A Scottish Scout in Geronimo's Land
by Toby Johnston
Chapter 1
The Grand Adventure
Hank and I were wired, a restless, high-voltage energy humming between us that the end of sophomore year couldn't even touch. This wasn't just a summer getaway; it was my first official expedition for the Duke of Edinburgh Gold Award now that I'd hit sixteen. For Hank, it was another vital milestone toward his Eagle Scout.
My legs were immensely relieved that there were no horses involved this time. Instead, we were taking to the water: the Guadalupe River. It carved its way from the rugged Texas Hill Country all the way to the Gulf, a limestone-filtered ribbon of green that promised both a challenge and a sanctuary.
Our plan was built with military precision—timetables, milestones, equipment, and supplies. We'd put in on the morning of July 2nd at Schumacher's Crossing. I loved the symmetry of it—where the North and South Forks converged, a liquid meeting of ways that felt like a metaphor for Hank and I. We'd spend three days working towards Kerrville, arriving late on the 4th, hopefully sunbaked and satisfied in time for the fireworks back in Austin.
The distance wasn't great—we probably could have powered through it in a single day—but we were in no hurry. The slower the current, the more scout time in the wild we enjoyed. More importantly, the more Hank-Lachlan time in our intimate nest of the tent each night—time to explore each other; time to share our love in the most physical ways.
We planned to pack light on rations, intending to live off the fat of the land—fishing for bass and setting snares in the brush. Bonnie, my golden retriever, would our vigilant lookout in the center of the canoe—as long as she wasn't sleeping—her tail thumping out a rhythmic code against the bottom of the canoe; her eagle eye tracking dangerous dragonflies; her sharp nose sensing untold dangers of the river.
I bounded into the kitchen the morning of, sliding across the tiles on my socks to the coffee maker—needed that first cup to become civilized. Mum and Da were full at their morning ritual: Earl Grey tea, Belgian waffles and sausages, the morning news droning on about some such.
"Weather's looking questionable," was the first sign of trouble out of Da.
I was on high alert in an instant—that sounded like a shot across the bow of our trip. "What weather?" seriously I was confused, "There's been like no rain. I'm more worried about being able to navigate a too shallow river than anything else."
"Tropical Storm Barry, they're saying it could impact our area."
I rolled my eyes, "Da, that just means it's a slow news day here in Texas, and they're desperate for ratings. Haven't we learned that over the past ten months since we got here?" Quoting Da back to him when arguing is an artform I have perfected. Too heavy handed, and it'll backfire. You needed just the right delicate balance— balance had become my strength since I'd first met Hank's grandmother, the Amá Sání, the clan mother of the Towering House Navajo clan.
"Slow news or not, this weather system could bring a lot of rain," he continued, though I could sense a chink in his armor.
Time for a surgical strike, "Rain. Like the rain we had in France? I was six wasn't I, when you told me: Soft days make soft men; the storm is the school of the Great Scout ."
Mum snorted, almost spewing her tea, "Isn't that also when he told you pirates eat with the hands?"
"In my defense, we'd forgotten the utensils," he mumbled, then trying to deflect, "That was just a light rain; now Germany was much worse..."
I smirked, time for the kill and then the Snow Raider will be counting coups, "Oh yes Germany. I believe the direct quote was: It's just rain Lachlan. We can't show weakness. If the Germans think we British have gone soft; they'll think they can just blitzkrieg through France and the rest of Europe all over again !"
Da tried to counter-argue, his brow furrowed in his classic Commander scowl , but Mum was laughing too hard for him to even get a start. Finally, he just raised both hands in a mock surrender.
"Okay, J'ai capitulé, I'll stand down. But promise me you'll keep a weather eye out. This isn't a Highland mist or a soft French rain. This is Texas—we've seen some crazy storms just the ten months we've lived here. The weather doesn't know how to be moderate. Keep your wits about you."
"Da. We're Scouts—on our way to King's Scout and Eagle Scout. Following your playbook, by the way, that you used to make King's Scout at eighteen," I added, sliding my empty coffee mug into the sink with a satisfying clink. "Be Prepared—that's our motto—for any old thing. We have the maps, the gear, and the training. We'll be safe."
