FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

To my readers: Please forgive the delay in the next few installments of the story. Life beyond the the vale of pen and ink (or in this case, binary codes and electrons) intervenes.

This story contains adult situations and explicit sexual content. No one under the age of 18 should be viewing this.

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A DISTANT SHORE: Beyond the Hills

The storm rolled in from the western mountains during the early afternoon. The sternwheeler was still some twenty-two miles south of the colonel's intended landing point, but the wind rose so quickly that the pilot doubted they would be able to bring the boat ashore where or when planned.

"You have to understand," Colonel Collier reiterated. "We don't have a lot of time to spare for unnecessary delays."

"I understand alright," the captain said, the wind and rain pulling at his raincoat and hat, "but my pilot insists that it isn't safe to make a landing. We'd likely wind up broached and hard aground on a sandbar. That's if we're lucky. No! Our best course is to steer to the center channel and keep ourselves clear of debris coming down stream. We'll put you ashore where you like once it's safe."

Collier scowled at the gray and black furred raccoon. "I find it rather appalling you'd take the judgment of a youth half your age over the interests of those paying for this expedition."

"Clem Marcus may by young, but he is a qualified river pilot," the captain responded. "When it comes to the navigation of this boat, I'll take his opinion over anyone else's, even mine."

The colonel turned away and strode angrily to his private cabin. The badger was fuming now, frustrated that for the second time in as many days his plans had been delayed. Pulling out a large leather case Collier flipped it open and began studying the few maps he had of the western shore. Somehow he had to bring the natives to battle and make them the aggressors. He could easily sway public opinion if other furs thought they were attacking what was supposed to be a rescue party.

Raiding isolated farm outposts might not now be enough. They'd lost two days of the ten he's calculated on and it would take time for the natives to assemble their forces. Perhaps if he struck unexpectedly at one of the larger encampments, he could draw the savages out to fight on a ground of his choosing. A quick, sharp battle and then a retreat back to the river would serve him well. Meanwhile, he could send a party of five furs on a sweep past the mountains to search for his daughter. He'd known from the beginning his chances of finding her were slim, but he had to make the effort, for show at least. If the natives attacked and obliterated the scouting force, so much the better. It would make them seem that much more culpable.

The colonel searched his notes looking for a known encampment not too large, yet close enough to the river to meet his needs. His finger moved along the map, finally coming to rest atop Chimney Rocks.

* * * *

The north pass through the mountains was narrower and more hazardous, but useable once the rain had ended. Gabriel White Cloud and Snowbird left the shelter of the cave before dawn hoping to make up for lost time. By early afternoon they were past the mountains and riding through a series of thinly forested, low rolling hills.

The vixen was leading when she suddenly brought her mount to a halt and raised a hand. Gabe reined in his horse. The native pointed to the ground and his eyes followed. There in front of him were several half washed-out sets of hoof prints, crossing their path to the northwest. The animals had been shod, the iron of the horseshoes biting deeply into the soil.

Gabe studied the tracks. They were at least a week old and hard to read. The Marshall looked up at Snowbird. "Seven?"

She nodded. "One of their mounts was hurt. See?"

Sure enough, one of the horses had thrown a shoe, its prints differing from the others both in pattern and gait, as if it were favoring one leg. "I'd guess the fellow with the injured horse was following the other's at some distance. His tracks overlaps theirs."

"How many furs are there in Temple's gang?" Snowbird asked.

"Ten, originally," the wolf replied. "Two were killed when they robbed the River Queen. One was caught and hung by the posse chasing him, and another I caught and jailed. He's the one who told me they'd crossed the river. Counting the senator's daughter, there'd be seven riders total."

The vixen nodded and turned her mount northwest. Despite being old and partially washed out by the previous day's rain, the trail was not too difficult to follow.. The sun slowly crawled toward the horizon.

After several tedious hours of staring at the ground, the wolf found his thoughts straying. Though a shaman by training, Snowbird was showing herself to be a reasonably good tracker; but then most native furs were. Beyond that, there seemed to be a synergy between the two of them. The few signs she missed, Gabe picked-up on. The reverse was equally true. Undoubtedly, she was one of the better furs he'd been partnered with. Add to that she was very easy on the eyes. The Marshall suddenly realized he was watching her more than the trail and quickly refocused on the task at hand.

By late afternoon they noticed a change in the tracks. The rider with the lame horse had dismounted and begun leading his mount for the last two miles. Gabe quietly wondered how far behind the others he'd fallen. His tracks abruptly changed. They looked as if he were in a hurry, pulling at his horse in an effort to get it moving faster. They broke away from the trail and seemed to make a run straight for an outcropping of nearby rocks. Snowbird reined in her pony, sniffing at the air.

"Smell that?" she asked.

