by Ashton

Pitt Mackeson sat upon his horse, his spindly legs straddling the animal as it trotted through the dense foliage. He tilted his pale, angular face towards the dismal autumn sky and eyed the ominous clouds gathering there with apprehension. The sullen young man weighed his options, trying to decide whether or not he should bring his days journey to a halt and set up shelter for the night in anticipation of the pending rain. Deciding against it, he pressed onward diligently through the woods, his keen grey eyes alert, anxiously scrutinizing the narrow spaces between the trees and underbrush. A flash of color up ahead captured his attention. As he drew closer, he realized it was a covered wagon, set up for camp in a small clearing. His curiosity piqued, Mackeson urged his horse forward, analyzing the scene before him with suspicion. The material stretched across the top of the wagon was tattered and flecked with splotches of crimson. Blood? Mackeson pondered the notion emotionlessly as he scanned the campsite. The contents of the wagon had been rummaged through and scattered carelessly over the ground. An eerie silence clung in the air as he dismounted, flipping his long dark mane over his bony shoulder. Whatever ordeal had befallen these unfortunate travelers had ended, there was no indication that the marauders remained in the immediate area.

Peering inside the wagon, Mackeson�s initial hunch was confirmed. The tarp had indeed been stained with human blood, the fly infested corpses were stretched out, lifeless inside the wagon. Had he been another breed of man, a less jaded and callous person, the sight of the slain woman and her infant child would have moved him to tears or at very least, the sight would have sickened him. Yet Mackeson was impervious to the tragic scene before him, he felt nothing. He kicked the items cluttering the ground with disinterest and circled to the far side of the wagon. It was what he stumbled upon *there* that startled him. Sprawled and twisted on the ground before him was none other than Jake Roedel. A former Bushwacker like himself, Roedel had caused Mackeson a great deal of hostility, confusion and embarrassment over the years they had fought side by side for the Southern cause. The typically soft-spoken young man had defied Mackeson before his own men, causing him no small amount of humiliation. In fact, it had only been days before this very moment that Roedel had forced him away from another campsite at gunpoint. True, Mackeson had taunted the boy mercilessly at every opportunity, had threatened him and even taken a shot at him once during a heated battle. Mackeson wasn�t quite sure why he felt compelled to torment Roedel. At some previous point in time he had just convinced himself that debasing Roedel would free him of the strange, obsessive hold the young man had over him. When this tactic didn�t remedy his dilemma, Mackeson had weighed the possibility of bringing about Roedel�s demise, thinking it might finally calm the sense of turmoil building steadily inside him and allow him peace.

Mackeson crouched beside Roedel�s limp form and pressed two long pale fingers to the man�s neck, searching for a pulse. He sighed audibly when he found one. Uncertainty welled up inside him. Should he finish the boy off? Given their past relationship, should he bother to help him? As he considered the possibilities, Mackeson ran his finger over a bright red scrape on Roedel�s forehead. A slight groan erupted from the man�s throat at Mackeson�s touch, causing him to experience the slightest pang of remorse. The decision made, he yanked Roedel up from the ground and dragged him over to his waiting horse. With a draining effort, he lifted the larger man and heaved him over the saddle.

After surveying the area, Mackeson found them an adequate place to set up camp. The space was surrounded by lush thicket in the heart of the woods. They�d be concealed completely from all angles, should anyone venture into the depths of the forest. Though the war was over, they were still in obvious danger. The stance they�d taken as Bushwackers, had not been a popular one. Aside from the lingering animosity provoked by the war, there were other perils to be mindful of. There were always criminals running amuck; thieves, rapists, murderers and the like.

Quickly, Mackeson went about his business, throwing together a ramshackle shelter made of underbrush and sturdy pieces of wood he�d found strewn about. He tossed his thin, frayed blankets beneath the leafy canopy and maneuvered Roedel till he was situated comfortably on top of them.

Gathering a jar of liniment and gauze from his satchel, Mackeson kneeled beside Roedel, attending to his many lacerations. He trickled clean water from his canteen over the minor wounds, dabbing at them with the most sterile cloth he could find. The man grumbled faintly each time a cut was blotted.

