Rambone Gay Cowboy Story

Living together, causes a certain drain on conversational openings, but I tried. "What did you do in the war, daddy?" It was late evening, we sat in front of the roaring fire. Harvest Rambone, U.S. Marshall, sitting in the big armchair, his belly full of my good cooking. I sat on the carpet by the hearth, gently laying my arms on his broad thighs, my head in his lap.

The fire lapped us with bright orange gleams, and it was time for stories. I, Ethan Newell, a fledgling writer had bonded with this Western monument, and I pumped him for stories, to change into sex stories, for men, about men, with men loving men which I sold back East for a butt-fuck magazine.

To look at him now, his face a mask of leather, a walrus mustache, and hard piercing eyes, it was hard to think of him being a pup, twenty years ago, going off to war. He stroked my hair, took a slug from the ever-present whisky bottle, Cobra blood, he called it, rotgut for the soul. I undid a few buttons of his shirt, pressed my hand against his flesh, the hair that was his pelt, tickling under my hand. He was built of muscle, bone and gristle, not an ounce of fat on him, I know, I've explored everywhere.

"I don't even know which side you fought on, " I murmured.

"Both at one time or another," was his reply.

"You switched sides? In a war?" I looked up to the bronzed rugged face, to see if he were lying. He put a hand on my bare shoulder, put me back in his lap, my face at his crotch. Only a tongue flick away from the mighty cock that I've learned to know intimately. Although still in his trousers, I could sense it slumber, the round thick shaft, sleeping, laying low for the meantime; it'll wake up, closer to sack-time.

"It's a short story. Tell you sometime."

"Now, tell me now, I really want to hear." We'd been living together for three months, after I saved his life during a bank robbery. I was bloodied and bruised, he took me in, while I healed, we had sex. He calls me his pinto when he rides me, when he buries his dick way up my ass. Bending to his indomitable frame, the whole weight of the man, bearing down on my body; strong thighs wedged between mine, firm hands clenching my palpitating body, feeling the animal magnetism emanating from his loins into me in utter submission, wanting him so badly, taking it so well.

We moved to his small holding, a ranch house the size of a shack, a fairy tale cottage, five miles north of the city, Glitch, Arizona. I keep the place clean, do the cooking, and occasionally we ride together. He says that he'll get me my own horse soon. He brings his work home, mostly 'Wanted ' posters, outlaws that have been heard to be in the vicinity, and he brings 'em back alive so they can be hanged if found guilty. Unless they draw their pistols first and he saves the county the expense of the hangman.

"The war had started and I enlisted for the North, I was not a jot above eighteen years old, not realizing that we all were volunteering to be cannon-fodder. Ares, God of war demands, flesh, preferably young, he has fire in his loins, and we brought forth corpses galore. The first battle we fought, I ran, screaming from the sound of the gunfire and explosions. But I ran the wrong way, confused by the smoke.

I fell down a gully, hit my head, landed in the river, my blood turning the muddy water carmine-red. Too much blood. Then I found I'd fallen next to the body of one of my fallen comrades, a corporal, younger than me; had probably lied about his age, but he was still taken in. I was dizzy and stumbled to the brook's edge, lay down in the reeds, I was exhausted and fell asleep. More gunfire woke me, I could see the shapes of soldiers advancing. I knew they weren't ours. I took off my army issue jacket, hid it, and waited. I slipped back towards the water and lifted and slid under the dead soldier. I wasn't counting but maybe two hundred determined soldiers passed by.

The boy above me was bayoneted occasionally, to check that he was in fact dead and the cold steel penetrated him, almost reached me. Lucky it was dark and I remained undiscovered." As I listened to his story, he paused, petting my head; I put my hand on his crotch-bulge, letting a gently warming tingle course through me.

"Maybe three hours passed, until I wiggled out, the fighting was way off now; still dark; I should make my escape. I was filthy, muddied and bloodied, with only one plan, to get the hell out of there. In a crouch, I ran to a copse in the near distance, breathing hard, I made it. I could see a mile or so back, blue smoke with orange centers, knowing full well, my comrades were being slaughtered. The cracks, whistles, whizzbangs of armaments exploding, screams of fatal agonies, and the smell of death hung on the air. I didn't hear the approach. A rifle-butt hammered on my head; I fell down. Looming above me a grey-coated captain.

"Looks like we got ourselves a runaway slave." He stooped down saw my color was merely smeared on.

"A white boy! A deserter, may-hap! Who are you boy? Whose side? We shoot deserters don't we?" A pause, another slug of whiskey, I toyed with his pants, Rambone gave the Okay. He took a deep breath and continued.

"A bayonet was looming above me, and Johnny Reb was about to disembowel me, when Gatling-gun fire burst in the distance.

