He had accepted the costume in difference to his venerable opponent, Chief Wiotehika, one of the last surviving wild Apache in the Southwest. The old Indian wore an identical piece of cloth, as well as an elaborate head dress of turkey and eagle feathers that circled his crown and draped down his back.

The two men squared off on opposites sides of the Crenate Creek, where it twisted and bent through the hills a good twenty miles from any settlement. They were both tall, powerfully built men-Ty Fletcher, the cowboy, certainly in better trim, but his opponent as clearly hardened by a tough and lengthy life. Fletcher was twenty-two, but no one knew exactly how old the indian was; most folks agreed that he had fought alongside Cochise, but he also claimed to have heard Thomas Jefferson speak. Of course, the latter incident would have made him almost seventy, even if he'd listened to the president in a papoose strapped to his mother's back. But Fletcher had learned long ago that Indians didn't always mean exactly what they seemed to; maybe the chief was simply pointing out that he had heard a report of Jefferson's words from another chief that had been there. And, honestly, the young cowboy didn't really care. He had ridden out looking for an indian to kill, and Wiotehika was the only one he could find.

Ty Fletcher had hair the color of wheat, that he kept combed back from his low wide brow. His eyes were blue, and his cheeks a healthy shade of pink. He had a broad jaw with a manly dimple in the middle of his chin. Clean-shaven, with a friendly smile, he'd earned a reputation early as a good and honest man. His body was nicely proportioned, with little fat and beautifully-sculpted muscles. His belly was a set of hard ridges that flowed down around his navel. It and his chest were pelted with a spray of soft blond curls. He had worked since the age of thirteen running cattle north for an operation based in Morrow, Texas, but had abandoned his post two months after turning twenty-one, figuring that if he didn't act soon, there wouldn't be anymore wild indians left.

Chief Wiotehika stood an inch taller than the cowboy, but weighed a few pounds less. His muscles weren't as obvious-stretched and corded by the constant activity made obligatory by scratching out an existence on the open plain. The flesh of his entire body was hairlessly smooth with the exception of the top of his head which as yet boasted a full head of thick silver hair. His eyes were dark but alert, blazing like black signal fires amid the weathered features of his hawk-like face. His nose was large and hooked, and his cheekbones high. His brow also was high, giving his otherwise handsome face a slightly stretched and elongated look-a look that accurately summed up his whole form, if not his whole life.

The indian chief removed his ceremonial headdress and made a gesture with his left arm that the cowboy didn't recognize, but which he took to mean the older man was ready to begin. Fletcher nodded once to show that he was ready too. Both men strode down their respective banks and into the cool, steadily flowing Crenate. Each was armed with a small stone dagger, the blades of which were no more than three inches long; but the weapons had been honed to a wicked sharpness, and boasted exquisitely sharp points that could easily puncture the toughest hide.

The two men slowed as they neared one another, altering their courses slightly to cut a wide set of arcs through the waist-deep water. The bed of the creek was smooth and soft beneath their naked feet, and the front flaps of both loin cloths floated like lilypads upon the surface. Fletcher couldn't help but feel a bit of excitement, and he knew it must show on his face. The old indian's expression was one of complete unflappability, but the fire in his eyes bespoke a sure readiness to draw the whiteman's blood.

To Fletcher's surprise, it was his opponent who made the first move. The old indian lunged forward, expertly shifting his knife to made a downward plunge. The cowboy caught his opponent's wrist in his left hand, and brought his own blade upward, aimed at Wiotehika's belly. His wrist was also caught, and a struggle ensued as both men dug their toes into the mud and leaned toward one another, trying to force the other back.

Fletcher was further surprised by his ancient opponent's strength, the indian chief was certainly stronger than he looked. But the cowboy was stronger yet, and he felt himself gaining ground as their chests slowly came together and their heads slid side-by-side.

Had it simply been a test of strength, Fletcher undoubtedly would have prevailed, but Wiotehika outsmarted him, suddenly pulling back, drawing the younger man off balance, and then driving forward again before the cowboy had a chance to recover his equilibrium. The indian hooked his left foot behind Fletcher's right ankle and pushed the younger man over backward, submersing him completely.

