See original story (www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/rural/ashes-and-dust/) for warnings and copyright. Highlights: All fiction. All rights reserved. Includes sex between related young-adult men. Go away if any of that is against your local rules. Practice safer sex than my characters. Write if you like, but flamers end up in the nasty bits of future stories. Donate to Nifty TODAY at donate.nifty.org/donate.html to keep the cum coming. You can also set up AMAZON SMILE so that your purchases on Amazon earn contributions Nifty! It's a great, zero-cost way to enhance the support you already give them.
They laughed and clapped me on the back and turned. "Gentlemen... and the other six'a'ya." A chuckle ran 'round the room. "Meet Jesse Natchez, newest hand on The Star!" A cheer went up and I near died between the sudden relief, the pride and the lingering effects of both the orgasm and Zeke's comeuppance.
Ashes and Dust 8: Say Howdy to Dr. Schnicklebaum
by Bear Pup
I got hand-shook by all and sundry and somebody produced a bottle labeled "Dr. Schnicklebaum's Miracle Man & Horse Elixure {squiggle-squiggle-dot} From the famed Tonkawa Medicine Chief Wamppumm's Organal Secret Formulation." Now, I 'twern't no scholar but I was purty darn sure that 'Elixir' didn't have a 'u' in it and that 'Organal' was either s'posed to be 'Original' or meant something I plumb didn't want to know about. Truth be told, 'twasn't sure which worried me more, the 'Organ' part or the 'anal' part. Both seemed to be things I truly did not want in any elixir (or even elixure) I was to consume.
Turned out I needn't'a bothered 'bout what was in it. Seems it was a third moonshine, a third rotgut and a third all them flavors makes a man's lips whistle, eyes squint and nose run. And I'm right certain that the only thing the Tonkawas had to do with Dr. Schnicklebaum was as a bunch of ready consumers; it was still mighty illegal to sell firewater to the Indians, but then so was pert near everything else men did, said or thought upon the plains of Texas.
I knew they was a'tryin' to get me schnockered, but I just kept quietly switchin' out my full glass for one-a-their empties. I made sure to target Max as much as possible. I was still a bit miffed at his part in milking me at poker while Kinkaid was, um, well... milking me in a far more enjoyable way. Oddly, he seemed completely unfazed. Little did I know that Max was famed for being able to out-drink, out-spit, out-stubborn and out-piss a camel. That said, he wasn't immune to the morning-afters.
I was therefore more faking the stumblies than sufferin' 'em when I meandered over to Kincaid's bunk. He was as pleased as a peck'a'pickles, all smiles and winks. I leaned in like the garrulous drunk I was s'posed to be and had one nipple in each hand afore he knew it. He sighed all deep and doe-eyed. I kissed him long and deep. Sure, some'a the hands could guess but I made sure no one could really see what was a'happenin'. Kincaid was a cat with cream, just on top'a'the world.
I leaned in close to his ear and purred in a drunken slur. "That was a damned fine gift you gimme, there, cowboy. I don't think I ever came so hard in my short life. Sakes alive, Kincaid, that was right sumpin'." He was beaming and all but wagging at me.
I dropped my voice to a very sober growl. "And if you ever pull sumpin' like that again when I'm playin' cards, Kincaid," I twisted hard on both tits and watched his eyes grow as his face lost some color, "and I will rip these puppies right off. Now I appreciate the tutelage, and more'n appreciate the dee-vine pleasure." Twist. Gasp. "But you know'd damned well I didn't want to get het up with the hands a'watchin', and you did it anyway. Let me be forthright, cowboy to cowboy."
I added another full-twist and he squeaked, "I like you Kincaid, more'n any man I know'd in my life. But you scare me like that agin or put a big-ole light on me in the bunkhouse and make me squirm with all the hands a'watchin'? It ain't your titties I's gonna remove, Kincaid." He gasped in relief as I let go of his nipples when squawked as he realized I'd just transferred my grip a couple feet south. "We understandin' each other, Kincaid?"
"Y-Y-Y-Y-Y-Yeah, Jesse!" His voice was a mite on the high side, both from my rather forceful grip upon his most-prized-egg collection and from a touch of real panic. I leaned in and he stopped breathing entirely until he felt me kiss him with a serious passion again. I started to fondle that sack I'd just had a death-grip upon and let the other hand tease his cockhead then stroke his offended nipples. I waited until I got a whimper, then redoubled the kiss until I got a moan.
I pulled back and smiled. Kincaid was trying to decide whether to smile or not and I moved in to lick his ear. "That said, you are the sexiest cowboy I ever did know and I truly cannot wait to find out what yore gonna teach me next." I pulled back and looked deep in his soft, brown eyes. "And Kincaid? When you 'happened' upon me with Peter? You know what that was about?" Before he could speak I purred in his other ear, letting my breath give him quivers. "I'd'a done asked him to teach me how to get you to make them noises I heard upon the porch at wash time, you big ole sack'a sex." I put a quick kiss on his nose, leaving a suddenly-sex-drunk cowpoke completely cross-eyed as I stood back, resumed the fake-stumblies and made my way to my own bunk.
