Thursday, September 2, 2021

Gabacho Moves On (Part Two of Two Parts), Post #189

Part one was well received. Even got a few “thank yous” on my personal links. It was my pleasure, guys. At any rate, let’s see how this episode of the Gabacho story ends. I’m thinking of doing a novel based on this cool customer called Gabacho. But first, I’ll have to finish the project I’m presently working on… which is going very slowly.

 Sorry today’s post is so long, but I didn’t want to make it a three-parter. Please stay with me to the end.


* * * * *



I was right about papers not being a problem at the border. For years, American citizens could cross into Mexico simply by showing a valid stateside driver’s license. Getting back across was just as simple… the same license. Then they’d started tightening things up, requiring a visa. The system hadn’t totally caught hold yet, and by a little artful arguing, I rode into New Mexico without much difficulty. My first night on US soil, I found myself in Columbus—that bootheel town of Pancho Villa fame. It’s a quiet town, and no one was looking for itinerant help, so I had to turn loose a little of my stash in order to spend the first night in a proper bed in quite a spell. I was so tired, I didn’t even think about going to a bar. After a supper of posole and tamales in someone’s kitchen that served as a local café, I headed for the mattress.

A day or so later, I located a ranch hiring for the fall gathering, and signed Slick and me up for the roundup. For a week, we had found and keep for the both of us, and I left when the job with done with my savings boodle a mite fortified.


I’d never been to Deming before, and although it was bigger than Columbus, it was about as quiet. Well, maybe the night life was a bit rowdier. Bella’s Place was like a hundred other bars I’d frequented in Texas or Oklahoma, or anywhere else, I guess. It was a local joint. Everyone seemed to know everyone else. And the little gal who took my order could easily have been one who had served me south of the border. Cute, Hispanic, and busy eluding the grab-ass just about every male customer in the joint was trying. Except for me. I took a table in the corner by myself and nursed a beer, watching the action around me. I figured the big, noisy table nearest the entrance was all drovers from a single ranch busy trying to outdo the nearest table, populated by hands from a neighboring spread. How long before the good-natured taunts thrown back and forth turned nasty as time went on and the beer flowed?

I was so caught up in watching the by-play, I didn’t notice the stranger until he pulled out a chair and took a seat.

“You new in town?” he asked in a deep voice. “Name’s Billy. John Billy.”

“Gabacho,” I replied automatically, accepting his strong grip. “So what do I call you? John or Billy?”

He shrugged his broad, impressive shoulders. “I answer to both. Most call me Shep.”

“Okay, but I’ll call you John.”

John Billy was about my age, my height, my everything. Except even in the dim light of the bar, I could see his hair was dark brown or black and his eyes dark, almost certainly the same as his hair… brown or black. From his cheekbones, I guessed he had some tribal affiliation, although he wasn’t a blood. Likely a breed. Good-looking one too.

I nodded to the two raucous tables. “You belong to one of them?”

He gave a bark of a laugh and shook his head. “Naw. I got my own little spread.”

The light went on inside my head. “Shep. Shepherd, right?”

“Right. A sheep man right in the middle of cow country.”

I frowned. “Does that spell trouble?”

He shook his head. “Not this century. Maybe lots in the previous one. They leave me alone, and I ignore them. It’s a good arrangement.”

“They don’t mind you invading their watering hole?”

“Not this one.” He inclined his head. “Out there, they get a little testy when I do it.”

“Land and water. That’s what it’s all about, right?”

“You got it. And before you ask, I’m Navajo. Or at least part of me is.”

I smiled. He’d made it easy. “How big a part?”

His answering grin was lazy. “Not quite clear on that. You can get in an argument about that on one side of my family. You?”

My turn to shrug. “English, a little Scotch and Irish. Garden variety Anglo, I guess.”

John and I spent a pleasant hour jawing while the two cowboy tables got louder and louder. When it looked like my question about it turning nasty was working up to an answer, John drained his glass and sat it down with a thump.

“About time I cleared out of here. You too, if you know what’s good for you. When these guys start swinging, they tackle anybody still standing.”

“Good advice,” I said.

Once outside, he offered me his hand again. “Good to meet you, Gabacho. Where you headed?”

“Right now, I’m headed up the street to find a motel that’ll take me and Slick.”


I nodded to my horse hitched to a signpost at the side of the bar.

He glanced and Slick and then back to me. “Look, if you’re up for an hour’s ride, you can toss your bedroll at my place.

“Sounds good to me. You got a car or are you walking?”

“He pointed toward Slick with his chin. “My roan’s over there beside your gray.”

We mounted up and rode in silence until I asked who was taking care of his sheep while he was in town?

He answered with something that sounded like “Leech” with a syllable or two hanging on the end of it.

“Leech?” I asked.

“Close enough.”

He your hired hand?”


I met Leech when we got close to John’s camp. This big old black dog of uncertain parentage came running up belting out a chorus of yips and yaps and deep belly barks. John dismounted and calmed him.

“Meet Leech,” he said, as I stepped out of the saddle to settle Slick down. “Actually, his name is Dog in Navajo. But Leech will do.”

Billy introduced Leech to Slick and me. Horse and dog immediately became frienemies. Leech liked to get in a nip, and Slick like to get in a kick. After we tended our horses, I took a good look around. Jon hadn’t built a traditional hogan, but his lean-to bore a slight resemblance to one. I immediately saw how clever he was. The half-shelter caught the heat from a cookfire and kept his back warm on the cool nights.

“This your home ground?” I asked.

“Nah, this is kinda like a line camp. Got two or three of them scattered on my lease.”

“This reservation land?”

He shook his head. “BLM. I got me a lease on a patch of it.”

