Heart Of Fire
Heart Of Fire
There are many years a gent spends in trying to puzzle out the many facets and desires of their hearts. Some people think they know what they desire, while others put faith in a deity to sort it out for them. Long rows of countless years, I wondered as well.
We are unsated, all of us and divided from what we wish for.
But sometimes, we do not know what we are looking for until he is staring at our face.
Mountains with a sheen of flowering gold greet the dust-spewing bustle of a long line of wagons covered in dun sun scoured tarps. Occasionally, our party encounters some of the wildlife. Amongst the unforgiving landscape of crooked cacti with spines as long as cat whiskers and prairie dogs occasionally screaming up at us in their own way as they pop up from burrows, I see many herds of buffalo out in the distance.
They appear lazy with the way they chew and move intently with the purpose and haste of sloth's, wet grass pulp sticking to some of their beards. Swatting long bovine tails, the large lumbering hunch-backed creatures eye our caravan and move farther away as we go by, ignoring us.
Further out is a rainbow of colors racing frantically across the horizon of the rising sun as the long twining cobra shape of mustangs crosses our path further out, and is gone forever in a disorienting cloud of dust.
"Skeeter cakes!" Declares someone boisterously from the rear.
It sounds like John. Heh, John has such an amusing sense of humor for a downy furred bruin of the east coast frontier. He had been a mountain trapper before he came on this quest across the prairie with our group.
We were all searching for something, you see, and we thought it would be that gold we heard so much about. Gold, after all, opened all doors; made all dreams come true. If you struck it rich in California, you could do whatever the hell you wanted, and neither god nor the devil would stand in your way.
"Skeeter cakes! Come on, an' get em!"
John had such a fun time naming our food after the nicknames of other clever settlers.
When traveling long distances across empty ground, there was no chance to bathe, and there weren't any ways to get rid of all them flies and mosquitoes, so when it was time to open a bag of flour or corn pone, we would have bug bread by the time we were done.
Oh, sure, sometimes it was unpleasant; biting into food that had dead crunchy things in it, but it was better than nothing, and ya couldn't keep dead buffalo around long unless you had the time and space to dry the meat-and salt-which we were plumb out of.
"Skeeter-"
"Gawddamn it! We heard you the first time, buck-eye!" Snarls a less impatient member of our group.
Wilcomb; a ram aristocrat eager to make his own success out by the Pacific. Boy, when you got a silver watch, you know that feller has got some money.
"How many bawdy houses you ever been in, Wilcomb?" John retorted with a laugh, "Maybe we'll find some of them whores ya scared off!"
This served to piss the ram off, as his paws became white as he latched hard on the reins of his fine team of Belgians with a rough grind of his teeth and a dismissive grunt. Sitting by him with the warming steel and walnut stock of a double-barreled shotgun, I felt it wise to say nothing and instead I stared out ahead at the bobbing muscular butts of the hardworking short-tailed and golden furred teams.
What fine horses he had. Maybe if I came into the money, I would buy myself a couple for a carriage-or maybe I could start a stage company to transport passengers.
Their tails were braided in such a wonderful way that all I could think about for the ride was-is that natural, or do they cut them off?'
As the sun rose, I lowered my hat to shade my eyes from the blinding effect of all that desolate dun-colored sand. I heard people got blinded by the snow in the same way, and being the most forward guard, I wasn't gonna let nothing blind me if we were to be attacked.
You can't imagine what kind of loneliness is out there. Nobody but desert and animals for hundreds of miles-unless ya counted them injuns. Sometimes we traded with them, but overall Wilcomb did not approve of the heathen brutes', and so we kept away pretty much.
And maybe he was smart about that, too. Some settlers getting' too friendly with injuns usually get found scalped eventually. You know that they are mostly ornery cause of all the buffalo we kill, and cause we cheat them plenty.
I remember a grungy old rabbit duped some of them offa their land with some sparkly beads that were made in Europe from desert sand, and you know the desert; always plenty where that came from.
"Injuns! From the left!"
I look over, my red paws uneasy on the hardness of the sun-warmed surfaces of the shotgun.
Yes, an envoy of them approached us from the side, none of them having the full headdress of a chieftain. They were a gathering of male horses of many colors; one interested me for no reason that I was aware of.
