Cowboys

by Tom Graham

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Introduction

  A HEART FULL OF SCARS

  MIND IN THE MIDDLE

  RANCH-HAND HOOKUP

  A WANTED MAN

  1 A.M. COWBOY

  WESTON’S SPREAD

  URBAN COWBOYS

  PANIOLO

  FACING THE MATADOR

  SECRETS OF THE GWANGI

  THE NEW SHERIFF

  POLE INN

  LONGHORNS

  THE PICKUP MAN

  BUNKHOUSE ORGY

  PONY EXPRESS

  DAYLIGHT’S BURNING

  GOLD RUSH

  DRIFT-FENCE DESPERADO

  ABOUT THE AUTHORS

  ABOUT THE EDITOR

  Copyright Page

  INTRODUCTION

  I grew up on a ranch in Wyoming, where I learned how to herd cattle as well as ride and rope like nobody’s business. My youthful years taught me to be fiercely independent and to only ask for help when necessary, but also to take risks whenever the opportunity presents itself. As I grew into a wild teenager, the excitement of ranch life shifted in a new direction for me. Suddenly I was less interested in ridin’ horses and ropin’ cattle than I was in ridin’ and ropin’ the masculine, sweaty, muscular ranch hands my parents employed. Guys with names like Ry and Troy and Jackson. Guys with tight bodies wrapped in flannel and worn Wranglers.

  Though once or twice my ranch-hand fantasies turned to reality (thank you, Cooper), rural Wyoming offered little promise of my experiencing a full, fun sex life. So off to Chicago I went, to earn a college degree and troll the bars of Boys Town. There I grew into a man—in more ways than one. I stayed in the Windy City for years, where I met my partner Evan, but something was lacking. I missed the wide-open land, the smell of middle-of-nowhere air, the friendly way men tipped their hats to me and said, “Howdy, boy.”

  It took a lot of convincing to get an Ivy Leaguer like Evan to up and move with me back to Wyoming, but over time he got used to the idea. We’ve been here nearly five years, and we’ve both forgotten all about city life. In fact, we love to dress up and play cowboy with each other. Sometimes I’ll be the wanted man and Evan the small-town sheriff. Or he’ll play the naïve ranch hand while I’m the tough-as-nails property boss, making sure he follows my instructions to the T. My favorite “event,” though, is rodeo night, and I must say, Evan has sure learned some high-falutin’ ropin’ tricks over the past five years.

  What is it about cowboys that turns gay men into lusty pigs? Is it their bristly jaws? Well-honed bodies? Seductive swagger? Their wild abandon? All of the above and more. And let me tell you, there’s nothing in the world like a sexy cowboy mounting another cowboy. In this fiery collection, you find all this and more. Hot, well-crafted stories of rollicking bunkhouse orgies, dirty backroom hookups in country-western bars, and young, hung buckaroos wrangling each other. In these pages, duels occur not on the streets but between the sheets, and the maverick writers in this book take you on a hot and heavy, no-holds-barred trip through the Old West to the New West, where ramrod, six-shooter, and hog-tied take on entirely new meanings.

  So take off your chaps, cowboys, and hang up your spurs. We’re going for one helluva long, hot, dirty ride.

  Tom Graham

  A HEART FULL OF SCARS

  Hank Edwards

  The wind is relentless, sweeping up snow and bits of dirt as it screams through town. Martin’s house, on the rise at the end of the settlement, receives the full brunt of it. The windows rattle in their panes, and he hears the clatter of the gate out front.

  Biscuit raises his head and whines quietly.

  “It’s all right, boy,” Martin assures him. “Just the wind.”

  The dog thumps his tail twice then lowers his shaggy yellow head. Martin turns from the novel he’s attempting to read and looks out the window at the snow. It’s starting to fall faster. From his chair he sees the sheriff’s station and the flickering glow of Dalton’s oil lamp through the window. He wonders whether Dalton is looking up the hill at the same moment, thinking of him.

  He tries to return his attention to what he’s reading, but he’s lost track of the story and all the characters remind him of Dalton. Abandoning the book, he stares into the fire and lets his mind go where it wants.

