Mark Wildyr's Blog, page 12

Grove – A Curt Huntinghawk Story (Part 4 of a 5 Part Series)

markwildyr.com, Post #123
Is Hawk’s friendship with Grove lost? At least, Grove didn’t come out swinging when he caught Hawk coping a feel. Maybe Hawk can convince him he was just testing to see if he was conscious or not? Yeah, right. And how close are they to catching the rogue INS agent? Let’s see what happens today.
*****GROVEA Curt Huntinghawk Story
          Monday afternoon the sheriff intercepted them as they returned to headquarters. “Can we talk a minute, fellows?” They joined the lawman in his big Crown Victoria. “Got a little intelligence from south of the border. Supposed to be a big shipment coming through here tomorrow morning early. What’s the likeliest way through the desert?”          “Big Willow Wash across to Dragon’s Back. From there, they could go two or three directions. That’s the way I’d do it,” Hawk replied.          “You guys been right so far, so I’ll bet on you again. Can you go out on patrol early tomorrow?”          “Sure. Any luck tracing that tire?”          “It’s the same tire the INS uses on all their vehicles. Saw the track in the parking lot a couple of times, but so far we haven’t spotted the vehicle it’s mounted on. But it might be too late. Some of my people have shown a lot of interest in the vehicles at INS, so the guy might have wised up.”          “By dawn, we’ll be in a place above Big Willow where we can park and not be seen easily,” Hawk said.          “That within radio range?”          “Yeah, but what good’s that going to be if the guy’s INS? He’ll have all our frequencies. If we need you, we’ll call on our cell phones.”          It was quiet again the rest of the way to headquarters. After telling Amadeo they were going to patrol early the next morning at the sheriff’s request, Hawk drove Grove home. They agreed to meet at four a.m. in the headquarters parking lot.          Hawk slept surprisingly well and was rested when he pulled into headquarters in the darkness early the next morning. They loaded into their Rez four-by and headed for the desert. It was breaking light when they parked in a draw that gave a good view to the south. Grove pulled the vehicle into some mesquite bushes to break up the outline of the truck.         Grove opened a thermos and offered coffee. Hawk gratefully accepted. His hand brushed Grove’s when he took the cup. The electricity was still there. They watched in silence until full light. Grove got out once to piss, and then Hawk took his turn. He was just getting back into the truck when Grove spoke.          “Hawk, I’ve been thinking—”          Hawk held up his hand as the sound of a motor became audible, growing steadily louder. A green INS four-wheel vehicle passed within a hundred yards of them and slowly motored to the southwest.          “I’ll check it,” Hawk said, easing out of the truck. “Not the same vehicle,” he told his partner a minute later. “Or else he got wise and changed tires. They look like a new set.”          The INS four-wheel hove into sight as it climbed a slight incline. To their surprise, it halted behind a small embankment sheltering it from the south, but in plain sight of them. A tall figure got out of the vehicle and stood peering over the embankment. They took turns with a pair of binoculars.          “Can you tell who it is?” Grove asked.          Hawk shook his head as the agent settled down to wait.          “Uh oh,” Hawk said after an hour. “He’s spotted something. Damn, I can’t see, can you?”          “No. Yeah! One…two…three…no, four men coming up out of Big Willow. Man, they’re loaded down. If that’s all cocaine, it’s worth a lot of money. Hey! What’s he doing?”          The INS agent had returned to his vehicle. He drew a rifle from its rack and steadied himself against the embankment. Grove hit the horn and held it down, but the ambusher held steady and fired. One man fell; the three others broke for the wash. The killer didn’t hesitate, he swung around and fired. Something crashed through the trees and starred the truck’s windshield.          “Mo-ther-fuck-er!” Grove sang, scrambling out of the car. Hawk bailed out the other side. Both men turned rifles on the distant target as the killer broke for his car.           “He’s running! Put some holes in the vehicle so we can ID it.”          “Rather put holes in that son-of-a-bitch!” Grove yelled, throwing shots rapidly.          Both of them emptied their magazines, and the four-wheel seemed to lurch before it disappeared over the rise. “We got a tire, I think,” Hawk yelled, scrambling into the truck.  While Grove tore out of the wash after the wounded vehicle, Hawk got on the raido to relate events on the sheriff’s band, then switching to the Rez wavelength to bring Amadeo up to date. Hawk banged on the dash for Grove to stop and went to help the man who was down. Grove was off again before Hawk even slammed the door.          There was nothing Hawk could do for the traficante;he was dead. From his armaments, the man was the group’s guard, but they’d been so greedy they’d loaded him down with drugs as well. He hadn’t had a chance.          Gunfire sent Hawk racing up the long slope. He knew exactly what had happened. The rogue agent had abandoned his vehicle, backtracked, and was trying to take Grove out. It seemed like an hour before he covered the long mile to where the volleys were coming from. He eased up to a big rock at the top of the rise and took in the situation. The agent held the high ground behind rocks and a clump of juniper. Grove had taken refuge behind their four-by. Nobody was hurt, but the Rez vehicle looked disabled.           Hawk reloaded his empty weapon and poured four rounds into the clump of rocks and bushes where the killer hid. Immediately, return fire came his direction. Grove took the opportunity to shift positions. When he started firing from a new direction, the agent retreated, working his way northwest. Probably where he’d left his stricken vehicle. When Hawk heard a sluggish motor turn over and catch, he raced from cover and gained sight of the INS vehicle as it slowly started to limp away. Hawk threw his rifle to his shoulder and started punching holes in the hood. The four-by stalled.          More gunfire struck the truck from the back. Grove aimed for the gas tank, and moments later liquid soaked the sand and rocks at the rear of the vehicle. Lead began striking rocks sending up innocent looking sparks as Grove tried to ignite the gasoline. He succeeded. The flames were almost invisible when they first caught but grew and turned orange. There was no explosion, but the leaking gasoline fed the fire until the rear of the vehicle was engulfed.          Hawk was working his way around to the front when a single gunshot sent him into the dirt. Cautiously, he raised his head and spotted a man was slumped in the front seat of the INS truck. Wary of a trick, but prompted by the flames, Hawk came down out of the rocks and approached the front of the car. Grove reached the open driver’s side door at the same time he did. An INS agent they both knew and liked lay forehead to the steering wheel, not bothered in the least by the building inferno. Several wounds were evident on the man, but the shot through the bottom of the jaw from the revolver still clutched in the dead man’s hand had been what killed him.          Wordlessly, they pulled the corpse from the burning vehicle and laid it a safe distance away. Then they worked to make certain the flames didn’t spread. The sheriff had just pulled up and crawled out of his vehicle when the back end of the burning four-by gave a loud pop and split itself open. Thereafter, the flames began to die.
*****
It looks as though the killer INS agent has been called to account. But we still don’t know why the man went rogue. Pursuit of that killer was the last thing holding Hawk’s friendship with Grove together. What happens now that it’s resolved? Next week, we finish the story.
As usual when I have a three-part or more story, I’ll post weekly until it’s ended. Then I’ll return to first and third Thursday of the week.
Tell your friends to order a copy of 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.comEmail: markwildyr@aol.comFacebook: www.facebook.com/mark.wildyrTwitter: @markwildyr
The following are buy links for CUT HAND:
DSP Publications: https://www.dsppublications.com/books/cut-hand-by-mark-wildyr-420-bAmazon: https://www.amazon.com/Cut-Hand-Mark-Wildyr-ebook/dp/B073D86RWViBooks: https://itunes.apple.com/book/cut-hand/id1256084273Kobo: 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 each Thursday until the story is finished. Then we’ll return to first and third Thursday of the month..

Grove – A Curt Huntinghawk Story (Part 3 of a 5 Part Series)

markwildyr.com, Post #122
What, oh what, is Hawk to do? He and Grove are involved in solving a mystery that might set off a deadly drug war if it isn’t solved. At the same time, Hawk’s fighting a one-sided love affair that the other side isn’t even aware of. And as we’ve seen, Grove’s a very physical guy, taking on a truck driver twice his size over a perceived insult. Read on.
*****GROVEA Curt Huntinghawk Story
          Neither Hawk nor Grove was in very good shape when the phone rang early the next afternoon. “Sorry to bother you Hawk, but the sheriff’s calling for you’n Grove?”          An hour later, the sheriff did a double take when he set eyes on Grove. “Damn, I won’t ask,” He cleared his throat. “Somebody shot up an INS vehicle early this morning. Two agents are okay, bailed out and hit the ground. Feds are holding it close to their vests, but I’m going out for a look around. Figured you might help.” The lawman threw a thumb Grove’s way. Now I ain’t so sure after looking at him.”          INS and DEA were both on the scene when they got there. Any viable tracks were long destroyed, even so Hawk and Grove found where two men had set up an ambush of the agents. The fact the bushwhackers had picked the low ground was all that saved the two agents. The two Rezes also found the tracks of several men and concluded that the drug mules had armed escorts.          "It’s a fucking war,” the sheriff mumbled. “No doubt about it.”          “Why an INS vehicle?” Grove asked through his cracked lip.          "Losses too heavy, I guess,” the DEA agent with them commented. “Wasn’t going to lose this one to INS or anybody else. This means it’s open season on law enforcement officers. Better warn Amadeo, Hawk.”

