The child stood impassively by the open grave as his mother's coffin was lowered down into it. The priest read out the final prayers and shook holy water into the shaft. Few people had bothered to turn up for the committal of Colette Kortovsky to the ground. The last words had hardly been uttered and the handfuls of sods thrown in by the boy and his father when the gravediggers began to heap shovelfuls of soil on top of the coffin. Each heavy thud caused the boy to blink as if he had been hit. It was the only sign of movement or emotion that he made.

Raising his pale green eyes up to a cross held by an attending altar boy, he stared with an almost malevolent look. The boy was an attractive child, tall and sturdy, with thick dark blonde hair and beginning to exchange the prettiness of boyhood for the leaner gawkiness of youth. Most people regarded him as a well brought up child, polite and shy, close to his mother and a dutiful son. They were right but they were also wrong. Joshua Kortovsky was no shy Mama's boy. As he raised his eyes to Christ hanging on the cross, those honest folk might have been surprised at the notions passing through his mind. The boy cursed God and all the saints for what had happened to his mother and heaped profanities on his father and the lot his failure had brought down upon them.

Colette Debarre was a governess to a family of some distinction who had a fine estate some miles outside Mississippi. She had been born in France and brought to America as a young girl by her aunt and uncle after her parents had died. In Lyons she had attended a convent school, could read and write well, knew her scriptures and some history and, was tolerably well versed in Geography and Mathematics. Since she was small she had been given piano lessons and had a sweet singing voice. It was not surprising that her services as a governess were eagerly sought. Young, pretty, genteel and bright as well as able to instruct her charges in French and Music, Mademoiselle Debarre was an ideal teacher and companion for the children of the wealthy Travers family.

The life of a governess is a half-life. One is not quite a servant and not quite a member of the family. For an educated lady, it is a frustrating and lonely career- one eats at elegant tables and socialises with people of note and refinement but everyone is well aware of your place in the scheme of things.

Colette was regularly courted by young men who visited the soirees and the dinner parties held at Utopia, the elegant house of the Travers family, but she knew the importance of propriety. These young men knew pretty words but they wanted only one thing from a woman of her lowly station. A governess was easy prey and she would not allow herself to make that mistake.

The alternative was loneliness. At twenty, when she should have been enjoying fun and laughter with her peers, Colette spent her days attending to the needs of the children of others and her nights in her attic room, reading by candlelight. Many times she sat by the window, plaiting her long chestnut hair and dreamed of heroes and princes, deeds of chivalry and a handsome knight to rescue her from the drudgery of her life. She saw how the years would pass her by and how she would be left, an aging spinster, dried up and bitter, still wasting her life in the service of others.

One day, however, things changed for Mademoiselle Debarre. The handsome prince entered her solitary prison. It was Miss Ellie's twelfth birthday and the family had promised her a trip down the Mississippi river. Excitement and merriment abounded as they left their carriage on the quayside and embarked on the majestic boat, shining white, its big wheel turning, paintwork and trimmings gleaming with rich reds and gold. Standing on the upper deck, leaning on the rail as the horn sounded and the boat began to glide from its moorings, Colette breathed in the strong river smells and wished for freedom.

She wished that she could just keep on sailing far away until she reached another place where her life might have a chance to grow and blossom not whither and die in the shadow of other people's suns. That was the moment when fate dealt her a hand. Was it good or bad? Who can say? She met her prince. She made her journey. But does real life ever promise a golden future and a happy ending? Would she rather have stayed a governess all her life?

"Good afternoon, Ma'am. My name is Petr Kortovsky. I would be obliged if you would take tea with me on the lower deck."

Petr Kortovsky was Russian. He was a musician of some skill who was working on the riverboat, playing the violin in a palm court orchestra that entertained in the dining room. Petr was a dreamer. Despite his musical talent, he longed for adventure and challenge, believing that America was the place for a man like him to make his fortune. He planned to go West and claim some land, build a farm or ranch and become an outdoors man, a man of property who would help to open up this young country of opportunity. He was a charming fellow, well spoken and intelligent, tall and handsome, strong and able. People always took to him: women flashed their eyes and men slapped him on the back and bought him drinks. It was easy to see him as the embodiment of the new America: young, eager and bold.

This is the man Colette saw and her heart was lost. She fell for her golden-haired, blue- eyed prince, a handsome bear of a man, and he was captivated by her sophisticated Gallic elegance. Two nights later, they stole from the riverboat and caught a train. Together they would build a life and make a fortune.

Some years down the line, reality bit hard. The couple found themselves in Arizona, penniless and threadbare, one after another deal and opportunity failing beneath them. Colette took a job as a schoolteacher, Petr as a clerk in a bank; they found a room and started yet again. Fate stepped in. That month, she didn't bleed. A baby was on the way. They had tried hard to avoid this but it was inevitable that Petr's lustiness would one day cause her to conceive.

It was a difficult pregnancy and Colette had to give up her job. Then Petr was told the small branch of his bank was closing down and his position was lost. Desperation was setting in; Colette was sickly and money was needed for doctor's bills and medicines- he took any odd jobs that he could but still they never had enough. The one room became oppressive, they often argued and he took his frustrations out on his wife, occasionally raising his hand to her. After such occasions, Petr would be ashamed, beg her forgiveness and drown his sorrow in a bottle. More and more he turned to this answer to his problems.

One cold winter's day, after a long two-day labour, Colette delivered her baby boy. The midwife had given up hope for both of them but the child was strong and the mother determined to hang on- and, by some miracle she did. The large baby did much damage to his mother and it was most unlikely she would ever conceive again. In fact, she never really recovered from the birth and remained in poor health for the rest of her life.

But she loved her boy. Colette would sacrifice all the little she possessed for that child. She went without food to put it in his mouth; her fingers were never still from sewing decent clothes for him to wear. She spent hours teaching him to read and write and speak well - for they might be poor but she was determined that he would grow into a respectable man. She could never accept that her life had be the opposite of the American dream - from bourgeoisie to dirt poor, a pitiful irony. She would not have her son grow up as an illiterate cowboy.

"Why am I called Joshua, Mama?" He would ask her although he knew the answer well enough.

"Joshua is another name for Jesus. God's chosen one. Like I chose you from all the other little boys in heaven, mon petit," she would whisper as they lay together in the bed trying to keep warm while Colette told him stories from the parables or the fairy tales that she had devoured in her girlhood.

He would lie safe in his mother's arms and imagine the tales of brave men and beautiful ladies, of fighting for a noble cause or of doing good so that it could be done unto you. His pale eyes would flare with passion and his expressive face would light up. Then the door would scrape open and his father would return, stinking of cheap whisky. Colette would leap from the bed and return her son to the little pile of blankets on the floor where he had to sleep, kiss him quickly and then placate her husband. Joshua would close his eyes tight and stick his fingers in his ears as he heard the animal- like grunts his father made from the bed. He had no idea what was happening and wondered why his mother was so quiet.

As the boy grew up, his mother's health continued to fail until she was all but bed-bound. Life changed for young Joshua. With little money coming in, he wandered round the streets doing odd jobs for local people who did not really need his help but saw the child's plight. With the few cents he earned and the gifts of food from sympathetic folk, he helped to feed himself and his mother. He tended to her, feeding her and changing her, washing her and even helping her to relieve herself and clean her bloody issue every month. He was eight years old but had more responsibilities than many men.

Colette wept at the torment of her life and begged her husband to do something for his son, but the fire had long burnt out of Petr and he would ignore her, slumped in a chair with no interest in life. When he worked, it was playing tunes on a piano at the saloon and then drinking or gambling most of what he earned away.

That final winter, a bad fever carried her off, helped by her will to live finally giving out. As she breathed her last rattling breaths, she stared into the steady eyes of her son who held her hands and never left her side throughout her final hours. It was his ninth birthday. His father found them that night, the mother long cold and the child asleep, curled up by her side.

Walking by his father's side, Joshua Kortovsky, bowed his head and avoided the pity of onlookers. Back at their room, he sat quietly on the floor while his father cried and drank himself to oblivion. Then he moved. Taking a cloth bag, he threw in it a change of clothes and a few bits of food that were left, wrapping them in rags. He found the tin box where money was kept and emptied it of the few cents lying there. Finally, he eased open his father's jacket, searched the pockets for any coins and stole the knife that Petr always carried in his belt.

With these assembled, his sole possessions in life, he hoisted the bag on his shoulder and turned to the door. Then he stopped. Returning to the bed in which his mother had died, he searched beneath the mattress and found the gold wedding ring. They had handed it to him when they had stripped her body for burial and he had hidden it there so that his father would not sell it. Slipping that into his pocket, he let himself out of the room and stepped out into the night.

