“Into thy hands, O Lord, we commend thy servant William Beauregard, and we commit his body to this place of rest. Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust. The Lord bless him and keep him, the Lord make his face to shine upon him and be gracious to him, The Lord lift up his countenance upon him and give him peace. Amen”
The funeral home had made the arrangements quickly, and so his funeral was Friday morning. There had been a simple service at the non-denominational chapel he attended from time to time on the Reservation, and his gravesite was in their small cemetery adjacent to Hudson Lake, within sight of the rocky valley he had loved so much.
The minister finished with a prayer of thanksgiving for Uncle’s life, and the service concluded. Bo shook his hand solemnly, and stepped to the grave side. He sprinkled water into it, then placed an eagle’s feather on the plain pine casket, and added small leather pouches that contained flour and corn meal. He nodded to the grave diggers, and they began lowering the casket. Bo released a pinch of pollen above the casket as it reached the bottom, and then sprinkled a handful of soil on top of it. He raised his face skyward, his arms at his sides, and released his clear soprano chant towards the morning sun. He fell silent and remained so for some moments longer, and then turned to us. “Let’s go,” he said. “We’re done here.
We walked slowly back to the truck, Bo between Cory and me. “I miss him so much, he said. “Without you two, I don’t think I could have handled it. I want to do something special to honor him. But I don’t know what.”
“Give it some time; you’ll figure it out when the right idea comes along,” I said.
“Let’s walk down to the lake. I don’t feel like leaving yet,” Bo said, and turned toward the water. So we walked with him, until we reached a huge boulder at water’s edge. “I need to climb up there,” he said, and started clambering up.
I laid a hand on Cory’s arm and said quietly, “Let him go. I think he wants to have a few minutes with only his thoughts.” So we watched his nimble form climb up, until he stood about 20 feet above us, gazing across the calm lake. Cory and I sat down in the sun and waited for him. He stood up there, pitching pebbles into the lake, watching the ripples. And then after perhaps 15 minutes, he came back down. “I know what I want to do,” he said. “Let’s go back to the hogan for awhile. It’s not far; we can walk.”
As we resumed our trek, he explained. “I am going to make his hogan into a little museum and emergency aid station. When he was alive, hikers came to him for help all the time, and he always gave it. So I want to continue that. I’ll keep a lot of his Indian stuff there, and I’ll add more, and I’ll put in emergency stuff like water and first aid kits and a 911 phone and stuff like that. It will be sort of a memorial to him. It won’t cost that much, and I guess I’ll have enough money to do it.”
When we entered the hogan, Bo told us more. “These stacks of newspapers and magazines aren’t just old clutter. Each one records a special day. I can go through them and make some displays. And he’s got lots more ceremonial stuff than what you see. A lot of it is stored out in the shed behind the hogan. What do you think? Will it work?” His eyes were shining, and he was enthused.
“Sounds super to me,” Cory told him. “It’s something that is needed around here. I’ve heard other hikers talk about an old guy who helps anyone in trouble, but I never realized it was Uncle.”
“You might consider incorporating your mother’s house into your plans,” I said, “Since you own it now, too.”
And so we speculated and debated and made sketches and considered possibilities. Presently our stomach clocks suggested that it was lunch time, and we had no food with us. So we hiked back to the truck to go in search of food. “Let’s go somewhere special, since it’s a special day,” I suggested.
“Yeah,” Cory said. “Let’s. Bo, you choose.”
He thought briefly, then said, “Let’s go to my restaurant. I want to see what it’s like.”
One of the properties his uncle had left him was a historic hotel downtown. Apparently Uncle had been a silent partner, owning the majority of the business but taking no part in the operation. We headed for the casually elegant hotel, with its well restored “Old West” saloon and dining room.
Upon entering the swinging doors, we were immediately greeted by a hostess in period costume, and shown to a nice table. Cute waiters in white shirts and bolo string ties hustled back and forth, and from time to time a Sheriff or Marshal wandered by, outfitted with gunbelts and silver star badges. The happy sounds of a honky-tonk piano filtered out from the bar, and much talk and laughter filled the air.
Lunch was delightful and leisurely, and Bo loved every bit of it. When the waiter came to inquire if all was all right, I asked him if he had any idea who owned the hotel. He said he’d heard that an old Indian owned it, but he wasn’t sure. “That used to be true, but he died last week,” I told him. “Now, it’s owned by a very young Indian, and this is his first visit to his restaurant. Meet Bo Stillwater.” The young waiter gaped for a minute, and then said, “Well, Mr. Stillwater, I really hope you enjoyed your meal!” Bo laughed and told him it was great. We left a generous tip and left.
We had half an uncommitted afternoon still ahead, and decided to drive home the long way, taking the forest service roads past Drake Lake and then onto the mesa. We left the highway, and I stopped to shift into 4-wheel. “This will get pretty rough, so both of you guys have to be in your own seat, with belts on,” I instructed. Cory lost the coin flip and climbed into the back. We started onto the primitive road and bounced along for a time. Wildflowers and wildlife abounded back here, and we saw deer and coyote and rabbit, and a lot of tiny bright flowers. After about 15 miles and an hour of driving, we reached the first crossroad at the tiny ghost town of Drake. The lake was about as big as the town, mostly dry this Summer, and so we did not spend much time admiring the mud flats. Instead, we climbed to the top of a nearby hill, the tallest of several in the area. We could see across the valley for miles, and we could have been the only human life on the planet, it was so empty.