The tinny, electronic blast of a cavalry bugle playing Charge ! signaled Hank's arrival with his Uncle Deswood, and sounding the final retreat for Da's efforts to postpone the trip. It was the most obnoxious sound in Travis County, but today it sounded like a victory lap. I sprinted outside, dancing around Bonnie, who lately seemed to think Hank was her primary owner and I was just the guy who held the leash, fed her, gave the requisite ear scratches, and picked up her poop.
I pivoted around the tail of his uncle's Ford F450—eighty-five hundred pounds of extended cab and dual-axle 'Merican steel that served as the perfect defilade. Hidden from the kitchen window, Hank and I collided. Every second apart had been a slow-burn torture, and our reconnection demanded a warrior's tribute: a discrete, hungry neck kiss; the hard grind of our groins through our shorts; and a firm bum squeeze that promised much more once we got out on the river— alone .
And there, perched on the trailer like a sacred relic, was the canoe .
It was the most beautiful handmade craft I'd ever seen. Uncle Deswood had built that boat over two winters in his heated garage, using techniques he'd brought back from a decade in the boatyards of Maine. I remembered trying to question his bona fides when he was finishing the hull, citing the anthropology of the Diné, the Navajo people.
"The Navajo didn't have a naval tradition, Uncle," I'd said, a bit too full of my own scholarly reading, not to mention my British Royal Navy ancestors. I mean I have salt water in my DNA; while he was just playing with cedar.
He'd just chuckled, the scent of wood-shavings and steam clinging to his flannel shirt like a second skin. "We didn't need boats because we had the mountains, Yas Joobaʼí," he'd said, using my Diné name—Snow Raider. "But I fell in love with the way a cedar plank bends when you steam it. It's like the wood has a memory of the wind, and you're just helping it find its shape again."
I grabbed Hank, and we moved with synchronized efficiency, hauling my gear from its staging area in the living room to the bed of the truck. I was operating on pure adrenaline, wanting us out of the driveway before Da caught the Weather on the Nines and saw a radar loop that might make him rethink his capitulation.
First into the truck was my birthday present—my pride and joy—a Marmot Lair, a massive, a geodesic dome of one hundred square feet that I'd already calculated as the perfect arena for boy intimacy, with more than enough floor space for Bonnie and her bed.
"Keep it moving, Hank," I whispered, glancing back at the kitchen window where the blue light of the television was probably already broadcasting the first warnings of Tropical Storm Barry. "If he sees the rain totals, we're grounded."
Hank didn't need to be told twice. He swung my heavy pack over the tailgate with that effortless Fierce Wolf strength, his eyes darting toward the house and then back to me with a conspiratorial wink.
"The Snow Raider getting nervous?" he teased, his voice low and vibrating.
"The Snow Raider is being tactical," I shot back, though my heart was hammering against my ribs.
We threw the rest of the dry bags and our wellies in, Bonnie, ever the princess, put her front paws on the back seat and then looked back for her booty lift . I still don't understand the physics of that dog; she can execute a perfect vertical leap from a standstill onto the center of my bed, but she's entirely incapable of boarding a vehicle without assistance.
I gave her the required hoist, feeling her wagging tail thwack against my arm, and slid in beside her. As the engine of the F450 turned over—a deep, eighty-five-hundred-pound growl—we were giddy. Successful mission extraction from the parental jurisdiction!
We weren't just two rising juniors in a truck. We were launching on another expedition to rival my great-great's exploration of the Canadian wilderness—only we had Bonnie, the Intrepid Golden, instead of his Newfoundland, who was known to history only as Our Dog . I felt a sudden, fierce connection; the scholar in me was already cataloging our supplies like we were crossing the Northwest Passage, while the Raider was ready to claim the river as our own.
As we pulled out of the driveway, the F450's tires hummed against the asphalt—a steady, rhythmic vibration that felt like a pulse. I glanced at Hank. He was staring out at the passing Texas scrub, his Navajo profile sharp against the window. He didn't have the Royal Navy or Viking ghosts whispering in his ear, but he had something else—that quiet, Fierce Wolf confidence that made me feel like we could handle whatever the Guadalupe threw at us.