"Hey, boy! Git! You hear me, git!" The man kicked out brutally at the boy curled up in the doorway. The youth, little more than a bundle of rags, woke up with a start and rubbed his eyes.

"Can't you read, boy?" The man asked with a sneer, pointing at a sign on the back gate.  'No trespassers.'

"I can read," the boy answered truculently.

"What does it say then?"

"I ain't trespassing. I ain't past the door. Street outside don't belong to nobody," the boy retorted.

The man pulled off his hat and wiped his forehead, laughing. "Well, ain't you the Philadelphia lawyer! What's your name, boy?"

The boy rubbed his sore haunches where he had been kicked, and stared suspiciously at the man.

"What's yours?"

The man laughed again and lit up a cigar. "My name's Herod, John Herod.  I am the sheriff of this town. I own this building. The fact is I own most of the people round here. Not many would answer me back like you just did. You're either very dumb or very smart.  I wonder which it is? What's your name, boy?"

"Cort."

"Cort what?"

"Just Cort. Nothin' else." He had never told his real name to anyone and swore he never would. No one would ever call him Joshua Kortovsky again.

"You lookin' for a job, boy?" Herod asked, suddenly interested in this bag of bones who had faced him up so boldly despite the fact that Herod, from his dress, was clearly a man of means and was also carrying a pair of shooters and wearing a marshal's badge.

"Don't need nuthin'," the child answered sullenly.

"Well, pardon me, son, but I thought you were wearing those rags out of necessity not choice. I must be mistaken."

He turned a key in the lock and the boy hesitated. "Didn't say I weren't lookin' for a job."

"Trouble is, son, I insist my employees dress in decent clothes, bathe and cut their hair.  Get yourself cleaned up and come back, and I'll see what I can do."

The boy's chin raised defiantly but Herod saw the disappointment of thwarted hope in his eyes. He read the hunger - and his interest in the child increased. There was something strangely compelling about this boy.

Herod looked at him, a thoughtful expression clouding his mean features. Taking a coin from his pocket, more whim that purpose in his action, he flicked it at the boy who caught it in a fast snatch. Cort's eyes widened at the sight of a silver dollar.

"Come back when you are decent. Then we'll talk. No promises, mind."

The boy nodded and ran towards the main street. One of Herod's posse, a weathered gunman with solid ice for blood shook his head and spat tobacco juice on the ground.

"Last you'll see of that dollar, Herod."

"You think so, Caleb? That ignorant assumption demonstrates why you are just a gun for hire and I am a man of substance. I lay any odds you like that the boy will be back and ...that one day he will kill you." Herod smiled- a rictus that never reached past his lips - no other facial muscle appeared to be aware of it.

Around a table in the Pigeon's Nest saloon, Herod was drinking and winning a hand of poker; he never lost at cards. Just then a shadow fell across the table. He looked up. At his side stood a teenage boy, handsome and strong, dressed in a checked shirt, cord breeches and a pair of brand new boots. His hair was longish but tamed.

He bit on his cigar. "Who are you, son?"

"I am Cort. Here's your change, sir." The boy handed a paltry few cents. Herod turned to Caleb Jones with a sneer. Jones grunted and threw across a silver dollar.

"And the rest..."

With a grimace, he eased one of his Smith and Wesson Silver Eagles from his holster and placed it on the table before Herod. Herod picked it up and looked it over lovingly. Then he thrust it into the boy's hand. "You can't ride with me unless you own a gun. See if that change can buy you a belt. You need something to hold those pants up on your skinny butt. Now get going. Be at my office in the morning."

Jones glared at the disappearing gun, now cradled in the young boy's hands. Cort seemed to be in shock, staring at the beautiful object and stroking it as if it were a little kitten. Staring at Herod, he blinked a few times rapidly but said nothing, turning on his heel and running for the anonymous darkness of the street outside.

Climbing over a stall in the livery stables when the blacksmith had turned his back to deal with a late customer, he buried himself in the warmth of the straw and dared to look upon his precious cargo. He had never had a gift in as long as he could remember. And one such as this! Cort hid it in his shirt and rolled himself in a ball. He fell asleep dreaming of belonging and having a father who was someone to be proud of; a man like John Herod.

Cort became one of Herod's creatures. He was employed as a gopher, running errands, messages, fetching and carrying and simply being on call at Herod's fancy. Not that the boy seemed to mind. For the pittance he was paid, his food and a pallet in one of the empty cells of the jailhouse, Cort attended Sheriff John Herod as if he was his lapdog. The boy was not given to speaking much unless spoken to but seemed to prefer to observe. Herod's cronies thought he was a simpleton and made fun of him behind their boss's back but Herod knew differently. The child was watching and learning. It gave him the first touch of pride he had ever felt.

Every cent he earned, the boy saved, only spending money on the bullets he used when he went out into the wilds and practised with the precious gun that he tended to as if it were a pet. He oiled and cleaned it daily and slept with it under his blanket; it was the only thing in life he seemed to care about. Cort had no idea whether he was good with his gun but he practised until he could whip it out at speed and fire at a target from his hip as he saw men do on the streets of Redemption. Sometimes he watched gunfights and felt sure that he was faster than these men but he reckoned that was just a foolish notion, one that he would not have dared to put to the test.

Months passed and Cort observed the behaviour of Herod and his associates. They ran the town and laid down a peculiar kind of law that Cort, as young as he was, found confusing. It seemed to be the opposite of all he had seen elsewhere. Here the strong were king, the weak were nothing at best, victims if they raised their heads or got in anybody's way. Wild guns came to town and threw their weight around but Herod or one of his mob dealt out summary justice. Cort never knew a night when he was accompanied in the cells. Herod took no prisoners- you conformed or died in the muddy street, goaded into a draw, which you could only lose.

He thought about it long and hard. Everything his mother had taught him said that Herod was a bad man but he was kind to him and had given him more than his own father. The town was run well - there was no lawlessness outside Herod and his men. More importantly, Cort saw the way that money seemed to fall on Herod's table. So simple. He wanted some of that. He did not want to be like his father or a pauper ever again. He would never beg and rely on the pity of good Christian people who would give him a meagre crust and a lecture on being grateful to the good Lord but wouldn't help his father to a decent job or his mother pay for her medicines. Damn the virtuous and the do- gooders of this world their mealy-mouthed charity. He would take what he wanted and thumb his nose at them all.

"Cort? Go down to the General Mercantile. They have a parcel for me. Mrs Herod has sent for some French petticoats. I am in for a good time!" Herod was in an expansive mood this morning.

Herod's wife, Kitty, had been an actress who claimed to have performed in Vaudeville in San Francisco. She was young and beautiful and she made Cort feel embarrassed although he was not sure why. It was something about the way she looked at him as if she knew something about him that he did not. He used to glance at her when she was unawares and compare her to other women that he had seen. She was like a different species altogether.

Kitty Herod had long blonde ringlets, which she preferred to let loose rather than tie up chastely as most women did. She was small and curvaceous with a swelling bosom and a tiny waist, which she accentuated with the tight corsetry and the figure hugging Parisian fashions that she wore. Her baby blue eyes looked constantly amazed and her pouting lips seemed to hold promises of things that Cort did not understand.

He knew something of what passed between men and women, had picked up the vague idea of what he must one day do, but the whole idea seemed distasteful and unlikely to him and he was not sure what happened when you did. His distant memory of his mother had taught him what was underneath a woman's clothes but that thought made him disinclined to venture there. And yet, one glance from Kitty Herod and he felt sensations in parts of him that shamed him and he could not help but return there at night and give himself ease with his wistful yearnings still unanswered. He was fifteen years old and physically well developed. It was time to become a man.

Running out of the sheriff's office with the thought of petticoats lingering on his mind, Cort made his way to the store. There were a few people waiting to be served, women of the town buying cloth or ribbons or some such things. Cort stood back and waited, flicking through some picture books that were on a display. He longed to read a real book; he wondered if he could still sound out correctly as he had once done.

"I've read that story. It's real sad," a voice near him remarked. He imagined it was speaking to someone else. "You deaf?"

Cort looked up and saw a young girl looking at him. She was about his age he reckoned, with chestnut hair tied up in a big blue bow. Her face was freckled and her eyes were lively and a deep shade of cornflower blue. It was a face that intrigued him at first glance, bright and clear, clean and intelligent.

He gulped unsure what to say. "You dumb as well?" She laughed, but not unkindly.

"No...Miss," he stuttered out an answer.

"I just said I'd that read that book. It's a sad story. Are you going to buy it?"

He shook his head. "Just lookin'."

