Date: Mon, 11 Apr 2005 04:25:19 -0400
From: carl5de@netscape.net
Subject: HIGHT PLAINS DOCTOR - 8

HIGH PLAINS DOCTOR - 8

Copyright 2005 by Carl Mason and Ed Collins

All rights reserved.  Other than downloading one copy for strictly personal
enjoyment, no part of this story may be reproduced or transmitted in any
form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, except for reviews, without
the written permission of the authors.  However based on real events and
places, "High Plains Doctor" is strictly fictional.  Any resemblance to
actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely
coincidental.  As in real life, however, the sexual themes unfold
gradually.  If you would like to read other Mason-Collins stories, you
might turn to "Out of the Rubble," "Castle Margarethen," and "The Priest
and the Pauper" which are archived in Nifty's "Historical" section.
Comments on the story are appreciated and may be addressed to the authors
at carl5de@netscape.net

This story contains descriptions of sexual contact between males, both
adults and teenagers.  As such, it is homoerotic fiction designed for the
personal enjoyment of legal, hopefully mature, adults.  If you are not of
legal age to read such material, if those in power and/or those whom you
trust treat it as illegal, or if it would create unresolvable moral
dilemmas in your life, please leave.  Finally, remember that maturity
generally demands that anything other than safe sex is sheer insanity!


CHAPTER 8

(Revisiting Chapter 7)

Before the light appeared in the East, Ben had gently entered Jon as Kelly
entered his father from behind.  This time, their movements took less time
to coordinate, and their kisses, thrusts, and murmurs quickly merged into a
kaleidoscopic expression of love, trust, and physical release.  Kelly felt
the self-doubt caused by Denning's mistreatment slipping from his soul as
love spread throughout his body and mind.  For at least a couple of hours
they lay together on Ben's bed, laughing, kissing, talking quietly about
what the future might bring.  Relaxed with Ben as never before, Jon told an
hilarious story about how Bettsy at the Crystal Palace had allowed him to
suck off her (willing) younger brother as an inducement to locking the
suite door and allowing the girls to trap Kelly as he returned from his
shower.  Kelly only growled and swatted his butt.  Finally, noticing the
light, Kelly raised up on one elbow and yawned, "That was quite a 'special
reward', Dad.  Thanks!"

"Oh, that's not all," Ben chortled.  In three days time, we leave for
Scott's Bluffs!"

(Continuing Our Story - News from Afar)

Ben sat at his office desk at lunchtime, munching on a sandwich and sipping
a cup of tea.  Although he could easily have loved Shorty Blanding, he knew
that he needed the responsibility for a 15 year-old orphan like a hole in
the head!  The Sheriff had located an aunt - the wife of the uncle who had
been killed at Kitty's Place - in San Antonio.  Shorty, who had experienced
a great deal of neglect from his father and stepmother, was delighted (and
somewhat surprised) that she wanted him to come and live with her and her
16 year-old son.  The telegraph lines had crackled with his stepmother's
refusal to take responsibility for him, but his aunt had promised that
lawyers would be hired to look after his interests.  His father had been a
well-to- do cattleman.  When the Sheriff, Ben, and the boys had put him
aboard a southbound stage, there was a general feeling that it was all for
the best.

The thick sheaf of papers that he held in his hands was something else
again.  It was from the firm of Boston lawyers that had handled the
family's business for eons.  His mother had died and, contrary to her
threats, everything had been left to him.  The estate was huge, one of the
most substantial, the lawyers informed him, in Boston history.  Although
the general financial upturn since the Civil War had seen some conservative
investment, it was, in the main, "old money" from both sides of his family.
At that, the investments had increased the value of the estate by nearly
twenty percent.  Ben had willingly turned his back on all of it - but now
he had to deal with it.

