Mark Wildyr's Blog, page 4

Yip, Yap, and Yup (Part 1 of a Story in 3 Parts)

Markwildyr.com,Post #237

 Image Courtesy of Freepik:

 

A friend and I weretalking the other day, and he mentioned his cousin who has triplets… two ofwhich are identical and on of which is fraternal. That possibility had neveroccurred to me before, even though I have twin brothers who are fraternal. Thatstarted me thinking….

 

When I start thinking,I sometimes go off the rails. And this is possibly one of those times.Nonetheless, it did start me thinking of three peas in a pod… one of which goesawry. This is the result. We’ll take them one at a time.

                                                                         

                                                                     * * * *

YIP,YAP, AND YUP

YIP

I should tell you right awaythat we’re triplets… or so our parents insist. I think we’re twins with anadd-on. Yap and I are identical, Yup might not even be a member of the family,much less the third triplet. That’s given me some heartburn over the years, Ican tell you.

Our first photograph showedthree peas in a pod. Dressed alike and looking alike... that is to say,wrinkled up little faces without any definition. The second one, a year laterwould get a passing grade. Dressed identically with pretty much the samekisser. By the third one, something was off. The duds were still the same, butone of the faces looked to be taking a different path toward maturity. Not abad path… just a different one.

By the time we enteredkindergarten, the difference was plain. That’s when we picked up our nicknames.Actually, we’re John, James, and Joseph Karlosian, but when Mom’s brother sawus for the first time, he shook his head and pronounced me as Yip, my identicalas Yap, and the other as… well, Yup. Why those monickers? I have no idea, but that’sbeen who we’ve been ever since.

It’s not just the family whogets thrown for a loop by the physical difference. The kids in our group tendto treat me and Yap as a pair and Yup, well, not so much. And maybe that’s thesource of the heartburn I mentioned earlier. I’m a part of a team, whereas Yup’shis own individual. He doesn’t even dress like us. Course, Yap and I havedifferent tastes in clothing styles now that we’re seniors in high school, but,dammit, you know what I mean.

To be honest, it’s gotten tome this year more than earlier because Cynthia Sharpe started seeing both Yupand me. When I tried to put a stop to that, she looked me right in the eye.

“I know it’s weird. Yip. I likeyou and all, but when I’m with you, it’s like I’m dating Yap too. If youcouldn’t make it one night, and Yap stepped in to cover for you, would I evenknow?”

“Course you would. We’re not thatmuch alike.”

She fed me a line I’d come tohate. “Two peas in a pod. When I’m with Joey, I don’t feel like that. I’mseeing one guy, not two.”

Geez! She didn’t even call himYup. He was Joey. But I was still Yip and my identical was still Yap. I triedto salvage things. “Hey, we have a good time when we go out, don’t we?

She nodded. “When I’m notfeeling weird.”

“Come on, Cindy, let’s gosteady. Look at it this way. With me, you get two for the price of one.”

She just glared at me. “That’ssick, Yip.” With that, she walked away, leaving me to watch her graceful gait,a sight that left me hungry for more and totally pissed at my disparatebrother.

It got worse. We all made thebasketball team, but Yap and Yup get playtime while I warm the bench. Once, Yapand I switched uniform tops so I wore his number and played without the coachknowing. Did okay too, until I fowled out. And when “Yip” did a better job,coach tumbled. We never tried that again.

But soccer is what reallyfried my fanny. That one sport I’m pretty good at. I surpass my identical inthat sport. That’s great, right? Would be if Yup didn’t play goalie on theopposite team every time we practice. He really busts his butt blocking myshots, more’n any other player’s. I mean he really goes the extra mile to see Idon’t score. He’ll literally eat dirt, leaping for my ball and taking hardfalls to keep me from scoring. It’s gotten so, half the time I aim for hismidriff hard as I can kick the ball. Giving him a good bruising every once in awhile did wonders for my blood pressure.

Then Yup did the unforgivable.He started getting in between my identical and me. Dunno what Yap’s thinking, buthe’s letting it happen. That was the last straw. I went from neutral tonegative.

“Butt out, asshole,” I startedmy onslaught one day when Yup asked Yap what he was doing that evening. “We’vegot plans. And you’re not included.”

Yup got sort of a hurt look onhis alien face—which sent a thrill up my spine—and stammered, “Why not? We usedto do things together all the time.”

“That was before you left thefamily.”

“What the hell you talkingabout?”

“Before you started lookinglike a frog instead of a human being.”

“Now, Yip—” Yap started.

“Shut up. Don’t encourage him.”

Yup turned red in the face.“If I look like a frog, how come Cindy goes out with me?”

“Figured a kiss would turn youinto a prince, I guess. Didn’t work, did it?”

“What brought this on?” Yupasked. “What’d I ever do to you.”

“Besides Cindy, you mean? Goaway, man, you don’t belong here. You don’t even look like the rest of us.You’re parked in the wrong family.”

It went downhill from there.

 

*.*.*.*.

Well, the dieseems to be cast. Now to see where it ends up, seven or snake eyes? Anyguesses? However it turns out, this seems to be a different kind of story thanI usually write. Stick with me, please.

 

My contactinformation is provided below in case anyone wants to drop me a line:

Website and blog: markwildyr.com

Email:markwildyr@aol.com

Facebook:www.facebook.com/mark.wildyr

Twitter: @markwildyr

Now mymantra: Keep on reading. Keep on writing.You have something to say, so say it!

See you later.

 

 

Mark

 

New posts the first and third Thursday of the month at6:00 a.m., US Mountain time. 

Who Writes Our History Books?

 Markwildyr.com, Post #236

 

Image Courtesy of Pixabay:

 

I was looking through some of my work and discovered this little piece I wrote quite a while ago. I don’t recall the occasion, but it was probably a Columbus Day. I searched through my posts and can’t find where I used it. Ergo, it’s my post for this week. Pretend it’s Columbus Day,

 

* * * *

HISTORY IS WRITTEN BY CONQUERORS

 

It began with Christopher Columbus, who gave the people the name Indios.

“So tractable, so peaceable, are these people,” Columbus wrote to the King and Queen of Spain, “that I swear to your Majesties, there is not in the world a better nation.”

All of this, of course, was taken as a sign of weakness.

 

Opening and closing lines from BURY MY HEART AT WOUNDED KNEE by Dee Brown

###

 

“What are we going to do to celebrate Columbus Day?” Mary Helen asked. Sunlight streamed through the schoolroom window and caught in her golden locks.

“Why celebrate the most notorious serial killer in all history?” John Standing’s frown made him look more serious than usual. Why shouldn’t he be serious? He was the only “Indian” in the American History class, although he thought of himself as a Native American.

“Bite your tongue!” Bret Hardy said. “He was the greatest explorer there ever was. Without him, we wouldn’t even be here.” There was some heat behind his words.

“Okay, class, settle down.” Robert Birdsong was too experienced a teacher to permit John’s natural response, which would be something like “That’s okay by me.” He adjusted his black-framed glasses and asked John what he meant.

“Do you know how many millions of people died because of what he and those who came after him did? More millions than in WWII. More than in the holocaust. Hell, it was a holocaust. The first one.”

“Probably not the first, but there’s some truth to what you say.”

“Bull…uh, crap!” Bret said. “All he did was discover a new continent and open it up to Christianity and civilization. You’d still be running around in rawhide and moccasins if it wasn’t for him.”

Birdsong stepped in again as John’s face darkened. “Interesting, isn’t it. History from two points of view. Most of us never think of it like that. There’s an old saying that history is written by the conquerors. And there’s a great deal of truth in that. But over time, things have a way of coming out. Bret has the view of his culture…which is the culture of most of us in this room. John sees things through the prism of his people’s history.”

John spoke up. “And that history looks back over six hundred years of genocide and the wholesale theft of tribal lands.”

“That is undeniable, if one is fair and open-minded,” Birdsong said. “But Bret is equally right when he maintains Columbus was one of our greatest explorers and colonizers.”

“Tell that to the survivors of Wounded Knee,” John said. “When they were finally brought into the Episcopal Mission at Pine Ridge four days after Christmas in 1890, those who were still able to see were greeted by big banner that read: ‘Peace on Earth Good Will to Men.”’

 *.*.*.*

My reaction to this is about the same as last week’s conclusion. Racism is hell, isn’t it? But doesn't it seem that time often has a way of allowing what really happened to seep to the top... however slowly?

 

My contact information is provided below in case anyone wants to drop me a line:

Website and blog: markwildyr.com

Email: markwildyr@aol.com

Facebook: www.facebook.com/mark.wildyr

Twitter: @markwildyr

Now my mantra: Keep on reading. Keep on writing. You have something to say, so say it!

