A Scottish Scout in Geronimo's Land - Prequel
by Toby Johnston
Chapter 5
The Shift to Best Mates
The next month and a half blurred into a steady rhythm of cross-country miles, scouting logs, and the thick, honey-slow heat of a Texas autumn. I was finally finding my legs, the humidity no longer making me feel like I was breathing warm soup during practice. I had become a permanent fixture in the pack, always right at Hank's shoulder.
Our relationship had moved past the tentative stage; fist bumps had been replaced by heavy, lingering bro-hugs. In the bleachers at the Friday night football games—our weekly homage to the Texas gods—our legs or shoulders would press together, a constant, warm pressure that neither of us ever tried to break. I had to keep reminding myself, though, not to see signs where there were none.
But the locker room remained my daily reward. Watching Hank was like studying a live masterpiece. He was all broad shoulders and tapering lines, down to that lean waist and the dimples on the sides of his bum. Not to mention the way his cock swayed when he walked—looking so heavy and natural. There was something so perfect about the athletic way he moved to and from the showers. We were both relatively hairless, but a study in contrasts nonetheless: me, all curly and blond, versus his straight, ink-black tuft. And then there was that ever-present mane. When he let it loose, the dark hair spreading like a silken map across his shoulders, I had to physically lock my hands at my sides to keep from reaching out.
Finally, Columbus Day weekend arrived. We'd been knee-deep in the logistics for our first extended expedition, and now it was time for the actual execution. We were dropped off at the Four Winds Equestrian Center, gear in hand, to meet the owner and our mounts. The air was thick with the scent of hay and leather—a far cry from the classroom or the cross-country trails. Hank and the owner greeted each other warmly, in Navajo, clearly they were friends.
Me? I was staring at those horses. My equestrian resume consisted entirely of a five-minute pony ride at age five; these animals seemed to grow six inches taller with every step I took toward the corral. Hank and the owner kept promising they'd picked a gentle one for me, and while I trusted Hank, my nerves were still red-lining.
Then, I heard a few snickers from the other Scouts. It acted like a shot of adrenaline. I hadn't survived a move to Texas just to be intimidated by an animal that eats grass for a living. One of my great-greats had survived the Forlorn Hope assault at the Siege of Badajoz; he hadn't flinched, and neither would I.
I straightened my back, adjusted my black hat, and prepared to die if die I must.
Daisy waited with saint-like patience while I attempted to mount, finally succeeding on the third try in a maneuver that lacked any of the grace of my Highland ancestors. The other Scouts, clearly born in the saddle, hovered nearby with a restless, cowboy impatience. As we set out, they ranged ahead; Hank stayed back to give me a crash course in equestrian survival—alignment, posture, feet, reins, and the impossible task of relaxing.
I'm fairly certain Daisy could sense my heart hammering against her ribs, but she was a sweetheart about it, choosing to be a graceful partner rather than a difficult one. She eventually tucked in right alongside Hank's horse—shoulder to shoulder, just like we'd sat in the bleachers—and we began the slow process of closing the gap with the rest of the group.
Hank called the ride gentle, but I spent the first hour recalculating my survival odds every time Daisy shifted her weight. Eventually, we caught up to the others, riding six abreast. Hank started sharing the history of the Center—the Indian roots of the land and the mission to keep the old traditions alive. Three of us were genuinely fascinated, but the other two started a low-frequency hum of ignorance.
It began with snickers, but quickly curdled into something uglier. Dead Injun tropes and jokes about redskins. I was burning, a fire lighting up in my chest, but I was too busy clinging to my saddle to launch an offensive. The second we hit the campsite; however, I launched into them. I dismounted—which is to say, I fell flat on my ass—but I jumped up and strode right into the worst offender's space.
I pinned him back against his horse, ignoring the fact that he had six inches on me. I lit into him, calling him a racist bigot and throwing the Scout Oath back in his face like a challenge. When his buddy stepped up, I didn't blink—I offered to take them both on. They crumbled, mumbling about just kidding, but the truce that followed felt about as solid as Peace in our Time. Hank stepped in to calm the waters, and seeing his quiet dignity in the face of their filth made me so incredibly proud of him. The two boys finally offered a half-hearted apology, and an uneasy silence settled over the camp.