Ben's decisions came quickly.  The attorneys were told to sell the mansion
plus all properties and other holdings.  He would not return to Boston
although, for the time being, all banking would continue to be done in the
city of his birth.  His heirs were identified as Jon and Kelly McNulty.
Approximately one million dollars, a huge sum in 1873, would be left in the
hands of the family attorneys who were to manage the fund with the utmost
conservatism.  The remainder would be devoted to three purposes.  A major
medical facility would be built in Shiloh; he would enlarge his surgery and
build a new home in town; and the valley plus substantial areas of
surrounding land in the Wyoming Territory would be purchased outright for
the People of the Bluff.  A Nebraska attorney of highest repute agreed to
contact Bear-Who- Walks-Upright and his people, to undertake the land
purchases, and to gather information for him on reputable contractors.

When the young doctor returned from the trail ride to Scott's Bluffs, he
found that everything promised was underway.  Evidently, the reputation of
the attorney, who had been recommended by the Chief of the Medical
Association in Omaha, was justified.  In the weeks and months that
followed, many of the People returned to their valley.  Indeed, their
descendants live there peacefully to this day.  Some, including several of
the younger and most promising braves, did not.  Contact with them was lost
in the years that saw the Indian victory on the Little Big Horn, the armed
repression of native peoples, and the tragic removal of the remnants to
reservations.  In time, the People allowed a simple memorial to be built
that commemorated all those who died in the senseless Battle of the Bluff.
On the urging of the tribe's holy man, the grandson of
Bear-Who-Walks-Upright, it was erected on the spot where Kyle had fallen.

(Scott's Bluffs Trail Ride)

The time for the long awaited trail ride to the Scott's Bluffs area along
the North Platte River in far-western Nebraska had finally arrived.  Of
great significance to a period of frontier history virtually over, i.e.,
the story of the Oregon, California, and Mormon trails, Ben had long
desired to see it The boys saw it not only as an adventure, but as the
culmination of their successful training as horsemen.  Captain Culpepper
and his men saw their participation as both an act of friendship and a way
of graciously saying thanks for the many services and kindnesses provided
by both the doctor and his sons.

Thursday, the 4th of September 1873, dawned bright and warm.  Enjoying
their morning coffee, the small company milled about in front of the
doctor's surgery.  The Captain had provided a chuckwagon driven by an
experienced muleskinner who also happened to be a cook, Heinrich (Heine)
Wagner, Sergeant USA.  (Whitey whispered excitedly to Jon and Kelly that he
couldn't believe their luck!  Heine was the best cook at the Post; the
Troop would surely STARVE while they were gone!)  The others included Ben,
Jon, Kelly, Sam Culpepper (Captain, USA), Barry (Corporal, USA), and Whitey
(Private, USA).

With Heine's permission, the boys climbed all over the compact chuckwagon.
(In fact, he introduced them personally to his mules!)  The wagon was a
heavy-duty model with axils of steel that could withstand the rigors of
rough overland travel for months.  The main bed of the wagon carried the
soldiers' bedrolls and personal effects, as well as bulk food supplies,
feed for the mules, and whatever else was needed.  At the rear of the wagon
the boys found a "chuck box," actually a vertical chest with shelves and
drawers, and a boot.  The hinged lid dropped down to serve as a work
surface.  In the boot they found Dutch ovens and other cooking utensils
that the cook would need to provide hot meals for ten or more soldiers on
long military actions.  A water barrel large enough to hold two days' water
supply was attached to the side of the wagon.  The sides of the wagon also
held an assortment of tool and catch-all boxes, hooks, brackets, and the
vital coffee grinder.  Underneath the wagon, a canvas hammock provided a
container for fuel that the soldiers collected during the day's march on
the virtually treeless prairie.  (AUTHOR'S NOTE: This paragraph is indebted
to Lone Hand Western, "Chuckwagons," Chuck Wagon Central.  See:
http://lonehand.com/chuckwagon_central.htm.)