Their leader was a red and white paint with buffalo hide pants which had some kind of long frill going down the sides like the tentacles of some sea monster. He also had a vest which was black and white splotched like the tanned skin of a Holstein dairy cow. All through his long red mane were woven many white, brown, and black feathers of different sizes; he stands there proudly with unwavering intent almond eyes as the wind blows his mane and flies pick at his face.
"Where you go-we do not watch. Be wary." The horse declared, the others standing at rest on their tall horses, not bearing us any will intent.
"Good. Now, go back to the desert you heathen bastard hellspawn!" Snarled Wilcomb with an insane hatred in his eyes, up on the seat of the first wagon.
Wilcomb was so eager to dismiss them, but I remember those words-how he said them, and realized we were LUCKY to get through injun territory because they LET us, but now, these mustang injuns were telling us that they could no longer watch over us; that we were going into a place where their influence abruptly ended.
Of course, the promise of gold in our hearts, we go on-as Wilcomb tries to nibble through a skeeter cake with obvious disdain; the small envoy leaving us to our arrogant headstrong ways.
The well-worn trail takes us through a narrow pass where outcroppings of cliff faces surround us on our sides, the rock jagged and glimmering with specks of quartz or tiny glimmers of marble-or I think it's marble.
We travel for some time as the occasional noise can be heard of a bison bone being smashed with a loud crunch under the spoked wheel from one of the wagons.
The words of the painted horse reverberate in my mind like a joke that sticks with you the entire day.
Except nobody would be laughing.
The distant sun is at an angle which keeps it from shining in this long cavernous place, but the shadows it casts bring back lectures of the devil's hand and hellfire to them folks waiting idly by in the wagons.
Everybody was scared. It didn't take no doctor degree to figure that out. The occasional whistle of the wind through parched rocks and boulders made us all cringe, as it sounded like the noise of an injum whooping loud for a raiding party.
Suddenly, the train stops, as one Belgian horse drops and the others trip over him like them dominoes. I jump down from my seat high up on the stage seat with a thud in the dirt, all silent, and all expecting me to find an arrow shaft sticking out of that draft horse somewhere.
I take my time going around as the big heavy animals sort themselves out and manage to stand back up in their calm attentive way. When I go to the fallen animal, I put my sensitive paw over the soft hot heaving chest of the animal. He is alive, but very weary. It seems we pushed him too far, as I see clearly that we broke him down, and he was useless to us now.
"What's wrong?" Wilcomb asked me, his eyes flitting nervously around the overlooking cliffs.
Everyone peeked from the wagons and their seats, afraid I'd go and pull one of them injun arrows from the dead animal.
"The horse has foundered. Or he's lame. He's not gonna go any farther." I return, wiping horse sweat off my hand onto my dusty brown chaps.
Wilcomb nods, not seeming to care if he lost a horse or a rusty nail. He points to the harness and-
"Unhook him, then, and leave him. We'll do just fine with five."
I could not believe my ears. Here was this beautiful creature-one of many I had admired during the course of our long trip west, and he wanted to leave it-him-for dead to be ripped apart unmercifully by the many predators lurking about.
I put the barrel of the shotgun to the gelding's forelock, some part of me cringing and regretting this.
"Don't waste bullets on that worthless beast; you'll need them for the injuns and the hunting."
I of course, don't listen; it's my shotgun shells, so I'll use em how I want.
-BOOM!-
A long thunderous echo shatters along the steep walls as the draft horse shudders with one final breath; a spray of blood raining on me, and a few drops landing on Wilcomb's fine suit.
"Damn it! I said not to waste a bullet on that. Now the blood will never come out!"
A beautiful and loyal creature had just died, and all he cared about was his clothes.
"Sorry, boss. Don't the Lord preach in mercy and all of that?"
Wilcomb spit on the ground as I unharnessed the animal, adjusting his bowler.
"The Lord preacheth mercy to his children who pray to him. How many times has that horse been to church?"
You bastard. I wanted to say, but I knew it wouldn't do any good but start a fight, and we needed to get out of this place as soon as we could.
"Yessir."
And the wagons following left the corpse without disturbing it in any way, as Wilcomb damned us all with biting remarks for our sentimentality for creatures which were not like him. Of course, who wanted to be like Wilcomb?
