A Scottish Scout in Geronimo's Land

by Toby Johnston

Chapter 4

Warrior and Gentle Spirits Unite

It was still raining steadily when I woke, the skies through the windows still a dark, leaden gray. I had to think for a moment—it was the fifth, yes the fifth of July. Hank lay next to me on his back, dead to the world. His beautiful mane once again a tangled mess; but perfectly framing those glass-cutting cheekbones. His long black eyelashes fluttered, then stilled.

I slipped ever so carefully out from under the blankets and padded over to the fire to restock more fuel. Then it was back to my Hank. Mission success, I regained my place at his side without disturbing him and just watched. My heart surged, flooding my body with a tremendous warmth.

Ten months since he took my voice away, literally as I was about to make my new kid in class intro at Saint Luke's, and he still overwhelmed me. I remembered standing there, my brain frozen, staring at the boy in the third row with the black mane and an intensity that made the rest of the room disappear.

Then I realized Hank was awake; his coal-black eyes silently watching me as my mind had travelled back to my first days in America. "Morning," he whispered, a bright smile on his face.

"Morning," I whispered back—it only seemed right, maintaining the sanctity of our cocoon.

He looked pensive for a moment. "Yesterday was insane," he shuddered.

I nodded, "I was bloody terrified. I only got through it because you were so brave."

"Me? Brave? I was shitting bricks! You were the friggin' Rock of Gibraltar."

"A rock that had to hold onto his boyfriend so his quaking knees wouldn't give out."

Hank started silently laughing, "I thought you knew how scared I was and put your arm around my waist to comfort me."

"I guess we both made each other braver scouts…" I just shook my head, only beginning to process the magnitude of the last two days. But I pushed those thoughts to the back of my mind; not the time or place.

I took a deep breath, "Hashkeh Mąʼiitsoh, I'm ready."

Hank's eyes got big, we didn't often use our Navajo names, just a casual Wolf and Raider. He instantly understood the significance. "Are you sure, Nabaahí Yas Joobaʼí?" love and concern in his eyes.

"I couldn't be more sure, more ready. I want to mate with you; and you to me," I beamed, "I was ready before the rain started. In our tent, I was just too tired."

"I love you," he whispered. He didn't just say it; he exhaled the words into the small space between us. Then his eyes sparked with a knowing glint. "Where's the half-crown? We need to decide who goes first!"

I shook my head, a private, steady smile taking hold. "Nope. Don't need grandda's crown. Choice is obvious—I love your bum; you're obsessed with mine!"

Hank let out a low, rough chuckle, "Guilty, I freely confess to all charges." He threw back our covers. "Roll over," his voice thick and husky.

He took charge as I settled in on my stomach, pushing my legs up and out, making my bum rise up just enough. I felt him settle in between my legs, then shuddered as his warm breath caressed my cheeks.

He started slow, gently. Kissing, licking, his fingers lightly grazing, "So perfect—tight, round, so white!" My heart was already pounding, but it kicked up a notch when he pulled my cheeks apart. I buried my face in the pillow, a breathless, jagged sound escaping me.

His tongue. That incredible, long tongue. Dancing across my pucker—circling, flicking. Then, good God, he pushed it in! Not all the way, but the sensation of the tip definitely inside me sent a shot of pure molten heat straight to my core.

I was bucking and squirming like a hooked bass in the rapids, my body arching, twisting against the bed in a spasmodic rhythm I couldn't control. My fingers gripping the bedsheets until my knuckles went white. Only his firm hands held me in place, right where I wanted to be. I just whimpered into the pillow.

I felt a rush of cold as he pulled back, again the command "Roll over," his voice still husky, now panting heavily.

On my back, I looked up at my warrior, his chest heaving, his eyes pure lust—a mirror of mine. His broad shoulders tapered down to that nothing waist, a perfect vector leading to his groin. There, his thick cock curved and throbbing, the thick velvet sheath slicked back, his crown drooling a long string of pre-cum.

Hank reached over to his pack, fishing out a small jar. I recognized that jar—Amá Sání—my eyebrows shot up. Hank smiled, "No massage. This is Pinyon Resin Salve, super slippery, lube. Pull your knees up…"

My mind shot to a place I definitely didn't want it to go—did Amá Sání know why Hank needed lube? As Hank pressed his lubed finger slowly into my pucker, though, my mind went blissfully, completely blank. I let out a low hum; my eyes fluttering shut as my hips involuntarily rose to meet him. Then came the second, stretching me. I gasped at the third, but just like in cross-country, I knew proper stretching was a must. A Scout must prepare himself, the handbook says…

I popped my eyes back open when I felt him pull out, then watched breathless, as he scooted forward, bringing his swollen, plum colored crown up against me. He pushed; I remembered to push back.

