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When Olote Altozorro had taken this job for Don Huelgo he didn't know that the tracker he was going to be paired with was Leche. He couldn't tolerate Leche. They had worked together before, and when he'd come back to the region after a few seasons in Texas, he'd have thought Leche would have moved on, or been shot, or drunk himself halfway to death. Instead, El Coyotl Leche was alive and well as a tracker and security man at Don Huelgo's Rancheria.

As intolerable as Leche was to Olote, Don Huelgo swore up and down that Leche was the best tracker in the land. He recounted exploits that were definitely as exaggerated as the Don's hand-gestures and finely-groomed facial fur. Olote needed the money, and there was no convincing Don Huelgo of anything Don Huelgo hadn't already decided.

So here he was, waking up at the peak of the sun over the ridge of the rocky hills while Leche pulled his black hat over his orange-topped muzzle to block out the sun. Here he was, watching the 'best tracker in the land' scratch himself and gave a little belch from all the alchohol he had stayed up lastnight to drink by the fire.

Olote gave the coyote until he, himself, had packed up his supplies onto his loaned pony, and folded up his serape over his shoulder. A cold, windy desert morning was upon them, the gusts running right through the fur on Olote's face, right over his paws and hands, chilling him. He was used to much, much warmer places.

Right now he couldn't bother about that. His wrapped-up paws found their way against Leche's side once or twice, while he harshly whispered "Wake up!" from above. "It's time to go, flaco!"

The coyote growled and rolled over, mumbling something that Olote would probably take as an insult from someone who was awake. Another kick, and Leche shot up out of bed, fumbling for his hat and his rifle and getting ahold of neither. "I'm up, I'm up!"

With the start to their journey belated by the subsequent arguing, there was less time in the short winter's day than Olote had anticipated. He walked ahead of his pony, his legs too gangly and long for the borrowed saddle's short stirrups. It was a common problem for him, and the increasingly rocky terrain of the hills here weren't easy on his paws. It was slow going anyways, and Leche, even mounted on a better horse, wasn't outpacing him at all. His sluggish pace from his hangover was enough to even them out.

It wasn't until noontime that they found the first tracks, and then Leche didn't much like the thought of pressing through the day without stopping for a little bit of coffee. They didn't stop until they found a small stream, where they drank and watered the ponies, then pressed onward again.

The hoofprints led them another day onward, and by the setting of the sun, they'd gone down an arroyo to the edge of a small valley. Olote reached back and drew a pair of dusty, dirty binoculars from his saddle bags, the only thing on the pony he owned besides the rifle. Upon seeing him do that, Leche slid off his pony, and padded over, so silently that Olote started when the coyote began to warmly say, "You kept them. That makes me happy."

"Not out of sentiment," Olote responded, not turning away from his scanning of the faraway valley. Was that some smoke he saw, just a whisp in the haze of the setting sun? "They're useful."

"You always said they were lucky," the coyote wistfully sighed. Olote brought the binoculars down from his muzzle, and turned to look briefly. It struck him how light Leche's fur really was. Not white by a margin, but the color of the salty desert sand in Nevada, with his back a grey and earthy gradient like sage and treebark.

Olote only let himself long for the feeling of stroking it for the time it took Leche to wrap the lead of his pony around his hand and turn around. Then they were off again.

For the rest of their walk down the arroyo, following the hoofprints of the stolen livestock, Olote's mind was occupied by Leche, who was oddly quiet. Leche, whose chin was up a little higher than normal, whose step had a bit more of a hop in it. Leche, whose tail was a little more mobile. Every time Olote looked his way, Leche was already looking his. Green eyes connected to Olote's brown eyes for just a split second before a smile split Leche's demeanor and made him look away.

You kept them.

Olote had indeed kept them.

That night, Olote was the one who was up into the starry night, staring up at the sky, the low fire flickering against the brush shelter they'd used to conceal the light. The clouds were spotty, the stars bright, the wind chilly but calm. Leche's fur was white as the sands, where it could be seen. On his neck, on his muzzle, on his paws and on the underside of his tail, everywhere that wasn't covered up with his clothes that his fur shone through. It all gave a hint of his name. It was a nice contrast to Leche's broad-legged chaps and black canvas pants. Leche was that kind of fellow, to wear a short jacket with the silver trimming and a bright red scarf, showing how his sense of fashion always approaching his overinflated ego. Although the knowledge wasn't Olote's alone, it warmed him from within to know that the lightest of Leche's fur was under those clothes.

One thought led to another and Olote got up on his long legs, dusted himself off a little, and wrapped himself in his Serape. He silently stalked off into the brush, to a little spot out of the chaparral where there was a large rock jutting through the hillside. Its rounded but relatively flat top made a fine perch for snakes in the sunlight, and a fine seat for a sore-pawed guacho in the moonlight to deal his emotions and their physical symptoms.

Olote Altozorro folded his knees up under his chin, and wrapped his arms around them. His hat was tilted back on his head, as he looked out over the valley from much closer to its floor. The moon was big, the brush alive with bugs and birds. He heard a little stirring in the camp from behind him, but assumed it was just Leche's tossing and turning.

A few minutes passed as his eyelids began to droop, and his head began to lay against his shoulder, when the clack of clawtips on rock awoke him. Olote jumped, but turned to see the shape of Leche in the moonlight, white fur made silver in the ribbons of the rabbit moon.

No words passed between them for a good while, and the whole time Olote found himself chewing his lip nervously. When he couldn't take it anymore, he simply asked the coyote, "Can't sleep?"

"Don't want to," he promptly replied, "It's been too long. I miss your funny way of speaking Spanish."

"I didn't think we parted amicably."

"It was a long time ago. The moon was just a sliver back then. It was almost a whole year."

Olote was scratching in the dust that sat atop the rock, looking away from that silvery coyote. Looking at him was, for Altozorro, like looking at some sort of ghost. Pure and almost otherworldly, Leche was not like anyone else he'd met in this drier continent. He longed again to lay with him.

"How was your time in Texas?"

"I may go back. I don't yet know. Tejanos are a different people."

"So I've heard. Rough sorts of people. I'd probably like their company."

Another pause transpired, the end of which found Leche moving closer to Olote, and taking a deep breath. Olote's ears fell as he realized Leche was smelling him.

It was Leche who finally spoke first now, "I missed you." Olote looked away, and Leche put his rough hand on the serape-wrapped shoulder of the friend he shared this rock with. "I missed you, and I thought I'd never see you again. When we get back to the estancia, we can start again."

Olote's eyes were blurry, and the fur on his cheeks was growing wet. He leaned into that touch. Before he knew it, his vision was full of that silver-cast milkwhite fur. One thing led to another, and it was all so natural and smooth, that both of them forgot they'd ever been apart, or ever bared teeth at one another in anything but pleasure.

Late in the day they were spying on the camp of rustlers through the brush with the binoculars. Leche checked the loads in his revolver, Olote had both loaded rifles ready. The night before was still fresh in their minds and their noses. Leche was about to enact the plan, to flank the rustlers, drive them into cover, and distract from Olote's rifle shots. Olote stopped him, though, by grabbing his hand tenderly. In the other, he held the binoculars. "Take them," Olote pleaded, "They're lucky."