Thursday, February 20, 2020

Huntinghawk and Wolverine (Conclusion of a 5-Part Story)


markwildyr.com, Post #109

Photographer: Bobby Mikul, Courtesy of CCO Public Domain
NOTE: As this is the last installment of the story, I’m going back to my schedule of posting at 6:00 a.m. every first and third Thursday of the month. My next post will be March 5.

What can possibly come of a relationship between two handsome, sensual men when they stand on opposite sides of the law? Especially, since they had two earth shattering intimate encounters? Does Hawk’s “half-baked” plan hold the answer. Does it work out the way he wanted? Read on for the conclusion of the story.

*****
HUNTINGHAWK AND WOLVERINE

          Nothing much happened over the next week. Hawk didn’t even pull out his transceiver. Brit didn’t return, so Hawk considered making the move this time, but it didn’t seem right. Like maybe it was a trap Wolverine had set up. No, he’d wait until Brit showed up.
          After two weeks, Hawk brought out his transceiver, but had little luck with it. Grove began to grouse that Hawk never had time for him anymore, but Hawk could hardly confess he was running all over the place at night tracking a black Chevy Blazer.
          The break came about a month after Hawk bugged Wolverine’s truck. Just before dawn on a Friday, the Blazer began to move south toward the desert. Hawk stayed a half a mile behind with his lights out. When the truck turned off the main road, he dropped back even farther. Finally, the Blazer stopped moving. Hawk parked and waited half an hour before getting out of the Dodge and hoofing across the desert. Even with the bug sending out its little beeps, it took Hawk a long time to find the truck in a small draw hidden from the air by a thin cover of mesquite and Apache plume. The vehicle was deserted. By the light of a small mag light, Hawk retrieved his bug and found tracks that were recognizably Wolverines. He backed out of the small balsam and returned to his truck.
           His heart was heavy as he pulled into the headquarters parking lot, and he almost abandoned his plan. Amadeo Tomé, the bossman of the Rezagados and a few others, including Grove, were huddled around drinking coffee and planning the day.
          Hawk filled his cup with the bitter black liquid and stood at the edge of the group. They all looked at him, recognizing that he had something to say. ‘I found him,” he finally forced the words through his vocal chords. “Found his Blazer parked in a blind draw about ten miles south of town and two miles west of the main road.”
          “When?” Amadeo asked.
          “Just left there. They hadn’t been gone long. Motor was still warm.”
          “They’re making a run,” Amadeo said. “They’ll come back to the truck. Everybody hang on, and I’ll call the patrol. You’re sure, Hawk?”
          “It’s Wolverine. Found his old track since he returned my boots.”
          “Never could figure that out,” one of the others put in.
          “Tired of making a fool of me, I guess,” Hawk said with a shrub.
          “Thumbing his nose at you,” Amadeo said. “At all of us. Hang on fellows.” He disappeared into his office, leaving the others to discuss the situation. Hawk glumly answered questions, keeping his words to a minimum.
          In a few minutes Amadeo was back, unable to hide a small smile of satisfaction. “Well, boys, we’re gonna be in on it. And those nitwits finally come to their senses. We’re stopping over at headquarters so they can swear us in and issue weapons. So don’t none of you embarrass us by shooting off your toes and peckers… mine neither come to think of it.”
          By late afternoon the force of Border Patrol and Rezagado officers were in place in the brush and rocks around the Blazer. Hawk and Grove had the high ground atop a pile of boulders directly above the black vehicle. Both had eschewed side arms for their trusty rifles. Hawk looked around and had a sudden feeling of dismay. Why hadn’t he and Grove come for Wolverine alone? Why had he come at all? Because that’s what he was hired to do, that’s why. And because the traficantes, including Wolverine, were ruining lives and killing people with their filth. Oh, God! If only Brit had agreed to stop!
           “I see them,” came an excited, muffled voice.
          “Watch those glasses. Don’t want them warned by a reflection,” Amadeo grumbled.
          For one wild moment, Hawk wished for his pair of binoculars so he could flash a warning. But they were in his truck. He could see the four men approaching now, still a distance sway. Torn between personal and professional loyalties, Hawk lowered his head and prayed for the moment to be over.
          “What’s the matter, Hawk?” Grove whispered. “Aren’t you glad you finally got the bastard. I can hardly wait to see what he looks like.”
          “He’s my size. Name’s Brit Guerrero. Breed, but mostly Indian. Except for what he does for a living, seems like an okay guy.”
          “What the hell are you saying? This is the bastard who shot you!”
          “Yeah, he is, isn’t he?”
          “How’d you know all that? Be damned,” Grove breathed. “That’s why you wouldn’t go anywhere with me. You been scouting the bastard on your own. Well, you got him, bro. You got him!”
          Hawk lifted his eyes and watched the four men plod steadily onward. All carried heavy packs on their backs. Two were armed. They were the traficantes, the others were mules.
          The Border Patrol commander, John Haleca, waited until they were in the draw with the Blazer before he spoke over the bullhorn. “This is the Border Patrol. Drop—”
          Wolverine acted as if he almost expected the ambush. His weapon rose, spraying the whole area with bullets at an incredible rate. To Hawk, it looked like an Uzi. Without waiting for instructions, the entire force returned fire. The second traficante dropped like a stone, and the mules fell to their stomachs with arms held above their head. Hawk saw Wolverine stagger, then withdraw out of sight through a cover of mesquite. Bullets shredded the bushes.
          The commander sent some men to flank Wolverine’s retreat, but Hawk jumped on the roof of the Blazer and vaulted over its side, marching straight through the mesquite where Wolverine had disappeared. Grove was right behind him. He ignored Amadeo’s call to come back.
          They found Wolverine at the base of a small buff not ten yards from where he’d disappeared into the bushes. He lay on his back, knees crooked, one arm across his belly, the other thrown out still holding the Uzi. Even with the two red blotches on his chest and the one in his thigh, he looked as if he were asleep. Hawk thought everyone died with his eyes open, but Brit’s were closed and his long, dark lashes lay peacefully against his cheeks.
          Now, when it was too late, Hawk understood Brit’s promise that no one would never send Wolverine to prison. Hawk took one last look at his fallen lover and turned to stalk back to his four-by. Grover Whitedeer dogged his footsteps all the way.

