Cut Hand

Chapter 1-2

That task finally done, I cast about for the way back to camp. Cut Hand gave a subdued snort and immediately set off in the wrong direction…leading us straight back to the others.

In our absence Split had scouted a spot fifty yards down the hill, well protected by a grove of hemlock and scrub. I laid out my bedroll while the old man and Cut Hand grunted at one another. Before he left, Split put the prisoner on a blanket with his back to a small, sturdy tree and ran the chain around the bole.

After slaking my thirst from a canteen, I tipped the container to Cut Hand’s lips. He finished drinking and nodded his thanks. I thoughtlessly wiped a dribble of water from his chest. As I touched him above the left n****e, I was lightning struck. My finger caressed his dark aureole independent of my will. My nerve ends jangled. The hair on my arms bristled.

Jerking back, I sat cross-legged in the gathering darkness faintly broken by moonlight filtering through the forest canopy. “I didn’t mean to do that. I don’t know why I did. Never met a real Indian before! That’s stupid!” I gabbled. He comprehended none of my protestations. To get off a treacherous subject, I put a finger to my own chest. “I’m Billy.” I touched him on the sternum, burning my digit. “You’re Cut Hand. I’m Billy!” I droned.

Sucked into a mysterious vortex, I flattened my palm against his breast, feeling the thud of a strong heartbeat and experiencing the power of his chest muscles. I swallowed hard and moved my fingers along his ribs and across his belly. Light-headed, giddy, and lacking the strength to resist, I dropped my hand to his groin, an act so heinous my muscles froze. Suddenly, he c****d his head.

“You fellers all right in there?” came Split’s raspy voice.

I snatched my hand away. “Y-yes.”

Split entered our little clearing. “Jest wanna make sure I kin git here in a hurry if needs be. They likely won’t come till first light, but that ain’t something you kin count on.”

“You think they’ll come?”

“Never kin tell ‘bout Injuns.”

Cut Hand spoke in a low voice. My ears flamed in the belief my shameful actions were revealed.

“He says they’ll come,” Split explained. “They’s Pipe Stem warriors, long-time enemies. They knows who his pappy be. Be big medicine to count coup on the headman’s son. And he kilt one a them, don’t fergit. Asks you to chain him kinda loose, give him room to move. Do what you’re easy with,” he added, taking his departure.

As I nodded my thanks for not betraying me, Cut Hand lay back on the blanket with his arms confined above his head. I loosened my clothing and settled on the bedroll. My other coverlet went over the top of us. I boldly edged up so the whole of my backside rested against his thigh. Fighting a mysterious list for this strangely erotic plainsman and denying a lewd urge to mold myself to his long frame, I lay listening to the night sounds long after he slept. Too confused for keener introspection, I considered the events that brought me to this strange land.

* * * *

My name is William Joseph Strobaw, and I have earned no sobriquet except for Billy. Despite my pa’s firm conviction, I aspired beyond my station, I managed graduation from a small but excellent college back east. I coveted Harvard, but we could ill afford the three hundred dollars it cost. Moorehouse College was hardship aplenty at half the price.

My parents’ death in a fire and a failed love affair with Abigail, whose Patriot family would hold no truck with the descendent of traitorous Tories, combined to determine me upon foreign adventure. Financing my poorly planned scheme with my dead parents’ life savings, I abandoned the familiar world of intolerance, slavery, and black uprisings for the opportunity of the frontier, a promising place of new beginnings where a man’s reputation was what he painted upon himself by his own actions. Another considerable influence on my rash decision was my hero, Jedediah Strong Smith, rumored to have been killed recently by the fierce Comanche along the Santa Fe Trail.

So it was that I made my way over the long winter to Independence, Missouri where I met Splitlip and Wild Red in an ordinary two months back and learned they were headed to the Dakota country to trap and trade. During a round of drinks, it was somehow propounded that I accompany them to Fort Wheeler rather than undertake the eight-hundred-mile Santa Fe Trail along which my hero died. My rash admission to twenty dollars for the poke was likely the reason for the invitation. In truth I secreted other such pieces in my wallet.

The adventure almost came unraveled before it was firmly knit. Wild Red went on a drunken tear with a sleazy doxy and appeared the following morning still under the influence of strong drink and reeking of sated lust. I managed to overlook his jadish deportment, but when Splitlip went over the edge, ranting like the Marquis de Sade over fascinating and horrifying creatures no one else could fathom, I began to reconsider. Red, once he recovered his own senses, assured me Splitlip Rumquiller was a solid fellow except when he got his hands on a button. It took some inquiry to discern the button in question was hallucinogenic peyote trundled up from the Spanish Territory of Nuevo Mejico by some enterprising trader.

As the old frontiersman appeared entirely sane and sound the next day, and since I did not wish to be cozened out of my twenty dollars, I pursued the enterprise, although I confess to some disquiet because we walked. I am certain my gold piece was sufficient to provide adequate mounts for the trek.

