing stones and clumps of dirt.

The Kid remembered the French woman who approached the cavalryman and said, “I will take this girl.” By then, he was fed up and ready to cut his losses, so he handed White Raven over without a word and went on his way. This woman smiled and said, “Come, child,” and the girl meekly followed.

Big Bertha ran a combination trading post and brothel. She was a keen observer of people, and sensed there was more to this girl than met the eye.

Bertha gave her clothes. Taught her to speak French. She passed along her considerable cooking skills. She even showed the girl how to play checkers. This strange creature would not tell anyone her Indian or her white name, so Bertha and the others simply called her “Kid.”

The girls who serviced men at the brothel grew very fond of The Kid, as did the women who served as cashiers at the trading post. As for Bertha, she was extremely protective of her young charge. Any man who tried to bed the girl was apt to get a thrashing from Cedric, the bouncer and the sole male employee in Bertha’s hire… or from Bertha herself, who could throw a wicked punch.

Some of the skills The Kid had acquired with her tribe were put to use in her new life. Bertha noticed right away that the girl liked being around horses, so she was made a stablehand. Furthermore, The Kid was an excellent shot, so she was able to hunt wild game for the brothel’s dinner table.

The Kid recalled the horse Big Bertha had saved, a mare that had killed a man who was taunting her colt. Bertha had taken the horse instead of allowing her to be shot. The mare quickly came to be known as Devil Bitch. With time, effort and a good amount of patience, The Kid befriended the horse. Soon, she was the only one who could ride her.

One late evening after closing time, an armed bandit robbed the trading post. Holding a gun to Bertha’s head, he forced her to open the safe and empty it of cash, then locked her and the cashier in the office. Only The Kid was left, and the bandit demanded that she fetch him a horse. Leading the man out to the stable, The Kid saddled up Devil Bitch and handed him the reins. “Her name’s Buttercup,” was all she said.

When the outlaw mounted her, the large bay mare immediately threw him to the ground, then crushed his skull with one blow of her hoof.

Not long after that, Bertha made a gift of the horse to The Kid, who named her Buttercup. The mare never lost her disdain for strangers, but she was always sweet-natured to The Kid.

Remembering Buttercup, The Kid felt an all-too familiar jolt of sorrow. Her horse had broken a leg while they were riding, attempting to evade the armed thugs of Rameses Kingsley. At least Kingsley had paid for this and many other crimes with his life, but the ache she felt for Buttercup was still tender. I’d rather of shot myself than that horse.

The Kid started when she heard Colonel Haskill’s voice, “Pardon me, dear lady… but the deal is yours.” Opening her eyes, she saw the deck resting on the felt at her elbow. Picking up the cards, she shuffled, passed the deck to Benson for the cut, then dealt out four hands.

After a half hour had passed, Toots announced, “I’m done closin’ up the bar. You folks’ll have to stop playin’ soon, cash in and head out.”

Harv Benson stood, stretching his limbs. “Reckon I’d best be makin’ tracks. If I stay much longer, my missus’ll have her preacher out huntin’ me down – Bible in one hand, a cross in the other.” Gathering up his chips, he nodded. “Evenin’, all,” then took his winnings over to the cage, where the very bored-looking cashier sat.

Colonel Haskill took out a pocket watch and checked the time. “I believe I’ll cash in as well. Maybe some of the men are hitting the trail again, and I can find myself an empty bed. Thank you for a very pleasant evening.” With a brief bow to The Kid, he followed Benson to the cashier cage.

“How ‘bout a hand of showdown, Kid?” Final Preston asked, gazing hungrily at The Kid’s pile of chips.

“I’m game,” The Kid replied.

Final pushed half his remaining chips into the middle of the table. The Kid saw his bet, then gave Final the cut before she dealt the first card. Jud Nelson watched from the bar with keen interest.

The Kid turned up an ace for Final and a deuce for herself. “Your bet,” she said.

Final added a couple of chips to the pot. The Kid matched it, then turned over a jack to Final and a four to herself.

“No help to either of us. Ace bets,” The Kid said.

Final grinned and put a couple more chips in, with The Kid covering him.

The third card brought another jack up for Final and a six for The Kid. “Pair of jacks bets,” she said.

After the chips were added, The Kid turned up the fourth cards. Another ace to Final, a trey for herself.

“You got two pair, Final.” The Kid said, studying at the cards in front of them. “Bet’s to you.”

Final took a slug from his glass, staring at the cards on the table. I got two pair, and she’s workin’ on an inside straight. Even if she makes it, I’d win with a full house. Besides, she gotta draw a five to fill that straight… otherwise, the best she can manage is a pair, and I got that beat already. He pushed the remainder of his chips into the center.

The Kid matched him, then picked up a chip, studying it thoughtfully. “If I raise you, the game’s over, Final… unless you got somethin’ else to bet.”

Final rubbed his mouth, then quickly said, “Y’know, I feel good about this hand. Tell you what… I got a horse I’ll throw in. Push the rest of your chips in and I’ll put up my horse.”

“Where’s your horse at?” The Kid asked. “I wonder what makes it worth the rest of my chips.”

“Why, she’s right outside. A real beauty.” Final declared.

With a snort of derisive laughter, The Kid said, “The one outside? Shit, that poor critter can barely stand.” She kept her cool, but fumed inside. Anyone treats a horse like that oughta have his butt kicked. I’ll take a chance on losing my money just to get that pitiful creature away from him.