  They had met several months ago, Dalton a small-town sheriff and Martin a young doctor fresh out of school and looking to put down roots. Dalton had been the first to welcome him to town, and as fate would have it he turned out to be his first patient.

  It was late spring, 1903, and the sky arched blue and serene overhead, stretching far and wide across the flat prairie land. Martin had just taken the last box of his belongings off the wagon when he heard a horse approaching. Turning, he squinted against the late-afternoon sun at the rider coming up the low rising hill to the fence that marked Martin’s yard. The man sat straight and tall in his saddle, his long legs clutching the sides of his horse with ease.

  “Afternoon,” Martin called. “Help you?”

  The man touched the brim of his dusty hat. “Afternoon. Heard we had a new doc in town. Thought I’d ride up and welcome ya.”

  Martin set his box on the worn porch planks and approached the fence to extend his hand. “That’s mighty kind of you. I’m Martin Lancaster.” He looked into the man’s deeply tanned face, taking in the lines at the corners of his eyes, the two days’ growth of dark beard shot with gray, the eyes so blue it was like peering into the sky. He pegged his visitor to be in his late thirties, perhaps early forties.

  “Good to meet ya, Dr. Lancaster. Name’s Dalton Pringle. I’m sheriff in these parts.” Dalton’s palm was warm and his grip strong as he shook Martin’s hand. “We been in need of a doctor ’round here for some time now.”

  “Yes, I heard that when I was in my last year of residency and decided to come west.” Martin looked out over the land. “It’s beautiful here.”

  Dalton turned to take in the view as if just noticing it. “Yup, that it is. But dangerous, too, if you don’t know how to treat her.” He looked down at Martin. “Do you have all you need? Supplies, that kind of thing?”

  Martin gestured toward the hill. “I was going to make a trip into town after I finished a few more things. Is the general store still open?”

  Dalton nodded as his horse shifted beneath him and he reached down to pat the animal’s neck. “Easy, girl. You’re okay.” He tilted his head toward the clear, endless sky. “She’s been edgy all day. We might be in for a bit of a blow tonight.”

  Martin looked up too. “Really? Well, I’m no veterinarian, so I’ll have to trust you on that.”

  Dalton grinned, and Martin felt a rush in his groin just like he used to feel when he had spent time with Professor Albright back in school. It was just as confusing now as it had been then. He dropped his gaze, squinting as he looked toward town. “Who’s the storekeeper?”

  “Cooper Pritchett. He’s a good man, shrewd but honest. You’ll want to introduce yourself and make a good impression because all post goes through him, too.” He touched the brim of his hat and nodded. “I’d best be moving on. Have to check out some tell of men stealing cattle on the outskirts.”

  “All right then, Sheriff. It was kind of you to stop by.”

  “I reckon we’ll be seeing each other pretty regular,” Dalton said, and held his eyes a moment longer than necessary. “You take care, Doc.” He tugged the reins to turn his horse, and Martin stood watching him ride off, the sheriff’s broad shoulders eclipsing, for a moment, the sun.

  The frantic knock came later that evening as Martin was unpacking what he promised himself was the last box of the night. He hurried to open the door, shushing Biscuit, who followed barking at his heels. Cooper Pritchett, the storekeeper, stood on
the porch, his face pale and the wisps of silver hair atop his head dancing in the gusting wind. Pritchett staggered through the door carrying one end of a makeshift stretcher on which lay the sheriff, his face, so tanned and healthy that afternoon, now gray and hollow.

  “Dear God, what happened?” Martin asked as the storekeeper’s gangly young son followed his father through the door, struggling to hold up the other end of the stretcher.

  “Been shot,” Pritchett gasped. “In the chest. Surprised some cattle rustlers outside of town.”

  “Back here,” Martin directed, leading them through the house to the room where he had begun to set up his operatory. “Lay him on the table. That’s it. Mind his head now. Good, good.”