"Oh. My name's Clara McDougall. My father owns a ranch near here. We are just in town to do some shopping. What's your name?"

"Cort."

"Cort? Cort what?" Clara asked.

"Just Cort."

"That's a funny name."

"So's yours," he bit back, on the defensive immediately.

"Sorry! You're a bit touchy, aren't you?"

He dropped his head. "I just don't like people makin' fun of me."

"I wasn't. Honestly. I wasn't."

"Clara? Clara? Where are you?" A large buxom woman rounded the shelf and her face dropped when she saw the two of them. "Who are you?" She snapped at Cort.

He shrugged. 

"Just get your filthy eyes off my Clara. She's a decent girl. Not fit to be in the same room as the likes of you. I'm warning you, son..."

"Warning me what, you fat old bitch? Like I'm scared o' you?" Cort retorted and stared her in the face. The shopkeeper, Frank Casey, came up and whispered something in Mamie McDougall's ear. She whitened and backed away.

"Clara, come here now. Time we was off." And she bundled her daughter out of the door. Clara looked back at Cort and he glared. She giggled and his mouth fell open. Clara McDougall seemed impressed.

"OK, son, what can I do for you?" Frank Casey addressed him with a firm but determined voice.

"Mr. Herod wants his wife's petticoats." The storekeeper called to Mrs. Casey who retrieved the bundle and handed them over. Cort nodded and left. Walking over to the office, he noticed Clara, her mother and another older man, presumably her father, with a few young men who looked like cowboys. They were keeping an eye on him and Mrs. McDougall was obviously filling them in. Cort squared his shoulders and strolled up the street, walking that rolling gait he'd seen the gunslingers do, the walk that said 'look at me, I can take any man here. I ain't afraid o' nothing.' He saw Clara's face and her slight blush as she watched him and he felt proud. He wasn't sure why.

Late one afternoon with nothing better to do, Cort slipped out of town and made his way out on the plains  where he could shoot some targets and think. He had found himself restless of late and it was hard to keep his mind on things. More and more he had taken to daydreaming, imagining stuff, something he had never been inclined to do since he'd been a little boy and his Ma had told him stupid stories with stupid happy endings like never happened in the real world.

Sometimes he thought about that little girl he'd met that day, Clara something or other, the one with the fat, ugly mother. She sort of fascinated him although she was a stupid girl, didn't know shit about nothing 'cept dolls and ribbons and storybooks. But he kept thinking about how silky her hair had looked, shiny and sweet smelling, and he'd noticed her little ankles in their dainty boots and when she'd turned round, her ...she had little titties like tiny swelling mounds...and the thought of them, of touching them...made him feel kinda strange, made his dick hard.

He kicked at an anthill and watched the thousands of insects scurry out and head for safety. They made him think of all the 'nice' people in the world who were busy building their nests and making their stupid lives. Like Clara's folks, nice people who looked on him like he was dirt.  'You're not fit to be in the same room as my girl.' Cort reckoned they were God-fearing people who slapped each other on the back and listened to the Holy Book- and then spat on kids like him and called him dirt. Yeah, real nice people. He felt like stamping on them like he'd stamped on the anthill; destroying their world so they knew what it felt like.

Lining up a tin can he'd picked up in the town, Cort stepped back and turned to walk away. He imagined he was in a main street and some shooter had pulled a gun on him, like he'd seen happen dozens of times. He thought about the sound of a gun sliding from its leather. You listen for it, you can hear that creak and he spun round, drew and shot that can right between the eyes. It felt good. He reckoned killing a real man would feel even better.

His mind began to drift again as he strolled back to fix another target, a piece of wood that he wedged against a large flat stone. He thought about Mrs Herod. She was a nice lady, always asking him to do things for her and then making him have a glass of cold milk and a biscuit or an apple. But she didn't talk to him like a kid. She sort of smiled at him and shook her hair in a way that made him lose track of what she was saying and notice things like her lips or her eyes or her large breasts. He knew it was wrong to look at another man's wife but he couldn't help it...she made him feel so dirty, like she knew how he touched himself or what a man wanted to do to her. Cort shook his head angrily and backed away from the log. He closed his eyes and thought about a gunfighter calling him out, the street emptying, people peering through curtains or from the shelter of doorways.

He let his breath steady, slow down, felt the blood pulse slowly through his body as he saw, in his mind's eye, the man standing, hands hovering by his belt and then that flicker of muscle in his face just before he went for his gun- Cort knew you always saw it, when the brain said 'go' and he drew and....

"Do that again."

Cort spun round. Behind him sat John Herod leaning on the horn of his saddle. His face betrayed nothing.

"I said do that again."

Cort went to find another target. Herod threw his hat at him. "Use this."

He placed it on a rock and paced back, sweating now, nervous to be caught out in his make believe world. Closing his eyes, calming himself, he placed his feet firmly and went for his gun. The hat rose up with a hole clean through.

Herod reached back, took a rifle and threw it at Cort. "Learn how to use this." And he turned the horse's head and headed back towards town.

As he rode he mused on what he had seen. The kid was fast, as fast as he'd ever seen. It made him sweat - an instinct that he had sensed from the moment that he had first seen the boy. But now there was another sensation in the mix: fear - the sweet tingle of fear. This kid was the only man he had to fear. Sweet Jesus - he would keep him near and watch him close. But one day, he reckoned he'd have to kill him.

Cort rode behind the group of men, taking his place at the rear, unwilling to be up there with the men who either ignored him or taunted him in crude speech that he did not always understand. This was the first time he had been allowed to ride on one of Herod's little matters. He was still unsure exactly what it was they were about to do. Despite his unease, he felt a rising sense of expectation. This was what he wanted most - to be accepted in this brotherhood of men who took what they wanted and let no man bring them down. Cort dreamed of one day being a leader like Herod with his own town and a posse of his own.

That night they camped under the stars near a shallow creek and ate a mess of beans cooked in a pot and wrapped in tortillas. Cort took his food and sat a little apart, listening to the rowdy chatter, the profanities, the coarse talk and the soft voice of Sanchez singing some Mexicana ballad as the liquor was passed round. He wandered off after awhile to relieve himself and then sat looking out over the arid landscape, watching the moon hang low over the horizon. He felt a sense of isolation even though he could hear the sound of men not far away in the distance.

His thoughts began to drift like the deep purple clouds in the lowering sky, aimless and far ranging. He imagined being touched, thought of his mother and her arms about him and then realised that no one had laid kindly hands on him in six long years. The image of Clara suddenly beckoned and he wondered what her hands would feel like on his face, around his neck, her lips pressed against his mouth...the image became confused....then she was Mrs. Herod, handing him a glass, brushing against him, letting her curls tickle his face as she sat him down at the table and insisted that he eat. Once she had asked him if he could button up the back of her dress; he still remembered how his fingers had fumbled when he had seen the flash of naked flesh just below the nape of her neck.

His hand instinctively reached for himself and the touch his body cried out for was replaced by his own familiar hand. His eyes flickered as he pleasured himself unaware that he was doing it, this natural response to loneliness and his awakening sexuality.

A hand around his neck jolted him to his senses. "You dirty little boy," the voice hissed in his ear. He could smell sweat and sour breath tinged with whisky. It nauseated him. "Don't you know that is evil, boy? Touching yourself is evil?" Cort struggled to free himself but the man's hand was strong, had a firm hold and then he felt the knife placed against his throat.

Swallowing hard, he tried to think clearly but it was hard; shame was dominating his feelings. Then his eyes widened as he realised what his unseen assailant intended. With the knife against his throat, the man dropped his left hand and grabbed Cort's exposed cock, jerking it firmly with a low throaty growl. Leaning his weight against Cort, knocking him off balance until he fell onto his hands, the man yanked down his pants and began to touch his naked buttocks.

"Yeah, Cort...you got a sweet little ass. I'm gonna fuck your ass, boy. You will beg me to stop but, you know what? You'll still spit that seed all over my hand...they always do...they jist can't stop themselves..."

With a horror that almost numbed him, Cort felt a hard cock rub against him and his stomach heaved. At first he froze like a small rabbit trapped by a mountain lion stands and accepts the fate to come. And then he closed his eyes, breathed deeply and rammed his elbows back into the man's gut just as he made his first thrust. With a dive, Cort jammed the hand that still held the knife against the rock and dragged the weapon from his grip. In a lightening movement he picked it up and plunged it in the man's throat. Only then did he realise who it was - Caleb Jones, Herod's gun. Cort had never known just how long the man had waited to get his revenge for the bet he had once lost nor did he know how his action proved Herod's earlier prediction had been correct.