*****
Don’t think that’s the way Hawk intended things to end with Wolverine… Brit. I’m sure he planned on doing what he promised, capturing the drug runner and then seeing him through the prison sentence. But things don’t always work out the way we plan, do they?

I have more Huntinghawk adventures, but we need to take a rest and look at some other things before we explore them.

For those of you who have not already done so, please order 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
Email: markwildyr@aol.com
Facebook: www.facebook.com/mark.wildyr
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.

Mark

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

Thursday, February 13, 2020

Huntinghawk and Wolverine (Part 4 of a 5-Part Story)


markwildyr.com, Post #108

Courtesy of clipart-library.com
NOTE: For the remainder of the segments in this story, I’m posting one at 6:00 a.m. each Thursday. Once the five-parter is finished, I’ll revert to my first and third Thursday schedule.

What a meeting of two macho men! But Hawk came out on top… literally. But what will come of Hawk fucking the enemy? Will he convert the drug runner? Oh, wait! Will the drug runner convert Hawk? Read on.

*****
HUNTINGHAWK AND WOLVERINE

          When he went outside with his cup of coffee at the morning star’s rising, he thought of Brit Guerrero spread naked over the back of the chair and the hair on the back of his neck rose. What had he been thinking? Crap! He’d gotten together with Wolverine, with a drug runner. With the enemy. His mind swirling, he got up to go get ready for work.
          Naturally taciturn, Hawk guessed he’d overdone the silence thing when he caught Grove glancing over at him from behind the wheel of the four-by as they patrolled a patch of the border.
          “What’s the matter, bro?” Grove finally asked.
          “My boots showed up on my front porch this morning.”
          “What! Man, why didn’t you say something? Maybe there’s fingerprints or something.”
          “Hell, Grove, we aren’t some high-tech outfit. We don’t even have hand radios or cell phones for Christ’s sake! We find somebody, we gotta hike back to the truck radio or send up smoke signals.”
          “Ain’t that the truth? Surprised we aren’t on horseback.”
          “Hell, we are sometimes,” Hawk said, tearing his eyes away from Grove’s handsome face and taking in his friend’s crotch before staring resolutely out the windshield. Man, they’d taken a piss together a hundred times, on the desert, in bars, but Hawk had no idea what Grove looked like down there, not even if it was cut or not. He almost let out a startled exclamation when he realized he wanted to know.
          After they returned to headquarters that afternoon, Hawk found a phone and made a call to the Motor Vehicle Department. Fifteen minutes later he had confirmed the black Blazer belonged to Brit Guerrero. Next, he picked up a small magnetic radio transmitter and a receiver from a surveillance specialty store without plundering all of his savings. On the way home, he detoured by Brit’s address and parked a block away. Hawk got out and walked the neighborhood until he spotted the right house. A Lexus and a Chevy Blazer, the two cars registered to Brit sat in the proper driveway. Brit wouldn’t take the Lexus into the desert, so he bugged the coal black Chevy.
          The rest of his half-baked plan was trickier. The receiver had to be within a mile of the transmitter in order to work. He debated over taking Grove into his confidence, but in the end decided he wanted to do this alone. By midweek, he had not found the opportunity to track the Blazer’s movements except in the evenings on his own time.
          He was surprised one night when the bug led him to his own house. He parked in the drive and got out, trying to cover his nervousness.
          “Hello, Hawk,” the words came from over by the barn at the back of the house.
          “Hello, Brit. Skulking again?”
          The laugh was soft and didn’t seem to hold any malice. “Yeah, I’m a good skulker. Can lurk like hell too.”
          “Well, quit it and come on in.”
          Brit strode out into the moonlight, and Hawk was shaken when he got a good look at him. The traficante was even better looking than he recalled. He was dressed in black, and his handsome head seemed to float through the night… like a phantom, like El Espectro.
          As they walked to the back door, Brit spoke. “I don’t know what spell you used on me, but I want you to call it off. I can’t stop thinking about you…about us,”
          “Didn’t know there was an us.”
          “Of course, there’s an us. Has been since you joined the Rezagados. And now there’s another us.”
          “Okay, I’ll accept that. And I’ll confess I’ve been thinking about you. Both of you… Wolverine and Brit.”
          “And what do you think about when you think of Brit.”
          “A handsome, vital man. Somebody I could like a lot if he didn’t make his living the way he does. If he didn’t shoot people when it suits his purposes.”
          “Can I come inside?”