Long shadows and the taste of dust followed us along the dry earth of the gulley. It looked like it would let out into the wide space of the prairie soon enough, but the five remaining Belgians were working up such a froth. We had pushed them hard and hadn't bothered to stop for the night as we had run out of water and needed to find more badly.
Everyone was thirsty; hell, we should have stocked up at the last little waystation, but Wilcomb, overeager ass that he is, put his faith in the Lord as he rushed impatiently to his claim on the riches onward.
I imagine them other folks in the Donner party had God watching their backs, too, but when they got stuck someplace without enough supplies, only the Devil was there to look after them.
Remember the Donner party' seemed to be a rallying call for folks new to the west to take things patiently and make decisions without greed alone to direct.
Greed gets a guy into plenty of trouble, and it blinds you from dangers which make most greenhorns into wolf and buzzard chow.
The lazy breeze spins up the parched dirt in an awful fright. Mix that with the countless droves of mosquitoes that follow us everywhere we go, and you get a morass as thick as milch cow molasses.
Whenever Wilcomb goes over his speeches of how the Lord works in mysterious ways, I wish the Lord would give that horse's ass a piece of what he REALLY thought about all the sheep's rantings. John certainly did.
I was amazed to see how the normally polite and civilized bear became a lecherous doddering dirty-minded fool over the course of the journey, and I only knew John acted like he was to get a rise out that ram who thought he knew everything and had us common folks eating from his cloven hooves.
If I ever died, I reckon I wanted John to do the eulogee, as I didn't much care for a complete hypocrite speaking well of me in death, but absolutely detesting me in life. No says I, I'd rather have someone who liked me in life-I'd even tolerate his interpretation of Matthew as the patron saint of alcoholics.
Above, a hawk calls out as it shoots into the distance like a brown feathered arrow loosed from a bow. I wish we could move fast like that, but all considered, the horses and oxen were plainly doing their best to haul our heavy wagons.
"How would that be such rapture?" Wilcomb admits, trying to make conversation as his hands remain ever rigid on the reins, a thick mean-looking driving whip up against his back.
"Hmmm?" I answer, looking lazily side to side with the rumbling of my seat to give me some discomfort.
"You know, fly?"
I spit to the side as the wagons amble on in the hard dirt. It felt like we were moving like snails. Even a lame coyote could keep up with us, if it wanted to chance a load of buckshot in the face.
"Nope. Flyin' is Gods' domain. If we were meant to, we'd been made that way."
The ram laughed like an old fool, taking a gulp from a bottle of malted whiskey at his side.
"Sometimes, boy. I don't know if you're a heathen or a saint. I guess you're a smart-ass. You know where you'll go when you die."
"Yup. A place where we all get what we deserve." I offered, wiping sweat from my face that my brown hat had missed.
"Amen." Then Wilcomb crossed his chest with one of them little Catholic prayers.
As much as he annoyed the hell outta me, I couldn't very well enjoy the look of unchanging scenery. Oh, sure, it all had its little differences, but desert, mountains, and cacti weren't all that impressive no matter how it was arranged.
Briefly, I enjoy looking at the rumbling butts of those horses. Geldings and two mares-for breeding, I suppose. I always thought horses had such interesting rear holes and bawdy tunnels. Maybe I would think about taking one of them mares scouting out for water or hunting, and see what such a big set of pipes felt like on my fox hammer.
In fact, that thought perplexed me as we went, and let's all be realistic; what the hell else am I going to do out here? Whittle something with my Bowie knife? What point was there in that? I'd just burn it or give it away to someone-
Unless-
I smile, starring uninterrupted at those large rears and the different details. Oh, sure, I could carve most anything out of wood, but after I was done, I wouldn't really care; it was just something because I was plumb bored.
To do list;
Try out a Belgian mare bareback.
Whittle a horse from a piece of firewood.
Maybe shoot something small to eat for dinner. Probably be a prairie dog or rabbit.
Suddenly, things weren't so depressing, after all.
A noon sun greeted us as we exited the high walled crevice. It almost blinded me easy because I had been in them shadows so long. Far out to the left, something shimmered. I thought it was a mirage, but Wilcomb took a long moment starring cautiously and came to the conclusion that it was a lake.
