****************************** * * * "SKY EYES" * * * * By Carl Corley * * * * An epic of an American * * Indian's pastoral passion * * for his white brother. * * * ****************************** Copyright 1967 by Publisher's Export Co., Inc. San Diego, California A PEC French Line Novel #28 (This adult book printing company has long since gone out of business) Other books by Carl Corley: Gay Trilogy My Purple Winter A Fool's Advice The Scarlet Lantern Fallen Eagle Faces in Secret A Lover Mourned All characters and situations in this book are fictitious. The Author's Note: ----------------- This is a tale of a time long past, a novelle that stirs the heart with its lyrical beauty and pastoral passions - as intended - and is no more than that. It bears no malice for the primitive races. The morals of one individual does not condemn that person's race as a whole, for the race itself dominates the individual. - Carl V. Corley - This gay story text was taken from a 4 1/4" x 7" paper backed novel that had sold for $1.25 and boasted "The Finest in Adult Reading". It's an adult gay novel intended for reading by persons twenty-one and older. A pastoral sex story between a young white man in his twenties and the bronze-skinned Indian man who lusted for him. Its cover was a colored illustration of a naked yellow-haired white man with a red kingly gown at his feet facing an Indian man in a red breechcloth who was bringing him a gifted white horse with a red feather hanging from its tethered mouth. ************************************************************************* * * * "Sky Eyes" * * * * by Carl Corley * * * ------------------------------------------------------------------------- Chapter One ------------------------------------------------------------------------- Vik Alta slipped out of his varnished Wellington boots and his mustard-colored tights. He eased into the trough of hot water a little reluctantly, a little embarrassed by the rugged roustabouts who eyed him rakishly as they busied themselves with shaving, hair-trims, shining their foot-wear, and having their traveling regalia dusted of that fine Mississippi loam which settled persistently on every stagecoach traveler from New Orleans to Kentucky. He lathered up, using an enormous wad of soap from hog-fat and lye, and watched curiously as the hot water, a pale green, bubbled down the length of the pine wood through and under the wall. The trough was fed by the Pearl River. The water flowed through a sluice into a boiling pot and then emptied into the bathing trough. All with the compliments of the Les Fleurs Bluff trading post, which accommodated weary travelers from the distant ports of Biloxi, New Orleans, Memphis, and far up as Atlanta. And they all seemed to be here in this elongated room, thought Vik, as he took advantage of the tonsorial facilities. Mountain crackers, swamp Cajun and Tennessee hillbillies rubbed elbows (and behinds) with aristocratic cotton plantation kings, merchants and bankers. The place was like a mad-house, or, rather, like a saloon on Saturday night. There was much hollering, drinking, laughing, joke telling, and many impatient commands to the little Negro they referred to as "Ice Cream" to shine their boots, brush their top-coats, to iron a damp shirt. Added to the noise was the rancid smell of unwashed male bodies, stale sweat, pelts, gun powder, tobacco, rum, lye soap, and cologne, all mixed with the steam from the hot water and thickened in quantity and potency. What a drastic change from his theatre days in New Orleans, the little dressing room behind the stage, the marble bath, the shining glass decanters of perfumes, the fluffy white towels, the French waiter. But he didn't mind the savagery of this mob, actually. In fact, he curiously enjoyed the change, enjoyed roughing it, for he realized it was but a momentary interlude in his life. In another week, if his luck held out and there were no more Indian uprisings, he would be out of this primeval territory, traveling toward New York and embarked on a career with the Shakespearean acting group. It would be a long awaited event. But God! He deserved this break! Acting, especially the classics, was not the best kind of life for a man of twenty four, or of any age, for that matter, unless he was on top, a recognized star. But, he shrugged, revealing in the hot water flowing past his tired, naked body, by next year of 1831, if he worked hard enough and sacrificed, he had an excellent chance of playing the lead in Henry the Eight. Had not Baron Bonne of New Orleans said as much? And if anyone knew acting... the Baron knew! Lost in his own thoughts, ignoring completely the motly crew who milled about, sloshing water as they scrubbed their mangy hides, Vik was lifted up as easily as if by sleight of hand. "Your arm pulling me," Vik said gratefully, "is like the Sunday school tale of Jesus Christ and Peter on the wild wet sea... me being Peter." The man looked down at him, unexpectedly, as if to take notice if he was in earnest and, finding that he was, changed the subject of religion. "Boy, you got the yellowest head of hair ah ever saw," he said, with admiration in his deeply masculine voice. "I'm Swedish," Vik explained, tossing back his long blond locks with a careless shake of his head. "My father came from Katrineholm in 1810, came to the America's to make his fortune, and I be born in this emerald land, on the banks of the Mississippi." "Saw only one other person with hair like that," the stranger added, his dark mellow eyes following Vik's every move, like a preying cat at a mouse hole. "That was a saloon at Natchez below the hill. A dancing woman. Said she used lye." "No lye or no other concoctions blended this to the gold color that it is," Vik denied, taking up a rough towel and rubbing his naked arms. "It's the blending of nature and naught else," he finished flatly. "Well, you're a strange one," the man said; "for these parts like a gum-tree leaf in Indian summer lodged in a black-thorn." At that Vik turned and gazed at him, for the first time. The man towered over his five-foot-two height, broad of shoulders thick of biceps and forearms. He was stripped to the waist, and his hard, rounded chestplates were covered with a riot of wild, black, curly hair, almost like a mat. His nipples stood out, piercing, dark-toned like polished mahogany. He was wearing worn buckskins, boots, and the muscles of his thighs and calves showed, like the sinews of a panther through their coating of fur. The hair on his head was black, straight as a horse's mane, and brushed until it shown from the light in the pine rafters above. He was clean shaven, a rarity among these hill country men who boasted beards, mustaches, or mutton-jaws and side burns. His lips cut a clean, red line across his face, as shapely as a woman's. He was one of the handsomest men Vik had ever seen, especially when he smiled that lazy, indolent smile with an inner grace, almost like that of a prowling animal. "I'm Vik Alta," he introduced himself, and, feeling something of protection in the shadow of this male giant, Vik thrust out an eager hand. "My destination is New York... the classic stage." The man gave him a ready glance. His dark, liquid eyes roved from the top of Vik's wheat-colored head to his water-soaked toes, all in the fleeting fraction of a second. "Thought as much," he grunted, though he smiled. "I knew you wasn't one of the rough and readies. I'm Rafe Savage, territorial guide for the stage line. From Yalobusha way... to