Interregnum, A Curt Huntinghawk Story, Part 2

 markwildyr.com, Post #128

 Last week, Grove flew away into the wild blue yonder to see his mother, recently struck down by cancer. Then Hawk’s boss Amadeo assigned him a temporary partner… who turns out to be a handsome, eager young man with a bad case of hero worship. How will that work out? The last we saw of Hawk, he was heading around behind the Blue Mesa Bar to have another beer with Robert his new partner.

 * * * * *

INTERREGNUM, A Curt Huntinghawk Story, Part 2

          Hawk made his way around the building to a half-crumbled adobe wall at the rear of the property. Normally there’d be two or three groups sucking down beer, preferring the calm of the night to the noise of the bar. Tonight there was no one. “Shit!” he cursed softly.

          Robert brought a six-pack and stood hip-sprung while Hawk perched on the crumbling wall. They talked about the Rezes, and Hawk shared a few experiences, including the Wolverine shootout and the death of the rogue INS agent who had been murdering traficantes.

          “I heard you got shot,” the boy said.

          “Just a graze across the forehead. That was Wolverine.”

          “Man! How’d it feel to get shot?” Robert moved closer. A horned moon left the night dark. Occasionally the boy’s eyes gleamed; otherwise, he was a black silhouette.

          “Like you’d expect. Hurt. Had a headache for a week. Still have a little scar across the forehead.”

          “Yeah, I noticed it.” Robert shifted his weight. “And then you tracked down the guy and killed him.”

          “No, I discovered who he was and reported it. The Feds set up the ambush. We were a part of it, but I didn’t put a bullet near him.”

          “Didn’t you want revenge?”

          “Just wanted him caught. Turned out I knew him and… liked him.”

          “Man, that’s rough.” The young man took an audible gulp of his brew. “Hawk, I wanna thank you for taking me as your partner.”

          “Don’t thank me, thank Amadeo. When Grove comes back, we’ll go back to partnering.”

          Robert moved to the wall at Hawk’s side. His hip brushed Hawk’s leg. He moved away, but only slightly. “Well, anyway, thanks for letting me sub for him. Here, have another beer.” The youth set the cold can on Hawk’s thigh, allowing his hand and forearm to rest there.

          For a long, awkward moment, the boy’s flesh burned through the denim of his trousers. Hawk moved to rise. “Save it for another time, Robert. I’m going home and hit the hay.” As he came off the wall, Hawk’s groin pressed against Robert’s hand holding the beer. For one infinitesimal moment, neither man moved. Then Robert backed away.

 

          The rest of the week was uneventful. The big desert was quiet and empty of human life. Robert overcame his nervousness over what happened behind the bar. Hawk was glad; he was physically attracted to the youth’s rangy looks, but he foresaw problems with a relationship when Grove returned. And nothing was worth jeopardizing what he had with Grove.

          The following Monday, they got some action when Robert slammed on the brakes. “Tracks!” he called, bailing out of the four-by.

          Three men. At first it looked like two because one “walked under,” that is having another smuggler walk in his footsteps, but they’d made occasional mistakes. It’s hard to walk under with so few people. They were traficantes, not illegals. He reported their position by radio, and Amadeo promised to send a team to close off the other end of the trail. The two Rezes locked their vehicle, hefted rifles and canteens and started off at a fast walk.

          Since one of the traficantes was trying to hide his presence, he was probably important; someone key to this end of the supply chain. That made him dangerous and Hawk more cautious. He voiced his suspicions and changed his methods.

          Determining the general direction of the trail, Hawk abandoned the tracks for the low ground, walking in large circles whenever they failed to cross the trail. It cost precious time, but was safer. Ultimately, it paid off.