Course, nobody tells you that some lakes are dangerous. Some watering holes have too much salt, or there are dead things in it to make folks sick, but we didn't have to worry about injuns poisoning the water, as they cared for the land; whatever they thought of us trespassers.
Yup, we chased what I thought was a mirage, but it turned out to be that Wilcomb was right. And, enterprising sonofawhore he is, he has one of the weaker oxen drink it first to see if it died. I suppose, I would have done the same, as I knew everyone getting sick from stagnant water would endanger our migration.
I think that ox had about a gallon or so, and we waited an hour with interest to see if he'd fall on his side or something.
When nothing happened, folks went crazy and jumped in, splashing each other. The lake was probably big enough to hold three times our party of forty settlers. I dunno, I just hung back and gave all our animals their chance to drink.
Of course, John was the smart one as he began to fill up all our empty barrels and got them ready for the next part of our travel.
"Hey John. I think I'm gonna go out with one of the Belgians to scout around for trouble." I declare, watching as Wilcomb takes a splash to the face with a scowl.
"Better ask Wilcomb. It's HIS animal." John remarked with a grunt as he managed to lift a heavy barrel onto the back of his cooks' carriage.
"The way he treated the last one? I don't think he cares." I remark, mounting the wide thick back of a patient big-assed creature.
Hmmm. Can't wait to see what her back end feels like.
"It's horse theft." John chided, tossing me my shotgun, which I catch easily.
"Relax, I'm just borrowing her." Then I look around to see if anyone can hear us. "Maybe returning her with a little more experience about males."
John laughed hard at that one. The others in the party wouldn't understand, but John knew that when I was horny, bored, or both, I got into some interesting places with my impish wit.
I leave the camp at an ambling trot, her thighs jiggling with muscle that looks a little like fat. Well, she WAS a big girl. Usually big girls Are a little chubby. Hehe; big sexy chubby mare.
Out of eyesight, I stop, but it seems she doesn't know nothing but how to graze and be ridden, from the look of her movements as I dismount her and put hobbles on her front feet.
It's not that I wanted to restrain her, it was just that if something spooked her, I would have my work cut out for me trying to get her back. Of course, if she wanted to be all pissy about it, I knew she would be regretting it later, as she wouldn't be bred by any stallion for a good while.
I run my hand along that silky back to her rounding horse buns. The fur shines beautifully where the sun strikes her asscheeks directly. My hand slowly travels along her side, rounds her thigh, and ends up on the back of her leg where her buttocks flatten smoothly over like a crushed wedge of fatty ham. Her vulva of black skin still glistens with wet sparkles from the long piss she had taken back at the camp after filling her belly with water.
The skin is all dark and crinkled, soft velvet to the touch as I stroke along it; the skin quivering excitedly in surprise under my attentions. The sweet giant anus puckers involuntarily as I explore her backside with my prudent overeager, but gentle fingers. A few hairs were actually growing out of her satin nether lips, strangely enough.
I enjoy the look of her teardrop drooping cleft at the bottom of her opening, the black skin becoming slippery as she began to drip fluids and wink this strange pussy eye at me. I had never been so involved with a horse; never knew anything about how they behaved.
I inch a finger at the little popping thing that comes out, my very finger tip coming back with sticky fluid which I lick off with curiosity. It tasted like dust, ocean water, and some kind of musky sweetness. There was nothing in my life I had drank which tasted remotely like the exotic of the horse.
Nothing in my life prepared me for a big squishy butt in my face, either, as I plunge in with my face, even as she tries hard to impale herself on me, surprising all holy hell out of me.
The wrinkled melting skin of her vulva easily devours my snout and tongue in the firm sucking grasp of her equine warmness. Anyone who came up would probably be rightly mystified to see a fox with half of his face jammed up a horse's back end, but at the moment, I didn't dare care, as she was my whole world. Her taste and her tunnel ensnaring my long red muzzle. It would be so easy to just let her nether muscles milk my face, but I ached with a sudden need to fill her with my saddle horn, and somehow, I reckoned she was curious about it too; this was probably the poor girl's first encounter, as she didn't have any stretch marks or scars on her pleasure lips from any foalings.
I pull back with a deep draw of breath, as her tightness had actually suffocated me, and it was a little hard to get out because her muscles eagerly sucked me right in.
