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Derry got a mite concerned.
Maybe five minutes' walk outside of town, on a slow nag that he'd borrowed, and he couldn't keep his eyes open. It wasn't the whiskey, and it wasn't too much sportin' with the whores. He himself doubted there was such a thing of too much of either...
He wanted a smoke, but knew better than to try and roll one in his state. Still had half a cigar - but lighting it turned out to be beyond him. What a state he was in. Never been too drunk to strike a match before. And on half a bottle? Bad hootch, maybe. He didn't have no fever or anything. Maybe he should turn around, get a room for the night. Bunk down in the stable...

Something brushed up against his face.
Did he nod off? He was going to do something, in town, but he forgot what it was. Damnation.

He dozed again.
Later on, his nose itched. He went to scratch it... but he couldn't. He opened his eyes. It was hard to focus...
Rocks and young spruce trees were going by. After a bit, he figured out why they looked weird. He was layin' sideways over the horse. Derry started to sit up -
But it turned out he was tied.
"Hey, now," he slurred. "Who... uh, hello?"
No answer. No other horses around, either.
The nag picked its way up a loose slope. Not hurrying, neither -
Up?
The durn-fool horse knew the way home. It had been born in Montana City. So why was it climbing up the pass again? Shoot. Garnet was the wrong way...
Derry tried to whistle a few times, but was getting jostled too much. The rope was tight enough to keep him from sliding under, and he couldn't get out of it. Probably his own rope, too.

Best he could figure, he musta passed out... and somebody else leaving town came across him. Figgered he needed a doctor, and roped him so he wouldn't fall off. And then (he figgered) they got separated. Didn't sound right, but he couldn't think of any other way to explain it...
And the stupid horse worked its way up the mountain, slow and steady - almost as if it was bein' led.
The jostling motion, and the warmth of the horse against his cheek, rocked Derry back to sleep.

He heard the snapping of a campfire, grunted and opened his eyes carefully -
Fireplace. He was indoors. Well, if that don't beat all.
A little cabin. He tried to figure out where he was, and remembered heading up the pass. But this horse couldn't have gotten to Garnet already.
What kind of a fool would build this far up? No good for trapping, or hunting. And the weather must blow somethin' frightful, up here.
Derry stole a look around. Didn't see nobody. Maybe they went for the doc... which would be embarrassing, 'cause he felt fine now. But what was he thinkin'? There wouldn't be no settlers up here, much less any doctor. He couldn't get over it - who picked this spot for their cabin?
He went to set up... but not much happened.
Tried again. His arms, they was stretched way out there. They -
He couldn't move 'em.

Rope? He looked, and blinked a few times. Naw. Some kind of reins. Real thick, black... hobbles. Well, of all th-
He looked down, and saw his boots sittin' there. That was worth a ponder all by itself - they was tight, and it took him a good ten minutes to pull 'em off - but he stared at his own self and saw somethin' he ani't never seen in all his days
His legs were strapped down, too. They were held down by black cuffs and a couple reins apiece.

Derry started to wrestle around. There was some rugs under him. Bearskin, by the smell. That worried him - injuns. The tribe, they jumped me, and brought me in here. But that didn't make no sense. They didn't build cabins, and they stayed well east of here. He'd heard about some of 'em staking a guy out, though. But that was done outside, and further to the south, so they'd die of thirst and the buzzards would come get 'em.
Then he could only figger some soul had taken his condition to be serious. Maybe he'd been flopping around and they wanted to make sure he wouldn't throw himself in the fire, while they went to get the doc.
He looked around again. Maybe there was a doc in Garnet now, but it was a purty small town. Folks would take him in and see if he improved, more likely. It'd be the neighborly thing to do - 'ceptin' he wasn't sick.
But why the blazes would they see fit to hobble him so? Shoot, he wished they'd just tied him on the dumb horse and taken him back down to Helena, 'stead of clearing off like this...
Durn horse. Why'd it want to go and haul him up this way, anyhow?