          The traficantes suddenly bore northeast. Hawk understood immediately they were heading for the Dragon’s Back and water. Realizing these were no ordinary smugglers and might carry a radio, he had Robert report on the hand-held to Amadeo in their native tongue. Then Hawk abandoned stealth for speed. The men would make Dragon’s Back before them. He set off at a trot, keeping to a network of arroyos and gulches leading to the jumble of rocks that resembled a dinosaur’s tail. Safely at the base, Hawk slung his rifle over his shoulder and began a hand-over-hand climb. Robert had no sling, so stuck his weapon through his belt where the barrel rode the crack of his butt.

          Three-quarters of the way up the rock, Hawk heard a motor. He kept up his steady pace, knowing that it was too soon for Amadeo to have another team in the area, but taking comfort in the fact that the best vehicle approach was on the other side of the hills. He slipped over the top with Robert on his heels.

          Below them, three men were filling their bellies at the pool created by the spring rising from the rocks. If they’d been drinking all this time, they’d be waterlogged, but it was something he could not count on. He needed to make his move before the traficantes’ confederates arrived in the approaching vehicle.

          The men were of some interest. Two were mules and muscle. They’d lugged heavy packs across the desert, which meant they were thugs to be respected for their strength and endurance. The third was dressed casually but carried an air of authority. They rose when the distant growl of the motor penetrated the natural hollow where they hid.

          “Keep your head down and your eyes open,” Hawk whispered. “If they make a break for it identify yourself as a federal officer and pin them down.” Robert nodded nervously.

          It took Hawk ten minutes to work to the other side of the crest. The vehicle, a black Lincoln SUV, was barely within range. He laid the rifle along his cheek and put a bullet into one headlight. Two people piled out of the car, weapons flashing in the sunlight. They didn’t look to be long rifles, so Hawk figured they had a problem…did they abandon their compadres or come give a hand in the face of a long-range shooter? He put another slug through the grill. Gunfire behind him let him know the others had made a break. He turned back to give Robert a hand.

          From his high vantage point, he saw the three had scattered. There were only two ways out of Dragon, up the steep sides or to the south in plain view of Robert. Two opted for cover at the base of the cliff below the Rez rookie; the third edged around for a break or a shot. Robert got edgy, exposing his position in an effort to see where the other two were. The thug sprayed the rock with an Uzi before Hawk dropped him.

          “You all right?” he shouted to Robert.

          “Yeah. Took some meat off my arm, but I’m functioning.”

          Hawk showed himself and motioned threateningly with his rifle, ordering the traficantes on the ground. Robert edged around to where he could guard the two while Hawk went to check on the Lincoln. It was limping back over the hard desert pan spewing steam, but wouldn’t make it. Three Rez four-bys zeroed in on a collision course. Hawk raised them on his hand-held and apprised them of the situation. Within fifteen minutes, four healthy drug smugglers and one with a shattered leg were in custody. One vehicle stood by until Hawk got Robert down off the rock. His wound was a little more than he’d let on.

          “Well, you asked how it felt,” Hawk said when they were near the bottom. “Now you know.”

          “Not much fun, is it?” Robert grimaced. Suddenly, he halted in his tracks. “Hawk, about the other night at the Mesa. Don’t know what got into me. Never acted like that before with a guy.”

          Hawk grinned. “You were so damned pretty I almost took you up on it.”

          Robert accepted it as a joke, and they joined an anxious Amadeo at the pool. Declining a ride back to his vehicle that would delay getting Robert to the clinic, Hawk slung his rifle and retraced his steps. He’d seen something from the top of Dragon’s Back he wanted to check.

* * * * *

Well, well, it didn’t take long for temptation to rear its head. What was it, a week? Next week, let’s see what happens. And what did Hawk spot that he wants to check out?

 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. every Thursday until the story is completed. Then we’ll revers to the first and third Thursday of the month..

Hawk in the City (Part 1 of 3 parts)

markwildyr.com, Post #110

  

Apologize for not getting this posting up on time, but things got away from me. At any rate, I’ve given in to requests and will do another Curt Huntinghawk story this week. For the duration of this three-part story, I’ll post weekly.

Hope you enjoy.