Hank caught my eye in the rearview mirror, triggering his grin wide. Around the edge seat, out of Uncle Deswood's line of sight, I saw his hand reaching back mine. I casually shifted, muttering a practiced complaint about Bonnie taking up too much space, just so I could bridge the gap. We held hands for the hour ride to Schumacher's Crossing.
Fortunately, the boat ramp was empty when we pulled in, Hank and I reluctantly letting our hands. We'd picked July 2nd as launch day specifically to avoid the crush of Cooler-Cloggers, Boombox Buccaneers, and the I just bought a boat, so I'm an admiral types that would descend on Independence Day. I had no interest in navigating a maze of Poly-Tubers and sunburnt Speedrunners who treated the North Fork like a combined, slow-moving bar and unisex bathroom.
I looked up at the sky as we unstrapped the canoe. Da had been worried about nothing—no violent, black-clouds; no thunder and lightning; no howling winds. It was just a thick, milky haze that made the sun look like a dull coin.
"Humid, the air is heavy today," Deswood observed, wiping a bead of sweat from his brow before helping us slide the cedar hull into the emerald water. "Could see a lot of rain."
Hank nodded, squinting at the parched, white-bleached limestone bluffs. "That's good and bad, right? It's been dry all spring—we can use the water. But with the ground this baked, it's just going to run off like it's hitting a tin roof . It won't soak in; it'll just pile up and move."
Me, I was just eager to get going—more water means less portage. I cinched the side-adjustment buckles on my Astral BlueJacket, the foam tectonic plates molding to my ribs like a piece of custom armor—minimalist, slate-gray, and designed for a technical freestyle stroke; not to mention uber-cool.
I leaned down to check the fit on Bonnie's Ruffwear Float Coat, tightening the straps over her golden fur until the handle on her back felt secure. She looked ready to hit the North Sea with the Arbroath Lifeboat Station; but she wasn't about to jump into the Guadalupe and get her paws muddy. It takes two to booty-lift a Golden into a canoe, especially one as pristine as this, so I hollered for Hank—ruminations on weather done for the day.
"Give me a hand with the Princess," I called out.
Hank gave his uncle a high-five goodbye and jogged over, his face breaking into that wide grin that had made my knees buckle the first day we met—and still did. He stepped over, grabbed the front handle of the Float Coat while I took the back, and we swung her into the center of the boat in one practiced motion. Bonnie let out a huff, immediately claiming her spot on the dry-bag throne we'd built for her, then looked at us like, what was taking you so long ?
"Ready, Lachlan?" Hank asked, his voice low enough to be just for me as he steadied the bow.
I took my position in the stern, the steering blade in my hand feeling like a natural extension of my arm. The milky haze above didn't matter. The tin roof ground didn't matter. The only thing that mattered was the emerald water ahead and the unleashed freedom of the next three days.
"Launch," I said. I let myself enjoy the view for a moment as Hank's powerful shoulders dug his blade into the water. Even with the technical foam of his PFD, those exposed muscles, his honey-gold skin, and his black hair pulled back in a sharp ponytail made my breath hitch. He was the most beautiful boy in the world; my boyfriend, my Hank, my Hashkeh Mąʼiitsoh—Fierce Wolf. How long to the first camp ?
Once we were clear of the launch, I didn't just sit back and steer. The scout in me knew that a true expedition lived off the land—or in this case, the river. I reached for my pack and pulled out my collapsible rod, rigging it with a small crawfish lure.
"Securing the larder?" Hank asked, glancing back over his shoulder with a smirk.
"Provisioning," I corrected, clicking the bail and letting the line trail out behind the stern. I wedged the handle into a secure notch between my seat and the gunwale. "If we catch a couple of Guadalupe Bass now, we won't have to break out the emergency rations tonight."
Hank nodded, his eyes already scanning the shadows of the cypress knees for movement. "Troll the deep side of the channel. The water's cool under those bluffs; that's where they're hiding from this heat." I had come far since being plucked out of Scotland and air dropped in Texas, but he had grown up learning critical details that meant success of failure in the Texas wilderness. I was still learning that reading the river was about more than just depth and current stats—it was about survival intuition.