The cowboy had only one thought as he was dunked: to keep his hold on the other man's knife hand. He managed this, barely, but found that as he fought to hold his opponent's weapon at bay, his own shoulders were being pressed against the creekbed-and he hadn't had much time to draw a breath before going under. Clearly, Wiotehika had only to remain over the cowboy, crouched but with his head safely above the surface, and wait for Fletcher to drown.

Fletcher tried to make this impossible, by pulling his own knife hand down. The chief still had a tight grip on the younger man's wrist, and was momentarily dragged beneath the water's surface himself as he stubbornly refused to let go. But the plan proved ultimately futile; Wiotehika simply moved his left foot over and stepped down on Fletcher's right wrist, pinning the muscular arm and the stone knife it wielded to the mud.

The wily indian stuck his head up out of the water and drew another breath. His left hand freed of the burden of warding off his opponent's attacks, he applied it to the back of his knife hand and used it to help that arm drive slowly down at the young cowboy's chest. Fletcher watched helplessly as his opponent's blade sank toward him; his left arm was no match for the indian's two-handed stab. He couldn't even twist out of the weapon's path as his other arm was securely trapped beneath his opponent's foot.

The tip of Wiotehika's knife pierced the cowboy's left breast, and Fletcher watched horrified as his own blood spiraled up through the current. The blade sank deeper, and the cowboy cried out. He then saw the last of his breath go up in ragged bubbles beside the swirling blood.

Suddenly the old indian stepped back, releasing his opponent who thrashed and tore wildly toward the surface. Fletcher broke the water gasping, and splashed awkwardly in the direction of the bank from which he had descended. He crawled up out of the water on his hands and knees, still struggling to draw each ragged breath, further punished by the sharp burning pain radiating from the left side of his chest

He sat up, his naked buttocks settling heavily atop the backs of his ankles, and barely detected the sound of his opponent's approach over the noise of his own labored respiration. He spun around just in time to catch the old man's right wrist as it descended with the stone knife again aimed at the younger man's hairy chest. The cowboy then saw that his own knife was in the indian's left hand (for in his panic to get off the creek bottom, the young man had abandoned his weapon without a thought). Wiotehika swung that blade at his opponent as well.

Fletcher caught the indian's left wrist with even less time to spare than he had the right. Another contest of raw strength began, as the two knives wavered in the small space between the men, both aimed at the cowboy's throat. Fletcher was crouched low, balanced on his toes, his eyes just about level with the other man's navel. He tried to power his way up, but it was useless; though the cut on his chest wasn't serious, it was enough to rob him of his superior strength. He was driven slowly back down onto his knees.

The indian slid his feet forward through the dirt, driving Fletcher's shoulders back. The cowboy bowed backward until he eventually felt his shoulders touch the ground. He arched his back, his entire body bridged between his shoulders and the balls of his feet, and the old indian stood over him, a foot planted on either side of his young opponent's torso. Fletcher had a clear view up under the front flap of his opponent's loincloth, and could plainly discern the outline of the older man's bloated cock pressing against the wet hide. Though he allowed no hint to alter his stoic features, Wiotehika was clearly aroused by the battle in which he took part.

But they were at something of impasse. Though the old man had all the leverage, he still was not strong enough to overcome the power that lingered in the other man's brawny arms. And while Fletcher might hold his attacker at arms' length, he lacked any chance of throwing the indian off; Wiotehika's feet were planted too securely on the bank. The main difference between their situations was that the young cowboy was straining much harder to maintain his; all the indian had to do was wait for exhaustion to give him the kill.

Fortunately, the chief wasn't content to win so passively. He lifted his right foot and lodged it across the cowboy's handsome face. It was a move clearly designed to humiliate the younger man, but it, in fact, gave Fletcher the opening he needed. With Wiotehika's balance less secure, the desperate cowboy managed to pull the indian forward, sending the older man tumbling to the ground.

Fletcher rolled over, scrambled to his feet, and quickly turned to face his opponent, but the indian executed a graceful somersault, springing back up and pivoting on the ball of his left foot even as he kicked out with his right. His heel impacted squarely with the younger man's dimpled chin-its power a combination of both fighters' momentum. Fletcher was thrown right back over onto his back, where he sprawled, moaning, clearly dazed

The old indian walked confidently over and settled his left foot atop the center of his opponent's heaving chest. He looked down as impassively as ever, but, when Fletcher's cobwebs cleared enough to allow him to glance up, he saw that the bulge in the chief's loincloth was even more pronounced. The front flap was pushed out nearly the same way it had been when it had been afloat on the surface of the creek. Wiotehika knew he was in complete control and thoroughly pleased with that state of affairs.