          The next three weeks were relatively peaceful, but drug interdictions by the Rezagados were down to almost zilch. It was as if the drug cartels had shut down the flow of the stuff through the area. Then one of the Rez teams stumbled on another body shot through the chest same as the other. The kill was relatively fresh. Hawk and Grove examined the site with the sheriff and a DEA man. The two Indians exchanged glances.          “Got the wrong man,” Grove said through an almost healed mouth.          “What you mean?” Reed demanded.           “This guy wasn’t running product. He was probably an illegal crossing over.”          “Why you think that?” the DEA man asked.          “Look at him. Body hasn’t been disturbed. No sign of a pack or duffel on the ground. Killer didn’t even come all the way to the body,” Grove explained.          “Damnation!” the sheriff said. “Killing innocents now!”          “It’s the same killer, though,” Hawk said quietly.          “Damned right it is,” the sheriff said. “Same M.O…everything.”          When they walked back to their vehicles, the lawman said he was headed to INS for a meeting with them and the DEA. “I haven’t told them about the tire track we found with the first kill. Gonna do it today. You boys’re welcome to come along.” They agreed.          After parking behind the sheriff in the far end of the parking lot, they got out of their four-by and joined Reed. The big lot was graveled, but in places the gravel had worn thin and sandy spots appeared. As they walked toward the office, Hawk and Grove halted and called the sheriff back. Trying not to make it obvious, they showed the lawman a perfect imprint of the tire of the killer’s vehicle.          “Shit!” Reed cursed. “No wonder those traficantes shot up an INS car. It’s an INS agent killing them! Well, this changes things, boys. Ain’t gonna say a thing about tire tracks. How old’s that fucking print anyhow?”           “Probably made yesterday,” Grove said. Hawk nodded agreement.          The meeting was a waste of time. Reed wasn’t about to let go of what he had, and nobody else seemed to have anything. Hawk looked over the six white and Hispanic men at the meeting. Was one of them the killer.

          Grove hadn’t been out catting since he got messed up at the Blue Mesa, and it was beginning to tell on him. “Friday afternoon he started agitating for a trip south.          It didn’t happen. They stopped by the Mesa on the way out of town and never made it out of the place. Grove hit the beer keg and didn’t stop until Hawk drove him to his house and spilled him into bed in the spare bedroom. Once again, he removed his friend’s clothing. His hand touched a nipple, and he resisted the urge to taste it. His hand traced a path down Grove’s chest, his belly and came to rest atop his partner’s groin.          “Wha…what the fuck you doin’?” Startled, Hawk jerked his hand back and looked into Grove’s confused eyes. The confusion changed to shock and morphed into anger. Grove bounded out of the bed and took a drunken swing at him. Hawk absorbed it on his shoulder and backed away.          “Sorry, man. Shouldn’t have done that.”          “Damn right” Grove slurred. “Fucking weirdo!” He forgot his anger in his haste to get into his clothing. Hawk waited in the living room, filled with shame and fear that he’d ruptured the most important relationship of his life.          Grove stormed out the front door, reappearing almost immediately. “Give me your fucking keys!”          Hawk tossed them over. “You oughta let me drive you home.”          Grove didn’t bother to answer, just spun on his heel. A moment later, the Dodge motor turned over, and the truck peeled out of the driveway.          Hawk took a beer to the front porch and let his eyes rove the heavens without taking much solace from the Creator’s marvels. After thirty minutes, he went inside and picked up the telephone. When Grove snarled a hello into the phone Hawk put down the receiver, relieved his friend had made it home. Then he proceeded to drink every can, every bottle of booze in the place. Oblivion brought peace, even if it was false and only temporary.          In his dream Grove was beating on him. One unusually hard blow caused him to open his eyes. Through a blurry mist, he made out the form of Grover Whitedeer hovering over him. It was broad daylight and he was lying on the floor. Grove hauled him onto the sofa.          “Here, eat some of this, you son-of-a-bitch!” A spoon of something hot and tangy got shoved into his mouth. It took three swallows to identify it as his spicy green chile stew. He lurched into the bathroom and promptly lost it.          That cleared his head some. He sat in a kitchen chair and worked on a cup of coffee while Grove paced the room. “Came to give you your truck back, but you’re too fucked up to drive me home. Shit, I’ll pick you up for work Monday.”          “Hey, man, I’m sorry about…about…”          “Shut up!” Grove made a cleaner exit this time.          Monday morning both of them were in reasonable shape when Grove honked for Hawk. It was uncustomarily silent on the drive until Hawk spoke. “I’ll ask Amadeo to split us up.”          “Dumb fucking idea. We’re gonna ask for new partners right in the middle of a murder investigation? Yeah. Right!”          Hawk flared, a little tired of the attitude. “You don’t have to be an asshole about it.”   *****
Well, the cat’s out of the bag now, and Grove didn’t react the way we’d hoped he would. All that’s holding the partnership together now is the mystery of who’s conducting the deadly ambushes of drug runners. A rogue INS agent, apparently. But which one?
As usual when I have a three-part or more story, I’ll post weekly until it’s ended. Then I’ll return to first and third Thursday of the week.
Tell your friends to order a copy of 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.comEmail: markwildyr@aol.comFacebook: www.facebook.com/mark.wildyrTwitter: @markwildyr
The following are buy links for CUT HAND:
DSP Publications: https://www.dsppublications.com/books/cut-hand-by-mark-wildyr-420-bAmazon: https://www.amazon.com/Cut-Hand-Mark-Wildyr-ebook/dp/B073D86RWViBooks: https://itunes.apple.com/book/cut-hand/id1256084273Kobo: 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 each Thursday until the story is finished. Then we’ll return to first and third Thursday of the month..

Grove – A Curt Huntinghawk Story (Part 2 of a 5 Part Series)

