Date: Sun, 25 Jan 2009 10:44:07 -0800
From: Tom Creekmur <tcreekmur@hotmail.com>
Subject: The Way Of The Heron - Part 17

* * *

The Way Of The Heron

By C. T. Creekmur

Chapter Eleven

The Expedition

* * *

     Author's warning: This story depicts men performing sexual acts upon
one another that immature people might find shocking. If graphic
depictions of sex between men upsets you, or if you are under 21 years of
age, then DO NOT READ THIS! - go read something else!

     Please understand that this is a work of fantasy and fiction, set in
a time when safe sex was unheard of. It is not intended to provoke or
promote promiscuity or abandonment of common sense where sex is concerned.
Especially in this day and age.

     Though historical personages are mentioned, none of the principal
characters are based on real individuals and any similarity to such is
coincidental. This story is copyrighted (c) by the author and may not be
reproduced in any form without the specific written permission of the
author.

     Historical Note: This chapter happens during September of 1868, with a
short epilogue in April of 1869. The action is set in and around the town
of Steens Station, which is a few hours' travel to the east of a secret
pass through the southern Cascade mountains that leads into the valley of
the heron. The epilogue happens in Washington, DC.

     And now, on with the story!

* * *

THE EXPEDITION

* * *

     Life for those who dwelt in the valley of the heron tended to move in
old, familiar rhythms, where little had changed since the time the Elxa had
first come to that land. But after the discovery of the Heart Call and the
events of the remarkable Beltane gathering of 1868, as that Spring ripened
into Summer and a new settlement began to rise along the banks of Heron
Creek, the members of the Elxa tribe worked together with a renewed sense
of purpose. For they had collectively caught a fleeting glimpse of new and
intriguing horizons and were motivated to strive to fulfill the promise
that vision implied.

     The revelations the tribe had received at the Beltane ritual through
the ecstatic Heart Call concerned the special nature they shared with all
man-loving men. The mysterious inner source of the tender feelings the
tribesmen held for one another. Those gentle urges for the touch of
manflesh that the outside world derided and scorned as things beneath
contempt, which had drawn the men together as a tribe in the first place.

     That mystic source had been unveiled for them, along with its amazing
potential for healing both body and spirit. Before then, the like of it had
only been heard of in hoary legends or fantastical dreams. Yet their
premier shaman, Falling Star, while sharing in his tribe's excitement and
joy at this wondrous discovery, found himself feeling increasingly uneasy.

     Medicine dreams, messages from the spirits who protected the gentle
men who lived in the valley of the heron, given to many of the Elxa, warned
of a danger approaching their lands. But these premonitions were
maddeningly vague, only agreeing in that the peril to the heron men lay
somewhere to the east. Falling Star asked some of his brothers to go in
that direction during the summer, to see what could be seen and hear what
might be heard.

     In the course of those explorations, Katchikoa and Ho'va had
discovered a like minded group of cowboys living together on a ranch
outside Maury City. The men of the Lazy B were invited by Falling Star to
join the Elxa tribe and as they integrated, they proved to be good allies.
The most important piece of information they provided was the identity of
the heron men's potential enemy, a wealthy and corrupt cattle baron named
Horace Gibbe.

     However, there were still doubts about Gibbe and exactly what sort of
threat he posed to the Elxa. So, as the summer of 1868 waned and autumn
drew ever nearer, Falling Star asked Katchikoa and Ho'va to return to the
arid highlands that lay to the east of the valley of the heron. They were
to be his envoys to the neighboring native tribes in that quarter, to find
out what they knew about Gibbe and his activities. And they had another,
more agreeable task, one of greeting two new brothers. Like many before
them, the pair were unknowingly being led by the spirits of the Elxa,
guided by those totems towards the home of their spiritual brothers...

* * *

     Two travelers rode wearily, their horses' hooves falling with an easy
rhythm, treading down the golden prairie grass and fragrant sagebrush
growing before them with a soft rustling sound. The seemingly limitless,
tawny, semiarid plains that spread out to the east of the Cascades rolled
away in all directions from them, baking under the glory of the hot
afternoon sun. Led by its light, they kept to the westward in the hopes of
reaching their destination before nightfall.

     They had been riding for the better part of that day. A train had
brought them as close as the rails went to this part of the west. From the
railhead they had ridden government provided horses across country, knowing
their journey's end was less than a day away.

     As they reached the top of a rise in the faint trail they followed,
one of the riders, Tim O'Fallon, reined his horse to a stop. With a weary
sigh, he reached for a bandanna to wipe the sweat out of his eyes. As he
readjusted his hat, his companion, Stu Drake, drew up alongside and gave
Tim a questioning look.

     Tim paused to admire his friend's handsome, rugged face, framed by a
full, ruddy brown beard. Tufts of hair the same color poked out from under
his battered hat and above the open collar of his shirt. The light brown
eyes set above a straight full nose gazed at him with warmth and concern.
As for Stu, he found himself admiring the attractive Irish good looks of
his companion.

     Tim's beard was a glorious red gold cloud clinging to his cheeks and
chin, and the shortish hair on his head was only slightly darker. But the
most arresting feature of the man Stu rode with were his eyes. They were
the clear, clean color of a sky after a storm had passed, incredibly blue.

     Tim smiled a familiar smile, one that always set Stu's heart to
beating faster. Leaning over in his saddle, Tim kissed his friend. Stu
sighed in utter contentment as he met Tim halfway and responded to the
good, good taste of his friend, their beards' colors intermixing,
contrasting, ruddy brown and reddish blond glinting in the bright sunlight.

     Neither hurried their mutual pleasure and it was only after some time
that Tim finally pulled away and straightened up in his saddle once more.
Still smiling beatifically at his partner, Tim gestured casually towards
the west. Stu looked and saw the sun lowering towards a singular horizon.

     It was irregular and carbon-blue, studded at intervals by the sharp
points of snowy volcanic peaks. They glinted dull white and pinkish sparks
through a purplish haze. Stu ran his eyes along the indistinct high ridges
of a mountain range rearing up towards the setting sun. He quickly realized
he was looking at the alpine barrier of the southern Cascades.