The command of "Saddle Up!" came soon enough, and the little company headed
north by northwest on a dusty trace out of Shiloh.  They were only slightly
more than a day out of town when they came across a fast-vanishing sight on
the High Plains, a relatively small wandering herd of buffalo.  In the
early days, tens of millions of bison dotted the American prairie.  By the
end of the Civil War, there were still 15 million buffalo grazing, but it
was the eruption of railroads that really ignited the buffalo massacre.
(There were, of course, those in high circles, who believed that removing
the Plains Indians basic food and source of goods offered the quickest and
cheapest way to get rid of them.)  Whereas the Indians killed those buffalo
that were needed for their sustenance, the newcomers not only killed them
for their meat, their skins, or their tongues, but also frequently killed
them simply for sport.  One small part of their bodies (such as the tongue
or the head) might be taken while the rest was simply left to rot.

As a matter of fact, this small herd was being followed by "sportsmen."
When first glimpsed, the company had ridden to the top of a line of hills
and was waiting for the chuckwagon to catch up.  Below them, they saw the
buffalo suddenly attacked by mounted riders.  Repeating rifles ensured that
animal after animal was brought to the ground.  They didn't even stop to
remove the hide or tongues.  Yelling wildly, seemingly well liquored up,
they simply rode on.  Few of the proud creatures escaped.  No member of the
company was unmoved.  In fact, Jon and Kelly wanted to ride after them, but
a firm "No" from Captain Culpepper booked neither question nor
disobedience.  (Kelly had heard that tone of voice earlier at the Battle of
the Bluff, and he wasn't about to cross the commander.)  Barry and Whitey
looked on silently...and sadly.

It was a fair trip up to the North Platte River valley where they turned
northwest on the south side of the stream.  It wasn't long before they saw
one of the most noted landmarks on the Trail, Chimney Rock.  (It had been
called "Elks Penis" by the early native peoples, but that term was
evidently a bit too "descriptive" for the half million westbound emigrants
of European descent who passed it, chiefly between the years 1812 and
1866.)  For the boys, of course, the sights were only one of the trail
ride's glories.  Everything that Jon and Kelley had learned at the Post, as
well as on its obstacle and jumping course, was put to the test.  As one
will guess, the competition to outdo two superb teenaged horsemen, Barry
and Whitey, fueled many an intense moment.  In fact, Ben finally had to
plead with them not to kill themselves - but what do fathers know?  The
evenings also provided experiences that they remembered all their lives.
As Whitey had promised, the "grub" was excellent, especially when a little
fresh meat was added to the menu.  Inasmuch as Sam and Whitey each played a
wicked guitar, music became a constant feature of the trip.  One of the
greatest surprises, however, was provided by Heine.  It was a rare late
night campfire when he wasn't begged to tell a story.  His stories of Civil
War battles never failed to please, although Kelly always insisted that his
ghost stories, told as the campfire turned to embers, were the best of the
lot.  No few members of the company on their way to the sack - or, during
the night, on their way into the bushes - jumped several feet in the air
when they mistook a nocturnal prairie critter for a denizen of the Spirit
World!

They were well along the trail to Scott's Bluffs when they suddenly came
upon another rare sight, a single, heavily loaded Conestoga wagon standing
motionless at the side of the trail.  Four oxen grazed nearby; two little
girls played among the bushes and a few cottonwoods.  A relatively young
man, bearded and obviously distraught, sat on a stump beside the trail.
When he saw the approaching party, he ran wildly into the rutted trail,
calling upon them to stop.  His son was dying!  Couldn't SOMEONE help?

Dismounting, Ben immediately went over to man, Jacob Carey from eastern
Pennsylvania, and introduced himself as a doctor.  Carey's eleven year-old
son, Jake, had been ill since yesterday.  Earlier today, his pain had
finally become so intense - especially when the wagon was lurching along -
that he felt he had to drop out of their small wagon train.  He still hoped
on hope that he could catch up with it before it crossed Mitchell Pass at
Scott's Bluffs, but his son's welfare was foremost in his mind.  Shown
immediately into the wagon, Ben met Jacob's wife, Christina, who was
pressing cold compresses to the head of their groaning, sweating son.  Ben
examination of Jake was not promising.  At first, he had complained of pain
in his abdomen.  This was followed by fever, vomiting, and some diarrhea.
Gradually, the pain and fever had increased.  When Ben pressed his abdomen,
held it momentarily, and then rapidly released it, Jake cried out in pain.
Other tests produced a similar result.

