This story is a work of fiction unrelated to any events or figures, real or fictional.
This work is meant to be read as a relationship between consenting adults (18+). However many readers have suggested imagining the boy otherwise, the author maintains a steadfast puritanical insistence that this is immoral and unnecessary and cheapens the work. That said, all fiction is truly created by the reader
This is a story of romantic and deeply sexual love between an old cowboy and a young femboy. There is gun violence and stupid Wild West horse-shit in between scenes of teenage lust and manly depravity. If you enjoy it at all, please drop me a line at bhuvanesh21@protonmail.com
Boy and Man in the High Rockies
A BRIEF TALE OF LOVE IN THE HIGH WEST
BRITISH COLUMBIA , 1896
Hart hadn't seen a soul since he shot the Fagan boys who ambushed him at the foot of the pass two weeks prior to the New Year. By now, he reckoned, it was the third or fourth week of 1896, but darkness and snow had addled all sense of time. Blizzard after blizzard had moved through the rockies, the snow kept piling up outside, and the tiny trapper's cabin he sheltered in continued to creak under the weight of accumulating drifts. When he wasn't huddled in his bearskin blanket sleeping or masturbating the time away, he rolled cigarettes and stared up into the darkness of the rafters, and waited for the rickety beams to crack and crush him to death under a million tons of Canadian snow.
It took him hours every day just to kick away enough snow to keep the doorway and trail downhill to the creekside clear. One afternoon, trying to kick some of the snow off the roof, he triggered a collapse. The ground rumbled, and a blasting tide of snow sent him drowning in icy powder, hurtling through frigid darkness until he crashed into a tree. Thank God the spruce hit him square in the back instead of breaking his neck. He managed to crawl from the crushing thickness of the avalanche, get atop the snow, and struggle back to the cabin.
There was a side of pork hanging from the rafters that he shaved a little more off every day, a waxpaper lined crate full of hard tack, and frozen-solid doe carcass outside that he chipped meat away from when he was feeling desperate beyond his rations. The beans and canned peaches he found when he arrived were already gone. The firewood was slim. He drank the last of the coffee two days ago, and the last of the whiskey the night he arrived.
"Mama," Hart whispered, staring at the coals of the fire, "I hope you can forgive your only son for dying of starvation in Canada, of all places."
The sun was setting. The light from the winter sky filtered through the black boughs of the spruce trees, and turned all the snow as blue as turquoise. Hart shoveled his last few bites of bland hardtack into his mouth when he heard the distant crunch of snow, and voices.
"Smells like a fire, boys!" he heard. Whoever said it thought he was whispering.
"We already got a tenant up here?" asked another.
"Time to collect rent, then" said another, this one with an Irish accent.
Hart swore: "God damned Fagans."
He pulled his repeater from the corner and went to a chink in the clapboards where he could see outside. Four men were scaling the mountainside on snowshoes; a young woman with her hands bound trailed behind them, her bonnet bright in the twilight.
"Come out and say hello, stranger!" said the Irish one. "If we like ye, we might share our plans for the evenin'. Got a little diversion planned, if you're not too picky about who butters yer onions!"
The men all laughed.
"I don't take your meaning," said Hart.
"Our young friend here is pretty as any little lady I ever seen. Last survivor of a family who owed us a mighty debt. Fortunately she's got ample assets to recuperate the loss!"
The Fagan boys laughed, one of them walked up and took the buttocks of their captive with a rough grasp, causing a yelp of shock.
"What do you say?" asked the Irishman. "Lonely trapper like you? Give us shelter for the night and we'll share what's ours with ye."
In response, the gangsters heard Hart's rifle cock and clap into place.
"This one ain't a diplomat," said the Irishman. "Fire lads!"
Before they could leap behind the pines or boulders surrounding the cabin, a gunshot cracked the silence. Blood spattered the snow. The Irishman fell to his knees, then collapsed face first with half of his head distributed through the foliage.
His companions scrambled for cover, drawing handguns and cursing. The Fagan's shots ripped through the thin boards of the cabin, making dust fly and snow fall in sheets from the rooftop; in the clouds of dislodged powder, Hart returned fire just three times--each time dropping an enemy.
