Puddock went a-courtin’ and he did ride, like a shot across the plains, Miss Mouse thrown across the back of his horse, Uncle Rat’s gold jangling in his pocket.

He dug in heels splashed with would-be suitors’ blood, urging the flagging beast on. The sun would soon dip below the horizon, and that night was his wedding night. He rode hard through rain and mud, didn’t stop till he reached The Slop Bucket in Hollow Tree. His poor horse dropped dead the second he dismounted. Some folks say it died during the journey and its body continued galloping until they reached their destination. 

Puddock plucked Miss Mouse from the muck and threw her over his shoulder. He then carried her across the saloon threshold and strode up to the barkeep while she struggled.

“I need a room.”

Miss Mouse beat against Puddock’s back, her wrists tied together to form a two-fisted club. The barkeep observed her flailing limbs and spat into a pint glass he polished. “Got a license for that?”

“The woman?”

“That big swingin’ dick in your jeans, mister.” The barkeep grinned a mouthful of tobacco stains.

Puddock grit his teeth. “Motherfucker, you know who yer talkin’ to?”

“I don’t give a good goddamn—”

Miss Mouse screamed at the pistol’s report. Hadn’t even felt Puddock’s hand shift beneath her to draw. A hole appeared in the center of the barkeep’s head, accompanied by a spray of red on the back of the bar. The man went down like a wet sack of shit.

“Crambone!”

 One of the Bucket’s whores ran to the barkeep’s side. She cradled his bloody head and turned her wrath on Puddock.

“You’ve done it now, you sonofabitch! Just you wait till Dilly gets here.”

But Puddock was already taking stairs two at a time.

“You send him up when he does. I’ll fuck him too.”

#

Miss Mouse couldn’t help but feel bad about what had happened to Uncle Rat. He was a greedy old letch, but that didn’t mean he deserved to end up with a belly full of lead like that. And where did it get her? She’d escaped the frying pan, but things were about to a whole lot hotter if she didn’t give ol’ Puddock the slip. She weren’t no virgin, but no way in hell was she letting that monster fill her with his bastard seed.  

She twisted her bound wrists back and forth, same as she’d been doing for hours. It’d loosened the knot just enough that maybe she could work it with the right implement. She scanned the room as Puddock relieved himself in the corner, hot piss sloshing in the chamber basin. A bent nail meant for hanging socks stuck out of the wall next to the bed, but Miss Mouse would have to stand on her toes to reach it. Thankfully, Puddock hadn’t tied her hands behind her back.

Puddock turned towards her, splashes of piss mingling with the blood on his boots. He dropped his weight onto the edge of the bed prompting a groan—from him or the springs, Miss Mouse couldn’t tell. He sat in quiet contemplation for some time. 

Miss Mouse had expected he’d want to get right into it—it meaning her. Maybe the ride had tired him out. Miss Mouse strained her ears for the sound of rhythmic breath. She crept across the bed, reached out with conjoined hands for the meat of the man’s shoulder. As her fingertips alighted upon him, he stood ramrod straight, back still turned.

“First a drink,” he said. “Then we’ll see about this boy Dilly.”

#

One drink turned to two, and two turned to more than Miss Mouse could count by listening. But she knew the sound of a drunk when she heard one. Stumbling around, muttering to himself. Miss Mouse took to escaping in earnest. 

She stood on tip-toes and worked the head of the nail through the center of the knot. It fit tight, but she eased it in slow, hocked some phlegm on it for encouragement. She then rotated her wrists back and forth, easing the knot open gradually.

Downstairs, one set of steps turned to two, and two turned to none as each took notice of the other. Miss Mouse paused to listen.

“You the sonofabitch did for Crambone?”

“I am.”

“What we gonna do about that, I wonder?”

Miss Mouse didn’t wait to hear the answer. Knew it wouldn’t come in the form of more words. She doubled her efforts as the operatic sounds of a tussle broke loose. Her wrists rubbed raw with rope burn as she worried at the knot. She pulled it off the nail to apply some teeth. 

There was an ascending series of thumps and the door to the room flew open. Miss Mouse near jumped out her britches. Puddock stumbled in, back to her, as if walking in reverse, and fell across the bed. Miss Mouse pressed herself against the wall as another man followed and fell face-first into Puddock’s lap. Miss Mouse held her breath and stood stock still as the man she could only assume was Dilly slobbered all over Puddock’s shiny red cock. 

Puddock grabbed Dilly by the hair and violently thrust into his face. He arched his back as he did so, craning his neck until he was looking at Miss Mouse upside down, standing against the wall with her feet on the ceiling. 

Ecstasy turned to surprise and then vulnerability just as quick. Puddock reached down to where his belt hung around his knees and came back with his revolver. Then he pulled his cock out of Dilly’s mouth and replaced it with the gun, pulling the trigger as he spilled seed on himself. Poor Dilly barely had time to register the transition.  

Miss Mouse cried out at the shot. The force sent Dilly’s body backwards. He hit the floor dead. Puddock stood to his feet and turned towards his wife.

“You cunt.”

He went for her, cock still hanging below his shirt, trousers around his ankles. He took one step before they tripped him up and sent him tipping at Miss Mouse like a felled tree. She dropped to the floor as he rocketed at the wall, head first. The sock nail disappeared into his forehead, punching a tiny hole through the front of his skull, only to reappear as his forehead bounced off the wall and he fell to the floor, where both his legs took to a violent fit of shaking.

Miss Mouse peered out from between her fingers, the rope hanging loose around her wrists. The buckle of Puddock’s belt rattled against the floor with each spasm. He was a murderous son of a bitch, but no man deserved to go out like that. Still, Miss Mouse didn’t dwell on it. She turned out his pockets, took his gun and boots, and slipped from the Slop Bucket into the night. 

# 

A figure in cattleman’s garb ambled down the road, mule tethered to wrist by rope, coins tinkling in her purse. She occupied herself constructing a rhyme, spoken in a monotone croon, keeping in time with the beat of her footfall. Miss Mouse went a-courtin’ and goddamn could she ride/Like a shot cross the plains, a six piece by her side/Rat’s gold jangled her purse/But the story gets worse/As you’ll see after everyone’s gone up and died…