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Dust. Blasted yellow-grey dust. It got into your eyes, nose, mouth, into the water you drank, into your food, clothes, boots. And rocks, red-hot at midday. And heat that rose from the ground and set every inch of bare skin afire. And cactus, scattered throughout that stretch of plain, some short and squat and some as tall as a tall man, with arms stretching wide in mocking welcome to the men who were fool enough to venture into their territory.
And water, or rather, the lack thereof. A trail boss’s main worry, a bigger headache than stampedes, the price of cattle, rustlers and Indians put together. Ignoring the twinges that skittered from his shoulders to the small of his back, Gil Favor bent sideways to open the flap of a saddlebag, pulled out a thin tube, extracted and unrolled a square of soft leather, and glared at it. Anyone who trusted maps was twenty kinds of fool. According to this one, there definitely was a big waterhole right where he was standing. And he was John Brown’s body, lyin’ a-mold’rin’ in the grave.
With a deep sigh, he dismounted, reached for his canteen, took one small, careful sip, and licked every drop from his parched lips. Then he poured another measured amount into the palm of one hand and let his horse quench his thirst a little. Running his damp hand across his face and neck, he took a few steps towards the meager shade cast by the nearest cactus, a large, sturdy pillar surrounded by scorched grass. He stretched, closing his eyes and trying to breathe deeply without letting in too much air.
Not a bad life, being a cactus, he mused idly. Doing a good job of surviving without much of anything. Stuck in the middle of damned dry lands, with no shade and hardly any water, and thriving on it. Well-armed against any approach. No need for morning dew or birds nesting and chattering. His lips curled a little in wry acknowledgment of distant kinship.
Between the cactus and the rocks a tall cloud of dust was moving toward him, as fast as the heat and the uneven ground would allow. From inside it came rapid hoofbeats and, raised above them, a voice, a little hoarse and raspy, but full of the irrepressible optimism of youth.
“Mr Favor! I know where water is!”
The trail boss’s brow furrowed, in a sequence of doubt, hope, impatience and relief.
“Where?” he shouted, as the cloud dispersed in all directions and Rowdy Yates pulled hard on his reins and jumped off. “And why the hell didn’t you tell me three hours ago?”
“North-east. Maybe four, five miles from here.” Rowdy could be to the point, if and when he had to. “A waterhole that ain’t on no maps. Heard about it in the Black Swan Saloon last night. Meant to tell you straight away, but then I got into that poker game …” He grinned sheepishly, knowing that no further explanations were needed. “And I wasn’t around when you took off.”
Favor pushed his hat to the back of his head and pondered briefly. Four, five miles wasn’t all that far to ride if Rowdy’s information turned out to be a wild goose chase. And the information could well be accurate. And anyway, he didn’t have much choice. He mounted up, throwing a curt “Let’s go” over his shoulder.
“There was this rancher who was headin’ home from town …” They had been riding for maybe five minutes. Expecting Rowdy to keep quiet for longer than that was as foolish as expecting the dust not to get under their clothes.
“Which rancher?”
“Don’t know, it’s just a story. So there he was, headin’ home, and all of a sudden he sees a coyote about to eat a rabbit, and he feels sorry for the rabbit, and gets his gun out and shoots the coyote, and the rabbit speaks up, and says …” Rowdy stopped and glanced sideways at his boss, wondering. Favor just shook his head and kept riding. Rowdy went on, trying to keep his face straight, but unable to suppress the ripples of merriment in his voice.
“… and says, ‘I’m a witch, and since you saved my life I’ll grant you three wishes.’ ‘Good,’ says the rancher, ‘I want a thousand dollars to pay up my bank loan.’ ‘Done,’ says the witch, ‘when you get home look in your saddlebags.’ ‘And I want a new rifle, the one I got is old and rusty.’ ‘Done,’ says the witch, ‘when you get home look behind the door.’ ‘And I want my private parts to be as big as those of my horse.’ ‘Done,’ says the witch, ‘when you get home unbutton your pants and have a look.’
Unnoticed by the storyteller, Favor smirked.
