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The Colonel\'s Wife

Part 1

The Standard Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction with content suitable only for adults (and stable ones at that)

The Standard Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction with content suitable only for adults (and stable ones at that). If you are prohibited from reading such material by the laws or standards of your community please depart immediately. Likewise, if you can’t tell the difference between reality and fantasy get the heck outta here.






The Colonel’s Wife


Von Hentzau


      The stagecoach swayed and rocked rhythmically as it had done since it departed the railroad station in Santa Fe. For three days it had carried its single passenger south and west, ever further from civilization and ever closer to the turbulent, dangerous borderlands.  


     “What a strange country,” Martha McKellen thought, staring out the window. To either side stretched a flat, brown gravelly soil sparsely covered with whisps of grass, prickly bushes and scattered cacti.  Sere brown hills lined the horizon in the distance. So unlike the Ohio countryside she'd left weeks before.


     It had taken months of badgering letters but finally her husband, Lieutenant-Colonel Randall McKellen of the 9th Cavalry, had relented and told her she could come out and join him. Friends and relatives had tried to dissuade her. The desert regions where New Mexico, Arizona and Old Mexico met were still too dangerous, they said. But she and Randall had been married for barely three years and had been apart for more than two of them.


     "Besides," she told them, "Randall says General Crook has all but defeated the Apache. Most have gone to the reservations and the others have either been killed or fled to Mexico."


     So, after what seemed like endless traveling she was now but a day and a half from Randall’s post. Tomorrow night, she thought she would be again sleeping next to her handsome husband.


     Martha was startled from her reverie by the sound of a single shot, followed almost immediately by a cry of pain. The coach swayed wildly. Then a volley of shots rang out. Closer, the stage coach guard's shotgun blasted in reply. The heartrending neighing of horses in pain added to the confusion. Martha was thrown back and forth as the coach, uncontrolled now, left the crude road and veered off into the brush. With a mighty crash it spun sideways and rolled over onto its side, throwing Martha against the roof.


     Regaining her senses Martha checked her arms and legs. She was sore, but nothing was broken. The door of the coach was now above her. She reached up, turned the handle and gave it a shove. It rose, slowed briefly, paused as it came nearly vertical, then flopped all the way over. Martha stood up and looked out.


     The only images of the Apache she had ever seen were engraving in Harpers Weekly. If anything, the engravings had not done justice to their ferocious aspect. There were at least six of them in her sight, wiry, half naked brown skinned men with lank black hair.


     Martha grasped the sides the door and clumsily pulled herself up. Her long skirts and petticoats made it difficult. She clambered over the side of the coach and half jumped, half fell to the ground. Regaining her feet she ran desperately in the direction opposite that of where she'd seen the Apache. It did her little good. Three of them spotted her. They ran her down within a dozen yards. 


     She felt the coarse, strong hands grasping for her arms, her shoulders, her neck. Then she was pulled physically from her feet and thrown to the ground. Three of the Apache stood triumphantly over her. They rolled her onto her back and one pinned her shoulders to the ground. The other two were pulling maniacally at her petticoats. With horror she realized what she’d always heard was the worse act that could befall a white woman was about to happen to her. She was about to be raped by savage Indians.


     She kicked frantically at them. It did no good. There were three of them and they were strong. Each one alone could have easily overpowered Martha. Together she had no more chance of resisting than a mouse trapped by three cats. 


     A command was barked out in their strange, barbaric language. The three Apache immediately stopped. Even though the words were in the Apache the voice was so commanding Martha also stopped her flailing about.


     An Indian, dressed in a breechclout, tattered blue army jacket and slouch hat stood over her. He held a packet of letters in his hand, letters she recognized as hers, the bundle of letters she’d received from Randall, taken from her luggage.


     “The McKellen,” the Indian said, his voice betraying hatred. “You the McKellen’s woman?”


     Martha weakly answered in the affirmative. Something in the way the Indian spat out the name told her it probably wasn’t a good thing to admit to being Colonel McKellen’s wife, but she could also see no way that denying it would help her.


     “I am Colonel McKellen’s wife,” she said slowly, to be sure the savage understood her. She tried to put as much dignity into it as she, to hide the fear that threatened to make her voice tremble. Perhaps, just perhaps being the wife of the chief of the soldiers would buy her some small protection. Perhaps they would see her as more valuable, a bargaining chip not to be destroyed.


     “I am Anselmo,” the Apache said. “I know of your husband.” There was a pause. “He knows of me.”


