Autumn 1831
along the Allegheny River
But for improvident fate, angry, boiling clouds would have unleashed
nature’s cold fury upon this Yankee river valley the day he buried his ma and
pa. Perversely, a rose-hued dawn washed the tall forests and granite bluffs in
a warm autumn glow.
Prosperous
Tory farmers, his forebears had rallied to Benedict Arnold’s American Legion
during the Great Rebellion, participating in raids on Ft. Griswold and New
London. Their lands confiscated, their very lives at risk, the family joined
the migration of a hundred thousand Loyalists to Canada and the Mother Country
upon the Crown’s surrender to the victorious Continental rebels.
At
the turn of the century, his pa brought the little family south from Toronto to
unsuccessfully petition for the restoration of their prosperity, but old
hatreds die lingering deaths, and Tories were subjected anew to high prejudices
with the burning of the President’s House in the War of 1812. The Marquis de
Lafayette’s return to these shores in August 1824, and the old revolutionary’s
warm reception by James Monroe, the last American President to fight in the
Rebellion, put the barm on the brew, sentencing the family to hard labor merely
to meet the cain on farmland that once had been their own.
Life
doubly rocked the slender young man with hair the color of sandy soil and hazel
irises shot with brown and green and gold when the tragic deaths of his parents
in a farmhouse fire followed hard on the heels of a doomed affair with the
daughter of a family of Patriots, who had no use for Tories – real or reformed.
The discovery of a hundred carefully horded gold English Pounds in the ashes of
the family cabin confirmed his determination to abandon this hateful land and
retrace the footsteps of his boyhood idol, Jedediah Strong Smith, the legendary
trapper and explorer of the Far West.
CHAPTER 1
Spring
1832 at the edge of the Little Island Mountains, the Dakota country
From our place of concealment, we silently watched the
tribesman ease cautiously out of the draw and press up a steep slope littered
with broken boulders and sparse-leafed mountain scrub, exposing himself to two
warriors on sturdy Indian ponies methodically working the rims of the coulee
below. One threw up a long gun and shattered a stone near the fleeing man’s
shoulder. A third brave, nearer his quarry, loosed a wild yell and wheeled his
pony, raising a tomahawk as the pinto churned awkwardly across the sharply
pitched ground. His prey evaded the hatchet and snagged its wicked head,
bringing down both man and mount.
#
My
name is William Joseph Strobaw, and I have earned no sobriquet except for
Billy. Despite my pa’s firm conviction I aspired beyond my station, I managed
graduation from a small but excellent college back east. I coveted Harvard, but
we could ill afford the three hundred dollars it cost. Moorehouse College was
hardship aplenty at half the price.
My
parents’ death in a fire and a failed love affair with Abigail, whose Patriot
family would hold no truck with the descendent of traitorous Tories, combined
to determine me upon foreign adventure. Financing my poorly planned scheme with
my dead parents’ life savings, I abandoned the familiar world of intolerance,
slavery, and black uprisings for the opportunity of the frontier, a promising
place of new beginnings where a man’s reputation was what he painted upon
himself by his own actions. Another considerable influence on my rash decision
was my hero, Jedediah Strong Smith, rumored to have been killed recently by the
fierce Comanche along the Santa Fe Trail.
So
it was that I made my way over the long winter to Independence, Missouri, where
I met Splitlip and Wild Red in an ordinary two months back and learned they
were headed to the Dakota country to trap and trade. During a round of drinks,
it was somehow propounded that I accompany them to Fort Wheeler rather than
undertake the eight-hundred-mile Santa Fe Trail along which my hero died. My
rash admission to twenty dollars for the poke was likely the reason for the
invitation. In truth, I had other such pieces secreted in my wallet.
The
adventure almost came unraveled before it was firmly knit. Wild Red went on a
drunken tear with a sleazy doxy and appeared the following morning still under
the influence of strong drink and reeking of sated lust. I managed to overlook
his jadish deportment, but when Splitlip went over the edge, ranting like the
Marquis de Sade over fascinating and horrifying creatures no one else could
fathom, I began to reconsider. Red, once he recovered his own senses, assured
me Splitlip Rumquiller was a solid fellow except when he got his hands on a
button. It took some inquiry to discern the button in question was
hallucinogenic peyote trundled up from the Spanish Territory of Nuevo Mejico by
some enterprising trader.
As
the old frontiersman appeared entirely sane and sound the next day, and since I
did not wish to be cozened out of my twenty dollars, I pursued the enterprise,
although I confess to some disquiet because we walked. I am certain my gold
piece was sufficient to provide adequate mounts for the trek.
#
Red
was no less hostile the next day, nor did Cut Hand rest any easier around him.
