markwildyr.com, Post #110
Apologize for not getting this posting up on time, but things got away from me. At any rate, I’ve given in to requests and will do another Curt Huntinghawk story this week. For the duration of this three-part story, I’ll post weekly.
Hope you enjoy.
A HAWK IN THE CITY
“What the hell’s eating you, Huntinghawk?” Grover Whitedeer asked as he eased the four-by through a wash under a hot Sonoran sun. “You haven’t been worth a shit since we took down Wolverine.”
Hawk started at the mention of the ambush. To cover his reaction, he adjusted the holster on his hip. Ever since the Rezagados Colorados had been given real police powers for the Wolverine operation, he’d started wearing a six-shooter, but like most of the twenty or so Indians who made up the group of trackers working for the Border Patrol, he preferred his rifle. He and Grove were running mates on the job and often after hours. Hawk silently acknowledged that his friend’s complaint was legitimate.
“What you need’s some nooky,” Grove pressed. “Lets go across the border and rent us a couple of putas tonight.”
“Aw my ass, Hawk! You’re no fun anymore. Whatever happened to the hellraiser I used to know? You’re letting that thing with Wolverine get to you.”
Hawk blinked before realizing Grove was talking about the ambush, not the intimacies he and Brit Guerrero shared before his death, a death Hawk had unwittingly engineered when he set up the trap to capture the drug runner known as Wolverine. Wolverine was also his lover, Brit Guerrero.
“Why’d he put up a fight?” Hawk asked himself out loud, but it was Grove who answered him, his lips curling in distaste.
“Because he was a crooked bastard who couldn’t pay for what he did!” Grove looked at him, his brown eyes flashing. “Hell, can’t say I really blame him. I don’t think I could stand to be locked up either.”
“That’s probably it. Wasn’t gonna go behind bars.”
“Time to lighten up. A couple of señoritas is just what we need.”
Hawk glanced at Grove again, taking in his friend’s the hard, slender frame before turning to stare out the windshield, hoping he wasn’t making a mistake. He couldn’t let Grove know how he was feeling… what he was thinking.. “All right. I’m game.”
“All right!” Grove shouted like a kid, slapping Hawk’s knee. “We gonna get some pussy tonight!”
On their rare trips across the border for sex, the two young Indians always went to a professional house where they knew the girls were inspected. It cost a little more, but they felt safer. The last thing they needed was AIDS or some other loathsome disease. The other Rezagados would laugh them into their graves at being so stupid. The place was busy, but they were still able to pick out a couple of decent-looking girls.
On the way home Grove had to describe everything that had just happened. Hawk grinned. Sometimes his bud was a kid about women, but he was all man and one hundred percent professional when it came to work. God, he was a good friend to have..
Neither of them was ready to quit for the night, so they stopped by the Blue Mesa, a big bar they frequented at times to settle down to some serious drinking. Booze, even beer, always hit Grove harder and quicker than Hawk. Both had alcoholic relatives all over their family trees, so they were at risk. Hawk had even flirted with being a drunk in his middle teens until an uncle got hold of him and took him to a medicine man to straighten him out. It must have worked because he still drank from time to time but only got drunk when he wanted to.
Grove was describing for the dozenth time what they’d done to the whores when somebody bumped his chair, causing him to spill his drink. Startled, the young Indian looked up into the angry eyes of a burly man in his late twenties who had the look of a hard rock miner about him. He was obviously drunk, but then so was Grove.
“Git cher fucking chair outa the middle a the fucking floor,” the man snarled.
Grove was standing before Hawk even knew he was going to get up. “What’d you say, you pig-eyed peckerwood?”
“Watch yer dirty mouth, you fucking Indian. Damned redskins think they own the place.”
“White man, you just said the wrong thing to the wrong redskin. I’m gonna clean up the parking lot with you.”
The hefty man looked over the one hundred sixty-pound, five-foot ten Indian and laughed. “You and what tribe, Tonto?”
“Just me,” Grove said in a calm, deadly voice.
Uh-oh. The man got Grove pissed.
Two other white men followed the burly miner out the door. Hawk was Grove’s only backup. Nobody else paid much attention. Fights were common enough that they cause little excitement. Later somebody’s come in and yell “fight” and the place would empty out. The Mesa was a regular stop on the sheriff’s patrol.