See you later.

 

 

Mark

 

New posts the first and third Thursday of the month at 6:00 a.m., US Mountain time.

Ides, A Work in Progress

 Markwildyr.com, Post #235

 

Image Courtesy of Depositphotos:

 

 

In June of last year, I gave readers the Prologue of my last book in the Cut Hand Series (unless another one demands to be born) called IDES, a great grandson of Cut Hand who bears Indian features except for startling blue eyes. Here’s a part of Chapter 1.

 

* * * *

Chapter 1

 

Approximately one year earlier, Fort Yanube, South Dakota

 

Something bit into my back, slashing through my shirt and setting my flesh afire. Giving an anguished grunt, I whirled to face my tormentor and was surprised to see Sergeant Courtland Dawson drawing back for another lash of his quirt. Marybell’s father’s face was afire, his lips drawn into a snarl. I rushed him, but not before the quirt struck again, slashing sideways across my left cheek. He lost his grip on the leather when I bowled into him, but he recovered quickly and rocked me with a fist to the side of my neck.

I went down and rolled, coming back onto my feet in a boxer’s stance. My dad had taught me the basics, but the sergeant was the bigger man and simply overpowered me. I got in a few licks before some noncoms arrived and pulled us apart. My split lip stung as I smiled at his bruised eye. He’d have to face his troops with a shiner…given him by a teenager.

Dawson shook off his restrainers and stabbed a finger at me. “You stay away from my little girl, you hear me, you fucking breed!”

It wasn’t the first time I’d heard that word, nor its adjective, but it was the first time one of my dad’s subordinates had said it aloud in my presence. I saw red as the sergeant stalked away, muttering to himself. He was barely out of sight before someone called the men in the vicinity to attention, and I knew my father had arrived.

“What the hell’s going on?” Major Gideon Haleworthy demanded. His eyes registered shock when he saw me. “Ides, what happened?”

“Disagreement, sir,” I muttered as I picked up my scattered books, the last day of school marred by the unexpected attack.

My father put hands on my shoulders and spun me around. “Boy, someone’s taken a lash to you. Who was it?” Facing me once again, he put a hand to my cheek, and I knew the quirt had left its mark.

A bluff, weathered man with hashmarks all over the arms of his uniform arrived. Sergeant-Major MacLaughlen. Shortly thereafter, my dad abandoned the field to him and led me across the parade ground to our quarters.

Ma moaned aloud at the sight of me, her normally dark features going even duskier. “William!” she exclaimed but bit off her questions. No doubt she knew Pa would get explanations out of me soon enough.

He held his tongue until she had cleaned me up and applied what stung like horse liniment before beginning his interrogation.

“All right, son. An explanation.”

“I dunno, Dad. He caught me with his quirt while I had my back to him.”

“He?” Mom asked.

“Sargeant Dawson,” my pa said.

A little gasp escaped her. “Marybell’s father?”

“That’s right, Rachel Ann, Marybell’s father.” My dad fixed his stare on me. “And why would he do that?”

I shrugged and winced. “I dunno. I didn’t do anything.”

“Have you been sneaking around and seeing the girl on the sly?”

“No! Well, I shared some of ma’s venison jerky with her a couple of times. All we did was sit up against the back of the headquarters building and eat it.”

“And?” he prompted.

I avoided my mother’s eyes. “And I kissed her…once.”

“Is that all?” This time it was a demand.

“Yes, sir. I swear. And she kissed me back, so I guess she liked it.”

“Has Sargeant Dawson warned you away from his daughter?”

I winced at the recollection. “Just today…after the dustup.” I shot a glance ma’s way. “Called me a breed.”

“Meet my eyes, Ides, and swear what you’ve told me is true.”

I swung my blue orbs to meet his. “I swear it, Pa. I just kissed her…once.”

“And you didn’t force her?”

“No, sir.”

“I believe you, William. Now you leave everything to me. No payback, do you understand?”

When Major Gideon Haleworthy called me “William,” I knew he meant business. Normally, he used my nickname of Ides, like everyone else on post.

“Yes, sir, I understand. Not sure he does, though. If…”

“You leave Sergeant Dawson to me. This might be a good time for a visit to your grandfather at Teacher’s Mead,” he suggested. “You can catch tomorrow morning’s train to Mead’s Crossing.”

“Gideon!” my ma exclaimed. “He’ll miss his graduation ceremony tomorrow night.”

This had been the last day of school for me…maybe forever. I’d earned the credits I needed to graduate the post’s school. Hang the ceremony, just give me my diploma. But I kept my mouth shut and took in the haunted look of my father’s eyes.

“I’m, sorry, Rachel Ann, but I think it’s better to take the train.”

“I’d rather go to Turtle Crick,” I said.

“Easier to face your Uncle John than Grandfather Cuthan?”

“It’s not Grandpa Cuthan,” I said, “as much as it’s everyone else. There’s a host of people at Teacher’s Mead. Heck, it’s a whole town now. But it’s just Uncle John and Ethan at Turtle Crick. Besides, maybe they’ll give me a job.”

“For the summer,” Ma put in. “I want you in college this fall.”

“But I need to find something till then,” I said, not really agreeing. “And if they don’t have anything for me, there’s the Liberty Ranch right next door. Dexter and Libby might need help.

“All right,” my father agreed.

He started to leave, but I halted him with a question. “What are you going to do to him…the sergeant, I mean?”

“If he’s honest and forthright in answering for his actions, I’ll take his stripes and transfer him.”

“But you won’t cashier him?”

“Let’s get this straight, Ides. I’ll not take any action because of his assault of my son. What he’ll answer for is viciously attacking someone on an Army post. He’ll pay, but not with his career. That would not be fair to his wife and daughter. Am I understood?”

“Yes, sir. Uh, can I take Stelle with me to Turtle Crick? She’s out of school too. And I know she’d like to see Uncle John and Ethan.”

Gideon Haleworthy glanced at Mother. She nodded. “All right, if Estelle wants to go, she’s free to do so. But that puts a rein on how long you stay. Be back here in a week.”

“Two weeks. That’s not too long, is it?” I asked. “Especially, if I get a job.”

A look of sorrow claimed my father’s features as he nodded. “Two weeks for both of you unless you find work. But you bring Estelle home, regardless.”

I knew that look. I’d seen it all my life. He loved my mother, and he loved me…us, but life had taken dark twists and turns before we came to live in the commandant’s lodging at Fort Yanube. We’d lost my little brother, Gabe, to a sniper’s bullet when some land grabbers shot at Uncle John and struck my five-year-old brother instead. To the rest of them, Gabe was dead. But he was constantly with me. I experienced his presence, heard his thoughts, and took comfort in our bonding. He was often the voice of reason in my world.

And while my father liked and respected my mother’s brother, Gideon Haleworthy was never able to truly reconcile himself to John Strobaw’s deviant nature. While that was of no consequence to the tribal side of our family, it went against the grain of the wasicun…the white men. Although admittedly, the attitude of the conquerors had negatively affected the acceptance of Two Faces by many of the tribes.

But my pa’s big problem was me. My mother, half Yanube and half white, was born of Cuthan Strobaw—known to the People as Dog Fox—and Mary Jacobsen Strobaw at Teacher’s Mead some forty-three years ago. Pa was pure Boston Irish, so I should have been an eighth blood, yet my features were as Indian as Uncle John’s…or even Grandfather Cuthan’s, save for eyes as blue as my father’s. Growing up on an army post during the recent Indian Wars had proved a demanding task.

Yet, here I was, all of eighteen-years-old—or eighteen winters, as the tribal members of my family tolled time—an Army brat just graduated from the post’s school. To my father, with his yellow hair—now beginning to gray a bit—and fair features, it likely seemed I was a troublemaker. Yet, in truth, it was trouble that sought me.

As the son of an officer—and now the commandant—of the post, no one could actually shun me, the most severe punishment tribesmen can inflict on their brethren, but the slights were there. Always there. In time, most of the mothers and fathers of the troop grew accustomed to me to the point I was tolerated, but the army was a restless environment. A trooper here today was transferred tomorrow, so I constantly faced strangers unaccustomed to a dusky face in their social midst. I sometimes shuddered to think what my life on an Army fort would have been like had my father not been a commissioned officer.

Actually, I didn’t have to wonder. All I had to do was to look at the children of our two Indian scouts. They didn’t live on post, of course, but they were around often and treated with disdain by most of their white peers. They couldn’t go to our school or participate in post life in any way. No law against it, except the law of human nature—or more precisely, the law of the white human nature. I found the native children more pleasant and venturesome than my schoolmates. Yet, they, too, were withholding of their social intimacy. After all, I was different from them, as well. My blue eyes were as unnatural to them as my cheekbones were to the white children.

