It was a blazing summer morning in late August. Before the sun rose too high and the suffocating heat set in, Dora Johnson went out for her usual daily ride. Today, she chose her beautiful, stately palomino—a champion stallion that had won several blue ribbons in races and shows. Dora was far more than an expert equestrian; she was an exceptionally striking woman. Tall and full-figured, her arresting, angular face was framed by a cascading mass of strawberry blonde curls. Just a few years prior, she had been a New York fashion model of some renown. She grew tired of the runway. Seeking radical change she packed her bags, and moved to the arid plains of southern New Mexico. There, she used her fortune to buy a massive ranch. At twenty-five years old, she remained unmarried, managing the vast open spaces with only a few hired hands. She didn't care. She loved the freedom.

Within months, she had built up a thriving herd of horses and cattle through sheer determination and careful training. She didn't care about fame; she simply loved the land. Before her ride that morning, she slipped into her denim blue jeans, fastening her heavy leather, gold-trimmed belt before pulling on her red checkered shirt. She stepped into her fancy black-and-brown trimmed boots, completing the classic cowgirl look with a wide western hat and a vibrant red scarf. She walked out to inform her foreman, Robert, of her departure. Robert was a tall, handsome man—the kind any woman might easily fall for. In his private thoughts, Robert fancied that she might be in love with him, but it was deeper than that; he lusted after his alluring boss. Because he was naturally shy around women, he had never put his designs into words. This morning, his eyes feasted on her as she strutted by, watching the rhythmic, pendulum swing of her hips in those tight-fitting jeans. He adored her attire—the crimson flare of the scarf, the sharp lines of the denim, and the high leather boots. He resolved to say something complimentary, but she caught him off guard by speaking first.

"Robert, I’m heading out. Watch the guys and keep them in line for me. I should be back in about two hours." He opened his mouth to reply, but the words caught in his throat. As she walked away, he vowed that next time he wouldn't be caught unprepared. He would find the right words to break through her defenses. He would find a way to seduce her.

Dora went into the barn, saddled the palomino, and took off at a full gallop. Anyone watching would have been mesmerized by her alluring beauty and the absolute authority with which she handled the massive animal. The uneven rocky ground, caused the horse to sprint at a violent pace. Her body bounced in a mesmerizing rhythm to the animal’s stride as they charged toward a wooded glade. Suddenly, she encountered a steep, jagged incline.

Her better judgment warned her to turn back, but her pride refused. Dora had never backed down from a challenge in her life, and she wasn't about to start now. She spurred the palomino forward, sending him plunging down the embankment. Halfway down, the horse’s front hoof caught in a hidden hole. The animal came to a sudden, violent halt, bucking its hind legs high into the air. None of her horsemanship could save her. The explosive forward momentum launched Dora completely out of the saddle. She somersaulted through the air and slammed headfirst into the dirt. The brutal force of the impact snapped her neck with a dull crack. She flipped over, landing in a twisted position on her back. Dora lay spread-eagle on the floor of the glade, her vacant, unblinking eyes staring up into the blazing blue vault above.

Tom Scott was the owner of the Grand Prix Ranch. It was one of the largest spreads in southern New Mexico. Tom was not the usual rancher. A few years before

he had served prison time for rape. Released for good behavior he decided to set his life straight. Afterward he had been willed a large fortune after the death of

his grand father. He decided to use his new found wealth to buy a ranch. To help him out he hired a number of ranch hands. They were not straight, decent guys. They were

all former hardened criminals like himself. When ask why he hired such scum he said that he wanted to give them a chance and they were willing to work for cheap

wages. There was one in particular who had eared the name "Big Dick Sam." He had raped a woman he went out with on an internet date. He claimed that she chose him because

of the online pictures of his natural endowment. She claimed that he raped her. Obviously the jury believed her story. Tom had made Sam the leading foreman of the ranch.

He said it was simply because he was a good man.

That particular day Tom and gone out to check on his heard and had left his men behind. Having seen that all was in good order he decided to go down by the glade. He

rode through the wooded area until he reached the steep embankment. Far down at the foot he saw something shiny amid the spread of green. His curiosity caused him to dismount.

He tied his horse to a tree and started down on foot. Then he saw the beautiful palomino standing near the object of his interest. The horse had been saddled and the rider

was on the ground. As he got closer he could see that it was a young woman. How foolish of her to try to ride down that steep embankment. Perhaps she had paid the

ultimate price for her foolishness. She lay lifeless and still, her glazed eyes stared up at him. He saw how exquisitely beautiful she was and how well she was stuffed into her

cowgirl attire, a pair of blue jeans and a checkered red shirt. she had lost her hat which was on the ground beside her. Her mass of blond curls fanned out like golden tenacles on

the ground. Her lovely face was nearly oval in shape but softly angular in the plane of the shape bridge of her nose and her rounded cheeks. Her mouth was wide and sensual and the

lips cherry red. Even in a lifeless state she had the features of a strong and determined will as well as alluring beauty. His first instinct was to try to save her. He kneeled down

and looked at her carefully.

