Contents
About the Book
Title Page
Dedication
Epigraph
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Copyright
Bacon in the pan
Coffee in the pot
Get up an’ get it
Get it while it’s hot!
– old cowboy song
The Midwest, 1849. Hot on the Trail is the story of the original American dream, where freedom is driven by wild passion. And when farmboy Brett skips town and encounters dangerous outlaw Luke Mitchell, sparks are bound to fly in this raunchy tale of hard cowboys, butch outlaws, dirty adventure and true grit.
Find out how wild the West really could be – a place where men were men and pleasure was theirs for the taking
We include safer sex guidelines in every Idol book. However, while our policy is always to show safer sex in contemporary stories, we don’t insist on safer sex practices in stories with historical settings – as this would be anachronistic. These books are sexual fantasies – in real life, everyone needs to think about safe sex.
While there have been major advances in the drug treatments for people with HIV and AIDS, there is still no cure for AIDS or a vaccine against HIV. Safe sex is still the only way of being sure of avoiding HIV sexually.
HIV can only be transmitted through blood, come and vaginal fluids (but no other body fluids) passing from one person (with HIV) into another person’s bloodstream. It cannot get through healthy, undamaged skin. The only real risk of HIV is through anal sex without a condom – this accounts for almost all HIV transmissions between men.
Being safe
Even if you don’t come inside someone, there is still a risk to both partners from blood (tiny cuts in the arse) and pre-come. Using strong condoms and water-based lubricant greatly reduces the risk of HIV. However, condoms can break or slip off, so:
* Make sure that condoms are stored away from hot or damp places.
* Check the expiry date – condoms have a limited life.
* Gently squeeze the air out of the tip.
* Check the condom is put on the right way up and unroll it down the erect cock.
* Use plenty of water-based lubricant (lube), up the arse and on the condom.
* While fucking, check occasionally to see the condom is still in one piece (you could also add more lube).
* When you withdraw, hold the condom tight to your cock as you pull out.
* Never re-use a condom or use the same condom with more than one person.
* If you’re not used to condoms you might practise putting them on.
* Sex toys like dildos and plugs are safe. But if you’re sharing them use a new condom each time or wash the toys well.
For the safest sex, make sure you use the strongest condoms, such as Durex Ultra Strong, Mates Super Strong, HT Specials and Rubberstuffers packs. Condoms are free in many STD (Sexually Transmitted Disease) clinics (sometimes called GUM clinics) and from many gay bars. It’s also essential to use lots of water-based lube such as KY, Wet Stuff, Slik or Liquid Silk. Never use come as a lubricant.
Oral sex
Compared with fucking, sucking someone’s cock is far safer. Swallowing come does not necessarily mean that HIV gets absorbed into the bloodstream. While a tiny fraction of cases of HIV infection have been linked to sucking, we know the risk is minimal. But certain factors increase the risk:
* Letting someone come in your mouth
* Throat infections such as gonorrhoea
* If you have cuts, sores or infections in your mouth and throat
So what is safe?
There are so many things you can do which are absolutely safe: wanking each other; rubbing your cocks against one another; kissing, sucking and licking all over the body; rimming – to name but a few.
If you’re finding safe sex difficult, call a helpline or speak to someone you feel you can trust for support. The Terrence Higgins Trust Helpline, which is open from noon to 10pm every day, can be reached on 0171 242 1010.
Or, if you’re in the United States, you can ring the Center for Disease Control toll free on 1 800 458 5231.
For Andrew
BRETT GRINNED AS he made his way towards the river. It was a real beautiful day, he thought to himself, as he looked into the blue sky. It was what today was all about for him: promise was as thick in the air as the scent of pine and the cry of the birds above. He wasn’t much of a thinker, Brett McKinley; indeed, he was a man known for actions rather than words. Which, of course, was what today was all about. Action, the excitement of doing, changing, making his life. No, not much of a thinker, but he couldn’t help letting thoughts and fantasies fill his head this morning.
Breathing the fresh morning air into his lungs, and feeling the crisp air on his undergarments and breeches, Brett strode ever more purposefully towards the crashing river. He could hear children playing nearby, their excited babbling matching the river’s mood and sound. He remembered how he too had played around the river as a child, although there had never been much time for playing, then. Something had always needed to be done. The horses had always needed tending, crops picked, wood gathered: always he had had to watch and learn, his father and uncles telling him how and what they were doing. A guy needs to learn these things early if he’s going to get anywhere here, they’d said. You’ll thank us for the way we raised you, boy.