At first, nothing, my pucker held firm. Then I could feel it relaxing, my body yielding to the pressure. Hank pressed harder, and breached—I let out a jagged, sharp gasp! My fingers flew to his hipbone, pressing.

He stopped instantly, his face awash with a look of fear and concern, "Did I hurt you?"

I grimaced playfully, "Nope, just surprised. Remember, you're thicker than I am!" I took a deep breath and nodded okay , easing up on my fingers.

Ever so gently, ever so slowly, he pushed in. Pausing, each time I pressed on his hip, to let me get used to it. And then he was in, all the way. I felt his warm crown jewels grazing my bum. We both locked eyes; a breathless, giddy wonder plastering our faces. I slowly started gliding my fingers from his hips, over to his navel, then up to his chest, grazing every groove of his abs along the way.

"Oh, Lachlan, so tight, so warm, so soft," he whispered in pure wonderment and joy.

He started rocking back and forth, his cock pulling ever so slightly out and the pressing back in. A little more each time, until he was thrusting in a steady, unrelenting cadence. The Warrior Spirit taking over from the Gentle Spirit. I was gasping, breathless, my hands now anchored to his shoulders, flexing my body to match his cadence as I tried to envelop every inch of him.

I wasn't quiet. I wasn't speaking English, Gaelic, or even Navajo—it was something else entirely. It was visceral, primal—but it clearly told Hank he was doing everything right. He leaned in, his whole body now flexing as he sped up his thrusts. I knew his signs intimately; he was close and not slowing down.

I slid my hands back around to his tight bum, digging my fingernails in tight. He shuddered, his spine arching as he reached his climax. I could feel him swelling, occupying every remaining inch inside me. Then his whole body began to buck—a series of unrelenting surges, each one a rhythmic shot firing deep inside me.

He collapsed on top of me, his chest slick with sweat and heaving. I could feel his heart pounding against mine. I softly traced my fingers up and down his equally sweaty back—trying to help him calm, relax, recover. Then it started—a low vibration that turned into a giggle, then a full, uncontrollable laugh. Hank's Gentle Spirit was bubbling to the surface, out of control with happiness.

Of course that started me laughing along with him, the two of us overwhelmed—in a good, no, fantastic, way. Lots of little kisses. Softly repeating I love you . Gentle caresses. I could feel his cock buried deep inside me begin to slowly soften and withdraw. I felt a brief pang of loss as he slipped out of me, but Hank was well and truly spent. He lay his head on my shoulder and was soon breathing steadily—asleep.

He didn't doze for long, and then we enthusiastically embarked on round two. The Compassionate Snow Raider wasn't very innovative; I followed Hank's gay scout checklist to the letter—he had rocked my world in the best way possible, my Navajo warrior had scouted ahead, leaving a trail of blazes for me to enthusiastically follow. What I lacked in creativity, I made up for in passion and enthusiasm. I poured my love into every kiss, every lick, every touch.

I did call an audible as I was tonguing away on his dark chestnut pucker. I reached between his legs to play with his arrow-straight, black pubes—I can't get enough of those. Then I gently stroked the thick velvety skin of his crown jewels. The real change to the game plan came when I had him on his back and pushed inside.

Totally luck, 'cause it certainly wasn't experienced based, I hit his prostate on the first stroke, and pretty consistently after that. Hank's eyes rolled back in his head and he arched up off of the bedding. His cock immediately recovered, and he pumped it to the unrelenting cadence of my thrusts. He came right before I did—I could feel his ring contracting around my cock as he shpritz'd his chest. That of course did me in and I emptied myself deep inside him.

My turn to collapse on him, and I did. I kept stroking the side of his face, and whispering in his ear—trying to put words to an event that was indescribable. It truly was a magical experience. He was right—so tight, so warm, so soft, and so Hank. I don't know why we waited so long; but now we have lots of opportunity to make it up! Then Bonnie did it again—a cold, wet nose right in my crack, and a snort! I guess she'd had enough of boys thrashing and moaning—she wanted breakfast!

We needed to get moving toward the National Guard base anyway, so we dragged ourselves out of our lair. Hank prepped a breakfast of MRE Chili Mac while I applied my newfound expertise to the mud-caked jeans.