Nonetheless, we made good time with Split or Red occasionally dropping back to
check our rear. Discovering the warriors were on our trail, Split sent us
wading down a mountain brook while he turned north, muddying the water and
leaving careless prints. Red took us out over a broad stretch of flat rock
after a league in the frigid water. Split rejoined us at nightfall.
Cut
Hand and I camped seventy yards from the others that night. My willpower was
insufficient to prevent me from touching him as he lay shackled to a tree. I
stroked his heavy chest and flat belly, feeling his accelerated heartbeat.
Anger? Excitement? Like his breast, his stomach was hairless. Loosening his
garment, I timidly caressed his bare flesh. His skin was taut, smooth. I moved
to the black hair above his cock and entangled my fingers.
Inflamed
beyond restraint, I put my tongue to him. He smelled fresh and masculine.
Grasping his yard in my hand, I stroked it, vainly seeking to bring some life
into that fascinating cock. Disbelieving what I was doing, I took it into my
mouth, sucking at him until he grew and slowly filled my oral cavity.
Fighting
a sudden urge to choke and gag, I placed a hand around him and found I had
swallowed no more than a third of his shaft. I spit him out and tugged back his
foreskin, I tongued his big stones, astounded by the pleasant sensation this
occasioned in my own groin. Then I worked over him awkwardly, inexpertly,
intent on bringing this handsome creature to climax. At length, the stomach
muscles tightened beneath my hand, and I shared the excitement of his orgasm.
His taste should have been revolting, but the unexpected sweetness of his seed
made me struggle to take all of his copious flow. I swallowed greedily, licking
what few drops I had lost from his flat, hard belly. Except for panting
slightly, he remained still and silent as his big yard slowly softened.
Afterward,
ashamed yet wildly exhilarated, I contemplated the youth I had debauched. The
enormity of my actions struck me; I had corrupted a man. A shiver played down
my spine. I was a monstrous hydra, no better than the pathetic creature we
called Faggot John back home. Even as I shuddered to recollect the disgust we
accorded that abomination, I callously laid aside my apprehension. The morrow might
bring regrets, retribution, even damnation, but my only concern at the moment
was my own need.
Lying
across his strong legs, I tore free of my britches to expose my own hard, hot
pole. Frantically, I gripped myself and beat a steady rhythm until giving
myself release, the excitement of the act immeasurably heightened by the
fathomless black eyes that watched my every move by the weak moonlight. Shaken
by powerful conflicting emotions, I rose, cleaned us both, and restored our
clothing. Then I took my life in my hands and removed the iron bracelet from
his right wrist to snap it around the bole of the sapling, giving him the
length of the chain to maneuver and the full use of one hand, should our
stalkers appear. Thereafter, I covered us with a blanket and slept.
I
woke with dawn tinting the sky above the trees, although no light yet
penetrated the glade. Cut Hand’s lips brushed my cheek as he uttered something
unintelligible. Seizing my hand, he turned it to the north. I understood. Then
he pointed it across his body, letting me know one came from that direction. As
he did so, his chain rattled. Grasping my ten-pound Common rifle, I rolled
silently out of the blankets to the far side of the small clearing where I
gained my feet and froze.
Nothing
happened except the coming sun built its golden light slowly. Then my
peripheral vision detected movement. The brave had almost reached the tree
where Cut Hand lay shackled before I was certain. I threw up the gun and fired,
dropping the warrior as he pounced. He lay still.
Suddenly,
a second figure vaulted from the trees with a screech, bringing his hatchet
down on Cut Hand. But my prisoner rolled into his attacker’s legs, sending him
tumbling into me. I lost the grip on my rifle along with the ability to use it
as a club. The buck came up fast, but I clung to him, grappling for control of
that deadly tomahawk. Silently, we struggled, thrashing around in the grass,
crashing against trees. I saw stars. My eyesight blurred, but I stubbornly
fought for the weapon. Suddenly, he released my right hand to force my left
free of the axe. Snatching my knife from its sheath, I rammed it into his side.
He continued struggling, and I feared the warrior had shrugged my thrust aside,
but gradually, he lost strength until he slumped over and sagged against my
legs. Badly shaken, I looked up to find three figures staring at me through the
new dawn. Cut Hand strained against his chain while Red and Split held weapons
at the ready.
“Ya
done good, boy.” Split nodded approval. “We best go scare ‘em up.”
“Scare
up who?” I gasped, holding my blood-imbrued shirt away from me. Suddenly
revolted, I snatched it off and stood shivering in the cold morning breeze.
“Horses,
boy,” Red answered. “Them two had horses.”