     Anselmo spat on the ground at Martha’s feet. He gave commands to the young warriors, then went back to the coach. The warriors raised Martha to a sitting position, but only to allow them to tie her hands behind her back with a strip of cloth torn from her now discarded petticoat. Another strip served to bind her ankles. One Apache then stood guard behind her while the other two went back to help pillage the stagecoach.


     Martha watched the proceedings in despair and horror. The blue jacketed Apache went back to rifling through her luggage and the small amount of cargo the stage had carried. He discarded almost everything he pulled out. Giving a shout he held up several small boxes that revealed themselves to contain ammunition when he opened one. The younger warriors quickly gathered around to be handed their share. Then they went back to their other tasks, the ones that caused Martha’s sense of horror.


     All but one of the coach horses had been either killed or seriously injured when the coach went over. The survivor was cut loose from its harness. The others were dispatched quickly by knives across their throats. The Apache women barely waited for the poor animals to stop shuddering before they moved in and began carving strips of meat from their hindquarters. Martha recognized two of her best dresses being pressed into service as makeshift sacks to hold the warm, dripping meat.


     But there was an even worse sight before her eyes. One of the stagecoach men, the driver she thought, was still alive but badly hurt. He lay moaning where he fell, his wrists and ankles bound. The other man, the shotgun guard, had obviously been killed. His head was covered with blood. Two of the Apache warriors moved in. His limp body was quickly stripped of all clothing. Then Martha saw something she’d heard about but barely found credible. The Apaches drew their knives and began to systematically mutilate the corpse. The eyes were gouged, the ears and tongue cut away. Fingers and toes were crudely hacked away. The man’s belly was ripped open and his entrails pulled out. Long gashes were cut in the large muscles of his legs and arms.


     As a final, unbelievable insult to the man’s body one of the warriors sliced away his private parts. Shouting and holding up the bloody trophy for the others to see he walked over to a thorn bush and impaled the organs, leaving them as food for the crows.


     Still worse was to come. The Apache surrounded the surviving coachman. One of the women moved in, holding a knife still bloody from butchering a horse. Martha looked away, too frightened to watch. The sudden, animal screaming told her too much about what was happening. Then the scream was muffled. She dared a glance. The warriors were lifting the man and dumping him inside the coach. Martha caught a brief glimpse. There was blood on his trousers and blood around his mouth. There was something in his mouth, acting as a gag.


     One of the Apache then took an oil lantern that had been on the coach. He sprinkled the contents liberally on the dry wood. Another struck a match taken from one of the coachmen. Within seconds flames were spreading quickly. And soon after the most ghastly, nightmare sounds Martha had ever heard were coming from within the blazing stagecoach.


     Returning to Martha, they helped her to her feet and undid her ankles. The one surviving coach horse was brought. They helped Martha onto its back and tied her ankles together beneath the horse’s belly. Then they untied her wrists and made motions to indicate she should grasp the horse’s mane. She didn’t need more prompting. The thought of what would happen if she lost her seat and slipped beneath the horse’s belly insured she kept a firm grip on the coarse hair.


     One of the young warriors grasped the horse’s bridle and set of at a quick, easy jog. The other Apaches fell in with them. Martha watched in amazement at the seemingly effortless way they moved swiftly over the rocky ground, dodging between cactus and brush.


     A quarter mile from the ambush site they came to a ravine. Two of the young men guided Martha’s horse down the loose gravel slope while the others scrambled down. There were horses hidden among the prickly brush that filled the bottom of the ravine. .


     The Apaches quickly mounted. But before they began moving again Anselmo walked his horse over to Martha. He pulled out his knife and sliced a strip of cloth from her short, blue traveling jacket. This strip he hung on a branch where it couldn’t be overlooked. He cut another strip and kept it in his hand as he guided the horse up the ravine to where the faintest of trails led up and out. Here he deposited the second strip, clearly visible partway up the bank.


     “He’s marking a trail,” Martha thought to herself. “But why?”


The group continued up the trail until the broke over the rim of the ravine. They turned towards a line of brown hills on the horizon, moving quickly through the brush and scrubby trees. Periodically Anselmo would stop just long enough to tear another strip of cloth from Martha’s clothing and deposit in on a low hanging branch or cactus.


After several hours of steady travel the land was noticeably rising and the hills were close enough that Martha could make out patches of trees and the steep sided canyons that cut into the mass of steep, crumbly rock. Anselmo veered the group towards one particular canyon, again pausing to leave obvious trail marks.


