Dinosaurs + Ranchers

Dinosaurs

June 19, 2006

Beaverhead County, Montana (near Lima)

“Don’t,” my second wife Jane of the last thirty-six years protested by scrunching up her lovely face.

Jane prided herself on the belief she knew me best. That she knew everything about me, especially what I was thinking at any given time. For her part, she was usually right. This time, she wouldn’t have a clue.

“What?” I mumbled.

“I can see it in your eyes, Hank Ballard. You’re going to try and give ‘em hell. Remember they’re the ones who’re helping us.”

They were the ones helping us; it was not hard to concede that fact. I mean, honestly, I was the one who had to sign along the dotted line to give the private fossil company permission to excavate my land for dinosaurs, land that had been used for generations for the sole purpose of ranching.

“I wasn’t even studying those bastards.” I said with genuine honesty, looking out at the shirtless being making his way towards the water pump at the back of the house.

It was hard not to stare. The young man had a familiarity about him that made me uneasy. He was nothing more than a lad, a skinny and hairless little brat barely big enough to have leapt from his papa’s lap. His lightly bearded face suggested he was going for manhood and his college buddies vouched he was of drinking age.

“Why don’t you go out there and make nice with them?” Jane asked.

Nice with him? Too old, old man!

Jane added. “Offer them something to drink or something.”

I could have responded to this, but I said nothing of a like. Not to the likes of them. I simply waited for the shirtless boy to return to the excavation site, too embarrassed to recall his name after he had given it to me days earlier. In a fashion of trying my best to ignore him, put him out of my mind, I instantly forgot.

When I got outside in the warm summer heat, I decided to stop by the stable to pull out one of my prized horses and ride back there to the site. It seemed much more gallant than walking back there, and it proved to be highly effective watching the scattered crowd rise to their feet.

“I don’t mean to be a bother, but my wife Jane said that it would be quite proper of me to ask whether any of you would like something to drink, something to eat or something to drink.”

“No thanks, Mr. Ballard,” the group of about five or so said at the discrepancies except for the shirtless boy who hadn’t even bothered to look up from his digging.

“What about him?” I asked the blushing girl whom my wife called Izzy, the one she swore had an “undying” crush on me.

“Manny?” Izzy called out. “Manny!”

“What?” Manny, the shirtless wonder jerked his head up towards her.

“Mr. Ballard was asking you a question.”

Almost as if he didn’t hear her, Manny approached my horse and started patting it along his neck, and said, “You have some beautiful horses, man.”

My first instinct was to smile. The horse I was on was the son of my most prized stud, Clyde. I quickly frowned instead at the blatant lack of respect I was given. “I’m not your ‘man,’ boy. I’m your Sir.” I corrected the boy in my sternest tone. As a man that had passed six decades in good health and was nearest my seventh in the same fashion, I deserved, at least, that reverence. And when I saw Manny got the point, I added, “Secondly, this just isn’t any horse, this is a pure-bred Andalusian, native to Spain.”

“I know,” Manny said, wiping the corner of his tear-stained eyes with his forearm.

“Dust,” I murmured to him.

“Yeah,” he answered, deepening his voice as he constantly blinked his eyes at me. “It’s burning.”

“That’s what happens when you mix dirt and sweat around your eyes. C’mon,” I said reaching my hand out to him and hoisting him into my saddle in front of me. “I’ll take you back in to get cleaned up.”

The ride back to the homestead was barely three-quarters of a mile away, but on that short trip, I gained a great insight into my new friend. He was the grandson of a charro (Mexican cowboy), and his father used to be a world-renowned veterinarian who owned several horses, including a couple of Andalusians. That was before his father died, but not before his father had promised to take him riding when he was older.

August 19, 2006

Madison County, Montana (near Hogback Mountain)

“Got everything?”

I was sitting atop of the Son of Clyde when I saw Manny doing a quick run-through of his handwritten list of all the items he had saddled to my black quarter horse.