But Ty Fletcher wasn't dead yet. He leaned up as far as he could with half his opponent's weight trying to hold him down, and swung his right fist up under the flap of the old indian's loincloth. He felt his knuckles sink into the soft skin of Wiotehika's scrotum, and then enjoyed hearing the old man gasp and seeing him stoop over. The cowboy grabbed the ankle of the foot pressing against his chest and heaved it sideways and up, throwing the indian off balance. Wiotehika was sent crashing to his back.

Again the young cowboy hurried to get up, making it all the way to his knees with his opponent's left ankle still trapped in his hands, when again he met the chief's right foot coming the other way. Even through the pain in his back and balls, Wiotehika had managed to kick out at the other man's head. This time the sole of the indian's foot struck Fletcher squarely in the middle of the face, doing serious damage to the young man's nose which began squirting blood.

The cowboy sat down hard, his virtually naked buttocks slapping the damp bank, as the old indian sat up. They stared at one another a moment-Fletcher looking hateful and licking blood from his lips, and Wiotehika wearing the same unreadable expression. Then the old man reached down and shoved his hand under the front flap of his lioncloth to rub his aching balls.

They got up slowly, the indian continuing to massage his groin as the cowboy daubed at his busted nose with the back of his hand. The older man had lost the knife in his right hand, and now replaced it with the one from his left. Fletcher glanced quickly down to try and spot the second weapon and saw it lying about half way between them. He made a move as if to lunge for it, but instead leapt into the air and kicked out his right foot at the old indian's chest. Wiotehika, not at all fooled by the feint, deftly caught his opponent's leg and trapped it between his left arm and his side. He then swung his knife down and brought it suddenly up, scoring a shallow slice from the back of Fletcher's thigh around to the inside.

The cowboy cried out, but jumped again and kicked his left foot up at Wiotehika's head. It connected with a satisfying crack, and the old chief stumbled drunkenly backward and sank to his left knee. Fletcher landed lithely on his side and scrambled up, limping after his opponent and taking a swing with his right fist at the indian's head. Wiotehika barely succeeded in catching the young cowboy's wrist in his left hand. Growling with frustration, Fletcher threw an identical left. This was also caught by the indian, who had dropped his knife to close his right hand around his opponent's left wrist. A third contest of physical power began.

Fletcher leaned in toward his opponent, intent on driving the older man's to both knees and then back and to the ground. Wiotehika pushed upward, determined to rise. For several long moments, neither gained any ground. Then, gradually, the indian chief's left knee rose from the bank. Though Fletcher's eyes widened in amazement, he didn't let up, and for another moment then held their positions again: the cowboy leaning in over his opponent, the indian supported mainly by his trembling right leg, but balanced by the toes of his left foot which clenched the sand a few feet back and to the side of his right heel. Then, Fletcher's arms were pushed up another inch, and Wiotehika pulled his left foot forward two inches.

His teeth clenched, the red-faced cowboy summoned every last ounce of reserve strength. He closed his eyes tightly and pushed as hard as he could against the arms opposing him. Amazingly, his own arms were forced up another inch and, when he opened his eyes and looked down, he saw the indian chief's feet were almost side-by-side. With a sudden burst of power, Wiotehika rose to his full height. The two men were once again eye-to-eye.

Fletcher roared and drove his knee up into the old man's groin. Wiotehika grunted, releasing his opponent's wrists to reach down and cover his crotch with both hands. He doubled over at the waist, gasping. Fletcher steadied the indian's head by its thick silver hair and took a very deliberate swing at the old man's face. Somehow, the chief's left arm rose up and blocked the punch. The cowboy was so amazed, he stood helpless long enough for the other man to stand up straight and repay him for the low blow with one of his own. The indian's hard shin crashed into his opponent's balls. Fletcher howled, cupped both hands over his genitals and sank to his knees. Wiotehika filled both fists with handfuls of the cowboy's blond hair and pulled Fletcher's head forward and down while at the same time jerking his right knee forward and up. The two met with an even more satisfying crack and the young cowboy was tossed again over onto his back to lie dazed and helpless on the bank.