She was not breathing. He took her pulse. There was nothing. He decided to use what he knew of CPR on her. He bent down and started blowing into her mouth while at the

same time pressing on her chest. He soon realized that he should put his hand over her nose while doing this. He could see the rise and fall of her rising slopes as the air rushed

into her. If nothing else he was getting a trill out of having his mouth over the mouth of the young woman. Rather then press her chest he squeezed her ample mounds through her

blouse. After a while he checked her pulse and her breathing. Still there was nothing. He tried again but it was all in vain. He realized that his efforts were more for pleasure than

anything else. He came to a conclusion that he already knew. She was dead. Checking her out further he could tell that her neck was broken. His eyes roved over the young

woman's corpse. He could trace the outline of all her luscious curves under her tight fitting garments.

He knew he should have a reverent attitude for the dead but he couldn't help the rising feeling of lust. He had been in prison for rape and all the evil thoughts

he harbored were returning to him. He wondered what he should do with her. He knew The right thing to do-He should call the authorities but he didn't want

to do that. Then a more sinister thought occurred to him. He would take her back to the ranch as a surprise for the guys. He smiled to himself as wild, dark fantasies

raced through his mind. She would make the perfect play thing-the woman his dreams-his fulfilled fantasy of absolute vulnerability and total submissiveness.

He looked over at the young woman's horse grazing in the shrubbery. What a beautiful animal it was. He would just leave it there and perhaps it would wander home.

With no further ado he picked up her lifeless corpse and placed it over his horse. The ride back to the ranch was a most unique experience. His groin strained against her silent

void. As the animal sprinted the friction against the fabric was sheer delight. He enjoyed the bending arc of her body, the stretched elegance of her cowgirl attire, the gentle rocking

motion, her tumbling hair and the silent swing of her limbs.

It took him a while to get back to the ranch. One of his men was working around the front gate when her saw him approaching. Doubtless he saw the women dangling over

his saddle. He approached him.

"What is wrong Tom? What happened to her."

"She is dead", he replied. "I found her in the glade. She was foolish enough to attempt to go down the steep embankment. She landed at the very bottom and broke her silly

neck."

Holy mother, he replied. The young lady is dead! Shit!

He lifted up her head and looked at her. He had never looked into a face of a woman more lovely dead or alive. Her glazed emerald blue yes stared at him. Her beautiful

mane of curls were like a golden river. She looked like a big doll as she dangled lifelessly over the saddle her arms stretching toward the ground.

Holy mother of the saints. She is dead. What a fucking lose to the world.

"Gabrielle if you want to be useful rang the bell to call the men. Then help me get this lady in the house."

"Heavens Tom what do you aim to do with her?" I swear Tom I don't know what you figure we will do with a dead corpse even though she is such a beautiful one

I swear."

Now just do as you are told and help me carry her in the house."

By then his men had all gathered around. All their collective stares were directed toward the scene as Tom and gabby took the lifeless woman off the horse and carried her

toward the house. The men followed them yelling all kinds of questions.

"Holy shit", one of the men yelled out. "It is a woman."

"A dead one", yelled another. "A right pretty corpse indeed."

Tom did not answer any of their questions. They carried the young woman's body across the spacious living room and placed her upright on the sofa. The men were standing around

as though they were awe struck by her. Most of them had been in prison and had not seen a woman in years, especially one so lovely. She sat there perfectly motionless-a slumped

figure clad in flashing red and blue demin, her fixed, vacant stare directed right at them.

"What are you going to do with her?" one of the men yelled out.

"We are going to give her good send off and then we are going to bury her in a proper way, " replied Tom.

"What do you mean by a proper send off? "We thought you brought her here for our pleasure."

"You will have your turn as soon as I am through with her." he said to them in a voice tone that demanded respect.

Their collective silence indicated their approval. Tom now turned his full attention to the lifeless form of the woman sprawled out beside him. He gazed at her as though she were some curious form of

art. Her flamboyant cowgirl attire designed for riding and roping was totally at odds with her silent immobile state. There was a certain erotic overtone in her vacant stare, the acute tilt of her

head, the way her blond curls rested in a confused tangle over the sofa. He reached out and touched her face. The warmth he felt earlier was gone. Her index was now descending toward the

ambient temperature of the room. His hand moved gently along the curving arch of her neck. It would have been a most intimate moment had he not recalled exactly how her neck had snapped in the fall.