Staggering away, pulling up his pants and falling on his knees to vomit, Cort stared at the dead body, its sightless eyes fixed on the heavens and his naked loins still sporting the erection that had caused his death. Lurching towards the camp he walked towards the fire, his hand clutching the bloody knife.

The men fell silent one by one at the boy's shocked and whitened face. Herod stood up and came over to him.

"I killed Caleb," the boy intoned.

"Why?" Herod asked him just one word.

Cort looked up at Herod and his eyes suddenly changed from shocked incomprehension to startling intensity.

"He touched me."

Herod nodded to a few men to go and take a look. They returned and one whispered something in his ear. The sheriff smiled - it almost reached his eyes this time. It was a smile of triumph.

"Your first kill. Now, don't that feel sweet, boy? Almost better than your first girl. You are nearly a man," his voice was a chilling imitation of a laugh. Herod recognised the moment and his pride in this singular boy increased. Why, he almost felt like he was his own son and he had made his real Daddy proud. Passing Cort a silver flask, he motioned for him to drink. The boy swigged and choked as the fiery liquid ran through him and warmed his bones. He had made Herod pleased by killing a man. Maybe it did feel good after all.

Caleb's body was left for the dogs, his clothes and possessions gambled for. No one seemed to give a damn. A few men approached Cort, slapped him on the back, told him he was a good kid and that was the way men dealt with perverts like Jones. The boy wondered at his newfound status. He was one of them because he had been blooded and because he had beaten a much-feared opponent whom few of them would have dared to oppose. He received the twin gun to his match his first as a mark of respect and as a trophy from the man he had killed. The next day he rode in the midst of the pack.

The 'little matter' they had embarked on was a raid on a ranch near the border. The owner, one Thaddeus Coombe, had refused Herod's offer of protection from bandits, believing that he would rather take his chances than pay a man scarce better than a criminal himself. They spent the next day poisoning and killing cattle, throwing carcasses in water holes, cutting fences and setting fire to tracts of lands. It felt like a game to Cort, like kids might play but on a grander scale and without any fear of reprisal. He aimed his rifle and picked off cattle, whooping when he brought them down and riding at speed, pulling dead animals behind him. It made his blood pound in his veins and empowered him. No one could touch him again, not unless he wanted it.

They returned to Redemption the next night, rode into town at a gallop, still with their blood up from the unrestrained thuggery of their actions. The men wanted two things - whisky and a woman. Cort was dragged into the saloon along with the others and handed a shot, which he downed in one. It made him gag and he felt his knees loosen but he took another and another. He was a man now. This is what men did.

The group settled down round a table and pulled girls away from other clients- no one was about to argue with Herod's men. Herod himself sat on a table, aloof and smoking quietly while watching them. Motioning to a woman sitting on a man's knee across the room, he indicated that he wished her to join him. Loralee did as she was told, slipping on to Herod's knee while he fondled her half bared breasts.

"Loralee, I have a job for you. A sweet little task. See my boy over there?" Herod pointed out Cort, slumped in his chair and laughing at the behaviour of Coby Dees who was sticking his hand up his girl's dress and hollering crudities. "I want you to make him a man."

The young woman smiled, relieved that she was not Herod's plaything for the night; his requirements were distasteful even to a well-seasoned whore like her. "Sure thing, Mr. Herod. I'll do him good." Herod thrust a note into her bosom.

Cort felt his head whirling and then the girl settled on his lap. She bent to kiss him and he thought he tasted Clara. In the background he vaguely heard the jeers and crude encouragement of his 'friends' but it did not register on his brain.  All he was aware of was the feel of her kiss, the burning heat in his loins and her hands slipping down his back.

"Come on sweet boy, let's go upstairs and have us some real fun," she whispered in his ear. Loralee pulled him to his feet and he followed her, trying to keep his feet steady as he lurched along, his head spinning and lights dancing before his eyes. He saw the faces of men and women whirl past him and doors opening and closing revealing half glimpsed sights of unimagined acts. Loralee opened a door and pushed him in; he staggered to a bed and fell upon it.

The next thing he knew it was morning. Cort opened his eyes and felt the blinding pain in his brain. He moved his head; it jarred and seemed as if it would burst in two. As he lay there, his eyes began to adjust to the unaccustomed surroundings. He was lying naked in an unknown bed.

Groaning slightly, he turned to his right and saw a woman slumped beside him. She was wearing a petticoat and snoring loudly. The morning sun shining on her face showed her in an unkind light - rouge smeared, a dribble of saliva running down from her mouth, her pocked mark cheeks rough and red. He jumped back slightly with shock and his motion disturbed the sleeping form.

Loralee smiled and moved across to plunge her hand beneath the covers. Cort jerked away with shock and fell out of bed. Loralee giggled.

"You scared of me, boy? Ain't nothing to be afraid of. Sweet Lord, I seen your dick when I took your pants off last night and I can assure you, you will please any lady. How old are you, darlin?"

"Fifteen, ma'am." Cort muttered and covered himself with his hands.

"Fifteen? You're bigger than most grown men. Lord, what will you be like in a few years' time?" She threw her head back and chortled. "Come back to bed. Let's fuck, darlin'."

Cort stood up, his hands still clutching his groin. His head was sore, he felt like throwing up and he wanted to piss real bad. "Last night....what happened?" he gasped, realising that he had no memory of what he had done.

Loralee smiled. "You fell asleep. I couldn't wake you. The whisky got you, boy. You're still a virgin, sweetness. But we can put that right now...just come back to bed and I'll let you stick in it..."

Cort picked up his pants and thrust his legs in. He put on his shirt and found his boots. Standing up, he belted on his guns.

"Honey...what's the matter?" Loralee jumped off the bed and tried to put her arms about his neck.

"Nothin'. I ain't in the mood." He pushed her off and turned to go.

"Darlin', please! He'll beat me if I don't do you." Cort heard the edge of desperation in her voice.

"Who will?" Cort's head snapped back at her words.

"Mr. Herod. He paid me to take your cherry."

Cort's eyes widened and then his chin jerked up. "Tell him you took it then." And he strode over to the door and wrenched it open.

"Boy, you promise you won't tell him?" Loralee's voice was cold with fear.

Cort looked back and his expression shut her up. He slammed the door on the way out. 

Cort took his horse, saddled up and road out of town at speed. The feel of the wind in his face and the majesty of the wilderness helped to cool the burning feeling inside him. He didn't know what was wrong with him. Part of him felt angry, so angry that he had been made a fool of by Herod and by that whore...how many people had known about Herod's little game apart from them? But another part of him felt aroused, angry with himself that he hadn't just had her and be done with it. He also felt sick and his head hurt real bad.

He wandered aimlessly, crossing boundaries and even a fence that was in need of repair.  Nearing a river that was pretty dried up at this time of year but still had a thin stream running through the wide bed, Cort reined in his horse and threw himself into the water, plunging his head underneath to try and clear the pounding in his brain. He drank gulps of water from his cupped hands and began to feel a little calmer. And then he staggered out, laid back on a rock and fell asleep...

"Cort, is that you?"

He woke with a jerk and found himself looking up at Clara McDougall.  He must have been asleep for hours; the sun was way overhead. The young girl was crouched by his side and smiling down at him. "What you doing on my Daddy's land?"

Cort sat up and looked about him. "This your ranch? I didn't know. I just needed water."

Clara pointed ahead. "Our house is just over that rise. I came here to pick some stones for my rock garden. My Daddy will tan your hide if he sees you here. He reckons you are scum. He says that about everyone who works for the Sheriff."

Cort sneered. "Herod's the law. What's wrong with being a lawman?"

Clara shrugged and sat down by him. "My Daddy says he's not a real sheriff. He's an outlaw and a no-good criminal who killed the real sheriff and took his job so's he could take over Redemption. Everyone thinks so but they're too afraid of him to do anything to stop him."

Cort laughed. "Herod's not afraid of anyone. Your Daddy's just a gutless fool."

"I don't know. You don't seem dangerous to me. You just seem like a stupid boy."

"Who you calling stupid? I'm not stupid. No more than you anyways." 

"Oh yeah? Bet you can't even read." Clara giggled.

"I can read real good," Cort replied.

"You been to school and all?" Clara seemed amazed.

"Course not. I don't need no school. School's for little kids."

"How d'you learn to read then?" Clara teased.

"Didn't learn. Just knew," Cort replied with a smart-assed face.

"You are telling lies, boy. I bet you can't read."

"Bet I can."

"OK. Come back tomorrow and I'll bring a book. Then you can prove it. Bet you don't come."

"Bet I do."