When the last fell to his knees, shot through the shoulder and panicked, he cried out for help. Hart kicked the door of the cabin open. It would only budge a few inches; he beat back the heap of fallen snow until he could squeeze his way out.
Revolver drawn, Hart trudged through the snow toward the sole survivor, who was crawling face-first downhill.
"Where you off to, buddy?" Hart asked.
The Fagan screamed for help, and though his cries pierced an empty and frigid Canadian sky, they died long before reaching any other human ears. Hart lit a cigarette and climbed atop a rock to watch the man struggle away.
"You're free to go, I suppose. I ought to let you know, the Fagans killed a lady friend of mine, back in seventy nine, but I bet you don't know them boys who did it. Couple of shits named Earl and Big Joe. You ever heard of Big Joe?"
"Yessir!" cried the wounded man.
"Well I'm the one who sent him off to Lucifer. Then again in Muskogee, in 83, your Boss man murdered another one of my best friends, did it with his bare hands just to prove a point. Me and my boss Dutch killed his brother in exchange. You got any idea who I am, you dumb son of a bitch?
"Y-yes!" the man grunted, continuing to struggle through the snow.
"Damn straight. Of all the abandoned cabins in British Columbia, you boys just so happened to ambush the one with Hart Fuckin' Morrigan in it. You know how many Fagans I've killed?"
The man did not respond, and continued to crawl away.
"More than you're liable to have met in your brief life, that's for sure."
Hart finished the thin, meager cigarette. Flicked it away and looked at the Fagan with a piteous expression.
"I'm sorry, I ain't tryin' to play cat and mouse.
Hart sighed.
"Lemme get to the point: every one of you sons-of-bitches drops dead, it causes me a feeling of good cheer ten times better than Christmas. So, partner, if you wanna go out on a bullet, I'm eager to oblige. Otherwise." he waved his hand off into the darkness, "otherwise, you can go out the way Old Man Winter has in mind. I ain't attached. Either way, I'll give you a cigarette on your way out."
The man struggled into a seated position against a tree.
"I'll take old man winter," he said.
"Suit yourself," said Hart. He started to roll up a cigarette, but just before he was about to lick it sealed, a gunshot ripped through the silence.
Hart jolted.
The tobacco scattered across the snow.
The Fagan fell forward, a hole in his chest. Behind Hart stood the captive girl, her cheeks rosy and her eyes bright with rage, holding a smoking shotgun.
"You gave me quite a start, there, miss," Hart said.
"I'm not a miss," said the captive.
"Beg your pardon?"
The captive pulled away the frilly bonnet. Sandy blonde hair, pretty features. A strong jawline, very boyish--no, not just boyish--a boy. At once, Hart realized it was a teenaged boy.
"These are my mother's clothes," said the boy; he had a thick slavic accent. "They make me dress in them, for sick pleasure."
Hart's eyebrows raised.
"I knew the Fagans were reptiles from hell, I never figured em for perverts, too."
"They deserve to die. Thank you. This your cabin?"
"It's as much mine as anybody's, by now."
"You Americans confuse, confuse, confuse. Yes or no, this is your cabin?"
"Well," Hart said, coughing from the cold air. "No."
"What are you doing here, then?"
"I got ambushed by some of these boys, a few weeks back. My horse got shot. I slogged up here in hope of finding a pass south, instead I found this cabin. Ain't nobody been here in a long, long time."
"You are thief, like them?" asked the boy. The shotgun was still in his hands, aimed at the ground, but Hart suddenly realized these questions were more than just youthful curiosity. He was on trial.
"Well. Yes, I am a thief," said Hart. "But, no, I ain't like them."
"No difference," said the boy. He raised the barrel of the shotgun; at this distance, Hart had no chance of knocking the weapon from the boy's hands, and a single shot would blast away his skull like a walnut under a hammer. He was so caught-unawares, he doubted if he'd even have the reflexes to draw his revolver.
"Now, now," Hart said, his voice soft. He held up both hands. "Take it easy. I helped you out, right? I killed all them men, they were liable to do terrible things to you."