     Closer to hand, laid out below their vantage point, was a green and
crooked line of trees and low brush winding along the length of a small
valley. In those arid plains, such greenery could only be found growing
close to water and in this case they marked the course of a creek.
Following its path with their eyes, the two men saw a scattered group of
log cabins and adobe houses built mostly to the west of the stream. It was
the town of Steens Station, their destination.

     "Civilization at last!" Tim announced, with a hint of irony. "Such as
it is!"

     "Well, civilization had better hold its nose!" rejoined Stu as he
urged his horse forward again. "We must stink something powerful after
riding all day!"

     "I like the way you stink, partner!" Tim chuckled.

     "I don't have any complaints about you either. Well, no major ones at
least! But a little swim to wash the traildust off of us before nightfall
sure would be a good idea."

     "Yeah, it would be at that," agreed Tim as he shifted in his saddle.
Just the thought of getting Stu alone and naked in some secluded mountain
stream had caused his cock to plump up in his jeans.

     "But let's go check in with Dave first. That telegram we got from him,
the one that was waiting for us at Snake Junction, said he'd found us a
couple of guides."

     "That sure would make this trip go more smoothly."

     "Yeah, we're starting pretty late in the year, this time."

     "I'm still surprised we got the official okay to go."

     The pair reached the creek and splashed across a gravelly ford as Tim
was speaking. Upstream a bit they could see a couple of the local women
doing laundry. Under a tree on the other bank, a mongrel dog roused itself
from a nap and yawned hugely, regarding the riders with sleepy eyes as
they passed by. The halfhearted way it wagged its tail was the only welcome
the men received to the frontier town.

     If there had been a plan to the layout of Steens Station, it was not
readily apparent to the travelers. The buildings seemed scattered about at
random. But, having been there before, Stu and Tim knew where they were
going as they rode along the dusty track that served as the closest
approach to a main street.

     They came upon a group of workers laboring around the outside of the
town's adobe church. The busy crew seemed to be adding another layer of
bricks to its exterior. The windows in the side they had already finished
looked odd, because they were so deeply recessed in the thickened side.
Its freshly whitewashed surface gleamed in the sunlight.

     At last the travelers slowed to stop before what was perhaps the
oldest building in the town. It was a log cabin, of ordinary design, but
impressive construction. The logs it had been built from were huge, the
original builder having selected the largest trees he could find in the
area, the better to make the cabin proof against attack.

     An annex of two adobe brick walls extended off the back of the cabin
to partially define a stable and support a flat roof. Old hides were
stretched over a framework of light poles imbedded in the mud bricks. A
corral of sunbleached wooden posts and rails completed the enclosure. Two
horses and a droop eared mule stood with their heads hung over the fence
and watched as Stu and Tim dismounted and secured their steeds to the
railing before the cabin.

     A halfhearted attempt at a garden lay along the south wall where the
earth showed signs of being worked. The vegetables and herbs struggling to
survive there seemed to be losing ground to the weeds. And all of the
plants looked parched as they languished in the late summer heat.

     Turning back to the cabin, a hand-carved sign hanging out front
welcomed the men to 'Dave Judd's Trading Post'. The boards of the narrow
porch squeaked and complained noisily under their weight as they crossed
and pushed open the heavy plank door, entering a smoke filled room. A big,
swarthy, black haired and bearded man was seated behind a roughhewn
counter reading a newspaper, a large cigar stuck in the hairy orifice of
his mouth. He removed it and smiled a sincere greeting.

     Dave was right glad to see Tim and Stu again and welcomed the men
warmly. Inviting them into the rustic log building that served as his home
and place of business, the trader bade them sit down and then rustled
around in the cabinets beneath the counter. Stu took the opportunity to
have a look around.

     Some stray beams of afternoon sunlight fell here and there, shining
through the chinks in the wall and illuminating the array of goods hung on
the walls or from the rafters and stacked on shelves. The cabin had
originally been built with green logs and as they had dried they had
shrunk, leaving gaps between the trunks. Mud had been applied to plug the
gaps against last winter's winds, but the rough caulking had not been kept
in repair. It was not necessary or desirable to cut off the small amount
of air circulation the open cracks afforded during the heat of late summer.

     At last Dave's search ended and he arose triumphantly with a bottle
and three glasses. Pouring for the group, he proceeded to bring the
travelers up to date on the recent goings-on in the immediate area over
some surprisingly better than average whiskey. What Dave said at first
was lost on Tim, for the taste of the potent liquor sent his mind reeling
across time and space, to remind him of a bottle he had shared with his
friend a month ago and far away, on the docks in St. Louis.

     The pair's train had been delayed, so they had spent the day there,
just drinking and talking and watching the river flow. Enjoying each
other's company and feeling close, though their relationship was not
exclusive. Tim smiled to himself as he thought about all the fine, fine
men in St. Louis they had seen, and a few they had taken their pleasure
with that day, especially one black buck of a riverman who had taken a
shine to Stu.

     "He just about killed me, partner," Tim could remember his buddy
groaning the next morning as they waited for their train. "I swear to God
he had to have been that long!" As Stu had said that, he held up two
widely spaced hands.

     The pleasant memories of those good times that Tim was reliving were
rudely interrupted when he heard Dave say 'Indian trouble'.

     Tim's attention was all on the trader's story now and soon he was able
to fill in the parts he had missed while daydreaming. Not surprisingly, he
learned that the trouble was about land. The local ranchers, led informally
by Horace Gibbe, the owner of the biggest spread in the region, the Wildcat
Ranch, were pressuring the government to get rid of the indigenous Indians
and open up their lands for exploitation of the resources they held.

     "That guy is one bad hombre," Dave said, shaking his head as he spoke
of the rancher, Gibbe. "He's so ornery, he'd shoot the eyes out of a lark
for singin' too early in the morning!"