The miner got a quick lesson in bar fighting. He wasted no time, rushing Grove while his back was still turned. Nothing the matter with Grove’s hearing though, and he sidestepped quick as a cat and planted a sharp elbow in the man’s side. He whirled and put a fist in the kidney. The big man staggered but failed to go down. Grove didn’t exactly box, he just slugged it out, putting his weight behind every punch. After the fourth or fifth, the miner didn’t even bother to put up a defense. Grove’s blood was up, and he kept wading into the man. Mentally, Hawk urged the whipped man to go down. That was the only thing that would stop Grove now.
One of the other miners made a move. Hawk elbowed him aside and turned to plant a fist right in the middle of the third man’s nose as he darted in. Grabbing the injured man’s shirt, Hawk slung him across the lot. The other one had recovered and came for him. Hawk put him away quickly before Grove hurt the miner too badly. Besides, the cops should be on the way by now. A decent sized crowd had begun to gather.
Certain neither of the other two was a threat, Hawk walked up behind Grove, who was beating on an unconscious man who didn’t have sense enough to fall. Grabbing his friend from behind in a bear hug, he lifted Grove off his feet and pulled him away from the miner. He got a couple of elbows in the ribs for his trouble before Grove discovered who it was, but he the feel of his friend’s hot, hard body made it a worthy trade-off.
“Come on, bro. He’s done for. The cops’ll be here soon. We better go.”
“Shit, no! I’m not done drinking!”
“Got more at my place. Come on, we don’t need trouble with the cops.”
Hawk had less trouble getting Grove in his pickup than anticipated. Drunker than he looked, probably. But he was lively enough to demonstrate how he’d whipped the big fucker in the middle of Hawk’s living room, spilling a newly opened beer in the process. “Taught that motherfucker to call me a fucking Indian, didn’t I?” he said, teetering between anger and exultation.
“Listen to me, Grove. What were we doing across the border a few hours ago?”
“And what are you?”
“What am I?” Grove got it and collapsed in laughter. “Shit, I am a fucking Indian!” Hawk liked to see Grove laugh. He did it with everything he had. His eyes lit up and his arms and legs moved like they were spastic.
Normally, Hawk didn’t like to be around drunks when he wasn’t drunk himself, but Grove was different. He was funny and sloppy and agreeable, except when he got something in his head and ran with it. And he was… well, sexy as hell. They—meaning Grove—went through the better part of another six-pack. It was early morning when his friend abruptly ran out of steam. Hawk hauled him into the spare bedroom and threw him on the bed. He looked down at the not quite conscious form and started tugging off clothing. Grove just laid there and watched through blurry eyes. When Hawk had him stripped to his shorts, he covered his friend with a blanket and snapped off the light.
“Don’ go,” Grove slurred. “Talk a me.” Hawk lay beside the man. “We fuc’ ‘em, din’ we? Fuc’ ‘em good!” Grove gave his everything laugh. “Yours had big boobs.” Grove’s voice trailed away, and Hawk knew he was gone…asleep or passed out.
“Hey, bro,” Hawk poked Grove. Nothing. Without conscious thought, he touched his friend’s face, feeling the fine bones beneath the flesh. Unable to stop himself, he let his hands roam the sleeping man. By the strength of willpower alone, Hawk got out of the bed and retreated to his own bedroom. It wasn’t right, to take advantage of an unconscious man. Tortured by desire, by the pangs of something that felt like misplaced love, Hawk tossed and turned for hours before finally surrendering to sleep.
Sounds to me like Hawk’s got a thing for his best bud Grover Whitedeer. What’s he going to do about it? From the title, it sounds to me like he’s going to run away from it. What do you think?
Please consider ordering Cut Hand and Johnny Two-Guns from Dreamspinner Press. I’d like to convince them to publish the rest of the Cut Hand Series, including the unpublished manuscript Wastelakapi… Beloved, 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: markwildyr.com
The following are buy links for CUT HAND:
DSP Publications: https://www.dsppublications.com/books/cut-hand-by-mark-wildyr-420-b
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 each Thursdays until the three-part story is finished..