But I was out, and my face was all wet and cold from the breeze swiping all the warmness of her off of my face. Her pussy pouts with little gushes of fluid and winks, seeming to berate me for my hasty retreat from her welcoming affectionate sticky depths.
But I laugh with a sigh; I won't hear any of that, I'm just going to give another one of my toys some attention on her fun tunnel is all.
Then I almost end up in such a consternation!-
She is so big; how can a little fox such as myself take her like a stallion, if my face just barely reaches her tail opening?
I remember a funny instance of a Shetland stallion trying to breed a Shire mare in heat.
Not so funny when it was my turn to face that awkward problem.
I look around at the faded green of cactus, burrows dug deep in the brown dirt, weeds growing all ramshackle like a feller just got lazy and threw the seeds all around instead of planting them in neat rows.
Plus, I actually HAD ridden her bareback, so there was no saddle to stand upon, either, as I had heard some ingenious cowpokers would do.
I reckon she could stay her heat and wait until we found a good-sized boulder.
I had her reins in one hand as we moved at a slow walk since she still wore the hobbles. Then as we moved toward a nice flat rock about fifty yards off, a curious sound came from nearby which immediately freaked her out.
Course, she wasn't going anywhere very fast if she bolted. So I let go of the reins and watched her walk away while I tried to find the source for an incessant shaking noise.
There!
Among the dusky sand lay coiled some type of viper or snake with a tail that made noise like a baby's toy.
Rattlesnake. I reckoned in my mind if I should kill it or not, as these were nasty critters if they took a piece out of you with those fangs. Lot's of settlers got killed by these things, and there was little to be done for the poison but wait.
But if I shot at it, a rescue party would come see what was going on. Whether hunting or fending off threats; others in the party always flocked to a gunshot to make sure everything was alright. Wilcomb insisted on that, strangely enough. He was an old Colonel from the civil war, so he'd seen plenty of that stuff.
It was a smart plan to avoid being taken by an ambush later, but it was also damn inconvenient for a guy wanting to perform a taboo act on an animal. I would let the damn rattler live if he didn't interfere in my plans, as I chase after the horse; whom had been going in the right direction-sorta. She actually ended up parallel from the rock about ten yards when she finally stopped. Not bad, I guess, as I lead her to the rock and push her around by her left thigh to get her positioned just right.
Well, I felt like laughing at that time, because the boulder I had her against came right up to the start of the back of her buttocks, the jiggly muscle sagging against the rock as she shoved back into it and rubbed her fur side to side along the hard surface like sandpaper. She either had an itch real bad, or she had a real bad heat, cause she was stroking that stone so furiously, I thought that it would be polished to a glossy sheen in no time.
Well, as I slid my pants and chaps down, laying the shotgun on the ground up vertical-like on the boulder, I discovered something else right funny, too. Behind her, she was at such a height to the rock that I had to get on my knees to um...cowpoke her, which made me feel even smaller. I'd reckon you got on your knees for one of them tiny horses that wealthy souls bought, but this was just a little ridiculous. For long moments, I just lay there against her butt and collapsed over her back. The heat of her pussy marinated into my stiffening cock, and I just did nothing but keep my crotch up against hers-savoring the feel of her steamy equine flesh.
"I know what your waiting for." I muse even as I see her ears swivel back to listen to me, the mare impatiently jerking her tail right under my stomach and her vulva moving with little horny contractions eager to invite me inside.
I laugh; it was almost too cruel to wait and leave her frustrated. I could have been content smelling her musky horse odour and feeling her supple muscular behind all over my upper body. The situation was almost ridiculous; me of all people on his knees ready to service a pretty creature who only had the company of geldings for the whole scary journey.
Slowly, I reach down a hand and play with her juicy fold even as I lick her buttocks up above her tail. She shivers-I can feel it through her whole pretty body. Her clitoris humps against my crotch, even as she begins to expel various fluids in an attempt to get my attention-which got my cock all wet, and I found myself invigorated and finally ready to take on her offer. For agonizing minutes, I tease her deep pussy with just the tip of my cock, making her snort and almost seem to beg for more in her cute squealing excited horsie language.
I obliged her naughty attempts at trying to back into me by instead backing myself off and thus causing her some sufficient aggravation. I could feel it in the nerves of her flesh; she wanted to get off on my member fast and she wanted to be bred ASAP.
