A Scottish Scout in Geronimo's Land
by Toby Johnston
Chapter 2
Nature Turns Ugly
The morning of July 3rd didn't start with a stunning Texas sunrise. I awoke to the feeling like the air itself had put on a lead-vest—humid, heavy. I pressed my forehead against the cool synthetic fibers of the low-slung crescent window. The shift confirmed, the milky haze of the previous day had solidified into a low, slate-gray ceiling that seemed to scrape the tops of the cypress trees.
Hank stirred behind me, snuggling closer, wrapping his arms around me and pressing close, his morning wood settling into the best channel on the river. "Five more minutes," he mumbled, while kissing my back and sliding his hand down my torso.
As much as I wanted to just change plans and spend the day right where we were—an encore of the incredible sex from the night before—my scout's instinct was on high alert. Even from inside the tent, I could tell something was different.
I untangled "Hank," I whispered, nudging the him insistently. "We gotta get up. Something's changed."
Hank didn't argue. The playful lover from ten seconds ago vanished, replaced by a warrior's intensity as he bolted upright. We spilled out onto the river bank, the heavy, lead-vest air hitting us like a physical wall.
Bonnie was the barometer. She wasn't playing; she was pacing the edge of our sandy rise, her nose twitching at the water's surface as if she could smell the change in chemistry from upstream. She looked back at us and let out a sharp, hollow bark that echoed too long against the limestone bluffs.
Hank knelt at the waterline, his naked silhouette sharp against the mercury-thick river. He didn't look at me; he looked upstream, toward the bend where the milky haze in the water was thickest.
"Hear that? No birds," he said, his voice low and gravelly.
He was right. Usually, the July mornings were a riot of cardinals and kingfishers. Today, the cypress trees were like graveyard monuments. Even the cicadas, which should have been starting their morning buzz, were dead quiet.
"The barometric pressure is tanking," I said, my scholar brain trying to put a number to the dread. "The air is too heavy to carry the sound. It's like the whole canyon is being muffled."
Hank stood up, the seriousness on his face making him look years older. "The river is holding its breath, Lachlan. My granddad used to say when the birds go quiet on the Guadalupe, you don't wait for the rain. You move. No hot breakfast today, power bars in the canoe."
We knew things were serious, but we were scouts after all—this is what we trained for, so you're ready for any old thing and there's no panic when things happen. We struck camp quickly, donning our Lachlan-improved breechcloths of course, and pushed off. As I shoved off, the water felt unnaturally warm against my ankles, thick and resistant. Bonnie was definitely on high alert, her eyes scanning the river intently.
While we were concerned, the rest of Texas wasn't. We glided past a massive double-decker pontoon boat anchored near a limestone overhang. A group of guys in neon swim trunks were mid-keg-stand, cheering and cannon-balling into the emerald water.
One of them had his trunks at midthigh, arcing his temporary load of beer into the Guadalupe. He raised his can of beer toward us. "Nice outfits, boys! Scouting for the Bicentennial?"
We gave a friendly wave, but didn't slow for a chat or to correct his historical timeline; instead digging in to press on to our portage point. The portage was a Navajo gauntlet trial, but we knew we could do it in one trip. We had to strip the canoe of every ounce of gear to make the climb. I would take the heavy dry bags; Hank, Uncle Deswood's cedar masterpiece.
Hank ducked under the hull, his shoulders disappearing into the cedar frame of the canoe. He rose in one fluid motion, the deerskin of his breechcloth stretching tight across his thighs as he found his center. He looked like a wooden god standing in the gray mist.
I hoisted the dry bags. One on the back, one in a chest-rig in the front. The weight was a physical insult, the straps digging into my pale skin, leaving angry red welts that stung with sweat.
"Ready?" I grunted, my center of gravity dangerously high.
"Move," Hank replied, his voice muffled by the hull.
We moved in a rhythmic, agonizing shuffle. The nothing in between design of our breechcloths meant there was no fabric to chafe, but the raw weight of the gear pressed directly into our muscles. Bonnie circled us, a silent sentinel, her paws clicking on the limestone as we navigated the thirty-foot rise. Every step was a negotiation with the leaden air.