Outside the wagon, Ben spoke with the boy's parents.  "Although I can't be
100 percent sure," he said kindly, but seriously, "I believe Jake is
suffering from appendicitis.  If I don't treat it, his appendix could break
open and spread the infection.  Under present conditions, that would
probably be fatal.  The difficulty is that I must operate under very
dangerous conditions - and that could be fatal, too.  You must make this
terrible decision.  I urge you to make it quickly."  Jacob and Christina
held each other for a few minutes.  Finally, Jacob looked at Ben and,
white-faced, nodded that he should proceed.

Jon and Kelly had already located Ben's medical bag in the wagon and, as
Barry and Whitey looked on wide-eyed, were boiling several instruments.
Their doctor father smiled softly and kissed each boy lightly on top of his
head.  Ben then washed his hands in another pot of hot water and looked up
quizzically at Heine who was still seated on the wagon.  "Heine, I need
that bottle.  I promise that I'll buy you another one - a real good bottle
- when we get back to Shiloh."  As Sam Culpepper pointedly looked in the
other direction, Heine withdrew a large, half-full bottle of rotgut from a
hidden cubbyhole and handed it down to the doctor.  His face clearly
suggested that he had just lost a good friend.  (Thank God, he thought, he
had a second stashed away!)  "Jon, Kelly, I need you with me," Ben said
quietly and turned back towards the Conestoga.  The boys gathered what they
had learned he would need and followed.

First giving Jake a healthy swig of the rotgut, he then poured a major
portion of the rest over the boys' hands and his.  "Damn!" he cussed.
"Jon, go out to Heine and ask him for his OTHER bottle."  Without comment,
Jon departed, returning moments later with a full bottle.  Grinning widely,
he said, "We're going to have to be REAL nice to Heine, Dad," as he handed
the bottle to Ben.  Ben gave Jake a second swig and then used most of the
remaining liquor in the first bottle on their hands.  Without being asked,
Jon laid out Ben's instruments on a wrapped cloth from the bag, as Kelly
thoroughly washed down Jake's abdomen, genitals, and upper thighs with the
alcohol.  The youngster was firmly strapped to the small bed.  More liquor
was poured over their hands.

When the boy seemed to become increasingly woozy, he made an incision of
approximately three inches, cutting firmly through the layers of skin and
muscle.  Quickly checking the organs in the boy's abdomen, the doctor
located the appendix, grinned when he saw that it had not ruptured, and
lifted it up into the incision.  Clamping its attachment to surrounding
tissue, he removed the appendix with a certain hand.  Closing the tissue
where it had been attached and carefully returning it to the abdominal
cavity, he then sewed the muscle layers and, finally, the skin together.
Throughout the operation, the boys calmly absorbed small amounts of blood
and wiped the sweat from their father's forehead with small cloths wrapped
in his medical bag.  Finally, he was able to look up at them and smile.
Moments later, he stretched vigorously, climbed down out of the wagon into
the sun, and told Jake's parents that it had gone well.  "We'll stay here
overnight with you," he said, "but, with any luck, I think the worst is
over."  As Jacob and Christina collapsed weeping into each other's arms,
the onlookers broke into wild cheers.

Jake awoke in a relatively short time.  Though he complained of a headache
and a "nasty" taste in his mouth, he said that he felt a "zillion times
better."  He quickly fell back asleep, but when he awoke he took a little
broth that his mother warmed up, plus a few swallows of his favorite
sasparilla.  "If he's hungry when he wakes up," Ben said to Christina,
"give him what he wants.  Just take it easy for a few days.  I think we'll
be able to get him up on his feet in the morning."