After a couple months and some days, Manny had become somewhat of a permanent fixture around the house when he wasn’t on sight, discovering more fossils of a baby dinosaurs and ancient insects. It soon became obvious to Jane and me that in spite of his incredible work out in the field Manny was growing homesick, being so far away from his hometown of Nacozari, on the other side of the Rio Grande. His conversations always started out innocently, reminiscing about his mother and home before growing a certain fondness for my horse that somehow connected him to his father and his work.

Of course, Jane was the first to go out of her way to meet him emotionally, telling him about her days as a Canadian cowgirl, which she later twisted my arm to tell him about my days in the rodeo to losing my father shy of my twentieth birthday. For the oddest reason, I broke down and told him about the two herd runs I made to Miles City on the other side of the state: one alongside my father and another I did with some Blackfoot Indians when he got sick with pneumonia.

“Checked your little list?” I asked, checking his list again.

“I believe so,” he said.

And from our stories, that was how we got here, at the foot of Hogback Mountain, after I promised to take him out riding before he went back home for the start of fall semester in Ciudad Juárez.

“Did you leave anything around the campsite?”

Since we made it out this far, twenty or so miles away from home, I was proof positive whatever he left or was going to leave would surely be back in Lima. Or if nothing more, something we could have easily picked up once we came back through.

“I swear you are worse than a woman!” I cursed, a half-hour later after he jumped on his horse and followed me alongside the national forest.

Even though I wasn’t crazy enough to ride a horse virgin all the way out to Miles City, I didn’t make a point for us to end our make around Ennis, sitting near the base of Lone Mountain, another thirty miles ahead on the other side of Virginia City.

Manny and I rode in silence for the most part taking in as much of the breathless scenery as we could. And whenever I felt up to hearing one of his homespun stories of being the son of a white veterinarian and his mother, the daughter of one of the richest ranch-owning charros in the world, he indulged me. While in the spirit of sharing, I told him some of the old stories I had heard about my grandfather and his father and so on, about having to take herds of cattle and sheep from Virginia City to Miles City and back, sometimes making special trips to Ft. Buford in North Dakota, at points where the old trails ended.

With the help of racing the horses from time to time and taking the straightest route possible, we made our thirty-mile trek to Lone Mountain just shy of sundown, where we set up camp for the night.

It was after we ate dinner and the night was settling in around the campfire, I told Manny about riding out here with my father, the one and only chance I ever got.

“I could’ve come here with him when I was about fourteen or fifteen, but my grandfather, who was still living at the time, wasn’t having it. He wanted me to stay in the books and mind my schoolteacher, who happened to be his fourth or fifth wife.”

“He was the one that died when you were sixteen?”

I nodded my head. “By then, I was already finished with high school, so I missed out on joining them then. And when I was seventeen, I was in Helena in college.”

“So, when you turned eighteen you were back at home and joined him.”

“Yeah,” I smiled at the campfire, remembering it was then he bought me my first new saddle with the prize money he won from saddle broncing the year before. “Though, he honest to goodness didn’t really need me. The year before my grandfather died, my father hired five Blackfoot Indians. And by the time, I came into the fold after I couldn’t afford another year in school. He cut his workers down to three.”

I said nothing more after this, reminded that it was not far from here that it happened, a little over fifty years to be exact. It had been so many years I nearly forgot about them, or it.

“So, when you were nineteen,” Manny beamed. “It was just you and the Indians.”

“Yeah,” I murmured. That was the year my father came down with pneumonia.

“That must’ve been fun. I mean, even though you didn’t come out and say it, it sounded like your father was the oddball out of the group. While he held onto being a devout Christian, it sounded like your grandfather and those Indians were always out for a nice furrow—if you will.”

I left this alone, too, telling Manny it was probably best we turned in for the night considering we had a long, hard ride. A ride we promised to double back once daybreak arrived.

August 20, 2006

Ennis, Montana (near Lone Mountain)

The tent grew hot that night.

It grew intensely hot, immensely hot, unlike the lights of the cold chilly night before had brought. And though I was awake, sweating like a wrongdoer who just got caught in the act, I had my eyes closed tight reliving certain flashes of that night fifty years ago.

As awful as it sounds, I soon got into it, my slaughter, my rape, by clenching my hole as tight as I could against him, wordlessly urging him to cum. And when he finally did, flooding me with his seeds, he got up off me and spat at the back of my head as if I was some stupid nineteen-year-old whore he just screwed for the fun of it.