When we finally reached the re-entry point and slid the canoe back into the glassy, oily water, a wave of relief washed over us. We had done it. Happy but exhausted, we were ahead of schedule. I looked at the slate-gray sky and decided that since it hadn't rained yet, maybe this was a lot of concern for nothing.
"Another three hours, we'll hit the flats by four," Hank said, wiping a streak of limestone dust from his chest. "Find a deep bank, set our lair up high, and sleep through whatever is coming."
"Agreed," I said, once again taking bow. I reached back and shifted the deerskin of my breechcloth, ensuring the rectangular flap draped just to the side. Hank needed an unobstructed view so he could keep his scout's eye locked on my channel.
This section of the river was even more active than that above the portage. A regular parade of Texans were out getting a jumpstart on the Fourth of July festivities—unconcerned with the weather. Speedboats, jet skis, micro-skiffs, and bass boats were all zipping by and threading in and out of the array pontoon of boats. We were treated to a stunning sight about halfway through this leg.
A pontoon boat slowly chugged past us to port, the family on board all clustered up front giving us a wave as they passed. They even had two of those hair reaching to Heaven ladies that rivaled our real estate agent I'd seen two hours after landing from Scotland. How they manage to pile it that high, let alone keep it from going all frizz out here on the river baffles me.
As the stern came into view, I spied a dark-haired force of nature, a boy, his cutoffs pushed low enough to reveal a thick, dark pubic patch. He was using two hands on his cock—a testament to his size—while the rest of his family sat just feet away, oblivious in the bow. The most daring move I'd seen all trip!
"Hank!" I hissed, nodding my head in the boy's direction.
"Holy shit!" he whispered back, "Damn, two hands and he still has some showing—that boy is blessed! Paddle faster so we can keep up!"
We dug in, keeping pace with the slow-moving boat, thoroughly enjoying the show the boy was unwittingly putting on for us. He was doing some serious thrusting, driving his cock in and out of his fists. All of a sudden, he looked up and froze mid-stroke—he'd seen us. He started to scramble, but we both flipped our front breechcloths aside, showing him we were huge fans of his performance.
He grinned, and casting a quick look over his shoulder towards the bow of his boat, went right back to work. Hank and I had to keep paddling, otherwise we would have joined him in the stroking. He gave himself one hell of a happy ending—we could see the streams arching out as he came, splattering into the Guadalupe! He pulled up his shorts, gave us a theatrical bow and a wave, then climbed back up to join his family.
"Wow," Hank breathed again as the boy disappeared back into his family's world. "If that's the greeting the river is giving us today, I'm almost okay with the humidity."
It took all of our scout's focus not to pull to shore and put on our own shows for each other. We had a schedule to keep, and Hank was still concerned about the weather—so press on we did. The conversation though was all about our dark-haired friend and his size!
On time, on schedule, we nosed into the river bank by Wagon Ford—a walk-in camp ground that was part of the National Park system. We were still worried by the weather—it was quiet; but an ominous quiet. Better safe than sorry, we did a mini-portage, pulling the cedar canoe and our gear up onto a flat limestone shelf—a good fifteen feet above the river.
After the day-long paddle, the brutal portage, and the encounter with the blessed boy on the pontoon boat, the stillness of the ford felt well earned.
"High enough?" Hank asked, wiping the dust of the trail from his exposed thighs. He looked up at the cedar trees that shaded the terrace. To any Texas scout, this was safe territory—protected from the wind, out of the mud, and high above the emerald channel.
"I'm good," I replied, the rhythmic thud of the mallet against the stake echoing off the limestone. "We're fifteen feet up. Even if the tin roof upstream leaks, we've got a massive buffer."
I looked at the thin soil, then back at the river. "My grandda used to talk about trenching around a tent—digging deep ditches to force the water where you wanted it. It was like they were trying to bend nature to man's will through sheer muscle."
I wiped a lead-bullet of sweat from my brow. "Now, we just work with it. Rain coming? You don't fight the water; you just move higher up. You find the high shelf and let the river have the rest."
Hank paused, "My Amá Sání calls that K'é, Lachlan," he said softly. "It means kinship, but it's more than just that. It's the Navajo way of knowing you are part of a system, not the master of it. If you try to bend the river, the river will eventually break your arm. But if you work with the river, it shows you where the safe ground is—another form of Balance ."