Brett had always hated the term; he’d never been a boy. He’d always been a young man, never known the freedom of childhood. He resented that, and today was the day he was going to prove to them just how much he’d learnt, back then. It wasn’t what they had taught him, it was what he had learnt. He was going to prove that the boy was a man, a real man, who could make it out on his own, who could claim his own life, his inheritance. The eldest of four sons, Brett had always been the one supposed to care for and look after the others, his brothers – who had become lazy, relying on him. No more, Brett told himself. No more.
That Brett was no boy was immediately apparent in his physique. At well over six foot, he cut a strong presence with whomever he met. The long days cutting wood and chasing horses, building and farming, had honed his physique perfectly. Under the thin cotton of his undershirt, Brett’s biceps swelled against the fabric, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows revealing strong forearms, decorated by short dark hairs sitting like dark snow on his bronze skin. They made their way in a teasing trail to large, masculine hands, well groomed (he had pride in his appearance, even if only for his own satisfaction). The skin on his hands was hard with wind, sun and rain, but their shape was perfect, and often dwarfed the hands of the men he shook deals with. Their grip was strong, the skin inside on his palms warm but hardy. Under his breeches, his heavy-set thighs were perfect for running against the animals he often pitched himself against, and came in useful for the wrestling bouts he sometimes had to prove his worth, and in competition. He had pinned many down with his powerful physique, had often sat victoriously on their chest and howled with laughter as they struggled underneath him. Of course, it was all good-natured fun, but secretly he liked them to feel his manly power, to succumb to his masculine prowess, and realise his dominance.
Brett felt the early morning sun hit his face anew as he passed from under the shade of a tall pine. He had striking features, a fact which the young girls attested to with fits of giggles as he walked past them. And walk past them he did, despite their obvious desire for him. Brett’s features were strong and inspiring; he had always been seen as a man’s man, his bones strong rather than delicate, chiselled by the outdoors and his habit of cold shaving early in the mornings. His brothers preferred their lazy whiskers, but Brett liked the splash of cold water against his skin every morning: it made him feel awakened, making his face tingle and come alive.
He’d catch the twinkle in his steely grey eyes as he followed his shaving in the small mirror above the wash basin. Not a vain man, Brett was nonetheless aware of how his eyes seemed to grin out at those he looked at, his stare piercing whoever had the audacity to meet his gaze. It was not that he looked menacing; rather, it was as if he was sharing some unspoken joke, was familiar to them in a way they could not comprehend. Brett’s eyes drew you into him, took you away into a private place he had created just for you. They were the eyes of a heartbreaker, but also of a man who had never been loved.
The children playing by the river called over to Brett. They all adored him, the group of three all coming from the nearby Borron family. Bill Borron had always treated Brett kindly, had always been a surrogate father to the young Brett. Often, he would sing him songs next to the fire, after Brett had worked hard all day. It had been a brief respite from the hard days Brett had suffered in his twenty-three years at St Joseph, in the mid-Western territory which would become known as Missouri. Bill had sung of the early days on the ranches, the pioneers and the crossings over, courage and bravery, and of the skirmishes against the Indian tribes round and about. Brett had loved the adventure in the songs, the tales of long journeys, riding out towards the setting sun, the hope beyond the horizon. It had been all he had dreamt of while he worked.
The Borron children ran up to him, dripping with the cold water they’d been splashing at him. He greeted them as they plied him for songs. Lately, Brett had taken to singing them some of the songs that their father had sung him. He had sung them with a different feeling, though: not the memory Borron had filled them with, but the yearning that he felt, as if the stories were his dreams. They were, of course, and his sound was the sound the children wanted to hear. He had a strong voice, a booming bass that resonated with the simple songs he sang. Brett knew that the children would miss him, but maybe someone would write a song about him one day. About the trip he was beginning this morning.