Once again, the old indian moved with complete confidence. He positioned himself beside the delirious cowboy, raised his right foot and stomped down hard on the front flap of Fletcher's loincloth.

Chief Wiotehika was more than a little surprised to feel his opponent's raging boner underneath the sole of his foot. Even as the young man folded into an anguished ball and rolled onto his side, the indian knelt down, grabbed the thin strap supporting the cowboy's garment, and snapped it. He tugged the strip of hide from between the young man's legs and cast it aside. He then drove his hand down, exploring between Fletcher's thighs from the back and quickly found and wrapped his fingers around the cowboy's hard pillar of flesh. He gave the cock one tight squeeze than released it, arose, and stepped back.

Feeling himself stripped naked and his erection fondled brought the young cowboy quickly back to his senses, but it was with an expression of mistrust that he climbed up onto his knees and turned to face the old indian. Fletcher's cock curved up from his lightly-haired groin about eight inches. It was completely hard and even a little purple due to both his excitement and the abuse it had suffered. His nuts were clenched so tightly to the base of it they might have been mounted on either side. He stared over at the indian who had stopped to stand facing him from about two yards away.

Wiotehika reached down and snapped the cord binding his own loincloth. The harehide dropped to the bank between his ankles. His bloated cock, freed of its constraints, swung out to float almost perpendicular to the ground, heavily sheathed in foreskin, not completely erect, but nevertheless the bigger of the two rods on display beside the creek that day.

The old man turned and walked back down the bank into the creek. He trudged through the water until he reached a spot just beyond the half way point between the opposite sides. There he turned around to face his opponent and slowly raised his hands, fingers spread wide, up over his head.

This was a gesture Fletcher recognized immediately. The indian chief was challenging him to one final test of strength there in the Crenate where their fight had begun. The young cowboy didn't need much time to think it over. He rose up and followed the old man into the water.

They stood with just less than a yard of swirling water between them. Waist-deep, their groins were submerged, but the head of the cowboy's penis just broke the surface. His opponent's cock, while slightly larger and growing harder every second, jutted straight out rather than curving up.

Their fingers interlaced slowly, and with equal deliberation they began applying pressure. Their chests gradually came together as they leaned into one another. Each bowed his head slightly, angling them side-by-side. Their right ears brushed roughly against one another. Both men applied increased pressure in increments equal to that of the other, until finally Fletcher realized he had no more strength left to summon. He waited, in trepidation, for the next small addition of resistance to register against his arms, but it didn't come. The old indian, too, appeared to be at the apex of his power.

Inspired, the young cowboy felt a hot surge of excitement. Though the big muscles of his arms burned, he ignored the pain and sought to wring even more strength out of them. He gritted his teeth again, clamped his eyes shut tight. He groaned. In reward of these efforts, he felt his arms move forward ever-so-slightly, which meant his opponent's arms were beginning to yield. He tried to push harder, but could not. Then he felt his arms forced back. They returned to their original position, and then moved back a bit more.

Fletcher's eyes sprang open wide and he felt panic grip his chest. He practically screamed with the effort, but his arms only yielded another few inches. His back began to bow, his shoulders moving back and down. He could feel the old indian's chest sliding up along his own. Then his knees began to tremble and gradually to bend. His hips moved forward as his shoulders slipped further back. Wiotehika carefully shifted the position of his feet in the mud, pulling them a fraction of an inch forward so that he could stand up straighter. The chief's now stone-hard cock jabbed the young man's muscular belly.

Fletcher suddenly released the surface of the water was equally to his chest. His knees were shaking violently, and then the left suddenly sank to the creek bed. He tried desperately to angle his right leg to gain leverage, but it was useless. His right knee soon joined the other upon the muddy bottom. He felt the head of the indian's hard penis rubbing back and forth across his hairy chest as he struggled to save himself. Then his arms and shoulders were driven back a bit more and he felt the Crenate swirling around his throat.