I knew I wouldn't need the chamois tonight, what with the three loads Kincaid had pulled outta me that day, each more life-changing than the last. Truth be told, I was asleep afore the lights went out.
Dawn was... well, a true education. Danny was first up... and out, losing a breakfast he hadn't eaten halfway to the outhouse. That triggered poor Peter, who didn't make it no further than Danny's patch of Dr. Schnicklebaum's Miracle Man & Horse Elixure {squiggle-squiggle-puke}. Max looked at me with a fire that told me he knew PRE-cisely what I'd done in switching his empties for my fulls and did not in the least approve. Babe looked like he'd welcome the Final Trump. Kincaid and Gabby were the only two who seemed like they did most mornings. Since Kincaid saw dawn as an affront ag'in all that was decent and good with the world and Gabby spoke a little less than your average cigar store Indian... t'was a bit hard to tell.
I, on the other hand, had a right spring in my step. Since the outhouse was "otherwise occupied," I watered the back boards, trying to ignore the Symphony in A-for-Agony Minor erupting from the enclosure proper. I went in and informed Cookie that there might be some tender stomachs that morning. He smiled. "Son, you ain't the on'y one can hear mis'ry, ya know." He pushed me a massive honey-biscuit and I retreated to savor the heavenly treat.
The hands milled in singly, each looking like one of the sixty shades of the dead, and took seats. Randy came in with one of the evilest, nastiest, funniest looks I ever did see. He grabbed the lid of the giant tureen and, in the face of Cookie's frown, proceeded to roll that tin lid round and round the top'a'tha pot, making a sing-songing ring-dinging that pert near split MY head open, and I hadn't tied one on!
Cookie literally pounced on Danny and hefted him out the door just in time for the hand to lose something his stomach didn't actually have. Peter looked like a caricature of the Green Fairy on the Absinthe bottle, albeit an extremely unhappy version. Max was looking murder at me. Gabby's eyes were squinted even more than normal. Babe, well, Babe growled with a tone that seemed to startle even Randy, who took the hint and finally desisted. He pitched his voice all cheery and happy, though, to the utterly loathing of the hands.
"Morning Cowboys! For those'a'ya who lost track," that included me, "Today's Sunday, the Sabbath, the Lord's Day. As per usual, Gary and Peter," his voice held an edge there, and Peter looked very much as if he would happily exchange his life for that of, say, a gopher; I have never seen a more-forlorn young man in all my days, "will be taking the wagon into Bastrop for services at Reverend Bratcher's home, since he's still trying to roof-raise a real church. I know Max is a regular. Gabby, you joinin' today?" The silent man nodded. "Anyone else?"
Out of sheer embarrassment, I raised my hand. Peter looked at me with a grateful glance. I saw movement out of the corner of my eye: Kincaid would be accompanying us. That tickled a memory and I blanched as somethin' he said the day afore echoed in my mind: "If you so much as smile, I'll take you down in the middle of the congregation and let the preacher watch!"
Unlike most breakfasts, Sunday's was accompanied by a short prayer intoned by Gary. Cookie had made a sort of hoe-cakes with wheat-flour instead of corn that he called flap-jacks. I never tasted the like but they were right special. He also had these tiny Mexican-style sausages that durned near blew up when you bit em they were so crisp-skinned outside and juicy within. The big hit was a porridge of oats and cream and sugar that soothed the battered innards of the various hands.
As we dressed for church, I sidled over to Kincaid and whispered, half-threatening and half-terrified, "You plumb well better not be thinkin' of goin' through with what you said over at that bramble-gulch." He snorted a long laugh and crossed his heart that he'd behave.
Truth told, the ride over was more instructional than the service. 'Tween Peter and Kincaid, I learned about the neighboring ranches (The Star was on good terms with all'a'em), who made what for barter or cash-trade, and quite a bit 'bout who had marriageable daughters.
That last one took me aback. Both Kincaid and Peter was downright insistent that they was gonna raise families. Kincaid was waitin' 'til he could buy his own spread, probably north of there once they opened the Indian Territories, which he was certain they would now that the Great Rebellion was ended. Peter, on the other hand, had his eye on Maybelle Watkins, the eldest daughter on the Broken S ranch (Old Mr Watkins had no sons).
I tried to very gently raise the subject of, um, "bunkhouse matters." When my blush finally let them know what I was hinting at, Peter and Kincaid shared a laugh joined by Max and even Gary. The boss-man turned and smiled at me. "Ain't no woman wants a husband underfoot all the time, son. Make her feel like a queen, keep the ranch earnin' enough to polish her crown (so to speak), give her children, avoid other womenfolk and look 'spectable for the neighbor-women. Once you do that, what cowpokes get up to on the range ain't nuthin she'll worry much about." For some reason, that didn't seem to match the womenfolk I know'd from Sabine Parish, but I held my tongue.