          “Same condition as before. Don’t sandbag my house.”
          “If I come in, are you going to fuck me again?” Moonlight collected in Brit’s eyes and flashed back at Hawk.
          “Guess it depends on who comes inside, Brit or Wolverine.” Hawk turned to go inside but was stopped by the man’s hand on his arm.
          “Deal. Wolverine won’t ever enter your home. But while Brit’s there, the Rezagado goes away too. Here in this house, it’s only Brit and Hawk, okay?”
          Hawk considered carefully before replying. “Deal. From this moment forward, Brit and Hawk here. Wolverine and Rezagado everywhere else. But make no mistake, Brit. I’m going to get Wolverine. I’m going to see he’s locked up for a long time.”
          “We’ve got a deal, Hawk, but I can promise you one thing. You’ll never lock him away. I know him too well. He won’t permit it.”
          “He won’t be able to stop me.”
          “He will if he kills you.”
          “That’s the only way.”
          Brit hesitated a moment. “Maybe not, Hawk. But this is Brit, not Wolverine. And Brit wants to go inside with you.”
          Hawk had not even snapped on the light when Brit came for him. He tensed as the arms came around him.
          “God, Hawk! I can’t stop thinking about you… about us, what we did. I can’t even make love to my girl without thinking about you. What did you do to me?”
          Hawk shrugged. “I was just being me, Brit. Nothing magical about that.”
          “I’m not so sure. I keep feeling you inside me. I wake up at night dreaming about it.”
          “You left here halfway pissed off last time. Is it going to be that way again?”
          “No, I promise. And you promise me you’ll love me better than you’ve ever loved anyone else.” Brit’s hands wandered “Promise!”
          “Donno about the loving part. But to be crude, I’ll fuck you the best I can.”
          Brit insisted on a light, so Hawk turned on a small lamp on the bedside table while Brit tore off his own clothing. Then he undressed Hawk slowly before kissing him. Damn! He really felt that one. As Brit stood back and gazed into his eyes, Hawk wondered if he’d said that aloud.
          “You’re a witch, Huntinghawk. A damned witch. And I’m going to prove it. I’m going to do something else I’ve never done.” Brit sank to his knees, and Hawk felt his mouth on him. Brit wasn’t very good at it, but the idea of reaching orgasm like this was appealing.
          Sooner than expected, his contractions hit. Halfway curling his naked body over Brit, he whispered words in his native tongue as he held the man’s head tight against him. When it was over, Brit looked up at Hawk.
          “You bastard, I didn’t intend to take you all the way like that.”
          “You started it, Brit. Don’t start something unless you can finish it.”
          “I just wanted to get you hard and…”
          “And see what it was like,” Hawk finished. “Now you know.”
          “Are you still going to make love to me?”
          “Like you wouldn’t believe. But first I’m going to have a beer. Want one?”
          They lay side by side on the bed and rested cold cans of beer on hairless, muscled chests between sips.
          “Hawk, can we be friends?”
          “Sure. You give yourself up, serve your time, and I’ll be there to help however I can when you get out.”
          “I can’t do that. You ask too much. They’d kill me if I turned myself in.” Brit threw his leg over Hawk’s.
          “There it is then.”
           “So we can be lovers, but not friends.” Brit paused. “Curt, make love to me. Down deep where it counts.”
          “Nobody’s called me Curt in years. Sounds good after all this time.” He turned to his willing partner, pausing to rake his eyes over the strong man spread on the bed before rolling on top of him to keep his promise.
          Thirty minutes later, he fell back onto the mattress, bathed in sweat and panting heavily.
“Well, how’d I do?” he gasped.
          “Infuckingcredible! Man, I’ve been truly fucked!”
          “But don’t ask me to do it again. At least not tonight.”
          “You’re a hell of a lover,” Brit said into Hawk’s ear. “But I guess you’ve been told that a lot. Was it as good as with the Mexican kid?”
          Without waiting for an answer, he dressed, refused another beer, and caressed Hawk’s cheek affectionately. As he moved to the door, Hawk’s voice stopped him.
          “Nothing’s changed, Brit. I’m still coming after you.”
          “Nothing’s changed except I’m in love with you,” the other man answered bitterly. “But I understand.”
          “You won’t consider my terms? I’ll wait for you. If you want me when you get out, I’ll be there for you.”
          “Thanks. That means a lot. Strange isn’t it? I shot you once, and now we’re lovers. I can’t, Curt. They’d kill me. Inside prison or out, they’d kill me.”
          “Together we—”
          “Is it true the Mexican kid was the first for you?”
          “Yes.”
          “Well, you’re my first and my last. I’ll never permit another man to touch me. But I’ll do it with you any time you want.” With that, he turned and walked out the door.