 

* * * *

Racism is hell, isn’t it? Ides lives in two worlds and isn’t sure which one he belongs in. But it seems to me he’s more comfortable in Medicine Hair’s environment on the farm. Nonetheless, he may prove to be a wanderer.

All the Cut Hand series books, as well as some others, are available from JMSBOOKS.

 

My contact information is provided below in case anyone wants to drop me a line:

Website and blog: markwildyr.com

Email: markwildyr@aol.com

Facebook: www.facebook.com/mark.wildyr

Twitter: @markwildyr

Now my mantra: Keep on reading. Keep on writing. You have something to say, so say it!

See you later.

 

 

Mark

New posts the first and third Thursday of the month at 6:00 a.m., US Mountain time.

Evil Eye Guy

Markwildyr.com, Post #234

 Clip Art courtesy of Deviant Art:

 

Last week we met Karl and AA in their first year of college. Karl’s an unusual fellow, he has a brown left eye and a green right one. Which gave rise to rumors he can cast an evil eye curse on those who irk him. Lo and behold, one day on the tennis court, our evil eye guy discovers he has a yen for the handsome AA. He feigns drunkenness and lolls against his friend on the drive home.

 

* * * *

EVIL EYE GUY

 Despite a headache the next morning, I showed up at the tennis court at the appointed time. AA said nothing about last night, but I caught him shooting me glances now and then. Maybe he always did that when we were on the court, but somehow it seemed different.

“What?” I asked him once.

He averted his gaze. “Nothing.”

Mentally, I raged at him. He’d said we had to talk this morning, so why didn’t he talk? I couldn’t initiate it because I was supposedly in la-la-land when he muttered the words. Maybe he was waiting until after the game.

I settled down to playing, but my mood didn’t improve. It took a dive when one of the opponents declared my return went long. It hadn’t. It landed right on the line. Incensed, I stalked to the net and voiced my objections. Things escalated. AA tried to calm me.

“Don’t give me that look,” the frigging liar on the other side of the net said. “I’m not afraid of your damned ‘evil eye.’ Which one is it, by the way?”

Out of control, I pointed at my green one. “This one. And that’s the one I’m looking at you with, jerk.”

“You wanna play or you wanna cry.”

I served one of the best aces of my life, bringing the score to deuce. Then I got off two more and ended the game. The tall bastard flashed me the finger before he and his partner walked away. They weren’t out of sight before a skateboarder plowed into the guy and sent him tumbling. From the way he nursed his right wrist, he was out of commission for a while.

Unable to hide a grin, I looked at my companion. His eyes were clouded, wary.

“Karl?” he gasped before racing to see if he could help the injured guy.

What the hell did “Karl?” mean? Wasn’t my fault. The skateboarder apologized ten times for crashing into the guy, but true to the asshole’s character, the injured payer ignored the contrition and bellowed for all to hear he was out of commission for the upcoming competition. But he paused long enough to give me a long look, concentrating on my right, green eye longer than necessary. Did Dumbo think I’d evil eyed him?

After the excitement died down, AA declined my invitation for a drink at the Student Union Building, which was odd. We usually celebrated wins and mourned losses at the little café in the SUB. As I walked back to the dorm alone, I mulled over the last few days. AA’d been acting funny—maybe not funny, but definitely off-kilter—ever since our last visit to the bar. My mood dropped when I realized the cause. I’d gone too far. Practically groped the guy under the guise of being drunk. It came down to one thing. I was in love with the guy, while he was in “like” with me. I’d messed up royally. If I couldn’t be… well, intimate with him, I desperately wanted him as a friend. A buddy. Shit! Next, he’d probably start finding reasons to pull out of our tennis games.

Sure enough, the next Saturday, he begged off, and I had to play singles. It was an odd day. I’d get fired up—incensed, I guess you’d say—and play like a tiger or down so deep in self-pity I played like a sloth with a hole in his racket.

Before the weekend, I backed him in a corner and promoted another trip to the bar, but I resolved to limit myself to a single Long Island Tea and try to repair the relationship. The same blonde and brunette showed up and gravitated to our table. For a while, it looked as if my fear of a foursome would materialize, but neither of us was good company, so they wandered away to a more energetic couple of guys.

Shortly after they left, the rowdies at the table next to us worked themselves into a fight. One of them lurched out of his seat and backed into our table, spilling a good part of the drink I’d been nursing since we got here.

“Hey!” I yelled. “Watch it, man.”

AA laid a hand on my arm. “Cool it, Karl. He didn’t mean anything.”

The two combatants moved outside, pulling half the patronage with them to witness the upcoming fight. Neither of us moved.

AA drained his drink. “Come on, let’s go. I’m beat tonight.

From the way he avoided looking at me, I knew it was finished. I’d never have AA as a lover, and he’d slip from being a friend to simply an acquaintance. My gut went hollow.

As we drove back to campus with neither of us speaking, I decided to try to salvage the situation… at least the friendship part.

“Pull over, will you?” I said as we approached a small park. “We need to talk.”

He obeyed and switched off the engine. Then he resolutely stared straight out the windshield.

“I owe you an apology, man.”

He sort of started and turned to look at me. “For what?”

“For something,” I said, uncertain how to approach the thing. “I figure it was what happened at the bar the other night. Or at least on the way home. I was… well, I was outta line.”

“How?”

“I was all over you.”

He snorted. “Hell, you were drunk.”

“Kinda,” I admitted.

He gave me a sharp look. “What do you mean, kinda?”

“Well, maybe not as drunk as I acted.”

“You mean….”

I nodded. “Yeah, I wasn’t totally out of it. I knew… I knew… Well my hand kinda wandered. Sorry if I offended you.”

He threw back his head and laughed. “Offended me? Hell, Karl, I was hoping you’d go all the way and give me a grope. Drunk or sober. It didn’t matter.”

A thrill ran up my back. “You wanted me to?”

“Like crazy. All I could do to keep from grabbing your hand and clapping it to me.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“Figured you were just looped and didn’t know where your hand was. Don’t you know what a good-looking sucker you are? Hell, when you play net, I have trouble watching the ball instead of you.”

“M… me too.” I felt a load lift from my shoulders. My heart pounded. I reached for him, but he put up his hands as if to fend me off, sending me into a downer.

“But….” My voice faltered and died.

“I’d like to, Karl. Hell, man, I ache to. But… but….”

“But what?”

He turned to stare out the windshield again. “It’s the other thing, man.”

“What other thing.”

“Your eyes.”

“Might not be the most attractive thing about me,” I said. “But they’re not all that bad.”

“They’re beautiful man, but so is a coral snake.”

“A coral snake! What’re you talking about? Make sense.”

“Just saying because they’re beautiful, doesn’t mean they aren’t… well, dangerous. You know, evil.”

I would’ve laughed if he hadn’t been so serious. “They’re just eyes, man. Nothing more, nothing less.”

“Don’t laugh at me.”

“Do you see me laughing?”

“At what I’m about to say. My grandmother used to tell me about this old woman she knew who had the Evil-Eye. She could do things, man. She’d just look at a guy, and he’d go walk off a cliff or out in front of a car.”

“You think I do that?”

“I’ve heard the stories, you know, from guys who knew you back home. They told me about all the things that happened to people who pissed you off. And then the other day on the tennis court, you got mad at that guy and threatened him with your green eye. A minute later, he was outta commission.”

“I was just joking. Putting him in his place.”

“Were you? Maybe you don’t even know you can put the evil-eye on a guy. But you can. I saw it.”

“My eye? You want to get together. I want to get together. But we can’t because of my eye?”

“Can’t help the way I feel, Karl. One day you might get pissed at me about something, and I’d walk around waiting for a catastrophe.

“So we can’t make love because of my eye? Can’t even be friends because of my frigging green eye?”

“Sorry,” he said.

The passenger cabin turned silent while I thought furiously. My first crush, and I couldn’t even touch him because of his frigging grandmother’s stories and my one green eye. Didn’t make sense. Then I looked over at my dejected friend and cleared my throat.

“AA. Let’s go home. And tomorrow afternoon at one o’clock, I want you to meet me for lunch at the SUB. After that, we’re gonna go back to my room and try out things we’ve been thinking about but not talking about. Okay?”

“I dunno, Karl.”

“Trust me. At least meet me at the SUB.

He started the motor. “Okay. I can promise that.”

****

The next afternoon, AA walked over to my table at the SUB and came to a dead stop. “What’s this?”

I adjusted the eye patch over my right eye and smiled. “My solution to our problem.”

He laughed as he slid into the seat across from me. “So you’re gonna cover that evil green eye.”

“You can’t see it, it can’t cast a spell over you.”