His hand continued down, stopping at the jutting rise of her mounds. He noted how they strained against the tight fabric. He remarked to his men how nice they were, turning to them with a smile.

They stood there with frozen looks of anticipation. Big Dick Sam stood in front of the group. The look of lust in his eyes hinted that he might lunge forward and claim what he imagined

was his. Tom Continued his probing of Dona's inert form. His hands undid the buttons of her shirt one by one. He then pulled open the fabric, exposing the smooth sea of flesh. With a fluid motion he

eased the shirt over her head, catching her arms as they lifted, then with a gentle swept tossing it on the floor. Instantly she gave to the weight of gravity. Her arms fell, scraping the textured

fabric of the sofa as they collapsed with a soft thud. He then reached for her bra. When he loosened the strap the elastic snapped freeing her round fleshy mounds. They spilled out in all

there magnificent glory. Death had not yet alter there firmness and structure. They stood out proudly without a bit of sag, A collective roar of laughs and cheers from the jaded crew filled the room.

The next item was her denim jeans. Because of their tight fit they were not as easy to remove. It took a few hard jerks and twist to pull them off of her wide thighs. With one smooth

movement he cleared them off her boots and flung them aside. Her legs were absolute masterpieces of natural sculpture, yards of shapely flesh, the muscles perfectly toned by years of exercise and

horseback riding. They seemed to stretch endlessly across the floor. To the men she was art, a graceful montage of sensual curves, lines, and intersections of soft flesh. Her frozen

stillness the epitome of absolute vulnerability. Tom rose up. With a quick, dexterous motion, he removed his clothes. He stood before her, a giant of physical statue and strength, an

Adonis of comeliness and virility, all negated by his evil intent. In appearance, her open eyes and gasping expression implied intense passion but her lifeless immobility spoke the truth.

She was a mannequin, a lifeless thing there for his pleasure. The men closed the distance, a quiet, predatory circle forming around the leather sofa. No one spoke. The heavy air buzzed with the scrape

of heavy boots and, collective sighs, and erratic breathing. Tom stepped closer, a look of intense desire in his eyes as he gazed at his object of fascination.

The room fell into an expectant, heavy silence as Tom moved in with the silent motion of a leopard stalking its prey. His knees bent as he shifted his center of gravity. He lurched forward, his movements cold and calculated as he forced her limp form into position. The crushing weight caused her to shift. She tumbled over, her head landing at a sharp angle on the arm of the sofa. Every time he tried to readjust her she slid away from him like oozing jelly. Unable to exert counter weight she became the hostage of gravity, her form twisting into all kinds of fantastic angles, her limbs flying out like dangling ropes. This did not deter Tom. The violent motion of her lifeless corpse only spurred him on, fulfilling his fantasy of absolute vulnerability. The rest of the crew stood by, watching in tense, somber silence, their eyes fixed on the rhythmic motion: Tom's grinding movements, her bent, shifting legs, the scrape of her leather boots against the sofa fabric, marking the passing minutes.

He let out a long, groaning sigh as he reached his peak. When he finally stepped back, he was totally spent, sweat pouring off him from the physical exertion. He gazed down at her. His fantasy was brutally shattered. She was not the regal ranch queen of his delusion. She was not even a woman. She was a mannequin, slumped under him in a lifeless heap, her torso twisted, her head tilted at a violent angle, her vacant stare directed at the ceiling. Only her blonde curls, draped over the arm of the sofa, truly bespoke of her once stately beauty. He sat her back up, roughly adjusting her head against the cushions until she was propped upright in a static, unblinking vigil. Turning toward the room with a cold, casual sneer, he locked eyes with his foreman. "Next, " Tom said flatly.

Big Dick Sam stepped out of the line, his massive, lumbering frame casting a shadow over the sofa. He was a brute who abided by no principles, looking down at the fallen ranch queen like a predator stalking prey. He stepped up to the cushions, his heavy hands violently jostling her limp form as he prepared to claim her for his own amusement. Across the room, Tom watched the spectacle, a deep, sickening revulsion twisting in his gut. There was something about the stocky built giant, something about his twisted grin as he casually tossed around Tom's object of affection, his unflinching

desire to move in and violate what Tom considered his own. He looked around at the wide eyed stares of the men who were enjoying the disgusting spectacle. He began to regret he had brought her there to see his private illusion shattered by a group of thugs and hardened criminals. He knew that if he interfered, the mob of thugs might turn their violence on him. Yet, as Sam reached down to roughly handle the corpse—flopping her head at an impossible, broken angle—Tom reached his breaking point. The manic pride he felt for his fallen queen surfaced in a violent rage. Vaulting out of his chair, Tom slammed his fist against the table and screamed out, cutting through the jovial hum of the room like a hammer.