A sharp sound broke Brett out of his reverie. Ma Borron was calling the children in, and he sensed that their first meal of the day was ready. He looked on as they ran laughing up to their mother. It was a perfect image of home, and one he suddenly realised he would miss. There was warmth, security and tenderness here. Beyond the few miles that he had known from childhood, Brett didn’t know what ‘there’ was. Through the songs and the stories, and some strangers who happened by from time to time, he knew that it was an awfully big place out there. He knew that there were riches, adventures, exploits, and dangers. Not just the dangers of snakes and wolves and animals he had never seen, but the danger of men. Other men, who could hurt and steal and kill in a way that he had never experienced here, in this kind, caring, small community he had lived his whole life in.
Ma Borron waved at him as he looked on. ‘I hear today’s the day, Brett. Good luck to you. Though you know it breaks your Mama’s heart to see you go!’
‘It breaks my heart to leave her, Ma Borron. But she’s got Pa and the rest of the boys. You promise to keep her company, though? She’s always said what a good friend you’ve been to the family.’
‘Be sure I will, young Master McKinley! And one day we’ll all visit you over there where the gold flows. Not that I could journey so far at my age. Still, maybe, one day we’ll be seeing you in your finery. God speed you!’
Brett bowed graciously as Ma Borron called in the children and waved him farewell. Gold, she’d said. His spine tingled even as he thought about the word. His eyes lit up again, and he became aware of the morning chill against his skin. Ever since the gold discovery a couple of years ago out west, the stories had become wilder and wilder. They said it was running out of the mountains like water, that it hung from the trees, that it rained gold dust. There was enough of the stuff to make whole houses and roads from it. The sun never went down, because the gold shimmered all night long.
Brett knew the stories to be exaggerated, but they also thrilled him. There was no doubt that something was out there, that there must be fire in the billowing smoke these tales produced. He could stay here no longer. He knew he had to step out, make the break with his home and family here, and trek the paths that would take him to the truth behind the stories. He had to know what was out there. Brett was going to find his own fortune: maybe it was hidden within these stories of gold, or maybe they’d just all be fool’s gold. But he had to know. He had to escape.
Of course, there had been a row. His mother had cried, and his father had refused him ‘permission’ to set out. His lazy brothers had rolled their eyes and sneered at him. But his resolve was set: he had told them repeatedly over the weeks that it was his intention to head out west and make his fortune. If he had their blessing, they would hear from him when he arrived, and if possible he would send on for them to join him. If they continued with their carping and upset, it would be the last they would hear from him.
Brett had always been his own man. There had been a half-hearted truce, whereby his decision was accepted but not welcomed, and nothing more had been said. Even this morning, none of them had risen early to bid him farewell. Somehow, however, he had felt his mother’s gaze as he left home. He wondered if she had sneaked out silently to watch him leave, or if it had been his imagination.
Standing watching the river crash and break against the rocks as it made its never-ending journey, Brett stripped off his undershirt and then his breeches. He stood naked, then felt the thrill of the cold water against his feet as he waded in. For a moment, he stood and let the slight spray break against his hot skin. He felt the blood rushing through his veins, felt the heat of his flesh, and saw wisps of heat escaping from his hot body. He felt like one of the beasts of the country, another living creature enjoying the raw passions of life.
His frame was lightly kissed by the sun’s morning greeting to the world. As he stood, legs apart, naked and wild, he laughed his deep, energised laugh. He felt a raw man now, naked, full of purpose and might. He bent down and cupped a handful of water to his already clean-shaven face. Its cold spray splashed against his skin, and he tasted its freshness as he opened his mouth and let it slide into his hot, thirsty mouth. The water broke against his perfect set of teeth, snaking a journey around his tongue and down his throat. He splashed more of the cold river against his flesh, soothing the passion and heat he felt. He lowered his head against the water, his head breaking the surface of the water so that his short, dark hair followed the pattern of the stream like moss growing on stones. He kept his face under the water for as long as he could, feeling the water flow over the back of his neck, stroking the short hairs at the nape, tickling and caressing him.
Brett brought his head up, thrusting it back and felt the water course off him, dancing into the air. A trickle of cold water ran down his strong bronzed back, trickling all the way to the tip of his backside, finding a way between his firm, hairy buttocks, and settling into his arse-crack. More water cascaded down his broad chest, through the triangular forest of hair that nestled from the top of his chest down towards his belly, where it became a slight trail broadening into the valley of pubic hair that surrounded his genitalia. The water dripped down his large cock, wetting his heavy ball sac, droplets resting on his heavy thighs, dampening the slight dark hairs on them enough to glisten.