“So the rancher gets home, and looks in his saddlebags, and there they are, fifty twenty-dollar bills. And behind the door there’s a brand new Henry carbine. So he unbuttons his pants, has a look, goes white, and yells…”
“Damn, I forgot I was ridin’ the mare.”
“Oh.” Rowdy blinked, his face falling. “You had heard it.”
“Ain’t that difficult to figure out,” Favor snapped, with only the slightest tinge of guilt as Rowdy shrugged and urged his sorrel on ahead. A cock as big as a horse’s, he sneered quietly to himself. Who the hell would want one anyway? He didn’t, for sure. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had any stirrings. And a few quick strokes were enough to take care of anything that came up. Maybe middle age had begun to creep up on him. Or maybe responsibility had wearied him. Or maybe he’d simply learned to just survive. With a small sigh, he rode around a big clump of cactus, concentrating on the problem of finding that damn waterhole.
“Cheer up, boss.” Rowdy turned around, the spoiled joke forgiven and forgotten, eyes crinkling and slightly uneven teeth flashing in a big lopsided smile. Favor occasionally caught himself wondering if Rowdy had two different smiles, an easy, boyish one bestowed freely on mankind at large, and a half-innocent, half-teasing one that only he was allowed to glimpse. “We’ll hit the waterhole soon enough. Reckon we’ll have time for a quick bath?”
Rowdy didn’t get a chance to respond to his boss’s scornful glare. The jackrabbit that jumped out of a hole and streaked between the forelegs of his sorrel did not speak, or grant wishes, or even stop to see the horse rear, buck, and send his rider flying ass over teakettle into a low growth of cactus.
Trust Rowdy to find trouble wherever he happened to be. Blowing out a short puff of breath at the thought of the little time they had and the as-yet-to-be-found waterhole, Favor got off his horse and stood over his ramrod, frowning down at him.
“You all right?”
A curse and a groan provided evidence that Rowdy – hatless, covered in dust, and lying right on top of a large, squat plant – was in one piece, although somewhat worse for wear. Wincing at every movement, he stretched out one long leg, then the other, then one arm, then used the other to grab Favor’s outstretched hand. “Guess so.” He stood up slowly, shaking his head at himself, at Favor, and at the world at large.
“Sorry, boss. Shoulda been payin’ more attention.”
Favor shrugged. “Could have happened to anyone.” He tied both horses to a nearby bush and watched Rowdy bring both hands behind his back, attempt to brush himself down, and bite his lips hard. Favor cast a quick glance around, nodded to himself, and took the younger man’s arm in a firm grip.
“Lean against that rock and take your trousers down.”
“What ?” Rowdy’s eyes widened, and his face went crimson, then pale, then hot pink. “Oh. Yeah. All right. Sure. Thanks, boss.” Keeping his eyes down and trying to hide a succession of grimaces, he obediently took the few steps that separated him from the large rock Favor had pointed to, unbuckled his belt, let his trousers and underwear fall down below his knees, and pressed his chest and stomach against the hot, mottled grey surface.
Favor frowned for a second, then felt a wave of blood rise to his own face, hotter than the air shimmering over the ground and the rocks. He swiftly thanked whoever might be in charge that Rowdy was not looking back at him. “Right.” He pulled up Rowdy’s shirt to uncover barely tanned skin, glistening with sweat, and beginning to turn blue in a number of places.
“Hm. You’re goin’ to get a nice collection of bruises. Now hold still.”
A lot of long, sharp needles had gone right through shirt and pants and were embedded in various places on Rowdy’s nether regions. Favor began to pull them out one after the other, swiftly but carefully, working his way down from the broad shoulders to the lean torso and the slim, sinewy waist.
A long, softly indrawn breath made him pause, just long enough for his fingertips to brush against a section of smooth, uninjured skin, and, entirely of their own volition, to sketch the faintest suggestion of a tickle, or a caress.
“Nasty things, cactus,” he said sharply, forcing his wayward fingers to resume their work.
“Yeah, they can be.” Rowdy squirmed a little as another thorn was pulled out of a sensitive spot, and then chuckled softly. “You handle ‘em right, though, they ain’t that bad. You manage to open ‘em up, flesh’s soft. Tasty.”
