A Scottish Scout in Geronimo's Land
by Toby Johnston
Introduction
Introduction
Author's Note: The moment I saw the challenge image; I knew the story belonged against the backdrop of the historic floods in the Guadalupe River basin. I envisioned my protagonist as a young Scottish Scout, Lachlan MacKenzie—a stranger in a strange land—transplanted to Texas much like Morgan in Mark Twain's A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court .
They say a story writes itself; in this case, it ran away from me. Before I knew it, the manuscript surpassed a hundred pages and I hadn't even put the canoe in the river yet. After consulting with my editors and advisors, Bensiamin and MJC, I made a tactical decision: the story that follows will focus exclusively on the high-stakes events on the Guadalupe River over the 4 th of July weekend.
The Scottish Scout Prequel, at two hundred pages the longest story I've ever written will be a separately published story. What follows in this introduction is a summary of events leading up to the time on the river, providing the essential context for this writing challenge. If you find Lachlan and Hank's bond intriguing, you'll be able to dive much deeper in the prequel.
Lachlan MacKenzie: At fifteen, I've lived nine years in Scotland and three each in France and Germany. I knew Da was up for another career move, and I'd been holding out for a gay-friendly European capital. Instead, I got the Bible Belt: MAGA country, dinner-plate belt buckles, and Texas hair that defies gravity. I met the relocation with a four-stage tactical plan: Delusive Denial, Clandestine Insurgency, Defiance, and Capitulation . All failed miserably. By the end of August, I was crossing the border into Texas with maximum reluctance.
Still defiant, I vowed never to succumb to the local uniform of denim, leather boots, and Stetson-wearing masses. That vow survived exactly two weeks. On the first day of school, I stood up to introduce myself, and the only girl in the room without a bleach-blonde Texas-sized hairstyle turned around. Not a girl, as I'd assumed from the back, but a boy. An American Indian boy with a black ponytail, the most arresting face, and the most wonderful smile I'd ever seen. I was literally speechless—my resistance plan dying a quiet death on the spot. Eventually, I recovered enough to deliver my clever icebreaker: a lame joke about being on a secret mission for the King to see if the British Empire wanted the Colonies back.
A girl named Paige clamped her hand on my arm the second the teacher cut us loose, gushing over my exotic and smart English accent. My attempt to explain the nuances of Scottish geography, but she looked at me like I was a clever poodle and gave me my very first Texas Bless your heart —apparently, I was the one who didn't realize what a teeny-tiny island the United Kingdom was.
Hank rescued me from the geography lesson, joking that his job was to keep an eye on this Tory spy. As it turned out, he was a bona fide Son of the American Revolution—half Navajo and half Green Mountain Boy. Even better, he was a Boy Scout and a cross-country runner. Since that was my sport, too, the friendship was born. By the end of that first day, we'd even seen each other naked in the locker room.
By the next morning, my resistance movement shifted to full-scale collaboration. I officially abandoned my planned scout Troop for Hank's. That weekend, we were headed into rattlesnake country, where the scoutmaster's orders were non-negotiable: denim and high boots. Having arrived in Texas without a single pair of jeans as a matter of principle, I was woefully unprepared.
Hank intervened with a bundle of hand-me-downs: three pairs of jeans, hiking boots, and a black cowboy hat. He was so cute and nervous, admitting he thought the black brim would look really good against my pale skin. When I finally ran to the car, Mum nearly lost it—claiming I looked less like her Scottish son and more like an extra from a John Wayne movie.
Our bond deepened through the shared rhythm of school, cross-country trails, and scout meetings. During a quiet overnight trip, within the intimacy of our tent, we finally voiced the depth of our feelings—moving from friends to Best Mates .
In October, I met his grandmother—the Amá Sání, Clan Matriarch, of the Navajo Towering House Clan. I felt her scrutiny the moment we met; I was being examined, studied, and tested by a master. Apparently, I passed, as she invited me back every Sunday for what became a spiritual apprenticeship. Under her guidance, I discovered my Gentle and Warrior Spirits. She told me my true challenge was to embrace the Gentle while finding a perfect balance with the Warrior—the same path of internal harmony faced by my Hank, who, I was delighted to learn, had the Navajo name of Hashkeh Mąʼiitsoh , Fierce Wolf.
The day after Thanksgiving marked a watershed event: my adoption into the Towering House Clan. The process began with a grueling morning in the sweat lodge—four rounds of intense heat, introspection, and probing questions. It was within that steam that I finally revealed my true Gentle spirit, for the very first time speaking aloud that I was gay and deeply in love with Hank.
The world didn't implode. Better yet, Hank's hand remained steady on my thigh the entire time; my naked thigh as we were wearing nothing but super thin, deerskin breechcloths. At the conclusion, Amá Sání bestowed my Navajo name: Nabaahí Yas Joobaʼí , or Compassionate Snow Raider. It was a title that bridged my two halves: Compassionate for my Gentle spirit; Snow for my Scottish-Nordic blood; and Raider to honor my Warrior Spirit and that of my Viking ancestors.
Leading up to the ceremony, our connection had hummed with a series of increasingly intimate gentle-warrior moments: the massage of sore muscles after a first-time ride, the unselfconscious closeness of peeing together in the wilderness, and a pulse-pounding encounter on Thanksgiving Day where my hand found its way beneath Hank's sweat-soaked deerskin leggings—touching him there for the first time. It was incredibly erotic, yet every breakthrough ended in a frustrating interruption.
Amá Sání, ever the observant matriarch, understood our needs better than we did. She granted us the Clan hogan—a traditional Navajo home—for two days of absolute solitude. Within those timber-and-earth walls, we made up for every lost moment and then some. By the time we stepped back into the world, we had crossed the final threshold: we were no longer just Best Mates; we were lovers.
Over the next six months, our relationship and love only deepened. For his birthday, I had given him a MacKenzie Clan dirk and sgian dubh, my way of adopting him into my clan. For mine, he had given me an amazing Navajo tomahawk that he had hand forged—Damascus steel, the pattern in the blade looked like running water. We wore both whenever scouting—a symbol of our souls and our worlds coming together.
Voting
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