He looked around, and saw that he could enjoy the sensations washing through him this morning with no one watching him. This early morning wash was invigorating him, preparing him for his long journey ahead. He didn’t know when he would feel this secure, this safe, this alive again. Brett submerged himself completely under the water, letting the currents wash over him and massage his every muscle. He lay directly in the path of the stream, allowing it to bob him gently as water kissed every part of his anatomy.
A sigh escaped from his lips, and he knew that he couldn’t let this moment finish with just a wash. Often, when he woke aroused in the morning, he would come to the water and let it take him in this way. When he was just discovering his own body’s pleasures, as an adolescent, he had believed that the cold water would calm his passion, that the fearful passions he felt would be dissipated by the cold, the wet, the rawness of the river. He soon realised that it only helped increase his pleasure, and it soon became part of it.
Brett began to touch himself more erotically, following the path of the river down his body. It was electrifying, his hot hands travelling up and down his body as the river raged round him. The coarseness of his palms was a sharp contrast to the smooth water, and he enjoyed his coarse hands scrubbing his skin, travelling over his chest and belly, further down to the root of his passion. He closed his eyes, resting against a boulder that cradled him in its grey expanse, hard against his strong back.
Already, his growing erection was lapping against his thigh in the water. He could feel the hot excitement against his wet thigh, feeling a little juice sticking his penis slightly to his hairy leg. Brett allowed his hand to rest on the thickening shaft, moaning gently as his palm brushed against the underside of his cock. He played his hand against the erect pole, stroking but not yet gripping his ever-growing rod. His free hand began to play with his left nipple, which was already hard from the cold morning air. Ahhhhh. Now he could grab his burgeoning tool, and slowly, slowly, stroke up and down the hard shaft. He let his hand pull up to the top of the uncircumcised flesh, and then pull down to the hairy base where his balls were beginning to tighten in the water. Already the shaft was thickening to its full girth, as he continued his slow strokes all the way up and down his hard cock.
Meanwhile, his other hand began to play with his opposite nipple, taking its button between his thumb and first finger and gently rubbing, then tightening his grip, squeezing the tip until the pleasure forced him to stop. His hand travelled through the light hair of his chest, wet and following the pattern of his hand-movements. He traced his hair the wrong way, up towards his face, and then stroked it back down so that it no longer stood up on his chest. He let his hand move up on to his face, follow the line of his cheek and throat, over his temple, and then allowed a finger to sink into his hot, aching mouth. He sucked on it, tasting the freshness of the water, and the coolness of his finger compared to the heat of his tongue as it circled around it. Another finger joined the first in his mouth, and Brett alternated the attentions of his lapping tongue between them, letting it slide up and down his skin, sucking gently on each digit.
This was so good, so pleasurable, even better than the first time Brett had come here and found these magic sensations. He hadn’t understood the sudden erection he had felt in the water, or why his touching it made it grow more and more. He had only been a mere adolescent then, not possessing the fine physique he now took pleasure in. How he had taken pleasure in the way his body grew! How delighted he had been to discover the hairs that surrounded his growing genitals, that tattooed his chest and crowned his thighs and buttocks. He had loved the way he developed the manly attributes he had so admired in other grown-up men, and now he could admire them in his own special way. He could take care of his manliness in the way that he so wanted to of other men’s.
Brett could feel it happening again, the way it happened that first time in the stream. His breathing was becoming quicker, and he could feel his heart jumping about in his chest, like it was doing some crazy dance inside him. Despite himself, audible groans came from him, such was the pleasure exploding inside. He quickened the long strokes of his cock, allowing them to become faster and his grip stronger and tighter. Brett could feel his face wincing, contorting with pleasure and becoming hotter against the slight breeze. He closed his eyes and felt the pressure mounting for release, the excitement he had felt since daybreak demanding expression. Opening his eyes again, Brett squinted at the bright sun, the only light in a clear blue sky, and he felt his own light beginning to rise.