  Martin got to work, unbuttoning the bloody denim shirt to reveal a layer of soft, black chest hair. On the sheriff’s left breast Martin found a gaping red hole where the bullet had entered the man’s flesh. “He’s still alive. Must have missed his heart,” he said, turning to Pritchett. “Have you had any medical training?” The storekeeper’s eyes widened, and he shook his head. “Well, you’re about to. You,” Martin pointed to Pritchett’s son, “what’s your name?”

  The boy swallowed hard, his face pale. “David, sir.”

  “Good. David, take these towels here and heat some water in the kitchen. I want it boiling. Put the towels in the basin in there and pour the water over them. Then bring me three of them that have been wrung out. Got it?”

  David nodded, grabbed an armload of clean white towels, and darted from the room. Martin poured fresh water from a pitcher into a basin and quickly scrubbed his hands, all the while snapping instructions to the storekeeper. Pritchett jumped as if he had been branded then came to life and began to hustle about the room. He grabbed instruments Martin described to him and helped clamp off the severed arteries. The bullet had narrowly missed Dalton’s heart, ricocheting off two of his ribs before lodging itself in a third.

  Martin and Pritchett worked on the sheriff for hours as word of the shooting spread through town. Dalton’s deputy came to pace in Martin’s living room, hat in hand, sitting now and then to take solace in Biscuit’s attentions as the storm outside bore down. With a morbid sense of curiosity, neighbors and friends waited outside the doctor’s house, debating who would take over Dalton’s duties should he die—certainly not his deputy, who couldn’t hit the side of a building with a gun full of buckshot.

  Several hours after the falling rains had chased away the townsfolk, Martin put in the final stitch to close the wound in Dalton’s chest. The sheriff’s breathing sounded better and his color had returned. While Pritchett was in the kitchen helping his son sterilize the instruments, Martin ran his gaze over Dalton’s body. His hairy chest was broad and firm. His nipples, brown and small, stood hard and tall in the cool night air. The man still wore his undergarment, but his legs were well-muscled and tan, covered with the same black hair as his chest, the sight of which made a warm ache bloom in Martin’s own chest.

  Resisting the impulse to fully undress the sheriff, Martin covered him with two sheets and took the pocked and bloody bullet with him as he crept from the room. His eyes burned with exhaustion, and his back ached from the hours he’d spent leaning over the table.

  He helped Pritchett and his son clean up then saw them to the door, thanking them for their help and assuring the storekeeper that Dalton was resting comfortably.

  Martin cleaned the bullet and placed it in a crystal dish beside his bed. He slept fitfully that night, tossing and turning, getting up now and then to check on the sheriff, his first real patient. Finally, exasperated, he wrapped a blanket around his shoulders and sat in a chair in the back room. Dalton’s steady breathing soon lulled him to sleep, and he passed the night beside the sheriff.

  Early the next morning, Martin came awake to find Dalton staring at him, and he jumped from his chair.

  “How bad is it, Doc?” Dalton’s voice was raspy.

  Martin helped him take a few sips of water. “You were shot in the chest, left side. The bullet bounced off two ribs and stuck in a third. Nearly hit your heart.”

  Dalton closed his eyes. “Wouldn’t matter. I got a tough heart.” And he fell asleep again.

  Dalton spent several days in the doctor’s care, during which time Martin found his home inundated by single women from town. They came to call with homemade food to help the sheriff get his strength back. Martin grew weary of these intrusions but managed to keep his manner polite as the women appeared at his door, giggling and flirtatious, carrying pots of stew and baskets of bread. Dalton received the women cordially but with a cool detachment that provided them little encouragement.

  At night, when it was just the two of them, Martin and Dalton talked over the hearty meals prepared by the women in town. Martin felt the difference in their ages and backgrounds fade away, and he came to know Dalton as a man, not just his patient or the town sheriff.

  “Ever been married?” Martin asked Dalton one night, his back to him as he ladled stew into a bowl.

  “Came close once,” he replied. “But the fever took her eight years ago.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” Martin said over his shoulder.

  Dalton nodded. “How ’bout you?”

  “No, never.” He picked up the sheriff’s empty bowl and refilled it. “Ever thought about trying again?”

  Dalton squinted at him. “What’s on your mind, Doc?”

