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      Big Gun On the Tetons

      by

      Amanda Couverme

      Copyright 2014 Amanda Couverme,

      All rights reserved.

      Published in eBook format by eBookIt.com

       http://www.eBookIt.com

      ISBN-13: 978-1-4566-2266-4

      No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

      Critical Reviews for "Big Gun on the Tetons".

      "... hilarious LOL ... " - Katherine M.

      "... lusty fun ..." - Gretchen G.

      " ... you don't think I actually read that stuff do you?" - Patricia F.

      About Amanda Couverme

      Amanda Couverme was born to fabulously wealthy parents in the Hamptons when she was very young. She began writing her first almost-novel when she was four, working in crayon on the wall of her father's study. After spending a meticulous five years on each chapter she finally finished at the age of thirty. It was not known what she did during her sorority years. The original manuscript was unfortunately painted over in the remodel of '98.

      Besides being the figment of GJ Scherzinger's imagination, she finds time to live in a posh Manhattan apartment with a pampered cat and a latin lover who claims he has run with the bull. Currently she is madly working on her second almost-novel, "Don't Point That Thing at ME!", which she hopes to have done before "The Game of Thrones" is finished. At a page or so a month, she figures she has the edge.

      GJ Scherzinger on the other hand, spends most of his time writing serious fiction, or at least as serious as you can get when magic is involved, and lives as far away from the Hamptons as he can get. One time TV Producer/Director, sailor, skier and cribbage player, he will also complete a fourth for pinochle if pressed. He is working on his third novel and hoping people will read his first two.

      Chapter One

      It was a dark and stormy night in the high country. There were mountains everywhere. Great stone sentinels capped with snow. Grey fangs of granite rimmed with tall forests and tarns. A man couldn’t swing a cat or a fry pan full of beans without hitting a mountain.

      Even without a cat and a fry pan full of beans, it was a hard place for a man to live. It was even harder for a woman. And a woman without a fry pan: impossible.

      That’s what they told her. But she wouldn’t listen. She had set out West in her conestoga wagon and 400 bolts of fabric. She was a dressmaker. The winner of the 1857 Gingham Sew-off in Upper Saddle River New Jersey. She was a professional, and she wanted to famously facilitate fine fashion in the frontier.

      ‘Don’t go west, please!’ they had told her.

      She wouldn’t listen. Instead, she bought a nice, lady weight revolver from the Sears Catalog and learned to shoot it. No one was seriously injured, although many of the neighborhood pets were never seen again. But by the time she was ready to head West, she could shoot, and shoot well.

      “Go West! please!” they had told her.

      The neighborhood was so impressed with her marksmanship that they pitched together and bought her the conestoga. They were wonderful neighbors. She would miss them all. When she had her gun, she only missed a few.

      And so she had left the tidy little neighborhood, with it’s tree lined streets and bandaged dogs and cats, to make her way west. Her trail was marked by the sudden appearance of lingerie in the scattered towns of the Amish Pennslyvanias, and the river towns bordering the Mississippi. Furniture was left undone and the tills and furrows in Ohio were not in the fields.

      She encountered the redoubtable Cannataucnow, with whom she spent two winters reviving the remnants of the peaceful but lusty tribe. She thought about it many times as she continued west, but the flashback would have to wait; for now, in the high alpine town of Buzzard’s Gulch, her dreams of dressmaking seemed lost. The further she penetrated the western wilderness, fewer wanted her stunning off-the-shoulder creations and gracious gowns. She was downcast. Even forelorn.

      She’d had to make her money the new fashioned way, by driving a herd of cattle. It was a tough upstart business and cattle drives were crisscrossing the prairies at an alarming rate. No one can forget the epic steer-tipping battles of ‘56 as the hungry herders fought for market share.

      Fortunately, there was another need to fill. The west, wild as it was, was short of argyle and she had a plan. Drive a herd of rare argyle cattle across the Great Divide, across the plains and hostile Indian Territory, all the way to Ft. Major Dix in Oregon, where it could be sold to the Himen McCracken sock and sweater mill for a ridiculous profit. If she lived.

      But she was tough. Not gristly tough, but tough in a sirloin steak kind of way. Something that feels just right when you chew on it and the juices start to flow.

      She was born Elizabeth Tungsgood. When she was crafting, it was ‘gowns by Elizabeth’.

      But when she had her gun on, everyone called her Betty. And sometimes: ‘Betty ... don’t!’.

      Well, the gowns were going to have to wait. Peignoirs may not sell well with the frontier women, and there were only so many brothels, most of them far away, and the shipping costs were killing her. Yes, for now, the only hope was the cattle drive. If she was going to drive cattle, she needed to find a driver.

      (ed. note: ‘drover ... past cooperative tense)

      She was in the Tetons with a frying pan but no cat.

      She headed between the hills and then followed the old treasure trail down through Navelle’s gully and into the slippery Sweet Flower Gorge before arriving at Soggy Bottom. She’d rest there and then continue to the BarB Dahl Ranch where she’d pick up the herd. While she was in Soggy Bottom, she’d have to hire a bunch of hands. She didn’t know what kind of hands she’d like to surround herself with, but she was sure she’d find what she wanted.

      First she’d sew up some quick negligees and babydolls, and sell them to the local women and saloon girls to raise some cash for supplies. She needed some trail clothes, leathers that she wasn’t prepared to sew herself. And a whip. She’d be ready for anything.

      Chapter Two

      Meanwhile, fate was twisting and turning, weaving the mortal coil that led John Hoff down from the hills and on his way to Soggy Bottom. His mother, if he could remember her, called him John. Everybody else, if he could remember them, called him Jack, Panhandle Jack. He was a grizzled loner. Well almost grizzled. His broad chest was smooth due to a bad candle accident a few years ago, and the unwaxing had left him bare. To there. No hair. Fortunately it had left his thick raven locks untouched.

      But he traveled alone. Except for his horse. And his memories.

      His spurs jingled. The sharp cut of his cowboy hat shaded his eyes. His shirt was missing some buttons, but his gun was polished. It was always polished. A man had to know how to take care of his gun.

      He guided his horse through the Mission Hole, past Watchit Rise and along the range grass trail that led to Soggy Bottom.

      He was on a quest to find the Woman Who Sews as he had always dreamed of a woman with nimble fingers. Plus, he heard she carried a whip, which could be interesting. He went back to polishing his gun... a habit his mother had attempted to break in him, but he didn’t believe the threats of blindness, nor that “it will get stuck that way”. He also had assurance from his older brothers, if he could remember them, that these were not truths.

      He finally finished polishing his gun, a long barrel Chubb38

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