Cut Hand

Chapter 2-1

Chapter 2I woke at daybreak when Cut Hand moved. He stood with his back to me at the extreme length of his chain to urinate, and like a proper sodomite I grew excited. Turning away, I restored myself to order.

We walked through the forest to where our companions were breaking fast to discover they proposed a run south to survey the river, leaving Cut Hand and me behind with the gear. Upon their return, we would decide upon a route.

Split added to Red’s growing dyspepsia by delaying their departure to give me a score of words in dialect so Cut Hand and I could communicate basic needs. I was both pleased and petrified at being left alone with him. If the chickens were coming home to roost, now would be the time.

Split and Red were no sooner gone than Cut Hand grabbed my pack, leaving the extra gear for me, and strode several hundred yards off the trail to a rill of clear spring water. As he dropped my boodle in a small clearing well-screened by trees, he bent his knees and stepped backward through the chain of his manacles. His hands now in front of him, he spun me around and imprisoned me against the trunk of an ash to search my clothing for the key to the iron cuffs.

Freed of his chains, Cut Hand retrieved a knife and rifle from the spare gear before beckoning me to follow. At the crick he motioned me still and spent a quarter of an hourglass scouting the area. Finally satisfied, he stripped and waded into a pool of waist-deep water. When he plucked a soapweed and set about washing his skimpy garment in the suds, I ran for my soiled clothing and blankets, all of which cried for a good cleaning.

Cut Hand washed our blankets while I worked on my clothes. He examined my shift, my set of short underclothing, with amused curiosity. Once everything was draped over bushes to dry, he scrubbed himself until his skin squeaked. I followed suit, praying my fair flesh would not react adversely to the plant.

When we gathered our damp garments and started for the grove, Cut Hand blinded our trail. Once inside the small copse, we spread our things to dry and sat naked on the grass facing one another. Suddenly anxious about our situation, I began to babble, pointing to my chest and repeating my name. When he more or less mastered “Billy,” I started in on his name, deciding to shorten it.

“You’ll be Cut,” I said, touching his exciting breast.

I fell silent and studied him frankly. Hair like rain-drenched Pennsylvania coal drying in the sun framed a heart-shaped face with a wide, smooth forehead. His skin was nut brown with an underlying reddish hue. Close examination revealed why his gaze was so disconcerting. The eyes were restless black orbs liberally flecked with tiny golden splints that gave them an inner light. I have never seen eyes like that before or since—until years later.

His nose on anyone else would have been weighty, but its Roman curve perfectly balanced a generous mouth and strong chin that stopped just short of stubborn. Powerful, corded arms swelled with each movement. His chest made me think of fornication.

He endured my examination silently for long minutes before rising abruptly. Uncertain of his intentions, I waited until he pressed my head against his groin. Then I joyfully surrendered to my shameless need for him. I coveted the ambrosia of his seed. Once it was over, I desperately yearned to understand what he was thinking.

Although my own need was nakedly evident, I was loath to make a move. He was in control now, and it was not clear he would welcome my flesh. He sat back comfortably against the tree and permitted his eyes to close. Disappointment claimed me as I lay quietly with my leg against his. I woke to his gentle touch. His big hands explored my body as mine had his. His finger tickled my arms where tanned flesh met white skin. He stirred unexplainable currents within me. He ran the flat of his hand over my chest and belly, toying with the thin line of brown-blond hair snaking down to my navel. He totally ignored my needful tool, but I understood what he intended when he lifted my knees and leaned into me.

“No!” I cried, pushing him away. No sooner had I sought to deny him than I coveted what he sought. Realizing I countenanced what he wanted, the fight went out of me. Watching his incredible eyes stare into my own, I fearfully permitted him his way.

Cut thrummed me masterfully, in no hurry to draw the experience to a conclusion. Calmly and deliberately, he thrust first hard and then gentle—and each had a thing to recommend it. My universe shrank to the small bower sheltering my lover and me. Sweat gathered on his brow and dropped onto my lips. I savored its briny tang. Exploring his flaring rib cage, I wondered why no other man’s physique claimed my attention as did his. Putting aside rational thought, I allowed myself to be consumed by pagan lust, savage love, naked physical dominance. And it was magnificent! I hoped it would never end.

That was—of course—beyond human endurance, even Cut Hand’s. At length the pace of his movements increased. His eyelids slowly closed, lowering long, curled lashes to his cheeks. After what seemed an incredible length of time, he ceased his movements with his torso resting against my knees as he fought for breath. Finally, the handsome Indian raised himself to his knees, his heavy chest heaving from his exertions.

As he started to withdraw, I locked my heels behind him. Understanding, he pressed against me again. Never had self-abasement been more wonderful. When we rested, he dipped into the seed smearing my belly and sniffed it curiously before wiping his finger on my chest. I laughed, and that was the signal for us to move. Side by side we strode back to the rushing stream, where he unceremoniously threw me into the pool and bathed us both. It was a lustration, a ritual cleansing with water.

At nightfall, I luxuriated in his presence, lying against him to watch a firmament of stars without number. Completely comfortable, perfectly at ease, I marveled at the lack of disgust, at the absence of shame or mortification. I experienced no withdrawal from him as I had noted after the tumble with that girl so long ago.