"You killed men who already do terrible things to me. I would kill them myself, eventually."
"I'd bet money you would," Hart said.
The boy trudged forward a bit, in the dark--and emerged from the shadow of a pine. Dark blood stained the dress he was wearing, from the knee down.
"Now, hold on, son-- it's cold out here and you're soaking wet and covered in bruises. And it looks like you're bleeding real hard, for Pete's sake I'll give you all my guns to hold onto for the night, if it makes you feel better!"
The boy nodded. "Go first. I follow."
♦ ♣ ♥ â™
An hour later, Hart dragged the last of the Fagan bodies to a ravine where he hurled them into the darkness. From Each of them Hart had combed any valuables: snowboots, two bottles of bourbon, a skin of brandy, and enough clothing to give the boy an outfit without petticoats. Better yet, one of the men had been carrying a saddlebag with canned food, potatoes, bread, and coffee enough for Hart and the boy to survive on for at least a week.
He trod back onto the cabin's porch with a great deal of throat-clearing and whistling, so as not to take the boy by surprise.
"You ready in there?" Hart asked.
"Ready for what?"
"I'm done with uh, you know," Hart furrowed his brow--why was this teenage transvestite giving him such anxiety? Aside from the terrible wrath with which he wielded a shotgun.
"Come in, Mr. Morrigan," said the boy.
Hart walked into to find a roaring fire in the fireplace, and the boy stark naked on the warm hearthstones, tugging a suture through a cut on his thigh. He sat cross legged, and steam rose from his wet hair.
"Oh," Hart said, averting his glance from the boy's nudity. Normally, another man's nakedness wouldn't be a cause for a second thought--but this boy was. Different. Wounded. He'd been humiliated. And for the life of him, Hart couldn't help but think of him as a lady. An angry little damsel.
"Why are you looking like that?" asked the boy.
"Just," Hart said, "no reason. Just don't want to make you uncomfortable, son."
"I'm comfortable."
"So you seem," Hart said.
He walked to the cabin's fur-heaped cot and took a seat. There was a bowl of stew waiting for him--he had prepared it hours previous, but the boy had served him a bowl recently enough that it steamed into the cold air.
"Thanks, son."
Hart ate. The same meal of pork and potato seemed far tastier than usual. Every once in a while, he glanced over at the boy; the long limbs were smooth and supple, perfectly proportioned. Hairless and pale, and ample of both muscle and fat. Skinny little knees, delicate wrists and ankles. A plump behind spread out over the sandstone of the heHarth. Hart felt a puzzling feeling in his gut, a sort of churning emotion, and a desire to keep looking.
"Glad you're getting warmed up," the man said.
"Yes," said the boy.
"I reckon I scrounged up enough clothes for you to wear something besides that dress."
For the first time in good light, the boy looked up at Hart--again, the youth looked vexed, stern, in spite of how pretty his features were. His brow furrowed.
Jesus, Hart thought in frustration, are his eyes goddamned purple?
The boy pouted. His eyes were, at the very least, an uncommonly vivid shade of blue.
"I'd rather wear my mother's clothes than the rags of those Ублюдок."
"Ubla--what did you call them?" Hart asked. "Nevermind. I hope you're joking, but I suppose it is just the two of us up here. You can wear whatever you like. Although. If you wear that dress I might start gettin' confused."
"Confused of what?" the boy asked, his tone flat.
Hart laughed, felt awkward. "I heard you Russians ain't got a sense of humor."
"I am always serious, no joking." said the boy with a great sigh. "But I cannot wear my mother's clothes either."
Tears spilled down his face; the boy buried his face in his hands. His knees drew in, the surgeon's needle tinkled against the stones of the hearth.
"Hey," Hart murmured, and got to his feet. He gathered up a fur off the bed and draped it over the boy's shoulders. He did not tremble, but blew his nose into his hands, looked up at Hart with a fierce scowl.
"I will be fine," the boy said. "I suppose I go naked until I can fashion something."
Hart groaned in confusion. "I reckon you're serious about that, too huh?"