Fortunately, Heine has recovered his usual good mood by the time suppertime
rolled around - especially after Ben had promised him THREE bottles of good
booze.  Sitting around after a good meal, Whitey sided over to Jon and
quietly reminded him of his offer on the trail back from Baxter's Pond to
"talk...if [he'd] like."  "I'd like, Jon; I'd like to talk very much," the
blond stated firmly.  Slowly, they walked through the warm twilight of an
early September evening down towards the river.  Sitting under an old
cottonwood within sight of the water, they talked until the dusk had fallen
about the things that young gay men have probably talked about since time
immemorial.  "Are you happy being gay, Jon?" Whitey finally asked. "Dunno,
Pony Soldier.  I can't say I exactly like being different - and I HATE
always having to be so careful.  But, then, everybody is different in some
way.  If I wasn't different, for example, I probably wouldn't be sitting
next to you...this way on a nice evening."  "You like me?" Whitey asked
Ben's elder son hesitantly, but with increasing determination.  "Shit, man,
what's not to like?" Jon answered.  "You're a bodacious rider, everybody
likes you, you're as smart as Kelly, and you're so handsome that it tears
me up inside.  I'm just scared that you're too fine for the likes of me."
"Tell you a secret," Whitey whispered as he moved closer.  "Ever since I
saw you at the Pond, I've been dreaming about you - but why would you be
interested in me?  I've got a big mouth, but I haven't DONE much."  "I'm a
pretty good teacher," Jon mumbled as he turned and kissed HIS dream square
on the mouth.  Whitey just melted against him.  Not quite believing that
the young man not only liked him, but was offering himself, Jon slowly
removed his clothes...piece by piece.  At last, the beautiful kid lay naked
and inviting on the grass before him, his pale skin and white hair luminous
in the soft moonlight.  Jon's clothes followed quickly.

Physically, Whitey presented a figure considerably different from Jon or
his brother's.  Whereas the heavily tanned and muscled brothers appeared
blocky despite their good height, Whitey, fair skinned despite a light tan,
resembled a more finely muscled thoroughbred.  Though his pecs were
beautifully defined, his shoulders and waist were narrower, his arms
lighter.  Only his solid, nearly hairless thighs and butt showed the extra
development typical of a horseman.  Slowly, Jon buried his head in the
light yellow pubes and sniffed deeply.  "Oh, man, you smell so good," he
murmured.  Whitey giggled as his long prong filled and sought Jon's mouth.
Jon's tongue softly licked the moist head and the round scrotum that lay
below.  Gasping, the boy held Jon's head and pulled it sharply down on his
cock.  Jon accepted the offering, tonguing it, swallowing, and allowing it
to slip deep where his throat muscles could grip and caress.  Unwilling for
their first experience to end there, Jon pulled his head off the frustrated
youngster and flipped him over.  Masterfully, his tongue sought Whitey's
anus...circling...lubricating...  allowing his lips to softly nibble.  The
lad's thick, muscled buttocks quivered like jelly as they tried to draw
Jon's tongue inside his body...and finally succeeded.  Groaning, writhing,
the young trooper gasped, "Jon, I've never done it, but I want to.  I want
to.  Please!"  Passionately kissing every part of his gorgeous body, Jon
used their heavy fluids to lube and stretch him before entering the
tossing, bucking, moaning youth.  Finally feeling the tight muscles of his
anal canal soften and welcome Jon's sturdy thrusts, Whitey surrendered his
virginity in a cataclysmic explosion of passion.  The two youngsters lay
for some time in the moonlight as if permanently intertwined.

At dawn the next morning, the company was joined by the Jacob and Christina
Carey as they sat sipping their morning coffee.  Another Conestoga
accompanied by a small band of riders was pulled over to the side of the
trail not far distant.  "Dad..." a thin voice called out.  Jacob looked
around to see his son standing in back of the schooner.  Hurrying over to
the wagon, he carefully lifted his boy down to the ground.  Tentatively,
the lad walked over to the fire, his father's hand on his shoulder.
Slightly embarrassed, he whispered to his father, "Dad, I'm hungry."  Heine
guffawed and brought a small plate over to the boy and tousled his hair.
"Son," Jacob said, "these are the people who made the pain go away.  Thank
them."  A trickle of egg yolk escaping from the side of his mouth, Jake
smiled shyly and said, "Thanks.  Much obliged."