�Quit yer whining, Dutchie,� Mackeson hissed, his deft fingers working the buttons of the man�s shirt. A guilty pleasure surged through Mackeson as he slid Roedel�s shirt open. He studied Roedel carefully as he placed his delicate hands on the man�s chest. Smoothing them lightly over Roedel�s damaged flesh, his heart pounded fiercely in his chest. Mackeson brushed over a small rose-colored nipple cautiously with his thumb, causing the man to stir slightly. A feeling of empowerment coursed though Mackeson�s lank body, as it suddenly occurred to him that Roedel was finally and completely at his mercy. Indecisive as to what he should do with this newly gained position, he bit down harshly at his lower lip, gnawing at it brutally until he broke the skin and tasted his own bitter blood. The venial smarting cleared his muddled head, making him feel ashamed, once again, of the dull ache Roedel inspired between his legs. Scowling to himself, Mackeson pulled his hands away and finished the business of cleaning Roedel�s abrasions.

It was late in the evening when Roedel�s eyes finally fluttered open. Mackeson was sitting silently beside the small campfire he�d built, keeping warm by the heat of the low flames and with the whiskey he slugged straight from a bottle. When Roedel groaned loudly, he startled and turned his head in the direction of the battered man, watching intently as Roedel struggled to sit upright. Taking his whiskey bottle along with him, Mackeson stood and swaggered over to the shelter where Roedel sat wincing in pain.

"Dutchie, what the hell are you doing? Lay down.� Mackeson snapped, standing just outside the feeble shanty.

�Get away from me, Pitt.� Roedel steeled his raspy voice, but there was candid fear disclosed in the man�s wide blue eyes.

Mackeson snickered, swigging from his bottle. �You sound like a regular fool, boy. Stop trying to act tough, you can hardly sit yerself up. �Sides that, you should be grateful to me right about now. I coulda left you for dead easy enough.� Mackeson watched intently as Roedel�s boyish face seemed to crumble before him, the man peered knowingly into Mackeson�s eyes.

�Where�s my family, what's become of 'em?� Roedel�s voice cracked and trailed off as the day�s events unfolded in his memory, revealing themselves to him in nightmarish form. Mackeson stared down at Roedel for a long moment, expressing nothing.

�Gone, Roedel. They�re gone.� His voice was dry, emotionless.

A wretched noise, something between a shrill scream and a grievous sob, was unleashed from deep within Roedel. The man twisted onto his side, turning away from Mackeson, covering his face as he let tears flow freely over his cheeks. Mackeson observed the outburst and said nothing, thinking himself rather fortunate. Most of those *he* had loved had been lost to him long ago and far away. At the onset of the war, Jayhawkers had murdered his father and two brothers savagely before his mother�s very eyes, leaving her quite mad. Once his family and home had been destroyed, he had vowed never to permit himself the luxury of such attachments again. Life was far too frail, affection only made you weak...vulnerable. It was merely a burden to bear.

Mackeson sighed heavily, sitting down on the blanket beside Roedel. He reached over towards the distraught man and gently nudged his arm with the bottle of whiskey. Roedel failed to acknowledge his offering and continued his futile weeping.

�Listen Dutchie, I�m sorry about yer woman and �specially about the child...but crying ain�t gonna bring them back. You might as well just calm yerself down.� Mackeson watched the campfire flicker as a light drizzle began to fall, he shivered slightly and drew his knees up to his chest.

When Roedel�s sobbing finally subsided, he spoke, his throat tight and voice wavering, �I think I�ll have some of that whiskey.�

Mackeson crawled closer to the man and kneeled beside him. Propping Roedel�s head up in his lap, he lowered the bottle to the man�s trembling lips. Gazing down at the soft curves of Roedel�s face as it rested wearily on his thighs, Mackeson was struck by the man�s innocence. His bright blue eyes were warm and child-like, uncorrupted by all the death and violence he had seen, though at the moment they were bloodshot and red-rimmed as well. It seemed to Mackeson, that Roedel�s features were actually more like those of a youngster than those of a man, he possessed a certain youthful vitality lacking in other men his age who had been acclimatized by war or haggard by daily hardship.

�What Mackeson?� Roedel�s voice, though strained, was calmer. �Why are ya glaring at me like that?�

�I ain�t glaring at ya...just looking is all.� Mackeson snarled, his face petulant and brows furrowing as he turned his pale, grave eyes away from Roedel.

