Markwildyr.com, Post #188
By popular demand, Gabacho returns to the post this week. Apparently, some of you hombres liked the kid. So here we go.
* * * * *
GABACHO MOVES ON
Perched atop the flea-bitten gray I called Slick, I worked my way west toward the Antelope Springs border crossing. I’d arrived in Mexico naked and dripping wet after swimming the Rio Grande, but I wasn’t of a mind to go back stateside that way. It woulda been quicker, but quick wasn’t the thing at the moment. I was seeing new countryside, finding work when I could at a ranch here or a bar there to keep from spending the last of my pay from Rancho Salvador. I speak the lingo pretty good, so there wasn’t a problem from that standpoint. Fording the river the way I did, I didn’t have papers, but the border guards hadn’t been requiring them all that long, so I wasn’t worried on that score.
Slick and I were headed west
again after an overnight stay in a little no-name village, and along about
evening time, I spotted what looked to be a campfire a little to the north of
me as the long shadows began stretching out the evening. I’d had pretty good
luck at finding welcome at such spots, so I turned my pony down the dusty trail
toward the flames. I made plenty of noise, “halloin’” the camp well before I
got there. A welcoming noise rose, so I continued until Slick was standing in
plain sight of the fire’s glow.
“Hola,” I said, nodding
in the twilight.
“Hola, Gabacho,” came
two or three answering voices. Sometimes it seemed like I was never a stranger
because I was always hailed as gringo or Gabacho. Gringo if they weren’t too
careful about being polite, and Gabacho if they were. That was a tag they hung
on Anglos, especially ones that were fair. My curly brown hair with honey
highlights and blue eyes qualified, apparently. I’ve introduced myself to
people with my own name, Gary Hawthorne only to be told “No, I was Gabacho.” So
I quit offering my legal handle and simply answered to that.
“Evening,” I responded.
Sitting horseback until invited to dismount. Once it came, I saw to Slick’s
needs, ground hitching him near a small stream where there was plenty of grass.
I heard grunts of approval as I rubbed him down before approaching the three
men.
They turned out to be drovers
for a ranch with the improbable name of Rancho Punta de Flecha… the Arrowhead
Ranch. They offered coffee and beans and tortillas, which came in handy at the
moment. I hadn’t had anything all day except for some jerky from my saddlebag.
They were an amiable group,
and we were soon comfortable with one another. They quickly wormed out of me
that I’d spent several months on Rancho Salvador and had good things to say
about how the place was run. It seems the ranch, and especially its long-time
foreman Bartolome Barca, ranked high in this part of Mexico. It took a good
quarter of an hour to discern there were actually four of them. One fellow sat
deeper in the gloom, somewhat removed from the fire’s glow. I caught the gleam
of his eyes before I actually saw him, giving me something of a start.
“Don’t worry about Don Tomas,”
said the one called Juan, who did most of the talking for the group. “He don’t
say much, but he hears everything.”
With that criptic remark, Juan
returned to talking about Texas longhorns. But a little later, I heard the low
rumble of a voice from the darkness.
Juan waved a hand in the air.
“Just Don Tomas. He’s got one a them little teléphonos he carries around
with him. Always talking on it.”
“You called him Don Tomas, not
Tomas.”
Juan dropped his voice and
leaned toward me. “He’s the patrón’s son. He rides with us sometimes.
Ain’t a bad vaquero.” Juan
wagged a hand back and forth. “But you know, he ain’t one of us. Don’t join in
with us much.” He tossed the rest of his coffee on the fire. “Welcome to stay
the night. Any old piece of ground will do.”
“Thanks, I’ll take you up on that. But I need to wash up. I been
traveling all day.”
Juan nodded over my shoulder. “Back down there about ten meters, they’s
a pool. Welcome to use it. Mite chilly, but it’s good water. And the snakes has
already gone to bed.” He laughed at his humor and started making ready to turn
into his blankets.
I collected Slick and wandered down the creek until I found the pool
Juan had been talking about. After ground hitching the pony, I sat down on a
rock to slip off my boots. Then I stood and shucked every stitch to slip into
the cold water and scrub away the day’s grime. I’d finished my task and was
wading back to the shore when a dim outline of someone sitting cross legged on
the bank startled me. I saw moonlight catch in the eyes and knew who he was
before he spoke.
“It’s me, Tomas.”
“Gave me a start.”
“You as good looking as Carlos said you were.”
“Carlos? Carlos Salvador? How do you know Carlos?”
“From school. I guess I met you the same way Carlos did. Buck naked
coming up out of the water.”
I chuckled. “Guess so. I swam the Rio del Norte and came out on the
bank where he was.”
“He says you’re good.”
I licked my lips. Was Carlos blabbing about what we’d done the day I
left the Rancho? I tried to put another spin on it. “I can hold my own with
most of the vaqueros.”
“Yeah, he says you’re a good cowhand, but you’re better at something
else.”
“Like what?”
He rose from the ground and moved closer. A warm hand cradled my
testicles. “Like screwing. He says you turned him every way but loose.”
I brushed away his hand but didn’t take offense. “What is it with you
hidalgos. You all talk English better’n I do.”
His hands cupped my buttocks and pulled me into him. In truth, his warm
touch was welcome. The night was chilled, and I was wet. I pushed him away and
picked up the towel I’d laid out from my bag.
He took it from me. “I’ll do that.” It wasn’t a question; it was a
statement. So help me, I let him. He dried me—all of me—very thoroughly and got
me aroused while doing it. I finally found my voice.
“Hey man, we’re standing out here in front of God and everybody.”
“I don’t know about God, but everybody—all three of them—have turned in
over in that grove. Nobody can see us here.”
When I didn’t answer, he dropped to his knees and clasped me around the
waist. I lost the will to protest when his tongue went to work. Half an hour
later, he lay beneath me trying to muffle his grunts of pleasure as I pounded
his trim butt. Carlos and his big mouth had given me a reputation to live up
to, and I damned near got a hernia meeting expectations. But when Tomas
gathered his clothes later and staggered off to his own blankets, he looked as
if he was walking on rubber legs. Pleased, I cleaned myself up, and dropped
into the bedroll to sleep away the rest of the night.
When I woke the next morning, the others had moved on, leaving behind a
small pot of chili and beans. After last night’s workout, the repast was
welcome. Finished with my breakfast, I pulled on my britches and boots, and
donned the vest I customarily wear to protect my back from the sun. I seldom
bothered with a shirt.
Slick seemed ready to travel, so I slapped leather on him, mounted up,
and did just that… traveled.
* * * *
So Gabacho’s on
the move, returning—sooner or later—to the States. For a womanizer, he’s been
getting a lot of male flesh lately. Wonder if that bothers him? Maybe we’ll
find out next time.
I continue to
ask for reviews of Wastelakapi, on Amazon. I need stars, guys. ALSO,
please friend this site. Apparently, that matters in the internet world.
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
Now my
mantra: Keep on reading. Keep on writing.
You have something to say, so say it!
See you later.
Mark
New posts the first and third Thursday of the month at
6:00 a.m., US Mountain time.
No comments:
Post a Comment