markwildyr.com, Post #121
Last week, Curt finally faced his longings for his very macho partner. But Grove’s a physical guy, quick to anger and quick to love. And Hawk can’t be sure which way the wind blows. So what’s he to do? Let’s see what Part two reveals to us. Oh, and by the way, there’s a real-life mystery going on at the same time Hawk’s fighting these unexpected feelings. A deadly mystery.
*****GROVEA Curt Huntinghawk Story
          Midday on Thursday, the truck radio squawked. “Hawk,” Amadeo said, sounding distant. “Sheriff Reed called. Found another body. Asked if he could borrow you’n Grove.”          Hawk got directions to the site, and twenty minutes late, they spotted the sheriff and four of his men standing beside a patrol car. Reed was apparently impressed with their talents because he hadn’t let any of his own people near the body this time. He shook hands with them grimly and got right to business.          “Blowed to hell like the last one. See what you boys can reconstruct for me, okay?”          Hawk took the perimeter again while Grove slowly approached the body, carefully scanning the ground before putting down a booted foot. Thirty minutes later Hawk showed the lawmen where the bullet had been fired from and how the killer had approached the victim afterward. This time, it looked like a backpack was taken. Grove pointed out a small amount of white powder on the ground.          Hawk summed it up. “Bullet went through the man and entered the pack. Shooter wiped out his tracks like before but didn’t notice he was trailing powder. Same vehicle, at least it’s the same tire. Got that little notch in it. Departed to the east to hook up with the highway, I’d guess.”          One of the deputies held up a field test of the white substance. “It’s pure-ass cocaine, Sheriff.”          The lawman swore. “That rips it…it’ll bring in the feds.”          “We won’t tell them if you don’t,” Hawk volunteered.          “Naw. I’ll play by the rulebook, but I’m gonna keep my hand in. Thanks, men.”          After duty the next day, Grove wanted to hit the Blue Mesa so they stopped without even going home to clean up.          There were times when Grove went to the bar to pick up women, and there were times he just wanted to drink. These tended to be more dangerous because he’d been known to pick a fight or two.           A big white man with the look of a trucker got up from his table too fast or too drunk and backed right into theirs. Grove caught half a pitcher of beer right in his lap and came up like a shot.          The man turned around. “Hey, man! Sorry! Shit, made a mess, didn’t I?”          Hawk breathed easier. It might turn out all right.          “I like you red-asses, so I didn’t do it on purpose. ‘Scuse hell outa me.”          “What’d you call us?” Grove asked in his you-wanna-fight-you-got-it voice.          “Sorry ‘bout that. Meant ta say redskins. There, that better?”          Grove got right in the man’s face. “No, it’s not! I’m a hundred percent Native American of the Machik persuasion, not a fucking redskin.”          Shit, ya don’t have to git snotty about it. Somebody oughta teach you some manners. I ‘pologized best I know how.”          “Your mama didn’t teach you how very good.”          “You leave my mama outa this.”          “Don’t tell me you knowwho your mama is?”          “Why you son of a bitch! I’m gonna give you a lesson!”          Before the man could wind up, two bouncers ushered them outside. Others at the trucker’s table trooped along to watch but didn’t show much interest in backing him up. Nonetheless, Hawk stood at the ready, a little worried that Grove had miscalculated this time. The man had the look of a street fighter. Of course, so was Grove, but he was outweighed by forty pounds and outreached by several inches.          The fight was long and brutal. The man could box, and it cost Grove dearly to get in close to put an end to it. Once the trucker was down, Hawk approached his friend gingerly. When Grove’s blood was up, he’d swing on anyone. But he was hurt this time and didn’t protest when Hawk loaded him in his Dodge and drove him to his rented house. He grimaced as he inspected his friend by the kitchen light. One eye would be black and blue in hours. Cut lip. Swollen nose. Hawk stripped Grove, dumped him in a tub of hot water, and left him to soak while he heated up some green chile stew.           When he returned to the bathroom, Grove was exactly as he’d left him. With a sigh, Hawk picked up a washcloth and gingerly cleaned the dirt away. Grove lay with his closed, but he was conscious. Hawk picked up his friend’s bruised and torn hands and scrubbed grime from the knuckles. Grove grunted once. Before he realized it, Hawk was bathing Grove’s smooth chest, enjoying the feel of firm muscles. He’d actually taken a swipe across the belly when he caught himself and tossed the washcloth to his semi-comatose friend.          Grove worked half-heartedly at cleaning his nether regions and allowed himself to be helped from the tub. Hawk dried his head and torso, barely able to keep from taking liberties. He handed over the towel and fled the bathroom, busying himself with preparing tortillas to go with the stew.          “Shit, Hawk,” Grove complained a few minutes later. “Chile’s not the best thing to serve a guy with a split lip.”          Hawk released his tension in a gust of laughter. “Taking on a truck driver with forty pounds on you’s not the best preparation for eating chile.”          “Damn, man! Don’t make me laugh,” Grove said with a painful grin. “You expect me to stand for the man calling me a red ass?”          Hawk suppressed a grin. “Have you looked at your ass lately?”          “Oh, no! I’m not gonna play that game. You got me to admit I was a fucking Indian once, you’re not going to do it again. Sure picked on the wrong one, didn’t I?”          “He did, too, bro. He did, too. You’re an amazing son-of-a-bitch, you know that?”          “So they tell me. Now bring out the beer.”          “You’re still flying. But okay, it’s your funeral.”          Hawk poured Grove into bed around one o’clock and once again found himself undressing his comatose friend. He couldn’t resist stroking Grove’s chest, circling the aureoles with the tips of his fingers. When he found himself cupping his friend’s genitals, he turned and staggered out of the spare bedroom to masturbate.
*****
Wow. Things are about to get out of hand. Masturbation? Hawk hasn’t done that in a long time. So the pressure’s getting to him. What happens next week?
As usual when I have a three-part or more story, I’ll post weekly until it’s ended. Then I’ll return to first and third Thursday of the week.
Tell your friends to order a copy of 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.comEmail: markwildyr@aol.comFacebook: www.facebook.com/mark.wildyrTwitter: @markwildyr
The following are buy links for CUT HAND:
DSP Publications: https://www.dsppublications.com/books/cut-hand-by-mark-wildyr-420-bAmazon: https://www.amazon.com/Cut-Hand-Mark-Wildyr-ebook/dp/B073D86RWViBooks: https://itunes.apple.com/book/cut-hand/id1256084273Kobo: 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 each Thursday until the story is finished. Then we’ll return to first and third Thursday of the month..

Grove – A Curt Huntinghawk Story (Part 1 of a 5 Part Series)

markwildyr.com, Post #120
As promised, this week I’ll bow to a little pressure and give you some more of Curt Huntinghawk. I call this a series rather than a short story because after cutting it from near novella length, I still ended up with 5 installments. Beyond that point, I wasn’t willing to go.

*****GROVEA Curt Huntinghawk Story
          Four vultures circling over the hot Sonoran Desert caught the two Red Rezes attention. As Curt Huntinghawk and Grover Whitedeer watched, more birds joined the quartet and set up a slow spiral descent.          “Whatever it is, it’s big,” Grove observed, gunning the four-wheel drive vehicle across the hard desert pan. They were only two hours into their patrol of a stretch of the Mexican border on the lookout for drug runners.          Hawk’s deep baritone filled the cabin. “Hope to hell it’s not another illegal.” His biceps rolled as he tossed a twig he’d been idly chewing out the open window. The pair seldom used the air conditioner because it made exiting the vehicle more insufferable.          Grove flapped a hand toward the twenty or more buzzards now wheeling in the sky like a black-feathered tornado. “Where’d they all come from?”          “They’re just trying to earn a living, Grove,” Hawk joked grimly.          After Grove halted the truck at the top of the rise, they got out with rifles at the ready. Fifty yards down a wash, something lay unmoving. One turkey vulture contemplating it from a perch on a nearby rock dropped to the ground. Hawk fired his rifle into the air, but the carrion bird only retreated to a more remote roost.          “Oh, shit!” Hawk said as they drew closer.          As two-year veterans of the Rezagados Colorados, or Red Rezes, an elite unit of Indian trackers used by the Border Patrol to hunt drug runners along the Mexican border, they had seen dozens of wetbacks left to die on the desert by their coyotes or guides. But this was different. The man lying in the arroyo had been murdered, his chest ripped apart by a high-powered rifle.          Hawk went back to the truck to radio his boss Amadeo Tomé to contact the county sheriff. While they waited for the deputies to arrive, Grove remained close to keep the vultures at bay while Hawk walked a big circle. By the time Sheriff Adam Reed arrived an hour later, they had a story to tell.          “The bad guy parked up here, Sheriff,” Hawk explained, indicating indistinct tracks in the hard pan. “After he shot the man, he walked down the slope to the body, keeping to the rocks. On his way back up, he wiped out all his tracks. You can see smudges but not a clear print.”          The Sheriff grunted. “Left us nothing, huh?”          “There’s something over here,” Grove said. The something was a three-foot length of tire track where the killer crossed a sandy spot.          “This far out in the desert, had to be a four-wheel rig,” the lawman observed. “You fellows see any sign of one on your patrol?”          “Nothing. Not even a dust plume,” Hawk replied. “But see that chink out of the tread. We’ll know that tire when we see it again.”          Sheriff Reed glanced down the slope to his men working the crime scene. “So you figure the victim was shot first, then the killer went down to the body… for what? To make sure he was dead?”          “Wouldn’t have climbed down for that,” Grove said. “He’d just pump another couple of rounds into the man. He went to get something.”          “Drugs,” the sheriff suggested.          “That’s what we figure,” Hawk confirmed. “We didn’t get too close to the body; didn’t want to mess up the crime scene. But when your people are finished, we can take a look for signs to read.”          An hour later, the two Rezes searched the area, now thoroughly trampled by sheriff’s deputies and the medical examiner’s people. Hawk was the one who found an impression almost obscured by the deputies’ footprints.          “Something about the size of a duffel bag was dropped here. That’s what the killer came for.”          “How you know?” a deputy demanded.          Hawk eyed him coolly. “Because it’s not here.” Their unofficial part of the investigation over, the two Indians resumed their patrol.          “Hey, bro,” Grove broke the silence after a mile or so. “Aren’t you tired of living like a monk? How about we go across the border tonight.” To Grove ‘going across the border’ meant only one thing…poontang, as the southeastern Woodland Indian called it.          Hawk recognized a ploy to get a gruesome murder off his partner’s mind. “You ever think about settling down?”          “Nope.”          “What’s the matter with us. Man, we’re twenty-three years old—”          “Not me, Tonto. Still a young buck at twenty-two.”          “Yeah, for another month or so. Seriously, why haven’t we found somebody to get serious about and settle down. You know, have kids.”          “Overrated,” Grove quipped.          “You got any kids?”          “Not that I know of. No matter how drunk I get, I’m kinda careful about that.”          “Don’t gimme that, I’ve seen you ride bareback.”          “Yeah, if she’s using something.”          “That’s putting a lot of faith in somebody.”          “Ain’t that the truth. How about you?”          “Kids, you mean? Nah.”          Hawk glanced out the window to study a pile of rocks known as Dragon’s Back where he’d met and fallen in love with a young illegal Mexican national. Ramon Aquila had introduced Hawk to his secret life. Hawk spoke in a near whisper. “Wonder if we’re looking in the wrong place?”          “What do you mean?”          Hawk’s mind returned to the truck from wherever it had gone in time to cover his gaffe. “Crap, we find them in bars and on the streets.”          “Where you wanna find them? In church?” Grove seemed his question serious consideration. “You figure church chicks fuck?”          "You’re impossible! Every conversation ends up about screwing.”          “Answer my question? You wanna go across tonight? We’ve got the weekend off.”          Hawk pumped enthusiasm into his words, but his heart wasn’t in it. “Sure, let’s go.”