"Heads up, lads" said the brave captain, volunteering his men, to follow him and die. I heard the burst, that felled them, so many leaves of grass caught in a scythe of death. The Grim Reaper who grins skeletal mouthed takes no side. Smoke rolled over, smelling of cordite. I was unceremoniously slung over a shoulder and taken back to the rear. Carried, like a heifer, into the tent, flung down, like a burden, onto a camp-bed. My benefactor wiped my brow, with a bandanna, made sure I was comfortable. My wound superficial, he tended to my shoulder, he'd turned nursing into high art." I'd heard it before, Rambone's no storyteller. But I listen, 'cause each time he tells it I get turned on. His dick is growing, so I undo a button. Then another, as I release the beast.

PART 2

"Turns out my rescuer is a conscientious objector, only allowed to help with the wounded, not carry arms. I ask him his name, he say's Seth, Seth Tugenarian, of polish descent. He knows I'm a deserter, a coward, says he'll hide me, otherwise I'm for a firing squad. Why are you doing this? You'll be branded as a traitor. He says 'Shut up, and kiss me, hard on the lips.'" It's time for bed, I know how this story goes. I suggest this to Rambone, he agrees. Up the stairs, into bed. Take off those clothes, I need fucking tonight. We slip under covers, I let his hand form a tunnel into which I push my dick, let him finish the time worn story.

"First time for me. Feel a hand holding my cock, first time I got sucked. Came in his face, he wasn't disgusted. He just wanted to cuddle afterward. So we slept. In the morning he got me a dead man's uniform. Told me the name of the regiment I was supposed to belong to."

"Did he suck as good I do?" and proceeded to demonstrate. I talk a lot, I've been told I'm a big mouth; need it with Rambone.

"What to do? Couldn't go back to mine own, only grave-markers there. Here was life, a tomorrow. A cosmic dilemma, in microcosm; suck hard kid; no shilly-shallying tonight. So I helped, bringing in bodies, those alive, to the surgeon; those not, to the pit. Proved myself useful. Children, no older than I, bellies gunshot, limbs that needed amputating. The Gods must be laughing, to treat them as sport so, like school kids tearing wings off of flies."

"Tell me about him, the guy who saved you, what was he like?" I lay over Rambone, my thigh draped over his belly, let his balls nestle up to my butt, his hard dick, wedged in my ass-crack. My arms on his shoulders, my head resting in the crook of his neck.

"Seth? A man, just freed from boyhood. Like I said, he let me share his tent, his sleeping bag. He was very pink, that much I remember, his hair cropped short, brownish-blond. Skinny as a rake, long hands, long face, long everything."

"His cock?"

"Short, but thick."

"Did you fuck him?" Rambone doesn't like to talk about sex, like I do. Just likes to perform. It was time. Maybe he likes to fuck me just to shut me up. I talk to much. Through the window I could see the moon in a crimson bloodied sky. A soft amber cloud crept over it, blotting it from view.

"Time to sleep, Ethan," says Harvest, as I lick off the remainder of the ejaculation, the rest a burning glow in my bowels. We get up the next morning. I help him dress, proud of my big man. I tighten the two loops of his necktie, over his freshly starched linen white shirt, the peacock feather gambler's vest, the dark brown loose baggy pants, that he tucks into the top of his tall boots, the long black coat, the black wide brim hat with it's low crown, with its hatband made of the dressed skin of a diamond-back rattlesnake, he puts on himself.

The silver star shines, U.S Marshall; Rambone's ready for work. I'm wearing buckskin pants, made of ice-cream soft doe leather, worn tight round the butt, the fringe down the side. A pullover powder blue shirt, the flap buttoned, and a maroon bandanna round my neck, and a white hat, that Rambone bought me from Capwell's Emporium. He saddles up Hellion, the magnificent fiery-eyed Arab. We mount, today me in front, gripping the saddle-horn, as Rambone's arms wrap around me taking the reins.

"What's on for today?" He shows me the pictures. The Darcy Brothers have been seen out this way, wanted for rustlin, rapin' and the odd bit of pillage. Three brothers, Ike, Clancy and little George." We ride hard to town, I enjoy it, 'cause Rambone sits close.

We dismount outside the office, hitch Hellion to the post and breeze inside. Delivered under the door is a handscrawled note, after a little deciphering, it tells of a threat to Rambone's life. The Darcys will be here, round noon, and his life won't be worth a plugged nickel. I ask how bad are the Darcys? Real bad. But you can handle 'em Rambone, only three of 'em after all, you won't be needing me, I'll see you after breakfast. You want anything bringing back? Okay, seeya. I wasn't being mean like I must've sounded. I know what he's like when he's in this mood. Likes to brood, dwells on man and the futility of life. He'll get his guns, clean 'em with an oily rag. I'll be back. I check the ticking clock. S'only nine.

Three hours to go. I'm hungry, got an appetite, go over to Chinese Charlie's who does the best eggs in town. Three guys already eating, mi compadres. Al, the barber; Earl Weaver, teller for the Bank; Frank, relief stage driver. Tell 'em 'bout the Darcy Brothers, they got more to tell? Sure do, partner. Got it in for Rambone, apparently in rustling situation, he'd shot the father, brought him back alive, but shot by a guard as he mounted an escape. Blame Harvest, the three brothers.