“You’re going to wear it every time we meet, huh?

“Maybe not every time, but whenever the brown one looks  at you with lust, the green one gets covered.”

He smiled broadly. “Might work.”

Our legs touched under the table as we ate a light lunch, and then we went to my room, locked the door, and did things we didn’t even know were possible. Wonderful things. Marvelous things. Things rife with muscle contractions, electrical discharges and gobs of milky-white fluids.

 

* * * *

Lust… love sometimes drives one on ingenuity, right? Hope the two are happy in their relationship.

 

The print versions of anthologies Wildyr Tales, More Wildyr Tales, are now available. The third anthology, Gabacho and More Wildyr Tales, is out as an Ebook, with print version to follow soon.

 

My contact information is provided below in case anyone wants to drop me a line:

Website and blog: markwildyr.com

Email: markwildyr@aol.com

Facebook: www.facebook.com/mark.wildyr

Twitter: @markwildyr

Now my mantra: Keep on reading. Keep on writing. You have something to say, so say it!

See you later.

 

 

Mark

 

New posts the first and third Thursday of the month at 6:00 a.m., US Mountain time. 

Evil Eye Guy ��� Part One of Two Parts

 Markwildyr.com,Post #233

 

Image courtesy ofDeviant Art:

 

Today, I���ll return toshort story telling. Hope you enjoy the first installment.

 

* * * *

EVILEYE GUY

I was born an oddball: the left eye a chocolate brown, the right one a Kelly green. Soinstead of being Karl Huddleston, I was Crazy Eyes or Weird Eyes��� or justWeird. After learning to live with it, I got along with most of the other kidsokay. Then in my junior year in high school, everything changed.

One night,Abigail Strother called me Evil Eye at the local drive-in. I ignored her thefirst two or three times, but by the fourth, I was sick of it. Abigail���neverAbby���was kinda stuck up. I figured it was because her dad was president of thelocal power company. A big deal down at the Chamber of Commerce, maybe, but notto us kids��� except to Abigail.

The last time she did it, Ipointed to my eyes with a forefinger and index finger and growled. ���If that���sso, you better watch out or I���ll put a curse on you. An hour later, she trippedon the sidewalk and broke an arm.

Not a week later, DubbyFeinstall gave me a black eye in front of the library over some picayune thingI don���t even remember. Probably because he was simply a bully. I got up off thegrass, but instead of wading into the asshole���who was a year older and twice mysize���I pointed to my puffy, green eye, and said the first thing that came tomind.

���That���s it, Dubby. You hit thewrong eye. That���s the evil one.���

Later that afternoon, thetie-rod ends on Tubby Dubby���s vintage 1956 Chevrolet Pickup came loose andwrecked the truck he���d spent a whole lot of time and money restoring. I figuredDubby���d come after me; instead, he avoided me like the plague.

Kids���and probably grownups, aswell���have a habit of embellishing things, so a few accidents I had absolutelyno connection to got attached to my name, allowing my infamy to grow.

That made for a prettystress-free existence, even after I graduated and went to state. There wereplenty of my graduating class who also went to the U, so my reputation traveledwith me.

College guys are a tad more worldlythan high schoolers, or so they say. Must have been true, because my ���Evil Eye���was mostly a subject of jocularity at parties. Life became easier.

Then I met a guy that made senseof my turbulent teenage years. I liked him. Hell, more than that, I covetedhim. I met Andrew Abley���I called him AA���on the tennis court early in thesemester. We played against one another for a few well-balanced games, then wehooked up as partners in doubles. When he played net, my eyes had a habit of strayingto his broad shoulders, trim hips, and supple thighs. And in the middle of onehotly contested game, it hit me��� right between the eyes. I lusted after thegood-looking, blond-haired son of a gun. I missed the next shot and almost costus the game. But after I recovered from the bombshell, I fought like a bansheeto win for my newly discovered querido. AA, of course, had no idea ofwhat was going on.

I���m normally a pretty placidguy. Meek even. Or maybe shy. But my newly discovered gay longings prompted mein some undetermined way to become aggressive, particularly on the tennis courtwhere AA and I interacted the most.

Apparently, he liked my newpersonality because we started meeting after classes and going places together.I���m not a drinker, and the first time he suggested a visit to the bar, I provedit. After a couple of drinks, he had to help me to the car. Right in the middleof a drunken rant about something or the other, I realized I liked my arm overhis shoulder, his over mine, and out hips bumping as we made our uncertain wayacross the parking lot. So instead of being embarrassed and begging off thenext time, I readily agreed.

It was Friday night, and thebar had a torch singer and band, requiring a buck cover charge. I wasn���t asuneasy in this foreign environment as the last time, so I halfway enjoyedmyself. AA picked out a blonde and danced a couple of times. He cajoled me ontothe dance floor with her brunette companion, and I could see where this wasgoing. Not where I wanted, at in the least.

My third drink took care of itall. I got sloppy and had to be helped to the car, spoiling the impendingfoursome. After he settled me into the driver���s side, he moved behind the wheel,and that���s when I about ruined everything.

���I slapped his knee. ���I reallylike you, Andrew Abley. I really like you.���

���And I really like you, KarlHuddleston. But I wish you held your liquor better.���

I hiccupped. ���Beginner,��� Imumbled, realizing my hand still rested on his knee. It didn���t want to comeoff. To hell with it. It could stay where it was, except it slipped halfway uphis thigh. Oh, well. That was a good place too.

���But I mean, I really, reallylike you,��� my mouth said. My hand moved a bit higher. Damn, they had mindsof their own Then my head did its own thing��� it flopped over on his shoulder.

Apparently, AA figured I���dpassed out because he mumbled. ���Me too, guy. Me too.���

He didn���t remove my hand, so Isorta shifted my weight like I was getting more comfortable. My hand slidhigher. I wasn���t touching his groin, but I was damned close. My fingers burned.

I was sorry when he pulledinto the dorm parking lot. I was so comfy��� hell, maybe I was looped. Just as Iwas about to make the final move and cup him, he pushed me away, unsnapped hisseat belt and got out. A moment later, he opened the passenger door, pulled meout of the car, and hauled me into the dorm.

���Again?��� someone asked. ���Maybehe needs AA.���

I almost snickered. I did needAA, but not the way he meant.

���He���s new to it,��� my AA���sdeep baritone answered. ���He���ll be okay.���

A few minutes later, he fishedmy keys out of my pants pocket���and that gave me a thrill���and dumped me on mybed. Still feigning unconsciousness, I listened to him breathe as he stoodbeside the bed.

���I oughta undress you,��� hemumbled aloud.

Do it! Do it! I shouted in mymind. But he didn���t. He covered me with my jacket and touched me on the chest.

���We gotta talk, tomorrow,amigo. Definitely tomorrow.���

Then he left for hisown room, leaving me with a painful erection and uneasy stomach.

* * * *

Do you believein stuff like that? Karl���s not sure he does, and he���s the presumed sorcerer inthis case. Does AA? I dunno, but he seems to be interested in something. Let���ssee where it goes from here.

 

The printversions of anthologies Wildyr Tales and More Wildyr Tales, arenow available. The third anthology, Gabacho and More Wildyr Tales, willbe released on January 14 as an Ebook, with print version to follow soon after.

 

My contactinformation is provided below in case anyone wants to drop me a line:

Website and blog: markwildyr.com

Email:markwildyr@aol.com

Facebook:www.facebook.com/mark.wildyr

Twitter: @markwildyr

Now mymantra: Keep on reading. Keep on writing.You have something to say, so say it!

See you later.

 

 

Mark

 

New posts the first and third Thursday of the month at6:00 a.m., US Mountain time.

Evil Eye Guy – Part One of Two Parts

 Markwildyr.com, Post #233

 

Image courtesy of Deviant Art:

 

Today, I’ll return to short story telling. Hope you enjoy the first installment.

 

* * * *

EVIL EYE GUY

I was born and oddball: the left eye a chocolate brown, the right one a Kelly green. So instead of being Karl Huddleston, I was Crazy Eyes or Weird Eyes… or just Weird. After learning to live with it, I got along with most of the other kids okay. Then in my junior year in high school, everything changed.

One night, Abigail Strother called me Evil Eye at the local drive-in. I ignored her the first two or three times, but by the fourth, I was sick of it. Abigail—never Abby—was kinda stuck up. I figured it was because her dad was president of the local power company. A big deal down at the Chamber of Commerce, maybe, but not to us kids… except to Abigail.

The last time she did it, I pointed to my eyes with a forefinger and index finger and growled. “If that’s so, you better watch out or I’ll put a curse on you. An hour later, she tripped on the sidewalk and broke an arm.