*****
Looks like Hawk still in control of the situation, but his effort to turn Wolverine seems to have failed. Now what? Does he continue to consort with the enemy, or does the scheme he has working in his brain hold a solution to that problem? We’ll have to see next week with the conclusion of the story of Huntinghawk and Wolverine.

For those of you who have not already done so, please order  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
Email: markwildyr@aol.com
Facebook: www.facebook.com/mark.wildyr
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.

Mark

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

Thursday, February 6, 2020

Huntinghawk and Wolverine (Part 3 of a 5-Part Story)


markwildyr.com, Post #107


Courtesy of needpix.com
NOTE: For the remainder of the segments in this story, I’m posting one at 6:00 a.m. each Thursday. Once the five-parter is finished, I’ll revert to my 1irst and third Thursday schedule.

Last episode, Hawk and Wolverine, a man named Brit Guerrero met face to face. In fact, when we left them, they were in Hawk’s house sizing one another up. What in the world will come of it? Read on.

*****
HUNTINGHAWK AND WOLVERINE

           “After I shot you and stripped you, I thought seriously about fucking you. But I don’t get off on passed out partners.”
          “I’m thankful for your sensitivity,” Hawk said wryly.
          “Don’t be. I knew I’d have to kill you if I did. Thought you might be more interesting alive.”
          “Mistake, Wolverine. I’m the one gonna bust you. I’m making you a promise. I’ll get you. I haven’t told anybody I know who you are, and I’m not going to,” Hawk said. “Because I’m going to be the one who gets you locked up for a long time.”
          “You’ll try, but you won’t make it. But I don’t want to talk about that. I like you, Hawk. Let’s talk about what you did to that Mexican.”
          “That Mexican, as you call him, was a decent kid. And if we did anything, it was private.”
          ‘You did something, Hawk. And I sure would like to have been a fly on the wall. That would have been something to see?”
          “You like to watch guys screw women too?”
          “Naw, I like to screw not watch. But there’s something about you. You’re all man. Handsome, built… but there’s something there. I think you turned that kid every way but loose.”
          “But you’ll never know, will you?”
          “Aw, come on. I opened up to you. Only fair you do the same.”
          “Not interested in being fair, Wolverine. Just in taking you down.”
          “Well, you won’t. But I admit I get a charge out of you. Just can’t figure out what we’d do if we got it on. I mean, I get the feeling we’d both be after the same thing.”
          “I’m not after anything of yours?”
          “Oh yeah?” the man said, standing suddenly. “Wanna measure?”
          Hawk rose. “Wouldn’t want to embarrass you.”
          Wolverine walked aggressively around the table and grabbed Hawk’s crotch. The grope became a caress.
          Hawk shrugged. “Like you say, what are we going to do?”
          “We’ll figure out something,” Wolverine answered, licking his handsome lips and panting a little. He clawed Hawk’s shirt open and laid a hand against his naked breast. “What the fuck?” the man said to himself. “What is it about you Hawk? I never fooled around with a man before!”
          “Neither had I until…” Hawk allowed his voice to die. Damn, he’d made an admission.
          Wolverine’s eyes blazed. “I knew it! How was the little fucker in bed?”
          Hawk met his gaze. “Like nothing I’ve ever had before. Better than any woman.”
          “Shit!’ the other man said, fumbling with Hawk’s sweat cutoffs. “I knew it! I almost came down and got him myself until I saw you move. Shit, Hawk!” It was a muted plea. Against his better judgment, Hawk made no move to stop the man from stripping him. As he stepped from his shorts, Hawk submitted to Wolverine’s hungry examination. “Damn, you’re handsome. Bet the girls go crazy. Bet the little Mexican did, too. What’d he do for you?”
          Hawk reached for his shorts. Wolverine gripped his wrist aggressively. Hawk froze, his hackles rising. The man released him.
          “Sorry. Just… let me look. Touch, maybe.”
          Hawk shrugged and stood without moving while Wolverine examined him like a cook poking a porker. Wolverine stood close behind him, his hands still busy.