"I am good with an awl. Is there any --uh," the boy hesitated. "Skin? Any skins around?"
"I shot a deer a few weeks back, but that'd be a lot of work."
"I can manage."
"You're a real handy kid, seems like."
"I was the oldest."
"What's your name?" asked Hart.
"Alexander Petrikov. I go by Alexei."
"Pleased to meet you, Alexei. Now, if you don't mind I'm gonna sip on this bourbon and watch the fire."
"Please."
Hart cleared his throat, and sat on a rocking chair that was the cabin's only piece of furniture besides the cot. He uncorked the bourbon, took a swig. The whiskey burned, he swallowed with delight--the first alcohol he'd had in weeks, and settled into his chair.
Though he was ostensibly watching the fire, he could not help but watch the boy's surgical skill. The deft movements of his fingers as he worked the needle through the puckered flesh of the wound, the unflinching speed at which he pulled the thread through. And so close--so close-- to those delicate hands and peach-smooth thighs, there was an uncircumsized, thick cock. It lay relaxed and warm over two silk-smooth globes.
Hart took another swig. Coughed. It was not good bourbon.
"Do you want a nipper?" he asked.
"Very much," said Alexei. "But my hands are busy."
With that, the boy unexpectedly opened his mouth and let his broad, relaxed tongue overhang his lower lip. As if waiting for a squirt of mother's milk.
"Uh, s-sure," Hart said. He uncorked the bottle and dribbled a little onto the boy's tongue. Alexei swallowed, then stuck out his tongue again for more.
"Just say when, I suppose," Hart said.
Alexei nodded, closed his eyes, and stuck out his tongue again.
Everything about this situation made Hart feel strange. He was amused by it, intrigued, excited a little by the playfulness. Just to have a companion was something, much less this pretty-faced little rascal. The boy's antics gave him the same giddy chuckle as if he had just captured a wild rabbit indoors, or was watching cats up to cat nonsense. It wasn't until he started getting hard that he realized what was going on--he was aroused.
Just as he realized that his shaft was thickening against his inner thigh, Hart stopped pouring. The last drops went down the boy's throat. Alexei grunted and swallowed; the boy shook his head as he coughed.
"I miss Vodka," he said.
"I bet," said Hart; the man stood abruptly and turned. "Say, I'm gonna go out on the porch and have a smoke."
"You feel badly about killing them," said the boy.
Hart laughed. "Sorry Son, I almost wish I did. Like I said, I put more Fagans in the ground than most of `em will ever meet in their own lifetimes."
"What is it, then?" asked Alexei, tugging the last of the suture through and tying it off.
"Oh, just. Some strange mood. Cabin fever, I reckon."
"Cabin. Fever?"
"I'll explain when I'm back, just finish patchin' yourself up."
A few moments later, out in the frigid starlight, Hart lit what he promised himself would be his last cigarette of the day. He stared out over the pristine snow of the mountainside, the shadows of the spruce trees. The painfully white moon above. He smoked his cigarette as slowly as he could. Sipped on the bourbon.
Who the hell is this kid, anyway, he wondered; showing up in a goddamn dress and killin' a man with a shotgun in 3 minutes?
The door creaked open. Alexei stood there wrapped in a blanket from the bed.
"I will sleep now," the boy said.
"That's good, you need the rest, son."
"You should sleep with me."
"Beg your pardon?"
The boy looked at him flatly, "if there was any question, we cannot spare the firewood to sleep apart. I do not want you to be stupid and proud, we must share the bed to stay alive."
Hart's eyebrows were higher than ever.
"Listen, little boy," he said. "I ain't never shared a bed that small with anybody, let alone a lady, let alone a little pipsqueak with a serious flesh wound."
Alexei's jaw dropped. He looked perplexed.
"There is plenty of room."
"No sir."
"You are being strange, Mr. Morrigan."
"Not one iota."
"I do not know what this means."
"Not one little bit," said Hart. He put out his cigarette. "You sleep in the cot. Leave me one big bearskin, I'll be fine. There's two of em."
The boy looked skeptic at first, but then nodded. "This will be better for my wound. Thank you."