The Marshall sniffed tentatively at the air. The scent was faint, barely noticeable, like something old and rancid. He unlimbered his rifle and dismounted. "Wait here and keep your eyes open," he ordered looking up at the vixen. He advanced slowly toward the rock outcropping, sniffing the air and examining the ground. He stopped when he saw the three toed claw marks of an oraac. He backed off a foot or two. He counted at least five separate sets of tracks, all converging on the rocks. He tested the air, but found no lingering scent of the hunting birds.

White Cloud reached the rocks, keeping himself alert for even the slightest hint of danger. There was none evident. The trail led between two large rocks and vanished to the right. The wolf signaled Snowbird that all was well, then carefully stepped around the largest outcropping. The sight before him was not too much of a surprise for Gabe, he'd half expected it, though the foreknowledge didn't make it any less horrific.

Scattered about among the rocks were the remains of another fur. Some of his bones were picked almost clean, others still had sizable chunks of desiccated flesh hanging from them. His clothing was shredded and strewn about in a mad fashion. A leather gun belt hung from a half stripped pelvis. From what was left of his skull the Marshall could tell it had once been a cougar. A battered pistol lay a few hand spans away from the body. The fur had apparently fought back, not that a handgun would have been much use against his massive opponents.

Not far away lay all that remained of his mount, also torn apart and stripped down to bare bone. The wolf shook his head. The oraac generally chased after larger prey. More than likely they'd been after his horse. The fool should have abandoned the animal to them. He could have then quietly slipped away while they concentrated on his mount.

Gabe begin checking through what he could of the destroyed clothing. There really wasn't much to find. A folding knife, a tobacco pouch, a few coins and a billfold made up the bulk of what could be scavenged. Inside the last item the Marshall found several bank notes, some letters and a small folded up map. The wolf quickly glanced at the map and smiled in satisfaction. Gathering it all together, he headed back toward where Snowbird patiently waited.

The vixen sat astride her pony, examining one of her haversacks. "We need to build a campfire soon. The ashes from this morning's fire have cooled."

The Marshall looked around and shook his head. "Not here," he replied. "Too many night scavengers will be hanging around waiting for their turn."

"Our fur with the lame horse?"

The wolf nodded. "Oraacs." He nudged his horse forward. "We'll camp in those hills ahead. That way none of Temple's gang will see our fire."

"Are they near?"

"Not too close. They're hold up in an old Skinner's cabin beyond the hills."

Snowbird wrinkled her nose. She'd heard tales about the Skinners when she was younger. They had been furs who'd rejected civilization and crossed the great river years before the current westward migration. Hermits for the most part, they'd established homesteads away from everyone else and lived their own mad, solitary lives. Some had traded with the natives, exchanging buffalo skins and dried meat for supplies. Their heavy rifles, the first that had been seen west of the river, made it easy for them to hunt the great bison. One Skinner with a rifle could bring down a single buffalo. Normally it took three to five warriors armed with bows to accomplish the same feat.

The first wave of Skinners had been peaceful enough, living their own lives and in a few cases mating with some of the native furs. The second wave however had destroyed the peaceful coexistence between Skinner and native. Crossing the river in large hunting parties, they'd plundered the buffalo herds, often skinning the animals and leaving the carcasses to rot by the dozens. Natives who tried to get these Skinners to change their ways were often murdered. In one case, a chieftain was himself skinned and his fur sent back to the tribe as a message.

The war which followed was extremely short. Those Skinners who had not harmed any of the natives were peacefully escorted back to the river and delivered safely to the Eastern shore with their possessions intact.. Those who resisted, were removed forcibly, stripped of their gear and tossed into the river. Whether or not they survived depended on how well they swam. Those who had killed natives were treated in kind. The war had left behind two lasting reminders. The first was a Tribal Union that had been forged between the fifteen native tribes. The second was a scattered collection of cabins, outposts and trading posts that doted the Western lands. Natives themselves used them as hunting lodges from time to time, so many were still in reasonably good condition.

Snowbird broke from her reverie, closed the haversack and rode alongside Gabe. "How do you know they're using a Skinner's cabin?"

"Our friend back there had a map on him," the wolf replied. "I'm guessing Temple gave it to him so he could find the hideout, since he couldn't keep up with them."

"Wouldn't they have moved when their companion didn't show up?"

"Maybe," Gabe nodded, "but Roark Temple's not the smartest of furs, and none of his Black Creek gang are any great shakes either, so there's a fair chance they're still hold up in the cabin."

The Marshall glanced at the bag containing the wyvern egg. "How's the little fellow doing?"

"The egg shell is still too leathery for him to break out," she replied "Perhaps if we tuck some hot coals in with the ash it might keep the ashes warm enough to make the shell brittle."

"Won't that scorch the inside of your haversack?"

She shook her head. "Not if we layer them with the ash so they touch neither the egg nor the sack."