          “Man…man, I want…I want…” Wolverine mumbled. Suddenly, he tore off his own clothing and leaned against Hawk. “Do something to me, Hawk?”
          “What?”
          “Anything. I don’t care. I just… I just want to do something with you. Touch me, man!”
          Hawk turned into his embrace and surprised the man, pulling his head forward and covering his lips with his own. Wolverine gasped and then submitted. In moments, he was kissing back, his tongue exploring, brushing against Hawk’s, seeking, plunging. When they parted, there was a perplexed look in the man’s eyes.
          “My God!” he mumbled. “Didn’t know men did that. Shit, what am I saying? I don’t know anything.”
          Hawk backed off. “Then why.…”
          “Because of you, you good-looking bastard!” Wolverine pulled him close again. “I’ve never wanted a man before! I’ve never noticed a man’s muscles , but the way they play in your back when you walk… it gets to me. I’ve never looked at a man’s fly and wanted to see what’s behind it. And it all started that day you put your arm around that kid and he put his arm around your naked body. I knew you were just supporting one another, but it set me on fire! Dammit, do something, Hawk! Do something!”
          Hawk did. He pushed the naked man into the living room and bent him over the back of an overstuffed chair. Ignoring first the protests and then cries of pain that morphed into shrieks of ecstasy he laid into the hunky man submitting to him. He worked up a sweat, but he kept on thrusting, driving himself resolutely toward ejaculation. He only faltered when he realized he wanted… needed this as much as Wolverine. But he recovered and resumed his assault. It slowly penetrated his brain that Wolverine was crying for more. So he gave him more until that moment arrived, and he reached orgasm. Wolverine’s climax was right behind his.
          Loud grunts and groans subsided into gasps for air and panting. Finally, Hawk couldn’t resist taunting the other man.
          “Was that what you wanted, Wolverine.
          “Damn, can’t you even call me Brit… at least when we’ve just moved mountains?”
          “Did your mountain move? Mine’s sitting right over yonder where it’s always been.”
          Wolverine swiped at his damp chest and reached for his clothes. “Yeah, right. They moved all right, both of them. You were shouting as loud as I was.”
          “Maybe… Brit.”
          “There you go, you can say it. We gonna do that again?”
          “Not tonight.”
          “I’ll take that as a promise.”
          “Brit… Wolverine, I’m making you only one promise. I’m gonna take you down.”
          The other man smiled and touched Hawk’s shoulder. “So long as you take me down the way we just did, that’s a deal.” Then his face half-clouded. “I can’t believe I let you do that. What are you, a fucking witch? Shit, Hawk, you better not ever tell anyone, or I’ll kill you… for real this time.”
          After Wolverine left, Hawk pulled on his sweat-cutoffs and T-shirt before sitting down at the computer. Within minutes, he copied down Brit Guerrero’s address and telephone number on a scrap of paper. As he sat back considering what had happened and grappled with how he felt about it, Hawk’s eyes fell on his boots. Damn! How was he going to explain how he recovered his boots?

*****
Looks like Hawk took control of the situation, and Wolverine left having second thoughts about what he'd submitted to. Does that worry Hawk? I guess not, he was thinking of how he could explain the return of his stolen boots when we last saw him.

For those of you who have not already done so, please order  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
Email: markwildyr@aol.com
Facebook: www.facebook.com/mark.wildyr
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.

Mark

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

Thursday, January 30, 2020

Huntinghawk and Wolverine (Part 2 of a 5-Part Story)


markwildyr.com, Post #106

Courtesy of Pixabay.com
NOTE: For the remainder of the segments in this story, I’m posting one at 6:00 a.m. each Thursday. Once the five-parter is finished, I’ll revert to my 1irst and third Thursday schedule.

Last week, Hawk spotted his shoes in a bar. Does that mean he’s found Wolverine, a notorious drug trafficker? Read on to find out.