     Understandably, the local tribes were upset by Gibbe's machinations.
It was said they were preparing to unite in self-defense under a war
chief known as Wolf-in-hiding. The smaller landowners, farmers mostly,
caught as it were between two grindstones, were getting ready for an Indian
war. That explained the extra thick walls Tim and Stu had seen being
appended to the local church.

     "The townspeople are turnin' it into a regular fortress," Dave
explained. "And they're diggin' out the cellar to be bigger and deeper, to
hold more supplies in case of a siege."

     "Sounds like conditions aren't good for our sort of work, buddy,"
commented Stu.

     "You still makin' drawin's of Indian sites for those professors back
east, Tim?" Dave asked.

     "Yep," Tim admitted. "And Stu's still studying the languages."

     "It's kinda late in the year for one of your expeditions isn't it? I
mean, it might be hot now, but Septembers here can be mighty unpredictable.
Why I've seen it snow here earlier than this!"

     "Well, our bosses can't all come out here to see things for
themselves, so they send guys like us instead. And I'm afraid they don't
consider the effects of the weather on us. But do you think things are
really so bad we won't be able to work?"

     "It's hard to say. Things could go either way, as they stand now. But
as far as you two are concerned, I think I've found you a couple of Indian
guides who ought to be able to keep the both of you out of trouble and
protect you if things do get hot."

     "So we can trust them?"

     "Absolutely, Stu." Dave paused and stared at his drink, as if debating
what to say next. But then he looked up at his friend. "You remember that
conversation we had last year about the heron men?"

     "Yeah!" Stu's face brightened. "You learn anything else about them
since?"

     "Well, they're also known as Elxa."

     "What're you two talking about?" asked Tim. "What're Elxa?"

     "Not what, who," Dave explained. "The Elxa, or heron men, are a
legendary tribe of Indians. You can find stories about them being told
all over the northwest."

     "You remember, don't you Tim? I told you some of the stories I had
recorded about them, for my own interest, of course. If I was to submit
them to the Smithsonian, I'd lose my job for sure!"

     "Oh yeah, that's right!" he brightened, turning to Dave. "You found
out something new about them?"

     "Yeah. I hadn't run into anyone who knew anything about them, beyond
the legends, until recently."

     "You mean they really exist?" exclaimed Stu.

     "Your two guides are bona fide Elxa tribesmen," Dave said, looking
quite pleased with himself. "I had a long talk with them after we met by
chance in the hills to the west of here, while I was out huntin'. It seems
their chief has an interest in preservin' the peace out here and sent them
as his representatives to the local tribes. And they agreed to take you
two along with them as they make their rounds."

     "That sounds great!"

     "Yeah," Stu echoed his partner. "How'd you do it?"

     "Well, you remember the rest of what I was tellin' you about the heron
men? About how they're like us?"

     "What do you mean... oh... " Tim began to remember more about the
peculiar legends Stu had told him, "You mean... they're all like us? Men
who... "

     "Yes." Dave rescued him, smiling, "And when they heard you two were a
pair, they said they'd be happy to have you along."

     "What else have you heard about these Elxa?" asked Tim.

     "I'll tell you what I know," Dave answered companionably, as he poured
out another round of drinks.

* * *

     "What a story!" Tim commented later as they rode along, a couple of
miles from the town, paralleling a tributary of the creek they had crossed
earlier. They were following Dave's directions, to the camp where the two
Elxa braves were supposed to be waiting for them.

     "Yeah, and when I first heard it from Dave, I thought it was just a
story too, and a rather tall one at that. I mean, a whole tribe of men
like us? It just seemed too good to be true. Maybe you could make some
sketches for our patrons back east, you know," Stu said with a wink, "of
some of the heron men's more... er... 'colorful native customs'?"

     "Ha! I can imagine what forms those might take!" Tim snorted, visions
patently pornographic filling his mind. "That'll do my career good, I must
say! I don't think those staid Smithsonian directors are ready for anything
remotely like the Elxa, or ever will be! Some of them might have a stroke
if they were to read illustrated stories of a tribe of invert Indians at
large in the west!"

     "Well, well," Stu brightened, distracted by a new sight. "Looky here!"

     Tim looked and saw that the stream they had been following had
abruptly widened out. It was now a good-sized body of water, big enough for
several people to cavort about in. Some large flat rocks lay clustered
together on the far side of the pool, while a gentle, grassy slope
dominated the nearer side.

     Before Tim could respond, Stu was swinging down from his horse. He
hitched his roan to a convenient tree and began tugging at his clothes. Tim
followed his friend's lead after a brief glance around to make sure they
were alone.

     Stu waded in, diving under once he found a deeper point. He came up
shaking the water out of his hair and beard, his dark body fur plastered
against his pale skin. He turned to Tim, who was still in the process of
getting out of his clothes.

     "Say partner, look in my saddlebag and toss me some soap."

     "You sure are eager to wash!" Tim commented slyly as he threw the
white brick out to his friend. "Are you figuring on making some new friends
tonight?"

     "Well, you heard what Dave had to say about how fancy-free the Elxa
are supposed to be," answered Stu as he lathered himself. "And I believe
in always being prepared."

     "Oh yeah?" Tim said in mock annoyance as he waded in. "You prepared
for this?"

     "Hey!" sputtered Stu as he dodged a splash. "What was that for?"

     "For thinking about two-timing me!"

     "I never said you couldn't have the other one!" Stu laughed, as he
resumed washing.

     "Here, let me get your back." Tim offered.

     "Thanks."

     After Tim was done, Stu returned the favor, with interest. Stu began
stroking Tim's back with soapy fingers. Then he leaned closer to lightly
kiss his partner's ear. The way his lip whiskers rasped across the
sensitive skin made Tim shudder.

     The slick hands slid around to Tim's chest, across the red furred
flesh and found the small hard points of his nipples. Stu pulled his
friend back, hugging him from behind. Tim could feel an insistent pressure
growing against his backside and sighed, moving his ass to meet it.

     "You want me now?" whispered Tim.

     "Sure," his lover answered, his voice full of emotion. "Anytime with
you, partner, especially out here alone in the wilderness, with no one to
condemn us and nothing to hinder us. Listen:"

O be bold!
Take my hand,
lead me far from settled places,
into the wilds
where freedom abides...

