ragged
Irregulars, too ground down by fatigue and shock to offer much
response beyond a general gasp. And Rook knew what he had to do.
“I did,” he said, at last, stepping forward.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Even long after the twister’d moved on, Rook could remember with
exquisite urgency how it’d felt when Chess first knelt down in front
of him in its wake and brought him to absolute ruin. How he’d
fetched himself so hard he’d seen genuine stars flare like Pit-bound
souls in the redness behind his eyes, then hauled Chess up by both
shoulders and told him, hoarsely, “I don’t want you doin’ that with
anyone else again, not ever. Hear me, Private?”
“Or what?”
“Or — I’ll find them. And I’ll kill them.”
Chess just grinned, like this threat was the best compliment anybody’d ever given him.
“Suits me,” he said, and let Rook lift him further — kissed him
with the taste of Rook’s own seed sour on his breath, wound his legs
around Rook’s waist, and gave him his sin again.
The decision to become outlaws proved a surprisingly practical one,
in the end. By limiting Chess’s choice of partners, Rook found, he’d
unwittingly created a situation of scarcity which began to wear on
the gang’s remaining members, as the camp and its horrors fell
steadily behind.
“Find them whores,” was Chess’s sage advice — but whores meant
money, of which they currently had none.
They’d already crossed into Arizona almost by instinct, making
for the empty places, and spent a length of time wandering amongst
the stones there, like Legion. Occasionally, they saw what they took
for Apaches off in the distance, and Rook wondered if any of these
could be numbered amongst those myriad spectral intelligences he
now felt crowding in on him whenever he closed his eyes — as he had
almost since that first morning he woke up sprawled next to Chess,
sore with love-wounds, his head already a-ring with other people’s
voices.
Chess stirred and murmured, sleepily. Rook hugged him a bit
closer, and knew himself reborn, in far more ways than the not-so-simple fact of having merely fucked another man could ever explain.
“Hey,” he asked Chess, poking him lightly. “You think they heard
us?”
“What, Hosteen and the rest?” Chess replied, muffled, into the
broad expanse of Rook’s chest. “I think dogs for a mile ’round could
probably hear us, if I was doin’ my job right. Why — prospect of bein’
known as queer make you antsy, Reverend?”
“Not . . . as such, surprisingly.”
“Well, ain’t you sweet.” With a smirk, Chess sat up, right into a
particularly luxuriant stretch — stark naked, and not seeming to
give much of a damn who might be watching. Rook saw scars on
him, both old and fresh, which hadn’t been quite so obvious in the
hours before: a pink curlicue tracing one rib, the pale flowery knot
of a plugged bullet hole punctuating one shoulder blade.
Chess turned back to catch Rook gaping at the fierce white slash
that hooked from right-hand sideburn to just under his jaw —
suddenly visible, even beneath the red — and said, airily: “Yeah,
that’s where my Ma stuck me with her yen hock, same night I told
her I was signin’ up. Stung like a bitch, the whole time I was growin’
out my beard to cover it.”
“My God!”
Chess shrugged. “Suited me fine; I’m prettier shaved, which gave
her the grand idea she might rig me up as some she-he, sell me that-a-way to fools who crave somethin’ extra up under the skirts. But
I ain’t fit to be no girl, much less a poor jest of one — while I may
not be the sorta man most think they are, I’m a man , just the same.
Made to ride and fight, take what I want or swing tryin’, not die on
my back or live on my knees. Knew that the minute I first touched
a gun.”
“Colonel Colt, et cetera.”
“Exactly so.” He cast Rook a sidelong glance. “Think you’d like me
better if I was a gal, Ash Rook?”
The Rev looked him up and
Irregulars, too ground down by fatigue and shock to offer much
response beyond a general gasp. And Rook knew what he had to do.
“I did,” he said, at last, stepping forward.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Even long after the twister’d moved on, Rook could remember with
exquisite urgency how it’d felt when Chess first knelt down in front
of him in its wake and brought him to absolute ruin. How he’d
fetched himself so hard he’d seen genuine stars flare like Pit-bound
souls in the redness behind his eyes, then hauled Chess up by both
shoulders and told him, hoarsely, “I don’t want you doin’ that with
anyone else again, not ever. Hear me, Private?”
“Or what?”
“Or — I’ll find them. And I’ll kill them.”
Chess just grinned, like this threat was the best compliment anybody’d ever given him.
“Suits me,” he said, and let Rook lift him further — kissed him
with the taste of Rook’s own seed sour on his breath, wound his legs
around Rook’s waist, and gave him his sin again.
The decision to become outlaws proved a surprisingly practical one,
in the end. By limiting Chess’s choice of partners, Rook found, he’d
unwittingly created a situation of scarcity which began to wear on
the gang’s remaining members, as the camp and its horrors fell
steadily behind.
“Find them whores,” was Chess’s sage advice — but whores meant
money, of which they currently had none.
They’d already crossed into Arizona almost by instinct, making
for the empty places, and spent a length of time wandering amongst
the stones there, like Legion. Occasionally, they saw what they took
for Apaches off in the distance, and Rook wondered if any of these
could be numbered amongst those myriad spectral intelligences he
now felt crowding in on him whenever he closed his eyes — as he had
almost since that first morning he woke up sprawled next to Chess,
sore with love-wounds, his head already a-ring with other people’s
voices.
Chess stirred and murmured, sleepily. Rook hugged him a bit
closer, and knew himself reborn, in far more ways than the not-so-simple fact of having merely fucked another man could ever explain.
“Hey,” he asked Chess, poking him lightly. “You think they heard
us?”
“What, Hosteen and the rest?” Chess replied, muffled, into the
broad expanse of Rook’s chest. “I think dogs for a mile ’round could
probably hear us, if I was doin’ my job right. Why — prospect of bein’
known as queer make you antsy, Reverend?”
“Not . . . as such, surprisingly.”
“Well, ain’t you sweet.” With a smirk, Chess sat up, right into a
particularly luxuriant stretch — stark naked, and not seeming to
give much of a damn who might be watching. Rook saw scars on
him, both old and fresh, which hadn’t been quite so obvious in the
hours before: a pink curlicue tracing one rib, the pale flowery knot
of a plugged bullet hole punctuating one shoulder blade.
Chess turned back to catch Rook gaping at the fierce white slash
that hooked from right-hand sideburn to just under his jaw —
suddenly visible, even beneath the red — and said, airily: “Yeah,
that’s where my Ma stuck me with her yen hock, same night I told
her I was signin’ up. Stung like a bitch, the whole time I was growin’
out my beard to cover it.”
“My God!”
Chess shrugged. “Suited me fine; I’m prettier shaved, which gave
her the grand idea she might rig me up as some she-he, sell me that-a-way to fools who crave somethin’ extra up under the skirts. But
I ain’t fit to be no girl, much less a poor jest of one — while I may
not be the sorta man most think they are, I’m a man , just the same.
Made to ride and fight, take what I want or swing tryin’, not die on
my back or live on my knees. Knew that the minute I first touched
a gun.”
“Colonel Colt, et cetera.”
“Exactly so.” He cast Rook a sidelong glance. “Think you’d like me
better if I was a gal, Ash Rook?”
The Rev looked him up and
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