The sun had set several hours ago, the heat of the day forgotten as the desert fell under a mantle of cold night air. The horse was as exhausted as I was, and I felt her stumble over hidden snake holes and grassy roots as we trudged through the unending sand berms of the valley. She couldn't go on much longer. If the old girl failed me, I was surely a dead man. I was not equipped to spend the night in this frigid wasteland. I had assumed when I left Doogan's Creek that afternoon that it would be an easy three-hour ride to Indian Bend, the next town. Supplies and food would be there waiting, and a fresh horse to carry me to the mine. I had no way of knowing the trail would divide, and taking the wrong path would lead me to this barren, harsh conclusion.

My mount pushed through some scrub, and began to follow an arroyo that ran alongside a path of parched mud, as hard as clay tiles. I thought this might be a wise path to follow, as there may be some settlements along the dry creek. I allowed her to lead as we plodded through the cold, waterless wilderness. I pulled my last bit of jerky out of the saddlebag and began chewing it, extracting what nourishment I could from the small shred of desiccated buffalo meat. The only sound was the desolate howl of the coyote on the bluffs, still several miles to the west.

The mare was faltering. Her steps became hesitant, her wheezing breath forming great drafts of steam as she exhaled. The horse suddenly spooked as we stepped around a sharp bend in the creek bed. I couldn't figure what was making her so skittish until, snorting and bucking; she reared up on her hind legs and threw me from my mount. I fell to the rocky sand, hitting my head on a protruding boulder. I saw the horse galloping from me, with a sudden burst of newfound energy. She careened through the bend and disappeared. I heard her frightened whinny for a while after she vanished into the cold arid darkness. I turned my head to focus on a new sound that buzzed in my aching skull--the sound of a rattler, shaking its percussive tail in my face.

Instinctively, I pulled my Bowie knife from the holster attached to my belt. The snake stared into my face, just inches from me, and shook with rage. It's sleek, shiny coils contracted and I sensed it was about to strike. I held the knife in front of my chest as the spiral unleashed, the snake's diamond-shaped head flying towards my eyes. I slashed out with the blade and the razor-sharp edge sliced through the open maw of the serpent, cutting the end of it's jaw clear through. It fell to the dust, still shuddering in rage. I had killed the rattler more by luck than skill, and I shivered to think of the consequences if the thing had bitten me. It took several minutes for me to regain my composure, and assess my situation. I was bleeding from the back of my head and my shoulder ached as a result of falling from the mare, but nothing seemed to be broken. I picked myself up and began to hike in the general direction of the bluffs. The plaintive cry of the coyote, my unwelcome companion, was the only sound as I strode blindly into the desolate darkness.

I picked up the unmistakable smell of an open fire as I followed the arroyo. I followed the scent of smoke into a gully and stumbled through a small pass in an outcropping of sandstone. As I came around the bend, I saw a campfire a few yards ahead. I ran in the direction of the blaze then froze at the edge of the clearing, too late to turn back. There before me were three Indians, a tribal hunting party, their arrows aimed directly at my chest. I threw myself to the ground on all fours, a sign of submission, as the men surrounded me.

The Indians bound my ankles and tied my wrists together behind my back with buckskin straps. I lay helpless on the ground, the sand stinging my eyes, as the men had a heated discussion. I knew I was the topic of their argument. The largest of the Indians, a big mountain of a man with greasy black pigtails and a flat face, obviously wanted to just kill me and be done with it. He slashed me with his blade, cutting into my face, a warm trail of blood forming on my cheek. The second buck thought this was hilarious. He was almost as big, his wide chest and well-developed biceps exposed under the thin doeskin he wore over his shoulders. He took a deep swig of white-man's whiskey from a bottle. He had a sly, malevolent grin on his face as he touched my arms and ran his hands under my shirt. I saw where he was headed! The desert was a lonely place to live, and men had needs, even heathen Indians. I myself had been with many men over the years. What the hell, a fuck is a fuck, and I make no excuses. Women are few and far between, and months on the trail can take away a man's inhibitions. Things that would be unthinkable back in Wichita are suddenly just what you need.

