Fiona and Jolene go treasure hunting

“Well, rooty-toot and a hoot and a holler,” said Fiona, in her best cowboy accent, as she picked her way down the stony side of the valley towards the entrance to the old mine. “Ain’t that a prime plum pickle, and no lie do I tell, or may I be flanked and fricasseed down in the other place by Old Man Scratch himself. Yessiree, Bob.”

“Say,” said Jolene, eyeing her suspiciously. “I ain’t never heard those particular colourful Western turns of phrase before. Where did you say you was from, again?”

“Just a little town called Muddy Drawlin’s back down Texarkana way,” said Fiona, puffs of dust settling on her cowboy boots. The sky above was wide, blue and empty. “Now, y’all just poke your head in there.”

“Funny. Where I come from, y’all’s a plural. Anyway, you ain’t planning to escape, are you?”

“Like this?”

Jolene took a look at Fiona, and chuckled. The prim red-faced Englishwoman stood on the valley floor in nothing but cowboy boots and a white cowboy hat, her full breasts and golden bush bare under the brilliant Western sun. Her wrists were tied behind her back with a length of lasso, the other end of which was clutched in Jolene’s hand. She’d been taken out of the jail cell in that fashion, and paraded around the whole town of Reno for the amusement of the locals before Jolene had thrown her over a saddle, bottom in the air, and galloped off to the west.

Fiona didn’t find the situation terribly amusing. She counted herself lucky that she’d happened to recall that bit of gossip she’d overheard on the train the evening before, about an outlaw’s treasure buried near Reno in an old mine someplace. She’d even been able to catch the mine’s exact location! With any luck, there might actually be some treasure in there, and she’d be able to use her half to buy herself a brand new suit of travelling clothes.

“Alright, you just set yourself there a spell,” said Jolene, poking her head into the mine. About fifteen minutes later, she emerged from the darkness, beaming, hands full of Mexican silver dollars. “You weren’t lyin’! Why, that’s the biggest durn bonanza I ever did see! Lady, you can be Cactus Sal or Pocahontas or Queen Victoria for all I care. I’m lettin’ you walk free, just as soon as I… huh?”

She came to a dead stop. There were now two Cactus Sals. One was fully clothed, in a paisley shirt and denim jeans, with black hat and cowboy boots.

“Mornin’,” she said. “You must be the sheriff.”

Jolene’s hand went for her gun. Cactus Sal, quick as lightning, blew it right out of her hand, leaving the red-haired sheriff disarmed and defenceless in front of not only the most feared lady outlaw in the West but also her entire gang, who had the mine entrance encircled. Stubbly Mexicans, giggling Irishmen, cold-eyed brunettes from Kansas City and nimble-fingered poppets from Canton, all with their eyes fixed on the ambushed lady officer at centre stage. Fiona stood off to one side, still nude, in the strong grasp of a swarthy man named Lopez, who had one hand clamped over her mouth and was taking the opportunity to cop a feel of her breasts with the other. (He looked a bit like Antonio Banderas, if you’re wondering.)

“I don’t like sheriffs,” Cactus Sal said, and fired again. The bullet cut through Jolene’s belt, and her jeans fell down around her ankles, exposing her frilly pink panties, which had been specially imported from Paris. The whole gang tittered as Jolene stood frozen, her mouth open in horror, not daring to move.

“I really don’t like sheriffs,” said Cactus Sal, and fired again. One, two, three well-placed shots. Jolene’s blouse, strategically unpicked at well-placed seams, fell apart into three neat pieces, and slid onto the valley floor. Her abbreviated action corset followed suit, baring the astonished sheriff’s full, freckle-adorned breasts and leaving her standing before the chortling outlaws in no more than her cowboy hat, gunbelt, pink panties and boots.

“Now,” Cactus Sal ordered, and fired her gun at the ground right between Jolene’s feet. “Dance.”