Before I could get a better sense of what had taken place, he returned to his place on top of me. So, I thought, as he entered me in the same brutal fashion he recently left me, rough and detached. But the musky scent of this new guy let me to believe he certainly was another. I became certain of this once he tried to balance himself with one hand on my shoulder. He was heavier. His choppy rhythm seemed oddly more calculated than his predecessor.

Once he finished with my ass, he left the tent, and then in their native tongue egged the other one to climb into my tent. He did—but unlike the other two, he closed the tent blocking out the moon and stars and them from seeing what he was about to do.

Instead of just going at it, my hole fucked and slimed, he turned me over slowly onto my back. Even though the tent was as dark as the night, I could make out his face. I saw him, the middle one that should have been the first and the only one that night.

He gave me an apologetic smile, letting me know he had no control over the situation and that he wanted me to know his Blackfoot brothers hadn’t ruined me to the point of not enjoying him after my ordeal.

To this, I reached up, pulled him on top of me, and began kissing him.

Our make-out session was long and slow but passionate, nonetheless. We were trying to grab hold of each other, slick with sweat, as our moves could not have been better choreographed as he was pressed fully into me, in the thick of the slimy mess made my hole especially slick for him.

He fucked me. But unlike his friends, he wasn’t unforgiving, seeming to make sure for every stroke he put into me I was okay. He fucked me for a very long time, finding the courage to go hard and deeper each time before it became nothing more than his heavy balls drumming against my poor ass.

I cried out. He was pounding against something inside of me that made me wanted to lose control, lose control of my bodily functions. Before I did however, he screamed and hit hot powerful load unrepentantly jetted inside of me and joined in with the rest of the gang.

We disengaged; or rather I push him off me. He thought it was something wrong, but it wasn’t, something grabbed a hold of me, and I did the same with him, sucking off his softening dick tasting all of them.

For that moment, it was just him and me, that was before the other two came back into my tent and discovered us, forcing me to suck off one while the other took my ass again for a second time until everyone had taken their turns, and I had passed out.

When I found the courage to open my sweat-burned eyes, Manny laid tucked in his sleeping bag unperturbed by the heat or my recollections. Of course, he had no reason to—with my recollections that is. As I looked at Manny as he slept, in the dark, he once again had the familiarity about him that made me uneasy. He reminded me of the second Blackfoot to enter my tent that night, the one that held me down with his hand. Except Manny was skinny and still boyish-looking while the second Blackfoot was short and stout with a whiskery-thin mustache but with same sort of baby face features that favored the two.

I climbed out of the tent, as gentle as I could without bringing the whole thing down and then closed it back up behind me. Going by where the moon was in relation to the mountain and stars, it was well passed midnight. And a few steps later, my sweat-drenched body was dried by the chilling air. Though, it failed to do anything else other than bring my attention an aching erection guided me through the dark.

The moon and the stars were shimmering off of Ennis Lake by the time I realized where I had wandered off to. I almost didn’t recognize the area, since it had changed, and yet remained the same over the past fifty years. Except for the paved road nearby and some other landmarks, I probably wouldn’t have eyed the spot, the campsite, of where my life took its faithful turned, just only a few yards away from where we were camping.

The recollections of that night flooded my head again. I was horny because of it. The spontaneity of that night, the taboo of it all was the thing that still burned in my loins after all these years, despite the reality behind it all.

Before I knew it, I was massaging my crotch through my jeans. And a few minutes after that, I had my fly open jerking off with not a care in the world to the late-night lake. I was about to climb to the point of no return when I heard Manny drop down to his knees and he started sucking my cock.

“Oh, boy,” I mustered up, trying to find the words to get him to stop. But the words weren’t coming at all. His mouth felt so fucking good I was unsure if I really wanted him to let me go.

“This is wrong,” I said. When my big head outthought the little head, I plucked it out of his mouth. “What the fuck is wrong with you, boy?”

Looking up at me with shame in his eyes, Manny said nothing. He was probably too nervous, too humiliated, perhaps. “I was helping you out.”

“Helping me out,” I spat.