“I got that horse ‘bout five towns east of here,” Final said. “She’s a beautiful filly. Family was down on their luck. It was their little girl’s horse. I thought she’d bust a gut cryin’ when they sold it to me, but they needed the cash. That horse is worth five times what I paid for her. C’mon, how ‘bout it?”

The Kid pushed her chips into the center. “Fine, you’re covered. Mind you, I’m only doin’ this to get that poor animal away from you ‘fore you kill it.”

The Kid took the top card off the deck and turned it up slowly. Final winced. It was a nine, but he still had his two pair. By then Jud, Toots, and the cashier in his cage were all watching the players.

The Kid slowly picked the top card off the deck and looked at it, her face blank. The three spectators watched with held breath. The Kid slowly put the card down on the table with her others.

Final’s face fell when he saw the five of hearts. “Goddamn,” he muttered, slumping back in his chair.

“Well, I’ll be switched. That gives me a straight, and the pot,” The Kid murmured as she raked all the chips over to herself. “Now let’s see the bill of sale for that horse, mister, or I might think you got her by dishonest means. Jud, could you lend me your eyes?”

Jud read the bill of sale out for The Kid. He had Final Preston sign it over, then The Kid added her mark, the outline drawing of a raven. Next to it, Jud wrote The Tequila Kid.

Sauntering over to the cage, The Kid cashed in her chips. With her winnings, she now had three hundred and ten dollars in cash. Not a bad night’s work. she thought.

“That’s it. We’re closed,” Toots announced.

The Kid made her way back to the table. She, Jud and Final put on their coats and hats and made their exit, Toots locking the door behind them. The rain had dwindled to an icy mist.

Final Preston fell to his knees in despair. “Shit! I’m flat busted.”

“No, you ain’t,” The Kid replied. Stepping down into the muddy street, she took the rope from the saddle, cut off a good length with her Bowie knife and fashioned a rough hackamore from it, which she draped over her shoulder. She removed the saddle, bridle and all the other gear from the horse, then heaved the lot into the street.

As she put the hackamore on the horse, The Kid told Final, “If you sell this saddle and the rest, there oughta be enough for breakfast and a coach ticket out of town. Which I recommend you take, ‘cause anyone who treats a horse this way is already on my bad side. Now get your sorry ass out of my sight.”

Rushing into the street, Final gathered up the saddle and as much of the gear as he could carry, slipping in the mud several times, then hastened away, puffing with exertion.

The Kid approached Jud. “You let me know the second Clay gets back in town,” she murmured, then led her new horse down to the livery stable.

***

Waking at sunrise as he always did, Abner went to the neighborhood hash house for breakfast. When he got back, the old man was surprised to find The Kid grooming a horse, one he hadn’t seen before. Opening for business, he got caught up with a steady stream of cowboys picking up their horses, ready to hit the trail, and didn’t have time to chat with The Kid.

Finally, when things had settled down a bit, he went over to watch The Kid as she finished cleaning the horse.

Drawing closer, Abner ran his hands up and down the mare’s legs. “She’s a mite underfed, but seems sound enough. Where’d you get her? Least I got space for another horse now.”

“Won her in a poker game.” The Kid said. “I was right surprised to find a nice Palomino under all that dirt.”

“Well, let’s get her fed proper,” Abner said. Stuffing a feed bag with oats, he put it on the mare, then patted her neck as she tucked in. “Yep, she’s a real beauty.”

The Kid took the hard boiled egg from her coat and ate it slowly while Abner fed and watered Button.

Jud Nelson came in, giving The Kid a nod. She approached. “Clay get back to town?”

“No.” Jud stated. “But Cy Warren just rode in. He let himself into the Sheriff’s office with a key.”

The Kid rubbed her chin. “Cy Warren… ain’t he McCuller’s dirty jobs man?”

“The same,” Jud answered.

Putting her coat on, The Kid took a couple of bills from her pocket and gave them to the young man. “Here’s your ten. You done a good job. Now… care to accompany me to the sheriff’s office?”

Jud hesitated, then shrugged. “Guess I will.”

Abner watched The Kid and Jud step into the street. He stood in the entrance for a moment, lost in thought, then went back mucking out the stalls.

***

The morning sky was a dark gray as they walked toward the sheriff’s office. Suddenly The Kid came to a stop on the boardwalk, so abruptly that Jud Nelson bumped into her. She was staring at a large, jet-black stallion tied to the hitching rail in front of the sheriff’s office.

As The Kid came close, the stallion nickered at the familiar smell and sound of her.

Patting the horse’s neck while he nuzzled her, The Kid said, “Good to see you, Thunder. I sure wish you could tell me what happened to Clark Hansen.” She stepped back, her gaze fastened on the office door. “Don’t you worry none, big fella,” The Kid added, giving the stallion’s flank a pat. “I’m gonna find out where Clark is.”

She turned to Jud. “Ranger Hansen don’t go nowhere without this horse. Look, he’s still wearin’ all Clark’s gear, too.”

Jud studied the hand tooled-black leather saddle and matching bridle. It was one of the finest saddles he’d ever seen, complete with detailed metal work. The Kid examined the rifle scabbard, which still held Clark’s Winchester. The letters CH were engraved on the stock. As well as the leather saddle bags as well. The Kid looked into these, but they held nothing of Clark’s.

Jud felt the hair on his neck rise when The Kid turned to him, a cold fury in her eyes, and said, “Cy Warren, huh? Well let’s go see this feller. The horse can’t talk, so I’ll get my answers from him.”

Knowing Cy Warren for the vicious killer he was, Jud felt a knot in his stomach as The Kid grasped the doorknob and pushed her way into the office.

Soon to come: Chapter Five!