It was getting towards the end of the day, so the need for much social interaction luckily faded. We focused on the mechanics of camp—pitching tents in pairs, hauling water, and gathering wood for the fire. Dinner was a classic: hobo packets of ground beef, potatoes, and onions, heavy on the butter and charred in the coals.
Our bellies full, we leaned back against the logs, watching nature's TV —the flickering orange glow of the fire. The conversation was mostly limited to the four of us; the other two joined in just enough to maintain the brittle truce. But when it was finally time to hit the sack, reality hit hard. I tried to stand, but my legs had seized into solid blocks of stone. All the cowboys knew immediately what was wrong. The tenderfoot comments flew fast and furious from the others as Hank and one of the nice Scouts half-carried me toward our tent.
Inside, I managed to peel off my shirt, but that was the end of my mobility. Every time I tried to reach for my boots, a fresh groan escaped. Hank didn't even try to hide his giggling, which felt like the ultimate betrayal.
"I'm glad you find my imminent death so amusing," I chastised him, though my own lips were starting to twitch.
That just made him dissolve into silent, shoulder-shaking laughter as he stripped and struggled to keep quiet in the thin-walled tent. His laughter was infectious, and soon I was giggling too—which only made my cramped muscles scream louder.
Finally, he took pity on me. He placed a hand on my chest and gave a gentle, firm push. "Lie back," he whispered, his eyes catching the faint light creeping in from the moon. "Let me take care of you."
My heart pounded against his palm, a frantic rhythm I hoped he couldn't feel through my ribs. As he eased my boots off and worked the buttons of my fly, I felt the cool air hit my skin, leaving me in nothing but my black boxer briefs. I prayed the shadows were deep enough to hide the evidence of how much his touch was affecting me.
Hank reached into his bag, pulling out a small tin and some matches. Soon, the earthy, sharp scent of sage filled the small space. "This is smudging," he whispered, his voice a low vibration in the dark. "It cleanses the negative spirits. Brings balance." I breathed deep, letting the smoke anchor me. It felt like he was treating more than just my sore legs; he was clearing away the toxic energy from the fight at the campsite.
But the real cleansing began when his hands found my left thigh. "This is a special salve my grandmother makes. Secret tribal recipe," he laughed quietly. His fingers were firm, kneading the knots in my muscles, tracing the line right to the edge of my briefs before sweeping back down to my feet. Between the scent of the sage and the heat of his hands, I felt my brain starting to short-circuit. It was the best kind of torture.
We turned toward each other on our sides after Hank finished, the air between us still thick with the scent of sage and the unsaid. I was just grateful to be still, my pulse finally slowing down before I did something embarrassing.
Hank took a deep breath, the moonlight catching the serious line of his jaw. "Thanks for having my back today. With those jerks. That kind of thing doesn't happen often, and I'm always...thrown, when it does." He paused, and I just waited, letting the silence hold space for him.
"You know I'm half Navajo, half white on my mom's side. My great granddad was a Marine—a Code Talker in the Pacific. Saipan, Iwo Jima, Okinawa. He was wounded and sent to Hawaii, which is where he met my great grandma. She was a white girl, Irish from Boston, a nurse."
I reached out and found his hand, my fingers lacing with his. He rewarded me with a flash of that bright, white smile.
"They fell in love, but coming back to Arizona in the forties...it wasn't pretty. They faced it from everywhere—white people, even some of his own tribe. My Grandma saw it all. She was born on the reservation, steeped in the traditions. She's the Amá Sání now—the Clan Mother and the anchor for our family's spirit." He squeezed my hand, his eyes locking onto mine in the dim light. "I want you to meet her."
I felt a lump form in my throat, and for a long moment, all I could do was nod, terrified that if I spoke, I'd lose my composure entirely. I knew Hank was handing me something sacred—a key to his history, his blood, and his home. We had moved to an entirely different level of existence.
I searched for the words, my voice thick. "I'd stand up for anyone," I whispered, "but I'd especially stand up for you. You're my Best Mate, Hank. From day one."