*****

A HAWK IN THE CITY

             “What the hell’s eating you, Huntinghawk?” Grover Whitedeer asked as he eased the four-by through a wash under a hot Sonoran sun. “You haven’t been worth a shit since we took down Wolverine.”

             Hawk started at the mention of the ambush. To cover his reaction, he adjusted the holster on his hip. Ever since the Rezagados Colorados had been given real police powers for the Wolverine operation, he’d started wearing a six-shooter, but like most of the twenty or so Indians who made up the group of trackers working for the Border Patrol, he preferred his rifle. He and Grove were running mates on the job and often after hours. Hawk silently acknowledged that his friend’s complaint was legitimate.

            “What you need’s some nooky,” Grove pressed. “Lets go across the border and rent us a couple of putas tonight.”

“Aw—”

            “Aw my ass, Hawk! You’re no fun anymore. Whatever happened to the hellraiser I used to know? You’re letting that thing with Wolverine get to you.”

            Hawk blinked before realizing Grove was talking about the ambush, not the intimacies he and Brit Guerrero shared before his death, a death Hawk had unwittingly engineered when he set up the trap to capture the drug runner known as Wolverine. Wolverine was also his lover, Brit Guerrero.

            “Why’d he put up a fight?” Hawk asked himself out loud, but it was Grove who answered him, his lips curling in distaste.

            “Because he was a crooked bastard who couldn’t pay for what he did!” Grove looked at him, his brown eyes flashing. “Hell, can’t say I really blame him. I don’t think I could stand to be locked up either.”

            “That’s probably it. Wasn’t gonna go behind bars.”

            “Time to lighten up. A couple of señoritas is just what we need.”

            Hawk glanced at Grove again, taking in his friend’s the hard, slender frame before turning to stare out the windshield, hoping he wasn’t making a mistake. He couldn’t let Grove know how he was feeling… what he was thinking.. “All right. I’m game.”

             “All right!” Grove shouted like a kid, slapping Hawk’s knee. “We gonna get some pussy tonight!”

            On their rare trips across the border for sex, the two young Indians always went to a professional house where they knew the girls were inspected. It cost a little more, but they felt safer. The last thing they needed was AIDS or some other loathsome disease. The other Rezagados would laugh them into their graves at being so stupid. The place was busy, but they were still able to pick out a couple of decent-looking girls.

            On the way home Grove had to describe everything that had just happened. Hawk grinned. Sometimes his bud was a kid about women, but he was all man and one hundred percent professional when it came to work. God, he was a good friend to have..

            Neither of them was ready to quit for the night, so they stopped by the Blue Mesa, a big bar they frequented at times to settle down to some serious drinking. Booze, even beer, always hit Grove harder and quicker than Hawk. Both had alcoholic relatives all over their family trees, so they were at risk. Hawk had even flirted with being a drunk in his middle teens until an uncle got hold of him and took him to a medicine man to straighten him out. It must have worked because he still drank from time to time but only got drunk when he wanted to.

            Grove was describing for the dozenth time what they’d done to the whores when somebody bumped his chair, causing him to spill his drink. Startled, the young Indian looked up into the angry eyes of a burly man in his late twenties who had the look of a hard rock miner about him. He was obviously drunk, but then so was Grove.

            “Git cher fucking chair outa the middle a the fucking floor,” the man snarled.

            Grove was standing before Hawk even knew he was going to get up. “What’d you say, you pig-eyed peckerwood?”

            “Watch yer dirty mouth, you fucking Indian. Damned redskins think they own the place.”

            “White man, you just said the wrong thing to the wrong redskin. I’m gonna clean up the parking lot with you.”

            The hefty man looked over the one hundred sixty-pound, five-foot ten Indian and laughed. “You and what tribe, Tonto?”

            “Just me,” Grove said in a calm, deadly voice.

            Uh-oh. The man got Grove pissed.

            Two other white men followed the burly miner out the door. Hawk was Grove’s only backup. Nobody else paid much attention. Fights were common enough that they cause little excitement. Later somebody’s come in and yell “fight” and the place would empty out. The Mesa was a regular stop on the sheriff’s patrol.