          Hawk and Grove frequented Mama Maria’s when they looked for a woman across the border in Mexico because her prostitutes were inspected regularly and thoroughly. They picked a couple of decent looking women of a proper age and got their ashes hauled. On the drive back across the border, Hawk felt prickly and vaguely dissatisfied. While he’d been in the middle of the act with the girl, his thoughts strayed to Ramon. And—he turned to glance at his partner—to Grove.          God, he looked great! Nothing better’n a good-looking Woodland Indian. Unless it was a good-looking Plains Indian, or… oh, hell, a good-looking Indian.          “What?” Grove asked.          “Nothing.”          “You were thinking about my girl tonight. You wished you were with her instead of the one you ended up with.”          Close, but not on target. “She did seem like a hot tamale.”          Grove grinned. “She had a hot little twat, I can tell you.”          “Hot what?”          “Twat.”          Hawk laughed aloud.          Grove went defensive. “It’s good word. What we called it back home, anyway.”          Hawk snickered. “What are you, a redskin or a southerner?”          “Both! No law against that.”          Hawk’s morale took a nosedive as soon as he opened the door to the rented adobe house where he lived alone. He almost regretted turning down Grove’s invitation to the Blue Mesa, a bar many of the Red Rezes frequented. He’d been afraid to go. Given the wild thoughts filling his head, he couldn’t chance alcohol unleashing his tongue.          He missed Ramon Aquila… longed for the boy with every fiber of his body. But Ramon was gone and wouldn’t be back. He was a fugitive from the INS, and risked prison if he returned. So Hawk had sent him back to Durango, Mexico, ending that sweet part of his life forever.          And now? Now, he was slowly, but surely falling for his best friend. Although Grove was adventurous and might do a lot of things out of curiosity, something like that would get in the way of his macho self-image. Danger lay in that direction.
*****
It’s pretty clear that Curt Huntinghawk, the man usually in control, has a problem. How’s he going to handle it? Let’s see next week.
As usual when I have a three-part or more story, I’ll post weekly until it’s ended. Then I’ll return to first and third Thursday of the week.
Tell your friends to order a copy of 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.comEmail: markwildyr@aol.comFacebook: www.facebook.com/mark.wildyrTwitter: @markwildyr
The following are buy links for CUT HAND:
DSP Publications: https://www.dsppublications.com/books/cut-hand-by-mark-wildyr-420-bAmazon: https://www.amazon.com/Cut-Hand-Mark-Wildyr-ebook/dp/B073D86RWViBooks: https://itunes.apple.com/book/cut-hand/id1256084273Kobo: 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 each Thursday until the story is finished. Then we’ll return to first and third Thursday of the month..

Babe (Part 2 of 2 Parts)

markwildyr.com, Post #119
Courtesy of PickPikLast week, we left soccer player Rick Stinson arriving at Lake Manitou with his newly discovered idol, Gordie Loesser, the team’s goalie. Taken by surprise at the invitation to drive to the lake with Gordie, Rick is more or less at sea (please pardon the mixed metaphors—you know, lake/sea). So what does happen. Read on.
*****BABE           Manitou Lake is a considerable body of water for the southwest, but I guess it didn’t measure up compared to those back east. Most of them were natural, Gordie told me.          “This one’s man-made,” he said. “You can tell the difference because back home the trees come right down to the water. These were cut away to make room for the lake. It’s pretty neat. Don’t know where they came up with the name, though. Manitou’s a name the Indians use back east.”          My mind wasn’t on the lake’s name. “Shoulda brought our swimming trunks.”          He looked at me and grinned, almost making me wet my pants. “Don’t need ‘em.” He grabbed a blanket from the back seat and got out of the Explorer. “Come on.”          I followed him out of the parking lot as he headed off down a faint trail. Pretty soon, I understood what he meant. At the end of the path, the shoreline bent, making a little sheltered cove. It was as if we’d been transported somewhere. We could faintly hear the laughter and shouts of people in the main swimming area, but mostly it was quiet and peaceful, filled with chirps of birds, the chatter of squirrels, and the lush aroma of evergreens and wildflowers. A world of our own, so to speak.          He spread the blanket in a grassy area, proceeded to kick off his sandals, shed his pullover, and wiggle out of his shorts.. My eyes fixed on what he revealed. I’d seen him naked in the locker room a hundred times after practice or following a game, but this was different. You know, different!          “You coming?” he asked as he turned and raced for the water.          I came out of my fog, stripped, and splashed in after him.          We swam for half an hour or so, going far out into the lake before turning and making our way back to the shore. He morphed into a playful otter when we reached the shallows. Diving and coming up between my legs and tumbling me over. Grabbing me around the waist and throwing me up into the air. I seized the opportunity and tried to turn the tables on him. He was bigger and stronger than I was, so I wasn’t as successful, but I did cop a feel or two, mostly by accident. The last time he tossed me up out of the water, I was afraid he’d seen the condition I was in. When I surfaced, I called time and scanned his face. So far as I could tell he hadn’t glimpsed my roaring erection.          Gordie splashed up onto the shore. “Time for a rest, anyway,”          I about panicked. No way I could get out of the water now. “In a minute, I said, turning my back on him and swimming a little way out into the deeper water. By the time I got back, my blood was behaving, not all pooling in one specific place. I was only a little swollen when I marched up to him. His curious stare almost undid everything, but I fell down on the blanket, water and all, in time to avert disaster.          Gordie flopped over on his back and closed his eyes. “Time for a nap.”          Sitting upright beside him, I took the opportunity to inventory his entire physique from head to toe. Good grief! This guy was impressive. Perfectly formed. Not too big, but certainly not too little. Except the groin area. All of that equipment looked pretty impressive. I think I licked my lips. When my gaze moved up his body, I found he’d opened his eyes. My cheeks flamed when I realized he’d caught me ogling his nakedness.          “Do I pass muster?” he asked in a low growl.          “I—I’m sorry. I just…. I don’t know what—”          Embarrassed, I lay back and covered my eyes with a forearm. I heard him move beside me and opened my eyes. He was sitting up, grinning at me.          “Turn about’s fair play.” With that, he shifted his gaze to my torso.          I wanted to turn over, cover myself with my hand, do something, but he forestalled me with one hand on my right shoulder and another on my thigh.          “Oh, no. You got a good look. Now so do I.”          I watched his face as his gaze took in every inch of me. When his eyes moved back to my core, I couldn’t help myself. I began to harden.          He grabbed my left wrist and pinned it to the blanket when I tried to hide my genitals. That left him leaning over me, our faces close. He lowered his head and covered my lips with his, turning me into melted butter. My head buzzed so hard I barely heard him when he lifted his head.          “You know, you are a babe. Maybe I’ll start calling you that… but only when we’re, you know…alone.”          Then he covered me and took what he wanted. And welcome to it!
*****
Please don’t try to tell my you are surprised. Surprise was not the intent… something more like titillation was the goal. Let me know how you liked the story.
I do believe some more Curt Huntinghawk will come along next time. Hope you’re not tired of him.
Tell your friends to order a copy of 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.comEmail: markwildyr@aol.comFacebook: www.facebook.com/mark.wildyrTwitter: @markwildyr
The following are buy links for CUT HAND:
DSP Publications: https://www.dsppublications.com/books/cut-hand-by-mark-wildyr-420-bAmazon: https://www.amazon.com/Cut-Hand-Mark-Wildyr-ebook/dp/B073D86RWViBooks: https://itunes.apple.com/book/cut-hand/id1256084273Kobo: 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 Thursday of each month.

Babe (Part 1 of 2 Parts)

markwildyr.com, Post #118   Courtesy of PickPikReceived some comments from readers on “Secluded Sand.” Apparently it struck a chord with some people. Appreciate the kind comments.
I was tempted to give in to some requests and return to Hawk, but instead decided to do a short piece I called “Babe.” (Titles can’t be copyrighted or else I might be in trouble.) At any rate, I hope you enjoy the two-part story.
Here we go.
*****BABE