He was trussed up real good. Somebody must've thought he'd be a peck of trouble...
The wind had picked up. He was right glad to be indoors, in front of a fire. Even if he was stuck there. They'd had an unseasonable warm snap, for the tail end of September, but it looked like it was comin' to an end.
"Hello... Anybody home?" he yelled. But he knew there wasn't. The cabin wasn't froupy enough to look like a woman lived there.
And, he thought, it was too clean to belong to any trapper. Didn't look too lived-in at all. He'd overheard fancy folk in Helena, talkin' about their "other houses". It seemed like a heap of bother, to Derry. So maybe this was one o' them. Only a dude would be fool enough to put a cabin anywhere near Garnet Pass...

He looked around him again. Not much else to do.
Past his right hand, where the reins held it down against the rug, there was something shiny -
It was a bottle. And it looked to be full. Funny-looking shape. Almost square, and it had a black label. Derry couldn't read, but he thought he knew whiskey when he saw it.
There was a box settin' next to it, and he looked for a long while. Didn't look like a wood box. Wrong shape for bullets... or cigars. He wished it was open, so he could see what was inside.
He straightened his neck, and looked at the fire. Why would there be whiskey near him, on the floor? Probably whoever the cabin belonged to, they bunked there.
The cuffs, they wasn't about to loosen. He tried...

What a predicament. It'd take him two days, and longer if the weather didn't hold, to get home and tell the boys. And they'd think he was dreaming all this. This was not the kind of thing that ever happened... Unless you were out of your head. Fever.

Laid out like this... and he wasn't ailin'. So why else...
And Derry, he had a wild thought. This here cabin had to belong to somebody. Suppose it was... a whore. Who was rich. And she saw him in town and took a shine to him, and hitched him up so he couldn't get away...
He didn't think whores made all that much money, but he mooned over the prospect just the same. His pecker got hard, but he remembered he was alone, still. So that was okay. He thought up the whores he had known, and that one blonde girly in Jackson Hole, the one he'd fallen in love with when he was too broke to buy her. What if he seen her come in through the door, take a look up and down him - all laid out on the durn-fool rug - and then start on over, with a bold smile...

Well, dreamin' was well and good. But he was wide awake now. He worked on one strap at a time, tryin' to stretch 'em. Snap 'em. Then he kicked for awhile.
They was too thick for reins. Derry couldn't make out how they were fixed up to the cuffs, but it was the best work he'd ever come across. You kick at a rein long enough, and a ring will split. Or you just plain wear out the leather where it holds the rings. But best he could tell, these were none the worse for wear. He doubted even Big Saul could break 'em. Which made sense, if they was for holding somebody down who had rabies or somethin'. He'd seen a snakebit farmer throw four men off him, and it took eight or nine to rope him properly. They got most of the poison out, and after he woke up that farmer was real weak -
Derry heard something. He looked up, and saw the bottle move. Now, how could that be?
But it disappeared. He brought his head back around. There it was -
It was over him. In the air! But not fallin'. It set there, like it was on a table.
Derry thought maybe he was struck with the fever, after all.

The bottle fell, real slow. When it was about level with his nose, it stopped in the air. Just setting still -
It made a little noise. Like paper. Yup, around the cork, there was paper. Now, wait, it warn't no cork. The top of the bottle just came all the way off. Derry looked around. Still didn't see nobody. It had to be for him... but he couldn't get over how it was floatin' hither and back, all by itself.
The strange cork fell down and rolled away.
Somethin' pressed up to the top of his head, in back. He tried to look, and lifted -
It shoved under him. Didn't hurt him, or nuthin'. Got under his neck too, pickin' his head up a fair piece.
Derry sniffed - and checked it again. Of all the tomfoolery!
It looked like a big pillow, but it was covered in cowhide. Black as night, and oiled up. Somebody made a pillow - out of leather. Sure 'nuff. Just plumb crazy.
But right then, the bottle moved. Like it was in his hand. It came up and set between his lips, and started to pour.