We spoke little except to comment on a meteor or an especially bright planet. The words were meaningless, yet their import was as clear as the crescent moon. When we went to our blankets, I lay with my back against him. During the night, I woke to find him spooned against me. His arm across my shoulders gave me a feeling of safety so complete I failed to sleep with one eye open for the first time since arriving on the frontier.

The next morning, we stalked and shot a yearling buck as it came to water. I butchered the animal while he scouted to see if the gunfire excited any unwelcome interest. After a meal of fresh venison, he fashioned a bow of bois d’arc and arrows from dogwood, making a quiver out of the green deer hide.

Late in the afternoon, as we stood shoulder to shoulder to pass water, he playfully turned his stream into mine. When things were stowed away properly, he sat nude on his blanket while I lay beside him in the same condition. He looked at me intently, but I sensed he was not contemplating sodomy. At length he pointed to my eyes and said a word. Finally understanding what he was about, I responded, “Eyes.”

“I-ze.”

I shook my head. “Eyes.” He did better the second try. He patiently worked his way down my body. Nose, ears, chin, neck, chest, n*****s, belly, right down to the toes. After we repeated the process three times, he touched each part of me and mouthed the words. This aroused me again and occasioned learning the English vernacular for the male p***s in repose and in a state of excitement.

He motioned me to sit beside him and drew stick figures in the dirt. The first was a standing male with another on his knees, head joined to groin. Embarrassed, I provided the vulgar word for fellatio. He then drew stick figures in a position requiring a term for intercourse.

He repeated the words dutifully and then put together his very first sentence in elegant King’s English. “Cut…fuck…Bil-lee.”

“Quite adequately!” I agreed, blushing furiously.

Before we were finished, he knew I had no family, and I understood his parents yet lived. He had one sister and no spouse. He sat in deep thought a few moments before venturing conversation again, pronouncing my name and adding a strange noise that sounded like “windy.” Frustrated, he used his fist and forefinger for the unmistakable sign of s****l intercourse. “Splitrum? Red?”

Hiding my shock, I made it plain only he excited my interest.

The light was fading and with it, the warmth. He placed a blanket around my chilled shoulders. I awakened in the darkness as he used me for an oyster basket to deposit his semen, thrusting like a stallion mounting a mare. When he finished, I fell into a dreamless sleep, untroubled by images of a vengeful God. That came in the early morning hours as a wave of belated shame and self-loathing wracked me so violently Cut Hand pulled me against him to share his warmth. An hour of silent pleas for forgiveness eventually allowed me to drowse.

* * * *

My companions returned on the morrow. Split laid a calming hand on Red’s arm when they spied Cut Hand standing unfettered at my side.

“The Injun’s free. He might as well skedaddle for home,” Red said, his voice holding a dangerous rumble. His body language made it clear he was not happy with this estate.

“That’s about the way of it,” Split agreed. He spoke to Cut, who nodded but made no move to leave as Split explained to me they determined to build a boat for the next part of the trip. When Cut and I returned to gather my gear and the butchered stag, he detained me with a hand on my arm.

“Bil-lee,” he said in his beautiful bass. He pointed to himself and swept his hand in the direction we had come.

“Yes,” I answered with a plucking of my guts. “Cut’s going home.”

He frowned. “Bil-lee. Cut.” He pointed to the northeast again.

“No, Split, Red, Billy.” I waved to the south.

Shaking his head, he held his hand to the northeast. “Cut. Bil-lee.”

“You want me to come with you?” I asked. “But…but that’s barking at a knot. I can’t! I’ve got to go to Fort Wheeler.”

“Bil-lee come,” Cut said firmly. Frowning in frustration, he labored to create a sentence in English. “Cut talk Splitrum.”

“No!” I panicked. “You can’t talk to Split about this.”

“Cut talk,” he said resolutely. The matter was obviously settled in his mind.

As I studied his black, gold-flecked eyes, my objections floated away like suds in rinse water. “Split come here.” I surrendered to his determination and made a walking motion with my fingers. “You wait.”

He set about gathering our things as I went to fetch Split. Upon my return to the glade with the old mountain man, I couldn’t figure how to start, but since Cut was not so inhibited, I blurted out something before he had the opportunity.

“Uh, Split. Cut Hand…I think he’s asking me to go with him.”

“What? Ere that so, son?” Split turned and barked something in Cut’s tongue. The Indian nodded solemnly. “Be damned. That’s what he wants all right.” Split slung out another series of staccato sounds, and when Cut answered, the old man’s eyes widened. “What the hellfire’s been goin’ on? Damnation, Billy, what’d he do, bugger you?”

I felt the flush rise in my chest and paint my entire head a bright crimson. My ears burned. I grew near unto floundering. The dizziness passed; my embarrassment did not. I nodded dumbly.

“Well, I’ll be a sum-ma-b***h!” Split cussed. “Shoulda seen it a coming. Ever since Cut Hand joined up, you been scheming to git off by yourself. You think I don’t ken, son? Hellfire, been times I ain’t seen a woman for months, and I git a hankering for some handy fella. Been eyeing your arse for a while now. I seen plenty of bachelor marriages in my day. Mighta been in one myself a long time back, but I ain’t sure.”