A Scottish Scout in Geronimo's Land - Prequel | Chapter 14

A Scottish Scout in Geronimo's Land - Prequel

by Toby Johnston

Chapter 14

The Fierce Wolf Rides Again

A few weeks later, Hank and I were off on our first real road trip—Austin to Concho, Oklahoma, for the Indian Nations Gathering. It was another melding of our alone time while knocking out requirements for my Scottish Scout World Challenge and Hank's Citizenship of the World awards. We were driving up alone, but meeting up with Amá Sání and a lot of the family from Austin—and then camping in the Navajo enclave.

At the Celtic Games, anyone can show up in a kilt—including Hank, who we discovered had a wee bit of legit Scottish blood from an ancestor who'd come over in the seventeen-hundreds. Not so at the Gathering. Even my adoption into the Tower House Clan didn't change the rules of the ring here. I was simply Lachlan MacKenzie, Scottish Scout—here to observe and not participate. I'd even had to leave my deerskin leggings at home. Wah. My Hank would be participating, though, and I was always more than happy to watch him in action.

I think we were the only Defender 90 to pull into the Navajo enclave, but we were covered in layers of Texas and Oklahoma dust; so, we blended, kind of. This wasn't just a campsite; it was a temporary village of trucks, campers, Winnebagos, teepees, and canvas wall tents. In the very middle was the central hearth—the designated outdoor cooking area under a shaded canopy. Our teepee was one of many clustered around that center.

The Gathering was way bigger than the Celtic Games—tribes coming from across the United States for the weekend. We got there early enough on Friday to see the dancing by contestants from different tribes that went on through the early evening. Then we broke for dinner, Hank and I becoming the helpers along with all the other cousins—just like Thanksgiving, Amá Sání was large and in charge.

Then it was back for more dancing that was to go through midnight. Hank and I begged off early, though, as he was competing first thing the next morning. We kept it low-key so he could get his rest. I gave him a full massage, front and back; I didn't want any sore muscles from the six-hour road trip spoiling his aim tomorrow.

Of course, I took care of him; nothing helps a boy get to sleep better than the afterglow of a wonderful orgasm. I waited until I heard his heavy breathing before I quietly took care of myself. After that, I just spooned up behind him and we went to sleep.

The noise of people and horses stirring; the smell of woodsmoke and breakfast from the central hearth woke us up the next morning. Hank started stretching and arching in my arms, which of course triggered my automatic response of rubbing my hands all over his taut muscles.

He moaned appreciatively, "Careful Raider, if you keep doing that, I'll miss the Warrior Run!"

I giggled, "We can't have the best archer in the Gathering miss the main event. Everyone will blame the Scot! Let's get you dressed."

I helped him suit up in the soft light of the teepee. My fingers moving deliberately over the familiar ties of his deerskin leggings. Back at Thanksgiving, seeing him and his cousins riding bare-chested and wild had been incredibly erotic for me. As he stood and let me adjust the fit, the muscles of his back and chest rippled in the low light—the same muscles I'd spent an hour kneading into relaxation the night before.

"You look..." I started, but the word got stuck. God those legging just molded to his body in all the right spots. I'm all about tradition, but the modern leggings had it hands down over the traditional. The way that soft deerskin molded to his bum and tucked in his crotch—it'd be a crime to hide that behind a breechcloth.

"I know," he said, a small, knowing smirk playing on his lips as he opened his case and retrieved his Osage bow—hand made by his Uncle Desmond. "Time to get marked."

We walked toward the hearth, where the scent of cedar was being overtaken by the iron-heavy smell of the wet ocher. His cousin Pete, a former Marine, held a bowl of red earth mixed with water—he was applying the paint for all the family participants.

"Hold still, little brother," Pete said, his voice a low rumble. He dipped two fingers into the bowl and pressed them against Hank's left shoulder.

"First, the mark for protection," he explained, dragging his fingers in a deliberate, heavy line across the width of Hank's chest. The wet clay felt cold against the skin, a bold crimson horizon over his heart. "This is your shield. It keeps the distractions out and your spirit in."

Pete dipped his fingers again, his focus narrowing. He leaned in and drew two sharp, downward strokes high on each of Hank's cheekbones. "And these are the eyes of the hawk. They cut the glare and sharpen the aim. You see the center of the mark before the arrow even leaves the string. Let them fly true."

It's really not fair. First, I have to see my boyfriend—bare-chested and wearing muscle-hugging deerskin that leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination. As if that wasn't enough, then he gets his chest and diamond-cut cheekbones all marked up with that deep-red ocher.