The third redskin watched from the edge of the fire. He had been silent while the other two squabbled over my aching body. He was not the largest of the three, but was the most impressive. He was tall, strong and most handsome from a white man's perspective. His long aquiline nose had a European shape, and his high cheekbones and narrow face looked Caucasian. Only his skin color, a deep ruddy sienna brown, made reference to his native origins. His body was lean and powerfully built: strapping arms of sinew and muscle, bulging thighs and calves like bands of steel. I felt my cock rousing in my pants, despite my dire situation. He strode over to us and stood in the glow of the flames.

The two Indians had flipped me on my back, and the fat one was slicing at my belt with his knife. The other man tore my shirt from my shoulders, and pulled me to my feet by the hair. I was sexually excited, my torso exposed to the chill night air. My nipples hardened and my cock grew stiff. I marveled at the feeling, knowing I could be raped, or dead any second! I stood weakly before them, my shredded pants in a heap around my ankles, my shoulders and chest exposed and shivering. My head still throbbed from my fall. Despite the cold, the fear and the loathing, my dick stood aggressively erect and jutted stiffly from my abdomen. The drunken Indian couldn't stop laughing at me. He grabbed my balls and twisted them. I groaned in agony and dropped to my knees. I lay crumpled at their feet as the two proceeded to kick and beat me.

The third Indian came up behind us, and drew his blade. I saw a look of surprise in my tormentor's eyes as they pulled off me and backed away into the shadows. The handsome one pulled me up, and I staggered across the clearing with him to his blanket. He eased me down and I collapsed into the thick, roughly woven wool. The warmth of the fire felt odd on my naked flesh after being exposed to the cold for so long. He sat cross-legged in front of me. I saw that the other two redskins would leave me alone, as long as I was in the handsome one's camp. Sleep came to me fitfully, as the fire burned down to embers and the Indians made peace with each other over the whiskey bottle.

The next morning, I was given a ragged loincloth to wear, and the handsome one pulled me up behind him on his stallion. I straddled his hips; my hands tied firmly to the saddle, the leather straps tightening on my wrists as they dried in the heat of day. The other two followed, grumbling and shouting obscenities at us. I suppose they didn't approve of bringing souvenirs home from the hunt. He also wore a loincloth, and a wool blanket over his shoulders that he dropped as the midday sun warmed the desert sand. I felt his muscular back pressed into my hairy chest, his wide shoulders just inches from my face. I could smell the fragrance of tobacco, pine and smoke in his long inky-black hair. He wore an unusual breastplate made of juniper berries, called ghost beads, in an intricate pattern of blue thunderbirds on a white background. This handsome one was not an ordinary brave; he must have earned distinction in battle to wear such a strong totem of power. My cock grew hard as it pressed into his thick buttocks. He noticed my erection, and gave me a sly grin. He reached down and placed his hand on my bare thigh. I understood his meaning without a word, and laid my head on his sturdy back.

We arrived in the village early that night. The three horses and four riders plodded into the common place among the wigwams as the rest of the tribe gathered to welcome the hunters home. There was much commotion about me, and many unpleasant gestures made in my direction. The other two hunters gave me a final slap across the head and went off towards their huts, too tired from the journey to care any more about the ugly white man. The handsome one untied me from my perch on the horses back, and led me away from the crowd and into what must be his hut. I was still tightly trussed, and the Indian pulled me along by my bound wrists. He shoved me through the entrance of the wigwam, and I fell to my knees on the dirt inside. There was a young woman, tending a small fire in the middle of the enclosure. She looked at me in surprise. The handsome one followed me in, grabbed the girl's hair and pushed her towards the opening. She left silently, a look of disgust in her fiery black eyes. I collapsed into a buffalo hide mat at the far side of the hut. The handsome one removed his heavy woolen garments and, stripped to his loincloth, knelt next to me on the ground.