"Enough! "This has gone to far. We have to show at least some respect for her dignity. Now back away Sam. You are finished, next!"

To make his point he walked over and shoved Sam aside. "Tom was determined to enforce his rule over his motley employees no matter what. Tom knew things could get nasty but he was ready for it. His men knew the hopelessness of defying him. At the best they would end up wondering vagrants. At the worst they would return to prison. After a few protest and yells the men settled down and Sam walked away. The next to step out was Gabby. Gabby was the complete opposite of Tom and Sam. He was a tall and slender older man with graying hair and a mustache. Obviously he did not possess the power and the agility of the younger men. He naturally incurred some laughter and derision as he stepped into the arena for his turn at the cowgirl queen. One of the men yelled out.

""She is your kind of women. She is totally submissive and she will not reject you at all."

Gabby was used to such insults from his companions, but this time it was a personal and direct attack on his manhood that cut to the quick. The derisive laughter of the men echoed through the room, pressuring him to go against his moral code to prove them wrong. Still he hesitated. When he had first seen her draped over the saddle, he thought she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Now she seemed different. She appeared as an unblinking mannequin, propped and splayed on the sofa, her vacant eyes staring into nothingness. Spurred by the collective jeers, Gabby reluctantly stepped toward the couch. But as he drew closer, the illusion of her beauty completely shattered. She was no longer a sleeping queen. Her skin was a marble mask of death, marred by the harsh purple bruising where the others had roughly handled her. The curved arc of her neck that looked so graceful, was only a reminder of her final moments. The chill of her skin was a shock to his touch. When he reached out to adjust her position, her head pivoted at a bizarre, unnatural angle, shattering completely the image of a long, graceful bend to the reality of the tragic break. A sickening wave of revulsion hit Gabby's stomach. Looking at the vacant, dilated pupils staring past him, his pride and dignity completely evaporated. He realized there was no point in even pretending to satisfy the mob; they would deride him regardless. A deep feeling of anger and disgust washed over him. Turning his back on the sofa and the shouting men, Gabby silently grabbed his clothes and drifted out of the room without a word, leaving the frantic mob behind him.

"Next, " Tom yelled with dry note in his voice. For what seemed like an eon the disgusting spectacle continued with Dora's corpse being abused and violated by the gang of thugs. By that tine she was not

the same as when Tom brought in. She looked like a broken doll. Her skin had turned to a pale off grey with blue patches all up and down her body. Tom could see that if she was going to be presentable

for the funeral, he would have to stop the orgy right away. Tom got up and raised his hands.

"Stop, " he said. "I have to prepare her for the funeral."

"Funeral, " said one of his men. "Why have a funeral. We could just dump her in the river."

"I am the boss here and I say she gets a funeral and a proper one." "Anyone who disagrees will find himself without work."

As usual this threat quieted the men down. Tom then ordered a few of his men to the funeral home to purchase a casket and a stand. Tom then ordered Gabby to help him take her upstairs, The two men then

picked up Dora's corpse off the sofa. Gabby gripped her leather boots while Tom hoisted her shoulders. They began the long trek across the living room and the long flight of stairs with the dead weight.

Gabby remarked how heavy she was. At times they paused to adjust, as her waxy, limbs kept sliding through the loops of Tom's arms. Her head drooped, her neck snapped backward, her mass of flung curls

draped on Tom's shoulder. The fabric sliding against Tom's shirt made a low, wisping sound. He might have found intrigue in the bending curve of her neck had he not been too consumed with arduous task

of reaching the top. The heels of her shifting leather boots ground into Gabby's skin causing a sharp, stabbing pain. He renewed his efforts to steady her shifting bulk while Tom did his share of the

heavy lifting. No matter how much they heaved, she slid like waxy jell right through their grips.

As they approached the top steps, their exhaustion became evident. Tom's breathing became labored. His shoulders burned from the pressing weight. Gabby's strained features indicated he was about to

lose his grip. Tom noticed that they were near the top. Then with an immense effort he bounded up the final step, pulling her from Gabby's grip. Then with his immense strength he dragged her over the

final step. He then released her. She dropped to the floor with a loud thud. Her naked corpse was now sprawled into a haphazard, twisted position. Tom and Gabby stood over her looking down at the

lifeless heap. Tom still found a certain delicate beauty in her tragic form, the juxtaposed angle of her torso and head, totally at odds with the stretched-out pose of her legs and her pointed

leather boots. her turned-up vacant gaze into nothingness, the scattered blonde curls spread across the floor. The way her arms flung out like aligned ropes, the tapering curled fingers.