Hart nodded. The door closed. He had promised not to smoke another cigarette, but he would feel like an ass going right back inside. He shivered, rolled another tiny roll, and looked up at Orion. He sipped bourbon. He wondered what the boy's family must have been like. How they must have been killed, like so many honest immigrant folk out West. He sipped bourbon. He looked up at Orion.
♦ ♣ ♥ â™
The storm came through before Hart left the porch. He saw the blueblack masses swelling to the south, felt the icy little kisses of frost on the cheekbones above his beard.
Son of a bitch, another one?
He stacked up as much wood as he could carry from the outer dugout, and heaped it by the door. He carried buckets of water from the creek to fill the barrels on the porch. When he was finished filling the water barrel, he burst back through the front door for the first time in an hour with two heavy faggots in tow.
There, he found a nude Alexei smearing mud across the bullet holes in the front walls. The boy had sealed nearly every crevice and gap in the front facing wall of the cabin. Hart gaped a moment, let down the load of firewood he carried.
"Thought you was goin' to bed!" Hart said.
"Me too," said the boy. "But there's no time, Cowboy," said Alexei.
"I know it," said Hart. He ran back out to cut more wood.
♦ ♣ ♥ â™
As the wind howled and the firelight died, Hart lay on the floor huddled in the bearskin. He could see Alexei's perfect little button nose pointing up toward the ceiling as he lay in the cot. He could see the boys eyelashes in the firelight, and the movement of those pretty orbs of violet, darting around the room, peeking down at Hart from time to time. After a while, the man got his courage up to ask a question.
"How long ago did your people come over from Russia?" asked Hart.
"Ten years. We had a homestead north of here. There is a town with a lot of us, like my family, called Little Siberia."
"And uh. How long ago did the Fagans find you?"
"Two weeks."
"Is anybody left?" Hart asked. He felt a twinge of hesitation asking, almost wished he hadn't.
"No."
"I'm sorry to hear that."
"Why are you sorry? You did not do it."
"That's just, uh," Hart stammered. "Something we say in English. When we don't know what else to say."
"You English are always sorry for everything."
"To be fair, I'm more Welsh than English, but yes, the English fuck up everything they touch."
There was a giggle from the cot.
"How old are you, Mr. Morrigan?"
"I reckon thirty five or thirty seven. Somewhere in there."
"Did you ever have a family? Children?"
"Certainly hope not," Hart said. "I've run around too much, I suppose, to have altogether no progeny at all--"
"What that means??" asked the boy.
"I mean, I suppose it's likely I got some poor girl pregnant somewhere somehow. Just, I never been anywhere long enough to find out about it."
"You're a ramble-man."
"Ramblin' man, yes."
"Ramblin' man. What is "ramblin" mean?"
"Means what it sounds like. Ramble here, ramble there. Ramble around. Never settle down. Do nobody no good. Go everywhere but get nowhere. Amount to nothin."
The boy sighed. "That's very sad."
There was a long silence. Hart could feel a terrible draft pushing under the front door, and could no longer tolerate it. He got to his feet, shuffled off and pushed a heap of Fagan clothing against the door. No sooner had he done that, he realized the main draft was coming from the single little window in front. There was nothing to be done for it.
"Are you very cold?" asked Alexei.
"Not so much, yet. I reckon it'll get frigid soon though." He could already see his breath.
"You should come into the bed if you are too cold," said the boy.
"I heard you the first time. What is it with you, did you get used to snuggling up with a scaly-old gangster every night?"
Even in the almost total darkness, Hart could see the boy's expression turn to a dark glare of contempt. The boy rolled over, facing the wall. Hart suddenly remembered what those men must have done to the boy. The indignity any captive faces, times a hundred.
"I'm sorry, Alexei. That was cruel."
Silence.
"I didn't--I know it's not a joke."
"Go to hell, Mr. Morrigan."
The man lay down on his back, rolled the bearskin around himself, and tried to get to sleep.
TO BE CONTINUED, ASAP!
PLEASE RESPOND WITH FEEDBACK TO:
bhuvanesh21@protonmail.com