Yazoo City." Vik eyed him with growing interest. "Will that be up the Natchez Trace?" The man nodded. "So... we ride the stage together." "I'd like that," Vik said, and he meant it. Riding the stage up from New Orleans had been no picnic. Most of the travelers had only grunted when he attempted to engage them in conversation. It would be a relief having someone like this gallant Rafe Savage to sit beside him on the rickety stage, to talk to and keep his mind off the Indians... those heathenistic apemen! Not that Vik had ever seen one. But he had heard repeatedly what demons they were, and he shivered at the very thought of Indians. "What's the matter?" Rafe asked, protectively concerned, "A cuckle bur caught in your drying rag?" "Just chilled standing here naked as the day I was born," Vik said, attributing his trembling at the thought of Indians to his embarrassing condition. "Here... er... Vik, boy," Rafe said, taking the towel in strong brown hands and rubbing his wet chest and abdomen thoroughly. "Let me give you a helping hand. The stage will be in from Columbia in half and hour. You can't go to New York ass-naked!" At that Vik turned crimson. But he allowed himself to be rubbed down, and the man took every liberty as if Vik were an animal being carefully groomed... and not a full-grown man exposed to the goggling eyes of all these filthy hillbillies. "You're like a young colt," Rafe said, getting to Vik's inner thighs and around his rounded buttocks. "Strong and firm. You'll beget sons and daughters with strength, stamina. They won't be like these Mississippi crackers... their spirits broken from hard field labor before they're fourteen... with broken arches from following a plow barefoot, hump-backed from stooping in the cotton rows. Your sons will be like young fawns. He slapped Vik playfully on the rump. "Smooth as a lady's garter!" He laughed, displaying two rows of even, white teeth. His dark eyes smiled too, like two tiny lights down in a dark well. Vik smiled back, shyly, in that innocent Swedish manner of his, and a warmth flooded his being, a strange, inner warmth which made him feel that he had known this friendly man for a long time, instead of only a few minutes while exchanging brief, casual words. In his travels, Vik had found most Mississippians aloof, distant, a little hostile by nature. Even when they weakened their reserve and carried on a mild conversation with him they seemed to hold back, as if they harbored a secret that even threat of death could not reveal. This Rafe Savage was different. But in what way? Vik was not sure. Warm. That was part of it. Rafe was warm. And in that warmth there was surely understanding. Both of these qualities made Vik realize, suddenly, that he needed to depend on Rafe, but for what... Vik was not certain. When they finished with their dressing he followed Rafe out of the bath house and stood with him for a moment on the front elevated gallery while they awaited the next stage. The fort was set on a high bluff overlooking Pearl River which wound its way lazily through the autumn foliage like a sleepy snake. The breeze from the green water was cool and fragrant upon their faces. Gold and scarlet autumn leaves waved like gorgeous plumes in the tree tops, and the dark green of the sable pines shimmered in the distance. On the river, near the wharf, canoes and flatboats were moored in silent groups. Dock-hands went to and fro like ants, loading a battered sternwheeler bound for Biloxi and the Gulf of Mexico. Guards rimmed the high towers of the fort, rifles at the ready, their eyes locked on the shimmering blue distance. Sentinels, their rifles at trail, walked their coarse, weather-beaten, chatted as they waited for their destined stage, and in front, in the red dust of the road children played with the fox hounds and pickaninnies. Friendly Indians, decked out in white men's attire but with their black hair still long like that of the Incan ancestors dragged in pole sleds tied to their spotted ponies. The sledges were loaded with pelts- fox, coon, rabbit, bear, deer - to be traded at the fort in sugar, seedcorn, tobacco, whiskey, brightly-patterned cloth and trinkets. "Harmless urchins," Vik remarked, as he watched one Indian, a mere youth with a loin cloth tied over his trousers who was bringing an arm load of gaudy-colored earthernware to sell to the waiting travelers. "That one, yes," Rafe agreed, lifting his black, wide-brimmed hat with the beaten silver band and setting it over one eye in a cocky fashion. "He's a Pontotoc. His Pa was a white man. He's tame as a collie. But once we get beyond Madison County, into the Choctaw nation, things will perk up a bit. Got your shooting iron?" Vik trembled again. "Got my Derringer," he said, taking it out of his wine-silk waistcoat. "Papa gave it to me on my eighteenth birthday." "You couldn't snip off their balls with that!" Rafe said, with a know-it-all-smile. "What you need is a trusty Lefaucheux Brevete revolver." Taking the pistol out of the holster strapped to his hugh thigh, Rafe held it out to Vik to examine, the late sun glittering off the end of the long barrel. The gun was elaborate by Vik's conservative Swedish standards, wrought with filligree, as delicate as lace. "It looks dangerous!" Vik said, in awe of its shiny beauty. "It is dangerous," Rafe said, returning it to its holster. "Just pointing it at an Indian scares hell outa them. Then they start running. All you see of them is their ass-holes and their elbows." Vik went crimson. "Eh... do you think we will encounter some of them?" he asked, changing the subject quickly. "Don't fret, Vik boy," he answered calmly. Then he frowned, his face like the sun going under a cloud. He put his arms around Vik's shoulder. "Ah'll look out for you, and be right beside you every step of the way. Ah'll do the shooting for the both of us." There was that warmth again! Vik was puzzled. He had never met a man quite like this Rafe. But he dismissed the reflection hurriedly as he considered the Indians. Because of the Indians he had almost cancelled his trip to New York. He would have done so, had he not sacrificed so much of his time and energy in the Tabaray's theatre on St. Peter's street in New Orleans, without getting anywhere. He simply could not let this opportunity slip by, Indians or no Indians. But... the mere thought of them turned his blood cold! There were not enough Indians in Louisiana to be of much concern, and the lower Mississippi valley was safe, even as far as south Alabama and the wastelands of Florida. But there were only fourteen Counties in Mississippi governed by the white man. To the north lay the Choctaw and Chickasaw Indian nations. Every traveler was at the mercy of these primitives. It was through this wild and haunted region that the Natchez Trace passed. Authorization for opening the Trace was contained in separate treaties signed by General James Wilkinson, in command of the U.S. troops at Natchez and Fort Adams, in mutual agreement with the Chickasaw and Choctaw tribes. The treaty spelled out the terms under which an open and convenient wagon road was to be constructed between the settlements of the Mero district in the state of Tennessee and those of Natchez in the Mississippi territory. It was the old trail blazed by General Andrew Jackson in his march to New Orleans during the war of 1812, which had given him the title of "Old Hickory." It was over this rough trail, cut through virgin timberland, around rugged hillsides, along the Big Black river and the