He flashed that beautiful, blinding smile again. "That's like best friend, right?"
I shook my head, my eyes locking onto his. "Nae, better. Friends and mates—it's different. It's not a one-for-one." I held my hand out flat between us, cutting through the scent of the sage. "You have acquaintances, and you have friends. They're fine, they're...easy."
I raised my hand at a sharp angle. "Then you have best friends, besties—but you might have a bunch of those."
Then, I pushed myself up, my palm flat against the roof of the tent, straining against the nylon until it went taut. "Then you have a Best Mate. There is only ever one. I'd push my hand right through the top of this tent if I could. That's what you are to me."
Hank took it in, his expression softening into something quiet and profound. He nodded slowly, his voice barely a breath in the dark. "Then you're my Best Mate, too."
All I could do then was nod, the tears finally breaking through and streaming down my face. Hank didn't hesitate; he reached out and pulled me in, tucking my head against his bare chest.
"I've never had a Best Mate, Hank," I whispered into the warmth of his skin. "Ever. We moved too much. It always hurt too much to say goodbye. Rule Number One was always never get too close."
Hank stayed quiet for a moment, his hand rhythmically stroking my back, grounding me. "So," he murmured, his voice vibrating against my cheek, "you're ignoring Rule Number One then?"
I let out a shaky laugh that was half-sob, half-giggle. "Yeah. I think you definitely counted coup on Rule Number One."
"I'm glad you threw it out," he said softly.
"Me too."
"I'm glad you moved here to Texas."
I took a long, shaky breath, inhaling the scent of Hank, "Yeah," I whispered. "Me too."
And that's how sleep finally found us. Me lying across Hank's chest, his arms wrapped around me like a shield, both of us breathing in the quiet, steady rhythm of the Texas night.
The next day I was back in the saddle—literally. We struck camp and spent the hours riding toward our next objective. I'd love to say I was performing at the level of the Royal Scots Greys at Waterloo, but that would be a slight tactical exaggeration. Success, in its purest form, was simply not falling off. Daisy continued to treat me like a favored passenger, keeping her shoulder tucked in tight against Hank's horse all day.
Along the trail, we came across a jagged, weirdly-deep ditch sliced right into the middle of the scrub. It looked man-made, or perhaps like a scar. "Who would dig this out here in the middle of nowhere?" I asked.
"The rain, that's what we call an arroyo," Hank answered. His voice held a reverence that made the other boys pull their reins back, giving the edge a wide berth. "Flood waters. When they hit, this ditch becomes a raging torrent in seconds. If you're in there when it happens, you're dead. You'll be lucky if they ever find the body."
I stared into the dry, dusty trench in disbelief. "Seriously? The rain does this?" I thought of the gray mist of Edinburgh. "We have rain all the time in Scotland—it lasts for days. But the land is a sponge; the peat absorbs it. The rivers might rise, but you have time. You see it coming."
Hank turned in his saddle, his dark eyes locking onto mine with a gravity that spiked my pulse. "Not in Texas. If I say run, you run."
I shuddered and cast a nervous glance toward the horizon. "At least it's a clear blue sky," I said, trying to regain my tactical footing. "No rain on us today."
Hank didn't even look up; he kept his eyes on the trail ahead, his expression grim. "Don't think that means we're safe," he warned. "It can be pouring a whole county over and still hit us here. The water doesn't care if the sun is out where you're standing."
I looked at the other boys, expecting a joke or a snide remark. But there were no snickers this time. They all just nodded in a grim, collective agreement. For the first time since we'd left the Center, everyone was on the same page: in Texas, the land doesn't give you a fair fight.
The group was a bit quiet after that engagement. We arrived at the new campsite, and everyone went about their duties. Hank and I were setting up our tent, when he paused. "Hey, I didn't mean to be a dick back there. It's just that it can get very dangerous, very fast. Last summer, four tourists died because they decided to climb down into an arroyo. The floods hit. They tried to climb out. No one made it."