"Poor little filly." I muse with a smirk, spanking her buttock crisply with one provocative slap. "You'll have to work harder than that."
She snorted in response, as if arguing my point.
"Well, if you can find something better to fuck than me, your welcome to try."
She of course said nothing; not understanding what I said. She just ground her ass into the rock trying to get me deeper inside her sweet equine pussy. Oh, yes, she was so tight-strange for something with such a big vagina, but I suppose that made this encounter the more pleasurable for the both of us. I definitely needed a tight girl to play with me, and she definetely needed something with a penis, even if I didn't turn out to be a Shire Romeo.
I suppose in a place like this, improvising is a life skill. Take the fact I'm fucking a horse on top of a rock, and you'd understand what I was talking about.
I admired her butt; all pretty and glossy like polished fools' gold. The color was quite magnificent on such a giant rear. Her short hair had been brushed and was quite kempt.
Well, it was at that thought I simply just rammed my fox iron home into her dripping juicy pussy, licking my muzzle as I savored the tight feel of her all over my organ. She clamped down on it and winked, inviting me to continue with my act. Of course I had to finish what I had started, I mean that's what I was here for.
It feels good as I take her, even if I can't give her everything a giant cock-devouring mare needs. Every thrust I savor like silk on my body. Ah, rare a thing, silk, but I got to feel it when I fucked the daughter of Alabama's mayor. It wasn't as good as other affairs I had with the female persuasion, but that bed will be a pleasant memory to me of a better life I couldn't touch unless I struck my fortune out here.
I embrace my arms around her huge butt as her juice drips down both our thighs and my balls with nice tingling hot drips. Some moments as she crunches her passage over my member, all I can think about is taking little love nips from her tail, but I resist, as I don't want those thick horse hairs in my mouth. I'm much more content to lick her butt, draped over the end of her back as my hips do all the work and movement below.
It was fantastic, we had been going for at least ten minutes. She milked me the whole time and made cuntly love to my erection, but I still managed to refused her request to be bred with a stream of my steamy vulpine seed. I wanted her to savor this tryst for a long time before I just gave into her wishes and ended it like a cowboy quickie. Now, a quickie was something for a rancher and his cattle or sheep, not for an armed escort and his borrowed mount.
No, this is truly a moment I wish to savor for a great deal of time.
More thrusting, more patient control, and all she can do is desperately try to melt her big juicy butt into the rock to meet me and fill her juicy hole completely.
Finally, after half an hour of this, I get rougher and plow as viciously as I can into her gaping equine entrance. It wouldn't be as good as the animalistic fucking fury of a true stallion, but I hope she still got some pleasure from a cock as small as my own. With a few desperate grinding iron crunches into her passage, my balls and ass jerk powerfully with an orgasm as my body empties of seed into her unforeseen cavern of dripping hot flesh.
After all of that, I can barely pull my pants back on before slumping down to the rock in exhaustion. She snorted impatiently and squealed at me-expecting me to finish the job, but I was gone; oblivious from her demands as I sank on a current of floating post-sexual bliss.
It felt so good to get that offa my chest-among other places.
Gunfire destroys my fun and peace; screams shrill in my ears came from the direction of the wagon party someways over. I was pretty far away, but the wind delivered a nice hint of the commotion to me.
I panic as much as a spooked herd of steers, unable to think of what I should do. Should I go back to the party and help defend against whatever was attacking, or should I steal this horse and run away before whoever was responsible tried to kill me?
I admit I didn't know or care for the whole lot of them, but it was John who finally made me realise I had to go back-if for nothing else than at least decency.
We rode at a charge for the settlement by the lake, intent to help. I had my shotgun, and the mare wanted nothing to do with it, but I ignored her; only thinking of John the whole way.
Arrows.
All I can see are the arrows. Buzzing like bugs through the air and rending flesh or other objects. Things hit and scream. Guns going off and the ever foreboding and hanging smell of blood. Death.
What was I charging into as I held the shotgun out-ready to kill whatever thing came close to me. It was chaos; running feet, screaming livestock, dust turned up to create a dun dusky storm.