Yalobusha, that Vik was to make his way to acting fame or... at least that was his ambition. Now, standing on the wide, planked veranda of Fort Le Fleur, gazing down the steep, sandy bluff to Pearl River, overlooking the site that was later to become Jackson, the capitol city of Mississippi, Vik was watching the haggard, half-animal forms of "friendly" Indians infiltrating the crowds or drowsing sleepily in the shade of the low eaves, in motley groups around the saddle and pack horses which stood patiently at tether. The only thing that held Vik's nervousness in check was the tall, dark man beside him, this handsome stranger, this stalwart sun-tanned giant who looked as if he finished what he started. It was Rafe standing so close, so warmly near, so obviously protective that kept Vik from changing his mind, and taking the next south-bound stage to New Orleans. Glancing up, wrapped in his fears, Vik noticed the dark profile silhouetted against the sun. Vik was frightened so ill at ease, so worried about his plans, and ambitions, that Rafe seemed to him a glorious god, an immortal straight out of the classics. Vik said without thinking, "Rafe... Rafe... do you think we'll make it... safely? I've got to get through!" Rafe turned and gazed down at him pensively. For a tense moment their eyes locked and held. There was a faint trace of a smile on Rafe's lips. "You'll make it Vik, ah swear." "I don't know anything about guns," Vik went on, desperately, "and I can tell you know what you're doing. I'll hire you to keep them off me... pay you what you ask... till I make it through to Tennessee..." Rafe laughed a sly laugh. "Vik, my boy, keep your gold. Ah'm going that way anyway. And you're safe... as long as there's breath in my body... you're safe! Vik glanced away, thoughtful, then glanced back. Their eyes locked again, as if they were under a spell. "You really mean that, don't you, Rafe Savage?" "Ah'll keep my word." Vik let out a contented sigh. He eyed the Lefaucheaux Brevete revolver strapped to that muscular thigh as hard as iron, and a sense of relief swept over Vik like a protective hand. Rafe understood his fear of the unfamiliar and his face became a mask of concern. "You wait here, boy," he said, gripping Vik's arm, "Ah'll go fetch us a mug of Java. make you feel better." Vik nodded, and obediently waited. He allowed his gaze to wander over to the other side of the river where the old sternwheeler, now loaded until its deck rode but a few inches above the water was moving sedately out to the mid-stream. On the hillsides flamed bright carpets of rhododendrons going up the walls of dark pines. Pale closed Gentians were blending with the breeze and Vik listened quietly to the white-breasted nuthatch in a far off cedar; the joyful laughter of the children scuffling in the dust. He whispered low, beneath his breath: "Let those love now, who never loved before: And those who always loved, now love more..." Rafe came up to his side unexpectedly, with two mugs of steaming coffee sloshing over. Like most masculine men he was not domestically inclined and he made quick apologies - as he would gallantly make to a beautiful woman. "It's like the nectar of the gods," Vik said, taking one of the mugs and sipping sparingly. "It'll warm our guts till we get to Yazoo," Rafe said, his voice low, emotional, almost a tremor. "There's a stage post there. We can eat, and there's a room where we can sleep." Their eyes met magnetically in the golden afternoon light, the look filled with unspoken meaning as a mocking bird called from the hollow. ------------------------------------------------------------------------- Chapter Two ------------------------------------------------------------------------- The stage came in, jouncing on its swings. The driver was hell bent for leather, giving a great show of reins, whoops, yells, and curses. The six horses, harnessed with glittering silver trappings, were the best stock from Texas paddocks. They pranced and kicked up the red dust. Pandemonium broke loose as the stage arrived. There was wild excitement - orders were being given, men were bragging about their luck on the upland turn, children were squealing, dogs were barking and the hired help was running to and fro exchanging the lathered horses for fresh ones. Vik pushed through the mob in an attempt to climb aboard the stage. He tugged at his deer-hide trunk, but Rafe was at his side in an instant. He swung the trunk up on one broad shoulder and, with the agility of an ape, climbed up the side of the coach and strapped it to the luggage compartment. With arms and legs spread, he leaped from the stage, and hit the dust like a circus performer. In that one instant Vik caught a glimpse of his powerful physique, hard thighs bursting through his tight buckskins, buttocks as firm as pound cheese, arms like a blacksmith's. Rafe was a beautiful but terrifying picture of brute strength, dark power and dexterity. Rafe caught hold of Vik's hand satchel to toss it aboard, but Vik held him in check. Inside were his books, plays, classic literature, his last link to the theatre, his past... his most precious possessions. "I'll keep this on my person," he said politely, but firmly, holding his black leather satchel closer to his body. "Suit yourself," Rafe replied with a casual, unconcerned air but Vik felt that he owed the man an apology. "It's not that I don't trust you, Rafe. But, if I lose this bag I lose my future." He added wistfully, "and my past. It's my life!" "Full of gold?" Rafe questioned, setting his hat on the back of his head and scratching his forehead until his long black hair tumbled into his curiously lit eyes. "Trash to you, Rafe Savage, but pure gold to me," was Vik's reply. The satchel was full of plays, of letters on white paper, poetry that could whisk you to Bagdad, Arabia, Egypt at the turn of a page... gold indeed to an actor. When the stage coach was readied, Vik climbed aboard, Rafe lifting him up... as he would a woman. Vik took the rear right seat which would give him the most advantageous observation post as a lookout for Indians ahead. Rafe occupied the seat directly in front of him, stretching his long, powerful legs out lazily, and shifting his hat so far forward the brim all but hid his eyes. Vik introduced himself to the only other passenger, a Mr. Jon Blacker a bloated frog in tightly fitting ill-kept clothes. His top-coat was threadbare at the elbows and seams, his black silk cravat was stained with talcum powder and cologne. His dark, probing eyes were set too near the bridge of his nose, like tiny rosary beads against the dough softness of his hog-jawed face. They were off with a jolt. The leather swings beneath the coach were squeaking nervously, the driver shouting cuss words at his gallant steeds, and slapping the reins against their rumps as their hooves made the dust fly. The fat Mr. Blacker attempted conversation. He was from Columbia, Vik learned without interest. He was trying to be polite but Rafe ignored Blacker completely, and deliberately. Blacker said he was only going as far as Fort Adams which bordered the Choctaw nation, the last outpost between the white man's civilization and the Indian's savagery. "A stinking hell-hole on earth," Mr. Blacker ranted, wiping sweat. "And me to be in charge... me!" He thrust a fat finger into his pudgy belly. "I'm not an officer. I'm a civilian. I'm about the most civilian civilian you'd ever chance to meet up with. Fort Adams should be commanded by the U.S. Militia... not by a