He was put off by... the bottle's way. Just moving like it didn't care what he thought. No even so much as a how-do-you-do. But he was wonderin'. So he took a little nip. Swallowed it - and made a face. Waterered-down. Didn't hardly burn. What slicker would take to this cow piss? He started to turn his head, but the bottle clicked on his front teeth.
That got his dander up... But he figgered somebody was doin' this, somehow, and it had to be that they was tryin' to be helpful. Derry was raised to accept a kindness, and however in tarnation his host was making the bottle jump up and pour, Derry didn't want to be thought of a rude cowpoke. Gettin' mad could come later.
"Obliged," he tried to say, around the glass. Didn't feel all that thankful, but it was a night full of wonders. Then he set his lips around the bottle, and it tilted again.
He swallowed... and swallowed. The bottle stayed there. He started to - turn, but the dang bottle warn't in any hurry to go. By the time it set back down he'd had himself mebbe four drinks' worth, at one go. He didn't think much of somebody's manners -
The box raised up next. He watched it come closer, and despite hisself he wondered more and more what it was.

One of the ends opened. It sounded like paper, 'cept who ever heard of a box made of paper? There were smaller boxes inside that one, and one of 'em slid out. It hung there, like it was on a hook, while the big one floated clean over him and set down past the rug.
The little box started to - peel. It shed its skin on top. Clear skin, noisy. Then, something that looked like tin.
A tube started to slide out.
Kerry made a noise, as he watched, 'cause it reminded him of a smoke.
When that package box was set down, next to his side, he saw a whole bunch of tubes - and they were all round.
The tube headed for his mouth.
Well, he was purely muddled. Warn't no ceegar.

Couldn't be a usual cigarette, neither. It was too fat, and besides the ends were left open. He'd never heard of such a thing... like there was a machine, somewhere, that could roll smokes.
He jes' couldn't believe it... but it touched his lip, and stopped there.
Automatically, he closed his lips on it. Yep. Odd, though. He was of a mind to have himself one, but this was a mite too much hospitality -
He turned his head. "Uh, thank you kindly, b-"
The durn smoke stayed there. He stopped talking, and threw his head the other way. It fell out - but then it followed...
It chased his mouth around for a few minutes, gettin' him all in a pother. Nobody was listenin'.

That made him stop and think. What if that was true? Nobody... here, 'ceptin' him?
Derry pulled at the reins again, and sighed.
The smoke sat on his bottom lip, and stayed right there.
He saw a little piece of wood get up and poke into the fire, and set a spell. It came out with a little flame.
He reckoned he'd made it plain as day... But as the bit of fire came nearer, he figgered he had to make make up his mind. Play along, or not.
Gettin' burned up was not a choice he was keen on. And it was a hard thing to deal with a bully, when your fists were stapped down.
So when the flame got to the smoke, he frowned at it. But then he pulled on it, after all -
Sweet! Didn't taste right. It was sweet. He coughed it back out. As sissified as the whiskey. There were other things wrong, too. It was almost like when his own pouch got all wet and he didn't dry it out right. Some smoke this was...
But he was kinda stuck with it, now. Didn't want no ashes burnin' up that bearskin under him.

He looked back over, at the big box. Derry was a man who liked to have a smoke after meals, and one before he turned in. Maybe a couple more when he went to a saloon, or a couple ceegars. And he couldn't begin to reckon how many of these fancy-britches smokes was just lyin' there, ready to go. There must... be a hunnerd of 'em.
He tugged on it again, and sorta wished he'd kept on declining the offer. Something about that many smokes bein' there at once got him skittish. He tried the reins sorely...
But he was stuck.
As it burned down, he wunnered if it w-
Something yanked it out of his mouth. He sighed.
Then the package moved a little, and... another smoke came out!
That got him riled again. Not yet.
But the new cigarette warn't about to take no for an answer. The first one pressed against it, just like if he'd got a light off some other man's smoke.
Then the first smoke sprang isself into the fire.
It was vexing how easy the dang things moved around...

So he smoked, and he smoked some more.
It just beat all.