He was pumping faster and faster now, knowing that any moment orgasm would rush through him and his hot sperm would rush out. He loved this moment, and looked down as he pounded faster and tighter on his hard, hot dick, feeling blood spasm through his veins and muscle, his breath gathering for one long last groan. As his booming moan broke the air, reverberating around him, Brett felt himself coming, a glorious flow shooting from his tightened balls all the way up to the tip of his underwater cock, and finally shooting into the flowing water of the river. Again and again he thrust into the water, suddenly standing so that his hot spunk shot out into the air, falling like rain into the water, a glorious storm of hot semen breaking the water. Brett let the ripples of orgasm flow straight through him, feeling them subside in his heaving body. He looked down and watched the milky white stream swirling around his penis, clinging desperately to the tip of his softening rod, thick hot cream against the clear water. Slowly, Brett watched his come being swallowed by the river, eagerly sucked into its currents and carried off like a precious trophy. He let the water lick the last vestiges of his fluid, washing his satisfied cock with a cooling kiss.
Brett lay once again against the rock, the after-effects of his orgasm leaving him slightly sleepy, but refreshed by the coolness of the water around him. His breathing began to slow down, and his temperature returned to normal as his balls gently lapped against his sleeping cock. Once more, he had proven his manhood, his wild passions, his unknown desires. If only he could find someone else who could do this for him, who could take him to such earth-shattering pleasure. Would the river be forever his only mate, the only tongue to caress and swallow him? How could he find such wild, elemental passion in someone else?
Brett stroked his cock clean in the water, the last few drops of semen slowly escaping from his cock-hole. He brought the water close against his face, splashing his skin and mopping his brow. The water almost smelt of his own sweat, but cleaner and purer, now. It was the last time Brett would find such pleasure in the river with himself, for he knew now his journey was really beginning. He watched the river flow, and wondered whether he would be following it or escaping it. With a last look up at the promising sky, and feeling the air warming around him already, Brett dried himself off and set about his journey. If only there could be this much excitement all the time, he thought as he headed away as far west as he could.
BRETT MCKINLEY STRODE to the banks of the Missouri, the fine and majestic broad expanse of water that had always filled his body with awe. As he looked at it, he imagined where it had been before crashing through his home: down from the Rockies way up north, past Fort Benton, and on down through North and South Dakota, land of the Sioux Tribe, about whom he had heard so much. Then, filled with energy and vitality, the river wound its way further south again until it washed the banks here near St Joseph. He knew it would go on to join the mighty Mississippi further south. He thought of his own river and how it flowed into the Missouri, seeing himself as part of that great journey.
Now, there was another journey. Brett knew that this was the easy part for him, the steam boat southwards to Fort Leavenworth, where he could rest and prepare for the major part of his gold-seeking journey. From there, he would have to join the Oregon-California route to get west into the new gold territories. It was the biggest journey he would ever make and it would demand every ounce of his strength, courage and determination if he was to reach his goal. But when Brett wanted something, he always got it.
There was no turning back now. Not after he had defied his mother and father. His father had been a farmer at St Joseph for many a year now and, although kind enough in his own way, he was a fearsome man who ruled his family with an iron will. His mother was dedicated to her family and, Brett thought, often quite lonely, there being few womenfolk round and about. That was why he knew she appreciated the small kindnesses of Ma Borron, the pastries and pies and gifts the other woman would bring round. In return, she had helped to raise the younger Borron family. In such a small community, it was important to look out for each other.
As he approached the river station, seeing the rising smoke and hearing occasionally the excitable voices of traders and soldiers moving southwards, Brett turned round to see a billowing of dust and the canter of horses. He raised his hand above his eyes and squinted ahead. The rising sun was strong on his face now, continuing to brown his already tanned skin. He swore as he realized what he was seeing: his three brothers were riding out towards him, their purpose no doubt to ‘persuade’ him to return home. Was this their idea? he wondered. They wouldn’t – couldn’t – have such thoughts of their own. He imagined his father’s angry face warning them not to come home without him, his mother’s tear-filled eyes begging them to plead with him.
Cursing again, Brett carried on striding towards the riverbank, ignoring the approaching men.
John, the second eldest McKinley, shouted after him. ‘Brett! Hold up there! We’ve come to put an end to this madness.’
Brett carried on walking as the youngest brother, Al, made himself known, too. ‘Ma’s so upset, Brett. You can’t leave her this way.’
Frank, the laziest and most manipulative of them all, chipped in his opinion. ‘So what’s new? The boy never thought of anyone but himself. Now he’s got some fancy dream he wants to follow. Let him and, a few days from now, we’ll hear tell of him face down in some stream, or his scalp’ll be some native’s trophy. We should never have bothered coming after him.’