I
had almost finished soaking the blood and its stink from my blouse when Split
and Red returned with the ponies, a sturdy mustang and an Indian calico, which
whites tend to disdain, although Split assured me they were good horseflesh. We
distributed the loot among us. The Pipe Stem braves had Indian trade rifles and
forged tomahawks. One had carried a spiked axe; the other, a Missouri war
hatchet.
Unaccountably
uneasy, I bade my companions keep an eye on our prisoner while I wandered off
as if on personal business. Once out of sight, I grasped a tree limb and stood
with head bowed. In the clear light of the dawning day, the beastliness of what
I had done descended upon me. I had forced a man to submit to my depraved
desires. He was shackled, pursued by enemies bent on slaying him. I was his
gaoler; he was under my authority. Yet I abused him in an unspeakably disgusting
manner. Dropping to my knees, the Christian part of me begged my God’s
forgiveness. Somehow Cut Hand must be made to understand my repentance.
About
as transparent as my Aunt Felicity’s bobbin lace, I was no sooner back than
Split cast an eye on me. “Ya feeling bad ‘bout whut happent?” he demanded.
Startled and confused and ashamed, I stared like a pole-axed ox. “Adrat, boy!”
he swore. “Them two bucks was tryin’ ta kill ya.”
Relief
made my knees go watery. Amazed my prayer had held no confession of guilt for
the taking of two human lives, I ran my hand over my face.
Red
grinned at me. “Them the first?”
“And
the last, I pray.”
“Son,”
Split said, his tone sad, “if them’s the last, then yer a dead man. Sure as
we’s standin’ here watchin’ God’s sun rise in the east, yer gonna have ta kill
agin afore this trek’s done. And Cut Hand here says ta thank ya.”
We
resumed our journey riding two to a pony with my perversion still hidden from
the world. Cut Hand’s arms remained shackled, so I rode in front to control the
pinto.
That
evening we camped where the trail forked. Our planned route ran to the
northwest; the southern trace led to the river and a rumored second trail to
Fort Wheeler. I promptly forgot my covenant with the Lord and proposed a split
camp, laying it at the door of Red’s hostility.
The
redhead laughed. “Fine by me. I ain’t anxious ta sleep with ‘im. But ya ever
stop ta thank thangs is different now?”
“What
do you mean?” I demanded in alarm.
“Whut
he means ta say,” Split interjected, “is that there ain’t two redskins on Cut
Hand’s bum. He needed ya last sundown; he don’t now.”
I
glanced at the big youth attempting to chew a piece of jerky while his hands
were pinioned behind him. There was also nothing to keep him from exacting his
revenge. “We’ll sleep up in that grove where the stream bends.” I indicated the
place with a nod of the head. Cut Hand’s eyes flickered to the spot.
The
others had hobbled the horses, so they could forage and were making ready for
the blankets when we returned from our chores. Cut Hand engaged Split in a
short discussion, and once again my ears reddened as I imagined being exposed
as a pariah.
“He
says ta tell ya he’ll behave hisself,” Split translated. “I figger he’s
beholden fer them two bucks. But he wants ta know when we gonna let ‘im go.”
“Not
yet!” Red interjected. “I want that river ‘tween us, Split.”
“Ya
gotta unnerstand, Red, he coulda left any time he wanted after Billy took care
a them two fellers.”
In
our own grove, Cut Hand waited patiently as I spread our blankets and snapped
his manacles around a tree. I recited prayers for half an hour, begging for
strength before reaching for him. Such was the sway of this primeval Adonis
that the moral shield of my Christian upbringing crumbled, exposing the raging
beast of carnal lust. Aware he was free to raise an alarm, I was still
powerless to protect either of us from my passion.
“Damnation,
Cut Hand, you’ve put some kind of spell over me. What is it you call it?
Medicine? You took away my self-control. I’m helpless around you. If I didn’t
know better, I’d say it was love –”
Astounded
by my conclusion, I bit my tongue!
Abandoning
talk, I placed my hand across that broad chest. He did not flinch or call out.
I touched his cheek, astonished at the purity of the skin. His face was
virtually free of a beard. A smattering of soft hair in his deep, mysterious
armpits was all until his thick, black nether bush. Pulling at the hairs gently
with my teeth, I slipped down to nuzzle his full, round sac. His great organ
failed to stir. As before, I bent to my task, sucking at him until he grew hard
and working with my greedy mouth until Cut Hand exploded once again, spasming
and filling me with an abundance of his seed. Without pause, I threw myself
atop him and ground against his hard belly until the storm broke, and I sprayed
his naked flesh with milky cum.
