Mark Wildyr's Blog, page 14

Mark Wildyr: Huntinghawk and Wolverine (Part 1 of a 5-Part Stor...

Mark Wildyr: Huntinghawk and Wolverine (Part 1 of a 5-Part Stor...: markwildyr.com, Post #105     Courtesy of en.wikipedia.org Several of you have asked for more of Curt Huntinghawk’s story, so I’ll...

Huntinghawk and Wolverine (Part 1 of a 5-Part Story)

markwildyr.com, Post #105   Courtesy of en.wikipedia.orgSeveral 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 Espectroor 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.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 Thursday.

Mark Wildyr: Huntinghawk (Part 3 of 3 Parts)

Mark Wildyr: 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 ...

Huntinghawk (Part 3 of 3 Parts)

markwildyr.com, Post #104   Photographer: Bobby Mikul, Courtesy of CCO Public DomainToday, 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.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 Thursdays of the month.

Mark Wildyr: Huntinghawk (Part 2 of 3 Parts)

Mark Wildyr: Huntinghawk (Part 2 of 3 Parts): markwildyr.com, Post #103     The Spring at Dragon's Back - Courtesy of nps.gov Ready for some more Huntinghawk? We left Hawk ...

Huntinghawk (Part 2 of 3 Parts)

markwildyr.com, Post #103   The Spring at Dragon's Back - Courtesy of nps.govReady for some more Huntinghawk? We left Hawk and Ramon at Dragon’s Back, sleeping off the effects of their mutually difficult day. Let’s see what happens next.
*****HUNTINGHAWK
          Hawk was ready to leave with the morning star, but he brewed coffee and let the boy sleep a few more minutes. They’d make better time if the youth was rested, but the Indian wanted to start before the sun warmed things up too much. Ramon woke and apologized for keeping Hawk waiting. As the boy turned away for his morning piss Hawk studied the kid. Ramon was built wide at the shoulders but incredibly thin in the waist and hips, reminding him of the flamenco dancers Hawk had seen in Mexico. They were like willow whips, strong and flexible.          Hawk’s headache returned when he clamped his Stetson on his head and started out, but the dizziness seemed to have gone. When they left the water behind, no one would have been able to tell that they had been there. The headache was worse by the time they reached Hawk’s old Dodge pickup but had subsided to a steady throb when he pulled into the driveway of his small adobe house. He went home instead of the office because he didn’t know what to do with the boy. Once inside, he phoned headquarters to report what had happened. Amadeo Tomé, the forty-year-old local Indian in charge of the Rezagados,was no fool and could read tracks better than most, so Hawk told the story straight except that he made Ramon a local kid out hunting who stumbled on him by accident. Since he was off duty the next two days, Hawk promised to take it easy and report to the local clinic if he got to feeling worse. Taking it easy was not a difficult promise to keep. He told his guest to make himself at home and fell into bed. Hunger woke him late in the evening. He pulled on an old pair of sweats cut off high on the thigh and went into the living room.          Ramon had laundered his clothes in Hawk’s old washing machine and sat in the living room wrapped in a towel watching the small television set while his clothes dried. His eyes widened, silently begging forgiveness at his audacity for using Hawk’s possessions.          “It’s okay, kid,” he assured the boy. “Told you to make yourself at home.” He winced as he took a step.         Immediately, Ramon got to his feet and insisted Hawk sit down while he found something for them to eat. The youth came up with a meal of tuna fish sandwiches, chips, and Mexican beer. During the meal around the kitchen table Hawk learned the boy was eighteen, came from Durango, Mexico and was trying to join his older brother somewhere in Colorado. Hawk watched the play of muscles in the boy’s slender torso. It was a curious thing to take so much notice.          “Ramon,” he said, getting to his feet and limping into the living room, “we’ve got to decide what to do about you.” Hawk sat heavily in a chair and pulled up a bare foot to examine the a foot that had been bothering him all day. “Damn!” he cursed, discovering a thorn buried behind the ball of his left foot.          Ramon was at his side immediately, examining the injured foot closely. The boy took charge, asking for a needle and disinfectant, going for the items while Hawk moved to the sofa. When Hawk was stretched out, Ramon knelt at the end of the divan.          “Try not hurt Hawk bad,” he said softly. “But splinter deep. Hurt some.”          “I’ll try to handle it,” Hawk said with an amused smile. He watched silently as the boy sterilized the needle with the flame from a kitchen match. The smile slid from his lips when Ramon started digging. A few moments later, the boy held up a thorn.          “Got it! Hurt bad?”          “I’ll live,” Hawk said, closing his eyes as Ramon applied disinfectant to the wound. He let out a soft groan when the boy started massaging the foot. It hurt pretty good, Hawk decided. He must have dozed because when he woke, the boy’s mouth was on the inside of his thigh. Hawk’s eyes flew open, but otherwise he did not move. He looked down his torso as the boy’s hand slid beneath the cutoffs. To Hawk’s surprise, he responded. Ramon inched his way up Hawk’s thigh, leaving a moist trail with his tongue.          “Ramon!” he yelled. “What the hell are you doing?”          The boy came up to regard him with wide, frightened eyes. “T-try to thank Hawk,” the boy stammered. “O… okay?” he asked uncertainly. When Hawk made no reply, he lowered his head.          Hawk could not believe the sensations he experienced for the next few minutes. His indignation and outrage died beneath Ramon’s ministrations. Hawk’s mind denied what was happening; even his body relaxed in enjoyment… until his orgasm hit. For a moment, he thought he’d been struck by liquid lightning.          “Where’d you learn to do that, kid?” he gasped.          Ramon gave a broad smile. “Patron. He make Ramon do it for him. Io okay?”          “Great, but let me get this straight. Your patron made you do it for him.”          “He teach when Ramon has fourteen years. He do good for mother and brothers and sisters because of what Ramon do for him. But… but he die in accident. So I come here for work.”          “He taught you this?”          “Yes. Not so good with him, but like with Hawk. Hawk much man.”          “Ramon, you don’t have to do anything for me. But what do you get out of it? I mean, I got the climax of my life, but what did you get?”          “Ramon get most beautiful man, El Guapo.” The boy smiled again. “Is true. I see you without clothes on desert, I know this man different. Mexican? Maybe not. He more rojo, red, you know. Big muscles. Wide shoulders. Much man.”          “So you like to do it?”          “Is okay with patron. Not at first, but finally Ramon don’t care so much. But with Hawk? I like. Ramon do it again?”          “No,” Hawk said sharply. “Maybe later.”          Ramon gave his dazzling smile. “Good.”          Hawk mentally shook his head, amazed at the fondness he felt for the boy at that moment. He had never experienced any sort of attraction for another male, except for the proper love for his father and older brother. Once he had severely beaten a fellow logger when the man groped him when they took a leak together in the woods. Now he wondered if he had acted out of fear.
*****
Looks like they’re compatible. Glad to see the kid took some kinks out of Hawk’s rope. But wait… there’s more next time.
Now my hopes 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.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 Thursdays of the month.

