Huntinghawk (Part 3 of 3 Parts)

markwildyr.com, Post #104

  

Photographer: Bobby Mikul, Courtesy of CCO Public Domain

Today, we finish the first short story I wrote about Curt Huntinghawk. I have more, if you want to read them. Let me know.

Last time, we left Hawk somewhat stunned after Ramon performed an intensely personal act for him. Where can it possibly go from here? Read on.

*****

HUNTINGHAWK

          They slept together that night, but both were so exhausted they did nothing. Ramon nestled in the crook of Hawk’s arm, and more than once the Indian woke, gazing through the darkness at the warm, human being sleeping so peacefully beside him. What had he done to merit such trust and adoration? It was a puzzle to Hawk. Sex was not a thing he took lightly. He always felt uncomfortable after coming back across the border after being with a puta. But he felt nothing for this young man except a fondness. He pulled the boy to him and closed his eyes. In moments he slept again.

          As was his custom, Hawk woke with the rising of the morning star. He was dressed and on the front porch railing studying the Milky Way when Ramon staggered sleepily outside and leaned against him, still warm from the bed.

          “You’ll catch cold,” Hawk warned, running his hand up and down the boy’s naked flanks.

          “Don’t care. Hawk keep warm. Come with Ramon. He fix something to eat. How you like eggs?”

          “Over easy,” Hawk said, rising and following the boy back inside. Ramon checked his laundry, and finding it dry, pulled on clean shirt and trousers. Then he proved he could cook.

          After breakfast, the boy cleaned up and then lanced Hawk’s foot, proclaiming it better. He was nervous. His movements went all gawky again. “What… what you do with Ramon?” he finally asked, standing at the sink, his back to Hawk.

          “I don’t know,” the man answered honestly. “I’m not responsible for illegals, but I do work for the government. I suppose the best thing is for you to simply head for Colorado.”

          “Hawk don’t turn in to La Migra?”

          The Indian stood behind the boy and tousled his hair. “No, I won’t turn you in. You need to rest some more. We both got pretty dehydrated out there on the desert. Don’t worry about it today. But you better lay sort of low, okay?”

          “Lay low?”

          “Stick around the house. Stay inside out of sight. And if anybody comes, go out the back door and hide out in the barn behind the house. I’m going by the office to let everyone see I’m okay. You’ll be okay while I’m gone?”

          “Ramon be okay.

           When Hawk arrived at headquarters mid-morning. Amadeo and a couple of others were hanging around the place.

           “Told you to take it easy,” Amadeo growled.

           “Just came by so you could see I’m okay.”

          “You go to the clinic?”

          “No. I’m okay.”

          Grover Whitedeer walked up and punched Hawk playfully on the shoulder. “Just not so pretty now.” Grove, a woodland Indian from the southeast, was Hawk’s best friend. They’d joined the Rezagados at about the same time and often teamed together to track. Grove had the day off yesterday or they’d have been together.

          “Naw,” Amadeo observed, “but when his head heals up, all he’ll have is a little scar, and he’ll tell all the muchachas some Mexican tried to scalp him.

          “Does look like somebody tried.”

          Convinced that Hawk was all right, the others directed the talk to the Phantom, or Wolverine as Hawk called him.

          “He’s local and… he’s Indian,” Hawk proclaimed.

          “You saw him?” Amadeo asked.

          “No. But he’s around too much, so he has to be local. And he’s too good, so he has to be Indian.”

          “I think you’re onto something,” Amadeo said. “Man’s too careful. Knows too much about us. That might explain why it’s so hard to catch him.”

          They hashed over possibilities until one of the other trackers came in. “Say, Hawk,” Paul Abadou asked, “where’d you run into grief yesterday?” The young man listened carefully as Hawk pinpointed his location. “Then how come I seen your prints a mile to the south this morning?”

          Hawk slammed his fist down on the table. “Son of a bitch! Fucker’s wearing my boots! Burnt everything else but took my boots.”

