Beneath A Yankee Sky

by J. M. Snyder

  Icy fear trickled down Brance's spine. Caleb.

  He stopped himself from tearing off into the woods--if the other hunter had gone to check the trap, Brance would never make it to his mate in time. The best he could hope for was that Caleb heard the man's approach and hid. Already the moon hung low in the sky; they had at best an hour, no more, before they turned human again. Surely Caleb could hold out that long? Brance would take care of these men before he changed, he had to, here, now, or he'd lose the element of surprise, his animal prowess and hell, his nerve.

  These men first, then he'd tackle the hunter who'd gone after Caleb. God forbid he not make it in time.

  With a hefty sigh, Len heaved his fat ass up off the log and stretched. "I ain't heard any other traps go off, have you?"

  Josiah didn't answer. Len shrugged and turned from the fire to waddle off a little ways into the woods. Sensing an opportune moment, Brance moved through the undergrowth with stealth, around the camp, to where Len fiddled with the buttons on his breeches. Over his shoulder, he called out, "What do you think them fellers were doing in that tent this morning? Josiah? You said you heard--"

  "You know what they was doing," Josiah replied.

  His voice was hard and stony like gravel, with a hint of disgust in it, though whether that was at Brance and Caleb's lovemaking or Len's nervous snicker, Brance didn't know. But the thought of two men going at it seemed to please Len--keeping his back to the camp, he stuck a hand in the front of his pants and began to fondle himself. "Going at it like animals, were they?" he asked. Hidden in the folds of fabric, his fingers tugged and pinched his dick erect. As Brance neared, he saw the pale pink tip peek out between Len's fat fingers. If Len had drifted away from camp to relieve himself, it sure wasn't to take a piss. "Rutting like damn alley cats, I bet. What all'd you hear?"

  Josiah made a sound in the back of his throat but didn't reply. It didn't matter--Len's legs were spread now, his pants slipping down as he held them in place with one hand and jerked off with the other. "Who'd you think fucked who?" he asked, his voice softer now. He didn't need an answer--his own sordid imagination could fill in the blanks. "Just rammed it in there, over and over again, grunting like pigs the whole time, I bet. That young one's got to be hot and tight, I just know it. Shit, I'd do him." Laughing, he half-turned towards Josiah. "Ass like that. Wouldn't you?"

  With a snarl, Brance sprung from the bushes. He hit Len dead on, claws extended, teeth snapping with ferocious strength. Len staggered back a step and Brance's claws raked down the front of his chest, down his ample stomach; Brance howled out his hatred, his loathing of these men as his claws found purchase in flabby folds of flesh. His teeth closed around the hand at Len's crotch, biting into fingers and cock alike, tearing into the man as if trying to rend him apart.

  Len's cry of surprise turned to shrieks of pain as razor-like fangs punctured his balls. His voice rose two octaves to screech into the night. "Get 'er off me! Get this damn cat off me, Josiah! It's eating me alive!"

  Brance leapt again, climbing Len's bulk to scratch his claws across the exposed skin on his face and neck. He bit at the man's nose, his ears, the bobbing Adam's apple that protruded under his many chins. Each bite filled Brance's senses with blood, with hunger and vengeance, with justice. He wanted these men to bleed as Caleb had, to hurt as Caleb had, and he still had a long way to go until he was satisfied.

  In the camp behind Len, Josiah rose from his bedroll, a revolver steady in one hand. "Turn round," he called out, his voice strong and sure.

  Brance held onto Len as the man spun around. He had to wait for the right moment... too soon and Josiah's shot would go clear. Too late, and it would all be over. When he heard the tell-tale sound of a hammer being cocked, he scrambled up Len's body and vaulted over him into the bushes. The gun went off behind him, deafening in the close clearing.

  For a second, the world seemed to stop. Then Brance heard Len's breath draw in, and the man cried out at the top of his lungs, "Jesus Christ, you fucking Negro! You just blew my balls off!"

  "I didn't..." Josiah started; then, remembering Brance, he fired a shot into the bushes beside Len, who jumped out of the way. "Stand still, you idiot. I almost got him--"

  Len bristled with pain and humiliation. "You got me!"

