Oh, sure, I’d met cowboys before. Back home, you couldn’t throw a stick without hitting one. And, trust me, I threw my fair share of sticks hoping for just that: to hit one, land one, get one in bed, if you know what I mean. Again, the liquor didn’t hurt none in that regard, a hole being a hole when all is said and done. Still, might’ve been nice to have one of them fellers stay longer than a night, but, heck, I wasn’t complaining.

Anyway, the west was shrinking from what it once was, but in that camp of ours, well now, it was just as wild as it ever was. Especially since what few women there were, not counting Annie Oakley and them Sioux squaws, were all huddled off in a corner of the camp somewhere, far away from the menfolk. And without women to keep men in their place, well, that just leads to a whole heap of trouble.

Not to mention, it made them cowboys randy as all hell -- present company not excepted.

Lots of men wandered the camp, eager for a fight, a way to release some steam, work off the booze they done drunk. Of course, there are other ways to work off steam, mind you.

One night that first week, after a good fifth of Kentucky bourbon, I staggered back to my tent, drunker than a skunk. Only I couldn’t rightly find said tent of mine. Heck, they all looked alike, especially in the dark: hundreds of them lined up in neat, little rows. Anyhow, I ended up falling into someone else’s. Someone already inside. Someone abusing himself, nekid on his cot.

“Oh, sorry,” I said, sputtering as I tried to look away. Or at least tried to look like I was trying to.

The guy just grinned and kept on pulling on his tool -- and damn if he didn’t have one mighty fine tool at that. “No problem, partner. Something we all do, right?”

I paused, suddenly hearing the edge to his voice. I’d heard that edge before, and my own cock began to get stiff upon hearing it again. “Yep, that’s mighty true, friend,” I replied. “Mighty true indeed.”

He sat up, the grin growing even wider on his stubbled face. I squinted into the darkness. Feller was nice looking, about my age, give or take. “Fact is, though, it’s more fun with two than just one,” he said, the words coming out all syrupy sweet.

“Meanin’?”

“Well now, I suppose if’n you help me out, I could help you out.” He pointed to the obvious strain in my britches. Truth was, I was surprised the material was even holding by that point.

Working all those years on the ranch, doing odds and ends, I had me some experience with lonely men, so I said, “Okay,” and then, quick as wink, peeled off my shirt, kicked off my boots, and slid out of my britches and drawers before tying the tent flaps behind me.