David Thomasson

The Ghost of Hollering Woman Creek David Thomasson

The red-haired young woman snatched her bullwhip from around the brake handle near the wagon seat and with an underhanded flick, straightened it out behind her. Whirling its fifteen feet of hardened bull-hide leather around her head, she brought it back over her shoulder with a thrower's motion. As her arm straightened, the whip roared past her ear as fast as lightning. Just before the whip reached its length, she crooked her arm, jerking her wrist back toward her shoulder. When the whip popper reached Reagan, it was dropping from the perpendicular at hundreds of miles per hour, and with a resounding clap, it split his corduroy pants from the inside top of his right pocket to the bottom of the pocket on his left. It narrowly missed his most private and vital areas. His pants gaped open and a touch of blood could be seen through the split. He saw the whip snap back over Barbara's shoulder, and realizing the intent of her second throw was probably castration, he clapped both hands over his crotch and spun 180 degrees in a blur of motion. With a mighty leap, he reached the top of a six-foot fence, but it was too late as the popper split the seat of his pants from belt to hock.