Not a week later, Dubby Feinstall gave me a black eye in front of the library over some picayune thing I don’t even remember. Probably because he was simply a bully. I got up off the grass, but instead of wading into the asshole—who was a year older and twice my size—I pointed to my puffy, green eye, and said the first thing that came to mind.

“That’s it, Dubby. You hit the wrong eye. That’s the evil one.”

Later that afternoon, the tie-rod ends on Tubby Dubby’s vintage 1956 Chevrolet Pickup came loose and wrecked the truck he’d spent a whole lot of time and money restoring. I figured Dubby’d come after me; instead, he avoided me like the plague.

Kids—and probably grownups, as well—have a habit of embellishing things, so a few accidents I had absolutely no connection to got attached to my name, allowing my infamy to grow.

That made for a pretty stress-free existence, even after I graduated and went to state. There were plenty of my graduating class who also went to the U, so my reputation traveled with me.

College guys are a tad more worldly than high schoolers, or so they say. Must have been true, because my “Evil Eye” was mostly a subject of jocularity at parties. Life became easier.

Then I met a guy that made sense of my turbulent teenage years. I liked him. Hell, more than that, I coveted him. I met Andrew Abley—I called him AA—on the tennis court early in the semester. We played against one another for a few well-balanced games, then we hooked up as partners in doubles. When he played net, my eyes had a habit of straying to his broad shoulders, trim hips, and supple thighs. And in the middle of one hotly contested game, it hit me… right between the eyes. I lusted after the good-looking, blond-haired son of a gun. I missed the next shot and almost cost us the game. But after I recovered from the bombshell, I fought like a banshee to win for my newly discovered querido. AA, of course, had no idea of what was going on.

I’m normally a pretty placid guy. Meek even. Or maybe shy. But my newly discovered gay longings prompted me in some undetermined way to become aggressive, particularly on the tennis court where AA and I interacted the most.

Apparently, he liked my new personality because we started meeting after classes and going places together. I’m not a drinker, and the first time he suggested a visit to the bar, I proved it. After a couple of drinks, he had to help me to the car. Right in the middle of a drunken rant about something or the other, I realized I liked my arm over his shoulder, his over mine, and out hips bumping as we made our uncertain way across the parking lot. So instead of being embarrassed and begging off the next time, I readily agreed.

It was Friday night, and the bar had a torch singer and band, requiring a buck cover charge. I wasn’t as uneasy in this foreign environment as the last time, so I halfway enjoyed myself. AA picked out a blonde and danced a couple of times. He cajoled me onto the dance floor with her brunette companion, and I could see where this was going. Not where I wanted, at in the least.

My third drink took care of it all. I got sloppy and had to be helped to the car, spoiling the impending foursome. After he settled me into the driver’s side, he moved behind the wheel, and that’s when I about ruined everything.

“I slapped his knee. “I really like you, Andrew Abley. I really like you.”

“And I really like you, Karl Huddleston. But I wish you held your liquor better.”

I hiccupped. “Beginner,” I mumbled, realizing my hand still rested on his knee. It didn’t want to come off. To hell with it. It could stay where it was, except it slipped halfway up his thigh. Oh, well. That was a good place too.

“But I mean, I really, really like you,” my mouth said. My hand moved a bit higher. Damn, they had minds of their own Then my head did its own thing… it flopped over on his shoulder.

Apparently, AA figured I’d passed out because he mumbled. “Me too, guy. Me too.”

He didn’t remove my hand, so I sorta shifted my weight like I was getting more comfortable. My hand slid higher. I wasn’t touching his groin, but I was damned close. My fingers burned.

I was sorry when he pulled into the dorm parking lot. I was so comfy… hell, maybe I was looped. Just as I was about to make the final move and cup him, he pushed me away, unsnapped his seat belt and got out. A moment later, he opened the passenger door, pulled me out of the car, and hauled me into the dorm.

“Again?” someone asked. “Maybe he needs AA.”

I almost snickered. I did need AA, but not the way he meant.

“He’s new to it,” my AA’s deep baritone answered. “He’ll be okay.”

A few minutes later, he fished my keys out of my pants pocket—and that gave me a thrill—and dumped me on my bed. Still feigning unconsciousness, I listened to him breathe as he stood beside the bed.

“I oughta undress you,” he mumbled aloud.

Do it! Do it! I shouted in my mind. But he didn’t. He covered me with my jacket and touched me on the chest.

“We gotta talk, tomorrow, amigo. Definitely tomorrow.”

Then he left for his own room, leaving me with a painful erection and uneasy stomach.

* * * *

Do you believe in stuff like that? Karl’s not sure he does, and he’s the presumed sorcerer in this case. Does AA? I dunno, but he seems to be interested in something. Let’s see where it goes from here.

 

The print versions of anthologies Wildyr Tales and More Wildyr Tales, are now available. The third anthology, Gabacho and More Wildyr Tales, will be released on January 14 as an Ebook, with print version to follow soon after.

 

My contact information is provided below in case anyone wants to drop me a line:

Website and blog: markwildyr.com

Email: markwildyr@aol.com

Facebook: www.facebook.com/mark.wildyr

Twitter: @markwildyr

Now my mantra: Keep on reading. Keep on writing. You have something to say, so say it!

See you later.

 

 

Mark

 

New posts the first and third Thursday of the month at 6:00 a.m., US Mountain time.

Excerpt from the Novel, Medicine Hair

 

Markwildyr.com, Post #232

 Hope you enjoyed the story of the lion hunt. To some, a hunt is a hunt. To others, it is a spiritual journey. Such things mark the differences between men.

 

Today, I want to do an excerpt from my novel Medicine Hair. The following comes at the beginning of Chapter 2, just after John Strobaw, as he is known to his white relations, and War Eagle or Night Sky Hair to his tribal kinsmen, has just received a visit from his brother-in-law, Captain Gideon Haleworthy, who explains some of the strange weather phenomena he’s noticed, was caused by the eruption of Krakatoa, a volcano on the other side of the world.

 

* * * *

MEDICINE HAIR

Gideon hadn’t tarried long, which made me wonder if he’d said everything he had come to say. Had he really made a fourteen-mile roundabout ride just to give me news of an Asian catastrophe? No, more likely he was leading a routine patrol. I laid such thoughts aside and went to work. After putting the finishing touches to a watering bucket in the forge, I went out to tend the fields.

A little later, I was headed to the house for a glass of milk and a bit of jerky when Todoh set up a yammer. A line of six horsemen rode through his territory directly toward the house, and he didn’t appreciate the intrusion. Still, he had sense enough not to press his objection too strenuously.

From this distance the riders looked to be tribesmen. A lot of fringed buckskin and a feather or two. Coming from the stretch of badlands up on Trickling Water Crick, probably. Their slow pace indicated I had nothing to worry about, but I moseyed over to the porch where my Henry rifle—with fifteen cartridges in the sleeve and one in the breech—was propped beside the cabin door. After taking a sip of water from the earthen jug customarily resting in the shade of the overhang, I leaned against the porch to wait, arms folded over my chest.

A few minutes later, five ponies came into view, making straight for the yard. The sixth rider was likely on the hill to act as lookout. The man in front lifted his arm in the open-handed greeting.

We had exchanged hah-ues before I recognized Crow Hop, Buffalo Leg’s son. I smiled and stepped forward to give him an Indian handshake after he dismounted. A year or two older than my twenty and four, he was taking on some of his father’s heft. A pleasing man of aquiline features, he started making polite talk while I gestured for his companions to take water from the keg. They were all fit men of an age, but for one. He had probably seen his thirtieth summer. His erect carriage and piercing eyes caught my attention. He held his tongue through the getting reacquainted talk. Finally, it was his turn.

“I am Firm Foot,” he said. “I have been to this place before when I was but a boy called New Star. This was back when the whites were fighting the war between themselves and militias ruled the land. The Yanube who lived here did us a great kindness.”

“That would have been my grandfather, Otter.” These men would understand my term of respect.

“Just so. My father is Spotted Panther, and my grandfather was Grass Dancer. Otter sheltered us and gave us provisions as we passed through and came to our aid when the militia caught up with us.”

“That was his nature,” I said. “He helped when he could. Sometimes to his own risk.”

“We heard what they did to him,” Firm Foot said.

I couldn’t help glancing at the cottonwood. “I saw six horses in the distance. Yet there are only five of you.”

Crow Hop motioned with his chin to the hill. “One of us keeps an eye out for a patrol.”

My eyebrows shot up. “You are renegades?”

Firm Foot shook his head. “Nay, not as you mean it. But the army declares any who leave the reservations renegade. When we leave, they call it ‘breaking out’ and figure we’re digging up hatchets to make war. I’m surprised they haven’t put you on an agency.”