After a couple more smokes, he was good n' drunk.
Then, another bottle showed up. Clear, smaller, but awful thin for glass. It had water in it.
Derry drank the water, slowly. Needin' it, 'specially after those smokes. Why somebody would go and put water in a dang bottle, he didn't know. Water, bottled up like it was whiskey, and with a fancy label like it was somethin' to buy.
When that bottle went away, he pulled at the reins again, slow and sly. Took a gander at the smokes, just in case they had any ideas.
Nothing happened for a long minute.
Then he looked - And a log was going up. Setting itself on the fire.
Maybe I do have a fever, he wunnered. This is all contrary to nature. Cain't be be nuthin' but a dream -
A can appeared. Right out of the fire... or just in front, as if it dropped down real fast, from the rafters. It set down, real slow, between his feet. He couldn't reckon what was in it.
And then, he got the biggest surprise yet - 'cause a bunch of hands showed up.

Just past him, between him and the fire. Six...
No, they was gloves. That was alright, then. Black cowhide.
And he couldn't see no hands, inside 'em. Or no arms underneath. But they looked just like they had hands in 'em.
"Dang," he mumbled. There's gotta be somebody here, wearin' -
He looked all around. Listened real hard. Smelled the air, even. Shoot. Nobody. Of all the tomfoolery... Gloves didn't just up and float around.
Well... not any more than bottles did. Or smokes.
Black fingers, all full up. Palms puffed out. When they turned a little, he looked at 'em real hard. No hands in 'em. Empty as a snakeskin.
Movin', though. Yes they were.

He saw 'em go down to the pail and scoop something. Pale white, and shiny. He was reminded of fatback. They got some grease on their hollow ol' fingers, and rubbed each other down.
The way they moved, it was jes' too easy. Derry had a thought it was some kind of medicine, in the can - 'ceptin the gloves were more concerned with rubbin' each other than... uh...
He had a notion. He pulled at the reins some more. Didn't matter none... The gloves got all done, and they set there a spell. He looked 'em all over again, waitin'. It got his goat, them just hangin' where he'd have to look if he wanted to have a gander at the fire.

Derry wanted to say something... He tried to find a jest, but he was too addled. Maybe if he said somethin', real friendly-like, they wouldn't figger he was too fevered to have his wits about him. So he took a breath.
"Say... now don't... trouble yourselves, boys. I'm right as rain." Purty dumb thing to say, but he was rattled, alright.
Then some of 'em came on down - and took ahold of his feet.
Two of 'em... started to rub.

Aw, no.
They was ridin' him, and it didn't feel like no doctorin'. The durn gloves was diggin' in.
Right away, Derry started to flop around - and laugh. Couldn't help hisself.
They didn't know.. how bad. Real bad. Hard on him -
He had another thought, then. It like as skeered him silly. Maybe... they did know. Somebody strapped him down, greased up the gloves - to tickle the daylights outa him.
Aw, no. The idea just made him laugh harder. He shook his head. Threw himself all around, but the hobbles - Oh, dang it. Face it. This durn cabin, the reins holdin' him down, all these busy fingers.
No, no, ya cain't. Not this. He tried to talk - lookin' up at the pair of gloves still hangin' in the air, the ones not on him yet - but he was laughin' too hard. Those smooth fingers, all greased up...
Stop. Cain't do this. Stop. Please...
They kept on, though. Real ticklin'.

He made all sorts of noises.
Them gloves rubbed and rubbed his feet. And rubbed some more.
Aw, he'd never heard of this before. Magic. Runnin' the durn gloves. Finding spots on him he didn't even know were touchy. This couldn't be...
Derry tried everything he could think of to get out of those cuffs. He banged his head on the pillow and threw it all around. And he made all sorts of noise.
Nope, he was caught. The fighting plumb wore him out. Then two of the gloves that were holding his feet still started rubbin' too. All four sped up -
And he started to howl.