Brett turned. ‘You’re right there, Frank, and that’s the only true word any of you has spoken. You should never have come. You should have stayed back home, like you will all your lives. That’s not for me, any more. I’ve paid my dues there. I’m heading off. Sure, Frank, you can scoff at my dreams of making it out west, but that’s cos you haven’t the sense to think such things!’
Frank spat his tobacco on to the floor. Although only a couple of years younger than Brett, he had already missed out on his brother’s finer features. He was lean, but his muscles would never be honed the way Brett’s were, and Frank never seemed to bother trying to build them up. While he could get others to do his work for him, there was no need to do such things himself. None of the brothers had Brett’s good looks – they were all pale imitations, as if the cast had been broken with Brett.
Al attempted to make peace – as the youngest, he often found himself on the wrong side of the brothers’ arguments. His slighter frame often meant he’d receive the loser’s wrath after any of their numerous fights.
‘You’re just not thinking, Brett. C’mon, at least leave it ’til we know more about these stories. All this talk of gold. It’s just boasts and songs. If there’s anything to them, we’ll hear it for definite, soon enough. We’ll even see it with our own eyes.’
‘Al, I don’t want to pick a fight with you. But if I wait ’til I see proof of everything in this world, I’ll be an old man before I step out the door again.’
‘You may not be picking a fight with Al, but you’ve picked one with us,’ Frank threatened as he and John lowered themselves from the horses. They’d come solely with the intention of beating up on him, Brett was sure. Why else would they suddenly be so concerned about his safety, or the closeness of the McKinley family? He started to rid himself wearily of the supplies for the journey, letting them drop to the ground with a thud. After unmanacling himself, he prepared for the inevitable: a trial of strength between him and his two brothers, while young Al looked on. Al was already being handed his older brothers’ horses to hold while they roughed with Brett.
Frank came forward first, a rough sneer breaking the unhandsome line of his face. Brett was reminded of the time that Frank and John had come back from one of their ‘adventures’, one of the few times they left the safety of home in search of a thrill or two. They’d boasted that they’d been and picked themselves up a pair of whores, screwing all night long and even swapping partners as the night wore on. They boasted of the many positions they’d experimented with, how their lust had known no bounds and how the women had been pleased by their patrons over and over, begging for more from the McKinley brothers. Brett knew most of it was idle boasting, but believed his brothers had paid for the sex they’d had. They’d have to, he’d thought maliciously.
Frank threw a punch that fell wide of its mark, as Brett dodged skilfully, dancing round and laughing. John lunged as Brett made swift contact with the side of Frank’s face – not a hard punch, but a warning strike. John tackled Brett to the ground, the brothers rolling in the dust as Frank roared from the sting he’d felt and lunged down towards Brett. Al watched the grunting and swearing fight, seeing boots and fists fly around a whirling bowl of dust. It was hard to make out anything that was happening, except to know that even both brothers were no real match against Brett’s strength. Occasional curses and moans would break the air, punctuated by loud thuds and punches. The three rolled around on the floor, the fight moving several feet away from where Al watched with the horses, who were fractious and upset at the sudden commotion.
Brett could smell the sweat of his brothers, feel their hot bodies pressing against him as they tried to control the fight. They weren’t fighting in unison, or working together in any fashion. They were just trying to punch and kick where they could, so Brett was able to deflect many of the blows away from himself and on to one of his opponents. From somewhere, Brett could taste the salty sting of blood and realised it was his own – a cut had appeared on his lower lip, more through clumsiness than accuracy on the part of his brothers.
Frank was suddenly on top of Brett, sprawled over him and raising his fist to hit his face. John was struggling to try to hold down Brett’s arms, so that Frank would have a target even he couldn’t miss. Brett bucked his thighs and stomach, his bulk enough to throw the lighter Frank off guard and send him flying into the air. He’d had enough now. Brett wanted to show his brothers that he was the boss, he was the one who made his own decisions, and wasn’t going to suffer their taunts or sneers any longer. He pulled John’s head downwards to his chest, at the same time bringing his knee up far enough and quickly enough to make direct contact. There was a loud crash as the hard bone of Brett’s knee hit the front of John’s head. John whimpered loudly as he rolled off to one side, holding his wounded head.
