Mummy & Daddy’s Naughty Diary (Erotica)

The seamstress quickly sized Gretchen with her practiced eyes and informed me that she already had a dress of blue calico that would fit her. The tailor said he could have denim pants and a cotton shirt for Willi quickly.

Soon, dressed in our new attire, Willi led the way to a German restaurant he recommended. Gretchen pulled off her shoes and socks as soon as we were seated. She spoke to Willi and Willi informed me that she was unused to shoes and that they hurt her feet.

Even after the charity I had displayed to them, it was evident they were concerned that her action would be an insult to me. Instead, I placed my order and the children followed, likewise.

The table figuratively groaned from the weight of bratwurst and sauerkraut. The weight of their world temporarily lifted, the children soon began a running conversation that included smiles and laughter. Gretchen’s sky-blue eyes accented her new dress as she appeared in angelic innocence. They both moaned ecstatically, “Strudel!” with the appearance of the dessert.

Willi continued to translate and interpret for me so I could understand what Gretchen talked about. We staggered out from the restaurant, stuffed from eating, and made our way to our hotel room. Before I blew out the lantern, they both bade a goodnight to Herr Russell and I saw Gretchen clutching and caressing the unworn shoes to her chest.

I woke in the morning and the children were gone, the cots made up and Gretchen’s shoes were on top of her blanket. I dressed and went to the stable to find Willi already hard at work. Gretchen was feeding my horse an apple.

I told them I would be gone for most of the day. I gave Willi some money for lunch and set off to find someone I could deal with.

The first manufacturer I visited listened to me and informed me of an incredible offer. Another individual had the same idea that I had and had commissioned two Conestoga wagonloads of shovel-heads, pickaxe-heads, hammerheads, saws, and other assorted tools.

Due to not installing the wooden handles for the implements, more could be shipped and at a lesser cost. Unfortunately, the financing for the buyer didn’t pan out, so he was stuck with two wagonloads of unsold merchandise sitting on a railcar scheduled for transportation to Independence, Missouri, all of which was hemorrhaging money from the manufacturer.

I told the manufacturer that I could strike a deal, subject to an inspection. He rushed me to the rail yard, and I saw that the Conestoga wagons he had described were twice the size of a regular Conestoga. They were well built and already customized for the long trip. The tools were of good quality and matched the description given by the manufacturer.

We went back to his office and began negotiating. I even got a small discount due to paying cash on the barrelhead. We drew up the contract and signed it. It was with relief that I walked out without the saddlebags’ weight, and still with working capital for expenditures.

The next stop was the stable yard. Willi was still tending to my horse, so I saw the stableman and asked him who owned the adjacent stockyard. He led me to a weasel-looking fellow. I informed him I was interested in buying a dozen oxen of good quality and selling a pack mule.

His eyes lit up as he led me to look at twelve prime creatures that could easily pull my wagons. We struck a deal and he said he would see to renting a cattle car for me and transporting the oxen to it. We shook hands on our deal, and I told him that I would pay him that evening after I got the remaining saddlebag out of the hotel’s safe.

As Willi, Gretchen and I set off to go to supper, I explained to Willi the day’s events. After I told him of the purchase of the livestock, he immediately got upset.

“Herr Russell, you are in trouble. The stockyard owner is notorious for selling his prize oxen and then delivering sick and lame oxen to the unsuspecting buyers in their place. They only find out when they unload the oxen at Independence. He has done that ten times that I know of.”

I was angry that I had been so easily taken in by a fraudulent scoundrel. “Hasn’t anyone come back to complain?” I asked Willi.

“Ja, three time,” Willi replied, “All three times, the men were discovered in the streets with slit throats the next morning.”

I thought my predicament over. I could renege on the deal since no money had exchanged hands. I could find oxen at Independence, albeit at a higher price, and not near the quality. Still, I wanted these animals and I also wanted to teach the stockyard owner a lesson.

“Willi, suppose I go ahead with this deal. Is there any way you can think of that I would be assured of arriving in Independence with the oxen I legally purchased?”

Willi sat and weighed his response to my question.

“It could be done. It would have to be done carefully. They would be watching you, so you couldn’t help on the switch. It would also be dangerous for whoever did the switch. They would investigate and they would discover who did it and make them pay.” He calmly replied, looking to see whether I understood the consequences of his unspoken offer.

“Willi, have you ever thought of you and Gretchen going to California?”

That evening, I went to finalize the deal for the oxen. When I drew out the detailed bill of sale for the oxen including exact descriptions of each animal, the owner almost balked before his greed took over and he signed my original copy.

