Thursday, January 16, 2020

Huntinghawk (Part 3 of 3 Parts), Post #104
Photographer: Bobby Mikul, Courtesy of CCO Public Domain
Today, we finish the first short story I wrote about Curt Huntinghawk. I have more, if you want to read them. Let me know.

Last time, we left Hawk somewhat stunned after Ramon performed an intensely personal act for him. Where can it possibly go from here? Read on.


          They slept together that night, but both were so exhausted they did nothing. Ramon nestled in the crook of Hawk’s arm, and more than once the Indian woke, gazing through the darkness at the warm, human being sleeping so peacefully beside him. What had he done to merit such trust and adoration? It was a puzzle to Hawk. Sex was not a thing he took lightly. He always felt uncomfortable after coming back across the border after being with a puta. But he felt nothing for this young man except a fondness. He pulled the boy to him and closed his eyes. In moments he slept again.
          As was his custom, Hawk woke with the rising of the morning star. He was dressed and on the front porch railing studying the Milky Way when Ramon staggered sleepily outside and leaned against him, still warm from the bed.
          “You’ll catch cold,” Hawk warned, running his hand up and down the boy’s naked flanks.
          “Don’t care. Hawk keep warm. Come with Ramon. He fix something to eat. How you like eggs?”
          “Over easy,” Hawk said, rising and following the boy back inside. Ramon checked his laundry, and finding it dry, pulled on clean shirt and trousers. Then he proved he could cook.
          After breakfast, the boy cleaned up and then lanced Hawk’s foot, proclaiming it better. He was nervous. His movements went all gawky again. “What… what you do with Ramon?” he finally asked, standing at the sink, his back to Hawk.
          “I don’t know,” the man answered honestly. “I’m not responsible for illegals, but I do work for the government. I suppose the best thing is for you to simply head for Colorado.”
          “Hawk don’t turn in to La Migra?”
          The Indian stood behind the boy and tousled his hair. “No, I won’t turn you in. You need to rest some more. We both got pretty dehydrated out there on the desert. Don’t worry about it today. But you better lay sort of low, okay?”
          “Lay low?”
          “Stick around the house. Stay inside out of sight. And if anybody comes, go out the back door and hide out in the barn behind the house. I’m going by the office to let everyone see I’m okay. You’ll be okay while I’m gone?”
          “Ramon be okay.

           When Hawk arrived at headquarters mid-morning. Amadeo and a couple of others were hanging around the place.
           “Told you to take it easy,” Amadeo growled.
           “Just came by so you could see I’m okay.”
          “You go to the clinic?”
          “No. I’m okay.”
          Grover Whitedeer walked up and punched Hawk playfully on the shoulder. “Just not so pretty now.” Grove, a woodland Indian from the southeast, was Hawk’s best friend. They’d joined the Rezagados at about the same time and often teamed together to track. Grove had the day off yesterday or they’d have been together.
          “Naw,” Amadeo observed, “but when his head heals up, all he’ll have is a little scar, and he’ll tell all the muchachas some Mexican tried to scalp him.
          “Does look like somebody tried.”
          Convinced that Hawk was all right, the others directed the talk to the Phantom, or Wolverine as Hawk called him.
          “He’s local and… he’s Indian,” Hawk proclaimed.
          “You saw him?” Amadeo asked.
          “No. But he’s around too much, so he has to be local. And he’s too good, so he has to be Indian.”
          “I think you’re onto something,” Amadeo said. “Man’s too careful. Knows too much about us. That might explain why it’s so hard to catch him.”
          They hashed over possibilities until one of the other trackers came in. “Say, Hawk,” Paul Abadou asked, “where’d you run into grief yesterday?” The young man listened carefully as Hawk pinpointed his location. “Then how come I seen your prints a mile to the south this morning?”
          Hawk slammed his fist down on the table. “Son of a bitch! Fucker’s wearing my boots! Burnt everything else but took my boots.”
          Hawk took his companion’s ribbing for an hour before taking his leave. Grove walked out with him suggesting they go get laid. Hawk begged off, claiming he didn’t feel well enough. As Grove strode to his pickup, Hawk watched the smaller man’s form through changed eyes. He looked good. Grove was a handsome young man a year younger than Hawk, built a little slighter, but tough as a bear. Hawk mentally shook himself and crawled into the Dodge.
          He made the rounds of a couple of bars before heading back to the house. He didn’t pay much attention to anyone, but he checked out the boots in every place he stopped. He had a slight buzz on by the time he slammed the truck door in his driveway. When he entered, Ramon peered at him anxiously.
          “Hawk okay?”
          “Yeah, kid. I’m fine. Brought us some burgers and fries. You like them?”
          "Yes! Ramon like.”
          They sat at the kitchen table and put away the food and a couple more beers.
          “What did you do all day?” Hawk asked to break the silence.
          “Clean Hawk house. Watch TV. Wait for Hawk. Ramon want Hawk come home very much. Want Hawk again. Please?”
          Hawk studied the boy. Night was falling over the desert, but a faint light lingered. “Why?”
          “Ramon to make Hawk feel good. Want Hawk make Ramon feel good.”
          Impulsively, Hawk leaned across the small table and pulled the boy’s head forward. Their lips met. The touch rocked them both.
          “Patron, he never do that! Only Hawk. Hawk do that again?”
          Hawk stood and pulled the boy against him, lowering his head, brushing silky lids, smooth beardless cheeks, a long upper lip, and then finding the soft, pliant lips again. They kissed for a long moment before moving to the bedroom where the boy lay on his stomach and spread his legs. Hawk moved in place over him.
          Later, as they lay side by side panting from their efforts. The boy’s cries still rang in Curt Huntinghawk’s ears. “¡Aiee, mi Halcón! ¡Mi Halcón colorado! Te amote amo.” Oh, my Hawk! My red Hawk. I love you. I love you.” That had made the wonderful thing even more glorious.
          “Te amo,” a deep voice whispered. Hawk was surprised because it was his own.


And there you have it. Hawk's first gay experiences seem to have rattled his cage... or was it just the handsome young Ramon? Hawk isn't sure. Remember I have five more short stories tracing hawk and his adventures, including a confrontation with Wolverine. But you'll have to let me know if you want to read them.

Once again... Cut Hand and Johnny Two-Guns. And Otter, Echoes of the Flute, and Medicine Hair. I still want to get the final book in the Cut Hand Series, Wastelakapi… Beloved, published, but it’ll take some help from readers to get Dreamspinner interested.

My contact information is provided below in case anyone wants to drop me a line:
Website and blog:
Twitter: @markwildyr

The following are buy links for CUT HAND:

And now my mantra: Keep on reading. Keep on writing. You have something to say, so say it!

Until next time.


New posts at 6:00 a.m. on the first and third Thursdays of the month.

No comments:

Post a Comment