It was probably for the best that his cousin Pete did the painting instead of me; everyone would have wondered why I was suddenly arching and spasming mid-paint. Thank God for my black cowboy hat; it was the only thing standing between me and a very public display of my appreciation.

I kept it firmly over my crotch and tried to remember how to breathe. It didn't fool Hank, though. He just glanced down at my hat, smirked, and gave me a wink that said he knew exactly where my head was—both of them.

Then, as quickly as the playfulness appeared, it vanished, replaced by his awesome, singular focus. He adjusted the grip on his Osage bow, walked towards the staging area. A whole group of us followed—his other cousins competing, their horse handlers, and myself and the other spectators. I had to peel away when we got to the Central Ring and move up into the stands, sitting by Pete who'd be my 'splainer for the whole event.

Pete started big picture, and then drilled down—with military precision, "The course is a huge U, ninety meters down and back, with a sweeping turn at the far end. The rules are simple and brutal: raw time from start to finish; points down adding time for every arrow that strays from the center of the target. In this game, a fast rider with a shaky hand can lose to a slow rider with a perfect eye."

I nodded, my eyes scanning the dirt, "That seems pretty straight-forward. But why are there three targets on one side and only two on the other? Are they still setting up." My brain likes symmetry.

"No, that's intentional. The Warrior's Run is done at a full gallop. The first leg of the U, and those three targets test rapid fire skills; two and a half seconds between each shot to nock, draw, and release. The other two targets are for precision under pressure. One is close in, the other far away; and they're both angled. The rider has to shift the horse's lean and gait while the horse is still coming into the exit of that turn."

My mind was already blowing up. Straightforward had just become anything but. "A shot every two and a half seconds? And then targets where you have to gauge the distance on the fly? Damn."

We watched the first rider; the Judge held a blue box that beeped a countdown; and then he was off! A full-tilt gallop, arrows flickering like silver needles in the sun as he fired. Too fast for me to even see what happened; and then he was turning and screaming back. As soon as he pulled up, men ran out to each target, retrieving the arrows—each with a hand in the air.

"That'll be a low score," Pete whispered, holding out his stopwatch, "Super-fast, only seventeen seconds, but then ten points down on accuracy. Fast, but sloppy."

Now I realized what the hands in the air meant—two fists, one finger, two two-fingers, and a spread of five in the air—ten points total. I laughed, "Wait, twenty-seven is a low score?"

Pete grinned, "The good riders will be gunning for sub-twenty on time, zero points down. Hundredths of a second will make the difference between first and fifth."

I shook my head in awe, whispering, "This makes caber tossing look like pick-up sticks."

Pete laughed, "Oh, that's right! Hank told me all about your prowess handling a massive stick." He leaned in, his smirk turning wicked, "Me, I am a huge aficionado of handling a massive stick myself."

I went wide-eyed and snorted, " You?"

He winked, leaning back comfortably. "Queer as a three-dollar bill, Lachlan. Just wait until you meet my partner, Jason." He held his hands out—wide, like he was describing a trophy bass. "We're competing in the Warrior Dance later today."

I gulped, he wasn't the type to exaggerate a fish story, then giggled, "I value my mobility too much to try that, and I'd like to stay out of the ER. I'm good with Hank's handful."

The next rider was up, cutting the fascinating discussion short. A dozen more riders went, the first boy's messy twenty-seven score sinking lower and lower into last place with every run. The competition was brutal. Three of the riders had already hit the sub-twenty mark—all in the low nineteen-second range—and no points down. Like Pete said, hundredths of a second.

The rest of the pack ranged across the low twenties, a graveyard of slow turns, slow runs, and a miss here or there that had pushed them out of the top spots.

Then I saw Hank, next up. He looked every bit the Fierce Wolf, Navajo warrior sitting tall on Dart—his appaloosa. Her mottled, black-and-white rump was dancing with impatience.

Pete pointed, "Dart's a full-blood Appaloosa. Agile. Uncle Desmond says she can turn on a dime and give you back nine cents change."

The beeps. The kick of his heels, and a sharp, piercing war whoop—then Hank was off! I refused to even blink for fear of missing a single frame of the motion.

God, he was beautiful—his muscles flexing and glistening with a fine sheen of sweat as he drew the Osage bow. His black mane of hair floated behind him, caught in the slipstream of their momentum. Hank and Dart looked like a single, coordinated machine of bone and sinew.

The run was over almost before it began—a rhythmic thwack-thwack-thwack of arrows meeting targets, the drumbeat of hooves, and then a cloud of red dust as they carved through the turn and screamed back toward the finish.