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

markwildyr.com, Post #102
Courtesy of Wikipedia.comSome 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. “¡Venaqui! 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. “¿Porquelo 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 guapoin arroyo, I think we die together.          Hawk started at the term. Trips across the border to visit some señoritas taught him guapomeant 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.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 Thursdays of the month.

Mark Wildyr: An Excerpt from the Novel Johnny Two-Guns

Mark Wildyr: An Excerpt from the Novel Johnny Two-Guns: Markwildyr.com, Post #101     Artist: Maria Fanning Good response from the last two postings of “Red Rez.” Have had requests for m...

An Excerpt from the Novel Johnny Two-Guns

Markwildyr.com, Post #101   Artist: Maria FanningGood response from the last two postings of “Red Rez.” Have had requests for more of the story. I will comply, but this week, I wanted to post something from my book Johnny Two Guns.
To give you a feel for the book, I’ve reproduced part of the book’s blurb below:
When vacationing Denver architect Roger Mackie rolls into a quaint old trading post in Montana’s Bitterroot Mountain Range to gas up his car, it’s the start of a life-changing journey. Lean, handsome Chippewa Johnny Two-Guns is looking for a ride. He’s on a mission to recover some clan treasures. Roger is immediately smitten and drives Johnny all the way to Arizona.
The excerpt I’ve chosen comes near the beginning of Chapter 1 when our protagonist, Roger Mackie becomes fed up with the glitz and glitter of a Las Vegas vacation, and mindlessly starts driving. Let’s see how it goes from there.
*****JOHNNY TWO-GUNS
          How I found myself in Montana 800 miles from Las Vegas, I’m really not certain. But I could tell anyone more than he should want to know about the Kosovo war and the Unabomber. Damn, I hadto buy some tapes for the car’s sound system. I came to the sudden and belated conclusion that I should have headed south to Phoenix or Tucson. Arizona’s a grand state, and I’ve always enjoyed myself there.          Butte, a quaint old mining town on the western slope of the Continental Divide, proclaimed itself as the “City That’s a Mile High and a Mile Deep.” Some of the old mining shafts dropped five thousand feet below the earth’s surface. Many tunnels and corridors ran beneath the town’s streets. The place got its name from the big hunk of rock nearby and its aura from gold and silver and copper mined here since the 1860s. However, the Art Chateau, the World Museum of Mining, and the Copper King Mansion could occupy me only for so long. I snapped more photos than I wanted with my Canon PowerShot 600 and after a tour of the US High Altitude Sports Center, I was breathing a little easier and the knot in my gut had begun to ease. I spent the night in a downtown hotel only to wake in the morning completely at a loss for something to do.          After a hearty breakfast, I-90 led me out of town, and an innocuous turnoff to the west drew me deeper into the Bitterroot Mountains. I must have been recovering from my foul mood because the scenery started to hold some interest again. These hills were a part of the same great Rocky Mountain chain as those around Denver, but they had a different feel… craggier, wilder somehow. If I had been the outdoors type, I would have bought a tent and camped out in the crisp mountain air.          Nonetheless, before long this trek started to look like the latest in a series of mistakes, because the road degraded, the traffic evaporated, and I was absolutely alone without an idea of where I was. My anxiety level soaring as the gas gauge dipped, I came to a place where the road widened. An old log building stood to the left. At the sight of two antiquated gasoline pumps in front, I pulled over and stopped. The place was so novel that I grabbed the Canon and clicked a couple of shots of the place.          Inside, the building was low ceilinged, but much larger than it looked from the outside. If I had been on the Navajo reservation, I would have guessed this was an old-fashioned Indian trading post. I had no idea if they had such things up here, although there were plenty of Native Americans in Montana. The trading post or store or whatever it was had goods crammed in every corner, was dimly lit, and gave off a pleasant, homey atmosphere. A grizzled man of about sixty waited on an elderly woman buying a few basic groceries. The Caucasian trader stood six foot three or four—brawn going soft. He finished with the lady and turned to me.          “Come right on in and look around. Got a pot of coffee on, and you’re welcome to join us.” He gestured toward a distant corner dominated by a potbellied stove with a few cane chairs grouped around it. At this altitude the warmth was inviting. Someone was seated in one of the chairs beside the stove.          “Thanks. I’ll take you up on the offer. But first I’d like to gas up the car.” I halfway expected him to say he was out of gasoline.          “Easy done.” He turned to the stove at the rear. “Johnny, can you come pump this fella some gas?”          “Yessir, Mr. Beasley.” An indistinct figure rose from his chair with animal grace. A moment later, a young Native American emerged out of the semigloom and walked toward us with the strong, languid movement of a mountain lion… unhurried, efficient, powerful.          “Give Johnny your keys,” the trader said. “He’ll gas up for you. You want it filled?”          I nodded. “Yep. To the brim.”         When I told him what I was driving, he told the kid to give me the premium. I agreed and asked for a restroom. The shopkeeper directed me to the back of the establishment, where I took a leak and puzzled over my reaction to the young man now gassing up my car. Occasionally you run into someone who catches the eye and won’t let go. Someone whose physical presence engages the entire you. I’d experienced it only once before in my life.
*****
I went to the trouble of writing the book, Dreamspinner Press published it, now I hope you will be interested enough to read the novel. It’s a long way from Butte, Montana to Tucson, Arizona, and Roger and Johnny learn a lot about each other… and themselves.
Now a renewal of my tired plea for my work. Amazon permits you to read a short passage of my novels, 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.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 Thursdays of the month.

Mark Wildyr: A Second Look at “Red Rez”

Mark Wildyr: A Second Look at “Red Rez”: markwildyr.com, Post #100     Courtesy of documentjournal.com Had some comments on last week’s Red Rez posting, so decided to give...