*****
HUNTINGHAWK AND WOLVERINE

          The man wearing Hawk’s boots sat with his torso leaning forward and one leg tucked under him, exposing the bottom of the boot. There were people in the way so Hawk couldn’t see the man clearly. He meandered to the bar, bought a Mexican beer and took a chair at a table behind the man. A couple of girls tried to strike up a conversation, but he was so distracted, he was barely polite, but he learned from one of them that the stranger’s name was Brit Guerrero.
          Hawk was staring at the back of the man’s head when the other man stiffened and slowly turned in his chair. He held Hawk’s gaze for a long moment. Something in the eyes flickered before he returned to the conversation at his table. Hawk nursed his beer until closing. Ignoring everyone else, he kept his eye on Guerrero… hell, wouldn’t you know the guy’s name would be ‘Warrior’? It was obvious Guerrero knew he was being watched. In the parking lot, he saw Guerrero hand off his lady to another car and dally at his truck, a shining new Blazer, pitch black in color with not much chrome to reflect light. It looked to be a powerful machine. Hawk leaned on the fender of his Dodge pickup and watched to see what would happen.
          When most of the cars were gone, the man strode purposefully across the lot. “Light?” he asked, stopping in front of Hawk.
          “Don’t smoke.”
          “No? Neither do I. What’s up, man. You been watching me.”
          “Just want my boots.”
          “Your boots? You crazy man? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
          “Course you do, Wolverine. You took them when you shot me. That’s not so bad, but you’re using them to leave tracks all over the desert. Even that wouldn’t bother me except my partners think it’s funnier than hell. So I’ll just take them back.”
          “Don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”
          As they stood studying one another, Hawk assessed Guerrero. About his age, twenty-eight. Probably within a pound or two of his own weight. Mostly Indian but probably some other blood too. Had the look of a breed. White blood, if Hawk had to guess. He was disconcertingly good-looking, except his eyes held something that Ramon’s and Grove’s lacked… cruelty. Not exactly cruelty, more like a don’t-fuck-with-me-and-expect-to-live attitude.
          After a long silence, the other man couldn’t contain his curiosity. “Wolverine? That’s one I haven’t heard.”
          “Yeah, I know. You’re El Espectro to the others. But to me you’re Wolverine. You ever run across one? Mean spirited little beast.”
          “Tenacious,” Guerrero mused. “Brave. Aggressive.”
          “Mean spirited,” Hawk said again. ‘I’ll take my boots now.”
          “I bought these off a fellow, so can’t swear they’re not yours. But I paid good money for them. Good boots. What’d you pay for them new?”
          “Two-eighty across the border. Best they had.”
          “Worth it,” Guerrero said with a smile. “Well, since I can’t swear they’re not yours, give me what I paid for them and you can have them back.”
          “Okay,” Hawk said, turning to rummage around on the floor of his pickup cab. A moment later he dropped a 30-30 cartridge in the man’s hand.
         “What’s this?”
         “What you paid for the boots. And this is what I paid,” he said, pulling a finger across the hairline scar on his upper forehead.
         “Not sure I like your attitude, Hawk,” the man said. “Don’t think we can do business.”
         “How’d you know my name?”
         “Same way you know mine. I asked. Curt Huntinghawk, one of Rezagados Colorados best, so I hear.
         “If you know that, then you know I’ll get you sooner or later. Right now, all I want is my boots. Give them to me, and they can’t incriminate you. Keep them after I know you’ve got them, and they’ll help put you away.”
          The man seemed to consider this for a moment. “All right, stud, you can have them. But only because I’m feeling good tonight. Had a good day,” he said with an infuriating smile, “and gonna have a better night. You wanta come join me'n my mama? I can get you a woman.”
         “Thanks, I get my own women.”
         By the light of the parking lot lamps, Hawk saw the haughty eyes, as deeply black as his own, raked him insolently. “I’ll bet you do. Probably have them waiting for you all over town. You’re a good-looking fucker.”
         Hawk felt himself coloring. Did the man mean anything by that? Did he know something? Hawk calmed his breathing as Guerrero leaned against the pickup and unlaced first one boot and then the other.
         “Damn! Pavement’s still warm. Not as hot as the desert, I guess,” Guerrero said with a wink and smile. He called back over his shoulder as he walked away. “Maybe I’ll stop by your place one night. You rent the old Marta Hokkai place, don’t you?”
         Hawk watched until the tall, well-built figure reached the Blazer before crawling in his Dodge and following the other vehicle out of the lot. He thought about tailing the man, but they’d just drive around all night and accomplish nothing. Hawk went his own turn and soon pulled into his driveway.
         As he lay in bed later, he reviewed the evening. He knew who Wolverine was now, and he’d retrieved his boots. There wouldn’t be any more jokes about that, but how should he handle things? He thought about it so long and hard that he failed to rise with the morning star, something he habitually did.
         He remained home the rest of the weekend and was cleaning his Winchester at the kitchen table Sunday night when he heard a noise outside. Suddenly nervous, Hawk eased out the back door and sidled around the corner of the house.
         “Over here,” came a deep baritone. Hawk turned and walked openly to the back of the parked Blazer. Wolverine leaned against the rear. ‘You spooked about something, Hawk?”
         “Not polite to lurk about.”
         Guerrero laughed aloud. The sound was pleasant. “Lurk about? Is that what I was doing?”
         “Yeah, probably had some nefarious deeds planned too,” Hawk said.
         That brought a second pleasing gust of laughter. “You got a cold one in there?”
         “Yeah. But I wouldn’t want some bozo planting something in my house.”
         “If this bozo was gonna do that, he wouldn’t do it while you were home.”
         “Then come on in.”
         When they were settled at the kitchen table, Hawk resumed putting his weapon back together.
         “Good rifle,” Wolverine said admiringly. “You know, somebody stole mine. Probably in Vera Cruz by now.”
         “You don’t need to worry,” Hawk said. “We didn’t recover a bullet.”
         “I don’t—”
         Hawk leaned forward and pounded the table. “You shot me, you bastard. And you stripped me and left me to die. What I can’t figure out is why you didn’t finish the job.
         Guerrero considered him for a long time. “Maybe I should have. “But when I saw you lying there helpless, I decided you deserved a fighting chance. You were so damned.…”
         “Damned what?”
         “Never mind. Anyway, when I saw the Mexican kid, I knew he’d help you get to your stash at the water hole.”
         “You hung around that long?”
         “I was hightailing it when I saw a kid stumble up the arroyo. I almost laughed aloud when he saw you. Fucker died in his tracks, then he took another few steps. Leaned over to touch you, but when you moved, he jumped like he’d been shot.” Wolverine laughed. “Wanna guess what he was gonna touch? Tell me, you fuck him that night or wait till later? Pretty little son-of-a-bitch. Almost as good-looking as—” Wolverine looked as if he were reconsidering his words, then finished his sentence. “—you.”
         “Me?”
 *****
Whoa! Did Wolverine make a pass at Hawk? If so, how will the Indian react. Tune in next week.