Line set, I turned to the next task critical to our successful navigation of the Guadalupe—planting the flag! I fished my Union Jack, complete with ensign staff, out from my dry bag and affixed it to the stern. If the pontoon boat admirals were going to descend on the river in two days with their polyester flags and booming country music, they were going to find the territory already claimed. Texas was going to know that the Regulars were here in force for their so-called Independence Day!
Hank glanced back, saw the flag, and just started laughing—that deep, effortless sound that always made me feel like I'd won something. "Really, Lachlan? You're bringing the Redcoats to the Hill Country? You know everyone here is carrying—and I'm not talking muskets!"
I shrugged off his words and maintained a stiff upper lip. "Let them come, Hank. The British Empire has a long history of being outnumbered in hostile territory. There'll always be an England!"
Suddenly, the rod wedged in the gunwale didn't just vibrate—it hunched. The tip pulled down toward the emerald water in a sharp, frantic arc, and the reel gave a short, metallic scream.
"Strike!" I shouted, as I lunged for the rod. "Hank, we've got a live one! The larder is being stocked!"
Bonnie, recognizing that success was only achievable through her actions, leapt to her feet—all four of them—barking ferociously and almost capsizing the canoe. Her Ruffwear handle was swinging like a pendulum as she lunged toward the gunwale, convinced the fish was a deadly threat to the mission.
Hank was no help, laughing hysterically at the sight of me wrestling the rod while Bonnie tried to help. He wasn't even attempting to stabilize us with his paddle; at best, he was just a passive counter-weight to Bonnie's thrashing about, leaning his weight opposite her lunges just enough to keep the cedar-strip hull from taking on the North Fork.
With a crew like these two, it was a wonder I was able to land the fish—dinner was solely on me. I kept my seat, low and centered, and worked the reel with a grim focus until a fat, olive-and-black Guadalupe Bass broke the surface. It was a beautiful fish, its scales shimmering in the milky light. I swung it over the side and into the cooler before Bonnie could try to retrieve it right out of my hands.
"Behold," I panted, wiping a spray of river water from my face. "The first course for those loyal to the King!"
Hank finally caught his breath, wiping tears from his eyes as he looked at the fish. "Nice catch, though I think Bonnie deserves at least half the credit for intimidating it into the boat." Then, nodding toward a small, sandy inlet tucked behind a screen of ancient cypress knees with feigned casualness, "This looks a good place to beach, let's swap seats."
I got a tingle in my groin the second I heard him. Frankly, I'd expected him to want to swap a ways back—not that I was complaining. I knew exactly what was coming. With a sharp, practiced cut of my paddle, I had us tucked up on the riverbank. The cedar hull gave a soft, satisfying hiss as it met the sand.
Hank didn't wait. He dug into his dry bag and pulled out the two deerskin breechcloths.
These were not the traditional ones we'd worn at my Clan Adoption ceremony with the Kinyaa'áanii , Hank's Towering House Clan, back in November. Back then, I'd been surprised then to learn the traditional breechcloth was a single, functional piece—covering the front and back, as well as everything in between. Actually, I'd thought it was a blindfold at first!
I'd expected a breechcloth to be more kilt-like; something you could pull up to get a good show of everything. So, as part of our scout leatherworking merit badge efforts, I'd created two Lachlan-improved breechcloths—two pieces, front and back, and nothing in between.
Bonnie leapt out first, shaking a spray of river water onto the limestone as if to bless the site. But I barely noticed her. My eyes were tracking Hank as he unbuckled his Astral and cast it aside, his hands reaching for the waistband of his shorts. He didn't hesitate, not worried that someone might round the bend while we stood there on the river bank. I matched his actions, and we were soon moving together; our sheathed cocks leading the way.
Even after ten months of seeing Hank naked almost every day—between cross-country, scouts, and our alone time —his body still took my breath away. Lean, muscled, broad shoulders tapering to that nothing waist, all wrapped in his honey-gold, half Navajo/half Green Mountain Boy skin. His hair was the crowning beauty. It was black as night and straight as an arrow—both the long mane on his head and the triangle of soft, silky pubes—a war party's arsenal of black arrows, all pointing towards his beautiful cock.