"Sounds good," he replied

They continued riding in silence for the next hour, keeping their eyes on the robber's trail. Snowbird had taken the lead again and from time to time she would lean forward to examine the tracks. When she did, her thick tail would raise itself into an arc giving Gabe an easy view of her firm, tight backsides. It made focusing on the task at hand difficult at best.

The Marshall wondered why the vixen had chosen him. From what he had seen she was very much her own fur, living in her own way outside of the tribal customs that normally applied to females. Being both Father Rain's adopted daughter and a shaman in her own right had given her much of that freedom. She was both young and beautiful, even with the scarring on her face and her strange eye. Why would she be interested in a scruffy, half-breed wolf like himself, especially one whose own tribe had sent him packing? They couldn't breed, their species were too different, so offspring wasn't the reason. Was it because he was different? They were both outsiders, even among their own people. He had been born a native, but lived among the civilized furs. She had been born of an immigrant family and now lived as a native. The elders of the Green Willow had sent him away because he was destined to live astride the great river. Snowbird's presence seemed to be further proof of that judgment.

The two furs reached the low rolling hills even as the sun touched the horizon. The heat of the day faded as they set up camp and Snowbird took her turn at preparing the meal. She borrowed Gabe's boiler to make a kind of bark leaf tea which wasn't bad, once you got used to it. Dried strips of buffalo meat and acorn cakes were supplemented by a small can of peaches that the Marshall contributed. The two sat quietly eating. Gabe saved the peach juice for the vixen to sample. She apparently liked it, tilting the can several times to savor the last few drops.

Once they had eaten, Snowbird set about shoveling hot coals into her haversack, using one of Gabe's spoons to carefully position them in the now cool ashes. The wolf broke out his sleeping blankets, then unpacked and rubbed down all three horses, settling them in for the night. Behind him, he heard a soft, lilting voice chanting an old native lullaby.

Finishing, he turned to see the vixen sitting cross legged on her sleeping furs, cradling the haversack in her lap and gently rocking it. The sight brought back gentle memories of his own mother and the Marshall smiled. He sat on his own blankets and took a small book from his pocket, recording the day's events and supplies used. When he was done writing he tucked the map inside, closed the book and leaned back across his blankets. Snowbird's voice was gentle and almost hypnotic. Gabe felt his eyelids grow heavy. He might have fallen asleep then and there if he hadn't felt a small hand on his shoulder.

He looked up and saw the vixen standing silently over him. There was a strange, calm expression on her face. Without a word she reached down and gently took hold of Gabe's hand, pulling him slowly to his feet. She led him over to her own sleeping furs, then reached up and began undressing him. When he tried to help, she calmly pushed his hands away and continued unbuttoning his clothes. Her hands softly caressed his fur as she removed each article of his clothing. Soon his vest, shirt and trousers were all neatly folded beside her bedding.

She guided him down onto the furs then removed his moccasins. He was left wearing only his breechcloth. Every attempt he made to return her caresses was gently but firmly rebuffed. Gabe allowed himself to be pushed down on the furs. He watched as the vixen slowly removed her own clothing, piece by piece. He could feel himself stiffening beneath the breechcloth as more and more of Snowbird's attire found its way next to his own. By the time she was finished he was fully erect.

The vixen removed both their breechcloths, then as a final gesture removed her mask and set it atop her clothing. She poised herself above him. In the dim glow of the firelight he could see the moisture glistening on her sex. Slowly, ever so slowly she lowered herself onto the wolf. Before long he was fully sheathed within her.

Snowbird stretched herself out as she had the previous night and relaxed atop the Gabe. "Don't move," she whispered softly. She lowered her head to his chest and wrapped her arms around him. Her snow-white hair, unbound now, flowed across him like spilled milk. He felt his knot growing within her. She wriggled slightly, locking herself together with him, then closed her eyes. Within moments she was...asleep!

Gabriel White Cloud looked down on the vixen incredulously. Yes, she was really asleep! Her breathing was slow and regular as was her heartbeat. The girl was absolutely unbelievable. He wasn't sure what to do at this point. He felt with a calm certainty that waking her would not be a good idea. After all, it wasn't as if she hadn't known what she was up to.

He watched her for long moments. Her eyes began slowly fluttering beneath closed lids. He felt her warm breath softly brushing his fur. :He felt the tightness of her as she enveloped him. He could smell her scent filling his lungs with each breath. He felt the gentle movement of her chest as it rose and fell, pressing her firm, perfect breasts against him. It all worked to both excite and frustrate the wolf. He lay quietly for over an hour, the ache within his groin slowly growing more and more intense.