Clara knelt up and brushed her dress down. He suddenly noticed how it hung about her slender body. The small swelling buds of her young breasts so near his face made him sweat. "I'm goin' home. See you tomorrow- if you dare!" Clara pulled out her tongue and ran off. Cort threw himself back down on the ground. He suddenly decided he couldn't stand women.

Cort was there the next afternoon when Clara came running up the slope, a book tucked underneath her arm.

"You came!"

"Said I would."

Clara sat down and he joined her on a rock. She opened the book and handed it to him indicating a page. "Go on...start reading..."

He looked at the page. It was a fancy book with writing on one side and an elegant engraving on the other. The title of the story was in a strange kind of writing which he found difficult to make out so he simply started on the text.

"Once upon a time there lived a princess....what kind of shit is this?" Cort asked.

Clara gasped. "Don't you cuss at me! It's a fairy tale about a princess who fell asleep for a hundred years...go on, read it."

"Her name was Ros-a-mund and she was the most beautiful girl in the king- dom. What's a kingdom?"

"A country ruled by a king. Don't you know nothing?"

"I know more than you. Like I know how to shoot this gun and hit any target you like."

Clara bit her lip, curious to put his claim to the test. "See that tree stump over there? Bet you can't hit that dead on."

Cort aimed and fired. Clara ran over and saw the bullet hole. "Golly gee...you really hit it! That's good shooting, Cort."

"I know it is. I'm the best. I can take anyone."

Clara's eyes widened. "Are you a gun fighter?"

"Sure I am." 

"You ever killed anyone?" Clara asked in a whisper.

Cort raised his jaw and sauntered back to where she was sitting. "Yep."

"Really killed someone?" She gasped.

"You either kill 'em, honey, or you are dead," boasted Cort.

Clara closed her mouth and gazed up at him. Her manner had changed; she suddenly seemed shy. Cort sat down on the ground beside her and began picking up stones and throwing them idly into the stream.

"Cort, I don't think you're stupid. I just said that because...you know...." Clara began hesitantly.

"Know what?' he asked sharply.

She reddened and began to play with some wild flowers that were growing from a cleft in the rock on which she was sitting. "You know... 'cos... 'cos I like you, Cort. Do you like me?"

Cort turned to look at her, a little unsure of what she meant. "Like you? What do you mean?"

"You know...like a sweetheart. Do you want to be my beau, Cort? Is that why you came back today?" Clara asked hopefully. He had been on her mind for weeks and she wasn't going to waste this chance.

Cort frowned. "I don't know. What's a beau supposed to do, then?" He threw another stone and skimmed it off the water.

Clara giggled. "A beau kisses his sweetheart on the lips. My brother has a sweetheart. I saw them do it."

"You want me to kiss you?" Suddenly Cort felt a little hot and his voice became rough and cracked.

"If you like..." Clara replied, feigning modesty.

Cort thought about it for a moment and then turned and brought his face close to Clara's. He could see the freckles on her nose and the strand of hair that lay across her cheeks. He brushed the curl aside and touched her soft warm skin. He heard her purr slightly and her lips move closer to his. He closed his eyes and puckered his lips; their teeth clanked and they both pulled back and looked embarrassed. Cort cleared his throat, Clara looked away.

"I think we should try it again. Slower," Clara whispered. She turned back and slipped her arms around his neck and he pulled her close. She felt so tiny and soft, so fragile and sweet...he tilted his head and touched her lips with his own; she sighed. Encouraged, he began to play with her lips, sucking gently on the top, feeling her open her mouth and, on a whim, he snaked in his tongue to taste her sweet tongue. She jerked back a little but must have enjoyed the sensation for she responded with her own and they came together in a deep kiss, his body pressed against her and his hands smoothing down her back.

Cort felt the surge of heat and the hardness of his dick; he hoped she couldn't feel it and he moved his legs slightly to make space between them. Breaking the kiss at last when they needed air, they looked at each other with amazement. Passions had been unleashed in both their breasts. Clara's head was spinning from the touch and feel of this boy. A strange sensation of lassitude crept through her and her limbs felt loose and free. There was a tingling feeling in her nipples and a warm wet glow further down, down there in her secret places...

"Clara? Clara? Where are you, you silly girl? What have I told you about wandering off?" Clara heard her mother and jumped up with a start.

"I have to go. My mother mustn't find you! Cort...come back tomorrow...please..." Clara kissed him on the cheek, blushed at her forwardness and then she ran hell for leather down the slope. Cort lay back and exhaled slowly, his groin still painful. He breathed in and out until his head felt clear again. That kiss. It had been something else. Maybe girls weren't so bad after all. His hand touched something and he felt the story book that Clara had abandoned when he had demonstrated his prowess with a gun. He smiled. Women like real men, tough men, men who can use a gun and aren't scared of a fight. That was the kind of man he wanted to be - the kind who took what he wanted and kept it away from others - and that included women.

Tucking the book into his saddlebag, he mounted his horse and rode back to town, feeling lighter than he had in days.

"Cort?" John Herod found his boy grooming his horse in the stables. Cort was good with animals; there was a natural affinity between him and the beasts. The kid could ride anything.

"Yes, Mr. Herod?" Cort stood up to attention. Herod realised that the boy was already the same height as he was. When had he shot up?

"Mrs. Herod asked me to send you to the house. She has some things she wants moving into the attic. See you don't break anything."

Cort took off his shirt and washed down in the water trough in the stables. He ran water through his hair and tried to straighten it down, it kept flopping in his eyes. Then he dried off with a cloth and put his shirt back on. It would have to do. His hands were cleanish. He reckoned he looked better than most of Herod's men.

Striding over to the house, he knocked at the back kitchen door. An oldish Mexican woman opened up and let him in. She left him in the kitchen while she fetched her mistress.

"Why, Cort, come on through. I have so much to do today. I am so glad my husband sent you over!" Kitty Herod smiled broadly at him. She was wearing a simple outfit, white blouse buttoned up over those mighty breasts and a navy blue serge skirt. Her hair was tied up in a scarf. Work clothes. Cort followed her into the hall and up the stairs, watching the sway of her buttocks beneath the dark material. At the end of the landing, she indicated a ladder.

"Can you pull that down and open the door?" He stretched up and noticed from the corner of his eyes that Mrs. Herod lowered her gaze to below his belt as he raised his arms. She was checking out his pants. Cort felt the hot prickle of something indefinable in the air. His body's response was immediate and he knew she saw. There was a slight dreamy smile on her lips.

"Help me up, Cort." He gave her his hand and she began to mount the steps. He smelt her perfume, a heady flowery mix, and saw her rouged lips pouting as she leant on his shoulders and went higher.

"Put your hands on my hips to steady me." He hesitated but then tentatively rested a hand on either side of her butt. She felt soft and compliant and he thought she even wriggled a little against his hands. Dangerous messages were running to his brain and he began to sweat with apprehension. Even to his relatively innocent mind her behaviour was provocative.

"Now back down and start on the boxes. You'll find them in the dining room."

Glad for something else to do, Cort ran downstairs and found the room, picked up a box, full of china and returned to the attic stairs. He climbed up easily. The space above the house was dusty and dark, low timbered beams hanging overhead and there were old pieces of furniture and utensils. Rounding the corner by a shabby wardrobe, Cort saw a large four-poster bed. The bed was unlike anything else in the attic. It was clean and dust-free and covered with soft cotton sheets and fine blankets, with pillows and cushions freshly laundered. It smelt of lavender.

"Put the box down, Cort, and bring another."

For the next quarter of an hour, Cort carried on this chore until all the boxes were stowed. He was about to step back down the ladder when he heard her voice again. "Cort, pull up the ladder and close the attic doors." He did so with an impending sense of what was to come.

"Now, come over here. I need your help."

Kitty was lying on the bed. She had removed her shoes and stockings; he could see her dainty shapely feet and the neat ankles below the skirt.

"Cort, we're alone up here. My husband is out of town today. Will you do something for me?"

Cort breathed heavily as he watched her slowly pull her skirt up her legs until he could almost see her knees. Her legs were soft and white and they were parted. His imagination wandered to what might be beyond. Stepping gingerly forward, he stood before her. She sat up so that her head was level with his chest and her legs were resting against his. He raised his eyes and blinked a little, shaking his hair out of his eyes.

"Cort, can you open the buttons of my blouse?" His eyes opened wide. "Have you ever seen a woman naked, Cort? Would you like to?"

He shook his head and then he nodded; the power of speech deserting him completely. Kitty took his hands and brought them to her buttons. "Open them. Look for yourself. Touch. It's all free for you, Cort. You are such a sweet boy. I want to feel you, too."