Physically, we were a match. Same runner's body—lean muscles, legs built for endurance and distance, abs that reflected no body fat. It was our coloring that was a study in contrast. Like many Scots, I was almost half-Nordic thanks to the Viking raiders that appeared out of the North Sea fog to rape and pillage, leaving behind many little Vikings. My most tan parts were lighter than Hank's most pale; and my pale parts looked like a ghost of the North Sea.
My light blond hair had gone almost white under the unrelenting Texas sun. My pubes, only catching the sun during scout skinny-dipping or at times like this one, were more like the Golden Fleece—a thick, unruly cluster of curls that shimmered even in the milky, flat light of the afternoon.
We came together naked on the hot limestone, our ritual a vital component of the expedition itself. As we pressed close, things became something more primal. Our shafts slid along each other, our hands reached down to cup our crown jewels. Our fingers lightly traced our thick, heavy velvet skin, triggering that involuntary tightening of the sacks and the rise of goosebumps that felt like a low-voltage current between us. We leaned our foreheads together, eyes closed, just two boys sharing their Gentle Spirits while the Texas sun tried to bake the rest of the world away.
In the quiet, I couldn't help but chuckle, the scholar in me cataloging how far we'd come since that first verbal sparring match in the locker room. That day, we'd realized we were the only two intact boys on the cross-country team—a shared secret that started as a spontaneous game of trading American and Scottish foreskin slang.
As our relationship deepened, that slang had undergone a form of natural selection. Sheath was the only logical choice for a boyfriend named Fierce Wolf. Cock had easily defeated knob or tool—it just oozed a raw, powerful, hot sexiness that fit the plains warrior energy of our time together. Bum had won out over the coarser American butt or ass; to us, a bum was something little, tight, and pert—a touch of sexy innocence.
And then there were the crown jewels. There was no better way to capture the soft, heavy feel of that warm scrotum, holding those two most sacred orbs.
As obsessed as I was with Hank's straight black hair, he was even more so with my ghost-white bum. I felt his fingers—dark and warm—tracing across my Viking-white thighs before reaching back to cup each cheek. It was the signal for the next step. He squeezed, pulling our bodies tightly together, our cocks sandwiched between us, hearts pounding in unison, abs fluttering.
He sighed, his voice dropping an octave, "I love your bum so much, Lachlan. It glows—skin so soft; muscles so taut; good God, these dimples!"
"It's the Nordic blood," I giggled, flexing my bum to give him more of those godly dimples. "We don't tan much; we just... illuminate ."
Splashes behind us told me Bonnie was busy catching fish—or scaring away all the bass. As long as I wasn't going to get another cold, wet nose up my bum, I didn't care. Her prior investigation had ruined a perfect moment and sent Hank into hysterics. My pride wounded, I launched a tickle assault and we both had ended up on the ground; only to have Bonnie joyously join the fray!
My fingers dug deep into his bum as our Gentle Spirits gave way to our Warrior Spirits. Teen passions unleashed, we started bucking together, the crescendo building with each successive thrust. Hank's fingers penetrated deep into my cleft; seeking out my pucker—another vocabulary win for the rebels; I didn't even have a counter to that one.
He pushed his finger in, triggering my climax. Head thrown back, body arched, my cum rocketing up between us. Hank kept bucking as I collapsed against his chest; his cum soon mixing with mine. Our heads on each other's shoulder, leaning in—two young warriors supporting each other after battle; no words, no noise save the river and Bonnie.
Hank giggled, "I've been shpritz'd !"
I snorted, a most ungentlemanly snort for a scholar of my standing, "I think we both have been right properly shpritz'd !"
Shpritz, the only one of our favorite words from another source—Hank's eighty-year-old aunt spoke Yiddish. I'd thought I was clever, switching to German during our verbal sparring at the Towering House Clan Thanksgiving event; who knew his aunt had come from East Germany in the trunk of a car! Hank's uncle, a soldier, fell in love the moment she'd popped out of here hiding place and brought her back to Texas. His buddy Jimmy had the same reaction to her brother Luka—we had met them at my clan adoption ceremony.