Tom reached down, the aesthetic shattered by the touch of cold skin. Gripping her arms tightly and straightening his knees he hoisted the heavy form. As she lifted from the floor the sheer weight

bent her into a flexing arch of pungent flesh. Her head angled sharply backward, her golden tresses lifting into a silent golden curtain over his arms. Tom locked his eyes onto her face. Her vacant gaze

remained perfectly fixed at the ceiling, serene and unblinking. Her arms hung down like detached rags, her once elegantly curled fingers reaching at the floor, as they proceeded with calculated steps

down the long hall. When they reached the bedroom they halted, giving themselves time to catch their breath. Then with renewed energy they crossed the threshold into the bedroom.

"Lets set in that chair, " Tom ordered Gabby, his breath coming in gust.

Their final efforts was the finish of their long trek up the stairs and the end of their grim task. Gabby was glad to finally be free from the strain of moving the heavy corpse. With grim faces and

flexed limbs they carried the dangling load over to the chair that set in front of the elegant dresser mirror. Then with very careful deliberate movements they sat her upright in the chair, steadying

her to make sure she did not tumble over.

"You can go now, " Tom said to Gabby with a wave of his hand.

The latch of the bedroom door clicked shut, as Gabby fled. His retreating footsteps echoed down the hall. Tom was alone. He turned, his chest rising and falling from the previous action. He looked at

the silent heap slumped before him, her pale flesh looked completely drained—a clean, white canvas waiting for him. He didn't just think of a solution; a frantic urgency gripped him. He yanked open

his ex-wife's vanity drawers, sweeping his fingers through compacts and tubes until he unearthed the powders and rouges. But she needed more than a painted face. She needed her armor. Tom lunged to the doorway, throwing it open to bark an order down the stairs, demanding her discarded riding gear be brought up instantly. When the bundle of denim and fringe was dumped at his feet, Tom slammed the door once more. He fell to his knees in a frenzy of fabric and cold limbs, ready to rebuild his fantasy. Tom grabbed the denim, clutching them in his fingers. With a sweeping determined motion he pushed her leather boots through the open spread of the jeans. With a series of mechanical twist and jerks he slid them up her legs. The violent motion caused her to shift. She tumbled sideways into a nearly horizontal position. her head falling on the arm of the chair. He didn't care. His task did not require her stability. With a hard, tugging pull, he yanked the stubborn fabric over her hips. Then with a fumbling movement of his fingers he fastened them securely and pulled up the zipper, locking the flap into place. He might have saw her total indifference in her vacant fixed gaze but he was too absorbed with the task before him. He then picked up the flannel shirt. Now he had to set her upright again. With one sweep he put her back in a seated position. He then lifted her arms and slipped them into the sleaves, pulling down until it was a secure fit. With a steady motion of his hands he smoothed out the material. His hingers worked at the buttons, snaping them in place one by one. The last one was a victory.

He moved back to study her as a painter would his work. His eyes swept over the slumping arc of blue denim and flaming red flannel. He could see the vision, riding on her palomino, violently spurring

the animal on as it raced across the grassy plain, her boots kicking at the stirrups, her hair flying, her frame leaning forward, her motion becoming a graceful blur of blue and red. Suddenly the image dissolved into the slumped, lifeless figure sitting in front of him. His fingers groped at the containers of makeup on the table. He picked up the dark base and began applying it to her face. The

transformation was amazing. The pale white skin took on a natural flushed color as though her blood was flowing again. Next came a shade of pink across her cheeks, adding life to her. He

looked at her reflection in the mirror. The gasping expression of surprise would not do. With a sweep of his hand he closed her eyes and her mouth. Instantly she took on the look of restful repose.

For his purposes he liked that much better. Then came the magic, a deep blue coat of mascara over her eyelids. Now came the final stroke: crimson liner to embellish the pale purple of her lips.

He looked at her with a critical gaze. She was his masterwork, a sweeping symphony of blue denim and red corduroy, with leather boots and blonde cascading curls completing the assembly. He had restored the regal ranch queen to her throne.

Tom reached down and scooped her out of the chair. With one hand he opened the door and started slowly down the hall with the bent lifeless form that was his prize. With slow deliberate

steps he reached the end of the hall. He started the long descent down the stairs. Even though he cradled her tightly she kept slipping from his grasp, requiring a constant

readjustment. His breathing became labored. Profuse drops of sweat dripped down his face. He could see his men gathered down stairs. When he reached the bottom steps every eye turned toward him as

though he were a returning king. It was not really him that drew their attention. It was the flash of blue denim and flaming red corduroy he cradled in his arms. It was the way the light reflected brilliantly off her belt buckle, the cascading curtain of golden curls, It was the shadowy angle of the painted waxen face. Tom slipped by them as though they were phantoms as he strode toward the open casket with his fallen queen, his eyes focused straight ahead of him. A hushed silence fell over the room. No one dared say a word. When he reached the casket he stopped.