civilian!" "Why you going, then?" Rafe asked, eyeing him from beneath the brim of his hat. "Why didn't you stay in Columbia?" Mr. Blacker fussed with his sweaty cravat. "Why... er... sir, the town marshall said I got uppity with a young lady, made improper advances... mind you... improper advances, when she knew all the baser facts of life when she was no more than fifteen. Anyway... the marshall thought Fort Adams would tame my desires, mainly because he is sweet on the hussy hisself. He let me take my choice, to command Fort Adams... since there were no volunteers... or imprisonment at St. Elmo." "Have you ever been to Fort Adams?" Rafe kept up his rain of questions, either curious, or just having fun with the fat child seducer seated beside him. Vik, hiding his grin, was enjoying the latter's discomfort. "Never in my life!" Mr. Blacker answered, his eyes now like the eyes of a frightened rat. "Is it civilized, sir?" Rafe grunted, leaned back in his seat, lowered the brim of his hat completely down over his eyes. Lifting his long, powerful legs, he rested them on the seat beside Vik. "About as civilized as a Choctaw happy hunting ground," Rafe replied. "A log shack, a lean-to stable, a barrel to catch rain water, two bunk rooms, a stove, some hardtack and a side of bacon. That's all there is to Fort Adams." Blacker's lower jaw dropped an inch, and his jowls shook like jelly. "Then why in the hell do they maintain it?" Rafe laughed under his hat. "Fort Adams connects to a telegraph line. If there's an Indian raid you have the honor of being the first to relay a message to Les Fleurs Bluff. It'll give them time to reinforce for a line of defense before the Choctaws break through." "And what about me? My God, man! In the middle of all them savages!" Rafe, lifting his hat brim, gave him a knowing smile. "Oh, you'll be scalped but what a brave deed you will have done for your country!" Mr. Blacker cringed, his fat body crumpling like a tent. "Merciful God! How unfair fate is to man! What a terrible price to pay for a little recreation for a woman!" "If you want it bad enough it's worth the risk," Rafe put in, chuckling. He turned serious eyes to Vik... eyes Vik considered wanton. "When a man wants his pleasures," he went on, "he's apt to go to some mighty extremes. The stranger it is the better. The younger, the more hankering is a man's honing to get at it." He eyed Vik again, their heads bobbling from the rickety stage. Vik choked. Rafe awakened in his emotions, his thoughts things he could not understand, of which he had no inkling. They aroused his curiosity, provoked an interest he was not altogether sure he liked. The man moved him like an invisible power moving a stone, like a storm shattering trees and villages, like a gale tearing a house down. Silently, seriously he considered these things within the man who sprawled lazily in front of him, noticed how the powerful legs seemed about to burst through the worn seams of his syrup candy colored buckskins; how the muscles of his chest made themselves conspicuous, even beneath the soft folds of leather; almost felt his animal warmth, this hidden rapture within him, sensed all his grave, dark beauty. Vik allowed his eyes to wander down the length of Rafe to his straddle where he bulged like ripe melons left in the hollow of two firm terrace rows... admiringly thought him a Paladin in Western garb, a knight-errant of Charlemagne or King Author. Plaguering these grand thoughts, though, was his terror of Indians, his desperation to get through this savage, uncivilized country to New York and, glancing seriously at Rafe who still eyed him avariciously, he cried: "Is Fort Adams as far as the telegraph line goes. I mean..." "Ah'm afraid so," Rafe said, interrupting, as if he could read Vik's mind, his fears. "From there up it's every man for himself... without the U.S. Militia to back him." Then he winked at Vik,a long, slow, meaningful wink... which the fearful Vik did not comprehend. He mistook the conspiratorial wink for friendliness and felt relievedly secure in the knowledge. "Don't fret, Vik boy," Rafe went on, the sound of his voice, even, erasing more of Vik's continual terror, "as long as Ah got my trusty Lefaucheux Brevete," he slapped at his thigh, "no harm come to my Swedish flaxen!" Mr. Blacker chuckled at that, as if he had been included in the noble gesture of protection. The stage coach rumbled on, seemingly forever. The three in the coach lapsed into silence. Vik, relishing the absence of Mr. Blacker's whimperings, his unendurable protests, tried to occupy his thoughts as he scanned the landscape outside his window, the gaudy red land fleeing past like waves on an emerald sea. On each side of the coach, but a narrow, wheel rutted trail not more than ten feet wide, stood a wall of woods. So thick were the rasping sounds from the squeaking coach, and the horses hoofs, that they echoed against them and bounced back as from a wall. Here and there stood a lonely farmhouse, floating in golden field corn, bordered by crude rail fences and stone barracades from prowling Indians with hay shocked in cone-shaped stacks on the leveled fields. Occasionally they passed a barn, and its barnyard with cows and horses once a lone church with its improvised steeple stabbing the blue, empty sky. Deer in pairs, and in herds leaped at times but a few feet ahead of the plunging horses. Quail, leading their young, scattered with wild cries. And crows and hawks circled lazily overhead, remote, immune to human marauders. The coach shook, bounced and swayed, tossing the three occupants like seeds in a goard. Red dust mushroomed under the wheels, rose in a suffocating cloud, glowing like the aftermath of a shooting star. Vik, unaccustomed to such primitive transportation - such exposure to the raw crudeness of the elements, coughed continuously. The dust settled on his fine gray top-coat, on his wine silk waistcoat, his watered silk cravat - and all his tiring efforts could not erase it or bring his attire to its former immaculate elegance. Sweat beaded his brow. It ran down his face, into his cravat, soaked his white silk shift beneath. His long blond hair lay plastered to his brow; and his pale blue eyes felt as if they were going to burn out of his skull. His shapely red lips became parched, so badly did he long for water, and his hands, folded in the straddle of his thighs, felt clammy and sticky. The huge rings on his fingers, the massive black onyx with the embossed head of a pagan prince, and the square emerald crowned with a alabaster dragon, turned loosely on his sweaty fingers. Taking out a huge gold watch, the only gift he owned from his mother, he glanced at the tiny lace-like hands dispiritedly. They pointed to five o'clock. He looked out the window, evaluated the sky. Long dark shadows were beginning to creep along the slopes, lending to the rugged landscape and eerie, almost a nightmare quality. "It'll be dark soon," Rafe said, leaning forward and peering out the window. "We'll be at the fort in three... four more hours." He glanced at Vik, patted him on the thigh. "New to this... ain't you?" Vik nodded. His eyes dragged round to Rafe. "Ain't like them fancy footlights, and all that elegant stage acting, eh?" Rafe smiled at him warmly, filled with deep concern. "It's like a journey through a dark hell," Vik shuddered, glancing once at Rafe then out the window. "It is hell!" Mr. Blacker snorted, pulling in his fat lips. "Gives me the willies! Wish to God I could jump out of this flea-bitten