"You're not going to be able to winter over in Denver," Sam continued.
"There's simply no way that a single wagon can get through the passes at
Scott's Bluffs - and, if you wait too long, an early storm could cut you
off with tragic results.  It's possible that others will come along, but
it's terribly late and you can't count on it.  Besides, there's rough
country between here and Denver and the Indians aren't completely pacified.
The group over there (and he pointed towards the other schooner) is heading
back east.  My advice, for what's it's worth, is to winter over in Omaha
and then join up with another wagon train in the spring.  I know that's
hard advice, but you're good people and I wish you well."  Jacob and
Christina looked at each other for a moment.  It was obvious to all that
they had decided to follow Sam's counsel.  Before leaving, Ben introduced
the Careys to the other family and thoroughly examined Jake.  The wound was
healing well, and the boy continued to recover.  Jacob privately offered
Ben a couple of gold coins, but the good doctor refused, saying that they
would need those when they reached Omaha.  He gave them a note addressed to
a physician located in the Nebraska capital.  Everyone offered the Careys
their best - and gave an extra measure of affection to Jake and the little
girls - before they once again turned towards Scott's Bluffs.

Within a couple of miles, they come to a fork in the trail.  To the south,
Sam explained, lay Robidoux Pass.  Predominately used through 1849, it
involved a wide swing away from the river and a more gradual, though longer
ascent through the massif that was Scott's Bluffs.  They would stay on the
main trail that led to Mitchell Pass, a more direct, if spectacularly
precipitous route through the Bluffs favored by the emigrants, soldiers,
and freighters of the 1850s and '60s.  This was also the route of the
overland stage, the Pony Express, and the first transcontinental telegraph.
Rounding a curve in the trail a couple of miles further, they suddenly
spied Scott's Bluffs themselves, as one commentator put it, "lying like a
giant whale across the valley floor, blocking the way, with impenetrable
badlands between it and the river."  Ben, who had gradually adjusted to the
sameness of the rolling prairie lands as they slowly rose towards the Rocky
Mountains, could appreciate the excitement that must have gripped the
earlier westbound emigrants as they approached the spectacular barrier.  An
English adventurer, for instance, had written only ten years before (1863)
that ". . . In the dull uniformity of the prairies, it is a striking and
attractive object, far excelling the castled crag of the Drachenfels or any
of the beauties of romantic Rhine. . . .  As you approach within four or
five miles, a massive medieval city gradually defines itself, clustering,
with a wonderful fullness of detail, round a colossal fortress, and crowned
with a royal castle. . . ."  Only as they approached closer did the
illusion vanish and return to rock and clay.

"Tomorrow," grinned Sam as he beheld his compatriots who stared at Scott's
Bluffs with awestruck eyes and partially opened mouths, "we'll explore the
Pass.  Today's it's enough to set up camp."  The small wagon train to which
the Careys had been attached had rather despoiled the main campgrounds, but
Sam led them to a smaller area where, in the shadow of the main bluff, a
pleasant spring was surrounded by a few cottonwoods and even a little grass
for the horses.  Spending a pleasant night, men and boys eagerly flung
themselves on the their horses as soon as breakfast was consumed and set
off for Mitchell Pass.  Only Sgt. Wagner remained behind to hold the fort.
(Ben suspected the second bottle might not have been his last!)  The ascent
was easy and gradual until the riders came to a deep gorge, which
intersected the trail at the foot of the main bluff.  Not easily navigated
by their horses, Ben wondered what it must have been like for the great
Conestogas pulled by teams of oxen.  The gorge was followed by a series of
steep hills and narrow, deep and sandy passes, through which there was
barely room for a wagon to pass.  Deep grooves had been dug into the base
rock and clay by the heavy wagons.  Eventually, they reached the summit.
Dismounting, they beheld the steep descent that lay before them.  Ben, for
one, was glad that he didn't have to drive a big Prairie Schooner laden
with a family's life goods down the precipitous incline, the sides of which
were littered with the weathered remains of earlier efforts!