I nodded, "I get it. Serious stuff. You have to respect nature, or else." Without thinking, I blurted out, "You might be a dick, but you're my dick!" Then turned bright red as I thought through the double meaning of my words.
Hank gave me a surprised look, but volleyed right back, wagging his tongue and wiggling his eyebrows suggestively.
I didn't just turn red at that; I felt like my face was actually on fire. But seeing him laugh, I couldn't help it. I shoved him—harder than I meant to—and muttered, "Shut up and help me with this rainfly before I take it back."
We cooked stew that night—kind of like hobo packets, only in a pot instead of foil. It was simple, but after a long day, it felt like a feast. Hank busied himself with a side dish, stirring a pot of thick, violet-gray porridge.
"This is Tanaashgiizh, or Blue Corn Mush," he said. I watched, horrified, as he stirred in a pinch of actual wood ash from the fire.
I looked at it with a heavy dose of skepticism; I'd never really eaten blue food before, let alone food seasoned with a campfire. But I took a cautious bite, and boy, was I wrong. It was earthy and toasted, better than any porridge I'd ever had.
Hank caught me enjoying it and gave me a knowing nudge. "Told you. Respect the ash, Lachlan."
Once again, after lounging by the campfire, I had to be assisted to my feet. My Scottish legs were definitely not built for riding horses; they felt like they'd been replaced by two lead pipes.
Seeing me struggle, Hank hooked an arm around my waist to steady me. That's when our two stellar fellow Scouts decided some grade-A homo-humor was called for. They started in with the kissy noises and catcalls as we hobbled toward our tent.
"Night, night, pansies!" one of them hollered.
My legs couldn't have carried me over to confront them even if I'd wanted to. Instead, I just flipped them a double bird over my shoulder as we disappeared into the tent, the sound of their laughing following us into the dark.
I gingerly settled onto my sleeping bag and peeled off my shirt, my muscles screaming in protest. I looked over at Hank, leaning into the soreness and giving him my best helpless pout.
He snickered, reaching for the hem of his own shirt. "Need help, princess?"
I just nodded and flopped back, tucking my arms behind my head. I let myself enjoy the view as Hank stripped down to his boxer briefs—though I was acutely aware of my own light gray ones. I had better self-control today, luckily, because gray jersey didn't leave much to the imagination if I let my thoughts wander.
We both lay back, the mesh of the tent allowing a warm, soft breeze to ghost over our skin. The laughter from the other Scouts still echoed faintly outside, but in here, the air felt heavy with a different kind of tension.
Hank let out a long, jagged sigh. I knew exactly where his head was.
"They're a piece of work, aren't they?" I whispered, keeping my voice low. The tents were close enough for sound to carry. "Racist yesterday. Homophobic today."
I felt him nod in the dark beside me. "Yeah. I wonder what tomorrow's flavor will be. Sadly, there's a lot like them in this part of the country. It's one area where I think my Navajo culture wins out."
I rolled onto my side, propping my head on my hand to look at him. "How so?"
"The Diné—or Navajo—worldview is about balance, not just right or wrong," he said, his voice taking on a steady, rhythmic quality. "Everything exists on a spectrum of male and female. We have a term, Nádleehí. It literally means one who is transformed or the one who changes. It's someone who embodies both spirits."
He turned his head to meet my eyes. "They aren't just tolerated, Lachlan. They're honored. They're seen as people who can see the world through two sets of eyes at once. It makes them healers. Mediators."
"So, honored," I breathed, the idea sinking in. "Not just a punchline for a joke."
My mind started to churn. Part of me wanted to use this as a door—to just lean into the space he'd created and admit who I was. To tell him how I felt. It all sounded so right in the safety of the dark, but then my gut tightened.
This is a philosophical discussion, I told myself. Not a Hank-and-Lachlan discussion. The risk was still too high, the world outside this tent too loud. Compartmentalize, I silently commanded. Be careful. I forced my racing heart to slow down and kept my eyes fixed on the mesh ceiling, even though I could feel the heat of him just inches away.
"Okay," Hank said, shifting toward me. "Time for your leg massage. Gotta have you operational for our last day."