stage, and run for my dear life!" Rafe eyed him with apprehension. "Why don't you then? Nobody got a hand on you, holding you back. Be my guest. Go ahead and jump!" Vik tried to smother a laugh. Mr. Blacker growled. In disdain, with the air of a highbrow, he glanced heavenward. "With that shotgun guard riding seat above?" he cried in his own defense. "Been posted up there beside the driver ever since we left Columbia. He's got an itchy finger, just for me. He'd give both his seeds to take a shot at me... probably empty both barrels if I so much as lifted the latch on this door." Rafe continued the charade. "You must have done more than just gape at that purty little girl down in Columbia. Sure you didn't damage... her virginity?" Vik was struck with quick embarrassment but he cocked an ear. The curiosity of youth led him on. "Well... making a long story short," Mr. Blacker said, and with exaggerated boastfulness, smacking his lips as if he had just devoured a rump-steak. "It wasn't so much that I bothered her virginity as you so basely put it - but the manner in which I did it." "Ah don't follow you," Rafe asked, a little more curious. "She didn't bother her head to squeal as long as I was doing it... ah naturally," Mr. Blacker explained, without a fathom of reticence, "but the minute I put my mouth on it... well, she screamed like a stuck pig!" Rafe's eyes popped. He instantly glanced at Vik, who in turn was glaring straight at Mr. Blacker, not wanting to believe what he had just heard. He was not completely ignorant on the subject. Being in the theatre, mingling sometimes socially with the other members, the frequently changing cast, frequenting the cabarets and eating places in the Vieux Carre of New Orleans, along St. Louis and Daughine streets, he had listened, and with aversion, to the fops delineating their sexual appetites... their lustful encounters with strange girls, with callow young girls from the streets - of which they had taken shameful advantage. They spoke, too, of young boys, boys on the brink of starvation, who had complied only as a means to keep alive. He had heard, also, of wild parties, strange revelries that seemed to go on anywhere there was a dark alcove, anywhere two bodies could be concealed... everywhere one strange being could lock with another. It had been their world, not his, and he had regarded such dark, demonical acts as the height of baseness. Now, here sat another one of their kind in the coach with him, a fat monsterous blot of weird appetites, swollen and bloated with sin, and grinning and preening and smacking his saltless lips with the unbecoming swagger of a satyr. Again Vik glanced at Rafe, caught something of question - and a glitter in the dark eyes that looked back at him. They were filled with speculation and awe, and this frightened Vik a little. He had always been wary of those he could not readily understand, a little cautious, and for the first time since he had met Rafe Savage, he felt something of tension - of uneasiness in his presence. This vague something had been triggered by the fat Mr. Blacker's narrative about the young girl and strangely, had suddenly experienced this unease about Rafe and himself. "The bible speaks against such unnatural crimes," Vik said to the dreamy-eyed Mr. Blacker, wanting desperately to bring hell-fire and damnation on top of his evil head for taking advantage of a young ignorant girl. "Once, in the land of Sodom..." "Spare me your tiresome, boring Phillipics from the bible," Mr. Blacker cried, lifting a pudgy hand as if to halt his voice. "The physical craving for a woman or man... whichever you desire... is as natural as your craving for food, rest, equality or peace. Man is guided by his animal instincts, and he carries out by these lusts the dictates of the almighty. If God had not intended man to know these lusts he would have created him without them. We do only what our physical selves demand and, if these things are condemned by society, then it is because society has imposed such laws... and not God." Rafe gave a satisfied grin, his dark eyes sparkling in the reddening sunset light. "Is that why you're being chased out of Columbia?" "Don't be impertinent with me, young man," Mr. Blacker retorted, lifting his nose to a haughty cant. "Because the so-called society of that miserable one-horse town considered me vile is not proof of my villiany. They are not my peers!" "You must answer to the environment which surrounds you," Vik put in, remembering his own father's timely advice when he had insisted on joining the (to his sire) repugnant clan of the theatre. "And you should know that better than I," snapped Mr. Blacker, his eyes popping out like a stuck frog. "Aren't you of the stage? No place else on earth is there such a pig sty of debauchery! The stage is but a flesh pot for the weird. Surely you are enmeshed in that sordid world... fops, dandies, harlots, ghosts of the streets... Psyche, Narcissus, Hippolytus, Ganymede... they are all there in your lantern show of hell! And you tell me that I am ruled by my environment. Bah!" Vik relapsed into a momentary asylum of quiet, for he knew the ugly old man confronting him was right. Vik had been exposed to the evil of twisted minds by his ambitions for the theatre but he had managed to date to ride clear of them, blameless, unaffected. He had listened but with a remote ear. He had learned, but he had not participated. The life of the other actors did not interest or concern him. He lived only for acting. His young body, his desires were entirely his own. In his lapse into silence, he cut a sharp eye in the direction of Rafe; found the dark man looking squarely back at him in return and something of that dispicable world stirred within him. Like an echo out of some haunting theme, some undercurrent, mixing the mental with the physical, pulled him into Rafe's gaze and in that gaze they merged somehow mentally, like two leaves rushing together in a whirlpool. "Don't let this old fat goat rowel you," Rafe said to him surprisingly, his dark eyebrows arched, his liquid eyes peering at him from beneath long curling lashes. "You're as innocent as a babe, Vik Alta." "Bah!" snorted Mr. Blacker, who let out a triumphant chuckle, "who you two think you're fooling! Can't I see you rolling eyes at each other? Don't you think I know what this stage-struck Cybele is thinking? I haven't been buried at Columbia all my life... New York, Chicago... even to San Francisco! I can spot one a mile!" At that Vik jumped. Rafe noticed that jump, beheld with deep interest the nervous tension which, suddenly, had descended upon Vik, and quickly came to his defense. "Don't judge others by your evil Mr. Blacker. A man has to look and dress his profession. Vik here is an actor so he must look the part. He is only living up to his trade." "So did Hephaestus," Mr. Blacker cooed. "But that didn't make him a god." "You use mighty fancy words, Mr. Blacker," Rafe said mockingly, "especially to be going to Fort Adams under guard. Nobody to hear you out there but wolves and cottonmouths and wild Indians." That stopped Mr. Blacker cold. But then, out of his own absurdity he asked triumphantly: "If you consider your cohort such a man of accomplishment, have him recite some of his professional patois." "Speak something," Rafe urged Vik, laying a firm hand on his leg. "Show this old tent-breeches." Vik, though tired and weary from the joggling in the dust littered stage, fumbled in his leather case for an appropriate book. "Well