“I have too much white blood for them to make the effort,” I said. “Besides, my tiospaye is gone. Murdered over thirty years ago by American soldiers. Dragoons they called themselves back then. I’m a farmer, and that’s what they want us to be, isn’t it?”

Firm Foot looked down his nose. “They’ll not make a dirt scratcher of me. I am a warrior. The militia turned me into one the day they shot down Grass Dancer and my sister on Trickling Water north of here.”

Crow Hop nodded. “The white men are good at turning us into warriors. Not so good at turning us into farmers.”

“I have nothing except coffee and tea and water to drink, but you’re welcome to that. I can probably find enough bread and cheese and jerky for a meal.”

He accepted my offer. Fifteen minutes later, we all gathered on the porch, most of my guests sitting on the planking to eat and sip and converse. After more talk, it became clear they were on the hunt for provisions because allotments at the agency were slow and often short. I offered one of my steers. Even though this was why they had come, they remained seated. Lord, don’t let this turn into one of those long, protracted things where it takes forever before a blood gets around to talking turkey. Nature intervened to speed things along.

One of the younger braves grunted and lifted his chin. Most of us were under the cover of the porch and had to stand in the yard to see he was pointing to a sun enveloped in a wispy purple hue.

“Witchcraft!” someone muttered.

Crow Hop nodded agreement. “A bad omen. Something’s gonna happen.”

I spoke without thinking. “It already has.”

They all turned in my direction. Then Crow Hop walked over and removed the hat from my head. “Tell us what you know about these things, Night Sky Hair.”

Others of the group muttered when they took in the strange peppering of yellow in my black mop. Now that I’d stuck half a foot into the affair, I regretted it. The reservation schools hadn’t been very successful if I understood correctly, so most of these men probably had little formal education.

“I know why the sun is playing tricks on us and the moon is changing and sunsets look like prairie fires.”

“Pho!” Firm Foot exclaimed. “Tell us.”

“Far beyond Turtle Island, so far that it is on the other side of Mother Earth, there is an island the foreigners there call Krakatoa. During the last moon, a volcano on the island blew up. You understand what a volcano is?”

“It’s like the Yellowstone country where hot water shoots into the air and smelly mud comes up out of holes.” This from the young brave who’d spotted the sun changing colors.

“Yes, like that, except it springs from a mountain and is many, many times more powerful. It blew up—what they call an eruption—and threw most of the island into the sea. The explosion spewed a thousand times more dirt into the air than the Yellowstone geysers. And it changed everything.”

“How so?” Crow Hop wanted to know.

“It threw so much ash and pumice and smoke into the air that Father Sky waved it away to keep from choking and sent it all around the earth. And that cloaked the sun and covered the moon and infected the sunsets. We will see these things for a long time.”

“How do you know this?” Firm Foot asked in a rising voice.

“Medicine,” Crow Hop said. “Can’t you see from his hair that he has medicine? My father told me this man’s Spirit Dream foretells great joy and dancing and a bloody slaughter. A battle we will not win.”

“And the murder of a great man,” I said. “One of our own.”

Firm Foot regarded me for a moment before stepping forward to finger my hair. With a somber face, he announced that from this point on, I would be known as Medicine Hair.

“You misunderstand,” I said. “I learned all of this from the whites who have singing wires that circle the world. You know that Mother Earth is round, don’t you? Like a ball.”

Most of them nodded, but some put a lie to the gesture with widened eyes.

Crow Hop and Firm Foot put their heads together for a moment, and then Spotted Panther’s son walked up to face me. “I do not trust anyone who claims to be a medicine man. Better that he should demonstrate it and let me discover him as such. I now understand why my world has changed, and it is you who have given me this knowledge. It is as I said. You are Medicine Hair to me now.”

I did not argue with my friends. After all, their perception of me did not rule my life. I got aboard Arrow to go pick out a steer for them. Otherwise, Todoh would have taken them on when they tried to claim one of his charges. He still put up a fuss when a man dropped a loop over the animal I chose. Then moved by impulsive generosity, I gave over a second steer to them. I had to coax Todoh into jumping up in the saddle and holding him in my arms as they rode away. Else he would have chased after them to reclaim his lost animals.

After the riders passed virtually out of sight, I turned Arrow and pulled to a halt. A man astride a long-maned pinto stood silently twenty yards away. The sixth rider. I’d forgotten him. The hair on my neck rose, and the significance of that imperfect horseshoe track I’d found on the backside of the hill struck me. I eyed my empty saddle holster. My Henry still rested on the porch. I was unarmed but for a knife.

“I see you, War Eagle.” The man’s deep voice still disturbed me in my stones.

“And I see you, Raven Strongbow.” This was the army scout who had denounced Matthew and then disappeared. “We thought you were dead.”

Todoh growled at my tone. I released him, and he went on alert as soon as his paws hit the ground.

“Nay. Not dead.”

“So you ran off.”

He rode closer with a half-smile on his handsome features. He looked little different from the last time I’d seen him four years ago. “It seemed the thing to do when your three messengers came for me,” he said.

“Crow Johnson and the other two scouts?”

“They always followed his lead. They made it plain it was worth my life to remain in the barracks.”

“So you proved you were a coward and ran away.”

His expression did not change at my slur. “So, I was prudent and left. I knew I would see you again one day. Just as I knew Red Star wouldn’t remain faithful. That he’d throw you over for a woman or a boy. Where is he, by the way?”

“I know nothing of Red Star, but Shambling Bear will be home soon. Our bond is strong. We pledged ourselves before a council, so we’re married, Raven. Go away and leave us alone.”

“How often does he desert you to go to his other family?”

My back puckered. I reached for the rifle that wasn’t there.

He noticed and smiled again. “Don’t worry, I wish you no harm. But I still want you, Eagle. I’m haunted by the memory of fucking you, feeling you respond to me. I…”

I kicked Arrow’s sides and sent him straight at the man. But Raven moved his pony aside, and I rushed past, making straight for the cabin. When I arrived, my Henry was no longer on the porch. He hadn’t stolen it, merely moved it inside the door. His way of letting me know he’d violated my home…just as he’d violated my body four years ago.

I snatched the weapon and rushed to the top of the hill behind the cabin, but he was already out of sight, following the trail laid down by his companions. I collapsed in the dirt and leaned against my rifle as tortured memories swamped me. 

* * * *

Now we know how John got the name of Medicine hair. And we also know the handsome Cheyenne, Raven Strongbow, is back. That portends nothing but coming trouble.

 

The print versions of anthologies Wildyr Tales, More Wildyr Tales, are now available. The third anthology, Gabacho and More Wildyr Tales, will be released on January 14 as an Ebook, with print version to follow soon after.

 

My contact information is provided below in case anyone wants to drop me a line:

Website and blog: markwildyr.com

Email: markwildyr@aol.com

Facebook: www.facebook.com/mark.wildyr

Twitter: @markwildyr

Now my mantra: Keep on reading. Keep on writing. You have something to say, so say it!

See you later.

 

 

Mark

 

New posts the first and third Thursday of the month at 6:00 a.m., US Mountain time.

The Cougar Hunt (Part 2 of 2 Parts)

 Markwildyr.com, Post #231

 

Image courtesy of Freepik:

 

Part one of the story found Rod Running Deer on a cougar hunt while emerging from a hangover. Worse, two of the other three men on the hunt have grudges against him. We left the story as the cat tried for a yearling in the herd Rod and Dillon (one of the men he’d wronged) are guarding. Rod fires on the cat, making him drop the carcass. Rod elects to sit nearby the rest of the night in case the cat comes back. Dillon says it won’t.

 

* * * *

THE COUGAR HUNT

By Mark Wildyr

 

Dillon was right. By daybreak the cat hadn’t returned, and Rod was almost frozen. They gulped a hurried breakfast and saddled up. The cat’s trail turned into the same box canyon. They searched the floor of the balsam. Tracks led in, but none came out. The cat went down the mountain by one route and came back up through this canyon. They sat down in an out-of-the-way place and scanned the high stone walls while a plan percolated in Rod’s head.

“He goes home every night up this canyon. I’m going to stay up here. As soon as he stirs up things down there, scare him off. I’ll hear your rifle fire and be watching for him.”

“You ought not tackle this fella alone. He’s pretty damned hungry. If he don’t go for you, he might get your horse.”

“You’re right. Let me get my bedroll, and you take Two Socks back down with you. If nothing happens, come get me in the morning.”

After they arranged a series of signals with rifle fire, Dillon started down with the two horses, tossing a warning to be careful over his shoulder.