Cort's hands shook as he unbuttoned, hardly able to deal with the intricate fasteners. Once she was opened, he looked at her, she nodded her encouragement and he pushed aside her blouse. She was naked beneath. He stared in amazement at the glorious breasts, heavy but firm, deep pink nipples, and his hands instinctively moved to cup them. Kitty arched and murmured; Cort hardened in his pants.

"You never had a woman?"

He shook his head.

"Good. I want to teach you. You are so big and beautiful, boy. Do you know what it feels like to be in most men's hands? Men like my husband? Course you don't. I am a young woman and I have spent my girlhood allowing men like my husband to do what they want to my body. I want to feel your young solid slender body, run my hands down your golden skin, take your sweet manhood in my hands and show you what women really want. Look, darlin!"

At that she pulled her skirt high and placed his hand between her naked thighs. He felt the warm wet cleft and the soft downy hair. He gasped and rocked instinctively. He smelt the creamy scent of an aroused woman. It filled his senses and drove him half crazy.

Kitty's hand stretched out and she stroked his cock, now straining and pushing through the rough fabric of his worn breeches. He rocked himself some more as she rubbed. "You're a big boy, Cort. Good as a man. I want some of that, Cort. Come and get some of me..."

Her words were the final straw. With one sudden groan, he felt himself come, shedding in his pants before he even had a chance to touch her properly. He stepped back in horror, embarrassed, and turned to leave.

"Cort, what is it?"

He said nothing but ran off, threw open the door and knocked down the ladder. He was out of the house in seconds.

Taking refuge in the stables, his favourite hiding place, Cort damned his foolishness. She would have given it so sweetly to him but he wasn't man enough to do it. He was too much of a kid. Women knew too much, more than he did. He was ashamed of his innocence, wishing he could take her like a man.

And then he thought of Clara and an idea formed in his head. She was even more innocent than he was. She wouldn't push him too fast. He could be in control and find out what to do. No thought of the rights or wrongs of what he was planning crossed his mind. Consequences never even entered his head. His cock was moving him and it was a powerful force. Running to the jail, picking up a change of clothes, Cort took himself off to the bathhouse and gave himself the luxury of an all over wash, cleaning the stain of his embarrassment and thinking through what he was going to say and do. He washed his hair and ran his hand over his chin. He shaved every so often already and reckoned that he would go to a barber and do it properly. Within an hour he was shaved and clean, dressed in his best and looking like a young Adonis, although he wouldn't have recognised the name. Any girl who saw him that day turned her head, but he was too young to be aware of the effect he had.

Clara was sitting on the rock where they always met. Cort turned up every few days, whenever he could, and they chatted and teased each other, kissed a lot and not much else. But to the young girl it was like a storybook romance. She adored this wild boy with his shaggy chestnut hair and his golden face. She dreamed of his green eyes and cleft chin. She sighed over his beautiful lips and the feel of his strong arms around her. His swaggering walk and jaunty talk seemed dangerous and exciting. Clara knew she had met the man she was destined to marry. It was just like in the stories - he was unsuitable for her but in the end love would triumph and they would ride off to a life together.

She dreamed on, as girls do, while the object of her affections planned her seduction. Such is the way of the world.

Her ears picked the sound of his horse and she jumped up to greet him. Clara smiled; he looked so fine today, so handsome, like a prince in a fairytale. Maybe he was really a foundling who had been born to fine folk and suffered a mishap. Perhaps that was why he didn't know his real name; after all, he was intelligent despite his upbringing...he must be more than he seems...

"Cort! You came!"

Cort slid off the horse and she ran into his arms. He kissed her, feeling more sure of himself with her and running his hands down her slender back, remembering Kitty's nakedness.

They held hands and walked over to the stream to sit on the bank. For a while they talked and kissed and cuddled until Cort felt certain Clara was as relaxed and as happy as can be.

"Clara, can I touch you?"  Cort suddenly asked.

"What do you mean, touch me?" Clara replied. 

"I mean ...Clara, I want to feel your skin. I won't do anything wrong, I just want to touch you. I ain't never touched a girl," he lied.

Clara blushed. "You mean, under my clothes?"

Cort looked down, feigned shyness; he didn't really have to pretend. "I'm just curious. I ain't never seen a girl. I know you don't have a dick, but...what do you have?" Cort reckoned that if he sounded innocent then she would trust him.

Clara gasped. "That's a bad word, Cort, you shouldn't say that word to me."

"What word? Dick? What else can I call it?"

Clara turned away. "Your thing. My Ma says men have things between their legs and girls just have to keep away. When you're married you'll find out - but don't let them ever show you before."

Cort raised his eyes, seeing the foreboding figure of Mrs. McDougall pre-empting  his success. "I just want to know. I ain't got no Ma or sisters. Ain't got no one to tell me about stuff like this."

Clara spun round. "Oh, Cort, you are so alone, you poor boy! I would do anything for you - but...Cort, girls have to be careful. If a girl gets a bad name or lets a boy mess with her...you can have a baby and then no one will ever marry you."

He laughed. "I only said look. Anyways, how can I give you a baby?'We can't make babies. We're too young. You're only fourteen; I'm only fifteen. I'm not even a man yet."

She smiled shyly. "You look like a man to me. Cort, do you love me?"

"I guess so."

"Cort, do you ever think about when you're older, about getting married and stuff?"

"Sure. All the time," he replied, wondering whether she could tell he was lying. Married? He had never ever even given it a thought.

"Cort, can I tell you a secret? You won't laugh at me, will you? Promise?" Clara's earnest little face shone and Cort realised that she was going to say something that would play into his hands. He failed to see the advantage he was taking of her goodness.

"I won't laugh. I promise. You can tell me anything. I'm your beau." The words tripped off his tongue and into her eager ears. He was learning the art of deception and handling himself like a seasoned veteran.

"Sometimes I dream that we get married and I have your babies. I want to have a boy and a girl. I would call them John and Elizabeth."

Cort blinked a few times and chewed his lip. Girls were pretty strange. "You know that I love you a whole lot, Clara. I come here whenever I can. You're the only friend I have. One day, when I have some money, I promise I'll come back and marry you."

The young girl trembled at his words. "Oh Cort! I knew it. I knew you felt it too." She threw her arms around his neck and kissed him. This was more like it. Cort eased her away and whispered in her ear.

"Let's make a secret promise. Clara, show me your body and I'll show you mine. That will be our special secret."

He felt her hesitate and then she seemed to shake herself and make her mind up. Standing up, she slowly unbuttoned her cotton dress and eased it down to fall at her feet. Underneath she wore a petticoat. Her fingers shook as she unfastened the little ribbon ties and then dropped her hand. Cort could see the soft flesh of her chest and the hollow of her breastbone. He raised his hands and pulled aside the material to bare her breasts.

She was very different from Mrs Kitty. Her breasts were small, like swollen mounds with light brown nipples that were tiny and soft. But he still liked them and he licked his lips at the sweet sight. Raising his right hand he stroked one, felt her tremble and saw the peaking of the brown tip under his hand; his dick responded instantly.

"Don't touch, Cort! Just look!" Clara gasped. Cort pulled his hand away and opened his shirt. He bared his own chest and stood before her. Clara's hand reached out and felt his hard muscle and slender belly; she stroked his small nipple and saw the light hairs that were beginning to grow there.

"You said, don't touch, Clara," Cort teased and the girl giggled. 

"You feel so good, Cort, so big and strong."

"You look so beautiful. The most beautiful girl I've ever seen. So white and soft."

Clara blushed and took his hands; she pressed them to her breast. "I do want you to touch me." Cort cupped her breasts and gently kneaded them and them he dropped to his knees and kissed each one lightly. The girl moaned and arched to push herself against his mouth. Her response encouraged him and as he caressed one breast and kissed the other, he let his free hand down to find the hem of her petticoat and pull it up. Beneath were her bloomers; his hand fumbled to the waist and he fiddled with the drawstring; suddenly they fell down to her ankles.

"No, Cort, no! You can't do that. That's real private!"

"Please, Clara, let me see. I just want to see you. Please, I won't hurt you," Cort muttered, his head still buried in her breasts.

Clara did not stop him as he raised the hem to her waist. In fact she held the fabric and let him sit back on his heels and view her. Her body was skinny and girlish, her hips only just beginning to change to womanhood, the soft hair between her legs still light and downy. "Sweet Jesus!" was all Cort could say at the sight of her.

Taking her hand, he lowered her down to lie upon the ground; she obeyed as if mesmerised, saying nothing and not moving unless he made her. Cort gently ran his hand over her legs and up her thighs and then between, parting her slightly until he could see the mystery. It was beyond his imagining. The neat little cleft, the pink folds of skin all closed up and then opening like rose petals. It was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. His fingers stroked the hair, the mound and then along her sex; Clara jumped and whimpered. She was moist, not sweat, but something thicker and pungent, a smell both sweet and strong that made him gasp and have the urge to taste.

