The Scout Page 1

Page 1

The big man lay sprawled on his back. He wore a travel-stained suede jerkin, rough shirt, open to the navel, and brown homespun trousers, very tight at the crotch and across is massive muscular thighs, now flung wide apart. His heavy, well-worn, riding boots were scuffed and dusty and his battered sweat-stained slouch hat lay some feet to his left. His head was closely cropped and his face lean and deeply tanned. His moustache was thick and bushy but the dense black beard, that covered his square jaw, was close trimmed. The only sound was the soft sigh of the wind in the thick grass of the veldt, which stretched, undulating to the horizon.

The man's deep-set brown eyes opened and sitting up, he looked about him. He detected movement far ahead and swore as he watched his horse disappear over the brow of a ridge. Snatching up his hat, he hauled himself to his feet. Nothing broken he realized but he'd collected a nice set of bruises. That stupid horse carried everything, maps, water, food, clothing, gun and most important of all, his compass. He knew that to chase after the damned animal would soon get him lost. Calmly he reviewed his options. When the horse had thrown him, he'd been heading west and would have passed the foot of the kop about three miles ahead. Recalling that his map had shown a fair-sized farmstead, some twenty miles west, he would have to make for there, if he was to get another horse. He started walking towards the kop.

The sun was covered by a thick haze and did not cast enough shadow for him to get a bearing so when he reached the kop he wouild have to wait for nightfall. The heat haze would then dissipate and he should have no difficulty navigating by the stars. True there was no moon, he thought, but the starlight out here on the veldt would be more than bright enough. He strode on confidently but the tough calf-length grass snagged his boots constantly and the going was slow and tiring. When at last he reached the coarse scrub and tumbled rock at the foot of the kop, he found a patch of grass and sank down gratefully. He dug into the inside pocket of his jerkin and pulled out his watch. Two hours to sunset he thought, as he stowed it away in his shirt pocket and slipping off his jerkin, folded it to form a cushion for his head. Taking off his hat, he sank back with a sigh and let his mind wander. He hoped that the stupid horse would soon be discovered or perhaps come after him. It wouldn't starve out here but it would need unbridling. He felt confident that any boer who found the animal would see that his gear was returned to him. His name and destination were the only true details that would be found in his saddlebags, all the rest was bogus.

Like all the boer scouts, the messages and information that he carried were commited to memory.
The documents, although appearing genuine, would be of no use, if they fell into enemy hands. The theory was that the Khakis would think that they had everything that he carried and he would not be beaten or tortured. He fervently hoped that this would prove to be the case but deep down he did not believe that they would be that gullible. Pushing this unpleasant thought from his mind, he became aware of the glans of his thick cock rubbing against the rough material  of his tight trousers. As he
lowered a big hand to stroke it, his engorged cock pounded to full erection. He loved this sensation, that kept him almost always half-hard, so much so that he refused to wear drawers of any sort. This despite being told repeatedly that a man as well endowed as he should wear some sort of support or keep his groin covered.