He slowly lowered her into the casket, taking meticulous and almost obsessive care to arrange her in the soft silky lining, positioning her head at just the right angle. Almost tenderly and with

the most loving attention he smoothed her blond curls over her shoulders. He gazed at her, admiring what he considered his handiwork, his art. She didn't look dead at all, just asleep. The vision of the riding cowgirl was now the vision of the slumbering ranch queen. It wasn't now the blaze of blue denim and fiery red corduroy, it was the juxtaposition of their static neutrality, a symbol of peaceful serenity, the beauty of eternal rest. Most of all he admired the make over, the work he had put into masking her pale features, the perfect blend of the tones along the angular lines, the deep blue that streaked her closed eyelids, and the crimson red that enhanced the sculptured curve of her lips. He noted how white her neck was in contrast to the flush of her face. He noticed the line of demarcation along her chin. Then the reality hit him like a brick. It was all a lie. The rouge didn't mimic life. It was a cheap paint splattered over a plastic mannequin. The closed eyes were a mockery She wasn't a sleeping queen, she was a rotting fraud, an insult to his Godhood with absolute irreversible death. He hated and despised her. A furious anger came over him. He turned around to face his men.

"Take her down to the ravine and throw her in casket and all, " he said to them, in a raspy high commanding tone.

The men looked at each other in dismay. He had called them together for a funeral. He was to deliver a eulogy for her and she was to be buried close by in a solemn ceremony. Now she was to be thrown

in the ravine. A hum of angry whispers filled the room. They felt cheated and lied to. He had told them she was to be respected and honored with a descent burial. He had stopped the orgy and waisted his

time and theirs to prepare her. It was the ultimate insult to them. One of the men screamed out:

"Why do you want to throw her in the river? We spent money on that casket and for the plot of land to bury her on. "

""I have reconsidered, " tom yelled back at him. "there is probably right now a search party out looking for her with dogs. If we bury her here we might get caught. Then we will all end up in prison. If

we throw her in the ravine the dogs will lose the scent." Besides I am the boss here and I say she goes in the ravine."

Tom was lying to them. He never thought they would be caught while conducting a private ceremony but it was the only way he might sooth their anger. His rational sounded logical to them so they

bought it hook, line, and sinker. The angry voices died away. A deadly silence fell over the room. Tom proceeded to give them the quick eulogy they had expected, praising the deceased cowgirl, speaking

in rambling metaphors about dignity, respect, and eternal rest. When he was finished he assigned five men to the task of taking the heavy casket down to the ravine.

The mean stepped forward. They were stout and rough looking men. They lifted the casket off of its stand, their frames bending and their muscles flexing as they heaved the heavy medal. They advanced

forward toward the door with slow determined steps. Their grim faces twisted because of the strain. When they reached the door, someone flung it open. With marching steps they entered the terrace

and began the long trek to the ravine. Tom sat there staring vacantly, his gaze focused on them until they were out of sight. Then he yelled out to the rest of his grew:

"Don't just stand there. Go with them. They might need your help."

His voice sounded raspy and almost hoarse as he screamed out the command. Instantly the men obeyed filing out the door to meet their comrades. The door shut behind them. Now Tom was left alone. He

sat there as immobile as a marble statue. He continued his blank stare. He was totally emotionally drained. He was no longer angry. He felt nothing but an empty void. He could not free his mind of the

blue and red clash of denim and corduroy, the closed blue panted lips and flowing blond curls of the fallen ranch queen lying motionless and caressed by white silk. His mind went back to the time he

first found her lying by her horse in the glade, her blonde curls scattered, her eyes glazed. She looked like a fallen Venus in blue jeans, leather, and corduroy. Indeed she was so beautiful his mind

could not accept the fact that she was dead. Right at that moment he fell in love with her. He desired her. He was obsessed with her. When he saw he could not revive her, the cold reality that she was

dead hit him like a bolt. If he could not have her alive, he would have her dead corpse. The fantasy consumed him. She became his play thing, a wax mannequin, a rag doll for his delight. When he was

spent on her and saw his men roughly violating her it hurt him to the core. He decided he would rebuild her into the regal queen she once was with makeup and corduroy. He failed. He saw the broken doll

beneath the facade. He knew then that cold death had claimed her forever. It made him furious. It twisted his gut. But now he knew why he really wanted her in the ravine. He wanted to get her out of

his life and his mind forever, that etched image of blue and flaming red and those flying blond curls. If he buried her on his property, every time he rode by he would see the etched marker and the

inscription. Once again the fiery image would flash into his mind. If she was in the ravine the violent waters would remove every trace of her. She would be out of his thoughts forever. Now he wasn't

sure he could ever reclaim the void. He let out a long sigh and buried his head in the palms of his hands.