O be kind!
Lay me down
in sunny meadows of sweet grass,
our hands and lips ever busy,
our bodies melding, one...

O!
The sublime moment
when I see love in your eyes
and you see love in mine...

A treasure to store up
in our hearts,
a memory to savor
when winter comes...

     "Stu... I wish I was eloquent like you..."

     "Shhh, my love... "

     Stu steered his friend over to a dark rock that jutted up out of the
water, radiating warmth it had soaked up from the daylight. Pressing Tim's
body up against it, Stu worked the soap into the crack of his friend's ass,
slickening it well. Soon after, Tim felt Stu's cock gliding between his
asscheeks, seeking the sensitive manhole, and relaxed before its blunt and
insistent force, letting it in, wanting it in...

     Tim felt Stu's soapy hands sliding between his hips and the rock. Both
of them gripped his own hard prick and began to move, gauging its length, a
tactile echo of the heated rhythm that was moving within Tim. While time
was not and sensation was all...

     Until hot, pearly spurts leapt from Tim's cock to blast against
weathered stone. Until warm explosions answered, burning dully within the
core of Tim's being. Then, as Stu continued to hold him, Tim fell slowly
backward into the water as they separated. Tim floated, literally and
figuratively, supported by his lover.

     "I've been wanting to do that all day," Stu sighed through the kisses
he bestowed.

     "And I've been wanting you to do it all day, partner," murmured Tim.

     "So I'm forgiven?"

     "What's to forgive?"

     "You know, about what I was saying earlier, about the heron men."

     "Aw, I don't blame you for being curious about them. I certainly am."

     "Seriously partner," asked Stu with a quiet earnestness. "You're not
jealous are you?"

     "No, of course not, my love," Tim said, leaning towards Stu to give
him a kiss that was intended to be a lingering one.

     "That is good."

     The sound of another voice brought both men around in surprise. They
saw an Indian standing at the shore, near their horses. He wore only a
breechclout and moccasins.

     The harsh line of an old scar showed ghostly white across the dark,
coppery skin of his shoulder. Around his neck hung a small stone bearing
the sign of the Elxa tribe, a stylized heron, which they recognized from
Dave's description.

     "What's good?" Stu asked, he and Tim both put at ease by the sight of
the Elxa glyphstone.

     "That your friend is not jealous," the Elxa tribesman explained.
"Jealousy is a disease that afflicts many of the white men who are of our
nature."

     "How do you know we are 'of your nature', as you say?"

     "Stu!" Tim whispered, blushing. "If he's been standing there watching
us for any length of time, he'd know!"

     "You are Tim and Stu, the friends of the trader, the man called Dave,"
the heron man explained. "He described the two of you to us, though he did
not praise your handsomeness enough, I think."

     "Thanks," Tim managed, as unprepared as Stu for the complement.

     "My partner is waiting for us at our camp nearby. When you are ready,
I will guide you there," the native announced, seating himself beneath the
tree.

     "What's your name?"

     "I am Katchikoa."

* * *

     After Tim and Stu had finished washing up, Katchikoa took the pair
back to his camp. His companion and lover, Ho'va, was seated by the fire
but got up at once to greet the newcomers as they swung down from their
horses. The rising smoke carried the savory scent of roasting ducks and
grouse, making the mouths of the hungry men water.

     They sat and began to eat, conversing over the meal the heron men had
prepared. Getting to know one another and discussing the details of the
journey they planned to share. Before the light became too dim, Tim got out
his pad and began to sketch portraits of their two guides.

     Meanwhile, Stu laid out their blankets for the night. He was glad he
did not have to make excuses or endure questioning looks as he made one bed
for himself and Tim, as had happened in the past. It might have seemed a
little thing, but Stu found it to be a liberating experience, knowing he
was in the company of other men like himself and Tim, not always having to
be on his guard. After Stu finished his task, he moved towards his lover,
smiling to himself, feeling a fullness of love for the man that was
wordless and strong.

     "Well I'll be," he murmured, as he sat and put an arm around Tim,
looking at his work.

     "What have you drawn?" Ho'va asked, coming closer.

     "You," answered Tim as he showed the Indian his pad, turning it so
Ho'va could see.

     Ho'va breathed a few words in his native tongue. Katchikoa came over
when he heard. They conversed in their language for a few moments. Tim did
not understand, but their words sounded awed.

     "They're really impressed," Stu whispered, paraphrasing their
conversation.

     "You have a great skill," began Katchikoa, "and you honor us with it."

     "Thank you. But it's just my job to record our journey."

     "He's very modest," Stu grinned, squeezing his friend's shoulder
affectionately.

* * *

     Frank Lusk sighed as he reined in his horse and swung wearily down
from the saddle. Yellow dust puffed outwards as his scuffed boots hit the
dry ground. As it settled the dust glinted like gaseous gold in the noonday
sunlight, but its gaudy display was in vain. Frank did not notice it at all
as he reached for his tools.

     He had located another break in the fence he was patrolling. With
practiced skill Frank made loops in the broken ends of the barbed wire,
wedded a new length of wire between them, and retightened the strand. Then
he finished by banging home a staple into the hard, sunbleached wood of the
post before him.

     Yanking his bandanna from a hind pocket, Frank straightened up and ran
the brilliant square of crimson cloth across his face. He doffed his hat
and ran his fingers through his damp, sandy colored hair, taking time for a
casual glance back the way he had come, along the fenceline. To Frank's
considerable surprise he saw four riders approaching, two white men and two
natives.

     "Howdy," a red headed white man called from his horse, as if it were
not at all unusual to meet up with anyone in that vast, empty landscape.

     "Howdy," returned Frank, wondering. "Y'all lost?"

     "Nope, we're heading to the village of Chief Night Wind."

     "What business do you have there, if you don't mind my askin'?"

     "I'm sure we don't mind at all. My friend here and I were sent out by
the Smithsonian Institution in Washington to study the Indian tribes of
this area. I'm Tim O'Fallon and this is Stu Drake. These are our guides,
Katchikoa and Ho'va."