A good scout leaves the land as he found it, and we treated the cabin with the respect its owner deserved. We bagged the trash and prepped the shpritz'd laundry, ensuring we left the cabin as clean as when we arrived. I gave Bonnie a dry brushing; then turned to Hank's mane—partly because it was a rat's nest; more so as an excuse to play with his hair.

The final task was the note to Mr. Cowman. We thanked him for the use of the cabin, explaining the emergency we'd found ourselves in, and listed our inventory of borrowed goods, including the Midland575 we were liberating for our own safety. We promised a swift return, signed it, and left it on the table.

We gave the cabin one last visual check, then closed and locked the door. We got about ten feet into our two miles, when I stopped short, "Shit, this isn't right. We can't go!"

Hank looked totally confused, I could see the wheels churning as he went through the list of what we'd done, "What did we forget?"

"I haven't gotten my start to the two-mile hike kick off kiss!"

He grinned, grabbed me, swinging me around, "You're right, the scout handbook is quite clear on the requirements for the start to the two-mile hike kick off kiss!" Then he gave me the kick-off kiss of all kick-off kisses. It set us back a good five minutes, but it was well worth it!

Our tongues slid along each other until the tips finally parted, our hands didn't though, we held on, trying to stay as close to one as we could. Packs properly set on our backs, Bonnie ranging to the flanks, we set off for the Guard camp.

We walked with our hands locked until the first major washout forced us to break contact. The logging road was in rough shape to say the least. Huge trees ripped out at their roots regularly blocked the entire road—we did a lot of climbing. The rain runoff had dug rills and deeper gullies, some as deep as two feet, cutting directly across the road.

If we weren't climbing or jumping over obstacles, we would lock hands again. But then we were still fighting the ground itself. The soil was completely saturated by the rain, such that the road surface became a clay-like sludge that suctioned onto our boots—threatening to pull them off.

"Ugh, this is like trying to run in a dream," Hank muttered, as his boot squelched free.

"This is yomping ," I gleefully rejoined.

"What is yomping?"

"My uncle was in the Royal Marines back in the Falklands War. They coined the word yomping—it's a long-distance march in really sucky terrain, peat bogs and such."

"So, it's supposed to less sucky, 'cause we get to call it yomping?"

"Exactly," I grinned. "If you call it yomping, you get to embrace the suck! According to my uncle!"

We made steady, progress—until the ultimate disaster struck! Hank had just cleared a tree angled across the road, and I was halfway across myself when I felt it shift under me. I slid forward, unable to gain any handhold on the slick wood. I felt it first, then heard it—my jeans snagged on a branch and then ripped!

My favorite jeans, my favorite of the three pair that Hank had given me, the ones that fit the best, that hugged my bum, that fit snugly in the crotch, that were faded in all the right places. I could feel the piece of wet branch directly against my bum itself. Hank had to come over and help me get free.

He turned me around, and I felt him slid his fingers into the hole. "You're good, I don't feel any blood."

"But my jeans are ruined, and these are my favorite pair," I grumbled. I would have been even more cranky, but Hank still had his fingers buried in the tear, checking for injuries, and that felt really nice.

"Deep breath Snow Raider! They're not ruined. They're actually majorly improved as you now have a really, really sexy hole over your bum!" he giggled, "Now I get to see your stunning bum more often, Atłʼaaʼ łigai dóó nizhóní."

"Ah-tla-what?" I asked, trying to sound it out, "That's not in my Navajo vocabulary."

"Atłʼaaʼ łigai dóó nizhóní, it's the name I tried to convince Amá Sání to grant you at the Clan adoption ceremony, but she wouldn't even consider it."

"And it means?" now I was suspicious.

"Beautiful white buttocks!" he proudly proclaimed!

" Beautiful white buttocks ?" I repeated, the syllables finally clicking in my head. "I can see why your grandmother passed on that one. Maybe I should call you my dusky savage then!"

"Dusky savage, very PC of you, where'd you find that term?"

" Northwest Passage by Kenneth Roberts, he wrote it in the 1930's. You have two types of savages—Noble, they're allied with the British; and Bloodthirsty, they support the French. Either way, they're all dusky," I smirked, quite proud of my recall.

"Eh, I don't think I like dusky. I'm more of a sexy savage!"

"Nope, can't be. No writing about sex in the 1930's, and certainly not ho-mo-sex-uals !"

Hank got that evil grin, "Faggot…fruitcake…"

"Poofter…bum chum…"

"Fudge packer…butt pirate…"

"Arse bandit…pillow muncher…"

I was quickly running out of terms, and Hank was showing no signs of an ammo shortage, but I was saved by the bell, or the chopper rotor as it were. Our verbal sparring was drowned out as a massive Army helo came in low over our heads and flared out for a landing up ahead.