�I�m not so sure I understand why ya�d wanna help me, Pitt. Given our history...I mean, it wasn�t so long ago that you tried to kill me.�

�Nah, that�s not so. I�d have tried much harder if that�s what I really wanted. I was just playing with ya.� Mackeson shrugged his lean shoulder slightly, the trace of a sardonic grin tugging at his lips. �You recognize the men who did this to ya? Were they thieves? Jayhawkers?�

�Can�t say I did, then again it happened so fast...and I was hardly expectin' it. I don�t think a Jayhawker would kill a woman and child, that wasn�t their way and it wasn�t ours. Most of us didn't go runnin' about scalpin' folks.� Roedel blinked his long dark lashes earnestly and reached up for the whiskey bottle in Mackeson�s hand. Their fingers brushed lightly as the bottle was past from one to the other, causing Mackeson�s blood to surge with fury through his frail body.

�Unless it was personal.� Mackeson ignored the subtle jab and shifted uncomfortably, suddenly mindful of exactly where Roedel�s head was residing.

�Did you bury them, Pitt? My wife, my daughter...�

�Ahh...Jesus, come on.� Mackeson groaned with agitation, �No. I didn�t bury�em. I was much more interested in gettin� you out of there. �

�You�ll have to take me back there tomorrow, to the wagon - so I can bury'em.� Although Roedel�s voice was muted, Mackeson could clearly read the determination on his face.

�You can�t go doin� that, not how yer feeling.� Mackeson swiped his bottle back from Roedel and downed more of the fiery liquid.

�I have'ta Pitt...they were mine...�

�Dutchie, don't go bein' a marytr now. You don�t own death. Ya think yer the only one who�s tasted it first hand? I have no more than you do. � Mackeson eased Roedel�s head from his lap stretched out on the shoddy blanket next to the young man, staring up through the make-shift roof of branches and dried leaves. A fine spray of cold rain blew through the shanty and dampened Mackeson�s clothes and skin. If only the air had less of a chill, the light pounding of rain against his body would have felt like a caress.

He grumbled under his breath, �I�ll take care of it for ya, if it means so damn much - though I still don�t see where it�ll make a bitta difference...they are mighty dead, after all.�

�Thank you.� Roedel�s eyelids drooped with exhaustion, �an' I thought you were soulless...�

�Well, that might very well be so, Dutchie.� Mackeson responded sulkily, already dreading the next morning�s excursion back to the wagon.

Mackeson woke abruptly from a restless sleep plagued by menacing dreams, quivering in the frigid night air. As he regained his senses, Mackeson realized he�d pressed himself tightly against Roedel during his short nap. His cheek rested against the other man�s arm, his legs were intertwined with the Roedel�s. Even now that he was fully awake, Mackeson found himself reluctant to draw away from Roedel�s hard, warm body. Laying so temptingly close, he fought off the unbearable urge to slide his hand beneath Roedel�s shirt and stroke his chest as he had that morning. His breath quickened as he recalled how unbelievably pleasant the other man�s feverish skin had felt beneath his palms, how powerfully excited he�d been by simply brushing his thumb lightly over Roedel�s hardened nipple. Mackeson groaned weakly as his cock began to stiffen and press against his trousers.

Gently, he pried himself free from Roedel, his heart hammering madly in his chest as he tried not to disturb the other man. Once he was untangled, he rolled to the edge of the blanket with his back to Roedel, trying in vain to calm his frayed nerves. Part of Mackeson was disgusted at his own physical response to the man, the other was weary with frustration and longed for release. He curled up on his side and unfastened his trousers apprehensively. Closing his eyes, he slid his hand into his trousers and ran his fingertips lightly along his rigid cock. Mackeson couldn�t recall the last time he�d allowed himself such pleasure, it felt so incredibly good that he couldn�t help but expel a raspy groan. His breath quickening, he encircled the girth of his shaft with his fingers, the heat of his swollen member emanating in his hand as he began to stroke up and down on his length. He whimpered softly, pumping faster, letting himself imagine how it might feel to sink his cock deep inside Roedel�s ass. Picturing the copulation vividly in his mind was more than he could endure. His cock pulsated in his sweaty grasp, blinding him with ecstasy as jets of hot cum spurted out against his taunt stomach.