Off to the side, Ben noticed a lone figure sketching a view of the descent
and the land beyond.  Recognizing him, he strode up to him and, apologizing
for interrupting his work, introduced himself as a fellow New Englander and
admirer of his art.  Turning to the others, he said formally, "Gentlemen,
may I introduce Mr. William Henry Jackson, artist and photographer of the
American West."  It was Jackson, he explained, who had photographed the
building of the Union Pacific Railroad and, on a subsequent geological
survey in the Wyoming Territory had taken pictures that convinced the
Congress to establish Yellowstone as the first national park just the year
before (1872).  The lanky Vermonter was the sole of graciousness.
Squinting at the boys, he referred to them as the "Spirit of the West" and
insisted on photographing the four of them, arms around each other's
shoulders, grinning with the joy of youth, against the final passages that
led to the summit.  (About two months later, Ben received a copy of the
classic photograph from Denver.  Unfortunately, the original and negatives
were evidently lost and have never appeared in collections of Jackson's
work.)

Scrambling over the rocks at the summit, the party paused, suddenly winded.
Jon suddenly hissed for everyone not to move a muscle.  Spying a huge
rattler coiled and ready to strike, Jon quietly removed his knife from its
sheath and threw it with a twist of his wrist, nearly splitting the great
reptile's head in two lengthwise.  "What the hell?" breathed Sam as he
looked at Jon in wonder.  He had been leaning against a boulder not more
than a foot from the serpent.  As everyone, other than Kelly, looked on in
openmouthed amazement, Jon made sure that the snake was truly dead and
retrieved his knife.  Proud, though a little ashamed at the same time, Jon
mumbled, "Oh that...just a little something I picked up in Five Points."
Suddenly, everyone seemed ready to gather the tethered horses and return to
camp.

As they enjoyed a delicious lunch, a Post dispatch rider suddenly rode up,
having made Scott's Bluffs from Shiloh in record time.  Saluting, he handed
a message to his Captain.  Sam waved him over to get some chow as he stood,
reading the message.  Sam's face was tense as he rejoined the company.
"There have been several attacks by Indian bands across the northern
plains," he reported.  "I am ordered to check with colleagues at a cavalry
post some hours hard ride to the north.  Sergeant Wagner, you and the
Corporal will join me." Turning to the dispatch rider, he ordered him to
return to the Post after some rest and sleep.  "Private" (he said, turning
to Whitey), "you will remain here to secure government property and protect
our guests.  God willing, we'll be back in two days."  Although
disappointed that he would not be joining them, Whitey's chest swelled with
pride.  With that, Sam and the others made ready to leave.

Tense and concerned for the safety of their friends, Ben and the boys
huddled around the fire, the joy of their adventure shredded.  Late that
afternoon, not long after the dispatch rider had departed, they were
galvanized by the sudden appearance of a group of six Indians who looked
anything but friendly.  Indeed, their eyes were red with fury.  Their
painted faces showed nothing but hatred and a desire for take revenge for
Army attacks on their villages. Several scalps hung from their lances and
other weapons. (Kelly had picked up enough of their language, spoken and
signed, from Running Deer to give his friends a rough idea of what was
being said.)  After several tense minutes, the leader of the war party
ordered his braves to "kill the evil palefaces."  As they prepared to carry
out his orders, one of the braves protested.  "You cannot lay a hand on
these brothers," he said.  "When there was a great sickness in my village,
they worked tirelessly for 'three hands of days' [i.e., two weeks] to try
to heal the sick and make the last days of the dying easier to bear.  They
are brothers with good hearts; leave them in peace."  The leader was
enraged, but the one who had spoken dropped his weapons and said, "If you
are to slay these people, take me first.  I would not want to live after
such as injustice."  The lead warrior grunted, the killing light suddenly
fading from his eyes.  Solemnly, he apologized to those whom he had been
ready to slaughter only moments before.  Making the sign of peace, the
Indians wheeled their ponies and departed as abruptly as they had appeared.