We set up the Lair with familiar ease—the tent was taut, our bags stowed in the corner of the spacious tent, and Bonnie's bed all set. Uncle Deswood's canoe was flipped nearby and secured to a sturdy cypress root, the rest of our gear stored underneath for protection. As the sun became a bruised, orange ghost behind the slate-gray clouds, we made a fire, cooked up our catch from the day and just watched the river.
The Guadalupe was silent as the sun set—no birds, no speedsters now. Hank and I tucked in against each other; bare sides kissing as we scarfed our dinner. We then sat back against a big log, enjoying the dying flames of the fire. I love the look of Hank at any time, but the glow of Hank by firelight is a real treat—when the red-yellow glare from the fire combines with the honey-gold of his skin.
I reached out, my fingers tracing the soft, vulnerable skin of his inner thighs, the reaction was instantaneous. My Fierce Wolf might have been physically spent from the portage, but his body was on high alert. I didn't even get my hand under his breechcloth before the front flap lifted toward Yádiłhił, Father Sky.
"Massage time," I whispered, the warmth of my breath ghosting over his ear.
Hank let out a low, grounding groan, his eyes bright with desire as I helped him up and into the tent. He flopped back on his bed roll, smiling up at me as I stripped off our breechcloths—massage is a dish best served naked! I pulled out the container of Sage for Smudging, lit it and suspended it from one of the tent poles; bathing the tent in the warm, flickering amber of our small lantern. The smoke spiraling up toward the peak like a silent prayer.
Then the jar of Amá Sání's salve, which had been my savior on my very first horse expedition, a three-day event that had me thinking double leg amputation might be a good thing. Hank had saved me back then with leg massages every night; and I'd returned the favor with back rubs. We hadn't yet admitted to our love back then; so that's as far as it went—but we went through a lot of salve!
When I met Hank's grandmom for the first time, she had me help her with crushing of the herbs—where she first observed my Gentle Spirit. That was also when she gave me a fresh jar—noting that she'd heard I really love leg massages and was almost out—even my bum cheeks blushed.
I dipped my fingers into the jar, rubbing the cool, herb-thick cream between my palms. As I began to work the salve into front of Hank's thighs, he let out a long, shuddering exhale. His honey-gold skin drank in the moisture, the red-yellow light of the lantern highlighting the powerful architecture of his legs—muscles still tight from the day's portage. At this point, it was just a massage, so I carefully avoided his hard cock, arching up towards the tent roof, pulsing with his heart beat.
As if reading my thoughts, Hank murmured, "Amá Sání knew," his voice vibrating deep in his chest as I kneaded the tension out of his quads. "She didn't just give you the salve, Lachlan. She gave both of us the path to our Gentle Spirits."
I smiled, my hands moving in the rhythmic, Hank-approved patterns he'd taught me months ago. "She saw who we were before we did, Hank."
Hank grunted at that and rolled over, presenting me with his broad back and adorably tight bum, glowing in the soft light of the tent. I started in on his back as he'd taught me—working slowly up the middle muscles along the spine; then cascading down the sides; rinse and repeat.
I was on my fourth pass, when he mumbled "Lower." I started to shift my hands back down, and got a giggle, "No, lower as in here." He lifted his bum up into my rock-hard shaft and rubbed against it. Okay, I understand the scout signals—massage over. I shifted my legs inside of his and lowered myself down along his cleft. He spread his legs, allowing my cock to slide deeper in as I began to rock back and forth, so every pass would drag across his sensitive pucker.
Hank just moaned and pressed up to meet me each time. Looking down to where our bodies came together—my white Viking cock sandwiched between his honey gold skin; my swollen crown sliding in and out of my sheath with each thrust; was enough to push me over the edge—I shpritz'd his back something fierce.
We then traded places, but I passed on a massage, too tired. I wanted one thing and then I wanted sleep, curled up in the arms of my Fierce Wolf. I lay down on my stomach as Hank had, tucking a folded blanket under me so I was raised up for him. I watched over my shoulder as he rubbed his cock across my glowing bum—the dark against the light.
I shuddered when he leaned in and dropped a wad of spit right in my crack, using that as lube as he rubbed his sheathed crown right against my pucker. If I hadn't been so tired, I would have asked him to take me right then and there. We'd held off until now, but I was ready—soon. I was almost asleep when he shuddered and I felt his ropes draping across my back.