* * * *

Red was no less hostile the next day, nor did Cut Hand rest any easier around him. Nonetheless we made good time, with Split or Red occasionally dropping back to check our rear. Discovering the warriors were on our trail, Split sent us wading down a mountain brook while he turned north, muddying the water and leaving careless prints. Red took us out over a broad stretch of flat rock after a league in the frigid water. Split rejoined us at nightfall.

Cut Hand and I camped seventy yards from the others that night. My willpower was insufficient to prevent me from touching him as he lay shackled to a tree. I stroked his heavy chest and flat belly, feeling his accelerated heartbeat. Anger? Excitement? Like his breast, his stomach was hairless. Loosening his garment, I timidly caressed his bare flesh. His skin was taut, smooth.

Inflamed beyond restraint, I put my tongue to him. He smelled fresh and masculine. Grasping him, I stroked in vain to bring him to excitement. Disbelieving what I was doing, I lowered my head and accepted him orally. Working over him awkwardly and inexpertly, I grew astounded by the pleasant sensation this occasioned in my own groin. I rose up and sought his eyes in the dim light. I found no outrage, but neither did I find acceptance. Even so, I returned to my ministrations. At length the stomach muscles beneath me tightened, and I shared the excitement of his orgasm. As I lay gasping from the exhilaration of this matchless experience, he remained still and silent except for panting slightly.

Afterward—ashamed yet wildly ecstatic—I contemplated the youth I had debauched. The enormity of my actions struck me. I had corrupted a man. A shiver played down my spine. I was a monstrous hydra, no better than the pathetic creature we called Faggot John back home. Even as I shuddered to recollect the disgust we accorded that abomination, I callously laid aside my apprehension. The morrow might bring regrets, retribution, even damnation, but my only concern at the moment was my own need.

Lying across his strong legs, I tore free of my britches and beat a frantic rhythm until giving myself release, the excitement of the act immeasurably heightened by the fathomless black eyes watching my every move by the weak moonlight. Shaken by powerful, conflicting emotions, I rose, cleaned us both, and restored our clothing. Then I took my life in my hands and removed the iron bracelet from his right wrist to snap it around the bole of the sapling, giving him the length of the chain to maneuver and the full use of one hand, should our stalkers appear. Thereafter I covered us with a blanket and slept.

I woke with dawn tinting the sky above the trees, although no light yet penetrated the glade. Cut Hand’s lips brushed my cheek as he uttered something unintelligible. Seizing my hand, he turned it to the north. I understood. Then he pointed across his body, letting me know one came from that direction. As he did so, his chain rattled. Grasping my ten-pound 1817 Common rifle, I rolled silently out of the blankets to the far side of the small clearing where I gained my feet and froze.

Nothing happened except the coming sun built its golden light slowly. Then my peripheral vision detected movement. The brave had almost reached the tree where Cut Hand lay shackled before I was certain. I threw up the gun and fired, dropping the warrior as he pounced. He lay still.

Suddenly a second figure vaulted from the trees with a screech, bringing his hatchet down on Cut Hand. But my prisoner rolled into his attacker’s legs, sending him tumbling into me. I lost the grip on my rifle along with the ability to use it as a club. The buck came up fast, but I clung to him, grappling for control of that deadly tomahawk. Silently we struggled, thrashing around in the grass, crashing against trees. I saw stars. My eyesight blurred, but I stubbornly fought for the weapon. Suddenly he released my right hand to force my left free of the axe. Snatching my knife from its sheath, I rammed it into his side. He continued struggling, and I feared the warrior had shrugged my thrust aside. But gradually he lost strength until he slumped over and sagged against my legs. Badly shaken I looked up to find three figures staring at me through the new dawn. Cut Hand strained against his chain while Red and Split held weapons at the ready.

“You done good, boy.” Split nodded approval. “We best go scare them up.”

“Scare up who?” I gasped, holding my blood-imbrued shirt away from me. Suddenly revolted I snatched it off and stood shivering in the cold morning breeze.

“Horses, boy,” Red answered. “Them two rode horses.”

I had almost finished soaking the blood and its stink from my shirt when Split and Red returned with the ponies, a sturdy mustang and an Indian calico, which whites tend to disdain, although Split assured me they were good horseflesh. We distributed the loot among us. The Pipe Stem braves carried Indian trade rifles and forged tomahawks. One toted a spiked axe; the other, a Missouri war hatchet.

Unaccountably uneasy I bade my companions keep an eye on our prisoner while I wandered off as if on personal business. Out of sight of the others, I grasped a tree limb and stood with head bowed. In the clear light of the dawning day, the beastliness of what I had done descended upon me. I forced a man to submit to my depraved desires. He was shackled, pursued by enemies bent on slaying him. I was his gaoler. He was under my authority. Yet I abused him in an unspeakably disgusting manner. Dropping to my knees, the Christian part of me begged my God’s forgiveness. Somehow Cut Hand must be made to understand my repentance.