  In the underbrush, Brance rubbed his nose against the grass to clean it of blood and spittle. His mouth watered at the taste of a fresh kill, but he couldn't let that distract him. He needed them both gone. Hunkering down into the bushes, he started to growl.

  Josiah fired another shot, the bullet passing through the leaves a good two feet above Brance's head. "Stop shooting at me!" Len screamed.

  He stood mere inches from Brance, within easy reach of his claws. When Brance swiped at the back of Len's legs, the man jumped toward Josiah. Spooked, the black man aimed his gun at Len and fired again without thinking--this time the bullet struck true. Lodged in Len's throat, it cut off whatever else he'd wanted to say, strangling his words into a bloody gargle. The fat man teetered for a moment, clawing at his throat; then he seemed to deflate as the life bled out of him. Slowly Len pitched forward to fall, dead, at Josiah's feet.

  "Fuck." Josiah glanced around, as if to make sure no one was watching. The revolver slipped from his hand and hit the ground at his feet. Brance waited; he could almost see the thoughts roll out behind those dark eyes. Free or no, Josiah had just shot a white man. Even this far north, he would hang for such an offense.

  Quickly Josiah rolled up his bedding. He picked up the gun, holding the handle between his thumb and forefinger, arm extended as if showing Brance he didn't plan to fire again. In the sudden silence following the gunshots, his voice rang out. "I know you out there, wild cat. I know you hear me. I seen you change and I know you a man." He swallowed and added, "Some o' the time. I din't kill Lenny to be hateful, you know? He came at me. He came..."

  With a laugh, Josiah shook his head. "Talking to a damn bobcat," he muttered as he tucked the gun into the bedroll. Raising his voice again, he told Brance, "I don't mean you no harm. Just let me get out of here, peaceful like. What do you say, wild cat? You gon' let me just up and leave?"

  The first twinges of pain flared through Brance's body. Around him the trees were beginning to extract themselves from the thick shadows of night as the first glittery rays of the sun broke through the leaves. The blood in his mouth grew coppery and thick; it turned his stomach. Like a piece of paper tossed onto a fire, Brance curled into himself, fur receding, limbs lengthening, the cat in him retreating with the coming of the dawn.

  His growling stopped. Josiah didn't wait around to find out why--clutching his bedroll, he raced barefoot from the clearing, passing close by where Brance lay naked in the brush, too wrapped up in his haste to depart to notice the man at his feet. Josiah crashed through the woods with no pretense of stealth, but he was of no consequence now. As Brance shivered in the early morning dew, only one thought flashed through his mind.

  Caleb.

  * * * *

  Once he recovered from the change, Brance rose from the bushes, naked, and entered the hunters' camp. Working quickly, he kicked dirt over the remnants of their fire to extinguish it. He skirted around Len's dead body and snagged the man's revolver where it rested unused by the fire--a glance at the chamber showed a full round of ammunition already loaded. Then Brance tore through the camp, looking for blankets and clothing. There were just the two tents--from the ripe smell of the first, he assumed it had belonged to Len, and he retreated without bothering to look through the clothing strewn across the ground. The second tent was neat inside, almost pristine; Brance found a haversack packed with bedding and a pair of pants that were a bit too snug around his hips, but they would suffice.

  Then he raced back to his own camp. With a hard tug, he pulled their tent down to avoid the snare baiting the entrance. It hurt his heart to see his clothing mingled so carelessly with Caleb's--it seemed like a lifetime had passed since they last coupled among thes
e blankets. If nothing else, the run-in with these hunters had taught him to be more vigilant, take nothing for granted, and guard all he loved from harm. He needed to find a place to build a home, a shelter to protect Caleb, and he needed to do it soon. The two of them had grown complacent, here in the woods, believing themselves out of the war and above the law. But men came to bother them anyway, and if it was a war Brance needed to fight to save his lover, then heaven help the hunter who stood in his path.

  He shoved a handful of Caleb's clothes into the haversack. Patting down their bedding, Brance found his own loaded revolver and stuck it in the pocket of his pants--now one gun hung from either side, heavy against his hips, the weight comforting. He paused to pull on a pair of shoes. Then he snatched up an old blue shirt that at one time had been part of his Union uniform; shrugging into it, he buttoned it as he ran from the camp. With a single jump he cleared the stream, then hurried to where Caleb waited.