Sworn to see his blood spilt, send his soul to perdition. Where's that, Montana? They don't laugh. They any good? I mean as shootists? Yeh, they shoot good, seems the consensus. Rambone'll have his work cut out today. Lift a finger to help? Didn't think so. They have families, responsibilities. Tell 'em, I understand. Eat my eggs, bacon strips, pay Charlie, say goodbye to Charlie, and go back to the office. Rambone's wiping down a long bore shotgun. When I first walked in, I thought he was masturbating.

"I want you take this, get up on the roof above the saloon, and cover me when the time comes."

"Me, your backup? Hell, you know what a lousy shot I am."

"Just want them to see you, know you're there, it's a precaution, that's all. Might forestall the stand-off."

"Heard you arrested their father, heard he died and they blame you."

"Ted Darcy was my best friend."

PART 3

It was ten thirty, by the ticking clock. Time enough for a short story I thought; was gonna get one anyway.

"After the war, moved to Texas, worked with cattle for a few years. Took to wearing a gun. Money wasn't good, punching cows, became a gunfighter briefly. Never killed nobody though, just disarmed 'em, sent their revolvers spinning out their hands, became known as a lightning draw. Someone gave me a badge, became a deputy. That's how I got into this line of work, been doing it for almost fifteen years. Met Ted, a rancher, he had a small farm, him and the young 'uns. Had a wife, Sarah. Then the Indians came. Lousy Apaches, one day Ted was away, kids at Aunt Jude's. Me and Ted went back found her gone. A ripped piece of gingham and a war arrow pierced it to the door frame. We hunted for her, high and low. Got word they'd been seen, off in the Bluffs, we hurried northward in pursuit. We rode all day, two days, we were tired, bedded down for the night. Close together. Too close. Both lonely. Maybe me more than him.

He seemed to sense it or was just ornery horny. Slipped his hand in, held my cock. I reciprocated." Takes him a while, like I said he doesn't like to talk about sex, well not graphically. So it's up to me to paint the picture. Ted, missing his wife, turns onto Harvest. The feel alone of that huge cock would've daunted a lesser man. But he takes it in his mouth, while Rambone relaxes, then gets tense, cums, donates a huge load, which Ted takes, swallowing the unsweetened honey, and insists on having the favor returned.

Rambone gets serious, tries a little experimental rimming, Ted likes it, likes it a lot. Maybe likes it too much, 'cause before either knows it, he's in the mare position being studded by horsecock, taking it all the way up his cherry-ripe ass. The body language is French, Greek with a little Arabic thrown in for good measure. The earth shakes a little, the world wobbles a tad out of orbit, the deed is done, there's no going back. Strength matched against strength, sinews are coiled, bone crunched against bone.

Ted bears down and is rewarded. And as day breaks, a new sun is born, they continue the quest. Wife is found, rescued from the natives, an exchange of wampum, a ritual burning of tepees, and the trio ride off in the sunset. Ted and Harvest do trips together, hunt outlaws, hunt deer, and fuck like Bison when inclination inclines. Which it does, more often than expected. Wife has no clue what's going on, Rambone becomes part of the family.

"Till that fateful day," Rambone continues, "when I had to arrest him. Couldn't do otherwise, he'd been observed stealing a cow, 'cause the family was hungry. I took him off, promised I'd speak up at the trial for him, till some triggerhappy son-of-bitch sent him to meet his Maker."

"But why does his kids, blame you?"

"Deprived of a father, that they dearly loved, turned bad, think that it should've been me taken away. Who understands grief?" A rhetorical question that I have no answer for. The clock ticks onto the appointed time. The sun is high. From the far end of the street, three men form a line and begin the approach. One lone man against them. Harvest Rambone, U.S. Marshall. Me up high on the roof, with a shotgun pointed down. The streets otherwise deserted, inhabitants lock themselves in, the brave ones peek out of windows. Ike Darcy, the eldest steps forward.

Clancy and Little George flank him holding shotguns. Rambone flaps his coat back, his claw-like hand hovers over the exposed handle of the Colt. Ike's eyes turn to flint, sees me high above with my barrel pointing at his nuts. If he beats Rambone to the draw, he knows I'll take his lights out. Either way he's dead he figgers, so screams and goes for his gun. Clancy levels his shotgun to Rambone's forehead, Little George takes aim for the heart. Three cracks of the pistol, and they fall, like chess pieces, taken from the board, lie dead in a flattened pyramid. Rambone clutches his shoulder, his gun still smoking, walks over to the corpses, kneels down and cries.

"You gottem, Rambone!" I whoop. I rush down the stairs, taking care not to trip, four at a time, run out to the street. Rambone lies face down, dead, in a pool of blood the size of Minnesota. A woman emerges from the shadows. She too is crying.

She screams at me, "Get the fuck out of here, whelp, before you join them!"

I run; haven't stopped running yet. Don't know when to stop.

written by davist

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