Pete whistled, "Nineteen-oh-six! That's the fastest time so far."

The fastest raw time of the day by nearly tenth of a second. My eyes snapped to the target crews, watching for the hand signals. My heart hammered against my ribs; one miss and that score became meh.

One by one, fists rose in the air. Target one: Clean. Two: Clean. Three: Clean. Five: Clean.

Then, agony.

The Judge at the fourth target—the one angled so sharply it looked impossible to hit at a gallop—leaned in close. He paused for what felt like a fucking year. My lungs seized as he waved another Judge over; they both leaned in like diamond inspectors, peering at where the arrow met the mark.

Finally, a fist, a fist. High in the air—Hank, official nineteen-oh-six, zero points down.

The whole Towering House section of the bleachers leapt up with a roar that reverberated across the Central Ring! Pete and I were practically lunging off the bench, gripping each other's arms and jumping up and down like lunatics.

I could see my warrior on the far side of the ring. His chest heaving, red paint glistening under a fresh coat of sweat and dust; but he was wearing a huge smile—those bright white teeth flashing against his honey-gold skin.

I watched as he nudged Dart over to the group of boys who had already run. Several clearly congratulating him, leaning out from their saddles to tap their bows against his in salute. But not everyone was joining the party. I noticed a few riders hanging back, their faces tight and their eyes following the movement of his horse with a cold, unmistakable envy.

The next half-hour was sheer torture—like the final two minutes of the Saint Luke's district championship game when we'd been up by a field goal and the other side was marching down the field with no timeouts left. The last six riders knew the number to beat; each was a warrior in their own right, determined to spoil the day for Hank.

My brain became a frantic scoreboard. Every buzzer, every clock count, every hand in the air—I was doing the math as fast as the numbers flashed. Raw time, plus penalties, carry the decimal.

One boy came close—a nineteen-oh-two—but he was wide on the final target, plus five, no podium for him. I felt a shameful surge of relief. The last rider was a demon for speed, a blur of motion that stopped the clock at eighteen-fifty, but he missed with one arrow entirely when his horse hitched up. Five seconds added.

Game over. There was a momentary hush, then the Towering House erupted again—cheers, clapping, war whoops. The crowd was still cheering when the Judge came to the center of the ring and signaled for quiet. He called out the third, then the second-place winners, looping tooled leather medallions over their heads. Then, he called Hank.

He motioned for Hank to lean way down. From my spot in the bleachers, the Judge's broad shoulders blocked my view; I couldn't see exactly what he was doing, but the process took significantly longer than the medallions. The anticipation in my chest felt like a physical weight.

Finally, the Judge backed off. Hank straightened up, rising high in his stirrups as he nudged Dart into a slow, deliberate pirouette. As they twirled, I saw it—three eagle feathers now hung from his glorious black ponytail, the white and dark tips catching the sun. The crowd went absolutely feral.

Hank didn't just trot; he rode a true victory lap, the feathers trailing behind him like a banner as he and Dart blurred past the stands. I had to hold my cowboy hat in front of my crotch through the whole victory lap, hoping everyone's eyes were on him, not my tent.

Pete helped me navigate the chaos, guiding me down through the surging fans to where the riders exited the ring. We violated the safe-distance rule the moment we saw each other.

Just like his warrior's run at Thanksgiving, Hank didn't wait to lead his horse out. He swung off Dart in one fluid motion and had me in his arms, twirling me around while the other riders scattered like leaves in his wake. I could feel the heat radiating off his skin, the grit of the red ocher pressing into my clothes.

"Teepee," was all he said, his voice low and thick.

Pete chuckled behind us, already reaching for Dart's reins. "Go on, then. I've got the horse." He winked as we hustled off, leaving the cheering stadium behind for the quiet sanctuary of the canvas walls.

Thankfully, the enclave was deserted when we crawled into our teepee. By the time I'd turned around from fastening the door flap, Hank had already hauled his leggings off, the buckskin hitting the floor in a heap.

There he was—my bronzed, sweaty warrior, red warpaint streaking his skin. His black eyes, already devouring me. His chest was still heaving. His cock angled and pulsating, a thick strand of pre-cum already reaching for the floor.

"Oops," I giggled, "looks like this greenhorn shouldn't have wandered so far into warrior territory..."

Hank tackled me onto the bedding, the impact knocking the air out of my lungs in a breathless laugh. Fortunately, he managed not to rip any buttons off my scouting shirt or tear through my other clothes, though it's a wonder he didn't—what followed was a blur of wrestling, laughing, kissing, and moaning.