  The woods were different now, in his human form, than they had been just a few hours before. Brance kept his gaze on the ground to look for signs that he was on the right trail--when he was in the fur, nothing higher than three feet registered as a landmark in his memory. Cats rarely bothered to look to the treetops, unless there was food among the branches. So he read the bushes, not the trees, and when he saw Caleb's discarded shirt, his chest swelled and his pace quickened. He was on track.

  Ten minutes later, he caught a glimpse of the clearing with the snare. At his full height, he could see over the tops of the bushes; he recognized the torn up soil, the mussed leaves, the shining wire laying twisted and harmless on the ground. He slowed, trying to look everywhere at once--where was Caleb? The other hunter? At the edge of the clearing he stopped, hesitating, his right hand resting on the handle of the gun at that hip.

  The slightest movement among the bushes across the clearing caught his attention. Without further thought, Brance hurried over, leaves and branches pushed aside as he dug into the greenery, looking for... "Caleb?"

  His hand brushed over his lover's wounded leg, eliciting a gasp of pain. Brance's fingers felt their way over the familiar curve of knee and length of thigh. "Caleb? I'm back. Talk to me."

  A hand grabbed his ankle as Caleb pulled himself up from the bushes. He blinked, owlish, and yawned--Brance could've laughed at the innocent sleepiness in those pale blue-green eyes. Then reality set in; Brance saw pain flicker in those eyes as Caleb winced and drew his leg up to inspect the wound where the snare had cut into his skin. "Shit," he muttered, voice thick with slumber. "I was sort of hoping it'd go away."

  Brance dug a blanket out of the haversack. Draping it over Caleb's shoulders, he hugged his lover close, large hands rubbing warmth into the thin body beneath the coarse fabric. "It'll heal," he said. "You just won't be able to run on it for a while."

  With a smile, Caleb sank into Brance's strong embrace. "Guess that means we'll have to cut out the chase and get right to the sex from now on. Not that that's a bad thing."

  Tender fingers curved through Brance's beard. Caleb turned his face up to his; Brance kissed him, the chapped, pinked lips soft beneath his mouth. Caleb's hand trailed down Brance's chest to pluck at the buttons on his shirt as he cuddled closer. Between them, a slight moan escaped Caleb's throat--he submitted to Brance's kiss, drawing it out, deepening it. Despite the pain that must have wracked his body, his fingers began to work into Brance's shirt, eager to turn the gentle moment into something heated and passionate.

  Somewhere nearby, a twig snapped.

  For the briefest moment Brance considered ignoring it, just giving into his lover and the desire and lust that curled through him. But he heard a scuffed footstep and knew they were no longer alone. Breaking their kiss, he stood as he pulled a revolver from his pants pocket--he had it cocked and aimed at the last remaining hunter before the man even managed to look up from where Caleb shivered at Brance's feet.

  A slow smile spread across the man's thin face. Raising his hands in a show of peace, he drawled in that raspy voice of his, "I'm unarmed."

  Brance narrowed his eyes in distrust. "I doubt it."

  The stranger shrugged. There was a casual malice about him that bothered Brance, a cockiness belied by the fact that he held no weapons. Brance wondered what could make him so sure of himself, when he stood staring down the barrel of a gun. Glancing at the patches sewn into Brance's shirt, the man asked, "Infantry? Deserters, I bet. The both of you. I could get a pretty penny for your skins."

  "You'll not have them," Brance promised.

  With a laugh, the hunter said, "You won't shoot. Pair of lily-livered Nancy boys--my men and I heard you yesterday."

  "Your men," Brance spat. "One's dead, the other's run away. Little help to you now, aren't they?"

  Another shrug, as if it were no matter to him. In an almost conversational tone, the hunter continued. "Saw the bobcat tracks outside my camp and followed them back to yours. Have to say I was a bit surprised to see they ended at your tent. I was gonna sneak a peek inside when I heard you two going at it. Thought maybe you had a woman with you. I considered hanging around, asking if you'd mind if I could have a poke, when out walks Junior here. I'd heard Army men like them young, but this camp boy?"

  Brance's finger hovered on the trigger. The audacity of the stranger, talking to him like that, about Caleb, turned his stomach. "What do you want?"