          “Hey, Babe, what’er you doing?”          You can always count on Hal Weymeister to call me Babe. Not Richard, not Dick, not Dickie, not Rick, not Richie, but Babe. It started in the tenth grade because I was slow developing and still had the rosy cheeks and cherry lips like the girls did back then. And now, three years later, he’s still at it.          But I’m not a girl, I’m a guy. I might be gay—although he didn’t know it—but I’m not swishy gay. I’m regular gay. Whatever that is. Heck, I played sports and held my own, especially in soccer. Hal and I were on the team here at Sandia U, and I was as good as he was. Maybe even better.          Nonetheless, I’m always Babe. I got in a tussle with him a couple of years ago, but it didn’t matter. He kept it up, even with a fat lip. Regardless of what I tried, he wouldn’t quit.          In fact, I guess he trained me pretty well, because when I heard those words, I halted in front of him. He and our goalie, a kid named Gordon Loesser—but universally hailed as Gordie—were sitting in the stands at the empty soccer field. Gordie intrigued me because he’d traveled all the way from some place in Virginia to go to college in New Mexico. Why? I couldn’t even dream up an answer. Even though we were on the same team, I kinda kept my distance because he was so handsome and hunky I was afraid I’d give myself away.          What struck me when I turned toward them was the look on Gordie’s face as he studied Hal. He shook his head before speaking. What are you Weymeister, gay?”          Hal looked like he’d been whacked across the head with a two-by-four. “What? No! Why’d you ask me that?”          Gordie looked at him sideways. “You called him Babe. Called another man Babe. Don’t think a straight guy would do that?”          Hal did some stuttering and sputtering before he managed to get out a rational answer. “Started calling him that back in our sophomore year because he looked more like a gal than a guy. You know, like a babe.”          Gordie cocked an eyebrow and gave me the once over. “Looks like a guy to me. Good shoulders.” He flicked a hand at my deck pants. “Hair on his legs. Yeah, he’s a guy.”          Hal blinked a couple of times like a dude who’s in the wrong place at the wrong time. “He’s done some changing in the last coupla years. Anyway, I gotta go hit the library. Candy and I are supposed to study this afternoon.” He got up and dusted off the seat of his pants. “Catch you guys later.”          Gordie inclined his head and glanced at Hal’s retreating back. “You think he had a date with Candy, or was he feeling the need to mention a girlfriend because of what I said?”          I laughed. “Could be either one. But I’m pretty sure he’s straight.”          “Me too. But that oughta do the job.”          “What job?” I asked.          “Make him cut out that ‘Babe’ crap.”          I met his gray-eyed stare. Man, he was really dishy when you took a good gander at him. “How did you know it bothers me?”          “Could see it in your face every time he said it. You’re not hard to read, Stinson. Or do you prefer Richard or….”          “Most people call me Rick.”          “Rick it is.” He nodded toward the soccer field. “You handle the ball pretty good out there. Good instincts too.”          “Thanks. You’re the best goalie I’ve ever played with.”          “Aha, a mutual admiration society. So what have you got on this afternoon, Rick?”          “Nothing. I got my studying done. Just have to figure out what to do with the rest of the weekend.”          “I’m gonna drive over to the lake. You wanna go?”          “The lake’s two hours away. You staying the night?”          “Naw. I’ll just go over, soak up the atmosphere for a couple of hours and boogey on back.”          “Well, sure. If you don’t mind.”          “Welcome the company.”          As I followed him to his ’98 Ford Explorer, I couldn’t help but notice his shoulders. Wow. Made mine look puny. Trim waist, nice hips. To keep from having a reaction to his graceful swagger, I put on some speed and caught up with him. “Do I need to bring anything? You know, like water or snacks?”          “I’m not much into snacks. They have fountains at the lake. Just enough money for a burger and fries on the way back.”          “Okay, I’m good.”          “Figured you would be.”           I stumbled over that comment.           He turned to me and smiled. That’s the moment my mind stopped dilly-dallying and admitted I wanted him. “What I meant was,” he said, “you’re usually pretty cool and collected.”          “Oh. Uh, thanks.”          The drive to the lake was nothing to talk about. I mean, it was okay, but we didn’t yak much. Just enough to find out his father was a doctor and his mother worked in some governmental agency in Washington. Oh, and that the place he came from in Virginia was Alexandria.          He learned my father was a rancher, that I grew up on a spread outside Deming.          “How do you know Heymeister then?”          “Went to a consolidated high school. Met him there.”          “Aw, forget him. We’re out for a nice afternoon.”          I settled more comfortably in the seat. “That we are.”          My heart went crazy as I imagined what I’d consider a nice afternoon. Then it slowed as I considered what he likely thought was a nice one. They weren’t compatible. Not at all.
*****
Young soccer players, locker rooms, a lake. What could possibly lie ahead? Check back on the first Thursday in June to find out. June? Good lord, the yearis moving on despite being sheltered at home.
Tell your friends to order a copy of 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.comEmail: markwildyr@aol.comFacebook: www.facebook.com/mark.wildyrTwitter: @markwildyr
The following are buy links for CUT HAND:
DSP Publications: https://www.dsppublications.com/books/cut-hand-by-mark-wildyr-420-bAmazon: https://www.amazon.com/Cut-Hand-Mark-Wildyr-ebook/dp/B073D86RWViBooks: https://itunes.apple.com/book/cut-hand/id1256084273Kobo: 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 Thursday of each month.

Secluded Sand (A Repost)

markwildyr.com, Post #117
Courtesy of pexels.comWe’ll give Curt Huntinghawk a rest for a while. Did he ever get together with Grove Whitedeer, I wonder? Maybe we’ll find out one of these days.
But this week, I’d like to return to some flash fiction, and I’ve chosen to repost a piece I put up on January 1, 2014. That was the first piece of short-short fiction I’d published on this blog, although there have been many others since that time. But I like this piece, and decided to bring it to life again.
Let me know how you like it.
*****SECLUDED SAND
The gently rising slope, relatively smooth and easy to maneuver, led to a secluded patch of sand nestled against the ocean side cliffs. I’d discovered it a few months back and favored the spot for its privacy and protection from the sometimes chilly sea breezes. Today, as I approached my solitary haven, I halted as a pair of feet came into view. Nice feet, shapely. But they meant my spot was already occupied. Swallowing my disappointment, I started to turn away when the toes arched down and then pulled back toward the heavens. Then the heels ground into the sand and began a little dance, jerking in an uncertain rhythm.
I moved forward a bit. Bronzed calves lightly sprinkled with fine, dark hair. Soft grunts. Fascinated now, I inched forward again. Nice, tensed thighs. Now the legs moved to a steadier rhythm. Another twelve inches forward, and I caught my breath. Full scrotum, hard, thick cock wrapped in an eager fist.
I couldn’t help myself. Drawn by a deep need, I came into full view. The handsome young man lying naked on a beach towel froze for an instant before attempting to cover his genitals with his hands. Impossible. He was too big.
I met his frightened brown eyes and smiled. Flushed, he gave a tentative, embarrassed grin. Wordlessly, I lifted my chin. He paused a moment and then slowly removed his hands. His straight, hard cock pulsed to the throb of his excited heartbeat. I nodded approvingly and took a look at the whole man.
Youth, really. A college boy or an enlisted recruit from the nearby army base. Dark brown hair, generous mouth … now drawn into an uncertain frown … really great arched brows and eyes. My gaze took inventory as he lay naked and vulnerable before me. Wide shoulders, some brawn to the arms and upper chest, but not the gym-rat kind. These muscles came from work or sports. Narrow waist. A faint six-pack. Hairless torso, but a thick brown bush around that intriguing tool.
I smiled again and nodded. He took my meaning and grasped himself, starting with an uncertain jerk, but he soon found a rhythm, a beat. His eyes spoke, saying he took pleasure from my observation. He liked me watching him. Gave him an added charge.
He increased his tempo. His toes began that up and down dance again. His facial muscles tightened. The tip of his tongue appeared between his teeth. He blinked rapidly. His fist increased the length of its strokes. His left hand caressed his chest, brushed large, erect nipples. A groan followed a strangled gasp. His eyes never left mine. His body convulsed, and the tool in his hand swelled with the load of semen blasting out of its slit. A gob hung in the air a moment before splashing against his tanned chest. A second … a third … a fourth followed as he closed his eyes and gave himself over to the contractions. He was still pumping his hand and oozing seed when I nodded in admiration and turned to make my way back to the beach.
All the way down that incline, my mind imagined the ticklish tingle of his nipples, the electrical charge building behind his sac, the tipping of the muscles over the edge. The delicious, nothing-else-like-it rush of jism through his vitals. There had been a time when I would have fallen atop him and discharged myself on his hard, flat belly.
But that was before Afghanistan. Before the patrol. Before the IED. Before this fucking wheelchair.
*****
During this time of self-isolation, perhaps I should have chosen to give you a more uplifting story, but on sober reflection, this is uplifting in its own way. A young man chose to go to a foreign land to defend what some call his country’s interests and is almost killed. But when we meet this nameless hero, he’s recovered his health, if not the use of his legs, and is maneuvering through life on his own terms. A part of what he once treasured is denied him… but the ability to breathe free air and roam the beach are not.
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.comEmail: markwildyr@aol.comFacebook: www.facebook.com/mark.wildyrTwitter: @markwildyr
The following are buy links for CUT HAND:
DSP Publications: https://www.dsppublications.com/books/cut-hand-by-mark-wildyr-420-bAmazon: https://www.amazon.com/Cut-Hand-Mark-Wildyr-ebook/dp/B073D86RWViBooks: https://itunes.apple.com/book/cut-hand/id1256084273Kobo: 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 Thursday of each month.