When they finally pulled off, he was dripping with sweat. Worse, he'd made water in his britches. He hadn't done that in years, 'cepting the times he'd been too drunk to help it.
After he caught his breath, another smoke came up. He didn't want it, but he was too tired to put up a fight.
The gloves were just hanging there, between him and the fire.
He pulled at the reins again, but he still couldn't break 'em. Even though he had a real good reason now. Those gloves waited over him. He figured he knew what that meant. The big ol' tickling warn't over.
When the smoke was done, it was pulled from his lips and thrown into the fire. The whiskey bottle came back, and another fancy thin water bottle.
Then the gloves started back down.
"No no no, confound it," Derry said, struggling hard. They were coming back to it. The last thing he wanted 'em to do...
...was what they did again. Landing, curling around, startin' out slow.
Rubbin' him again.

It was plumb impossible to put up with. But he didn't have no choice. Durn hobbles, keepin' him down on the rug. He was wild, and the gloves didn't stop rubbin'.
Seemed like hours and hours...
 

He got more water, and another smoke. Then a couple nips of rotgut, and another smoke.
Derry pulled at the reins some more. They was too thick. He blew out smoke and looked 'round hisself again. The gloves hung in the air, past his feet. Waitin'.
Outside, the wind howled like a plugged bobcat. Glad he wasn't out - but what was he sayin'? Stuck proper, in here, for these peculiar gloves to... to...
Somethin' about that wind skeered him. Just s'pose the weather changed -
"Alright, boys," he said real loud. "You cut me loose. I got a long ways to go, and I ain't stayin' 'round here." The gloves didn't move.
"You hear me? You had yer fun." Still nothin'.
"Damnation!" he yelled.
Something tugged at him - at his shirt. He looked, and a button ripped clean off. Then another one...
He got riled then. Flippin' around, and cussin'.

But his shirt lay open, and it was pulled out of his trousers.
The gloves went down to the can and got themselves greased up.
"Oh no you don't," he barked.
But they came anyway. Two of 'em slid around his ribs, and two laid on his belly.
"No -"
And boy, how they tickled him.
He went loco. It was more than he could take, and he couldn't get away from under 'em... and he couldn't tell 'em to stop.
They jes' rubbed and rubbed.

A few breaks later, the fingers started to creep up his pantlegs. Rubbin' his knees and legs something fierce...

He must've slept some, 'cause he looked again - and saw his chaps was gone. And his britches. The cuffs were being tightened back down. He kicked, but it was too late. Aw, if only he'd woke up a few seconds before!

It was surely the longest night of his life. Derry looked forward to morning...
 

He woke up sore, from a crazy nightmare. Then he opened his eyes.
It was real. The hobbles still spreadin' him out. Same cabin, still dark, crackling fire -
He looked at the window again, and stared. It was snowin'. Some was stuck to the window, and the wind was up again, blowin' it all around. Looked like it was gonna stick. Well, he'd known it wouldn't be long.
But he never figgered on... bein' here. What the heck was goin' on?
Derry looked at that snow and didn't like what he saw. He took it the mule was long gone, but he could walk back down. If the snow didn't fall too hard...
A smoke came up and landed on his lip.

He smoked a whole lot of cigarettes. The tickler was keeping him waiting. Maybe that was just to make it worse for him when they started back in. That should have been obvious, something he could grasp... by now.
But he fought to believe anything else. It was just too impossible.
If it would rub him for all these nights... why wouldn't it prolong the agony of waiting? Of finding out when it would tickle him again? He was still strapped down, so it seemed all too likely he was in for more tickling. Tonight.
The snow came down, quiet, innocent. Piling up against the window.
Didn't it know? If it didn't let him go soon -
Nah, far too impossible to contemplate.
The snow. He'd be lucky to get to Garnet as it was. He sure couldn't negotiate the way down.
It had waited too long, to let him go. And now.
And now...?