  "Doesn't matter," the man replied. "I'll get it, come dark. How much you think this kid would fetch for the crowds at the fair? Half animal, half man. A discerning gentleman could pay a few dollars extra on the side and corn-hole him for kicks. I see a lot of profit in that. Don't tell me you don't know what I mean." A smile slid across his face like oil over water. "We can split the profits, you and me. Hell, I'll even let you fuck him for free. Finder's fee and all that. Put down the gun and let's make a deal."

  On the ground, Caleb clutched at Brance's leg, fear bright in his voice. "Brance, please. Don't--"

  "He ain't gonna shoot me," the stranger drawled, mistaking Caleb's protest. That unctuous smile widened. "He'd have done it by now. You're thinking it through, ain't you? Seeing the money in it."

  To be honest, Brance couldn't be bothered to spare the man's offer any thought. It was ridiculous; he wouldn't even justify it with a reply. There was no "deal."

  The hunter's words were just so much noise filling Brance's head, where a battle waged between Brance's human conscience and his animal instinct--the animal wanted to kill, and revel in the death; the human wrestled for control. A warning shot, the human part of his mind insisted. It had to shout over the snarling growls of the animal in him. Don't stoop to his level, just scare the fucker off.

  But then the stranger stepped closer and bent to snatch at Caleb. The animal overpowered the human--Brance snapped. No one touched his mate.

  No one.

  The gun fired in his hand. As if spurred into action, his thumb recocked the gun; his trigger finger squeezed again. And again. And again. The clearing filled with gun smoke, and echoes of the reports reverberated through the still morning air, frightening a flock of sparrows from the trees. Six shots, rapid-fire, one after the next, until the gun was empty and the hammer closed down over the spent chambers with a series of dry clicks.

  Without another word, the stranger fell to the ground, dead, one arm forever stretched toward Caleb. Brance felt his lover's hands clutching his pants, Caleb's head buried behind his legs. When Brance bent down to embrace him, Caleb clung to his neck, arms trembling as he held Brance tight. "Oh, God," he sobbed, his voice thin and reedy and more than a little scared. "Oh, God. Oh, shit. Oh, Jesus, Brance, oh, God, what--"

  "Shhh." Brance smoothed his hands down Caleb's back, soothing him. "It's okay. It's all right, Caleb. Everything's going to be fine."

  * * * *

  Over the next several weeks, Caleb's wound began to heal. Whenever they made love, Brance was careful to prop the leg up over his hip, to keep it out of reach--even after it healed, Caleb pr
eferred that position, because it opened him up to more of his lover and Brance could fill him completely, his hard cock firm as it rubbed against Caleb's prostate, sparking mind-numbing orgasms in them both.

  Though they couldn't move fast with Caleb's injury, Brance insisted on putting a healthy distance between themselves and the rest of the world. The hunters, he left where they lay; alone, he had returned to the camp by the stream and packed while Caleb rested, and the moment the wound was cleaned and bandaged, they set out for somewhere new. A place far from prying eyes, where they could live undisturbed. A home where the winds of war wouldn't blow, where the land was free and unmarked by man's presence. Brance wasn't sure just what he was looking for--a large clearing on a hill perhaps, where he could build a comfortable house and see for miles in all directions--but he'd know it when they found it.

  Each day's trek took them farther into the woods. When the last of their food stores were gone, Brance hunted small game to feed them both, until Caleb was strong enough to take on the task of hunting again. They took only what they needed to survive. At night they huddled together beneath a Yankee sky, blankets tucked in as they held each other close, exhausted from the day's journey. Some evenings Caleb would trail a hand down Brance's bare stomach, fingers twining in the thick shock of curls at his crotch. "I haven't had you in forever," he'd purr, even if they'd just made love that morning; any time apart seemed like an eternity to him. He snuggled into Brance's arms as his hand did delicious things to Brance's dick and balls. "Take me again tonight."

  Despite the lustful sensations stirring in him, Brance pointed out, "Sooner or later, that tin of lard will be gone. Then what?"

  "I'll make more." At Brance's startled laugh, Caleb gave him a coy grin. "What? It's just animal fat, right? I'll learn how to make more. Just fuck me already, will you?"