"Are you sure you don't mind?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper. "I really do appreciate it. I'm sorry I'm being so soft about the whole leg thing."
"Nothing soft about it," he countered, his hands already finding the knots in my quads. "This is your second day on a horse—anyone's legs would be burning. You didn't complain once; you just got right back up on Daisy. That shows grit, Lachlan."
I felt a fresh heat creep into my cheeks at the compliment. "I'll graciously accept, then. As long as you let me return the favor."
"Nah, my legs are fine," he snickered. "I've been riding since I could walk."
"A back rub, then." I wasn't giving up easily—that impulsive streak was pushing through the careful defenses I'd built.
His eyebrows shot up at the suggestion, and for a split second, my heart plummeted. I thought I'd finally gone too far. But the surprise slowly melted into a grin, and he gave a slow, steady nod. "Yeah. A back rub sounds pretty good, actually."
Today's leg massage was every bit as incredible as yesterday's—sage scent, strong hands, and all. But it paled in comparison to what came next. As soon as he finished, Hank quickly rolled over onto his stomach and tucked his arms under his chin.
"My turn," he grinned, his voice muffled slightly by the sleeping bag.
I took a shaky breath and carefully straddled him. I was hyper-aware of the friction of my gray boxers against his skin, trying my absolute best to keep my hard-on from pressing too noticeably against the firm curve of his bum.
Up close, the view was staggering. I took a moment just to look at the stunning form between my legs—those broad, sun-darkened shoulders tapering down to a narrow waist framed by my knees. His hair was a chaotic mess from the day's ride, and without really thinking, I reached down. My fingers ghosted over his scalp, gently smoothing the strands and working my way down until it fanned out evenly against his neck.
Hank let out a quiet, low moan that vibrated through my thighs. "That feels really nice," he muttered, his eyes drifting shut. "Don't stop."
I didn't stop, but eventually, I shifted to the promised back rub. I'd never actually given one before, but I'd watched a few videos, for research purposes, and I tried to mimic the technique. I started at the base of his spine, my thumbs working in slow, rhythmic circles, moving up and out toward his shoulder blades.
I lost the battle for self-control then; there was no hiding my swollen shaft in the thin fabric of my boxers, but Hank didn't seem to notice. Or if he did, he didn't care. The little moans and groans vibrating through his frame were all the encouragement I needed to keep going.
Eventually, even his soft moans and groans faded into the Texas night. Hank's breathing deepened, settling into a steady, even rhythm that told me he'd finally drifted off.
But I couldn't let go yet. I shifted slightly, looking down and taking in the sheer, devastating beauty before me—the sharp line of his shoulder blades, the elegant taper of his back, and the indent of his spine tracing a path all the way down before disappearing into the waistband of his boxer-briefs.
My mind drifted back to our hike, to that sharp V of sweat that had soaked through his shirt. I'd wanted to bury my face in that damp heat back then, to claim a piece of him, and I finally let myself do it now. I leaned in, my heart hammering against my ribs, until I was inhaling the heady, intoxicating musk that was uniquely Hank—sunlight, sweat, and skin. Ever so carefully, I pressed my lips against the warmth of his shoulder, kissing him lightly, again and again, a silent oath of loyalty.
Finally, I forced myself to pull back. As a parting gesture, I let my fingers swirl in a slow, lingering path across the warmth of his skin—one final, silent map of a territory I was desperate to explore. Deep breath, I was hopelessly in love with him.
I contemplated my next move. Last night, he'd wrapped his arms around me while I lay on his chest. This time, I reversed the roles. I lowered myself gingerly, laying my weight across his back and wrapping my arms around him, tucking my face into the crook of his shoulder—pure, unadulterated bliss.
The rhythmic, metallic clatter of banging pots shattered the morning silence, jolting us both awake. For a second, neither of us moved. We stayed tangled together, blinking against the early light filtering through the tent walls. When our eyes met, we both broke into silly, lopsided grins—the kind that were half-happy and half-terrified by how much we'd shared the night before.
The air in the tent was thick with a new kind of shyness; a where do we go from here? energy that neither of us was ready to tackle before breakfast.