Awed
and excited, I sought confirmation this was something other than involuntary
muscular contractions. I pressed my lips against his. He failed to respond. I
peered at him so closely our noses touched. I kissed his eyes, moved back to
his lips, and had my answer. He felt nothing. Disappointed, I muttered
apologies and begged forgiveness though whether from a disapproving God or this
reluctant lover, I could not say.
Sleepless,
I put aside questions of morality and searched for the perversion that drew me
to this man. I had known many comely youths, but the idea of lewd intimacies
with them stirred me to illness. With a profound shock, I realized the truth;
my heart was lost to an enterprise as hopeless as the pursuit of Abigail Carnes!
My
childhood provided no clue to my folly. A loving mother and a perpetually
exhausted father had raised me on prunes and proverbs. Curiosity about the
fairer gender never obsessed me. I was eighteen before I had a leap with a
girl, which turned into no more than a pleasant flourish that ruined a budding
friendship when I showed no further interest.
I
recalled no undue curiosity about my own kind beyond a shy comparing of yards,
as youngsters are wont to do. When I was twelve, an older boy from a farm down
the road and I went skinny dipping in the local crick. I remember him
initiating talk – dirty talk – about a girl we both knew. When I refused to
participate in such unseemly gossip, he groped my naked flesh. I protested, but
was not unduly offended until he tried to stick his roger up my bum. I ran
away, but in the safety of the woods I noticed my thing had stopped being a
penis and become a cock – it was stiff as a rod.
That
was the sum of my animalistic experiences, save for occasional
self-gratification. Now, I had twice acted the deviant with this comely savage.
#
CUT HAND, published by STARbooks Press, is available from Amazon.
I just finished Cut Hand last night and had to say thank you for such a wonderful story and introducing to me and countless others such wonderful characters that people Cut Hands and Billy's world... As I came to the end I felt like I was saying good bye to some wonderful; friends,I was so happy to find out today that you continued the legacy you so brilliantly shared, Can't wait to read River Otter as well as the other books.......
ReplyDeletePleased you received so much pleasure from Cut Hand. Yes, I have three more books in the Cut Hand Series, one of which won't be published until spring 2015. Thanks for letting me know. It makes the work of writing worth the effort.
ReplyDeleteKeep up the good work! what made your books so good was it wasn't all about the sex which was great but the fact there was a story with heart and was great way to learn about another time and place and the people of the times. can't wait for the others.
DeleteR.W.
Thanks. I try to tell a story, not fill a date calendar. Appreciate the fact you noticed. Keep on reading and let me know how you like the other books.
ReplyDeleteAre your books available anywhere besides Amazon?
ReplyDeleteMy publisher, STARbooks Press says you can order them through any bookstore. I also believe you can order them from starbookspress.com.
DeleteThanks for your interest
Thank you. I completely missed the link to B&N on starbookspress.com. Off to shop.
DeleteI thought the book was good but the beginning happened WAY to fast. I would have preferred the first two chapters to be about Billy leaving home and then meeting up with Red and Splitlip. The 3rd chapter to be about Cut Hand's adventure and why he was where he ended up and then several chapters after that leading up to Billy and Cut Hands budding romance. Everything happened too fast and wasnt believable.
ReplyDeleteHi, anon... Appreciate your thoughts. Have had some criticism for the last part of the book happening too fast, but yours is the first on the first part. The book spans thirty-two years, and a publisher puts a word limit on most books they bring out, so I had to make choices. By having Billy agonize (fight his upbringing) over his sudden, powerful physical attraction to Cut Hand, I felt that was adequate. Had I been able to put in everything I wanted, Cut Hand would have been a 450-page book. Unfortunately, I couldn't. Glad you enjoyed the book anyway. Thanks for letting me know your thoughts.
ReplyDeleteI didnt mean to criticize. I enjoyed the book and just ordered the other 3 in the series! Im looking forward to the continued story.........
ReplyDeleteYou said above that if you included EVERYTHING you wanted to include in "Cut Hand" that the book would be 450 pages. Did you ever consider writing two novels about Cut Hand and Billy instead of just one???
ReplyDeleteAnon & Kurt. My replies didn't get published, so will do them again. I've had people tell me I rushed the final part of Cut Hand, but you're the first to suggest the beginning went too fast. The book covers over sixty years, and I had to get cracking. I thought Billy's tussle with his conscience would take the sting out of the rapidity of the affair.
ReplyDeleteNo, I never considered splitting Cut Hand. I intended it as a stand alone novel, but after I finished, Billy and Otter wouldn't leave me alone. Then Otter and James demanded their time. John and Matthew grew up and insisted on their place in the saga. Medicine Hair, the 4th in the series is due out in December. I am working on the final in the saga, Wastelakapi ... Beloved, at the present time.