There was no sign of Willi and Gretchen. The stall was empty, my mule already led away to its new home. My horse was already put up in a railcar for the train leaving for Independence at daybreak. I settled my bill at the hotel so I could leave quickly next morning.

As soon as the train slowly moved out of the station, I left my seat in the passenger car and went to the cattle car. Willi and Gretchen were already tending to the oxen as I entered. I looked and, sure enough, the animals I had contracted for were the ones in the car. I asked Willi how he had managed to smuggle out the correct oxen right under their noses.

“They load the oxen at midnight into the cars. The stockyard owner has his prize oxen taken into a different pen at the close of business and the sick animals into the prize oxen pen. The stable-yard man is too lazy to do the work himself, and hirelings transports the animals to the rail-yard. I waited till night and moved the prize oxen back into their regular pen and the lame oxen out. The hirelings weren’t smart enough to notice the difference.”

I laughed at the simplicity of Willi’s solution and congratulated him. I asked if he and Gretchen wanted to move to the passenger car. They discussed it in German and Willi informed me they would be staying with the oxen.

We arrived in Independence, and as soon as we began to disembark the oxen, the town marshal showed up with an irate well-dressed man waving a telegram.

“There they are, Marshal! Arrest the thieves!” he yelled.

“Who are you calling a thief? I bought these oxen legally!” I yelled back.

“You liar, this telegram sent from St. Louis this morning proves you stole these animals!”

“Marshal, I’ve got a bill of sale for these animals with a detailed description of each one.” I explained as I handed him the paper.

He carefully read the bill of sale, ignoring the protest of the man still waving the telegram. He studied each animal in detail matching each one to its description. Finally, he said, “There ain’t no proof these animals are stolen.”

“What do you mean, Marshall! I’ve got this telegram!” the man screamed.

“Lawyer Dobbs, that ain’t no warrant and it ain’t no writ, so I have no legal authority to confiscate these animals,” the Marshal responded as he walked away from the screaming lawyer.

“Don’t worry, Marshal. In 30 minutes, I’ll have a writ of replevin filed at the Courthouse, as well as a warrant of arrest for these lying thieves!” he yelled at the Marshal’s back.

“Lawyer, when you come back with those papers, come back armed,” I warned.

My statement startled him.

“What do you mean?” he stammered.

“You called me a liar and a thief and I’ll kill you for that if I ever see you again. You come back here, I’ll presume you’re armed and I’ll shoot you on sight. So, ask yourself if they’re paying you enough to die over it.”

The man swallowed hard and ran after the Marshal. There was no sign of him thirty minutes later as we drove our wagons to the rendezvous point of the wagon train.

We pulled upstream from the bulk of the wagon train. I hadn’t noticed before but Herman Kohrs had followed behind in my path along with several of his friends. I groaned, realizing my gruff behavior hadn’t deterred the earnest Kohrs from befriending me.ConTEent bel0ngs to Nôv(e)lD/rama(.)Org .

Willi had unyoked the oxen and Gretchen was leading them to water.

“Komm, damn hell beasts!” she yelled as the untethered placid docile oxen obediently followed her command without fail. I winced once again, hearing her cursing the animals. Willi had explained that much of her English had derived from listening to the muleskinners’ profanity at the nearby stockyard.

I pulled out the stake poles for my make shift lean-to tent, drove them into the ground, pulled away the attached tarp to the wagon, connected the tarp to the stakes and our tent was already up.

Herman Kohrs had studied my actions and stopped his family from pitching their tent. They soon had their tent up in similar fashion. Well, maybe he was capable of learning, after all, I thought as I prepared our campfire.

After eating our rudimentary meal, one of the Kohrs’ children shyly came over and asked if Willi and Gretchen wanted to come over to their wagon. Until that moment, every night, Willi and Gretchen had remained steadfast by my side, but I could see them watching the other children playing each evening by the campfires.

I told them to go ahead and play if they wanted to. They hesitantly followed the child back to the Kohrs and began socializing with their children. As I watched them, I began getting out the bedrolls. I made my routine check of the livestock and the wagon train.

“Harlots, Jezebels, Whores of Babylon!” screeched the fire and brimstone preacher, Jim Jeffers, addressing his tirade to a wagon that consisted of six unaccompanied females and a driver. Some were embarrassed by the attention drawn to them; one moderately attractive lady with a large nose stood with her hands on her hips and outright guffawed back at the minister, “Hey Preacher Jeffers, bring me a dollar tonight and I’ll show you what this whore can do for you!”

Laughter burst out among the small congregation drawn to the spectacle of drama, instead of faith. It only served to incite the man to new heights of invective ranting, “Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live, says the Good Book,” he thundered. The woman reposed, “Let him without sin cast the first stone…. That leaves you high and dry, Preacher Jeffers!”