Brett stood quickly, turning on Frank, who was rising groggily from his throw. Brett waited for his brother to rise, and then lunged at him forcefully. He let loose a left-hand blow that stung Frank, and then followed through with a mighty punch from the right. It was enough to throw his brother completely off guard, the only thing stopping him from hitting the ground being Brett’s hand at his throat. Brett brought his face up close to Frank’s weary features. He stared into Frank’s bleary eyes, sorry that his brothers had been no match for him – he could have done with some real exercise, this fine day! He grinned broadly and pulled back his right arm. One final punch sent Frank rocketing to the floor to the tune of Brett’s mocking laughter. He turned without speaking, the silence a chord of victory, and made his way to his belongings, hitching them on to his sweating back.
It was Al who stopped him from leaving right away. The youngest McKinley ran up and put his hand on his brother’s shoulder. Brett turned round swiftly, his arm swinging back in the air, ready to land a blow on the unseen enemy.
‘Whoa! I’m not looking for a fight with you, Brett!’ Al Grinned. ‘I may be younger than the rest of you, but that doesn’t mean I’m as stupid. You beat them for sure, and I reckon they deserved every punch they got. I didn’t want them to come after you in the first place, but they’d got their minds set on it. You know how they are when they scent blood! Nothing appeals to them as much as the thought of thrashing the life out of you. And with Ma and Pa’s “blessing”, too.’
‘They should have learnt better by now.’ Brett’s low tones relaxed at his brother’s honesty. He grinned at Al, and playfully soft-punched him on the cheek.
‘I just wanted to say . . . uh, that is . . . Oh, Brett. I sure am going to miss you around, but I don’t want you thinking none of us wishes you well. I hope you find whatever it is you’re after. We’re the ones who’re nuts for not going with you!’
Brett felt touched, as if he had received a blessing for his journey after all. For a moment, he feared for Al, left with the wrath of his older brothers, unwilling to accept the defeat he’d meted out to them. Watching the young boy, the fledgling physique and the wild intelligence that lay behind open and youthful eyes, Brett knew the boy would manage on his own. The boy! Hadn’t that been what Brett himself had hated to be called?
‘You’ll be your own man soon enough, Al. Maybe you’ll join me then. There’ll always be a space waiting for you, if you do.’ Brett held out his hand.
‘You bet. Maybe I’ll get to join you sooner than you think!’ Al cradled his small hand in Brett’s, shaking it enthusiastically. The two brothers looked long and hard at each other before Al broke off the moment, looking round at Frank and John. ‘Guess I’d better fix these two up so they’re in a decent state when we hit home.’
Even so, Al was obviously savouring the beating they’d taken. It would last him for months to come, and might stave off some of their antagonism towards him. He’d be sure enough to remind them of it when the occasion arose!
‘Nothing you can do’ll make ’em look decent,’ Brett joked, slapping his brother on the back. ‘Good luck to you, anyhow.’
‘And good luck to you, Brett. Not that I reckon you’ll need it.’
For the first time, Brett was aware of his brother’s admiration for him, and it touched him. All the time he’d been at home, he’d never felt it: but here, just as he was about to leave Al, there was a sense of deep trust and respect. It made him feel proud, but also embarrassed, and humbled him enough for him to lower his gaze. ‘I guess we can all do with as much luck as we get, Al. Thanks.’
‘Sure, Brett. Take care out there.’
‘You too, huh? Don’t let them get the better of you!’
Brett turned. He could already hear the muttering and cursing of Frank and John as he made his way back towards the Missouri. Al was teasing them, playing one off against the other, as if they’d let him and each other down. He heard the horses behind him becoming agitated, then the sound of hooves and the desperate cries of Frank and John. Without even looking back, Brett knew their horses must have bolted, and it was Al’s raucous laughter raised above their shouts and cries that he remembered as he carried on trekking.
By the time Brett arrived at the bankside, he’d missed his scheduled boat, which put him behind time for the journey. He cursed his brothers under his breath, irritated that he’d lost time because of their interference. Still, it gave him a break – Brett knew that his original schedule had been gruelling, and perhaps it wasn’t such a bad idea to ease up anyhow. His fists were hurting from the fight, and his legs aching a little from the walking he’d done so far. He’d sold his own pony to pay for the trip, with a view to buying one further down the trail. He knew that if he started travelling light, he’d have to shed less of his own precious baggage than if he picked things up as and when he needed them.