Chief Wiotehika skated forward another fraction of an inch, pushing the tip of his dick up under the cowboy's dimpled chin. Ty Fletcher's head tipped back, his face angled toward the sky. It was the only part of his entire body save his hands that was still above the surface of the water. The old indian now stood directly over the cowboy's straining chest. His big balls were being tickled by the thick curls of chest hair that danced in the current. The head of his cock was pushing against the young man's chin, forcing the cowboy's head to tilt further back. Fletcher's forehead dipped below the surface, then his eyes. Only his nose and mouth and broad, manly chin still broke the Crenate's surface.

The old indian held that position a long moment, then suddenly pushed downward, bending only at the waist, careful to keep his legs straight because he wanted to finish this with nothing but the power of his arms-and, perhaps, a little assistance from his big cock. All of the cowboy was now submerged in the cool waters of Crenate Creek. Chief Wiotehika stared down into the young man's handsome face, seeing the look of terror, remorse and resignation in the bulging blue eyes that stared back. Directly in the line of sight between the two men jutted the indian's hard cock.

Ty Fletcher fought to the end; he wasn't afraid to die or else he'd never have come looking to kill someone, even an indian. He struggled even as the used up oxygen began to sizzle in his lungs; he kept trying even in the face of the old man's big dick, which hung over him like a tombstone. When he couldn't hold it any longer, he released the air from his chest in a huge explosion, sucking in what felt like a gallon of creek water to replace it. Even then it would be another few moments before he drowned, and he gave his arms one final push, only to have them shoved even further down toward the muddy bottom as if to show him he was entirely beaten.

The old indian continued to hold his opponent even after the strength began to fade from the young man's arms-even after the blind look came into the cowboy's blue eyes. He held him until the muscular limbs sagged, and the body stopped resisting completely and the broad shoulders sank down to the creek bed. Then he pried his finger's from the cowboy's death grip and stood up straight and tall, filling his lungs to the brim with a deep, triumphant breath.

His cock throbbed and oozed a heavy stream of precum. His big balls churned wanting to shoot a proper load. He ignored such stirrings, and stepped to one side of the dead man, who was as yet on his knees, his back bent over his ankles, his shoulders rising up and then sinking back down to brush the muddy bottom as the current played with him. His muscular arms, having failed in their final, ultimate test, were sticking almost straight out to either side, also slowly undulating, lifelessly waving in the flow of the Crenate. A milky string was swirling up from the tip of the young man's cock. Wiotehika knew this meant that in Ty Fletcher's final moment on earth, the cowboy's balls had taken one last desperate stab at procreation and shot his seed out to be dispersed by the thankless current.

The old indian filled his fist with another handful of Fletcher's hair and climbed back up on the bank from which the cowboy had first descended. He pulled the body half way out of the water and left it there to retrieve one of the stone knives. He then crouched over the lifeless form, pulled its head up by the hair, and, with one quick, clean, precise swipe, scalped it. As he did so, the load that had been boiling in his balls erupted from his big cock. It shot out into the dead cowboy's face, quickly coating the slack features in a mask of thick white cream. The indian tossed the scalp aside and, his cock still spurting, turned in his crouch and caught up his vanquished foe's genitals. With another surgical slice, he severed them from the body. He rose back to his full height as his orgasm gradually subsided, the bloody knife in one hand and Ty Fletcher's cock and balls in the other. He used his foot to nudge the dead cowboy back into the water, then climbed down the bank far enough to push the body out into the middle of creek. It began to float slowly away, toward the Rio Grande which might take it to the sea. The chief realized the lifeless form would probably snag on a rock or some other obstruction even before reaching the river, and he recognized this as a good thing because it meant that before the body was found it would likely to be decomposed and half-eaten by fish rendering it unidentifiable, but he liked to think of the young man ending up in the great ocean.

Wiotehika moved back up the bank and found the two leather cords that had held up both men's loincloths. He tied one around his waist, but used the other bind up his trophies: the cowboy's scalp and severed genitals. He then tied the second cord to the one around his waist, letting his prizes dangle over his right hip. He gathered up the two loincloths and knives, then gazed back at the Crenate. The body was no longer in sight, having floated off around the first bend at least without getting snared on something. The old indian stood there a while, enjoying the sight of the placid creek, the feel of the sunlight on his skin, and the caress of the slight breeze across his naked body. His cock was proving slow to wilt-a determination that might accurately sum up his whole form, if not his whole life. It was still jutting almost straight out in front of him as he strode off into the forest.