Hawk—Otra Vez (Part 3 of 3 Parts)

markwildyr.com, Post #116
Complications, complications, complications. Last week, Hawk found Ramon and whisked him into hiding. Now what happens? Ramon is a fugitive now, so that places Hawk in danger, as well. How can this possibly end?
Next week, I’ll return to publishing every first and third Thursday.
*****HAWK—OTRA VEZPart 3
The next day was merely routine patrol. Hawk, never as talkative as his buddy, kept his silence. Around midday, Grove glanced at Hawk and growled in exasperation. “Shit, you went looking for the Mexican kid last night, didn’t you? You musta looked all night because you’re asleep on your feet. Lean back and catch forty. I’ll keep my eyes peeled.”Hawk did just that.Hs kept delaying a decision over what to do about Ramon. At first, because the boy needed to recover from exposure and dehydration. Then he found other excuses to delay a decision. Ramon had been cooped up in Hawk’s house for almost a month when Grove pushed Hawk into a corner.“Let’s go across the border and visit the cat house.”“Man, I’m running short this month.”“Yeah, me, too. Okay, tell you what. Let’s call Sheila and Berry for a couple of rounds at the Mesa and then take them back to your pad.”Fearing a refusal would excite suspicion, Hawk agreed. They reported in and made ready to leave.“Pick you up at your place in a few, bro!” Grove said on the way out the door. Hawk had his mouth open protest when the boss called him inside the office to ask his opinion of two new applicants Amadeo had been interviewing. After Hawk put in his two cents, he worried about Grove showing up at his place before he got home. Using the phone on the desk he and Grove shared to dial his house, he let it ring once, hung up and dialed again. Ramon answered.“Gotta talk fast. Got roped into going to the Blue Mesa with my partner this evening. Couldn’t get out of it. And  Grove wants bring the girls back to the house later. I hate to ask this, but when we pull up can you go to the barn and wait in that emergency hideaway we fixed up?”“Sure. Ramon hide in barn while Hawk fuck puta.” Hurt and distaste laced the boy’s voice. “Sorry, Hawk. Ramon know you have to put up face for others. He hide.”“Thanks. Grove is coming to the house to pick me up, but I oughta get there before he does, okay?”Hawk hung up the phone and headed out the door to find the Dodge sitting at an odd angle. He’d picked up a nail somewhere on the way to work this morning. It took twenty minutes to change the tire. When Hawk pulled into his own driveway, Grove’s pickup was sitting at the curb. He got out and explained about the flat. Grove didn’t seem interested.“You got company?”“No, why?”“Got the impression somebody’s in there.”“Look, I’m a mess. I need to clean up. Why don’t you meet the girls, and I’ll be there as quick as I can. We can’t all ride in your pickup anyway.”“Berry wants to show off her new Taurus. She’s picking us up here.”Hawk mentally cursed as he stomped across the porch and made a show of unlocking the door. There was no sign of Ramon when he entered.“Damn, you keep a clean place,” Grove commented, looking around the spotless living room and wandering the rest of the small house. No doubt he was checking the place out. Hawk was pulling on a clean set of jeans when the women arrived in a bright red Ford. He scrambled to get outside before they could come in.Grove was his usual lively self, and it proved infectious. Hawk tried calling the house with his special ring a couple of times, but there was no answer. The party accelerated. The four of them stopped just short of being blasted but escaped the place without getting into a fight, although Grove almost managed it a couple of times. Hawk breathed a silent prayer of thanks when Berry took them to her apartment.The girls dropped them off at Hawk’s place well after midnight. Grove asked to come inside and use the restroom, although normally he wouldn’t have been bashful about watering the azaleas, if there had been any azaleas. Probably wanted to see inside of the house again. Grove left the bathroom door open while he pissed, sounding like a garden hose filling a galvanized bucket. After his friend left, Hawk found Ramon hiding in the barn, cold and unhappy.“La Migracome for Ramon now?” the boy asked. Hawk frowned. “No. INS isn’t coming. Why’d you ask that?”“But Ramon have to go now.” The boy’s voice broke.“Sooner or later you’ll have to, we both knew that,” Hawk said soothingly.“Hawk no understand. Hawk compadre, he see Ramon.”“What!”“Ramon hear truck. He go to window, pull back cortinas, and look right at this Grove. He look back at Ramon.”“Shit!” Hawk swore.“Ramon sorry.” He paused. “He muy handsome, that Grove. Pretty like Hawk, but not so big. Hawk do things with him?”“No.”“But Hawk like to do it with him, no?” Ramon blurted, striking uncomfortably close to the truth.“Ramon. I have a little savings. We can get you a place across the border. I’ll come be with you when I can.”The look in the boy’s eyes went straight to Hawk’s heart. “Ramon no be Hawk’s puta.”“Be reasonable, Ramon. Tomorrow Grove’s going to ask me about you. He thinks you’re an old girlfriend’s little brother. He’ll understand me helping you, but not living here indefinitely. It’s different now, kid. You’re a wanted fugitive. You escaped from custody. When they catch you, you’ll be sent to a federal prison. But if you’ll let me get you a place across the border—”“No! Ramon no sit home and wait for Hawk. Ramon love Hawk. If no be in Hawk life, is better go back home to Durango.”Hawk blinked as he saw something precious slipping away. “Look, we don’t have to do anything right away. Let’s think about it and do the rational thing.”“Ramon leave while Hawk work tomorrow. Best.”“Promise me you won’t do that. If you have to go back, I’ll take you myself. I don’t want you on that desert.” He tried to lighten the mood. “Let’s go to bed and talk again tomorrow.”

Grove was waiting for him in the parking lot the next morning. “You get rid of the Mexican kid?”“Damn, Grove, I can’t just throw him to the wolves.”“What’s the matter with you, Hawk? You’re jeopardizing your job, maybe even your freedom. Why didn’t you ask for my help? Don’t you trust me?”Hawk stopped dead in his tracks. “That hurt, Grove. I didn’t to involve you because it might jeopardize your career? Helping Ramon is something I gotta do, but I can’t ask you to risk yourself.”“That’s what friends are for. Anyway, you know you’ve got to do something, don’t you?”Hawk sighed and accepted the reality of the situation. “I’ll take him back across tomorrow.”“Better drive to California and take him across at Tijuana. Busier there. Nogales is too close. Word might get back to someone here.”Hawk worked the day in what was just short of despair. Grove seemed to understand, because he kept talk to a minimum.He was half-afraid Ramon would be gone when he got home that evening. Instead, the boy had cooked a good dinner, but Ramon’s eyes were puffy, and Hawk suspected he’d been crying.Now, the kid tried to man-up. “When we go?”“Early tomorrow. I’ll drive you to San Diego and we’ll cross at Tijuana. Where will you go, Ramon? What will you do?”“Go home. Get job. Ramon damn good man, he find job.”After dinner they cleaned the kitchen together and watched a little TV. Long before Hawk’s customary bedtime, Ramon looked over at him and put together a complete sentence in flawless English. “Will you make love to me?”Without a word, Hawk led the youth to bed and mounted him gently, face-to-face, and with a smile his lips. Soon the joy of the occasion overtook the gravity of Ramon’s mood, and the boy returned the smile. The orgasm, when it came, was no less forceful because of the tender nature of their loving. Ramon stayed Hawk’s hand, keeping him from drawing the boy’s seed from his body. Ramon clasped him to his breast for a long time, neither speaking nor moving. At length, he released Hawk to go clean up.While Hawk was in the shower, Ramon opened the curtain and stepped inside. Taking the soap from Hawk, he lathered his lover from pate to sole. He shyly asked Hawk to turn around and laved the deep cleft, soaping all the way to the sphincter. After he took a rag and rinsed away the soap, he spoke.“Ramon never forget Hawk. He see bird high in air, he think of Hawk. He see falcon in tree, he ache for Hawk.”Hawk leaned into the wall and parted his feet as Ramon hugged his back and thrust his groin at Hawk’s buns without penetrating them. The boy’s breath in his ear became ragged, his words unintelligible. Hawk understood his young lover was seeking a moment he could savor forever. Without thinking about it, he relaxed his muscles, parted his cheeks and endured the pain even as he savored the startled expression of disbelief and wonder escaping Ramon’s throat. Hawk sensed the boy becoming the man.The beauty of Ramon’s parting gift bled Hawk’s strength away. Without warning, the boy exploded, shuddered, and withdrew. As Hawk turned to him, Ramon slid down the side of the shower all the way to the floor, his legs splayed in front of him, a look of utter joy on his face. Hawk joined him and held him close, allowing the spray of clean water to shower them anew.Without understanding how, Hawk knew he’d made the future better for this beautiful Mexican youth. His mind centered on the boy’s name. Aguila… Eagle. This night, Ramon had become an Eagle for his Hawk.
*****
Heartbreaking but tender ending, and one that is safer for Ramon… and incidentally, Hawk, as well. They government really does put some return offenders in federal prisons for stays of six months or longer. And often, young ones like Ramon are used violently by their older and stronger fellow inmates.
But what about Grove? What in the world’s going to happen there? And can you imagine the impact when… and if… two strong men like Curtis Huntinghawk and Grover Whitedeer get together? Maybe one of these days I’ll get around to posting that story.
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.comEmail: markwildyr@aol.comFacebook: www.facebook.com/mark.wildyrTwitter: @markwildyr
The following are buy links for CUT HAND:
DSP Publications: https://www.dsppublications.com/books/cut-hand-by-mark-wildyr-420-bAmazon: https://www.amazon.com/Cut-Hand-Mark-Wildyr-ebook/dp/B073D86RWViBooks: https://itunes.apple.com/book/cut-hand/id1256084273Kobo: 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 Thursday of each month.

Hawk—Otra Vez (Part 2 of 3 Parts)

markwildyr.com, Post #115
   Today, let’s find out if Hark can help Ramon, who was in the custody of La Migra the last time we saw him. And if he can, will it simplify his life or complicate it? Read on.
I’ll publish weekly until this story is finished.