Across the grassy plains, spread under a blazing blue vault above, proceeded a solemn procession of men. They walked in a collective rhythm of steps that bespoke of a determined purpose. Their grim faces

etched in a strained expression from the weight of the heavy load they carried, a black and silver casket containing the remains of the fallen ranch queen. Their stern gazes were focused straight ahead

of them, toward their destination, the banks of the rushing ravine. their expressed purpose was to carry out the orders of Tom Scott to dump the remains in the churning waters. They could now see

the ragged line of tall trees that lined its banks and hear the roar of the rushing current. They continued on until they reached the rocky cliffs. They paused, and lowered the casket to the ground.

They looked down into the deep chasm of tangled sticks and brush. During the brief, solemn pause, the deadly silence was broken by the rush of the wind through the tress, the collective song of

birds, and the low roar of the rushing water. Now it was not a burial service they were conducting. It was a total closure, the easing of a haunting memory by a deep abyss. A few men stepped forward

to perform the final grim task. They grabbed hold of the casket and pushed it until it went over the edge of the bank. It slid down the steep rocky slope making a loud reverberating sound as it

crashed into rocks, brush, and tree limbs. When it reached the muddy shore the wild current grabbed it and carried it into the raging stream. The men gazed down at the floating black metal box now

tossed around by the thundering waves. They watched it in somber silence until it was swallowed up in the distant, roaring fog. Then without even a prayer or a regret the men slowly turned and

walked away. the soft stomping of their collective footsteps echoing almost silently.

When Dora Johnson did not return from her ride that day a full search was conducted. Robert Stevens and Dora's ranch hands had combed of the vast ranch and surrounding areas but they found no trace

of her. Only her horse was found feeding in the glade. The authorities were called to help in the search but still no clue or evidence was found. After a month Dora had not returned. Robert and her crew

had finally come to the grim conclusion that she had met some horrible fate. For the police it had become a missing person case. There was now the presumption of some kind of fowl play. Robert was

beside himself with grief and the fear that he would never see his beautiful boss again. He recalled her last words to him: "I will be back in two hours. Be sure to keep the men in line." Hs mind clasp

his last image of her, clad in her blue jeans, her checkered red shirt and scarf, her leather boots and wide rimmed hat. For weeks he had been a wondering phantom, clinging to visions and hope. That

hope would soon be shattered by a terrible revelation.

The news that a casket had been found on the banks of the muddy ravine created a wave of excitement among the ranch grew. Soon Robert and the men reached the sight of the discovery. Ropes tied to

a pickup truck were used to pull the heavy metal box out of it's muddy entombment. As the truck lunged forward the wheels grinded with a loud moaning hiss. the truck's engine suddenly stopped and the

wheels came to a grinding halt as the casket was pulled onto the bank. There was a deadly silence as oppressive as the heat. The men gather around, their minds filled with fear and the hope that it

would be empty. An iron crowbar was used to pry the lid open. Those few moments seemed like an eternity. Robert's breath came in uneven gust. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest. There was a

loud grating sound as the lid was pried from its tight seal. Then it flew open. What they saw inside caused a collective gasp. Inside the now soiled lining of the casket lay the remains of Dora

Johnson their beautiful ranch boss. She was not even a shadow of the lovely woman they knew. The once captivating face was now an almost skeletal mask. Her emerald green eyes were now sunken, dark

slits in her skull. Her full round cheeks had caved into a hollow valley. Her pouty full lips were now shriveled and drawn, exposing her teeth and gums. Only her blond curls were left as reminders of

her once elegant beauty. Her denim jeans and red checkered shirt were reduced to tattered rags covered in mud and dirt. Her leather boots were soiled and covered with a green fungus. The disgusting

smell of rotting flesh combined with the sent of the bog. Robert stepped back, nearly over come by the site. The men grabbed him thinking he might fall. He screamed out and his fist clenched until

his knuckles turned white.

"Who would do something like this, what animal?"

He sobbed bitterly, as he cried out repeatedly, "Dora what did they do to you?" "My God" "I will catch your murderers, I promise you and make them pay!"

In a few minutes the banks of the ravine swarmed with police cars and other emergency vehicles. Dora's remains were carefully removed from the casket and placed on a stretcher. A medical person was

called to examine the body. After a few minutes the examiner walked slowly up to Robert.

"She died of a broken neck. That is all we know. Judging by the nature of her injury, most likely she did not suffer. Most probably she died instantly."

"She must have been murdered. Overwise how did she get in the casket?" Robert replied grimly.