He looked over, at the snow.
If nothing changed, he'd be in here when the snow was too high to get out of the cabin. He had to get out. Desperately wanted out. Now. Before the snow drifted.
October. 'til April, or likely May.
Aw, the invisible tickler wouldn't.
He couldn't believe that was the plan. Haul him up here and get him snowed in. With endless bottles of whiskey, and endless smokes.
And the gloves. The rack, the ox-bows - no, city folk called 'em stocks now. It couldn't possibly be thinking it was going to... to rub him all winter. Not if it knew how long the winters were, up this high.
But everything else had been planned perfectly. Whenever the tickler needed something, or ran out - there it was.
He just refused to believe it would tickle him all winter.
Then again, it had checked him out everywhere, real careful, for the past week.
And there were more new bottles of whiskey.
Heat. Water. Food. And it had him reined down. If it didn't let him go soon...
It would have him trapped under the snow too. Hidden. Stuck until April.
He just couldn't stand the thought of that.
 
 

The truth was obvious, though. Steady as a river. No sign of the end coming soon.
Every day, the tickling continued.
The snow got higher... seemed to level off, a couple nights -
And then a big storm. Window covered up.
The tickler did it. He's trapped, trapped.
That must have been the plan all along. Grab a cowboy and rub him for six, seven months. His brain just couldn't grasp that. Even though it had tickled him every day and night.
Nobody would figger on it setting up a place where it could rub somebody all winter. He'd never heard of such a thing. Nobody would know he was under the snow, rubbed night after night. They wouldn't hear him, with his voice shot like this. If they didn't know, the rubbing would go on and on and on...
 

The year started out so durn strange. He returned to the blacksmith shop when the unseen jailer cut him loose in the spring, and ol' Josiah cut him a break. He went back to work and slept in the loft. Drank a good bit at night, and tended to steer clear of the whores.
Afraid to set foot outside of Helena.
 
 

Early in September, it cooled down. One night, he gets wrapped up - with a black strap. A kerchief was pulled between his teeth, gagging him. Rope comes and traps his legs.
He was dragged behind the north side of the buildings on Main Street, thrown over a horse and tied on. Covered by a blanket, the goldurn tickler snuck him out of town.

The trip back up the mountain wasn't reckless.

He woke up on the rug - again. Snow was starting to cover the window...
 
 
 

That was a long winter. Somehow the tickling got deeper. Took over more, instead of being something he could put up with.
 
 

The thaw took a long time to get there.
Nothing changed. Oh, the windows were uncovered. He could look out and see everything greening up. No matter how much he wanted to be out there - running like the wind - the gloves and feathers just kept on doing what they did.
 

It got warmer.
He went through a long, feverish time where the fact became clear. Eventually he stopped fighting the notion - that winter was done and gone, but his nightmare still had him right in their mysterious hands.
 
 

Summer.
Laughing his head off. Every night.
 
 

There was no more thinking about when he'd get cut loose. Derry never even considered it anymore.
 

The heat finally gave way in August - probably.
His life didn't change none.
 

Snow came, and didn't stick.
 
 

A couple weeks later, there it was - drifting up against the window again. There was no reason to let him go, since the gloves were still having their fun. Keep him warm and safe, howling, hidden away.

A storm almost covered up the window entirely...
 

He woke up and felt strange. Clothes. How long had it been? Better'n a year?
Union suit, chaps, coat - and of course his gloves weren't forgotten. He stood up. Groggy.
A horse whinnied outside. The door wasn't barred yet.
Dully, he looked around the room... and finally caught on.

Snoring on the bearskin rug, dead to the world, was the new guy. Next target. Young, light hair. Cowboy, Derry guessed. In for the winter he'd never forget. Maybe the spring and summer too.
His turn.

Unable to come up with a thing he could do about it, Derry finally dug out one of those little paper boxes and got himself a smoke. Then he studied the sleeping man, his replacement for another minute...
Turned and walked hisself out of the cabin. Where he was headed was a stumper, but he sure wasn't gonna take a chance and stick around Helena. It was bad luck for that cowpoke, but Derry wasn't going to give the tickler any reason to worry about him again.
The horse was saddled and ready to go. If he hurried, they could make it down to the big trail and maybe just beat the weather - or those feisty gloves.

2019