After a bowl of mutton stew, I felt like a tick full of blood, but I needed to clean up before taking to the blankets. John showed me how he did it. He shucked every stitch and took a sponge loaded with suds to himself. The guy looked like a snowman in the desert before I threw off my clothes and did the same with a second sponge. Even though we rinsed off with two pots of water heated over the open fire. It felt good, but I was still sorta soap slick.

John saw my discomfort. “There’s a final act to this.”

“Which is?”

As an answer, he let out a yell and made for a big stock tank, vaulting over the side and into the water. I was right behind him, and landed right on top of the guy. But I didn’t worry about that. The desert might be hot by day, but the nights were cool, and that damned water went it one better. It was cold.

When we got ourselves separated and right side up, he put his hand on top of my head and took us both under. I got the idea, and gave my hair a brisk brush before going up for air.

“Wowie!” John shouted when he surfaced. “Bracing, right?”

“Bracing? That your word for it? Man, I got no gonads left, they turned blue and floated off somewhere.”

“I felt a hand brush me. “Nah, they’re still there, but I don’t know what color they are.”

I looked at him, his dark skin gleaming in the bright moonlight, and he looked at me. Then without a word, we came together in an explosion of kissing and groping and panting.

I pulled away and fixed him with a stare. “Let’s get out of here and see just what color they are?”

“Good idea,” he said, putting a hand to the side of the tank and vaulting out. I had a glimpse of his shiny butt before he disappeared over the side. I wasn’t far behind him, although I probably wasn’t as graceful as he was climbing out.

When I reached the fire, he tossed me a towel so I could start rubbing life back into my limbs. When I glanced at him, he was drying his hair, as long and lustrous as any woman’s I’d ever seen. Dammit, and he was as desirable as any of them too. So how did I get this thing back on track?

John took care of that. As soon as I stepped into the shelter of his half-hogan lean-to, he clasped me in his arms and planted a kiss on my lips. My groin grew warm as his covered mine. An altogether pleasant feeling. As nature took over, we seemed to have dueling armatures down there. He laughed and pulled me down on his blankets. After a few minutes of wrestling, I realized something was wrong. He put words to it.

“We’re both after the same thing, ain’t we?”

“‘Fraid so.”

“We ain’t… wha’cha call it? Compatible.” He squinted at me through the darkness. “I’m a top.”

I shrugged. “Me too.”

“Crap. I was really looking to—”

“I don’t know about you, but I’m gonna cum. And you’re gonna help me do it.”

John went defensive. “I’m not—” He interrupted himself. “How’m I gonna do that?”

I took him by surprise and pushed him on his back, me atop him. “Like this.” I started humping his belly. After one startled minute, Juan laughed aloud, making his stomach muscles dance. Felt good.

“I can live with that as long as I get my turn.”

“Ab-absolutely,” I panted, already working up a sensation or two.

For minutes the only sound was that of the two of us panting and murmuring encouragement. It took a while, but eventually, I felt the familiar buildup, the internal roiling, and then release. Release in great, halting thrusts and spurts of semen across his ripped abs. I finally stopped moving and gloried in the stickiness between us.

With a roar of anticipation, John flipped us over and attacked my belly with what felt like a bar of iron. Lubricated by my own semen, he went at it hard, punctuating his gasps with yells of joy and anticipation. He only faltered at the end, and even in the darkness, I could see him lick his sensitive lips as his eyes rolled up in his head. Then he came with an explosion and some wild expressions in his native language that caused the flock to shift and Leech to answer with a long, yowl that somehow seemed pregnant with lust!


I woke the next morning covered in one of John’s Navajo blankets. I threw it off to find myself naked and encrusted with dried cum. I brushed it off, chuckling at how much fun it had been to get in this condition. John and I might not be “compatible,” but we still found a way to get it on.

I glanced up to spot him fully clothed and seeing to the needs of our animals. He glanced over as I rose and raised a hand when I reached for my britches. I paused and endured his glance.

“Gabacho, you one hell of a man.”

“I can say the same for you. My belly’s sore from the beating you gave it.”

“You think mine ain’t? Glad it worked out.”

“Me too, amigo.”

“So what happens now?”

I pulled on my clothes as I answered. “I go on my way.”

“And where does that lead to?”

“One of these days I’ll amble into Huntsville.”

He screwed up one eye. “Not the place with the big walls?”

I laughed. “No, not the state pen, or at least I don’t plan on it. But the way my sex life’s turned this past year, I can’t be too sure. No, Huntsville’s home. Where I was born and grew up.”

“I’m gonna remember you, man.”

“So will I. Never forget you.”

His lips smiled. “Someday, you gonna be going about your business, and you’ll hear a sheep bleat. You’ll look around, but there won’t be one. And you’ll know Slow Walker is thinking about you.”

“Slow Walker?”

“That’s my Navajo name. You the only white man in the world who knows it. Keep it close.”

“Nobody’ll hear it from me.”

I mounted Slick and turned his nose toward Deming. I knew from the quick way John bent to wrestle with Leech, he was feeling something. Me, I felt like there was a string with one end fastened to my belly button and the other to that sheep camp.

I hadn’t gone a mile before I heard it. The bleat of a sheep. And there wasn’t one in sight. I pulled up and looked back the way I’d come.

“I hear you John Billy… Slow Walker. I’m thinking of you too.”

I doffed my hat, adjusted my vest over my shirtless chest, and plodded on in the general direction of the great state of Texas.

* * * *

I can’t help wondering how Gabacho rationalizes that his last three assignations were with men, not women. I suspect the first two were novelties. Trysts simply because he was pursued with no emotions involved. But his time with John Billy seems a bit different.  What do you think?

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