          Hawk took his companion’s ribbing for an hour before taking his leave. Grove walked out with him suggesting they go get laid. Hawk begged off, claiming he didn’t feel well enough. As Grove strode to his pickup, Hawk watched the smaller man’s form through changed eyes. He looked good. Grove was a handsome young man a year younger than Hawk, built a little slighter, but tough as a bear. Hawk mentally shook himself and crawled into the Dodge.

          He made the rounds of a couple of bars before heading back to the house. He didn’t pay much attention to anyone, but he checked out the boots in every place he stopped. He had a slight buzz on by the time he slammed the truck door in his driveway. When he entered, Ramon peered at him anxiously.

          “Hawk okay?”

          “Yeah, kid. I’m fine. Brought us some burgers and fries. You like them?”

          "Yes! Ramon like.”

          They sat at the kitchen table and put away the food and a couple more beers.

          “What did you do all day?” Hawk asked to break the silence.

          “Clean Hawk house. Watch TV. Wait for Hawk. Ramon want Hawk come home very much. Want Hawk again. Please?”

          Hawk studied the boy. Night was falling over the desert, but a faint light lingered. “Why?”

          “Ramon to make Hawk feel good. Want Hawk make Ramon feel good.”

          Impulsively, Hawk leaned across the small table and pulled the boy’s head forward. Their lips met. The touch rocked them both.

          “Patron, he never do that! Only Hawk. Hawk do that again?”

          Hawk stood and pulled the boy against him, lowering his head, brushing silky lids, smooth beardless cheeks, a long upper lip, and then finding the soft, pliant lips again. They kissed for a long moment before moving to the bedroom where the boy lay on his stomach and spread his legs. Hawk moved in place over him.

          Later, as they lay side by side panting from their efforts. The boy’s cries still rang in Curt Huntinghawk’s ears. “¡Aiee, mi Halcón! ¡Mi Halcón colorado! Te amo…te amo.” Oh, my Hawk! My red Hawk. I love you. I love you.” That had made the wonderful thing even more glorious.

          “Te amo,” a deep voice whispered. Hawk was surprised because it was his own.

*****

And there you have it. Hawk's first gay experiences seem to have rattled his cage... or was it just the handsome young Ramon? Hawk isn't sure. Remember I have five more short stories tracing hawk and his adventures, including a confrontation with Wolverine. But you'll have to let me know if you want to read them.

Once again... Cut Hand and Johnny Two-Guns. And Otter, Echoes of the Flute, and Medicine Hair. I still want to get the final book in the Cut Hand Series, Wastelakapi… Beloved, published, but 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:

DSP Publications: https://www.dsppublications.com/books/cut-hand-by-mark-wildyr-420-b

Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/Cut-Hand-Mark-Wildyr-ebook/dp/B073D86RWV

iBooks: https://itunes.apple.com/book/cut-hand/id1256084273

Kobo: https://www.kobo.com/ca/en/ebook/cut-hand-2

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.

Huntinghawk, a Short Story (Part 1 of 3 Parts)

markwildyr.com, Post #102

Courtesy of Wikipedia.com

Some of you have asked for more of Huntinghawk, so I’ve gone back to my series of stories featuring Curt Huntinghawk. There are six of them, so we might spend some time with the big Indian. Whenever you tire of him, let me know. Here we go with the first part of the first story I wrote about him.

*****

HUNTINGHAWK

          Curt Huntinghawk found the print in soft sand between fragments of tufa. He almost missed the mark left by a boot with a deep gash in the heel because it was in the shadow of a cholla spine. It was clear though. Almost too clear. He lifted his head and searched the ridge as the hair on the nape of his neck bristled. The Phantom, or El Espectro, as he was known by the rest of the group, was too canny for a mistake like this. Hawk had his own private name for the drug-runner… Wolverine, after the pugnacious, tenacious, tough beast of Hawk’s own north country.

           A member of a group of Native Americans—a term he detested since anyone born in America was one—Huntinghawk was employed by the Border Patrol to track smugglers along the Mexican border. Dubbed the “stragglers” or “slowpokes” by the locals because they followed along behind people they tracked, the unit adopted the name Rezagados Colorados… Red Stragglers.