Reverend Bratcher turned out to be a highly disappointed man. He'd been raised and schooled Up North, apparently someplace called Colgate in New York. After the War ended, he "heard the call" and came to Texas to draw souls back to the Lord. What he found was that Houston and Dallas and San Antonio and Austin had plenty of established preachers harvestin' souls by the bushel. He went looking for fertile soil and found to his dismay that ranch folk seemed perfectly pleased to make peace with the Lord without the offices of an intermediary who wanted payin' for the prayin'. He settled (Peter whispered, "Ran outta money") in Bastrop and gathered what souls he could with a rather depressed and depressing air.
He did give a surprisingly-passionate (and looooong) sermon on the Sin of Drunkenness. I caught Gary's barely-suppressed smirk every time the Reverend made a point with a colossal THUMP of the Bible upon the lectern -- with attendant winces and whimpers from Peter, Max and even Kincaid on occasion -- so's I had a good idea where the preacher's inspiration had come from.
Peter was a most unusual shade of grey-green when the service broke and he didn't talk much on the bumpy ride back. Max said he was staying as he needed to make some adjustments to the order with the Smits and would hitch back later in the day; Gabby decided to stay with him. That left a disgustingly-smug Gary, a miserable Peter, a disgruntled Kincaid and yours truly on the wagon back to The Star. About ten minutes out, Peter made it clearly known (by heaving up an intestine or two off the side of the cart) the he needed a wee bit of rest. As soon as we stopped, Kincaid fled for the bushes to relieve oh so many unhappy bodily needs by the sound of it. I pulled up onto the seat with Gary as he let the horses forage under a small stand of trees.
"Um, sir?"
"You know Randy's rule about sirring, son? He got it from me." His high voice was suffused with real humor.
"Sorry. Um... well, then, what do I call you? Gary seems right disrespectful."
He looked at me in honest puzzlement. "Good Lord, why?"
"Well, you're... well, you own The Star."
"Ahhhh. Okay. So ain't nobody told you about the name and history of The Star, then?" I shook my head, a little puzzled. "The Star is, rightly, the Crossed Star Ranch. My name is Gary Starr, and Randy is Randy Cruz; Cruz means Cross in Spanish. So, Starr and Cross, the Crossed Star. Randy owns near as much as I do now."
I shook my head. "Now?"
"Now that Peter's broke his sixteenth. Peter Starr is my son and a little less than one-third owner of the ranch. You don't go sirring Peter, do ya?" I shook my head, half in negation and half in shock. Peter part-OWNED The Star? The kid who at that moment was quite audibly praying for death? Well, at least that explained Gary's dee-light in the boy's predicament. Fathers can get that way. "Me and Randy bought the ranch after my wife passed." He paused a moment, staring to the east, and I held my tongue. "I bought sixty-five percent and Randy thirty-five. Peter was, oh, six then? Seven? We always planned that he'd get a good chunk of my share when he growed."
"Um, S-- Gary? This might be impertinent and if it is please just tell me to get my nose outta your bidness but, um, er..."
He smiled as I stumbled. "Yes, son. Randy and I are partners in more than the ranch. I'm a'guessin' that was the question?" I nodded, mortified but grateful he hadn't made me really ask. "Pearl, my wife, always knew and Randy was part of the family as we raised Peter. When she got sick, she made him promise to keep me in line," he smiled crookedly, "and I'll say that he sure does try. That's why Emily at the store probably told you that new hands didn't always 'take' to The Star." I looked away and then back, and I think the question was clear in my eye.
"Not that anything's expected in that thar dye-rection, son. The hand afore you never dabbled; he left when he finally convinced that damned fool Rickles girl to marry him. Gabby doesn't mess around that way neither. Nobody woulda said 'boo' if you'd'a made it clear you didn't like to play. Don't mean nuthin. As long as hands respect each other, we get along fine." I nodded at that profound wisdom and tolerance, neither of which seemed to align to "Texas" in my mind
"Which is why Zeke is currently riding toward God knows where. He loved the, um, bunkhouse fun but had no respect for anyone. For me and Randy, it's not who you play with, son, it's how you play."
That gave me a lot to think through, and Gary let me. No pressure and no expectations other than the work seemed more than the rule, it seemed his way in the world. The ways of The Star seemed at once so strange and yet so obviously right that even the landscape around me seemed transformed as we headed back in the late-morning light. I stayed sitting with Gary the rest of the way back. Partly for the company and partly because sitting tween Pukin' Peter and Kincaid's gurgling innards was not a pleasant thought.
Special thanks for proofreading go out to Zach, Kevin and the incomparable Jeff Moses. All of them consistently make what you read in my stories better in many more ways that just fixing my screw-ups.
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Active storelines, all at www.nifty.org/nifty/gay... Canvas Hell: 36 chapters .../camping/canvas-hell/ Beaux Thibodaux: 27 chapters .../adult-youth/beaux-thibodaux/ The Heathens: 29 chapters .../historical/the-heathens/ Culberhouse Rules: 13 chapters .../incest/culberhouse-rules/ Raven's Claw: 11 chapters .../authoritarian/ravens-claw/ Ashes & Dust: 8 chapters .../rural/ashes-and-dust/ Maybe Next Time: 6 chapters .../authoritarian/maybe-next-time/ Irma's Boys: 2 chapters .../adult-friends/irmas-boys/ Patriot UP!: 2 chapters .../authoritarian/patriot-up/