recite, boy!" Mr. Blacker yelled, his jaws flopping. "Novice or professional, at worst it beats the monotony of this horrid journey." Vik, selecting a book and thumbing through it to a dogeared page, leaned towards the sunset light coming through the tiny window and began to read, at first low, plaintive then vibrantly to the echo of his native Swedish tongue: "So sweet her frame, so exquisitely fine, she seemed a statue by a hand divine. Had not the wind her waving tresses show'd, and down her cheeks the melting sorrows flow'd. Her faultless form the hero's bosom fires: the more he looks, the more he still admires." "Bravo!" Rafe shouted, giving applause, as Vik paused, swallowed to clear his throat of dust, then went on. On and on he read. Darkness came as the sun fell below the dark pines in the west. Only his voice and that of the straining six up front galloping over the hard worn earth and the slapping of reins could be heard in the primitive twilight. Then, Vik's voice faltered, and died as it become too dark for him to see the page. Wearily, all but asleep, he let the book slip from his fingers. It fell on the floor at Rafe's feet who picked it up and restored it to Vik's lap. "You are wonderful," Rafe said, taking Vik's hand firmly in his. He glanced once at Mr. Blacker, whose enormous body lay sprawled against the opposite side of the seat. He was now fast asleep. "Lay your head on my lap," Rafe said then to Vik, almost in a loving whisper. Hardly realizing what he was doing, Vik fell back into Rafe's lap, his blond head buried in the warm hollow of his thighs. Drunk on weariness, hunger and thirst, Vik sensed how wonderful it was to be in the deep dark hollow of Rafe's loins... to rest on the power of him, the welcome security of his strength, his awed appreciation. The stagecoach rolled on, like a chariot going up into heaven. The stars came out, to gleam like fire-flies frozen around the moon. Vik shifted his position, sighed, felt the rising growth in the cleavage of Rafe's thighs and knew profoundly how grand a man he was. ------------------------------------------------------------------------- Chapter Three ------------------------------------------------------------------------- As Rafe had so accurately calculated, they arrived at Fort Adams around nine. The coach hubs screamed as its wheels slewed around the sharp ruts, and the whole, clumsy superstructure bounced in the air like a child's toy on a string as the driver reined the sweating team into the wide, level stretch, through the trenches lying idle with their threatening canon unattended, and brought them to a halt directly in front of the fort. A lone Indian - a friendly - met them with a grin, the only occupant at the fort. He looked rather comical to Vik, taking note of his black howler hat adorned with a feather, his awkward ape of the white man's garb. Over his baggy trousers he wore a loincloth, not as a garment, but as a symbol of his masculinity. Unknown to Vik, custom dictated that, if he neglected to wear the piece, he would be labeled by other Indians as a squaw. Rafe jumped out first and, while he busied himself helping to unload the luggage, Vik and the grumbling Mr. Blacker climbed out and stretched their cramped and aching bodies. Completely alone for a moment, Mr. Blacker asked him directly: "I couldn't help but take note of you a-laying in that scout's mangy lap. Do you practice he-mo-sodomy?" Vik shot him an insolent gaze. "I am no Greek!" he answered, with deliberate ice in his voice. He thought that, afterward, he must be careful to steer clear of Mr. Blacker and his too-curious eyes. Vik came around to the rear of the stage to where Rafe was unleashing the canvas flap over the luggage. "I don't take to that Mr. Blacker," he said as if seeking the scout's protection. "That makes two of us," Rafe answered. Then, as if to change the subject. "Well, Vik my boy, this is it! Fifty yards ahead and you're in Choctaw country." "It gives me the creeps," Vik stammered, trembling more from the fear of the Indians than the fall chill which prowled the land in the sun's absence. With some reserve, he studied the dark bulk of the fort, the pale moonlight casting its wan hues over the land beyond, the woods cut black shadows, frighteningly, intensely black. "It ain't that bad," Rafe complied, sounding casual. "If you can make it safely to Juka then its free-wheeling from there on. The Memphis and Charleston railroad passes through there, and Juka and Holly Springs and Corinth is the end of the Indian nation. Besides, there'll be the driver with his ever-watchful eye and his double barrel shotgun." "A lump suddenly rose in Vik's throat, and his heart beat with such rapidity he thought it would leap through his panting chest. "But Rafe," he asked, his voice echoing with tremors. "Aren't you going? I mean... is this where we part company?" "Afraid it is, Vik. This is Madison county. Just over the way is Yalobusha River and Yazoo. Ah'll rent a horse and cut through." "But I thought you said awhile back you'd be with me all the way... that no harm'll come?" "Ah did, Vik boy. But that was to give you courage... until you could get acquainted with the country, to brave you for the rough and ready times ahead." Vik went faint. he and the driver going alone through Indian country, pitted against those heathen savages! Suddenly, he had the notion to strike out at this cool, calculating Rafe; to put him in his place for making him feel so safe, so secure, then to pull the props out from under him the way he had. With this let-down feeling, snatching up his satchel, he headed for the fort. "Now hold it a minute," Rafe said, his voice stern but warm. "Don't you go off half-cocked. You're a man, ain't you?" At that Vik halted. "Sure, I'm a man grown. But you - you're deserting me!" Rafe laughed uproariously. "Ah'm not deserting you, boy. You got your ways. Ah got mine. We got separate lives. You go your way. Ah go mine." Vik looked at him in the faint moonlight with rage and terror in his heart. Oddly, he thought of the trip up, laying in his lap, the balm of warmth, the security that had come over him. At that wonderful thought, suddenly, he felt chilled and desolate standing there in the darkness; the outline of the fort looming up like a phantom of doom; the stage coach with its horses blowing vapor from their nostrils; and he wished hopelessly that he had never started on this fool's venture. "The Indians," he muttered, half-consciously. "Those awful savages." "Come," Rafe suggested, placing a warm hand on his shoulder. "We'll have some hot vittles, then sleep until daybreak. You'll feel better. Things always look better in the light of day." Silently Vik obeyed, and they had hot coffee, side meat and biscuit which the Indian had turned out on the fuming wood stove, and directly afterwards Rafe showed him to a small dingy room in the rear of the fort. "The stage driver asked me to give you this room," Rafe said. "Cause it is the best on in the fort. But," he added sheepishly. "Ah'm gonna have to sleep in with you... you don't mind, ah hope?" "I don't mind," Vik replied, surveying the sad colored room with woebegone eyes. In fact he was glad. Though sodden with fatigue, he felt he would not sleep a wink if he had to endure the night alone in this drab, filthy cubby-hole, its one tiny window opening out on that savage Indian world with all its terror and uncertainty. Under the flickering light of a burning wick in a saucer of hogfat, Vik timidly undressed. Something about