Their bodies trembling, their emotions in an uproar, there was little
thought of rummaging through the chuck box and making some supper - though
they did feed the mules.  It was Whitey who climbed up on the driver's seat
and explored the wagon's front compartments.  With a shout of triumph, he
turned towards the others, holding two bottles of rotgut high in the air -
one partially full, one unopened.  Ben never refused his turn as the opened
bottles made their rounds.  As darkness fell, they lay sprawled around a
mammoth campfire, adrenalin combining with the alcohol, fatigue, tension,
and fear to produce a dangerously explosive mixture.  Suddenly, with a
wild, bloodcurdling yell, Kelly leapt to his feet, ripped the clothing from
his body and contemptuously threw it on the ground.  In a drunken frenzy,
he began to dance around the great fire.  Ben recognized the dance, for it
was adapted from one of several that had been taught him by the People of
the Bluff.  Jon was not long to follow, matching Kelly step for step as
they recreated the dance of the hunting wolf.  Gesturing to Whitey, they
enticed him into joining them.  The naked youth realized only too late that
he was the prey!  As Ben swigged the last inch or so of rotgut (Hell!  How
many bottles did he owe Heine?), the three boys ominously circled the fire.
Finally, they sprang, Whitey seeming to realize instinctively what was
required of him in this hypnotic pantomime.  Growling viciously at each
other, Kelly and Jon devoured their kill, Kelly's long fangs slashing at
Whitey's genitals, Jon's slobbering head buried deep in his abdomen.

With a shout, all three lads sprang to their feet and fell into their
version of the dance of the corn, the brothers quickly teaching the steps
to the beautiful pale youth.  Furiously whirling around the fire, the
ancient steps symbolized the growing corn.  The flaring flames cast pagan
shadows on their bodies down which sweat poured in never-ending torrents.
To Ben's eye, they appeared to assume the forms of ghostly spirits.  The
steps slowed as the corn grew.  Proudly, imperiously, Jon stood before
them, his arms slowly rising into the air, bending in the light as his body
undulated and his proud cock slowly erected until it stood moored to his
stomach.  Kneeling, their arms waving in the flickering light, they
worshiped the fruit of their labors.  When his arms reached directly over
his head and he clapped his hands, the worshipers gratefully accepted and
consumed the Great Spirit's gift of food.

If anything, the dancing grew wilder and even more frenzied.  Finally,
pausing directly in front of Ben, who looked on with blurred vision, Kelly
fell to his knees as Jon approached from one direction, Whitey from the
other.  Lifting his chin, Kelly's mouth accepted Jon's long cock, as Whitey
entered him from the rear.  Slowly, their bodies, now bound together as
one, began to undulate. Ben seemed to hear the notes of an ancient melody,
perhaps Middle Eastern, perhaps African, deep within his head.  At the
appointed time, their bodies stiffened, shuddered, separated, and feel
heavily to the ground.  Recovering, they crawled menacingly towards Ben and
fell upon him in a tangled heap of arms, legs, and torsos.

Ben awoke, he knew not how many hours later, a terrible pounding in his
head, an absolutely nauseating taste in his mouth.  His body was sore.
What in hell was this?  He was naked and thoroughly entangled with the
boys' bodies, also naked.  Oh, yes, there had been dancing...but there were
only embers.  Suddenly, he realized that Whitey's genitals lay close to his
mouth as the youngster's solid thighs clamped lightly around his neck.
Hunky kid...  Gradually, he disentangled himself and rose unsteadily.  It
was cold, but he was in no condition to set things right.  He walked
gingerly over to the wagon, retrieved blankets, covered the lads where they
lay, wrapped himself in the last blanket, and dropped down onto the ground.

In the morning, he did manage to make coffee.  Everyone sat around sipping
the strong brew, wrapped in his own blanket and his own dreams.  If anyone
remembered the details of the night before, no one was saying much beyond
an occasional grunt.  Indeed, the only sound seemed to be the rustle of a
naked arm as it parted a blanket and held out a metal cup for more coffee.

Captain Culpepper and his party arrived in late afternoon.  They were
obviously not happy about conditions on the northern plains.  Over supper,
thankfully cooked by Heine, Sam said rather curtly that they would have to
leave in the morning for Shiloh.


(To Be Continued)