“Look, there’s Boulder Mountain,” I said, pointing. “And there’s Jazman Peak across there, and you can almost see the highway, if you watch for reflections off cars.” Cory stood behind Bo, his arms around the boy’s chest, and I stood likewise behind Cory. Together we stood and drank in the beauty of the rough, empty landscape. It felt as if we three were alone together in a new world. Perhaps we were.
I broke the silence and suggested we get on our way. There were more miles of rough road, and I did not want to be on them even close to dark, which was still five hours away. So we bounced on across the dusty desert, the only other traffic being tumbleweeds. We finally reached the paved road again, and drove on home.
No one was hungry for a big dinner, so we heated some rolls and made soup and ate on the deck as the sun sank in the West. The sunset was a definite “10” and we sat together on the deck steps and watched in awed silence. As the red glow faded away, Bo spoke. “Lunch today was really neat, and I want to go back there again. But I think I like this even better.” His arms around both of our waists, he hugged us, and then transferred his hands to between our legs. He began teasing us through our shorts. Cory unbuttoned Bo’s shirt as I unzipped his shorts. As we began exposing his brown body, he reminded me of what we had to do. “This is Cory’s first night since I moved in. We have to introduce him. And I have to get ready. Don’t come in till I tell you.” And he jumped up, holding up his shorts with one hand, and ran in the house.
“What is he talking about?” Cory asked.
“You are going to be introduced to the rock painters and identified with this house and Bo and me, so you’ll be protected.”
“Oh. I see,” he said, making it clear that he didn’t.
“It seems that Bo can contact the rock painters’ spirits in certain ways and places. The secret room is one place, and sexual union is also a way. So we’re going to join ourselves and let the painters get to know us, more or less.” I reached for his erection. “Now do you get it?”
“Yeah, I think so,” he said, reaching for mine.
With our free hands, we embraced, and we kissed, arousing each other more and more. I pulled his shirt over his head, and he unbuttoned mine.
“Come on in, now,” Bo called.
Half undressed, we stood and completed the process and then entered Bo’s room. He had the lights out and a few candles lit. The dusky scent of incense added an exotic touch, and he had applied some ceremonial paint to his upper arms and chest. A strip of leather around his forehead held a black feather that hung downward. And he wore his narrow breechcloth. He was one hot looking Indian.
He began with me as he had the last time. Stepping up to me, he took my erection in his hands and gave it a few quick strokes and squeezes. Then he dropped to his knees, and took the shaft into his mouth, working his tongue and mouth vigorously up and down its length. Leaving it dripping with his saliva, he directed me backwards onto the bed and pushed me all the way onto my back. My wet penis stood stiffly in the air. Then he began with Cory as he had begun with me. When Cory was dripping with his saliva, he produced a tube of lubricating jelly and quickly greased Cory’s hole. Then he directed Cory on top of me, and once there he guided my wet shaft into Cory’s slick hole. Cory settled down on me as I rose to greet him. Allowing us a few repetitions, Bo mounted me as well, in front of Cory, and aimed his own greased up butt at Cory’s slick pole. He slipped onto Cory and I brought his own slender erection out of the breechcloth and stroked him. I also thrust upwards into Cory, and he thrust likewise into Bo. Like the conductor of an orchestra, Bo knew how far to take us before stopping. He settled back onto Cory, pushing him back so far that he had to support himself with his hand to avoid falling backward. With the three of us thus linked in ultimate intimacy, he began his introduction chant. As his voice filled the dim room, he started to move his body again, moving forward, up and nearly off Cory, and then back down again. I followed suit, and soon we were nearly ready to shoot. Bo backed off again and Cory caught himself on his hands again. A light began to glow, appearing to emanate from nowhere, and the wind picked up again outside, and Bo began moving again, still singing the eerie chant. His voice broke from chant into gasps, and he panted out the words, now leaning fully onto my chest as he worked his butt on Cory’s prick, and allowed me to push up hard into Cory’s ass. I held Bo by his skinny butt, feeling Cory thrust deeply into him and then pull nearly all the way out. My other hand was being thoroughly fucked by Bo’s prick. His climax was near, and he could no longer form any coherent words. I could feel him building, and I could sense Cory nearly ready to shoot, and with my own cry I exploded into Cory at the same moment as I felt Bo spasm in my hand, and Cory rammed deeply into Bo with his own ejaculation. We pumped simultaneously for the eternal seconds of the orgasm. The subtle glow became brighter than daylight at our three way climax, the wind outside howled and shrieked, and then both were gone as we relaxed into each other. I kissed Bo and reached up to caress Cory’s sweat-covered face.
“Oh, wow, little brother,” he breathed. “Oh, wow.” He turned his head to nuzzle Bo’s neck. A sudden draft blew the candles out, and the room was dark. We turned ourselves onto our sides to make a Bo sandwich, and slept in perfect bliss in Bo’s bed. Not one of us awoke until the buzz of the gate intercom intruded.