The sage had long since burned out, leaving only a thin, sweet ghost of a scent to mingle with the herbal musk of the salve. We were tangled together, having completed our ritual of heat and release. I was tucked into the curve of Hank's chest, my back against his Fierce Wolf warmth, feeling the rhythmic, heavy thump of his heart settle into a sleep-cadence.
Outside, the rain started, that most peaceful thrumming that puts you into a sound sleep, especially if you're curled up with your scout. The sound of the rain against the taut synthetic fabric was an isolation chamber. It drowned out the world, leaving only the scent of Amá Sání's salve and the Fierce Wolf warmth of Hank's body against mine.
Bonnie, who had been unsuccessfully pacing the corner, suddenly stopped. She didn't look at us. She lay down, but was glued to the small window. Peering out in the dark, her ears flat, as the rhythmic drumming of the rain began to drown out the silence of the canyon.
"It's starting," I murmured, my hands pulling his arms more tightly around me.
"Let it," Hank whispered sleepily, snuggling in more closely. "We're on the high shelf, Lachlan. Let the river do what it wants."
In the middle of the night, I awoke. I sat up, confused, not sure what had happened, half not even remembering where I was. Then I felt it again, something slammed into the side of the tent. Bonnie was on her feet barking furiously. Hank bolted up, turning on the lantern overhead. We both saw Bonnie, water dripping from her belly like she'd been recovering ducks from the salt marsh. Again, the side of the tent lurched.
"The river!" Hank grabbed the dirk I had given him for Christmas and sliced open the side of my tent! "Out now, run!" he ordered as he shoved my bag into my arms. Stark naked, we both dove out of the tent and into the water. I still wasn't computing. The scholar in me was still trying to solve the equation— Fifteen feet. We were fifteen feet up! —but the math didn't matter when the water was already tugging at my ankles.
But I didn't hesitate. Last October when we'd seen the arroyo, Hank had told me the rain doesn't care where you are. If I say run, you run ! Bonnie led the charge, then me, then Hank—the water was already up our shins as we made the way across our ledge.
The air was no longer a lead vest; it was a pressurized scream. The rain was falling so hard it felt like we were being pelted with gravel, with no clothing to soften the smack against our naked skin.
"Go! Up the bluff !" Hank roared over the sound of the river.
The Guadalupe had transformed. The emerald-mercury beauty of the day was gone, replaced by a churning, chocolate-red beast that smelled of rot, wet cedar, and raw power. The slamming we had felt wasn't just water—it was all the debris from upriver battering against the limestone terrace.
We scrambled up the jagged limestone, Bonnie's paws finding purchase and showing us the way. My bare feet slipped on the slick rock, the sharp edges cutting into my soles, but I didn't feel the pain through the adrenaline.
We gained another ten feet of elevation, collapsing onto a higher ledge as we saw a massive wall of debris—tents, coolers, and broken timber from the camps upstream—smashed into the spot where our lair had stood seconds before. My brand-new tent was gone in a heartbeat, swallowed by the midnight black of the flood.
"Look," Hank gasped, pointing down.
In the flash of a lightning strike, the storm revealed the truth. The river hadn't just risen; it had widened, turning the entire canyon into a sluice. We were huddled on a narrow limestone spine, two naked boys and a dog, watching the world we had spent the day peacefully enjoying as a grand scouts' adventure vanish into the maw of a catastrophic event.
"Clothes, we need to get our clothes on, then mover higher!" Hank screamed so I could hear him over the storm and the roar of the river.
I was soaking wet, shivering from the plunge in temperature, so I wasn't going to argue. I hauled out the one pair of jeans I'd brought with me; Hank's hand-me-downs that he'd given me the day I'd capitulated on my campaign against the move from Scotland to Texas. I mean, I'm all for a principled stand, but when the most beautiful boy at Saint Luke's gives you his Levis, which he wears commando , as well as a cowboy hat and boots—you'd show up at your mum's car looking like John Wayne too!
By the time we'd pulled on jeans, shirts and wellies—the only clothes we had, and quickly soaking wet themselves—the water was already crawling up the vertical limestone face, inching toward our toes like a living thing.