I looked up at him, his fiercely attractive face looming over me, as I lay helpless in the thick mat of fur. His arms were strong and bulky, dropping from broad rock-hard shoulders. I looked up into his moist armpits hovering over my face as he reached across me to fetch a small leather box. I smelled the intense musky scent coming from his body, heady and pungent. He pulled a folded cloth out of the box, and drew a gnarled brown root from the folds. The handsome one broke off a small piece of the root and, lifting my head, placed it in my mouth. My brain told me to resist, to spit it out! But, oh, he was so gentle. He held my head softly and patiently as I struggled. His big calloused hand held my mouth shut, while humming soft encouragement in my ear. I finally gave in to him, and chewed the root. Its bitter essence filled my mouth, and warmed the back of my throat.

I felt a buzzing in my head. The smoke from the fire seemed to envelop me; I was swimming in a hazy gray mist. I saw the handsome one take a piece of the root into his mouth, chewing on it as he untied my straps. Released, my body lifted up off the buffalo pelt and I floated high into the air. The man stripped off his loincloth. He joined me, spinning in the swirls of smoke, far above the dirt floor. His body was magnificent. His flesh was deep brown, like wet cedar, his hair the color of the northern sky, his eyes glittered like the bellies of fish in the cold mountain river. He reached out and caught me as I floated past, stripping my loincloth from my waist. Our bodies, lighter than air, swam together in the smoky haze. I touched the deep scars on his shoulders, reminders of many battles. I ran my hands down his substantial arms, across his smooth hairless belly to his enormous cock. I held it in my hand as he pressed his face into my chest, licking the pale blonde hairs that cover my body. He pushed his big hand between my legs, pulling on my balls with his thick fingers. I moaned as his hand slipped further between my legs, and I felt his thick thumb rubbing on my asshole. I had fucked many men, but I had never been violated myself.

But now I was ready, I wanted this man to take me! The handsome one pushed back on my shoulders, and we tumbled head over heels, spinning dizzily, swirling down into the soft mound of fur. I felt his weight as he settled onto me, heavy and overpowering. His skin felt hot as fire, as if he was scorching me with every touch of his flesh. I pulled him closer as his hips spread my legs wide. I felt his torso bucking and straining as his cock pressed against my asshole. He held my head and brushed his soft cheek against my heavy beard. I felt it enter me, felt his huge manhood sliding into my hole, filling me. The pain was intense, but I only sensed it, as if it were some other ass being ripped open. I felt only the incredible satisfaction of the handsome one deep inside my body. We seemed to float off the floor again, our bodies united.

He was so formidable; I was as fragile as the morning ice beneath his feet. He could snap me like a twig, but instead I felt him caressing me, holding me tenderly as I trembled in his arms. He continued to thrust steadily into me, his moans and sighs telling me that I was giving him what he wanted. I felt his erection growing, swelling, and I felt the throbbing of his heartbeat in his potent balls cupped in my hand. They were tight, full, and ready to burst. Suddenly they contracted as he plunged his meaty shaft entirely in my gut, and let loose a thick stream of his essence into my willing body. We continued to drift upward in the buckskin tent, through the smoke hole, out into the soft cold wind blowing over the desert. We drifted together, entwined in each other's arms, until sleep brought us back to earth.

The years went by. The handsome one, Achuk-ka, brought me to live in his household. It was not uncommon in native tribes for great warriors and esteemed hunters to keep younger men as sexual partners. I developed Indian ways, and became less and less European. I was soon indistinguishable from the other tribe members, with the obvious exception of my golden hair. I was slowly accepted by his women, and grew to love them as well. Achuk-ka was a generous and kind lover, so I enjoyed the females of his household and we often had sex together as a group. But my favorite times were when I was with Achuk-ka, we shared the root, and flew together as one.

 

Jimmy Gordon

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