     "I'm Frank Lusk. I work for the Wildcat Ranch."

     "Oh," Tim began, glancing at his companions as if he expected a
reaction. "Pleased to meet you."

     "Likewise."

     'Frank seems too nice a guy to be working for the likes of Gibbe,' Stu
thought. He briefly considered the unsavory things his friend Dave had told
him about the unscrupulous owner of the Wildcat Ranch, not to mention the
suspicions of the heron men he and Tim had been informed of, that Gibbe was
a personal threat to the tribe, as he looked the handsome cowboy over.

     As the riders took turns reaching down to shake hands with Frank, one
of the Indians spoke, in his own language. The cowhand did not understand
his murmured words but the man called Stu obviously did. He nodded and
turned his face towards Frank.

     "Ho'va says this fence wasn't here last year."

     "That's right."

     "But doesn't this land belong to Chief Night Wind's tribe?"

     "You'd have to take that up with my boss, Mr. Gibbe," Frank explained.
"You gotta understand, I'm just a cowpoke who's paid to follow orders, not
ask questions."

     "Yes, I see."

     The other Indian spoke up then and pointed ahead.

     "Katchikoa says we have to go or else we won't reach the village
before nightfall. It was nice to meet you."

     "Same here. Have a safe journey, all of you."

     The group spurred their horses and rode off. Frank turned to see to
his tools, but then paused and looked back after the departing figures.
There was something about the two Indian guides he had noticed, something
about the oddly marked stones they wore around their necks...

     'That sign!' he started, his thoughts flying as he belatedly
remembered the meaning of the birdlike glyph he had glimpsed, 'I've seen
that sign before! Can the stories I've heard about it... about the tribe
it's supposed to represent... possibly be true?'

* * *

     "So," Tim began sometime later as they rode along, "how many white men
are members of the Elxa now?"

     "About twenty, I believe, who are living in the valley of the heron,"
answered Ho'va.

     "Have they 'blended in', so to speak?"

     "What do you mean?"

     "Well, since the Elxa are a Native American tribe, I was wondering if
it has changed since white men have joined."

     "Ah," Katchikoa began, comprehending. "I think you confuse us with a
social club, like the ones whites create and join for recreation. Our
connection is far deeper than that. No matter what color our skins are, we
all share the same spirit. This spirit draws men like us together in
harmony."

     "So, the white men have adopted Indian ways?"

     "Those who live with us in the valley of the heron, yes. Others have
chosen to live closer to the white manner, in a town called False Pass,
built on the western limits of the Elxa's lands. However, there may be a
great change coming, in the way our entire tribe lives."

     "Why?"

     "The land on which our tribe has lived for many years, the valley of
the heron, is... how do you say... 'up for grabs'. We have no agreements
with the authorities, no land set aside for us... "

     "You mean you don't have a treaty with the US government," Stu
interjected. "No reservation."

     "We have been told that we are not even recognized as a tribe by the
American authorities," said Ho'va.

     "That is so," Katchikoa agreed. "But our white brothers believe we can
stake individual claims that will cover all of the lands we have
traditionally used."

     "That might solve your problem, but in my experience, land is sacred
to most tribes, never a commodity to be bought and sold. You must find
this plan disturbing."

     "Many of us do, Stu," Ho'va admitted, "but we may lose everything if
we do nothing."

     "There are many like the rancher, Gibbe," added Katchikoa, "greedy for
land. We can no longer count on the isolation of our valley to protect us
against the spreading of the white settlers."

     "Have you begun filing claims?"

     "We have not. A few of our brothers have in the northern parts of our
lands, but one of our white brothers, Robert Vaughn, is investigating the
laws we will have to follow in order to file."

     "Is he a land agent?"

     "No, Stu, he is the Jefe of the town of False Pass. Depending on what
he learns, we may be able to begin filing soon."

     "What's a 'jefe'?" asked Tim.

     "It is another word for Sheriff." Katchikoa responded.

     Ho'va spoke up suddenly, saying something in the Indian tongue as he
pointed. Tim did not understand, but followed the lead of his companions
and looked towards a low hill some distance off. Two mounted men sat there,
rifles laid across their saddles.

     Shading his eyes, Tim made out that they were natives. The men urged
their horses down towards the mixed group below. Stu leaned over and nudged
his lover.

     "They're probably from Chief Night Wind's tribe," he guessed. "Come to
escort us to their encampment."

     Tim almost asked why they were displaying their rifles so prominently.
In a little while he found out as his lover translated the conversation
that ensued between their Elxa guides and the newcomers as they all rode to
the village. Some natives had been killed earlier that day and the braves
had already made up their minds as to who was to blame: Horace Gibbe.

* * *

     Tim was perched upon a convenient rock within the village of Chief
Night Wind, busily drawing. One curious child stood at his side watching
as the white man sketched the tense scene before him. A circle of Indians
sat about a fire listening as Katchikoa presented his embassy from
Falling Star.

     There was much discussion, some of it angry-sounding. Some of the
younger men were obviously upset, a detail Tim caught in some of the faces
he sketched. Stu quietly moved back from his place, just outside the
council circle, and joined his friend.

     "Gibbe has these people ready to go on the warpath," he whispered.
"Have you noticed some of the dirty looks we've gotten?"

     "Yeah," answered Tim, glancing briefly at the child that watched him
draw with unconcealed awe. "But not all of them are unfriendly."

     "Be that as it may, I don't want to rely too much on the protection
Ho'va and Katchikoa have brought us. I'm beginning to think we ought to
cut our expedition short and alert our superiors to conditions in this
area before something awful happens."

     "Katchikoa said he and Ho'va would be going to see Wolf-in-hiding
next. I'd like to be there when they do."

     "Well, we can talk to them about it later. But from what I'm hearing,
no white person in the area is going to be safe for much longer if Gibbe
keeps stirring things up."

* * *

     "This is the valley you've chosen to patent?" John Porter asked,
tracing a circle with one fingertip upon an open map.