The few buildings which had been set up to deal with the steam-boat trade were simple affairs, set up as cheaply as possible and looking like they’d break with the first strong wind. Timber fronts advertised what small offerings they had – simple supplies, some clothing, equipment for a journey undertaken. The arrival of a paddleboat had created some excitement; some men had obviously been reunited with their womenfolk, and the welcomes were as much sexual as endearing. The men fondled their wives, girlfriends and mistresses openly but playfully, taking refuge in their arms and embraces. The small talk of weather, far-away folk and various aches and pains endured on the journey were belied by a lusty hunger for flesh, for the bedroom, the room rented above a bar for a night, the open air in the dark. Anywhere to make the reunions seem real, physical, intimate.
Brett picked up on the atmosphere as he walked along the dirt-track that served as a main thoroughfare. He had his own physical urges to see to, more primary ones even than the desire he suddenly felt for sex. Now, he was hungry for food, his belly aching despite the hearty breakfast he’d made for himself earlier that morning. He had some supplies in his bags, but wanted to reserve them for a time when there was no ready food available. Seeing a saloon at the far end of the track, Brett trudged over, climbed the timber steps and opened the chest-high shutters to enter. He was struck by the smoke, and the smell of bourbon and rye, an appealing and masculine smell, that increased his appetite, and started his thirst. He realised his throat was dry, ordered a finger of rye and asked the buxom girl behind the bar what was good on the menu.
Ruby grinned knowingly, amused by the question. ‘Stew’s hot,’ she flirted. ‘Bread’s fresh. Satisfy any man’s desire.’
‘Would it, now? Well, as it comes so well recommended, I’ll have a bowl of your stew, and some of that fresh bread to mop up the juices.’
Ruby giggled and took the money Brett offered her. ‘You off on the boat?’
Ruby had obviously seen many men pass through, and Brett wondered how many she’d been intimate with. She was a good-looking young woman – Brett judged her to be a couple of years older than himself, with long dark hair that clung to her head in ringlets, and fierce wild dark eyes that blazed against her delicate white skin. Her full dress showed off her ample bosom, and her air was of one who did not make herself readily available, but knew she was attractive, and that this was her main asset in life. Brett guessed she’d already broken a fair few hearts, and would break more before her looks failed her. If he’d have been staying, and had been that way inclined, he might indeed have taken his own chances.
Before Brett could answer Ruby, he was joined by a young man who repeated Brett’s order for himself. The youngster had an air of innocence, compared to Ruby’s knowingness, a freshness that was apparent in his gushing conversation with Brett.
‘I’m off on the boat, too. Thought I’d never get this far. You going to sign up too, sir?’
‘Sign up?’ Brett threw the question aside, not caring for an answer.
‘Cavalry. Ain’t that why everyone’s going up North? I’ve been dreaming ’bout it for months, now: bet myself soon as I hit twenty, I’d make my way up there and show ’em my horsemanship. I can handle a gun good as anyone around abouts, and I take care of myself pretty good. Pleased to meet you, sir.’
Brett looked at the eager youth. He had a boyish charm, but his manhood was undeniable. Trim blond hair, recently cropped for the occasion, set off light blue eyes, with a well-defined young face. His lips were full and smiling, and every now and then he licked them in anticipation of the food to come. He was of medium height, with a slim frame only barely useful for a soldier. In the months to come, he would need to build himself up if he would make it into the cavalry. Still, the young man showed no signs of weakness; rather, his lithe frame gave him a grace and charm that was appealing. As the youth fanned himself from the heat, Brett noticed his chest and arms were hairless, and that his skin was soft compared to Brett’s own roughness.
‘The name’s Brett, not sir, though I like your manners, kid. Your intentions are more honourable than mine; I’m off to make myself a fortune in the gold hills of the West.’
The lad’s eyes widened. ‘California?’ He could barely say the word, and Brett guessed he was more impressionable than he should be for his age.
Brett smiled. ‘So what’s the name of our young soldier?’
‘Scott Baker, sir – sorry, Brett.’
‘Scott, you care to eat with me?’ Brett indicated the steaming bowls of stew Ruby had brought for them both.
‘I’d love that. Looks good, don’t you think?’
‘Anything that’s hot would take my fancy now.’
Ruby picked up on Brett’s bawdiness, but it passed over Scott, who set about devouring his stew. Thick chunks of root vegetables filled out what little meat the stew contained, though the meal was hearty enough nonetheless.