He swallowed hard, unsure what to do or say, his brain beginning to surrender to the forces lower down that were driving it. Clara's voice returned him to his senses. "Your turn. Let me see your thing."

Cort's tongue peeked from his mouth, ran over his lips, his breath unsteady. His fingers fumbled with the buttons of his pants as he struggled to undress.

"Clara, it's hard. Don't be scared of it."

"Hard?" Clara asked curiously, forgetting her nervousness." What do you mean, hard?"

"Don't you know? A man's dick gets hard when he wants a woman. It sticks up so's he can...you know."

"Know what?" Did she not know? Had her mother not told her?

Cort moistened his lips and cleared his throat. "When a man loves a woman he wants to touch her real bad. He wants touch her with his dick. Put it inside her..."

Clara gasped. "Where?"

Cort gently ran his fingers over her slit, not absolutely sure himself where it had to go. But nature has its way of guiding young eager digits and he soon found the soft wet entry that he longed for. The moment the tip of his finger entered, they both cried out and the conclusion was in little doubt. Instinct was driving both of them.

Cort moved slightly and freed his penis from its uncomfortable restraint. Clara looked and her eyes widened at the sight of him. "Oh Lord! Is that what it looks like! It's like a snake!" Cort grinned and took her hand and curled it round him. He shuddered at the feel of her but controlled his ardour. Clara squeezed gently and smiled. "Doesn't bite though!" she giggled.

They had broken through the barrier of shame. Cort pushed her back and lay above her to kiss her. With one hand he fondled her breast with another he played with her hair. All the time he rubbed himself against her tender snatch, slipping though her moistness.

"Cort, we shouldn't do this! Is this how you make a baby?"

He kissed her ear and whispered, "Can't make a baby the first time. You're still a virgin. Don't worry. We'll just do it once. To seal the promise. You'll be my girl then. Then you can only marry me." He had said the words that she needed to hear; knew instinctively the lies to tell a little girl to get his way. Clara relaxed into his kiss and he saw his chance. His finger found her hole and he guided himself in. She tensed; he pushed. The sudden thrust of his hardness into her made her cry out. She grasped his upper arms; Cort took it for response.

Jerking up and down, he lost himself in the sensation of the wet hot tunnel squeezing him so tight and clutching at his sensitive member. Lights danced before his eyes, blood pounded in his brain, all he could feel was his dick. His whole body was his dick. He never even heard her scream when he broke her maidenhood, nor was he aware of the crude obscenities he spat out or of her silent sobbing as she gave him her body. It did not last long. With a shudder that shook through his entire young frame and a groan like pain, he shot his semen into her ripe, virgin womb.

Minutes later, Cort began to realise what he had done. He raised himself and looked down on the terrified girl whose face was wet with tears. "Hey, Clara, you alright? Did I hurt you? I didn't mean to hurt you. It was so just so good, Clara, darlin' it was so good. Did you like it, Clara?"

Clara pushed him away and began to gather up her clothes. "It was horrible! It was painful and you just wouldn't stop. What was the matter with you?"

Cort backed away and blinked uneasily. He watched her pull on her bloomers and saw the streaks of blood and semen on her inner thighs. Shame washed over him for what he had done. He knew then that it was wrong to take an innocent girl just to make it easier for him. He knew he didn't love her or even want to see her again. The sudden memory of his mother came into his mind and how his father had abused her. He felt sick at the notion that he might be such a man.

"Clara, it's just the first time. It always hurts for girls. After that it's fine. I promise you, You'll like it next time..." Her eyes widened at the mention of next time. He continued with his lie, "Next time... when we're married..."

She continued to whimper as she dressed and he fastened up his clothes. He did the same. Suddenly there was a gulf between them. They felt like strangers. Cort turned to go and walked over to his horse tethered nearby. Clara stood and watched him.

"Cort? You will come back, won't you? You do love me, don't you?" Her voice was broken with tears and she was shivering even in the heat of the day. Her arms were wrapped around herself. Already she sensed a change in him; their innocent friendship had gone.

He turned back and forced a smile. "Course I will, darlin'. You can count on it," he mounted his horse and rode away. She stared until he had disappeared from sight.

Cort rode slowly, his mind tumbling. His body was still on a charge from what had happened- that thing they had done, sex, fucking, whatever it was called - Jesus, it felt so good! He could still feel the sensation, knew that there was nothing like it in the world, wanted more. He also knew that Clara had not enjoyed it. He suspected he hadn't done it right. There must be more to it than that- or why did whores and married women like Mrs. Herod want to do it? But at least he knew where to put it and he hadn't come in his pants this time. He felt sorry for Clara, but she'd get over it. It wasn't much. He hadn't liked to see her cry and he knew he didn't want to see her again. She made him feel ashamed.

'It's better if I keep away. Don't want to hurt her. That's the sensible thing to do,' he rationalised to himself with the selfish vacuity of a young man. The urge to plant his seed and run, the unwillingness to face the consequences transformed in his mind into concern for her virtue and her feelings. Cort was merely acting as young men do and leaving the usual disaster in his wake.

Clara ran back down the slope and to the safety of her home and bedroom. Her elder brother Jeb shouted a teasing greeting to her but she ignored him and ran up the stairs to throw herself upon her bed and bury her head in her pillow. She couldn't believe that she had done it. It seemed hardly possible. Sitting up, she stripped off her stained bloomers and hid them in the bottom of her chest. Then she poured some water into the china bowl and tried to clean herself up. The slimy residue made her shudder and the blood scared her. Had he done some damage? She felt sore and itchy, swollen and hot. The cool water helped, as did the soft rag cloth she bound round her to mop up the leaking. With fresh underwear and a quick body wash she felt better. But she still didn't feel clean. Clara felt dirty and used. She prayed that no one would ever find out what she had done.

Weeks passed. Cort settled back into his normal existence and abandoned visits to the McDougall farm. He thought about Clara, though. Every night. His experience of his first woman had merely enhanced his obsession with sex. He wanted more; for now his hand would have to do.

One morning, as he was whitewashing a fence around Herod's house, the man himself appeared at the door, dressed for travelling. "Hey, Cort! Put that down and come over here. I need to talk to you, boy."

Cort put down the brush and wiped his hands on his stained breeches. He sauntered over to the house, his chest bared, sweating in the sun. He brushed his hair out of his eyes. "Yes, sir?"

Herod looked at him a moment. The boy seemed to be changing every time he looked at him. The skinny body had disappeared and before him was a young man in the first bloom of manhood. His shoulders were broad and muscled, his arms were large and defined and his chest was wide, nipped in to a narrow waist and hips. He smiled inwardly. When did that all happen? Herod reckoned once the boy got more self aware he would be a lady killer. It amused him. He'd like to see Cort tackle a few of the women in the saloon in a few years' time. That would make for a pretty show.

"I'm going away for a few weeks. Some business out west. I've deputised a few of the guys to keep a lid on this town. Now I have a job for you. My wife is a very young woman and I suspect her eyes might stray while I'm away. I want you to move into the house and watch her. I've told her already. Any man comes near her, Cort, I want to know. You got that?" Herod's eyes narrowed and Cort saw the cruel intent on the sheriff's face.

"Yessir! I'll watch her real good, Mr Herod. You can't count on me, sir."

Herod relaxed and smiled, ruffling up the boy's hair and looking into the distance. "Oh, I know that, boy. You may be the only one I can count on. For now."

Half an hour later, Herod was gone; off to the railway station to take the train out west, dressed in city clothes and carrying a smart valise like a real gentleman. Kitty Herod waved him away from the top step of her home. Her eyes did not follow the departing trap, however, instead they watched the half naked torso of her young warder, Cort.

Sweat gleamed off his back as he worked, stroking up and down to paint the fence. His thick chestnut hair shone in the bright glare of the sun. Kitty stared at the hollow of his back and the curve of his tight buttocks in the loose shabby pants he wore. She thought of his long legs, naked and lying between her thighs, his sweet mouth forcing itself on hers, his eager young body greedy for gratification...At that moment Cort straightened up and turned; their eyes locked. This time, he did not look away. He met her gaze and his eyes were those of a man. Kitty shivered and felt her body loosen. He was ready. She would have him.