     "Yes. I'm told there's plenty of good water and grass there. It'll
make fine summer pasture for my stock," Horace Gibbe returned easily,
tapping the ash off his expensive Cuban cigar.

     "I wasn't aware there were any nearby passes over the mountains around
here." John commented. "I had to detour south of Deep Blue Lake to get over
them."

     Horace lifted an eyebrow as he eyed the lawyer, carefully considering
his response. Since the rancher had heard rumors of such a pass, he was
taking a chance and betting it did exist. If the railroad wanted to go
further west, it would have to go through his land, or else make the same
expensive detour that John had, to the south of the great caldera, the
site of the Deep Blue, or Crater, Lake. But John did not need to know about
the rancher's speculations, or the possible, quite handsome profit there
might be made in selling a right of way to the railroad.

     "I've driven my herd further for less grass and water," Horace
answered as blandly as he could. He gestured easily out the window at the
semiarid landscape it looked out upon. "This is, after all, technically a
desert country."

     "Well," John began, carefully folding up the chart, "I'll be going
then, Mr. Gibbe. I'll see to all the details. I assure you, you won't
regret doing business with me."

     Horace Gibbe took the proffered hand and held it in a grip that would
have made a bench vice hang its handle in shame. He looked the lawyer in
the eye. He had dealt with many of his kind before and knew how far he
could trust them. This one was young and ambitious, someone who had a lot
to lose if he offended a rich man like himself.

     "You have my complete confidence, Mr. Porter," Gibbe lied smoothly.
As he spoke, he began guiding the lawyer out of his richly appointed
office and to the front door of his comfortable ranch house.

     As Porter got on his horse and cantered off, Horace spotted his
foreman, Dick Horst, coming towards him. He waited in the doorway for him,
then motioned for him to follow. They returned to the office, where Horace
poured himself a drink and listened to what his foreman had to say about
an encounter between one of his hands and a group of travelers earlier that
day.

     "Studying the Injuns, you say?" he asked after Dick had finished his
report.

     "That's what Frank said they said, boss."

     "That's the government for you. I ask for soldiers and they send me
professors! Bah!"

     Horace Gibbe sat back down in his chair, swirling his brandy in the
wide glass thoughtfully. He took a sip and then looked his foreman in the
eye. His smile was wicked.

     "Well, they better study fast. I'll have those heathen savages run out
of this country or killed, before too long." Horace's face brightened then,
as he suddenly conceived an idea. "You know, it'd be a real shame if
something was to happen to those two professors," he chuckled evilly. "The
government couldn't possibly ignore it if their own employees were to get
killed by the natives, especially educated men like them!"

     "Yeah," Dick nodded in understanding. He knew at once what Horace
wanted and began to plot out loud. "I'll take a couple of our most
trustworthy guys and... "

     "I don't wanna know the details." Horace interrupted. "But it would be
a nice touch if you could scalp them and plant the scalps on the first
savage who crosses your path. That way the dull witted authorities would be
sure to understand who was to blame for the outrage."

     "Can do." Dick agreed.

     "So," Horace asked, taking another sip of the fine liquor, "how's the
new fencing going?"

     "We had a bit of a dust up today with some Injuns who were upset at us
for trespassin' on their huntin' grounds," Dick replied, "but we dealt with
'em."

     "Oh? How?"

     "Well, let's just say they won't be upset 'bout anything anymore."

     "Ha!"

     "And - you'll love this - we used their arrows to make it look as if
the Injuns had attacked the Farnell place."

     "Did Farnell see you?"

     "Yeah," smirked Dick, "but with two of them arrows in his back, he
won't be tellin' nobody 'bout it."

     "It's his own fault. He should've taken my offer and sold out to me.
Now I'll pick up his land for a song."

     The harsh sounds of the two men's laughter combined to float out of
Horace's office and up the stairwell to the ranchhouse's second story. A
shadow moved away from the top of the stairs and stole to a certain window
in the upstairs hallway. With practiced stealth, the window was quietly
opened and a form slid out onto a narrow section of roof before dropping
adroitly to the ground.

     The sun had set some time before and the last tinges of western light
were disappearing as the fugitive headed for the largest of three barns
built nearby. He grimaced at the harsh sounds the rusty hinges made as he
pushed a door aside enough for him to slip inside. A lantern burned dimly
within.

     Despite the gloom his fingers reached knowingly for the rungs of a
ladder that he knew led to the haymow. He pulled himself up it quickly and
stood uncertainly at the edge, peering into the darkness. The dry straw
crackled under his boots as he took a step forward and called out in a
harsh, anxious whisper.

     "Frank? You here?"

     In answer a pair of arms came out of the darkness and gripped the
speaker from behind. One hand went to his mouth to stifle any startled
outcry. Twisting in Frank's grip, the younger man managed to bear them
both down into a pile of hay.

     "I was beginnin' to think you wasn't comin'!" Frank chuckled quietly,
smiling down at his companion.

     "Nothing could keep me away from you, Frank." The earnest reply was
punctuated with a tight hug.

     There was just enough light to make out the face that smiled back at
Frank. It was a youthful face, not that of a boy, but of a lad  who was on
the cusp of manhood. Short, light brown hair, the first traces of a
moustache clinging to the upper lip and clear blue eyes, filled with
emotion.

     "I love you, Frank... "

     "I love you, Luke... "

     They kissed then, urgently. A day's worth of pent up desire was
released in a flurry of hands gripping, unbuttoning clothing and stroking
warm manflesh in determined rhythms. The release they sought came quickly,
but they stayed wrapped in each others' arms, knowing for certain that
there would be more pleasure to take before they had to part.

     "Luke, I want to tell you about something I saw today."

     "What?"

     "You remember those stories I told you, about the Indian tribe that's
supposed to be all men like us?"

     "The heron men? Yeah!"

     "I think I might have met some of them today!"

     "They're real?!" Luke ejaculated, before a worried look crossed his
face. "You're not talking about the ones who were killed today, as you?"

     "What? No! Where'd you hear that?"

     "Dick and my Pa were laughing about it just before I snuck out of the
house."