He took several long, careful, deep breaths, hoping to relax himself. It didn't work. The urge to move or thrust became greater than ever. The harder he tried not to move, the more aroused he became. The more aroused he became, the greater his need for release became and the harder he had to struggle to resist. Just when he thought he could no longer stand it, the vixen opened her eyes and coquettishly smiled up at him. Snowbird gripped him tightly about the chest and slowly, deliberately, ground her hips against him. Gabe exploded, pouring his seed deep into her. He moaned as his aching shaft pulsed over and over again. It felt as if the waves of pleasure would never stop coming. His head dropped back onto the furs, his back arched and his eyes rolled beneath closed lids as the tension flowed from him, draining him completely.

Long moments passed before his body stopped shuddering. The wolf raised his head to look at the vixen. A gentle, almost wicked smile caressed her lips as she lay her head once more against his chest. Within moments she was asleep again! The Marshall simply smiled in disbelief. He lay back on the furs and drifted off to sleep himself, still tightly locked together with the girl.

* * * *

The storm had moved on by early afternoon and the steamboat was finally able to make progress upriver. About an hour before sunset they reached the Colonel's intended landing site. The pilot skillfully guided the boat's bow into the embankment. A cloud of thick river mud billowed up along the shoreline, turning the water red in the dwindling sunlight. A gangway was dropped from the bow and the militia company disembarked, milling about unsure of what to do next.

Captain Lewis quickly brought order to the chaos, directing one platoon to unload supplies, a second to set up camp and a third to establish a perimeter guarding the area. The company non-coms were kept busy making sure none of the enlisted furs slacked off. In a few cases, a sharp blow or swift kick was necessary to keep the soldiers on task. Sergeant Carpenter, the aggressive, brown-furred bear, was particularly effective at that. It was not long before a serviceable campsite had been established.

The evening meal was served and the soldiers settled down for the night, the enlisted furs sleeping ashore and those officers not on watch ensconced in their cabins aboard the riverboat. The boat's captain kept steam up in the event the ebb and flow of the river required him to shift his position along the bank. Early summer rains upriver however made such precautions unnecessary, at least for the moment.

Before retiring for the evening, Colonel Collier had his officers assemble in his cabin to review the campaign plans he had drawn up. "Intelligence I obtained prior to our departure indicates that the Black Creek gang is either hold up with the natives here at Chimney Rocks, or have, at the very least, received aid from them. Either way, we need to make a reconnaissance in force."

"I don't understand," said Lieutenant Evans. "If Temple and his men were hiding out with the natives, wouldn't Marshall White Cloud have found them by now?"

The badger shook his head. "The Marshall's got a bit of a soft spot for the native tribes hereabouts. That alone would make it very easy for them to pull the wool over his eyes. He's a good fur, but entirely too trusting of savages."

"That's not surprising," sniffed Captain Lewis contemptuously. "He's a half-breed himself. In his eyes they probably could do no wrong."

"Sir," Lieutenant Evans said, "I respectfully disagree. Furthermore, I would like to recommend we seek out Marshall White Cloud and coordinated our operations with him. At the very least we could use his services as a guide and translator. No one in the company speaks any of the local native dialects and..."

The Colonel cut the fennec fox off abruptly. "That's quite enough, Lieutenant," he growled, glaring at the young officer. "We're not running a democracy here. I am in command and I will decide if and when we need help from a civilian law fur. Understand?"

"Yes, sir." Evans replied coming to attention.

Collier looked around the table. Does anyone else have any comments?" The other officers simply shook their heads. "Good," the Colonel said directing their attention back towards the map.

"The native encampment at Chimney Rocks is a day's march from our current position. The problem is the most direct route will probably be watched. I propose instead to take a second, more circuitous path through William's Gap, then north to Red Eagle Pass. We should only encounter scattered hunting parties which we can deal with if necessary. This route will allow us to approach the encampment from the east and take both Temple's gang and any of his native allies by surprise."

Captain Lewis frowned slightly as he studied the map. "The native encampment will undoubtedly have at least ten times as many warriors as we have soldiers. How do we deal with them if they put up a fight?"

"We retreat," the Colonel replied.

A chorus of confused voices greeted the Colonel's statement. He raised his hand bringing the room to silence.

"Before striking at the enemy camp, we'll spilt our forces." Collier stabbed one finger dramatically at the map. "One platoon will head back toward the river and take up a fortified position here, at the eastern edge of this swamp. The main trail is the only way across it for twenty miles in either direction."

The Badger paused to make sure the others were still with him. "The other two platoons will raid into Chimney Rocks and capture the Black Creek gang. They will then retreat along the main route and join the first platoon. With the whole company present, we should be able to drive off any determined pursuit until nightfall. Then we withdraw to the river and board the steamboat."

Collier glanced around the room, gauging his officer's loyalty by the looks in their eyes. Evans was the only one he wasn't sure about. The Colonel didn't worry much about it. If the fox became a liability he could easily be added to the casualty lists.

"Any questions?" No one responded. "If not, then I suggest we all turn in. Tomorrow's the start of a couple busy days."

To be continued...