At the mouth of the canyon Anselmo stopped the group. He rode back to Martha, drawing his knife again. She expected him to cut off a piece of jacket or dress. Instead he seized a hank of her hair and nearly pulled her off her horse.


For a brie moment she thought he meant to scalp her. Instead he merely cut loose the handful of her reddish-blonde hair. Then twisting it so it would stay together he knotted it around a branch. He rode back to the head of the group and they continued up into the canyon.


They spent several more hours slowly picking their way up the canyon, turning off into side canyons several times and once crossing a low saddle into the next canyon. They finally reach a wide spot in the canyon floor that was sheltered by tall, spreading cottonwoods and shorter, denser willows. Here they dismounted, tethering the horses on long ropes.


While the rest of the group unloaded the horses two of the braves untied Martha and helped her down. Then she was given one of the sacks containing strips of horse meat. Seeing the rest shouldering their loot, the women carrying larger loads than the men, Martha understood that they wanted her to carry it.


The group set off up a primitive foot path which followed the canyon still further up stream. After a few hundred yards they came out on another wide section of canyon floor, where the stream had veered towards the opposite side of the canyon wall, leaving a sort of sandy terrace with a fringe of willows along the water’s edge and scattered cottonwoods. And on the near canyon wall, at some point in the distant past the stream had deeply under cut the slope. Creating a wide but shallow cave.


The group headed towards this cave and began depositing their bundles. The remains of a fire and a soot stained mark on the roof of the cave showed that they or some other band had camped here before. One of the women took Martha’s bundle and set it with the others. For the moment it seemed they were ignoring her.


But they didn’t ignore her for long. Once they had their camp reestablished, with an efficiency that amazed Martha, the entire group started congregating around. Several of the braes moved around to cut off any chance of retreat. Then the two women advanced on her. Martha took two steps backwards, then realized there was no escape and decided to stand her ground. She was at the mercy of these savages. There was nothing else she could do but try to face them bravely.


The women’s intent was impossible to read from their dark eyes. Martha feared the worst. When they were within arm’s reach of her they began pulling at her clothing. Realizing they meant to strip her and realizing the futility of struggle Martha stood and let them pull the clothing off her. She hoped it would survive intact enough that she might be able to reclaim it and escape.


Quickly she was left standing entirely naked before the band. Instinctively she threw one arm across her bosom and tried to shield her sex with the other hand. The pitiful effort at concealment seemed to amuse her captors.


Three of the braves advanced on her. She took a few steps backwards before they seized her. She was half carried towards one of the cottonwoods, then laid on her back and her arms raised towards the tree trunk. Her wrists were quickly tied to it. More ropes were brought and tied around her ankles. Her legs were spread wide and the ropes tied to bushes.


The braves gathered around her. They were pulling aside or removing their breechclouts, exposing their members. They were all either fully erect or nearly so. One of the braves stepped between Martha’s legs, lowered himself down with almost feline grace and forced himself inside her. He thrust vigorously and deep. He came quickly. Did he actually enjoy the sensation? Martha wondered. He seemed to show no emotion at all. 


No sooner had the first pulled out the next brave took his place. One after another they assaulted her. With each it was the same. No show of emotion beyond heavy breathing and low grunting sounds. It was as if the act were less a sexual act than a ritual of victory, the physical, formal taking possession of their new property. The demonstration that she was totally theirs to do with what they willed.


Finally the last brave had satisfied himself. They just seemed to wander away, for the moment at least no longer interested in her. She hoped against hope that they were finished with her. But then the two Apache women came to stand next to her. They looked down at her with evident hatred in their eyes.


One of the women stepped across Martha, so that she was straddling Martha’s chest. She lifted her skirt up to her waist. She wore no underwear. A moment later a stream of urine was cascading over Martha’s bosom and splashing over her face. Martha was so surprised and disgusted she barely had enough presence of mind to close her mouth.


When the first woman had emptied her bladder the second took her place. Unlike the first, she straddled Martha and then squatted down over her. She raised her skirt up. Like the first she wore no underwear. Martha could see the dark slit almost hidden by coarse pubic hair. The woman reached down with one hand and inserted two fingers, spreading herself open. Martha closed her eyes and turned her head as the stream began to flow, directed at her face. She held her breath until the woman had finished.


And then she was left alone in the sun, almost overwhelmed by the heat and the reek of piss and the pain in her abused sex.


To be continued…..

Copyright 2006 by von Hentzau














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