     "Damn! Horace's bound and determined to start a range war to keep all
the land he's grabbed recently!"

     "Let's not talk about him. Tell me about the Indians you met."

     "Well, I only got a short look at them, but I'm sure they wore the
sign of the heron, the mark of that tribe."

     "If only we could go to them and leave all this conflict behind," Luke
sighed.

     "We will, someday, I promise."

     Luke brought his lips down hard on Frank's to seal the bargain,
sparking another bout of joyous mansex between them...

* * *

     It was all very, very odd. Tim wondered why he was walking across the
polished marble floors of the Smithsonian once again, wending his way past
the enormous, mahogany framed glass cases that held life size tableaux of
people from various cultures around the world. Eventually he came to a halt
before one of them.

     The case held the figure of an Indian chief whose tribe Tim did not
recognize. His black hair, touched with silver, hung loose and long over
his shoulders and his face was ageless rather than aged. Perhaps he was
fifty or so years old. Then Tim spotted the symbol on the stone pendant he
wore about his neck. It was exactly like the ones worn by Katchikoa and
Ho'va.

     "Tim O'Fallon!" the image boomed, as it came to life with startling
suddenness.

     "Who... who are you?"

     "I am a friend," the apparition said. "Listen to me. You and your
lover are in grave danger. I am sending two of my brothers to you, to guide
you both to safety. You must leave this country for the time being, but I
invite you and your friend to return in the spring. I sense you both have
spirits worthy of our brotherhood, so come to our valley. A means will be
found to show you the way."

     The showcase around the Indian seemed to dissolve like dissipating
fog, as did all the other surroundings, leaving Tim and the chief suspended
in nothingness. The next thing Tim knew, he found himself standing in the
midst of a high mountain meadow. Humps of gray rock rose from the ground
here and there to peek over the waving tops of the tall grass.

     Something drew Tim's attention to a large fir tree that grew nearby,
surrounded by a number of saplings. Tim saw a bearded man standing before
it, dressed in Indian garb. Despite his whiskers, there was something
oriental about his facial features that fascinated Tim. Under different
circumstances, he would be asking if he could make a sketch of the man.

     The stranger was doing something beside the wide trunk, touching it
in a singular way. Tim could not quite see what he was doing there. But he
did hear strange words being spoken and thought he felt something calling
to him, to his inner nature, from some distant place, another world,
perhaps...

     Shaking his head, Tim dispelled the oddly intoxicating sensation and
went back to studying his new surroundings. He could see a timber and stone
building nearby and a little way beyond that, screened by some trees, was
another. Turning around, he saw the jagged mouth of a cave and, a little
further away, a pool of steaming water, a hot spring. Looming above
everything in that place was a vast mountain whose sharp, icy summit
seemed ready to pierce and slice open the turquoise sky it reached for.

     "We will meet again, handsome one."

     Tim noticed the native chief again when he spoke. Only this time, Tim
could see he had a gossamer pair of delicate, winglike structures, softly
glowing and spreading outwards, curling to embrace him. Tim was surprised
but not afraid as the pinions stroked his back.

     Before he saw them, Tim could feel a pricking warmth in his spine and
knew he was growing a pair of wings similar to those the native sported,
diaphanous and luminous. He looked at the translucent extensions of his
spirit in wonder. Then, as if they moved of their own accord, they curled
to brush and mesh their shining edges with those of the native.

     Tim shuddered as a new kind of pleasure raced through his body. It was
as if these aethereal pinions were connecting him to the native in a way he
often felt with Stu, a deep bonding as they made love. He did not know the
native, not even his name, but he did know he could find the same deep
emotional connection with him, if he opened to it...

     "Your companions will explain the uses of your spirit wings, my son,"
he murmured as his diaphanous pinions disengaged from Tim's. "Farewell."

     The chieftain turned and walked away from the white man, heading for
the cave. Tim called after him, but the Indian only paused briefly at the
opening to flash a smile at him before disappearing inside. Tim moved
toward the cave, intending to go after him. But suddenly he had a
sensation of falling, as if he had stepped into a large hole...

* * *

     ...and woke up, feeling the comforting warmth of Stu's arms wrapped
around him. Tim lifted his head and looked around the darkened camp. He
saw a big, bearded stranger, another white man, talking quietly in the
sibilant Elxa tongue with Katchikoa beside the low fire. Ho'va and a
second bewhiskered white man sat nearby, listening intently.

* * *

     The newcomers' names were Phil Caddell and Trev Barker. Just as Tim
had been told in his odd dream, called a medicine dream by the heron men,
who recognized their chief shaman from Tim's description of the man he had
met in it, they had been sent by Falling Star to guide both him and Stu to
safety. Also, as promised, the heron men explained the spirit wings.

     Stu benefited from their talk as well. He too had experienced a
medicine dream like Tim's, receiving his spirit wings from a silent man he
had encountered and made love to, a man who seemed to be an extension of
the forest Stu had met him in, green skinned and with hair that appeared
to be fine blades of grass and vines with tiny leaves. The heron men were
awed by his account, telling Stu he had encountered the Green God, the
embodiment of all life in the valley of the heron and a granter of powerful
visions.

     After that, Stu and Tim prepared to leave with Trev and Phil. Saying a
fond farewell to Katchikoa and Ho'va, the four white men took a circuitous
route along little used backcountry trails through empty hinterlands. They
met no one during their journey, and eventually, they arrived safely at
Steens Station.

     Trev greeted Dave as an old friend when they entered his trading post.
Phil bunked with the researchers in the stable that night, lulling them to
sleep with his rumbling snores. But before sleep came, they were treated to
quite an intriguing variety of amorous noises that seeped from their host's
room during the night. It appeared Dave and Trev were getting along quite
well.

     The next morning as they were saddling their horses, Phil grinned but
said nothing as Trev gingerly climbed onto his horse. Remembering what they
had heard the previous evening, and knowing what a well-hung man Dave was,
Tim and Stu had no doubt that Trev was nursing a sore ass. They figured the
heron man was not looking forward to riding that day.