It was, without a doubt, the most frantic, chaotic, inefficient, and exhilarating way to ever get undressed. Between the slick smear of the red ocher transferring to my own skin as Wolf and Raider wrestled playfully for dominance.

Today was his win, though, a fact written by the feathers in his hair. So, I eventually yielded and lay back against the bedding, looking up at my warrior and locking eyes with him.

He leaned in for a kiss—a surprisingly soft and gentle caress given his heated state. I responded by thrusting hard up against him, our cocks sliding firmly together, skinning our sheaths back until we were both slick and gasping.

He paused for a heartbeat, taking me all in as if he were memorizing the sight of his greenhorn finally caught. Then, he laced his fingers in mine, his grip firm as he pushed both our arms up over our heads. We kissed again, but the gentleness was gone; our tongues snaked in, caressing and twisting together in a feverish heat.

Then we began—thrusting, hips gyrating in a frantic rhythm, panting and moaning into each other's mouths—performing our own horizontal Indian mating dance in the golden light of the teepee. We didn't last long, both of us too excited from the thrill of his victory. I claimed him as much as he claimed me; my legs locking around his waist as we hit the peak together.

Even after we came, we were still hard. We stayed locked together, still thrusting, mixing our heat and our cum as we transitioned seamlessly into round two.

We eventually fell asleep just like that; me savoring the heavy, solid weight of Hank pressing me into the bedding. It felt warm, safe, and utterly right. The golden afternoon light filtered through the canvas, catching the edges of the three eagle feathers still tangled in his dark hair—his hard-earned victory award. I drifted off with my arms wrapped firmly around him.

We rejoined the festivities later that afternoon, cleaned up and freshly showered. I even managed to find all my clothes, though my boxer-briefs thwarted me until we spied them hanging from one of the tent poles. We made it back in time to watch Pete and Jason compete in the Warrior Dance. As my grandda would say, Jason was a braw laddie, definitely the anchor in the scrum.

Hank and I were heading back to the enclave in the late evening, the air cooling and the distant drums fading, when things got ugly. Three teens stepped out in front of us on the path—their shadows long and jagged in the dying light. They didn't look friendly. We turned to head the other way, but two more stepped out there, cutting off any tactical retreat. Five on two.

"Did you see this guy and his pretty white boyfriend after the Warrior Run? They were practically making out in front of everybody," one of them sneered, his voice dripping.

"Couple of fags," someone added from the shadows. "Can't have a faggot wearing eagle feathers."

Hank and I instinctively turned back-to-back, a silent communication passing between us as we shifted our stances and raised our fists. I'm no MMA fighter, but I knew how to hold my ground. In Scouts Scotland, they'd put you in the ring with a bigger kid—not to see if you'd beat him, but to see if you'd get right back up after he knocked you flat. I always did.

Hank recognized the voice, and tried to de-escalate, "You don't want to do this, Shane. It's not going to end well. You left your heart out in the ring today—don't go losing your head. Walk away while you've still got something to be proud of."

For a heartbeat, the air went still. I could feel the heat radiating off Hank's back, his muscles coiled like a spring. Shane flicked a glance at his friends, thinking, but his ego and the numbers won out.

"Pride?" Shane spat, taking a step towards us. "Hard to feel proud when our own warrior is taking it up the ass from a white boy. Those feathers don't belong on a faggot."

The circle tightened around us. I picked out the boy I was going to hit first.

Then a voice, real low, real calm, "We got a problem here boys?"

Shane startled, his bravado flickering for a second, but he didn't back down, "No problem, just settling an argument."

"Five on two, doesn't look like a fair fight," the voice observed. It was Pete

"They're just a couple of fags," Shane spat, looking for backup from his friends. "Gettin' what they deserve."

"So, you won't mind then if two other fags help them out," Pete remarked, stepping fully into the pale light. Jason moved with him, a massive, silent shadow at his shoulder.

Four on five. We were still technically outnumbered, but two of ours were Marines—big fucking Marines who looked like they'd been waiting for a reason to let loose. Shane's crew froze, looking a lot less menacing all of a sudden.

Pete didn't raise his voice. He didn't even raise his hands. He just looked from boy to boy, his gaze like a spotlight. "Shane, Dakota, Ty, Billy." He stopped, his eyes landing on the fifth one, pinning him to the spot. "I don't know you…"

"Zane," the boy squeaked, the word coming out small and thin.