"That was an awesome back rub last night," Hank quietly murmured, his voice still thick with sleep. "Especially at the end, when you swirled your fingers all over my back."
I smiled, my mind drifting back to that final, lingering gesture. Then, the realization hit me like a sniper's round. The swirling. That was the very last thing I'd done—right after I'd kissed his back. I'd convinced myself he was deep in REM sleep, but if he was awake for the touch, then he was awake when I'd...
"Gotta pee!" I blurted out. This wasn't a tactical retreat; this was a full-on, uncoordinated bug-out— sauve qui peut!
Hank laughed, the sound rusty and warm. "Yeah, me too. Nature calls."
We both scrambled out of our bags, the cool morning air hitting our skin as we hustled out of the tent. We made a beeline for the tree line to take care of business before the others stirred. While I was terrified at the possibility of having been discovered, Hank seemed entirely unfazed. He took his familiar, wide-legged stance right next to me, pushed his boxer-briefs down under his balls, and let his thick shaft flop out to unleash a steaming morning stream.
Just like on our hike, we quickly honed in on a mutual target, giggling as we bathed a luckless patch of Texas scrub in a coordinated arc. The simplicity of it—the shared biological objective —settled my nerves. If he knew I'd been watching him, he wasn't freaking out. He was treating me like his Best Mate, just two guys against the elements.
But as our streams tapered off, the Best Mate energy shifted. We weren't quick to pull our waistbands back up, taking our sweet time shaking off the last drops in the quiet of the woods. We were both openly, shamelessly checking each other out. In the cool morning air, the contrast was startling: my vivid apricot head stood out like a beacon against the pale line of my tan, a sharp, bright counterpoint to the deep, ripe plum of Hank's cock.
"No circle jerks before breakfast," our morning scout cook's voice boomed from the firepit, "Scout's Handbook clearly states that's an evening activity! Get your kits together!" The shout brought us back to reality with a jolt. We scrambled to tuck back in, faces flushed with more than just the morning chill, and sprinted back toward the smell of bacon and woodsmoke before we attracted more attention.
Then, it was all back to business: breakfast, breaking camp, and heading home. The ride back to the trailhead was uneventful and, thankfully, lacked the high-altitude drama of the previous days. My legs were still tender, but Hank's early promises held true; the soreness had faded to a dull, manageable hum that actually made me feel more connected to the horse beneath me.
By the time the Four Winds Center came into view, I'd never been happier to finish an expedition. I dismounted, managed to land on both feet—a minor miracle—and immediately staggered. My leg muscles, which had held their own for the rest of the ride, were now staging a full-scale protest against the simple act of walking on solid ground.
I was dead to the world the moment I hit the backseat of the car. I fell asleep on Hank's shoulder almost instantly, only waking up when I felt his hand gently rubbing my arm as his dad pulled into our driveway. We all piled out, the 'rents wanted to chat, so I managed to drag Hank up to my room for a few precious minutes of alone time.
The fear was still there, a stubborn knot in my chest. Even with the silence between us feeling so full, I wasn't ready to push us into unknown territory. So, I waited.
We sat on the edge of my bed, shoulder to shoulder, lost in the kind of heavy silence that only comes when you've shared a trail and a tent and realized you don't want to be anywhere else. When it was finally time for him to go, we stood up. There was no hesitation; we moved together instantly, wrapping our arms tightly around each other in a bone-crushing grip.
There was no hiding the physical reality of it this time. I felt the hard, electric press of him against me. I knew he could feel my bump against him. But instead of pulling away in shame, I just buried my face in the crook of his neck, inhaling the cedar-and-sweat scent of him. It wasn't a romantic surrender; it was a desperate sort of claim.
"I love you," he whispered softly, his voice muffled against my hair.
I nodded fiercely against his chest, squeezing him even tighter, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm. "I love you too," I whispered back.
It was the truth. It was the kind of love that came from the trenches—the Best Mate bond that felt more solid than anything I'd ever known. We held on until we absolutely had to peel ourselves apart, the air suddenly feeling far too cold without the contact.
"See you tomorrow?" he whispered.
"Tomorrow," I promised.
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