*****HAWK—OTRA VEZPart 2
The whole unit celebrated that evening. They’d caught five of the six breakaway drug runners. Only one had gotten safely across the border. And they’d scared up a bunch of illegals to boot. It was the “to boot” that was troubling Hawk. He walked out to his Dodge pickup to be alone and think, but Grove was right on his heels.“Hey, bro, who were you looking at in that bunch of wetbacks this morning? Couldn’t be the woman, she looked like my old Aunt Martha. You see one of our drug guys?”“A kid I knew.”“Knew him how?”“Brother of a woman I met when I first got here. She worked in one of the shops but went back before you’n me started running together.”“Well, if she was as pretty as her brother, you shoulda held onto her.”Damn, Grove didn’t miss a thing. His buddy knew exactly who he’d had been looking at. Hawk embellished his lie. “Looked just like him. That’s the only way I recognized the kid.”“What’s his name?”“Ramon Aguila.”“Aguila, huh? Looked more like a cat dragged out of the river than an eagle.Grove dropped it when they joined the others at the Blue Mesa where Amadeo was buying a round for his unit. Hawk left before the party degenerated into a riot and drove by the detention center where the INS held illegals while they checked them out. If Ramon had been caught in Colorado and deported, this would be his second deportation. They might end up giving him some jail time. At any rate, the kid wouldn’t be eligible to cross legally now. Despite the temptation, Hawk didn’t stop and make inquiries. Unusual curiosity would raise flags that wouldn’t do him or Ramon any good. He’d have to give this one some thought.He did not sleep well that night. The sight of Ramon Aguila sitting in the dirt, his big, brown eyes following Hawk’s every move, voicing a silent plea for help played like a broken reel of film over and over in his head. The kid had grown some but was still as pretty as any girl Hawk had ever seen. Pretty, hell. He was fucking beautiful. Had to be around nineteen now.Hawk dragged himself out of bed in time to greet the morning star, but he sipped his coffee like a zombie, failing to appreciate the Creator’s wonders this morning. He was uncharacteristically late pulling into the headquarters parking lot that morning. If there was one thing he had learned, it was the white man’s clock. The palefaces forgave a lot, but not for keeping them waiting. So he’d overcome his tendency to “Indian time” and become a slave to the minute hand. Grove met him at the door with their assignment for the day, so Hawk didn’t even get a second cup of coffee.‘You hear?” Grove asked before they were out of the parking lot. “Seven of them got away.”“Seven? We only caught six?”“Seven of the illegals. Guess they walked in the front door of the detention center and right out the back door. Wonder if your friend was one?”Hawk feigned disinterest. “Dunno. If he was, hope he makes it back to his sister.”As they kept an eye on their section of the huge desert and the things that crossed it, Hawk had a moment of panic when they came upon two of the escaped illegals. He bit his tongue to keep from asking about Ramon, but Grove did it for him. The two wetbacks acknowledged that Ramon Aquila had run away with them. Hawk didn’t know of that was good news or bad. Although the Rezes’ commission was not for hunting illegals, they dropped the two escapees back at the detention center for fear they’d come to grief in the desert.“You’re worried about the kid, aren’t you?” Grove asked as they checked in at Rez headquarters at the end of shift.“Shit, Grove, I’m worried about all of them. A lot of wetbacks die out there.”“But it’s different when it’s somebody you know. Want me to help you look for him?”“Not much we can do for him now. Maybe one of the patrols will find him. Thanks, anyway.”That evening Hawk cleaned up, ate some stew, and sat on the porch in the growing cold. A northern plains Indian, Hawk was continually amazed at how this place was a furnace by day and an icebox by night, but he liked it. He hadn’t realized his subconscious had been working on Ramon’s problem until he suddenly got up, grabbed a couple of coats and his rifle, and went to the Dodge. He drove as close as possible to The Dragon’s Back, a jumble of high rocks in the middle of nowhere. He closed the door to the cab quietly and approached the silent hills on foot. This was the highest spot anywhere close by, and it held an unmarked water source, a small spring known to only a few locals. It was also close to the spot where he first met Ramon and the place where Hawk had taken the boy for water. If Ramon didn’t make for Hawk’s place, he would try for the spring.The rock saddle holding the water hole was deserted except for an aggressive javelina that wasn’t about to let some redskin cheat him out of his drink. Hawk looked around carefully since the viscous little pigs normally traveled in packs. This one seemed to be the exception and went off squealing and grunting to himself when Hawk wouldn’t abandon the place. He propped his back against a rock in the deep shadows and settled down to wait. He was good at waiting.Hawk woke from a light sleep when he heard the boy… or at least some human. No self-respecting animal would announce his approach so loudly. By the light of the moonlight, he watched Ramon make his unsteady way up the high ground, slipping and sliding on loose rock. The boy fell on his belly and sucked loudly at the water in the small pool. Hawk let him have a good drink before he spoke the boy’s name quietly.The youth whirled. ¿Quien es? Hawk? That you, Hawk?” the light baritone broke slightly. “Hi, kid,” Hawk said, rising to his feet.“Hawk! Thank Dios!” The boy rushed to him and threw his arms around him. “Oh, Hawk! ¡Mi amor!” The youth reached up and pulled Hawk’s lips down to his, wincing in pain. As the cracked, blistered lips pressed against his own, Hawk responded gently. The boy drew away. “Maybe Hawk don’t want—”“I want,” Hawk answered quietly. “I want very much!”Hawk pulled out his cache of emergency supplies he kept hidden in the rocks and made them comfortable. Ramon ate from the tins of food ravenously. Then he stripped naked and endured the cold night air and frigid waters to bathe in the small stream below the pool. When he walked to where Hawk sat on the blankets. Hawk covered his shivering body and held him close, lending his warmth. At length, Ramon looked up at him.“You fuck me now, Halcón. I clean now.”Hawk drew him down into the blankets and roved the boy’s long, lean frame, remembering the beautiful brown flesh, each mole and every scar. Finally, Ramon turned on his belly. As Hawk entered him slowly, Ramon stretched and purred with pleasure.“Is long time, Hawk. Ramon miss you so much he hurt in his cojones some time.” He groaned pleasantly. “Ramon still love Hawk… much. Muy, muy much!”Six months ago, Hawk would not have hesitated in declaring his feelings, but now a conflict raged within him. He had once loved the boy. Did he still? Certainly he was fond of him, wanted him, needed him. But thoughts of Grove intruded. At length, he murmured. “I love you too, Ramon.” It was true, but the nature of his love had changed.The warmth of their lovemaking spread from Hawk’s groin into his torso, exciting and sensitizing his nipples, causing him to rub them against the boy’s smooth back. It spread to his legs as he pressed against Ramon’s thighs, seeking maximum contact. The boy hooked his lower legs over Hawk’s calves. Chemical and electrical impulses flooded his brain. Hawk’s loved with his entire body, his being. He gloried in the difference between this and casual sex of his recent trip to Phoenix. Hawk and Ramon enjoyed one another because they loved, each in his own way… Ramon without reservations; Hawk withholding some part of himself. Orgasm, when it came rocked him more than expected.Ramon, shoved hard against the blanket with Hawk’s last thrust and gave a long, satisfied sigh.“Is good, Hawk. More good than I remembered.” Almost instantly, the boy fell asleep in a pool of his own semen.“I missed you, too,” Hawk whispered as he kissed a brown ear. Aware Ramon could no longer hear him, he continued. “More than I can tell you. I’m not very good at saying things, but that doesn’t mean I don’t feel them.”In the middle of the night, Hawk roused an exhausted Ramon and half carried the boy to his pickup. The handsome youth fell asleep again the moment Hawk tucked him into bed in the spare room. Sometime later, Ramon crawled into bed with him to absorb warmth and comfort.
*****

Looks like Hawk didn’t get his little Eagle out of INS’ clutches. The kid did it himself. But now he’ll need Hawk’s help. Can Hawk provide it? Can he stop himself from trying? And where does Grover Whitedeer fit in now? Tune in next week for the answer to everything. Well, almost everything.
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.comEmail: markwildyr@aol.comFacebook: www.facebook.com/mark.wildyrTwitter: @markwildyr
The following are buy links for CUT HAND:
DSP Publications: https://www.dsppublications.com/books/cut-hand-by-mark-wildyr-420-bAmazon: https://www.amazon.com/Cut-Hand-Mark-Wildyr-ebook/dp/B073D86RWViBooks: https://itunes.apple.com/book/cut-hand/id1256084273Kobo: 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 post at 6:00 a.m. on each Thursday of the month until this serialized story is completed..