Rod spent the rest of the day digging out a hiding place for himself, while keeping half an eye on the ridge. Nothing moved. He had wanted to stay in the canyon all day rather than come back later because his spoor along the trail would be fainter. This left him alone with his thoughts for hours.

Right in the middle of covering his bedroll with leaves and fallen branches, the recollection of Thelma lying beneath him in the wickiup slammed into his head. Then other memories crowded his mind. Dillon’s girl—before she was Dillon’s girl—losing the baby. The long nights in jail before a bunch of whites decided a fight between two Indians didn’t deserve a trial. His embrace by Lady Alcohol. If he thought about it seriously, Rod concluded, he was a pretty miserable excuse for a human being.

Time slowed, his movements slowed, the world slowed—except for the memories racing through his mind. He blinked and discovered it was twilight. How long had he sat like a blind man? What if the cougar had walked right up and decided he was an acceptable meal? Would he have seen it? Did he care?

He tried to remain alert until the last of the light faded. Then he crawled into the sleeping bag, taking his rifle with him so it wouldn’t freeze. Was what he was doing right? The lion was wild and free. The red blood singing in his veins said these were good and proper things. The cattleman in him came up with another answer. The cat had ceased to be natural when it turned to killing beef. Cattle were not its natural prey. Rod fell into a childhood habit.

“Mountain Lion, forgive me. You are old and sick and hurt. This is a kindness I do you.” For good measure, he added that the white eyes in Washington made him do it.

The cold woke him. It was still dark, but he sensed dawn wasn’t far away. A frigid breeze swept up from the desert. Good! The cat wouldn’t catch his scent. The faint sound of a gunshot bounced around the little canyon. Moments later, two rapid shots told him Dillon had missed the cat. If the animal got away with a beef that would slow him down. If he didn’t, he’d head straight for his lair.

Rod tried to stay alert, but his world crowded in on him again. His grandmother came to say she told him so. Thelma called him a sniveling coward for not fighting for her. With a college boy?

The ghostly gray touch of dawn drew him back to reality. The cat could have come and gone, and he’d never have known. He shook his head, willing the ghosts of his past to remain in his past. The growing light gave the canyon an unreal, otherworld appearance. The wind wafted down the canyon. Damn! The cat would smell him.

He froze. Instinct stilled every muscle. The lion was here! He almost missed it. A tawny blur bounded toward him before he could free his rifle from the bedroll. At the last moment the cat spotted him and veered to the left, knocking a tree limb he had used to camouflage his position into him. The rifle flew from his fingers. The cat streaked by.

Rod scrambled for the weapon. The beast was halfway up the wall of the canyon when he swung the rifle around. The gun roared. The puma stumbled, gathered himself, and sped on. Rod cocked the rifle and got off another shot. The cat screamed and clawed the air with its forepaws. The lithe form tumbled end over end in space, falling with a muffled thud in a deep bank of snow. Rod walked up, not caring if the lion was wounded and dangerous or dead and harmless. But the cat was dead.

He raised his rifle and fired three rapid shots into the air.

The others would come now and look at a cat already growing stiff and cold. They’d pat Rod on the back and claim he was a good hunter. Things would ease up between the men… and all it took was a cougar hunt. Didn’t seem right.

Seemed like the cat paid for Rod’s sins.

He dipped a finger in the dead puma’s blood and held it aloft.

“Mountain Lion, you gave up your life for me, so I gotta live my life for you. My secret name will be Big Cat from now on.”

Rod Running Deer—Big Cat—mentally poured out every bottle of booze he had stored in his cabin. Tomorrow, he’d do it for real.

* * * *

And so ends the cougar hunt. Rod seems a reborn man, and I certainly hope so, but once alcohol gets you in its grip, that’s a hard thing to break. I can only wish Rodney Running Deer the best of luck.

 

The print version of More Wildyr Tales, a second anthology of some of my stories,is now out.

 

The third anthology called Gabacho and Other Wildyr Stories is still scheduled for release in January of next year. And that’s just around the corner.

 

My contact information is provided below in case anyone wants to drop me a line:

Website and blog: markwildyr.com

Email: markwildyr@aol.com

Facebook: www.facebook.com/mark.wildyr

Twitter: @markwildyr

Now my mantra: Keep on reading. Keep on writing. You have something to say, so say it!

See you later.

 

 

Mark

 

New posts the first and third Thursday of the month at 6:00 a.m., US Mountain time.

The Cougar Hunt (Part 1 of 2 Parts)

 Markwildyr.com, Post #230

 

Image courtesy of Freepik:

 

Hope you liked the story of “Down Where I Live.” It got a fair number of hits, but no comments.

 

This time I’m doing the first part of a new story about a young Native American whose life it about to get away from him. Wil a cougar hunt change things?

 

* * * *

THE COUGAR HUNT

By Mark Wildyr

 

Rodney Running Deer wasn’t certain how he ended up on a cougar hunt with three other men, two with reason to kill him if they were so inclined. Probably wouldn’t have if he hadn’t been in the grip of a suicidal hangover after a prodigious drunk following a breakup with his girl. Didn’t know why he made such a big deal of it. He’d find another one. Always had.

After a four-hour horseback ride, Rod’s stomach was behaving better, and he was feeling easier about the makeup of the cougar hunt. Dillon Greavy and Buck Wolf kept their distance but didn’t seem particularly hostile since they’d set out from the Cattle Association’s barn earlier in the day. Best he could expect after knocking up Dillon’s woman and crippling Buck’s brother in a fight outside a local bar. In his defense, he’d screwed the woman before she and Dillon got together, but he’d known the man was sweet on her. And Buck’s brother had started the fight by spilling beer all over Rod and refusing to apologize for it.

Rod eyed the fourth man in their party, Jethro Birdshead. So far as he could remember, there were no problems between the two of them. But he’d been sorta alcohol soaked for the last couple of weeks, so he couldn’t be sure.

Upon arriving at Rusty Blade Windmill, where they intended to set up camp, the four men broke out grub and ate while making plans. No one was in charge of the hunt, so each expressed an opinion. Buck, who’d found the carcass of the puma’s last victim when he drove up in his pickup to unfreeze the pump on the windmill, showed them where it happened. There were still some prints, so Rod decided to track the lion a distance. He rode away with an itchy spot on his back that didn’t go away until he was out of sight of the others.

Rusty Blade sat in the foothills. Snow was splotchy down on the desert, but it was a couple of inches deep here, and Rod encountered deeper drifts as he climbed. Following faint scratches in the snow and occasional bare patches of earth, he finally found four perfect paw prints. One of them was badly mangled.

He let out a whistle. “Looks like a steady diet of beef from now on.”

He gave up the chase in a small box canyon where the cat had gone up a steep rock wall. It was getting dark, and pulling himself up that shelf hand-over-hand wasn’t appealing.

Dillon handed him a steaming cup of coffee when he walked back into camp. Between sips, he reported what he’d discovered. All agreed the mangled paw was the cat’s death sentence. Fortunately, pumas weren’t spirit animals to any of them, which made it easier all round.

Two small groups of cattle sheltered in the immediate area, so they decided to split up and try to deny the beast another meal. If they could get him hungry enough, the lion might get careless. Rod was relieved when Buck and Jethro headed off to Sloping Hills a mile or so northwest to keep watch over the second herd. That meant Rod only had to contend with Dillon. But the man seemed to be warming a little. If not friendly, not on the nettle either. Rod had grown up on the reservation with Dillon and knew him to be a patient man. Retribution could still be on the way.

The cat tried three times over the next six days to get at the cattle in one or the other of the locations, but they managed to keep him from a kill.

Dillon nursed a tin of coffee beside the campfire. “We’ve been out here a week. That cat’s gotta be starving.”

Rod took a sip from his cup. “I figure he’ll come tonight. And he won’t be so easy to chase off this time. Hope Buck and Jethro are figuring the same way.”

“They’ll be on the lookout. I’ll take first watch, okay?” Dillon said.

Rod kicked out of his boots, loosened his clothing, and slipped into a sleeping bag even though he knew he wouldn’t sleep. Thirteen days ago—even though it seemed more like a year—Thelma had told him they were through. That wasn’t such a big deal… until he found out she was leaving him for a soft bread college boy who Rod figured didn’t even have a pair. That’s what set him to drinking… and it still rubbed raw. And facing tonight was no easier than facing last night, especially without a bottle around. And nobody was gonna bring a bottle on a hunt where everybody totted a long gun. And, of course, he slept with one eye open with Dillon around.

He'd tried to air the situation yesterday by apologizing, but Dillon had closed up and said here was nothing to talk about. Had that made things better or worse?

 When the bag was warm from his body heat, he pulled his cold rifle in beside him and lay back to deal with whatever ghosts chose to come in the dark. Rod must have dozed because the next thing he knew Dillon shook his shoulder.