“Yeah,” he said rather quickly. “Last night, you mumbled in your sleep about some hole being slick for him. And tonight, you said something about wanting him to suck you off.”

I tried to make sense of it all. With the help of a few misplaced words, it could have made sense, remembering both of my wives said I had a nasty habit of talking in my sleep.

“I’m old enough to be your….” I let my words die.

He stuck his tongue out and licked the tip of my head, and said, “But you’re not.”

Manny took me into his mouth again. Before I could give another protest, he called me by name, and started massaging my balls in his mouth.

He deep throated me masterfully, reaching for my hand to grab the back of his head, teasing me in and out of his throat as if he wanted me to fuck his mouth. I did, of course, and before long I felt as if I was going to cum then and there.

“This is wrong.” I admitted to myself. Not because of the sheer obvious reasons, like I was married or that he was some young punk and I was some old fart. But because of my anxiousness to cum: my choices being either cum on his face or down his throat.

So I created another choice, and I grabbed him by the hair and pulled him off of my cock again.

“What’s wrong now, Hank?”

“Nothing…except,” I murmured partially embarrassed.

“You want some ass, don’t you?” Manny said unabashed.

I nodded, as if he could see me in the darkness. But it seemed he got my point, taking one long last lick at my cock and led me back to the tent.

“I think we’ll do better in here.” Manny said, plopping his body down onto his bag on the ground. “You want me on my back or on my stomach?” And again, before I could say anything else, he interrupted, “I would like to be on my back, you have the sort of face I want to look at when you’re on top of me.”

“The sort of face?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he breathed hard, “That handsome, older guy face of yours.” He practically ripped off my shirt, when he added, “Did you honestly think I rode back with you because I got sweat in my eyes that day a couple of months ago? Or I had to make that many trips to the water pump? And no offense to Jane, but she isn’t that great of a cook.”

Jane, I thought.

I quickly put her out of my mind. I had Manny right here. I had already let him suck me off—I had already gone this far.

Before I had clearly made up my mind on exactly what I was going to do, I felt the cool tingle of lube against the outside of his puckered hole. He had this planned all along. I pushed in, and he let out a small whimper. Without a doubt, he was tight, and he was a little experienced as he ground his hips against my pelvic bone and begged me to fuck him. So, I did. And to the surprise of both of us, I fucked him with such passion and fervor it felt as if I were three men attempting to conquer one hole, or rather milking three loads out of the same hole.

Not mine this time, his.

Manny shot his first and second loads as generous lube for me to use on his sweet little hole, as I forced him to stay impaled on my cock throughout the duration. By the time his third load came, he was barely able to muster up a dribble while I called out to the high heavens, shooting my first load deep inside of him.

By the time morning came, I was fired up again, just as I was when I was nineteen, and I fucked Manny in what was left of our juices inside his hole as sort of a wakeup call to get him going. Of course, it should go without saying my unannounced cock in his tight ass is cause for a rude awakening, but a welcomed awakening nonetheless, especially when it was followed up by his tongue cleaning our cruddy loads off my cock.

After that, we caught our breaths.

We reappeared out of the tent, into the daylight, ate breakfast and returned to our horses without another word passing between us. No talks of his grandfather the charro or his late father the veterinarian or anymore stories of past cowboys and ranchers.

It was just us. Just silence.

August 22, 2006

Beaverhead County, Montana (near Lima)

When we returned to the ranch a couple of days later, my heart sank at the thought of Manny heading back to Mexico. But I kept my humbled words, vowing not to say a word to him as he left, fearing if I said anything more, I could confess the torment and abandon I felt that night fifty years ago, and that he meant more to me than just some awesome fuck. He closed a significant chapter for me in my life.

As Manny pulled off, my eyes did talk, apparently louder than I would have liked. Because as Jane and I waved at the van hauling him and his friends away, Jane, who believed she knew everything about me, especially what I was thinking in any given moment, said, “I hope that little fix of yours holds you for a good long while ‘cause while those three old Blackfoot friends of yours in town don’t mind getting you that horny goat weed, I can’t find a soul who is willing to sell you some of their little blue pills just so you can get laid again!”