For those of you who have not already done so, please order  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
Email: markwildyr@aol.com
Facebook: www.facebook.com/mark.wildyr
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.

Mark

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

Thursday, January 23, 2020

Huntinghawk and Wolverine (Part 1 of a 5-Part Story)


markwildyr.com, Post #105
  
Courtesy of en.wikipedia.org
Several of you have asked for more of Curt Huntinghawk’s story, so I’ll give you the second story I wrote about him and his adventures. Remember, you asked for it.

During this five-part series, I will post a segment weekly, returning to my usual first and third Thursday postings when the story is complete.

Here we go with the story of Huntinghawk and Wolverine. The first installment is rather long, so hang in there. I hope you enjoy.

*****
HUNTINGHAWK AND WOLVERINE

          The raw, cruel beauty of the Lower Sonoran Desert failed to work its usual magic as a cold anger seeped into Curt Huntinghawk’s guts. He abruptly obscured the footprint made by his own boots. Grover Whitedeer, his best friend and fellow tracker, appeared at his side.
          “Found another one, huh?” The young Indian knew this was serious business to his friend, but he couldn’t keep the teasing out of his voice.
          “Fucking Wolverine! He’s playing with us.”
          “Wasn’t playing when he shot you two months back,” Grove observed, turning serious.
          Huntinghawk and Whitedeer were two of the Rezagados Colorados, a small band of Indian trackers hired by the Border Patrol to help run down drug runners bringing marijuana and cocaine across the Mexican border some six miles to the south. It was a matter of pride to the twenty or so Native American trackers that they were responsible for seventy percent of the drugs confiscated in this area.
          But they hadn’t caught Wolverine, as Hawk called the elusive traficante, who was named El Espectro or Phantom by the others. Two months ago, Hawk had gotten close and received a crease in his forehead from a high powered rifle for his troubles. As he lay unconscious, the smuggler had stripped him naked and left him to die in the Sonoran furnace. Now the Wolverine was wearing Hawk’s boots when he made his runs.
           A chance encounter by a young Mexican illegal lost in the desert had probably saved both their lives. The boy, Ramon Aquila, and Hawk had become lovers until the pressure of living as an illegal in the midst of the people responsible for deporting them had driven the boy north to find his brother in Colorado. The kid had opened Hawk’s eyes to the vague longings he’d sometimes experienced, but he left a hell of a hole in Hawk’s heart when he left.
          Hawk studied the horizon carefully while Grove looked about some more. “Got another one,” the smaller Indian called. “Kinda old, though. How old was your track?”
         “Five, six hours.”
         “Yeah, that’s about right. Doesn’t look like you’re going to get shot this time out.”
         “Dammit, Grove!” Hawk snarled before turning away and stalking off to where they had left their four-by-four. He was seated in the cab, baking in the heat, by the time Grove crawled in and kicked over the motor. Hawk knew he wasn’t acting rationally. Hell, the guys kidded one another all the time, and getting shot by your quarry was just too good to let go easily. It appealed to the Indian sense of humor shared by the group, even if they were from tribes scattered all across the country.
         “Sorry,” Hawk said. “Guess the scar on the outside of my forehead’s healed, but the one on the inside hasn’t.”
         “Better work on it, bro. This one’s gonna haunt you for a long time,” Grove said.
          Hawk was a northern plains, and Grove was a southern woodland. They were both different from the other Rezagados, built more like range bulls, leaner and meaner. The local Indians tended to be shorter and heavier and more placid by nature. Hawk carried a hundred-eighty pounds and stood an even six feet while Grove came in twenty pounds under and two inches shorter. Still, Hawk would think twice before getting in a knock-down-drag-out with his friend. They’d backed one another up too often in bars for the bigger man to underestimate his companion.
          “Hey, man!” Grove said as they bounced across a faint track in the desert. “Let’s go across the border tonight and buy a couple of gals.” His suggestion brough his narrow, handsome features alive.
