The day Pelz Marte showed up at camp is a day that stands out in memory like the glint of the gold tooth in the otherwise rotted mouth of Black Sal, the camp gal.

"If you plan to stay," Pelz Marte called out, poking at the fish on a line, "and you lack a box, you gotta make a rock lined cache here along the bank of this here stream to keep your fish in.  Cover it up with a flat rock or two, too, or you will lose 'em to mink or robbers."

"What say?"  Noble Pete called back, amazed at the fur-clad vision before him there on the bank.

"Trout may be kept bright for many an hour with their spots showing lively, if wiped and layered between the ferns is another way," Pelz Marte persisted in her advice giving.

Pete scratched his head over that and turned back to the tending of the fire.  The rest of the men would be getting back soon from their scouting expedition and he wondered what they would think if they found him here with this creature.  On second thought, he swatted at the black flies on his shins below the hem of his plus-fours and motioned the woman over, saying, "Grab yourself one off the line and come give us a taste of your frying."

She stood firm and didn't take him up on the offer.  "I am not in need of your charity if that's what you are thinking."

"No ma'am, it's only that I am 'bout ready to put some on the fire here anyways and maybe since you are so thick on the advice as to how to keep 'em, thought you might be inclined to show me how you cook 'em, too's all."

He turned back to his business and stuck a spoke of pine 'tween his teeth.

Pelz Marte lost no time in stooping to scoop a rainbow trout basking in the shadows of the sedges and in a thrice had broken the fish's throat latch.  "I'll eat my own fish and of yours have no wish."  A tiny smile played at the corner of her leathery lips.

"Suits me," Pete shrugged, catching his breath as she hunkered down next to the fire and pulled out a sheath knife to gut the creature and toss him on the grill.

"I never use fish that's been set out in sun, bad practice stringing them through the gills like what you have back there."   She sat back on her haunches and straightened the beaver hat on her head, just enough so he could see the color of the wild mane she was hiding up under there - a mess of chestnuts.

"Don't suppose you're from around these parts," he thought to offer, more than a bit taken off guard by her savvy campcraft and unusual appearance.

"Where I hail from is of no consequence to anyone  - not no more."  She leaned back, flexing the sinewy lengths of her lean, tanned calves.  "All's that matters is I'm where the fish is sweet and clean."

Pete felt a long forgotten rumble well up below his belt at that.  Her proclamation, combined with the sturdy feet he saw thrust toward him now, clad in leather moccs as lean as string beans, made him want to tear those leather stockings off and check for horn.  Surely her feet were as tough as rawhide and mapped with fissures from all the cold weather traveling in these parts.

He grabbed for one and tugged.  "What are you doing?"  She shrieked.

"I'm fixin' to rub your feet with Bag Balm is what I aim to do," he spat back, his dander up.  "I am sure that you have not been giving your po' little toes the attention they deserve."

She kicked him off and shook her fist, then stooped to flip the trout that was browning and spitting on the fire.  "There'll be time enough for that once we've eaten."

He couldn't believe it!  Did that mean she was game?  He'd have bet his last lure she would never of gone for it, but the look in her eye told him different.

He reclined back on the log where he sat and tried to conceal his surprise, thinking of the last time he had his toes licked clean by a suckling pig - why he couldn't have been more 'n a kid - 13, 14  - but had that pleased.

She tore a piece of the trout off and took a bite, then stuck it towards him, offering him the same.  Her fingers touched his lips as she passed it through; she licked them and winked.

"Been a long winter, ain't it," he chuckled, tossing a chunk of white pine on which crackled and popped in the fire.

"Think I'll take a dip, now's you mention it."  With that, she stood up as straight as a pine and launched herself fully clothed into the lake.  Only her beaver hat did she toss back on shore in mid leap.

Once in the water, she kicked and splashed and proceeded to peel off the layers.  He rose to fetch her the pine pitch soap he'd made up the day before and offer it to her in a little enamel bucket.  She shooed him away with a slap of the water but not before grabbing his gift with a grin first.  Turning her back to him, he could hardly believe the look of her spine there in the sunlight, curving down between her white shoulders blades and dissappearing into the reflection of the forest shimmering there in the water.  She'd gone from mountain goat to siren in just those moments.

"Mind if I join you?"  he ventured, bouyed by her playfulness and straightforward talk.  She didn't answer so he took off his boots and stuck his toes in.

"Well, if you're going to come, don't just wade there," she scolded with a laugh.

He threw himself in, crashed in at her side, caught her around the waist and twisted her to face him.  Then taking the pail of soap from her hand he proceeded to dip his own hand in and rub her collarbone and neck with it, lathering her, surprised by the softness and chill.  She knocked the pail from his hand and taking both of his in hers, placed them palms open over her breasts.  He massaged the soap around in circles over them, letting himself enjoy their weight and shape, then crept lower, smoothing over her hipbones and just brushing her crotch.

"Turn around," he instructed, taking her deftly by her shoulder and repositioning her so he could run his soapy hands over them and down her ridge to the buttocks half hidden in the water.  He leaned in and smelled the nape of her neck - all cold and fresh.  "We better get you up to the fire..."

"Baking by the embers suits me," she quipped and he saw that she was still hungry.

Author Bio

Five years ago, Marcy Jarvis was transplanted to the Black Forest.  Tall does she grow.