Then the buzzing and whistling amongst the orders and the raving voice of madness from Wilcomb as the line of settlers fired weapons back into a jumbled attacking, charging, firing morass of coyote injuns. The dog warriors panted with excitement as they held onto their horses' sides with their thighs and shot arrow after another right from quivers attached at their sides.
Something thunked into my shoulder-stuck there-and I fell from the horse as blood slowly blossomed from the hole of the arrow entry. My head hit a rock, and I was out for what seemed forever.
When I opened my eyes later, one of the coyotes stood over me, a knife in his hand as he prepared to slit my throat.
I watched the knife and knew I would die as the sharp bison bone of the blade teased my throat and was about to slide along, ripping at the skin and the veins...
When a bright flash came out of nowhere with a whistle as if from a dancehall girl and the coyote had an arrow sticking in his heart, collapsing weakly to the ground and dropping his finely decorated knife.
Groggily I see that Wilcomb, John, everyone. They had all been killed and the livestock slaughtered wastefully by what looked like a sort of vendetta against settlers.
Only in the unconsciousness of further sleep do I find any peace.
Awakening later, at night, to the sound of coyote whines to the moon high above like a silver dollar, I am left ill at ease until I see a fire roaring nearby and a flickering glossy sight nearby.
Upon a rolled buffalo hide sat the paint stallion, his eyes intent and bright as glistening emeralds. The mustang sighs deeply as he watches me stir.
"We could not protect you in the territory of others. Your chief has head like buffalo butt; full of shit. He should have heeded us and guarded his people better."
"He believed in a higher power to protect us." I remark, cringing as the ache of the arrow wound returns.
"We too. Higher power good, but blind faith stupid. Must be prepared-in case."
I watch the fire burn, the amber glow reflected in the stallion's eyes.
"God will protect them now. And Wilcomb will probably burn in hell for his pride."
The equine nods patiently.
"Sleep little fox. There is a long night ahead of us."
Awakening in the morning finds me in better spirits as my nose picks up the smell of dried meat cooking over a fire. Fresh meat and preserved have a different smell when cooked that an experienced muzzle must differentiate, but years of cooking all kinds of things and eating some things I really wish I hadn't have given me that skill.
The shoulder feels better; I can actually stand up if I manage to ignore some of the ache of the resounding pain. As I stand, the thick warmth of bison fur falls from my body.
But the indian mustang is nowhere in sight.
I shrug and go onto the pan cooking dried venison of some kind. Deer, that was something scarce around here. The pony tribe must have traded for that.
Finishing up breakfast, I go off in search of my rescuer, leaving the campsite and the fire going.
Following the tiny hoofprints left by his feet, I find they lead to some sort of cave entrance. It is dark in here, a low light deeper in the depths, as well as splashing.
Hiding in the dark, I spy his nude body in the vibrant shining splendor of an underground spring; his fur bright with water as the torch reflected from all over him. Flicking out his tail, he gave a most charming adorable whinny, splashing water at his chest with enthusiastic attention. Enjoying himself and full of amazing energy, I saw him so full of energy than I had seen in him before.
He splashed and played and paid no attention to any world outside of this little haven, loving every second in the lazy wandering little stream, tail up with equine dignity.
I stared at him for sometime, his muscled body and ass easily flexing to meet all of his entertaining movements in the water. He was so free; so vulnerable and carefree. This was not the same equine scout I had seen only a day before-indeed, the night before.
When he bent down to wash his legs, his butt was right in my view, those brown balls fuzzy and glimmering with wetness, and his anus lustered with diamonds of sparkly dripping dew.
Horses. Did I love horses? Was that why I had fucked a mare? Was that why I had been more intent to listen to this ponies' warning?
"You can drop your burdens, fox. Where your friends are, you can do nothing." Whispered the wise voice of the paint equine.
I was surprised; clearly unsettled he had known I was peeking at him from the dark.
"My eyes fox. They see all when well-adjusted to night."
Yes, now I knew too well the rumors I'd heard about them were true; they hunted by moonlight and could fire an arrow into the eye of an owl from half a mile away.
"Sorry."
"Sorry is a word of regret. Do you regret seeing me bare and washing myself?"
"No. I think you are beautiful." I returned, uttering the truth for what it was while he simply smiled in response, peering back at me with those whimsical eyes.
"And that I am male. Does that bother you fox?"