     The trek across country to the railstop at Snake Junction was
uneventful. Both Trev and Phil beguiled the time by talking about the heron
men and answering their companions' many questions. While they waited for
the train that would carry the researchers back east, Phil asked Tim to
sketch a portrait of him sitting in the station as a gift for his partner.
Later, as the train pulled out, they waved goodbye to their guides,
certain that they would see them again.

* * *

     Phil paused as he led his horse. He had reached the head of a nameless
pass known only to the Elxa, less than a day's ride to the west of Steens
Station. His fellow heron men were ahead of him, already on the downward
slope of a trail that would eventually lead the group to the cave of
mysteries.

     The big trapper turned troubled blue eyes back the way they had come.
He had seen too much there that boded ill for the Elxa tribe. If the native
tribes who lived there went to war, all Indians in southern Oregon would
suffer, his beloved friends among them.

     Before sunset he knew they would all be seeing Falling Star again, to
bring him their unwelcome news. The shaman would then spend the winter
meditating, communing with the spirits that guided the tribe, seeking
answers. Phil was glad Nizano and Sees Far would be close by in case the
shaman or his lover, Red Hand, needed them during the long, cold season
that was coming. The elder Xaculi would also be there, and he would give
good counsel.

     The image of his lover, Mark, waiting for him at their new cabin,
built near the shore of Lemolo Lake, on land Phil had claimed the previous
Spring, rose sweetly in his mind. Phil sighed Mark's name, his breath
floating away in a small white cloud on the mountain air, cold with the
promise of winter. Like so many others of his tribe, they would spend the
white season deepening into the unique bond they shared. Taking what they
needed to live from the love of the one special partner that stirred their
souls above all others.

     A sound broke his reverie. Phil turned to see Trev, Katchikoa and
Ho'va stopped some distance ahead. They had noticed his hesitation and
one had called their friend's name.

     Phil threw up a hand in acknowledgement. He took one final look toward
the east and then turned away. He stroked his horse's nose affectionately
before moving to join his heron brothers.

     "Ah, Bucephalus," he murmured to his mount. "It'll be good to get back
to our home."

* * *

     "How did your latest meeting with the grant committee go?" Tim asked
as Stu entered the apartment they shared on Delaware Avenue, several months
later and many hundreds of miles away from the valley of the heron.

     "They still weren't pleased that my work was cut short last year, but
they didn't blame me for it," replied Stu with a kiss.

     "They'd better not. It wasn't your idea to start an Indian war!"

     "They know. And they're willing to sponsor another trip as soon as
we're ready to go."

     "That's great news!" Tim smiled as he turned back to his drawing pad.

     "What're you working on?" asked Stu, reaching over to pick up a loose
leaf of drawing paper. "Hey, this is Phil."

     "Yes, I drew him again from memory, as he was in that train station."

     "Who're you drawing now?"

     "This is the guy I saw in my medicine dream," Tim explained.

     "He's a handsome one," murmured Stu, admiring the picture. "Why did
you draw him touching that tree like that?"

     "That's what I saw him doing. Our guides didn't know what it meant,
but said that Falling Star would explain the dream for me once I met him
and took a vision quest."

     "I'm looking forward to that, too," agreed Stu as his eyes rose above
his lover's shoulder.

     Tim's drawing table was set up before one of the apartment's
south-facing windows. Stu let his gaze fall through it to take in the
tree-lined street below. New, bright green leaves fluttered on the late
March breeze, too small as yet to block Stu's view of the busy citylife
that flowed past.

     A horse-drawn trolley car trundled by, bells ringing, one uniformed
attendant hanging off the back, headed south, towards the Navy Yard.
Meanwhile pedestrian throngs dodged the carriages and goods wagons that
navigated the avenue. Stu could not imagine a greater contrast than that
between crowded, built up Washington DC and the open, sparsely settled
lands of the West he and Tim had visited and hoped to visit again...

     "what do you see?" asked Tim as he also looked out the window. "Oh!"
he laughed, spying a florid faced man with a long, thick, full white beard,
moving with an agile step along the opposite sidewalk. "There's Walt,
walking with a sailor! I wonder what Pete would think of that!"

     "I know what I'd think if I saw you consorting with sailors!" Stu
chuckled, watching as their literary friend sat easily with his salty
companion on a park bench, obviously deep in conversation.

     "That reminds me, did you ever get that new edition of Leaves of Grass
I bought for Phil sighed by Walt? I know Phil would appreciate it more with
the poet's inscription."

     "Yes I did," Stu answered, still smiling as he watched Tim quickly
sketch Walt's rendezvous with the sailor. The poet's kindly, masculine,
smiling face came through clearly and unmistakably as Tim's pencil moved
across the paper. "You're not thinking of blackmail, are you?"

     "Of course not! It's just that I've never been able to do a drawing of
Walt from life before." He explained as he filled in some details. Tim
chuckled to himself as he added Walt's partner, Pete, to the picture, a
ghostly form hovering behind the bench and scowling jealously at the
obviously seafood hungry Walt. "What do you have there?" asked Tim.

     "Oh," Stu began, remembering the item in his hand. "Here's some mail
for you."

     "Thanks," Tim said as he finished his sketch. He took the letter and
opened it.

     "Before we pack our bags for that return trip though, we have to find
out how to get in touch with the heron men."

     "I don't think that'll be a problem."

     "What do you mean?"

     Tim answered by reaching into the envelope and pulling out a single
dusty blue feather, which he showed his lover.

     "Is it from them?"

     "I think so," answered Tim as he unfolded the letter that accompanied
the sign.

     "Well?" Stu asked anxiously after several moments.

     "It's from Phil. He says a guide will be waiting for us at the
railhead, who'll take us to the valley of the heron."

* * *

THE END

* * *

of The Expedition

the eleventh story in the series

'The Way Of The Heron'

by C. T. Creekmur

comments or suggestions are welcome at tcreekmur@hotmail.com

Copyright (c) 2009 by Charles T. Creekmur

"All Rights Reserved"

submitted to www.nifty.org 1/25/2009