  Martin set the bowl before him. “Just making conversation.”

  Dalton paused to take a bite of stew. “I’m forty-three years ancient, never been married, and only been serious with one gal.” He shrugged then winced at the pull on his stitches. “Guess I’m an old prairie bachelor at heart.” He looked up. “How old are you, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  “I don’t mind. Twenty-seven.”

  Dalton grinned and shook his head. “Whole lotta rowdiness still burnin’ in you.”

  Martin felt his cheeks flush. “Well, I’ve always been told I’m mature for my age, so I don’t think there’s much rowdiness left. I’m of a different constitution than most men you might be familiar with.”

  Dalton looked at him so long and intently Martin finally shifted in his seat and said, “What?” more defensively than he had intended.

  The sheriff nodded slowly, his eyes never leaving Martin’s face. “I was thinking you might be right about that, Doc. You’re not like the men I’m familiar with.”

  Martin, flustered at the direction the conversation was taking, started asking about the wound in Dalton’s chest. A quiet, sexy smile crossed the sheriff’s face, a smile that wrapped a tight fist around Martin’s heart and made his cock suddenly grow hard. To cool his blood he thought about the town preacher’s wife, a homely woman named Gerta who excelled at pie-baking.

  “The wound’s all right,” Dalton answered. “You saved my life. I won’t forget that.”

  Martin shrugged. “It’s why I came here.”

  “To save my life?” Dalton asked, and Martin felt himself blush again.

  Later that night, Martin helped the sheriff into the spare bed he’d set up in a second bedroom. As Dalton eased himself beneath the covers, Martin couldn’t help noticing the long, firm outline of the man’s erection beneath his undergarment. His breath caught in his throat, and like the answering cry of a coyote on the plains, his own cock roared to full-blown life.

  “Do you have everything you require?” Martin’s voice caught as he tried to look anywhere but at Dalton’s “condition.”

  The sheriff gave him an assessing look. “For now.”

  Martin nodded once and fled to the door, looking over his shoulder to say, “Have a good rest then.”

  “Yup. You do the same, Doc.”

  The sheriff left Martin’s house in a week’s time, well on his way to full recovery. The men who’d shot him hadn’t been caught, and town gossip had it they’d fled south. Each night after he got into bed, Martin held the bullet he had pulled from Dalton’s c
hest. He felt its rough texture and the partially flattened side where it had lodged so close to Dalton’s heart. During these moments he felt an odd envy of the thing for accomplishing what Martin himself finally admitted he wanted to do himself.

  One bright October afternoon as Martin fixed his fence, he turned at the sound of hooves to find Dalton riding up. The sheriff dismounted and pushed through the gate, wincing at the squeal of the hinges.

  “Needs oil,” Dalton said.

  Martin blew out a breath and nodded. “Sure does. A lot of things around here need my attention, but I haven’t had time, what with half the town being sick.”

  Dalton grinned and kicked at the dirt. “Yup, I heard about that. Thought you should know Mabel Holcombe might have undercooked the stew she served at the church social.”

  Martin and Dalton looked at each other for a moment then laughed themselves silly.

  “That woman will be the death of this entire town one day,” Martin said. “Someone has to tell her she cannot cook.”

  “Not if that someone values his life.” Dalton looked around Martin’s property. “You sure need help up here. How ’bout I pitch in as payback for putting me right again?”

  Martin had always considered himself independent to a fault, but he surprised himself by accepting Dalton’s offer. Over the next two weeks, Dalton spent his free time working with Martin on his property, and by the first of November the doctor’s house was ready for the coming winter. That final evening, Martin laid a fire in the stone fireplace and poured a glass of whiskey for the man he now considered his friend. When his thoughts wandered to romantic longings, he stubbornly reined them back. He didn’t want to ruin a good friendship like he’d done with Professor Albright.

  Dalton came through the door and shivered as he kicked off his muddy boots. “Going to be snow before the week is out,” he muttered. He found the drink waiting by his chair and downed it in a gulp, closing his eyes as the warmth spread through his body. “Thanks. I needed that.”