"No."
The horse turned himself about, his erect member and balls shone in the dull orange glow of the wavering torch.
"My people. We are ruled by love. There are no other boundaries in our souls. If we love, that is most important."
What was he saying? That homosexuality was an accepted standard of the mustang indian clan? This left me reeling, for I'd not heard anything even similar to that in practice except examples in the Greek mythology Wilcomb would call Hedonistic, Paganistic, and wickedness.
"What do you desire of me? Do you wish to mount me, or I you? Either I do not mind, as I think you will follow your soul and do what you feel right."
I thought about his offer a great deal, and both choices were interesting for different reasons. Well, I had never been mounted by anyone, and that sounded like a strange idea, but then, folks DID enjoy how such an act felt, and it was with the idea that I was trying something new-perhaps an innate desire to experience the role of the mare which made me ammendable to the thought.
Such a choice did not require much contemplation; I dropped my chaps and pants, getting on all fours as the equine laughed with a light whinny of amusement.
"So eager! But I think I will show you how I take my lovers. It is much more tactful and gentle."
I looked back, seeing where he was patting the water next to the rim of the spring in an entreating way to which I could not refuse as I took off my jacket and shirt, jumping in with him.
The water was somewhat deep, coming up my thighs and the shelf itself, I could see what he was thinking about doing. I bent myself over the rocky shelf until I was half on land and half in the water, ready to take his cock in my rear passage.
But he did not oblige me immediately-instead ducking under the water and coming back up with a mouthful which he teasingly squirted at my foxhole. I moaned as the water tickled itself down my crack and all over my fuzzy red balls, my knotted cock hanging free and slowly massaged by the moving current of the water.
"Are you prepared fox? This will be a very invasive thing for you."
"Horses aren't known for being subtle." I wryly joke-then moan as he teased my opening with his fingers.
Introducing one or two squirming digits as he held my tail to the side with his other hand left me panting like a bitch in heat.
Then I felt the giant thick head of his equine tool bump at my entrance. It was big as a shotgun barrel and would probably go off with just as much force when the pony orgasmed.
But I wanted it; it was the very meaning of lust and love which I derived from this singular risky passion.
When his engorged cock head slowly crept into my butt with a patience and kindness I would not have expected from a stallion, all the doubts of being taken in this manner washed away with the water.
He cared a great deal about me not to go at full speed as if he were a true wild mustang with the smell of mare piss in his nostrils.
A giant member blossomed in size within me, but we were calm, and I relaxed as well as I could to enjoy it-which was not difficulf at all.
The musky smell of his male horse stink mixed with a wet fur smell and sweat really got my attention and I was excited to enjoy what he had to offer not just today, but other days. Other days of my life I had not planned too much. Perhaps he could go with me to California to look for gold.
My ass is quite stretched from his loving and endearing passion until I gasp-and he gasps-his cock locked into my body to the sheathe, big juicy horse balls slapping my butt as he begins to piston his member in and out of my body with lecherous little equine squeals.
My butt jiggles as he spanks it once with his palm, laughing, he does it again and my cheeks burn with a blush of my shyness as I found myself more used than a mare tied up for a paddock full of horny stallions.
His soft hands grasp around my chest, careful of the stitched and cleaned arrow wound, as the stallion braces both of us for one more monstrous shove of his engorged spongy glans and one slick delicious slide of his long thick horsy shaft-before he cums like a stream into my ass, some of his fluid leaking out into the water in plump warm silver droplets.
After we finish up and are sitting on the rocky ground of the cave, my eyes find his-searching for the thing which I thought would find somewhere far away.
His polished green eyes have a patient affection brightly conveyed inside them, the torch glimmering off his wet fur and making him light up beautifully with an amber glow of fine gold.
As I look at his beautiful body, into his sparkly loving eyes, all over the comfy new glory of the cave all lit by fire and the delicate lingering glow of sunlight refracted off the rock passages...
I know finally, what I have been searching for. The stallion was a treasure beyond compare and worth, and I could never leave his sight now that I knew what I wanted-desired-most of all in the calamity of this strangled dangerous world.
"What is..." I began uncertainly.
He smiled, meeting my eyes with love and whispered; "'Heart Of Fire'."
And I was finally content to hold hands with my newfound treasure.