I quickly grabbed Bonnie and attached her leash—neither of us had ever been close to a helo and I didn't want to find out how she'd react. We rounded the bend and there it was up ahead—the National Guard base: a chaotic flurry of activity; massive cargo trucks; olive drab tents; soldiers everywhere; and the heavy whump-whump of the helo rotors.

We came up to the gate, and were stopped by a sentry. He had a tablet and started taking down all our information—name, rank, serial number and all that. Then all of a sudden, he looked at us more closely, "You're them, the Naked Rescuers , yo lieutenant!"

The lieutenant came out of the guard shed, totally excited, and answered the obvious question. It seems the Texas DPS helo that had been hovering overhead when we rescued Andy and Jason had filmed the whole thing, and it had ended up on the local news. I felt the heat of the blush swelling up on my beautiful white buttocks…

They directed us over to a canteen to get some food and told us where to be to get a ride on the next transport back to Austin. At the mention of food, both our stomachs growled—real food, hot food, not MRE food! We didn't need any further instructions.

The blush on my butt cranked up ten levels when we got to the canteen. A bank of screens covered one whole wall of the outdoor eating area—all of them reporting on the floods. Randomly, our rescue would pop up on each screen—they pixelated our fronts, but not our butts! Everyone in the canteen was looking over at us and pointing.

On the plus side, we got hot food. The super nice lady at the counter gave us each three bacon, egg and cheese sandwiches, right off the grill. We, including Bonnie, chowed down on them while we watched the news; trying to avoid making eye contact with our burgeoning fan club. That's when we first began to comprehend the magnitude of the disaster that had struck.

We'd witnessed the floodwater first hand, but we'd only seen what was right in front of our faces. The ticker at the bottom of the screens provided a grim picture of what we'd missed. Two hundred people missing. A hundred miles of ruin along the Guadalupe. A thirty-seven-foot flood crest. The sandwiches suddenly felt like lead in my stomach. Two very somber boys headed over to the transport area.

We were standing by the tailgates of the Austin-bound trucks when the soldiers near us went quiet and started standing up. A tall man in faded camouflage fatigues—three silver stars glinting on his chest—came toward us, trailing a phalanx of aides.

As he approached, someone shouted Ten Hut and all the soldiers in our midst snapped to attention. Hank and I reacted the same way without thinking— of course I saluted correctly with the flat of my hand to my brow and the requisite stamp of my right foot! That got the General's attention and he smiled; looking at Hank and I, "You're the boys that pulled the dad and son out of the river?"

We nodded, and gave a really soft chorus of "Yes, Sir."

He smiled, and told everyone, "At ease." Of course, that triggered another stamp on my part which he seemed to enjoy. "You're scouts too, I should have realized from the video—you prepped, you executed, you reassessed, and you re-executed. That was fine work boys, fine work. Your parents should be very proud of you!"

We were too overwhelmed in his presence, so we just nodded and gave a round of thank you sirs .

He turned to one of his aides, "Jason, two of my challenge coins please."

The aide reached into his pants pocket and handed him two coins. But the general looked at them and handed them back, "Not the Command coins; my personal coins."

The aide clearly looked embarrassed and switched to another pocket, retrieving two other coins. The general handed each of us one, "Gentlemen, this is my personal challenge coin. It represents the successful completion of a difficult mission—the rescue you performed. These coins in particular, are my own, General Higgins, Adjutant General of Texas coins, representing my personal thank you for exceptional performance."

He stepped back a pace and saluted us ! "Again, well done! Now get on this truck. They'll take you to the Guard base in Austin. We've already notified your parents, so I suspect they'll be waiting for you on arrival."

We both gave our best salutes in return—yes, with another stamp ! And then he was gone, along with his phalanx of aides wheeling and following in his wake. The soldiers made short work of the loading, giving Bonnie a massive booty-lift into the high bed of the cargo truck before hauling us up behind her. They sat us right by the tailgate—a prime view that turned into a bone-jarring, bouncy ordeal as the truck rumbled toward Austin. Bonnie, unimpressed and missing her Lexus, sought sanctuary between my legs.

The truck wheeled into Camp Mabry—the nerve center for the disaster response, and quickly peeled off, rumbling past a line of old tanks before pulling up in front of the Texas Military Museum. A sea of families was gathered behind ropes and guards, holding signs with people's names on them—they seem to be scanning the truck for familiar faces. A gauntlet of TV vans with those elevated antenna poles between us and them, their reporters armed and ready with their mics, ready to be the first with the scoop.