the face of Rafe, this handsome giant before him, sleeping in the lumpy bunk beside him, frightened Vik a little, cause him to alert his every sense, his every emotion. He had never slept in the same room with strangers, especially with anyone so instinctively primitive as Rafe, and every nerve in his young body trembled with a sudden instinct towards self-protection. He did not comprehend what he feared, but he feared, and the physical magnitude of this savage man stripping before him set every fiber of his being vibrating against the walls of his tiny frame. Pulling off everything except his long winter wools, fidgeting with his clothes, make sure they were folded neatly over the back of the straight-backed chair, he lay down shyly on the quilted mattress which smelled of dankness and mold. Silently, curiously, out of the corner of one eye, he watched Rafe take off his clothes, thankful for the dim glow of the light which hid him from the other's view. To Vik's surprise, Rafe stripped completely naked as unconsciously as if they had shared this room together all their lives. And when he stepped close to the candle to blow out the light, Vik's heart leaped to his throat. He had never seen a man so powerfully built so in tune with the primitive surroundings. And, curiously, eagerly, he let his eyes roam at will, almost hungrily. Rafe looked so dark there in the golden hues of the candle, his broad shoulders looming in the dark shadows, his long black hair a savage shadow halo in a wanton masquerade, bathed in the dim, yellow glow. He was something out of Greek mythology, something Vik had read or dreamed - more vision than real - so dark, so utterly beautiful he seemed sublime. And Vik's eyes, curiously, bemused with wonder and awe, thrilling him strangely, surveyed the length and breath of Rafe, roaming, roving, caressing and conjecturing. Without caution he let his eyes fix upon Rafe's groin, where the black hair spread below the navel, forming a shadowy nest in his straddle. There his enormous organ, slightly turgid, loomed so sensuously it but made Vik faint. It was though it held, in its uplifted beauty, a body, a breath, a heart of its own, a thing sentiently alive, apart from the magnificent body to which it was so sublimely attached; yet a great part, a noble extension which completed the man, and which the body of the man completed... both joined in such a unison of flesh and hair and savagery he resembled a hamadryad stallion, his organ twitching, vaccilating, surging at the smell of mares. Within this fusion of glowing gold, of deep immense shadow, of darkness and light, Rafe seemed the man-god, the god-man, coming forth out of primeval time a wraith of memory, a vision of all man's dreams of man, the ultimate that is man, the uprooted images of genetic memory. Something wild and untamed that is hidden, somewhere, in every man was here plainly visible, the personification of lust, the physical gauge of lust, and it seemed to Vik, watching, trembling from the darkness, that something of this god's physical power - perhaps his strong masculine small - invaded his senses; reached out across the room to him and drugged his mind. And when at last Rafe bent and blew out the light, and a moment later had slid in beside him, his trembling was almost too much for him to stand. "You should take off them itchy woolens," Rafe said, his voice plaintive with timely emotion. "You'll rest better, feeling free." His god had commanded and Vik lifted his body, obediently to slip down his long handled underwear. As he lifted up his small but shapely legs to pull the garment off his feet and ankles, he felt Rafe's strong huge hands slip up his inner thighs, felt himself without power to resist - swept into Rafe's powerful arms. As unresisting as if this strange mixture of celestial passion and love, had been an accepted part of his young life. Vik lay and allowed himself to be loved by this dark, savage stranger. Swallowed up in the hard, hair-covered body, unmeshed in the entanglement of his iron sinewed limbs, his overlapping thighs, he basked as any woman surrendering to her man, gloried in this man's body close to his, trembled both with passion and awe as Rafe turned his face to his, cupping his bronze hand beneath his trembling chin, and kissed him fondly on the lips, at first with warmth, mellowness, like the kiss of understood love, then with building passion, robbing him of breath, of sense, of anything but the moment... this wild, unbelievable moment. The he blended so naturally with this savage man of the woods he did not question. He was swept up too enthrallingly, too overwhelmingly to question motive, to pursue an abstraction. Born of a physical world, of a physical nature, out of the very loins of the blond Vikings, he unleashed whatever restraint he possessed, tossed his reins of control aside and gave himself to this dark giant who willed, instinctively, that he gave himself. With the agility of sleight of hand, Rafe turned him over on his stomach, mounted him as Paris may have taken Helen, spread his legs wide apart, carefully, lovingly, and an instant later Vik's innocence, his vestal temple was taken. Not ruthlessly, not as if in the act of rape, through Rafe's body, his drive contained the essence of savagery, but with careful, deliberation. Slowly at first, Rafe's huge member found the soft orfice of flesh, parted it and entered; then thrust in and out like a battering ram at a fortress wall. Succumbing, limp with passion, to the love of the giant who lay atop him, Vik relaxed his body, melted under the muscular, hard body driving above him - pressing his soft flesh into the lumpy, smelly mattress. Only his own buttocks, pivoting, gyrating in the instinctive rhythm of the female, added ecstasy to ecstasy. In no other way did Vik move at all, but with this movement he acted as an initiate - drawing from his own hidden desires the instinctive dance appropriate to the singing tune of flesh and love in his blind effort to please this wayward giant. Finally, as the hard fibers of Rafe's organ burned the tissues of Vik's rectum, tissues as thin and lovely as tinted gauze, Vik sensed a great surging, a flowing of molten sap, and he knew Rafe had spermed, baptising his body, his emotions, his young mind with the symbol of his love, giving, taking, then giving again, blinding Vik forever to the altar of carnal lust which was as old as mythology. Instinctively now, he knew he was made for this, acknowledged it, as Rafe smothered him with kisses, drowned him in the sensuous warmth of his swarthy arms and thighs, and he felt no shame at this realization. Should he? He was not certain. The call was so instinctive, so demanding, so overwhelming, so positive - as final as a wind that blows a house away - that he was left helpless to question it. Bliss was stronger than logic. Rafe was more beautiful than any sorrow. The savage giant had awakened in Vik something deeper, more basic than life. He had opened new doors, had allowed him to witness the untold beauty which lay on the opposite side. Like Jacob taken to Heaven by the angels to view its beauty before being returned to earth. Would Rafe bring him back to this drab, frightful world? Vik knew he could not, would not. He knew it acutely, breathtakingly, as Rafe gathered his small body into the folds of his great person, findling him madly, contentedly, making of this dark, dingy room the abode of heaven on the outskirts of hell. As if gutted by all save his own immediate desires, bound