"Better than a medals ceremony," Hank whispered, finally pulling back to look at me, his hair a wild, black silk mess around his face.
"Much," I agreed, reaching down to grab a handful of river water to start the decontamination process. Hank leaned back, a contented sigh escaping him as I gently washed his torso, my hands moving over the honey-gold skin all the way down to those silky black arrows. The water was cool against our heated skin, but the air was still heavy, that milky haze clinging to the cypress tops like a damp shroud.
"But if we don't get the Lachlan-improved gear on, we're going to be a couple of very sunburnt warriors."
Hank grinned, reaching for the two-piece deerskin I had designed. "Right you are, Snow Raider. Can't have the King's finest looking like a Lobsterback before we even hit the first set of rapids."
We helped each other secure the leather thongs, the deerskin feeling soft and primal against our clean skin. There was something undeniably bold about the Lachlan-improved design—no blindfolds, no excess. Just the front and back flaps, leaving our sides open to the breeze and our spirits unleashed.
As I adjusted my own back flap, I glanced at the Union Jack still fluttering at the stern. We looked the part now—Scouts ready to reclaim the Guadalupe.
"Ready?" Hank asked, already moving toward the stern with his paddle in hand. His silhouette against the limestone bluffs was pure plains warrior energy, his black hair catching the flat light.
"The King's Royal's are always ready," I replied, grabbing my own paddle and whistling for the Princess.
The moment I shifted my weight; I felt the difference. Without the Astral PFDs and the bulk of our shorts, the canoe felt like an extension of our own bodies. Every ripple, every shift in current, vibrated and traveled directly through the cedar hull and into my bare skin, and my crown jewels!
"See?" Hank murmured from behind me, his voice a low growl against the silence of the river. "The view is much better back here. I've got the perfect line on the rapids, and I can see exactly how those Viking muscles are working."
I could hear the smirk in his tone. I caught my reflection in the dark, oily water—pale, blonde, and starkly exposed—and realized that from where he was sitting, he had a clear, uninterrupted view of the Lachlan-improved breechcloth in action. Every time I dug my paddle deep to steer us around a submerged cypress knee, the back flap of my deerskin shifted, leaving nothing to the imagination.
"Keep your eyes on the channel, Hank," I said, trying to sound authoritative while my own pulse betrayed me, "Don't get distracted."
"I'm not distracted," Hank smirked, and I felt the canoe surge forward as he dug his paddle in deep. "I'm scouting. I've got my eyes glued to the best channel on the river."
Hank caught three more bass during the rest of the afternoon—more than enough for all three of us to enjoy pan-fried fish over our open fire. Hank handled the cleaning of the fish and the cooking; I took point on setting up my new tent on a perfect little plateau—a slight rise of packed sand and crushed limestone a good three feet above the waterline.
I joined Hank by the fire, the smell of the frying Guadalupe Bass mixing with the scent of damp cypress and woodsmoke. We worked in a comfortable, practiced silence, the kind earned over ten months of shared miles and secret hours. But as he knelt by the cast iron, he took full advantage of the nothing in between design of our deerskin gear.
Between flipping the fish, his hand would slide up—sometimes under the front flap, sometimes the back—his hand warm and tender against my Ghost of the North Sea skin. Each touch sent a jolt through me that had nothing to do with the approaching weather.
"You really outdid himself with the engineering on these," Hank murmured, his eyes fixed on the sizzling fillets, though his fingers were busy tracing the line of my hip. "Maximum efficiency. Low resistance."
"It was a leatherworking merit badge project, Hank," I feigned a protest, my breath hitching as his fingers grazed the Golden Fleece of my curls. "It wasn't supposed to be an invitation to your war party to raid, pillage, and plunder my body!"
"Everything you do is an invitation, Lachlan, and I don't see you circling your wagons, " he grinned, finally looking up. The firelight danced in his dark eyes, reflecting the Warrior Spirit that was anything but gentle in that moment. "Now, eat. We need the energy. I have a feeling the Lair is going to be a high-activity zone tonight."
He was right. We took to our tent right after eating and clean-up; but we didn't go to sleep, not until well into the night.
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