The lieutenant intercepted us right off the tailgate though, and led us in the opposite direction from the masses. "VIP treatment, orders from the general, I'm to keep you in my sight until hand off to your parents. They're around here at the back entrance." I felt the weight of the General's coin in my pocket as the he led us away.

We rounded the corner and there they were—my Da and Hank's. Hank, Bonnie and I all broken any military protocol at the point and sprinted to our parents, throwing our arms around them and hugging them as tightly as we could. Bonnie even jumped up on her back paws—which she knows is against the rules—to get hugs as well.

Da smelled good. He smelled like home. He smelled safe. He hugged me really hard like he was afraid I'd disappear if he let go. He whispered fiercely, "I love you Lachlan, thank God you're finally home. Oh man, you stink!"

"For your sake, I hope Hank smells worse than Lachlan," Hank's dad laughed. "Think these boys need a decontamination."

"Glad to see you too, Da!" I chuckled.

Hank's dad grinned, "All right, let's get you boys home. Your moms are dying to see you." That's when it hit me. Hank and I would be going home—separately, not together, his home, my home. I looked at Hank; he looked at me. We flew into each other's arms, hugging even more fiercely than we had just hugged our dads.

I could feel his heart pounding against my chest. His bump pressing against mine. He didn't stink, he smelled like Hank—the best smell in the whole world. Eventually we heard an ahem behind us, and reluctantly parted.

"Tomorrow," we both murmured.

Hank and I watched each other out the window until Da turned off and we headed towards our house. Then I just leaned back in the seat and closed my eyes. My hand resting on Bonnie's head poking between our seats from the back, giving her gentle ear scratches.

Bonnie and I burst through the front door as Da was still parking the car—the awesome smell of Mum's venison stew—my favorite—hit me right off the bat! I flew into her arms; I think she hugged me even tighter than Da had. She started crying, and that set me off. We were still crying and hugging when Da came in with my dry pack. He wrapped us both up in his arms tight. I needed that—my mind was all over the place, from stalwart scout rescuing Andy and Jason; to terrified Lachlan facing a deadly force of nature.

"Lord though, you stink ! You're going to overpower all the flavoring of the stew. Off with you to the showers while we get dinner ready!"

I laughed, not at all offended, I know I had to stink. I bolted upstairs two at a time, stripped off as I entered my bathroom and turned on all three shower heads. I stood in the middle, legs back and spread, arms against the wall so I could be directly under the waterfall showerhead and hit from both sides. I wanted to wash every bit of Guadalupe River off of me.

I zoned out watching the water circling the drain as it turned from brown to clear, putting the horror of the flood further behind me. After I don't know how long, I finally shampooed and soaped up—wishing it was Hank washing me instead of myself. I had bruises and scratches all over—even on my beautiful, white buttocks!

My mind continued to race even as I gently soaped myself. Not six hours ago, Hank and I had moved to a whole other level—we had become one, a Union in the Diné sense. Mentally, it had been as incredible as I had expected it to be; physically, it had far surpassed what I had ever possibly imagined. It already seemed like eons ago and I craved more. We had declared our love forever—knowing exactly what we meant by that.

We had met the fundamental survival challenge of the river and survived. The river had tried to tear our world apart, but it had only succeeded in fusing us together. I couldn't be prouder of what we had accomplished—from simply saving ourselves; to rescuing Andy and Jason. We were scouts, we had been prepared—for any old thing. We had taken action, like a warrior and a raider. Even scared to death, we had lifted each other above that fear to do what had to be done. Tomorrow couldn't come fast enough; it was the first day of the rest of our lives, and we were going to face it together.

I had come to Texas fighting tooth and nail. I'd likened myself to Mark Twain's character, Morgan, in A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court —bewildered by this odd land of big belt buckles and bigger hair. Like Morgan, I was determined to be the boss of this new world—waging a private war to plant the Scottish flag in what I'd deemed enemy territory. Unexpectedly I'd met my Hank, my Fierce Wolf, and my whole world changed. I was still the Scottish Scout in Geronimo's Land , but this was my land too now, forever.

Hank tried to tell me that my analogy was wrong, that this was really more Navajo land than Apache. He saw the twinkle in my eye the moment the words left his lips, but he couldn't pull them back. I gave him my best Paige clever poodle look, "Hank, you poor dear, Navajo, Apache, Ute, Iroquois, bless your heart , you're all dusky savages!" I was his beautiful white buttocks hostage later that night, so he got his revenge and rocked my world.

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