Pete nodded slowly, the silence stretching out long enough for the gravity to sink in. "Best all y'all get on back to your families. This place can get a bit dangerous at night. I'll have a talk with your parents in the morning."

You've never seen five boys light out so fast to get home. If Shane had been that fast during the Warrior Run, he might have beaten Hank.

"Thanks, Pete. I thought we were going to go down fighting," Hank said, the raw adrenaline finally bleeding out into a heavy sigh of relief. He stepped in and caught Pete in a brief hug.

I echoed the sentiment, the shaking in my hands subsiding as Jason pulled me into a reassuring embrace. He felt like a brick wall—solid and unshakable. Then I felt it: a thick, heavy weight pressing firmly against my thigh.

He wasn't even hard.

I couldn't help it. As I stepped back, my eyes instinctively dropped, tracing the unmistakable, massive outline against the fabric of his athletic shorts. It wasn't just a big lad thing; it was a force of nature.

Hank and Pete's eyes followed my gaze. "I told you…" Pete said with a low, satisfied chuckle. Then answering the unasked question, "nine by six…" A smug grin spreading across his face. Jason just looked proud.

Hank and I spent the rest of our walk to the teepee reverently discussing Jason's prodigy. The fear from the confrontation had completely evaporated, replaced by a kind of stunned, scientific awe.

I thought I'd been clever with my mobility and ER comment back at the Center Ring; turns out I'd been verbalizing the FDA warning label that must have been tattooed on the side of that thing. Hank had thought his Warrior's Run had been the most impressive thing of the day; he now thought otherwise.

"I mean, the stamina alone," Hank whispered as we reached the flap of the teepee, his voice full of a new kind of respect. "Running three miles uphill is one thing. Lugging that around for a whole deployment? That's the real service to the country."

I just nodded, still seeing the outline in my head like a burnt-in image on a screen. "What about Pete? He must have a dozen Purple Hearts!"

Sunday morning started with a massive communal breakfast for the entire Gathering. Amá Sání had relocated her cadre of cooks and bottle washers from the Navajo enclave, joining similar groups from the other tribes. They must have started long before Hank and I wiped the sleep out of our eyes.

Hank and I came back to our table each carrying two plates—we were hungry teens. I'd recognized and grabbed some Navajo Blue Corn Mush and Frybread right off the bat. But then I saw a whole new set of tribal offerings—wild rice and berries; beef hash; and something called Three Sisters Stew, a mix of squash, corn, and beans. I went for thirds—wild rice is so yummy.

The gathering was winding down, the Final Blessing and Circle was the last event—a very solemn, reflective gathering to close the weekend. A slew of tribal leaders, including Amá Sání led the event. Smoke from the cedar fire drifted over us, as the elders' voices rose in a low, melodic chant. It wasn't like the church prayers I'd heard back in Scotland—there was no bowing of heads. Instead, everyone looked up, faces turned toward the sun, as if we were all being woven back into the landscape we'd spent the last few days inhabiting.

I proudly watched my Hank, standing tall, his hair tied back with his three eagle feathers. Several people came up to him as we were walking out to offer their congratulations. I felt a little like when my Mum says we're leaving a party; and an hour later we're still leaving. Big difference here though is how proud and thrilled I was with each interruption.

After breaking down the enclave and cleaning up—like good Scouts, of course—we packed up the Defender and headed out. Hank slowed the Defender to a crawl, the engine idling with a low, steady growl as we passed the Center Ring. He didn't say a word, just nodded toward the side of the track.

It was a masterpiece of karmic retribution. Shane and his crew were stripped to the waist, their skin already turning a dusty red under the morning sun as they swung heavy shovels into a mountain of manure. Forty-eight hours' worth of horse, buffalo, and sheep reminders were being heaved into the back of a rusted dump truck.

The smell hit us even from the road—a thick, eye-watering funk that seemed to cling to the very air. "Looks hot," I murmured, sipping on my ice-cold Coke.

Standing in a perfect, immovable semicircle were the fathers. In their crisp blue jeans, starched shirts, and Sunday cowboy hats, they looked like they were waiting for a parade to start, occasionally pointing out a stray pile with the tip of a polished boot. It was a silent, terrifyingly effective lesson in humility.

Hank let out a slow, contented breath, his grip on the steering wheel relaxing as he shifted back into gear. "You know," he murmured, a small, tired smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, "I kind of feel sorry for those boys. Sun looks hot, blistering even."

"Don't worry," I said, watching Shane wipe sweat—and probably a few other things—off his forehead in the rearview mirror. "It'll probably cool off for them sometime after sunset."

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