to whatever whims pleased him, demanded of him, to drink this dark, sinewy body dry, Vik wiggled down into the hollow of the great, hair-piled chest, sank his lips over the hard nipples, slid to the hairy navel, thrust in his hungry tongue, rolled it lovingly, forgetful of time nor place, taking his fill... never relenting... even if the room was stormed with savage Choctaws, even tho' a feathered tomahawk should split his skull, flinging him into the blackness of death. He would have this pillage of warm flesh, would gorge his nerves, his senses, on this masculine prize, this masculine epitome. Uncontrolled now, being helped mercifully by Rafe's eager hands pressing down on his shoulders, he slid further into darkness, into rapture. Rafe turned on his right side, thrust up one huge thigh. Vik, with bestiality, cupped his saliva coated lips over the jacked-up organ, let his lips slip lovingly down over the enormous head, down, down until his forehead felt the brush of tendrils in the black field of curling hair. Rafe caught him beneath the shoulders with both his hands and hunched forward, again and again, powerfully, until Vik felt as though he was being stretched over every muscle in Rafe's body, stretched thin as silk over Rafe's primitive strength. Wild now, he kept his rhythm, his mouth moving in unison with Rafe's loins, his narrow hips rising completely from the bunk, jerking back, then coming forward with a thrust eager to fulfill, by the same hunger that compelled each to render himself. Like one body instead of two, they rose and fell, like molten bubbles in a volcano, in that irresistible rhythm of life, obeying a call stronger than life, stronger still than death, for it was more vital to them than life or death, more demanding of their powers as beings. Obeying dark dreams sung to the tune of male love, the rhythm of homosexuality set by the fighting men of antiquity. They could not stop now. They had gone too far. No! Still farther they were bound on their mindless journey! They were sacrificed to it. They were becoming the slaves of this lust - slaves who loved their bondage. Pain was now a kiss. Rapture a never-fulfilled torture. They had sold themselves into slavery, manacled themselves together, bound themselves to serve its lustful holiness with all their good and ill content. And they must be content. They must find, with each thrust of groin into parted lips, contentment. And they both went at it as if in this lay their only ambition. They must succeed. They would succeed. Rafe giving, Vik taking. One would be the cure for what ailed the other, and vice-versa. This last battle of sex was stripping them of care for their own lives or of others... with the exception of each other's. Gusts of cruelty now, perversion, lusts ran lightly over the surface without troubling them. They were learning that the pangs of love were too sharp, griefs too deep, ecstasies too high for their finite selves to register. When emotion reached this peak the mind would choke and their memory would go blank until the renzied seizure at hand was over; and it would not be over until the most precious vintage of Rafe's body was siphoned through his organ into the desperately longing body of Vik. And that would happen. Instinct registered to them, with their every uncontrolled desire, that it would happen. The attitude of the mind in ordinary human slaves is a devastation. They have lost their worlds. But as slaves, Vik had found his. He had found it in the giant, dark body of Rafe. Thirsting to punish an appetite he would not prevent, he took savage pride in subjugating his own body, and offered himself fiercely to Rafe in any way which promised physical pain - or the fulfillment of ecstasy. They would go on until complete exhaustion. And each would exhaust himself on the nerves, emotions, the wild and consuming fires of the other's body. Only through complete exhaustion could their straining bodies find relief. And the relief came as the hot nectar in Rafe's body found its level over Vik's rasping tongue, slid down his smothered throat and into his belly, like sperm jetted into a woman's womb. Lying limp now, wet with sweat, even in this chilly room, they took needed breaths, then idly, lovingly, as Rafe allowed his naked thighs to hang limp, Vik sucked at his nest of hair, kissed his organ, nibbled as his enormous seeds in their thin bag of skin, sucking one at a time into his mouth, washing them with his tongue, then the other, bringing low, contented sighs from Rafe's lips. Cupping him close, his hands beneath his buttocks, drawing him up, jerkedly at times, playfully at others, Vik washed Rafe's loins clean with his wet tongue, loving the best and most fanciful part of him, gnawing tenderly, sucking, kissing with saliva-filled mouth, smelling and enjoying Rafe's masculine scent, that unmistakable scent of human male, the scent of his sweat, his unwashed pubic hair, the rich odor of his organ where the scent builds and ferments in the thick veins, the tissues... a rapturous fragrance more pronounced, more poignant than the mold of the bed, the stinging scent of the cedar logs, the hot fat wick, the sharp annoyance of old leather, tobacco, gunpower, feet incased in boots for days. At long last, a minute or a lifetime later - and who could know? Rafe pulled Vik's body up to his, drowned him with kisses and, suddenly, in this dark, log constructed room, in this lonely outpost, surrounded by the land of savage Indians, this became their accepted, taken-for-granted world. It was theirs, for a minute, for a lifetime, for an eternity. Memory would have it so, whether they repeated this night or no; whether dawn broke the spell, robbed them of the rapture they had so willingly shared in the night. Then, unmercifully, dawn broke. They stirred, eyed the pale pink light through the tiny window, lay and listened sadly, all stifled with sadness, to the men outside drawing in the six horses to the stage, the soft yells, the exasperated commands to the animals, as if the animals could comprehend human language. Vik considered himself. He had lost his sweet youth's innocence. He had been robbed, but oh how sweetly, how enthrallingly! Pain echoed through his body, up his rectum but, somehow, he gloried in it. That pain had brought Rafe ecstasy. Turning, he looked at Rafe whose face lay on his chest. His eyes were open, dark pools of light in the still, gloomy room. "I guess I'm turning into a fuckin' mermaid," Vik said lowly, wondering what Rafe was going to think, now in the heartbreaking light of new day. "Its what you were born for," Rafe answered, hardly above a whisper. Leaning his face ever so close, his long black hair in tassled ringlets over his bronzed brow, he planted a fervent kiss on Vik's passion burned lips. "God help you, Vik boy, if the Choctaws ever take you prisoner!" Vik trembled from the sound of his voice, more than his words, for there was something about the timbre of it that gutted him with terror. And he asked why. "Because you are golden and fair." That casual answer was enough. Rafe sat up in bed, prepared to get dressed. Turning, he looked at Vik lying there in the pink shadows, looked longingly, with deep concern, and troubled affection. "Suppose ah better go with you, to Juka and the railroad anyway... lend you some protection." Vik smiled thanks with his pale blue, burning eyes. ------------------------------------------------------------------------- {End of file: SKY-EYES-1 Story continues in: SKY-EYES-2 (chapters 4-6}