Hawk—Otra Vez (Part 1 of 3 Parts)

markwildyr.com, Post #114  
Okay, I surrender. More of Curt Huntinghawk this week. And this one’s for my friend, Rico. That’s okay, you don’t have to thank me.
As usual, my Hawk stories are too long for a single setting. So I’ll publish weekly until it’s finished.
By the way, last week’s “Punk and Shorty” got a boatload of hits from Hong Kong.
*****HAWK—OTRA VEZ
          Curt Huntinghawk stood at the edge of the municipal swimming pool burning with humiliation and cursing himself for letting Grover Whitedeer to talk him into coming. Not that he didn’t enjoy the water, he did. But he’d overheard something when he went to take a leak in the men’s room that set his teeth on edge. Two teens whispering at the back of the restroom failed to notice him when he walked to the urinal.          “Did you see him!” one young man squealed… actually squealed. “He’s gorgeous. I’d give an arm and a leg for his body, but I’d diefor his face! Did you see it? Beautiful!”          “Im-PRESSIVE,” the second said. “And he’s with another gorgeous hunk? Did you see him?”          “Yes, but I’ll take the bigger one, sweetie. What are they? Mexicans?”          “Indians, I think.”          Hawk’s urine stream dried up. These two faggots were talking about him! Him and Grove. Seething, he moved to the sink to wash his hands, conscious of sudden and total silence while four predatory eyes examined every detail of his anatomy. He stared them down when he went for a towel to dry his hands and then stalked outside followed by snickers and muted cries of “Fabulous!”          Hawk hit the water and made ten frantic laps of the pool. Shit! They weren’t saying anything he wasn’t thinking about Grove Whitedeer. What made the two things different? For one thing, he knew and liked and had feelings for Grove. Those two were just looking for a lay. Crap, if Grove had any inkling of how Hawk felt about him, he’d react this same way. His anger under control, Hawk exited the water in a graceful power-lunge right up the side of the pool.          “Whoa! Stop raining on us!” Grove laughed from the lounge he shared with his girl, Berry. “Where’d you disappear to?”          “Went to drain the radiator and took a few laps.” The sight of Grove in a pair of trunks that barely covered the essentials was almost more than Hawk could stand. “You ready to go?”          Grove pulled a handsome frown. “What’s the hurry?”          Hawk swiped his chest with a towel. “That’s okay, I’ll find a ride back.”          “Don’t worry about him, Grove,” a plump, dusky girl in the adjoining lounge said. “I’ll take him home.”          That was the last thing Hawk wanted, but he could see no way out of it. “Thanks, Sheila. Appreciate it.”          Grove came into the dressing room as Hawk was changing. “What put a burr under your saddle, man?” he asked, casually rolling his trunks over his lean, muscled thighs.          "I don’t know. Just out of the mood. Sorry if I’m spoiling the party.”Grove gave his patented smile, one that melted hard hearts and narrow minds. “No sweat. Berry and me’ll go eat and then head over to my place.”Hawk laughed. “Is a piece of ass all you ever think about?”          “Hell, no! Booze is important. And work’s up there in the top half-dozen.”          Hawk jabbed his arm playfully. “One of these days some gal you chase is gonna catch you, and you’ll find out what life’s all about.”          As Hawk knew she would, Sheila wanted to come inside with him. As he ushered her through the door of the small adobe he rented, Hawk sighed and decided he might as well get something out of it. After a meal of green chile stew and buttered tortillas, he took her to bed. Knowing she and Berry would compare notes later, Hawk gave it his best. He silently offered prayers of gratitude when she left around nine.           After he cleaned up and retired for the night, Hawk couldn’t let go of the incident in the men’s room. Although he recognized his anger as fear, he wasn’t certain what he was afraid of. There was nothing effeminate about him, he couldn’t sound or act like those two if he tried. He’d been with a hundred women but been intimate with four only men. Ramon Aquila, a young illegal alien, who’d saved his bacon in the desert after a drug runner’s shot grazed Hawk’s head. They fell into an affair almost by accident. The intimacy with Brit Guerrero, the drug runner known as Wolverine who had shot him, began as a contest of domination and ended in mutual respect and satisfaction. Both of those affairs were deeply satisfying, but in different ways. Two casual one-nighters on a vacation trip to Phoenix had proved more unsettling than gratifying.           The thorn in his backside at the moment was his confused feelings about his best friend. Grove Whitedeer was his working partner and running mate, but Hawk’s deepening emotional attachment to the handsome young man would cause problems sooner or later. At times, he was tempted to confess and pass the responsibility for their future relationship over to Grove, but Hawk carried his own water… and dug his own grave, apparently.          Hawk was up with the morning star, a habit adopted when he came to this southwestern country a couple of years ago. The cold Sonoran Desert nights were growing chillier, so he donned his long sweats to take coffee on the front porch. He loved studying the icy firmament, discovering something new and glorious almost every morning. Contemplation of the heavens cleared his mind of earthly concerns.           An hour before he was to report for work, the phone rang. Amadeo Tomé, the head of the Border Patrol’s all-Indian force of trackers officially known as the Rezagados Colorados and commonly labeled the Red Rezes was calling everyone in early. Hawk pulled into headquarters, curious as to what was going on. Grove arrived at the same time, looking as if he’d had a hard night of it. They walked in together.          “Listen up,” Amadeo growled even though only four of the crew had arrived. “DEA raided a house in Sombra del Monte early this morning, and there was a shootout. Six of the traficantes got away. Found their car stuck in the sand about five miles east of here. Tracks led off into the desert. They’re running for the border. We’ve been asked to help. Nobody’s been killed yet, and I don’t want any of us to be the first.”          Amadeo sent two of his men to the DEA agents waiting at the bad guy’s car to track them from there. Hawk and Grove, he dispatched to Big Willow Wash to see if they could pick up a trail.          “Make sure the radios in your four-bys work,” Amadeo cautioned. “One of these days maybe the cheap bastards’ll give us some shoulder units. When the others come in, I’m gonna put them further south and east as backups. Okay, move!”          Grove usually drove because Hawk had better eyes for the distance although Grove could spot a footprint in the road as quickly as anyone. They not only tested the radio in the truck but also the inexpensive walkie-talkies they’d bought with their own money to keep in contact when they split. The gizmos worked fine if there weren’t too many hills in the way          Big Willow Wash ran northwest to southeast so the fugitives would have to cross it at some point. Its wide, sandy trough made tracking easy if the bad guys didn’t pause to cover their sign. At the stunted, scraggly tree that gave the deep arroyo its name, they did some calculating. It was unlikely that the traficanteshad already crossed the gulch. The two scouts climbed the closest hill and spent five minutes wordlessly scanning the vast flat spread out before them. Spotting nothing, they decided to split up. Grove drove across the desert south of the gulch while Hawk walked the wash looking for sign. He shucked his sidearm and took only his rifle, canteen, and walkie-talkie, setting a steady, ground-eating pace he could maintain all morning if need be.          Two hours later he found tracks, but they were all wrong. Too many, and going the wrong direction. Illegals. He climbed out of the deep gully and raised Grove on the radio.          “Yeah, I saw them,” his companion affirmed. “But they’re not our guys, so I ignored them.”          “They’re illegals and maybe a mule or two, but I’m worried about the bad guys trying to take them as hostages. You raise Amadeo on the truck radio. In the meantime, I’m gonna track the illegals.”          “Okay, but don’t get out of range. These little fuckers don’t talk very far.”          Hawk signed off and started after the group of seven people at a trot. Judging by the footprints, they were about an hour ahead of him. He halted when Grove’s faint radio voice told him Amadeo was calling the INS. Hawk was to stay on the trail of the group while Grove maneuvered around Big Willow and joined him. At least one of the traficantes they were chasing had been spotted headed their way.          An hour later Hawk topped a rocky hill and saw the wetbacks two hundred yards ahead of him. From his position he also saw what they could not, a green La Migra van coming in from the west followed by two four-wheels. The illegals spotted the dust the vehicles raised and began to break up. Hawk pointed his rifle into the air and pulled the trigger. The sound of the shot cracked across the dry desert air; the group halted as if they were a single living organism. Then they broke in all directions, but the arriving INS agents fanned out and ran them down.          After helping round up the prisoners, Hawk heard a laboring motor and saw Grove bouncing recklessly across the desert. He’d started walking out to meet Grove when something brought him to a dead stop and left him fighting to hide his surprise. Seated cross-legged at the back of the sorry little group was Ramon Aquila. The handsome youngster saw him, but kept his mouth shut. After too long a pause, Hawk turned to find Grove trotting toward him, his eyes curiously searching the group of Mexicans to see what was so interesting to his friend.          “Hawk! Let’s go. I spotted one of our guys headed south!”          Hawk raced for the truck, trying to dislodge the image of the young kid he’d assumed was safely in Denver.
*****Well, well… it seems as though Ramon Aquila, Hawk’s first gay lover, has returned. Will this complicate his growing feelings for Grover Whitedeer, or will it allow him to cool his jets? But Ramon’s in the clutches of the Border Patrol. Can Hawk even reach out to him?
Care to take a guess?
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.comEmail: markwildyr@aol.comFacebook: www.facebook.com/mark.wildyrTwitter: @markwildyr
The following are buy links for CUT HAND:
DSP Publications: https://www.dsppublications.com/books/cut-hand-by-mark-wildyr-420-bAmazon: https://www.amazon.com/Cut-Hand-Mark-Wildyr-ebook/dp/B073D86RWViBooks: https://itunes.apple.com/book/cut-hand/id1256084273Kobo: 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 post at 6:00 a.m. on each Thursday of the month until this serialized story is completed..