Damn the boy. Every blasted word he chose conjured up thoughts that were best let lie. Favor finished removing needles from back and waist, and realised that the next area to be cleared were slender, muscular buttocks and the backs of long thighs, covered in sparse, fair hair, moistened by sweat. For a moment he imagined stroking and gentling Rowdy as he would a skittish horse, and then …
A fierce wave of heat enveloped him and made him burn with angry shame. Those thoughts belonged to his youth, to the wild days before he became a husband and a father. An employer, responsible for his men. Someone for whom fond feelings, except the ones he had for his daughters, were a thing long forgotten, dried up. He considered telling Rowdy to get the rest of the needles himself. He considered mounting up and heading for the waterhole, leaving Rowdy to his own devices. He considered riding all the way back to the herd to get Wishbone. Then Rowdy half twisted to turn towards him, and he scowled.
“I said, hold still.”
“Sorry, boss.” How anyone could laugh easily with a skinful of cactus in his butt, beat Favor entirely. But the man bending before him – Favor closed his eyes for a second, tapping his innermost resources of strength - was also the man who had wrestled a female buffalo in order to get milk for a motherless infant, and who had rushed to the rescue of Scottish mothers-to-be, helpless fish breeders, and even a sheepman. Favor took a deep breath.
“Now what?”
“Was still thinkin’ about cactus.” A giggle, with a small hiss as another needle came out. “You manage to squeeze ‘em without gettin’ your fingers full of holes, juice’s sweet too.”
Favor looked up, into the distance. No, of course the kid didn’t mean anything by that. He couldn’t. He just couldn’t. Favor looked down again. Only a few of the damn things left, stuck in the long calf muscles. He removed them briskly, one after the other.
“That’s it. Pull your pants up and let’s get goin’.”
“Right. Thanks, boss.” But Rowdy squirmed against the rock instead of hastening to comply with the order. Blowing out another impatient breath, Favor turned around and started walking towards the horses. After one stride, without stopping to think, he turned back sharply, and saw Rowdy frantically tucking his shirt in and trying to push buttons into buttonholes over the unmistakable bulge in his underwear.
For a few long moments each could hear the other’s breathing in the scorching stillness between them. Then Favor slowly lifted a brow and drawled, “Mind you don’t get caught ridin’ no mares.”
Lean cheeks flushing, Rowdy narrowed his eyes, then turned them, suspicious, hungry, scared and hopeful, on the other man.
“What …?”
Favor’s stomach contracted. He could turn back and mount up. Or he could laugh things off and mount up. Or he could allow himself and the hothead facing him to wait a little, think things over a little, maybe hope a little, and then mount up.
“It’d better keep until we find that waterhole,” he said shortly, and the lights beginning to dance in Rowdy’s eyes made him feel as if he had already found it, and was swimming on his back in it. “You should be up to ridin’, so butt that saddle.”
They set out at a steady pace, looking ahead, with an occasional glance at the cactus of all sizes which flanked, or partly blocked, their path. As they negotiated a dusty, stubble-covered hill, Favor grimaced, gave Rowdy a sideways look, and sighed briefly.
“You ain’t learned nothin’ about cactus yet, have you.”
Rowdy tilted his head a little and addressed the ears of his sorrel. “I aim to keep learnin’,” he said, his tone cheerful, but final. “All the way. Ain’t nothin’ I can’t handle about cactus.” And then he squared his shoulders, looked up, straight at Favor, and winked. And Favor felt as lightheaded as in the wild days of his youth.
They reached the top of the hill and looked down. Softer, greener grass was growing down the other side, and the waterhole was not too far away, flat and full and deep and large enough for a hundred head to drink at one time. They looked at each other for a long, wordless moment.
“Let’s get movin’,” Rowdy grinned happily.
“Let’s go swimmin’,” Favor heard himself say firmly, astonished at himself, and delighted at Rowdy’s open-mouthed stare. He thought of maybe one hour’s grace before they needed to intercept the herd and turn it north-east. He thought of washing trail dust and residual cactus needles off. He thought of eyes full of dancing lights, irrepressible smiles, a lean, strong body, a muscular butt. Then he stopped thinking of all his options, and just galloped down the hill ahead of Rowdy.