          Hawk, as everyone dubbed him, considered the year he had been with them the most interesting and challenging in his life. Of course, prior to this, that had consisted mostly of some logging and warming the benches in various employment offices while he tried to stay out of trouble.

          Right now, Hawk figured he’d found new trouble. Wolverine would know someone was on his trail learning his habits and slowly closing in on him. As Wolverine was almost certainly a local, he could not permit this. Hawk scanned the flats of the Lower Sonoran desert. A smuggler’s road ran five miles to the north. A mile to the west was an unmarked water source located in some rocky hills called the Dragon’s Back. The Mexican border lay south, and ten miles to the east lay the closest town. It was mid-day, so town was not an option for the Wolverine. The print pointed north, but Hawk was betting on the water, a clear, pure spring that bubbled up in the hilly rocks and trickled through an arroyo a mile or so before evaporating beneath the hot Sonoran sun.

          The Rezagados were not peace officers; they carried government ID’s as protection instead of side arms. Most of them lugged a personal hunting rifle when tracking traficantes as a more substantial shield against harm… for snakes, they claimed when questioned.

          Hawk rested his Winchester in the crook of his arm, tugged his broad brimmed hat more firmly on his head and turned his steps westward, traveling fast. The closer to the waterhole he got, the more his hackles raised. In the grip of some internal alarm, Hawk suddenly dropped to the ground and wiggled his way to a small boulder that provided better than the thin cover of the surrounding mesquite and paloverde. Crawling around the rock he halted abruptly. Coiled in the shade of the rock was the granddaddy of all rattlesnakes. Obviously irritated by his presence, the snake struck with barely a warning rattle. Hawk threw himself backwards, snatching his hat from his head and throwing it straight into the dripping fangs. Something slammed him violently in the head, and he rolled unconscious into an arroyo.

           Noises penetrated his foggy brain, setting nerves on edge. Damn, can’t a man get some sleep? Sleep? He fought his eyes open and winced from the brilliance of the late afternoon sun. He was flat of his back on the floor of a shallow gulch. Standing almost at his feet, staring at him with bugged eyes, was a young man. When Hawk struggled to his elbows, the youth turned and fled down the wash. Shit! No wonder the kid ran. Hawk was as naked as the day he was born.

          “¡Ven!” he croaked. “¡Ven aqui! No estoy La Migra.” The kid was almost certainly an illegal, and Hawk tried to assure him he wasn’t looking for wetbacks.

          A cautious head appeared around a bend of the arroyo. Slowly, the kid stumbled forward, and Hawk saw the youth was in little better shape than he was.

          “¿Quien esta?” the boy asked. “¿Porque lo desnudo?”

          Hawk crawled uncertainly to his feet, too groggy to worry about his nakedness. “Sorry, don’t speak your lingo. Just a few words.”

          “Oh,” the boy said. “Who you are?” he asked in heavily accented English. “Why you no clothes?”

          “Bad guy shot me,” Hawk explained, not sure that was true. Maybe Wolverine got close enough to simply club him. “Stripped me and left me to die.”

          “Oh,” the youth said again, stepping closer and peering at Hawk’s forehead. The Indian put a hand to where the boy’s brown eyes were focused: it came away with dried blood.

          “Damn!” Hawk breathed. That was a close thing. He had been shot. The bullet must not have actually struck him, but passed close enough so that the concussion did the damage. He looked around and found a smoldering pile of ashes, all that remained of his clothing. There was no sign of his boots, but his billfold lay nearby, identification and credit cards intact. Half buried in sand behind a two-hundred-year-old saguaro, Hawk found the rifle Wolverine had not seen. He steadied himself by leaning on the barrel and tried to assess the situation. A finger tapping his broad chest brought his attention back to the boy.

          “¿Agua?” the boy asked, moving his finger to his dry lips. “Wa…ter?”