“He’s here. Cattle are jumpy.”

Rod stepped into his boots and buttoned up his sheepskin. Shivering slightly, he clamped his cold hat onto his head and scooped his rifle from the fading warmth of his sleeping bag before moving cautiously after Dillon. The cattle stirred nervously around the tank, shying away from the mountains. The moon hid behind a bank of clouds.

“Damn, it’s a black night!” Dillon whispered. “Hey! Couple of them broke away.”

“Stay with them!”

Suddenly, the two strays set up a loud bawling. A vague shape took form in front of them. Both men raised rifles but held fire. A frightened cow, the whites of her eyes glowing like foxfire, lumbered past. The second heifer, her bawling now almost a squeal, was still in front of them. There was a quick clatter of hoof beats, a thud, and then silence.

“Hot damn!” Dillon yelled. “He got one.”

“Don’t let him get away!” Rod veered toward the mountain. The moon reappeared suddenly, and he saw it. The cat, weighed down by the dead yearling, seemed to be running in slow motion. Rod pulled off a round. The cat kept moving. On the second shot, the cougar dropped the carcass and bounded away.

“Get him?” Dillon puffed noisily.

“Naw. But I made him give up a good meal.”

“Wanna drag it back down to the camp?”

“No. I’ll sit down by that rock and see if he comes back for it.”

“He won’t.”

* * * *

Don’t know if I’d like to be on a hunt with two guys who have a beef with me toting loaded rifles. Rod Running Deer seems to be handling it okay… but the hunt isn’t over.

 

The print version of More Wildyr Tales, a second anthology of some of my stories,is now out.

 

The third anthology called Gabacho and Other Wildyr Stories is still scheduled for release in January of next year. And that’s just around the corner.

 

My contact information is provided below in case anyone wants to drop me a line:

Website and blog: markwildyr.com

Email: markwildyr@aol.com

Facebook: www.facebook.com/mark.wildyr

Twitter: @markwildyr

Now my mantra: Keep on reading. Keep on writing. You have something to say, so say it!

See you later.

 

 

Mark

 

New posts the first and third Thursday of the month at 6:00 a.m., US Mountain time.

Down Where I Live (Part 2 of 2 Parts)

 Markwildyr.com, Post #229

Image courtesy of Freepik:

 

Hope you liked Part 1 because here’s Part 2 of the story of Thad and Orry. Last week, Thad responded to Orry's confession by squeezing his hand. Maybe Orry's going to take advantage of that is some way, what do you think?

* * * *

He opened my hand and put something big and hard and alive in my palm. With a great deal of effort, I closed my fingers around it.

“Oh, shit, Thaddie!” He slid the silky thing across my hand, shoving his hips forward until a warm sac rested against my flesh. “That feels good,” he cooed. “Feel good to you?”

One to the testicles.

He hiccupped a laugh. “Cripes! You’re talking to my cock and balls.”

The warm sac left my hand, replaced by that hot, swollen dick. Man, I wished I could see it. I gripped the thing as hard as I could.

“Oh, fuck! Can I do it to your hand, Thad?”

Motionlessly, I shared his rising excitement as he pumped himself in and out of my tingling fist. “Oh, shit, Thad! That’s great! Better’n any hand job I ever gave myself. Better’n anything! Oh, God! I’m coming, man. I’m coming!”

I felt pressure on my chest as he steadied himself through his ejaculation. Oh, how I wanted to watch that! Something warm lubricated my palm, and I knew Orion Dozier had shared his most precious possession…his semen. A pleasant glow seemed to suffuse my body. Slowly, Orry ceased moving. The orgasm was over; he grew soft in my hand.

“That was awesome, Thad. Never thought it would happen in a million years. Thought it was a pipe dream. Shit, you probably think I’m a dirty creep now.” He gave a half-sob, half-laugh as I squeezed twice. “I’ve loved you forever, man, but I was scared, Thaddie. That’s why I never tried anything. Scared you’d bust me in the chops and go get another best friend. Right now, I better clean you up before somebody comes in.”

I suffered an acute sense of loss as he withdrew from my hand and escaped my approaching headache by slinking back to the dark place even as he was washing his cum from me.

****

Hospital Voices drew me up out of the cocoon. Jostling. I was being moved. That meant tests. That CAT thing and poking and prodding and talking about me like I was a radish or something. Mom and Dad arrived all excited about what Orry had told them. Jeez, I hoped he hadn’t got carried away and told them everything!

“It’s wonderful news, honey,” Mom gushed. “Orry was so excited when he told us about you gripping him.”

Oh, shit! Gripping his hand. His hand! Yeah, it was wonderful, but not like she meant. Orion Dozier, the most handsome, masculine hunk in the whole world loved me in the same beautiful way I loved him!

“Can you do it for me, honey? Can you hold my hand and talk to me like you did Orry?”

Had I been capable of it, I would have snickered because she was clasping the palm where Orry puddled his poodle last night. Nonetheless, I acted the good son and squeezed.

She shrieked, “He answered me! He answered me!”

****

“Hello, dumbfuckingshit.” I popped out of my hole so quickly I shook the bed. “Hey! You moved! You too embarrassed to sit up and talk to me? I’m not. I went home and thought about what we did…what we said, and I don’t regret a thing except all the time we wasted chasing girls. I’m staying with you again tonight. Doctors say I’m good for you. What a blast! Finally found out what I’m good for.” The joking tone fell away. “You wanta do it again? If you’re really sure, squeeze my hand three times. If you’re downright enthusiastic, squeeze me four times.”

One. Two. Three Four. Five!

His voice went thick. “You wanta keep doing it after you get over all this coma shit?”

One.

“We’ll do more’n just jerk off, too. I wanta do it all, every fucking wonderful thing one guy can do for another… right through college and the infinity beyond! I’ll make you so fucking happy you’ll never leave me for anybody. But rest now. When it gets quiet, I’ll wake you.”

I didn’t want to leave him, but I did. I went back down to do some leisurely thinking. I wanted him any way and every way! Kisses, hugs, blowjobs, fucking… everything! I drifted up into the glow to find Orry speaking to me.

“Everything’s quiet now, and I’m hard for you, Thad. Can I do it?”

Before I could squeeze properly, something warm and alive was pressed into my hand. Orry’s cock. Man, it felt big!

He panted a little as he chattered away while fucking my fist. “When we do it for real, can I come in your mouth? You can cum in mine. I’ll blow you until you blast into orbit! I’d do it now, but they’ve got you hooked up to that catheter thingy so you can piss in the bed without… well, pissing in the bed. Thaddie, that feels so good!” He was hunching, masturbating himself in my hand. “Can you feel me?” I gripped the throbbing shaft harder. “You like it?”

One. Two. Three. Four. Five!

“That good? Oh, shit, Thaddie, here it comes! I’m gonna blow my load! Oh, fuck!”

Warm, wet, slick. His seed. His cum. His essence heating up my hand and lubricating the passage of his penis through my feeble grip. And then there was pressure on my chest as he leaned down to kiss me, bringing a tingling to my lips. My hand firmly around his half-tumescent cock, I did the hardest thing I’ve ever done. I made a sound.

“Eeee” It more of a whistle than anything else.

“Did you say something, Thad? Eeee? Orry?”

I squeezed his shrinking prick once and breathed another word. “Ait…”

“Ate? No… no. Wait?”

One long squeeze so hard he began to stiffen.

“Orry, wait for me? Is that what you mean? Don’t worry, you sexy, dumbfuckingshit! I’ll wait for you forever. I’m not going anywhere! I’ll be here, and we’ll make love until you’re sick of me. You just hurry up and come back to me, Thad. Please!”

Contented, I went back down where I lived. But I wouldn’t stay there forever, just long enough to gather my strength so I could get out of this bed and fuck that good-looking stud cross-eyed.

* * * *

Can you imagine what a storm they’ll create between themselves when Thad completes his journey back? Or maybe he won’t make it. Dear reader, it’s up to you to complete the story. I’d be interested in seeing your conclusions. Who knows, maybe I’ll publish some of them in my next blog.

 

More Wildyr Tales, a second anthology of some of my stories, was published as an ebook on September 24. A print version should follow soon.

 

I expect the third anthology called Gabacho and Other Wildyr Stories to be released in January of next year.

 

My contact information is provided below in case anyone wants to drop me a line:

Website and blog: markwildyr.com

Email: markwildyr@aol.com

Facebook: www.facebook.com/mark.wildyr

Twitter: @markwildyr

Now my mantra: Keep on reading. Keep on writing. You have something to say, so say it!

See you later.

 

 

Mark

 

New posts the first and third Thursday of the month at 6:00 a.m., US Mountain time.