          “Naw. Gonna hang at home tonight.”
          “Shit, Hawk. We haven’t gone catting since you got shot. You sure he didn’t shoot something besides your head?”
          Hawk grinned. “Naw. It’s still there.”
          “Then come on! Let’s get some poontang!”
          “Man, you are from the south, aren’t you?”
          “Poontang’s a good word. Means the same here as it does back home.”
          “Well, my poon done got tanged,” Hawk made a joke out of it. In truth, he wanted to be with Grove this evening. Hell, if he was honest about it, he was attracted to the handsome shit! But he wasn’t ready to turn to women again …not after Ramon. Not yet, anyway. Was he afraid to get with a woman again? There’d been plenty of them in the past, but none since he found what he had with Ramon. That didn’t make any sense. He had his mouth opened to accept the offer when Grove spoke again.
          “Okay, then, how ‘bout we go to the Blue Mesa?” The Blue Mesa was a rowdy bar on the edge of town frequented by Indians.
          “You’re on. I could stand a brew or two.”
          “You got it!”
          But the day wasn’t done yet. Grove slammed on the brakes when he spotted footprints crossing the dusty ruts. Boots. Fresh. Two people. Neither of them was the Wolverine. The two Indians reached for the 30-30 rifles they weren’t authorized to carry and took off at a lope. An hour later, two specks grew into two men loaded with packs. The mules didn’t even bother to look behind them until the two Rezagados drew within twenty yards.
          The two drug-runners weren’t inclined to defend their cargo, they tried running instead, but were easy pickings. The Rezagados were not granted police powers, but most people were not aware of that fact. If the traficantes had resisted, they’d have had to back off and call for sworn officers, but when the men surrendered, he and Grove hiked them back to the truck and drove them to the Border Patrol. It was a good haul. Ten pounds of raw cocaine and a hundred of marijuana.


           Celebrating that night at the Mesa, they swigged beer to replenish the moisture they’d lost… or so they told themselves. Grove got a good buzz quickly; Hawk took longer. He sat on his side of the table as frantic activity swirled around him and watched his friend. Grove was as handsome as Ramon had been. To be honest, probably more handsome because there was more of a man in his looks. Ramon had been as pretty as a budding woman; Grove was man-handsome. Smooth cheeks free of facial hair. Big, lash-fringed brown eyes and a firm chin with a stubborn look about it. Shit! Grove was pretty too.
          The girls who stopped by confirmed his opinion. They descended on the two men in droves. Hawk played the game, but without real interest. Grove played it enthusiastically. About one a.m., Grove came off the dance floor with his arm around a girl.
           “Hey, man, we gonna head out. You fixed up for the night?”
          “Think so. See you Monday. Don’t get bombed, you hear?” Damn. Grove was better looking than the girl, and she was downright pretty.
          It took some doing, but he made it out of the bar without a woman in tow. Halfway home, he was getting so blue he figured he’d made a mistake. Closing was in half an hour, so he decided to stop by a small bar at the edge of town. Might not be any women left unclaimed except for some two o’clock gal, but that’s probably all he deserved.
          The Branding Iron was still pretty crowded, and half of them were Indians. Unfortunately, three-quarters of them were males, and at first glance he didn’t find a stray woman in the joint. About thirty seconds later, he lost all interest.
          Hawk didn’t consciously check out boots, but ever since Wolverine had stolen his, he sort of made a sweep of the floor in every bar he entered. Two tables to the left, one brown, calfskin work boot with a distinctive red bird emblazoned on the sole caught his eye.

*****
Hawk’s found his boots. Does that mean he’s found Wolverine, as well? If so what kind of sparks will fly between these two macho men? Next week, we might find out.

For those of you who have not already done so, please order  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
Email: markwildyr@aol.com
Facebook: www.facebook.com/mark.wildyr
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.

Mark

New posts at 6:00 a.m. on Thursday.