About as transparent as my Aunt Felicity’s bobbin lace, I was no sooner back than Split cast an eye on me. “You feeling bad ‘bout what happened?” he demanded. Startled and confused and ashamed, I stared like a pole-axed ox. “Damnation, boy!” he swore. “Them two bucks was trying to kill you.”

Relief made my knees go watery. Amazed my prayer held no confession of guilt for the taking of two human lives, I ran my hand over my face.

Red grinned at me. “Them the first?”

“And the last, I pray.”

“Son,” Split said, his tone sad, “if them’s the last, then you’re a dead man. Sure as we’s standin’ here watching God’s sun rise in the east, you’re gonna have to kill agin afore this trek’s done. And Cut Hand here says to thank you.”

We resumed our journey riding two to a pony with my perversion still hidden from the world. Cut Hand’s arms remained shackled, so I rode in front to control the pinto.

That evening we camped where the trail forked. Our planned route ran to the northwest. The southern trace led to the river and a rumored second trail to Fort Wheeler. I promptly forgot my covenant with the Lord and proposed a split camp, laying it at the door of Red’s hostility.

The redhead laughed. “Fine by me. I ain’t anxious to sleep with him. But you ever stop to consider things is different now?”

“What do you mean?” I demanded.

“What he means to say,” Split interjected, “is that there ain’t two redskins on Cut Hand’s bum. He needed you last sundown. Now he don’t.”

I glanced at the big youth attempting to chew a piece of jerky while his hands were loosely pinioned behind him. There was nothing to keep him from exacting his revenge. “We’ll sleep up in that grove where the stream bends.” I indicated the place with a nod of the head. Cut Hand’s gaze flickered to the spot.

The others had hobbled the horses so they could forage and were making ready for the blankets when we returned from our chores. Cut Hand engaged Split in a short discussion, and once again my ears reddened as I imagined being exposed as a pariah.

“He says to tell you he’ll behave hisself,” Split translated. “I figger he’s beholden for them two bucks. But he wants to know when we gonna let him go.”

“Not yet,” Red said. “I want that river ‘tween us, Split.”

“You gotta understand. He coulda left any time he wanted after Billy took care a them two fellers.”

Cut Hand waited patiently in our own grove as I spread our blankets and snapped his manacles around a tree. I recited prayers for half an hour, begging for strength before reaching for him. Such was the sway of this primeval Adonis that the moral shield of my Christian upbringing crumbled, exposing the raging beast of carnal lust. Aware he was free to raise an alarm, I was still powerless to protect either of us from my passion.

“Damnation, Cut Hand, you’ve put some kind of spell over me. What is it you call it? Medicine? You took away my self-control. I’m helpless around you. If I didn’t know better, I’d say it was love…”

Astounded by my conclusion, I bit my tongue.

Abandoning talk, I placed my hand across that broad chest. He did not flinch or call out. I touched his cheek, astonished at the purity of the skin. His face was virtually free of a beard. Gradually—as slowly as my failing self-discipline allowed—I explored every inch of his fascinating body before giving both of us relief. And such sweet relief it was. At least for me. I could not discern his feelings on the matter. Yet his sigh signaled contentment to my ears as he made himself more comfortable on the blanket.

Awed and excited, I sought confirmation of this, hoping it was something other than involuntary muscular contractions. I pressed my lips against his. He failed to respond. I peered at him so closely our noses touched. I kissed his eyes, moved back to his lips, and had my answer. He felt nothing. Disappointed, I muttered apologies and begged forgiveness, though whether from a disapproving God or this reluctant lover, I could not say.

Sleepless, I put aside questions of morality and searched for the perversion that drew me to this man. I had known many comely youths, but the idea of lewd intimacies with them stirred me to illness. With a profound shock, I realized the truth. My heart was lost to an enterprise as hopeless as the pursuit of Abigail Carnes.

My childhood provided no clue to my folly. A loving mother and a perpetually exhausted father raised me on prunes and proverbs. Curiosity about the fairer gender never obsessed me. I was eighteen before I had a leap with a girl, which turned into no more than a pleasant flourish that ruined a budding friendship when I showed no further interest.

There was no undue curiosity about my own kind beyond a shy comparing of yards, as youngsters are wont to do. When I was twelve, an older boy from a farm down the road and I went skinny-dipping in the local crick. I remember him initiating talk—dirty talk—about a girl we both knew. When I refused to participate in such unseemly gossip, he groped my naked flesh. I protested but was not unduly offended until he tried to stick his roger up my bum. I ran away, but in the safety of the woods, I noticed my thing had stopped being a p***s and become a c**k…it was stiff as a rod.

That was the sum of my animalistic experiences, save for occasional self-gratification. Now I had twice acted the deviant with this comely savage.