Page 90 - Leather Blues

78 Jack Fritscher

any good sex scene that fit his natural outlaw style more than
he cared if the doggie he was working was man or woman.
He treated them both the same.
Always, in the back of Jex-Blake’s head, hung a twisted
Remington scene, of a naked man confined in a cow chute,
zapped to a frenzy with a cattle prod, the gate swinging open,
the man running for his life across a muddy horseshit arena,
pursued by a leathery roper on horseback, lassoed around the
legs, dropped into the mud, jumped by the calf roper leaping
off his horse with his lariat lashed to his saddle horn, wres-
tling the struggling naked man to the ground, and hogtying
his wrists to his ankles, leaving him lying on his side in the
mud and sawdust and horseshit in under ten seconds, with
the crowd calling out for more.
Chuck marched Arrow to the center of the room. He
strong-armed the captive toward the two-foot-high wooden
crate positioned beneath the noose. He guided Arrow up
the one giant step to the lynching platform. Doc had hired
Jex-Blake in for a complete scene. “This special trip,” Chuck
whispered to Arrow, “comes compliments of Doc who knows
what you want and gets you what you need.” Arrow’s knees
buckled. Chuck steadied him into direct position under the
rope.
“Noose him,” Jex-Blake said. He spit the juice from his
chaw into his empty coffee mug.
Chuck deftly drew open the loop of the noose. The heavy
hemp felt rough through his weather-worn western gloves.
With one hand, he reached in, took a leather pinch-hold on
Arrow’s right tit, and maneuvered him exactly into place.
Then with both hands, he dropped the noose slowly over
the bound man’s head, rope-burning his forehead, nose, and
chin with the rough hemp.
“Tighten it up for me,” Jex-Blake said. “I want to see
that lynch rope pulled real secure around this fucker’s outlaw
neck.”

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