"It's not stopping, Hank!" I screamed over the roar, my voice sounding like a whisper against the sound of ancient cypress trees snapping like toothpicks.
Hank gripped my arm, his skin cold but his focus absolute. He looked up the bluff. The limestone here turned into a sheer vertical wall of rock that led to the top of the canyon rim, another fifty feet up.
"We can't stay here," he shouted, his eyes scanning the wall in the strobe-light flashes of lightning. He pointed to a narrow scarp in the rock, a crack barely wide enough for a human body. "There! We have to climb or we're toast!"
The slope was a slurry of wet cedar needles and crumbling limestone. We scrambled up the forty-five-degree incline, our bare knees and palms finding purchase in the mud. By the time my hand gripped the solid root of a mountain laurel at the canyon rim, I was covered in mud.
We hauled ourselves onto the flat, wind-whipped top of the bluff. Behind us, the Guadalupe was a roiling thirty-seven-foot monster, swallowing everything in the river valley.
Bonnie was already moving ahead, nosing onto a narrow, submerged trail. We followed her, flinching against the cold rain, until the trail opened into a small clearing. And there, buffeted in the gale, was the silhouette of a footbridge.
Hank stopped dead, he reached out touching the heavy, lashings on the main cedar post. "Troop Five," he whispered, a grin breaking through the mud on his face. "Lachlan, we built this. Two summers ago. I know exactly where we are ."
Hank confidently led the way. The path easier now, at least we were walking, not crawling of our hands and knees. Bonnie still ranged ahead, but now looking back frequently to make sure we were still going in her direction. Then we saw it in a flash of lightning—the cabin. We stepped up onto the covered porch—covered, but not sheltered from this storm, the rain just came from the one side instead of all around.
Hank moved aside a heavy stoneware pot, and triumphantly held up the key! In seconds were we inside. The cabin smelled of old cedar, wood smoke, and the dry, dusty scent of a rarely used haven. We were out of the storm; the rain. We were still freezing cold. Now more aware of it than ever—our teeth chattering violently. Shivering. Lips blue. Water dripping from our clothes. Stage One hypothermia definitely, on our way to Stage Two. In the dim light of the lightning, Hank's honey-gold skin looked almost gray.
I fished my torch out of my pack and panned it around the room. There wasn't a whole lot to it. A single room. Two beds over in a corner; a fireplace with a couple of comfortable chairs; a table and four chairs over by a kitchen area.
"Fire," Hank managed to gasp, his hands shaking so violently he nearly dropped the key. "Lachlan...beds…over there…pull everything over to the fireplace."
I didn't need a second order. I moved through the dark room, grabbing the mattress and bedding off each bed. I grinned when my hands hit wool. Heavy, scratchy, beautiful wool. I pulled everything over to where Hank was getting a fire going.
We cheated. They had a box of starter logs and a box of strike-anywhere matches. By the time I got the second set of bedding over to the fireplace a small, orange flame was already flaring up and starting to lick at the well-aged firewood.
Through chattering teeth, I managed to get out, "We gotta get out of these clothes…get in under the covers." We stripped off, hanging our dripping clothes over the table chairs and pulling them over close to the fire. I found a pile of towels, so we were able to dry each other off, and then taken care of Bonnie.
The mattress-blanket lair we built in front of the fireplace was a mountain of scratchy wool and heavy quilts. We crawled into the center of it, our shivering Viking-pale and Navajo honey-gold skins finally meeting without the barrier of river mud or freezing rain.
Lachlan," Hank rasped, his head falling back against my shoulder. The gray tint was starting to recede, replaced by a flush of red from the growing fire. "Don't tell the scoutmaster we cheated on building the fire."
I snorted, even in the face of the disaster we were right in the middle of, "I think he'll give us a pass, Hank." I pulled him tighter in against me, "Skin on skin, Hank, it's in the handbook," I managed to say, my own teeth finally settling, under Emergency Huddling ." Already I could feel our cocoon warming. Bonnie snuggled in between our legs and the fire, adding her heat to our mix.
He didn't answer with words—just a long, shuddering sigh of relief as he leaned his full weight back into me. He was warm now, his skin radiating that familiar Fierce Wolf heat. The flood had taken our gear, our food, and Uncle Deswood's masterpiece, but we were still alive.
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