"We don't know that there was a murder because we don't know what transpired between the time she died and the time she was put in the casket. We only know that there was a culprit as it is certain that

didn't climb into it herself. We are certain of one thing. There was a crime. No matter we will find the one or ones who did this and punish them to the full extent of the law."

Robert seemed satisfied with this promise of justice. The group of ranch hands stood there solemnly watching as the remains of their beautiful boss was wheeled away and put into the awaiting ambulance.

There was a loud roar of the engine as the wheels of the vehicle spun in the mud, then rolled off into the distance. It was a surreal moment for Robert. He could not believe that his regal queen was

gone. He could almost see her standing next to him, in her blue jeans and red blazing shirt and scarf, her blonde curls flowing from her hat and cascading down her shoulders. her heavy leather boots

sinking in the mud as she shifted her stance. Her smile brightened her lovely face as she turned to him. Then the vision faded. Tears rolled down his cheeks. Slowly the group dispersed as the vehicles

drove away. Robert now a solemn pathetic figure walked away with his head bowed.

Dora Johnson was buried on a small piece of private property reserved on her ranch. Because of the condition of her remains the short ceremony was closed casket. The group of ranchers stood solemnly

with their heads bowed and their hats off as the eulogy in praise of the fallen ranch queen was delivered. He spoke not only off her regal beauty, but the goodness of her soul, her perseverance to

achieve, and her willingness to take daring risk to face danger no matter what the cost. Tom stood there like a motionless statue as he listened the words. They sounded like lofty phrases that had no

meaning, like distant bells ringing in a thunder storm. Nothing changed the fact that she was gone and the empty void in him. When he saw the casket being lowered into the ground he knew that a big

part of him was going into the ground with it. He heard the chunking sound of the dirt falling into fill the deep hole. To him it was the final seal of her venture on earth, the relegation of her

from a beautiful living being to a mere memory. Once again the vision returned. She was riding her favorite palomino across the dusty plans, her blonde hair flying, her legs kicking hard at the

stirrups. She became a blur of flaming red and blue as she leaned forward in the saddle. Then like a ghost she faded away. Tom gritted his teeth and clenched his fist. A low whisper came from his

throat.

Dora I promise you I will make them pay. I will make them pay!"

Two days later Tom's silent revery was disturbed by a knock on the door. With his usual lumbering gate he walked over and opened it. There were two police officers standing on his porch. For a while he

just stood there looking at them as though they were some curious species of plant. He was the first to speak.

"May I help you gentlemen, " he said, trying his best to look casual.

"We need to ask you a few questions, " said one of the officers.

"About what?" Tom replied.

"There was a young woman found dead in the ravine not far from here. She had been placed in a casket and apparently thrown into the water. Now we are not accusing anyone. We are just here to ask you a

few questions about rather you might have seen or heard something. May we come in?"

"Sure make yourselves at home gentlemen, " again trying to appear indifferent.

"I think we will search the place first, " the officer said to him with a grim expression.

"Sure go ahead, " "but you will not find anything here."

"Can you explain those deep foot prints out on the terrace?" "It looks like five men were carrying a heavy load and the footprints lead straight to the ravine"

"Uuuuuuuh.....We killed and skinned a large deer some time ago and we discarded it."

"Do your men usually walk on each side of the deer in such a fashion. The footprints indicate that they were carrying something like a box." "Judging by the deep prints I would say it was a

very heavy one."

"I have found something over here" the other officer interrupted. "It looks like blond hair from a woman's head."

"Some of my men who work for me have blond hair, " Tom responded.

"Where are your men?" the officer ask.

"Oh they are probably out working in different parts of the ranch, mending fences and such, " Tom replied.

"Call them in, " the officer replied.

"I don't think you have the right to come in here and...."

"Call them in immediately replied the officer, " in a stern commanding voice.

Realizing that there was no need to resist Tom walked out on the porch and ring the dinner bell. Within moments the men came filing in through the door. When they saw the officers they froze like

statues with etched expressions of guilt on their faces.

"Take off their boots, " said one of the officers and match each one of them to the footprints outside."

Tom stood there in there middle of the room looking nervously around as the officers removed the men's boots to measure them to the footprints outside. An eternity seemed to pass before the officers

reentered the room.

"Five of them are a perfect fit. It looks like five men were carrying a really heavy object in the direction of the ravine. They don't stop at the terrace. They head out toward the plains. The casket,

the blond hair. Everything fits. All of you are going to have to come down to the station to answer further questions."

At that moment a flood of police officers rushed into the room and began putting handcuffs on the men. Tom sat down on the sofa. He sighed deeply as he put his head down in the palms of his hands. Once again the vision appeared of flaming red and blue, blonde curls, and leather boots.