          Hawk pointed his chin to the west. “Over there. Not far. Half a mile. But it’ll be slow going.” He opened the breech to the rifle and blew out dirt. Satisfied, he levered in a cartridge and turned to find the boy studying him. Hawk was reminded of his nakedness, but there wasn’t much he could do about it until he got to the waterhole where he had emergency supplies stashed… if Wolverine hadn’t plundered them.

          Hawk led the way, going slowly to avoid prickly pear and thistles and sharp rocks… and that damned rattlesnake! Once the boy stumbled against him, and Hawk pulled him into the hollow of his arm for mutual support. It took over an hour to reach the spring. The boy fell to the side of the small pool and lapped greedily at the cool liquid. Hawk allowed him a decent drink before pulling him away.

          “Not too much, you’ll get sick. Wait a few minutes and then take another drink, okay? Understand? “¿Comprende?”

          “Y-yes,” the boy stammered. Hawk took a good look at him. He’d thought the kid was around fourteen or so because of the beardless cheeks, but now decided he was older.

          “My name’s Hawk,” he said, holding out his hand. The kid staggered to his feet and accepted it in a faltering grip.

          “Ramon. Ramon Aquila. You are indio… Indian, no?”

          “Yeah. I’m a redskin. You sneaking over the border all by yourself, Ramon?”

          “No, no! Six! But we see green truck and coyote, he run off. Ramon get separated. Think Ramon die here by himself until see smoke. When find el guapo in arroyo, I think we die together.

          Hawk started at the term. Trips across the border to visit some señoritas taught him guapo meant handsome. Reminded once again of his naked condition, he padded over to the place he’d buried his cache. It was still there. He drew out clothing, including a worn pair of boots, some dried and canned food, and a couple of blankets. They’d spend the night to rest his sore feet and allow the kid to get his strength back.

          Hawk stood in the thin stream of cold water below the pool and soaked his cut and bruised feet for fifteen minutes before soaping himself all over. The bath improved his outlook a thousand percent. He dressed and tended his cuts from the small first-aid kit in his stores. Deciding fresh air would be preferable to socks and boots at this point, he spread the blankets and put together something for them to eat while Ramon took his own bath. Hawk paused a moment to study the boy’s rangy body in the dying light. He had mocha skin like those girls Hawk sometimes visited. The boy went awkward when he saw he was being watched.

          Hawk didn’t speak until after they finished eating and the area was policed. “We’ll have to spend the night,” he explained, “but I want to move away from the pool because animals come here to drink at night. Don’t want to keep them from water. Tomorrow we’ll head for my truck.”

          “What… what happen to Ramon?” the boy asked uncertainly.

          “I’m not a man-hunter… not for illegals, anyway. I’ll take you to my place until we can figure out what to do, okay?”

          The boy nodded. “Okay,”

          “It’s going to get cold here tonight, Ramon. I only have two blankets, so we’ll have to sleep close together.” The boy nodded again.

          Hawk experienced a strange night. His head ached from the wound, but he didn’t think that what kept waking him. Some large animal slaking its thirst—maybe a panther down from the Sierras—pulled him from his sleep once, but something else was disturbing him. Finally, he decided it was the pressure of the boy’s sleeping form molded against him. He’d never slept with a man before except when he and some of his buddies piled into a single bed at the height of a drunk. By then they were more passed out than sleeping. A couple of times Ramon whimpered and pulled himself against Hawk as if seeking protection.

*****

So now Hawk and Ramon have found each other, and Hawk is experiencing some strange things. What will come of it. Let’s see next time.

Now a renewal of my tired plea for Cut Hand and Johnny Two-Guns. I also believe the STARbooks-published River Otter, Echoes of the Flute, and Medicine Hair are still up. I sure would like to get the final book in the Cut Hand Series, Wastelakapi… Beloved, published, but 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:

DSP Publications: https://www.dsppublications.com/books/cut-hand-by-mark-wildyr-420-b

Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/Cut-Hand-Mark-Wildyr-ebook/dp/B073D86RWV

iBooks: https://itunes.apple.com/book/cut-hand/id1256084273

Kobo: https://www.kobo.com/ca/en/ebook/cut-hand-2

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.