            The miner got a quick lesson in bar fighting. He wasted no time, rushing Grove while his back was still turned. Nothing the matter with Grove’s hearing though, and he sidestepped quick as a cat and planted a sharp elbow in the man’s side. He whirled and put a fist in the kidney. The big man staggered but failed to go down. Grove didn’t exactly box, he just slugged it out, putting his weight behind every punch. After the fourth or fifth, the miner didn’t even bother to put up a defense. Grove’s blood was up, and he kept wading into the man. Mentally, Hawk urged the whipped man to go down. That was the only thing that would stop Grove now.

            One of the other miners made a move. Hawk elbowed him aside and turned to plant a fist right in the middle of the third man’s nose as he darted in. Grabbing the injured man’s shirt, Hawk slung him across the lot. The other one had recovered and came for him. Hawk put him away quickly before Grove hurt the miner too badly. Besides, the cops should be on the way by now. A decent sized crowd had begun to gather.

            Certain neither of the other two was a threat, Hawk walked up behind Grove, who was beating on an unconscious man who didn’t have sense enough to fall. Grabbing his friend from behind in a bear hug, he lifted Grove off his feet and pulled him away from the miner. He got a couple of elbows in the ribs for his trouble before Grove discovered who it was, but he the feel of his friend’s hot, hard body made it a worthy trade-off.

            “Come on, bro. He’s done for. The cops’ll be here soon. We better go.”

            “Shit, no! I’m not done drinking!”

            “Got more at my place. Come on, we don’t need trouble with the cops.”

            Hawk had less trouble getting Grove in his pickup than anticipated. Drunker than he looked, probably. But he was lively enough to demonstrate how he’d whipped the big fucker in the middle of Hawk’s living room, spilling a newly opened beer in the process. “Taught that motherfucker to call me a fucking Indian, didn’t I?” he said, teetering between anger and exultation.

             “Listen to me, Grove. What were we doing across the border a few hours ago?”

            “Fucking. Why?”

            “And what are you?”

            “What am I?” Grove got it and collapsed in laughter. “Shit, I am a fucking Indian!” Hawk liked to see Grove laugh. He did it with everything he had. His eyes lit up and his arms and legs moved like they were spastic.

            Normally, Hawk didn’t like to be around drunks when he wasn’t drunk himself, but Grove was different. He was funny and sloppy and agreeable, except when he got something in his head and ran with it. And he was… well, sexy as hell. They—meaning Grove—went through the better part of another six-pack. It was early morning when his friend abruptly ran out of steam. Hawk hauled him into the spare bedroom and threw him on the bed. He looked down at the not quite conscious form and started tugging off clothing. Grove just laid there and watched through blurry eyes. When Hawk had him stripped to his shorts, he covered his friend with a blanket and snapped off the light.

            “Don’ go,” Grove slurred. “Talk a me.” Hawk lay beside the man. “We fuc’ ‘em, din’ we? Fuc’ ‘em good!” Grove gave his everything laugh. “Yours had big boobs.” Grove’s voice trailed away, and Hawk knew he was gone…asleep or passed out.

            “Hey, bro,” Hawk poked Grove. Nothing. Without conscious thought, he touched his friend’s face, feeling the fine bones beneath the flesh. Unable to stop himself, he let his hands roam the sleeping man. By the strength of willpower alone, Hawk got out of the bed and retreated to his own bedroom. It wasn’t right, to take advantage of an unconscious man. Tortured by desire, by the pangs of something that felt like misplaced love, Hawk tossed and turned for hours before finally surrendering to sleep.

*****

Sounds to me like Hawk’s got a thing for his best bud Grover Whitedeer. What’s he going to do about it? From the title, it sounds to me like he’s going to run away from it. What do you think?

Please consider ordering 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:

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 each Thursdays until the three-part story is finished..

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:

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 Thursday.

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.