Cort knocked at the back door, a bundle of clothes and goods in his hands. The servant, Consuela let him in and led him wordlessly through the house and up the stairs to a small room at the end of the corridor. It was a tiny box room but it had a small wooden bed and a cupboard. Someone had placed a small vase of flowers on the top. It was the first room of his own that Cort had ever slept in. He laid out his meagre possessions in the drawers and took off his precious gun belt, wrapping the guns in a cloth and placing them in his top drawer. Searching in the pocket of his pants, he fished out the gold ring that his mother had once worn. He always kept it near him as if it were a talisman, a good luck charm. She would have been glad to know that he had found a decent place to live and a way in the world. Tucking it back he gave a rare smile. He felt like he belonged somewhere for the first time in many years.

There was a knock on the door. He opened it and saw Consuela. "A towel. Mrs. Herod say I draw you a bath. After all your work. Vamonos!" She led him to a bathroom with a real porcelain tub and running water. There was even a commode. It felt like luxury to his eyes.

The bath was full of warm steaming water; there was a bar of sweet smelling soap on a rack. Consuela closed the door. Cort smiled and stripped off eagerly, dumping his work clothes in a heap and plunging in. He wallowed down and groaned in pleasure, slipping his head beneath the water to wet his thick, dusty hair and in doing so failed to hear the door re-open. When he surfaced, spluttering and shaking the drops from his eyes, he saw the shadow of a person standing over him. He rubbed his eyes with his knuckles and looked up. It was Mrs. Herod. Cort sat bolt upright and covered himself with his hands. She smiled a knowing smile.

"How's everything, Cort? Do you like my bathroom?"

"Yes, ma'am, everything's just fine."

"Good. But I think you need a hand. Let me wash your hair." Kitty took the soap and lathered it in her hands and proceeded to soap the thick locks. Cort sat without speaking, unsure what to do next but already responding to the sensual touch of a woman's hands. The room was silent.

"How does that feel, sweet boy? Do you like it? Do you like me, Cort? Do you know how you make me feel?"

He uttered a strangled sound; it was all he could manage to say. 

"I want to touch you all over, Cort. I want to kiss you all over that beautiful young body. I want to kiss your cock and put it in my mouth."

Cort groaned at the overt suggestion of her words. As she spoke, her hands left his hair and began to lather down his chest; her mouth came closer to his ear and she whispered: "I want you to fuck me, Cort. All night long. I'm gonna teach you things about yourself that you never even dreamed."

His head fell back against her and she knelt cradling it against her breast. She saw the tip of his cock rise up and surface; the sight made her moan. Breaking away and pouring water over his head to rinse the suds away, she held out her hand and pulled him to his feet. She wanted to look.

He stood there, a little shy, hunching his shoulders and unsure what to do with his hands. Kitty sighed as she gazed on him. Tall, broad and muscular, a pronounced 'V'-shape drawing her eyes down his flat belly to the proud young cock, water dripping from it. His body was golden and sparsely haired although his legs were already thickly covered and his groin sported the growth of a man. He was on the brink of manhood although she suspected that the next few years would add some more musculature and maybe even more to his manhood. She wasn't sure when boys stopped growing.

Kitty fell to her knees before him and took his cock in her hands. He whimpered and it surged. It smelt all clean and fresh, it tasted and felt young and new. Her tongue licked it and then she planted a kiss on its wet purple tip.

"Oh God!" muttered Cort. 

Kitty licked his shaft. 

"Oh my God!" Cort's knees began to tremble.

She took him in her mouth and sucked down hard, working his base with her right hand and curling her left round his heavy balls to squeeze them gently.

With a cry, he came, rocking against her mouth, his eyes widening at the sight of what he was doing. He had heard men talk about fucking a woman's mouth. He wasn't sure if they'd been lying. They said a whore would do it for a dollar more and she would spit it out. Kitty swallowed and licked him clean. Cort hadn't even known such pleasure existed in the world.

She raised her head and he sank down on his knees in the now cool water.

"You taste so fine, Cort. So pure and sweet. Now I'm gonna take you to my bed and show you how to love a woman. You won't come so fast next time. This little treat will slow you down just right."

He let her lead him from the water, stood still while she dried him like his mother had once done. She rubbed his hair briskly with the towel and brushed it straight. She patted his chest and back. With a cool hand she picked up his flaccid cock and eased back the skin to dry it gently and then ran her towel-covered hand between his legs to dry his balls and buttocks.

Then she wrapped the towel round his waist and he followed her out of the room. The attic steps were down. He climbed up behind her, pulled up the steps and closed the door.

The attic was cool and dark with only a shaft of the afternoon sun slanting through a dirty skylight to cast a mottled shadow on the bed. Cort noticed motes of dust caught dancing in the beam and the image of her lying there would always remain in his head in that dreamy, hazy light.

Kitty had led him in silence to the bed, stood before him and they had stared at each other openly. Cort moved first and touched her face, freeing her hair, which she had tied up in a ribbon. It tumbled onto her shoulders. He reached for her neck and placed a gentle pressure to bring her face to his and then he lowered his head and touched her honey lips. Kitty responded with a sensuous fervour, sucking on him deep. He could taste the trace of his own salty sweet residue; it was an erotic and heady sensation for him.

She pulled away and pushed him onto the bed. "Sit up, rest on the pillows. Watch." Slowly Kitty stripped her clothes off for the amazed boy who stared wide-eyed at her seduction. She discarded her seemly housedress to reveal a frilly petticoat of lace, low cut and tight on her bosom. This she dropped to reveal her nakedness but for a pair of silk bloomers which clung to her like a second skin.

Crawling up the bed, she knelt on all fours and let her breasts hang before him; Cort picked them and weighed them in his hands and then tasted each. "Suck them, honey, bite gently. Roll them in your hands like you do with your balls. Do what you like - the more you play, the more wet I will get."

Her crude talk fired him. She pulled away his towel and let him play, then lowered her breasts to his cock and ran them over it, squeezing them together to trap him inside and jerk him in her cleavage. Cort bit his lip and breathed slowly. He did not want to come- yet.

Straddling him, Kitty unloosened her drawers and let them snake down her hips, to fall at her knees. She wriggled out of them and then sat on his lap, her legs wrapped around him. He could feel her warm wetness pressed against his shaft. Then she lay back on his legs and opened her self to him, using her fingers to part her lips. "Look, Cort. Have a good look. See my hole? Put your fingers in." He inserted one finger and moaned at the hot wetness. "Another. Give me another, honey. Move them about. Yes, up and down, round and round. Can you feel me?"

Cort watched and experimented, noting how she arched when he pushed them against her wall. Kitty wantonly played with her breasts before him. Then she licked her right hand and began to rub herself just above his fingers. "See? Here? And she pulled open the flap of flesh. He saw a small swollen bud. "This is my joy button. Most men don't have a clue. Cort, you touch a girl here and she will give it to you any way you want. This is like me jerking off your dick."

Kitty proceeded to rub the area lightly, fingers caressing the outer fold. He saw her nipples harden and a blush come over her skin. He felt the gush of moisture from her cunt. Kitty was beginning to moan and toss her head from side to side.

"Cort pull out your fingers!" He did and Kitty pushed him back down onto the pillows, sitting over him, her knees on either side of his head. Her nakedness was just above his face, her smell filling his nostrils. She was dripping and glistening, hair wet with juice. "Now lick me darlin', drink me up and suck my little button."

Cort rubbed his face against her and the scent drove him wild. His tongue sneaked out and he licked her cleft; she shivered and hung onto the brass bed head for support. Cort parted her wider and thrust his tongue into her hole, lapped at her as she sobbed and begged him to taste her, fuck her, make her come. His nose rubbed her clitoris, her love button, its name unknown to him but its effect quite clear. As she began to shudder and scream "I'm coming...Sweet Jesus...I am coming..." he sucked upon it and she came violently, jerking her body against his face and sobbing.

Cort was beyond endurance and he simply tossed her back and mounted her, struggling to find her entrance in his frantic hurry. "Slow...down..." she gasped and grabbed his cock to steer it to her. He felt the tip find its mark and he thrust down. She cried out but this time it was not a cry of pain. "Oh, God, you feel so hard...so hard. I want you to fuck me real deep and slow, Cort. Deep and slow."

Kitty's legs wrapped around his waist and he knelt up to get a firmer leverage. Watching her lovely face as he pushed deep in and out, his skin squeezed back by her strong muscles and then pushed up again, he began to think about control. Breathe deeply, let your heartbeat drop, hear the blood rush through your veins- in and out he plunged, observing his shaft disappearing into her glistening folds until his pubic bone banged against hers and his balls whacked her below.

His eyes closed and then he wanted to see again. Speech was reduced to a strangled groan through gritted teeth: "Fuck. Fuck. Fuck"

"Faster, Cort, I'm ready. Faster, Harder, fuck me harder, boy