A HAND OF CARDS

Bill leaned back in the wooden chair, tipping it onto rickety legs until its gravity passed center and it floated slowly backwards, tapping against the rotting, grey boards of the general store. His hat was pulled low, creating a shady place for him to hide his eyes while the sun showered a blazing glare on the land.

The heat had been unrelenting and cruel now for weeks, and the desert earth cracked and split as the heat tore it open, clawing for remote pockets of moisture.

He turned slowly and looked up the street. His head ached, his stomach felt slick and began a slow roll. He had to admit he did have a might too much to drink last night.

Even for him.

He hoped the kid didn’t show. Too damn hot today to be killing anyone, especially some puffed up, young cowboy defending his girlfriend’s honor. Well, he’d been young once and like every young cowboy he to, had thought he was in love with a dance hall gal.

Maybe he’d leave and make the kid feel like a big hero or something. Why not? He was too old to care about these things anymore and it’d be smarter than killing some kid thinking he was romancing a saloon gal.

Sure, Rachel was a good one alright. Everybody liked her. Except for the small scar on the left side of her face and the chipped tooth in the front, she truly was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. She could sing like no one he’d ever heard; couldn’t believe the voice that silenced the saloon and took the cowboys back to places they’d long forgotten, good places.

But there was a lot more to that gal than singing. He’d been with her just a couple weeks ago and that was the best night he'd had in, well, he couldn't really remember having a good night, as his nights brought restless sleep and sometimes, ugly dreams. But not that night. The sunset was beautiful, even to him. At its peak, a brilliant orange filled the sky, horizon to horizon. He’d slept well, and he woke with Rachel curled up to him.

He smiled at that thought. The tough, old gunfighter, having a “real night” with a lady. Ha.

The town, between cattle drives, was pretty much empty and so they’d taken a ride to the forest in the low hills just to the south. Rachel was fun and had such a way of making you feel good about yourself.

Almost….like you wasn’t really alone.

Probably like that with everybody, he figured, but there really was something special between them. He could feel it.

Couldn’t remember exactly why the kid wanted to fight anyway. Seemed like maybe he’d grabbed Rachel or something during the card game at the saloon last night. Who hadn’t grabbed her at one time or another and who really paid any attention anyway? Everybody liked Rachel. That’s what mattered.

One thing he did hate was the heat. It brought his nausea to a slow boil and made his head spin and his stomach roll. Every breath felt like a dirty rag being stuffed down his throat. The effort of just sitting there in the shade made him sweat and he could feel the water squeezing out through his pores, agitating his skin, making it itch. Left him feeling kind of like a snake just before it slithered out of that top, dried out layer in the spring. Only, he had just the one layer. That was it. No skin to wriggle out of here. No sir.

The half-digested contents of his stomach moved, as if they were alive, slithering in the darkness. He gauged the distance to the edge of the porch and figured he could make those few steps if he needed to and release the greasy bacon right on top of that patch of baby cactus. He sat motionless and the swirling contents settled. The threads of sweat trickle out from under his hat and met at the corners of his eye sockets, burning. He wiped his eyes with the back of his forearm.

Dang that heat, he thought. As if a hangover wasn’t bad enough, the heat wrapped itself around his aching body, and began to cook.

The blasting glare of the sun out in the street burned into the back of his eyes which he squinted to slits. He looked away from the blazing light, tipped forward slightly and found some relief in the dull puddle of shade at his feet. The headache seeped forward into his eyeballs, making them itchy and raw. He closed his eyes hard.

He hoped the kid didn’t show.

A different type of question surfaced in the stew of sluggish thoughts. The questions had been appearing more often lately, so they’d gotten his attention. They were, “how had he wound up in this corner of hell?”, and worse yet, “why did he stay?”

The “why did he stay?” part is what disturbed him. Didn’t make any sense. He didn’t do well with the heat. Never had. He’d rode a herd of cattle into this ragged little town about six months ago and had never left.

Well, he figured, he was just a winning hand of cards away from getting out of this baking pile of scrap wood they called a town.

Yep, just a good hand of cards away from a trip north to someplace cold like Utah or better yet, Washington. They said all it did there was rain.

Imagine that! Every day, so much water it filled the air. There were snow-capped peaks, wet forests, drizzling rain and water like a man had never seen before.

And it wasn’t just water. Sometimes, it was cold water. Water so cold it hurt to drink it or even to touch it. The water was so cold it turned hard like a rock. Ice they called it.

Now imagine that. Water everywhere and so cold it turned into rock.

Really hard to believe that, when all he’d seen for 6 months was a land so hot it seemed to be cooking him from the inside out.

They even said that in the spring, the snow up near the mountain tops melted, and drained into the valleys, filling the streams which raced further down through the mountains, carrying large chunks of that ice into the lower valleys. These streams were so cold it hurt to put your hand in that rushing water, felt like an animal was biting on it until you couldn’t feel anything!

He’d had the pleasure of drinking this cold water and it was something a man of the desert would never forget. Felt so good, you’d move it around in your mouth and when you swallowed you felt that cold slide all the way down, soothing and healing everything it touched. Drinking cold water had to be one of the best things a man could do. Ever.

As he bathed in the memory of the cold water, an idea floated to the surface of the sickening stew of thoughts turning slowly in his mind. It appeared slowly, and as it showed itself to him, he felt a small jolt because it was something he’d never considered.

Maybe, he thought, maybe he should take Rachel up north with him.

He turned that thought over slowly, like he was turning a rabbit over a barbeque fire, and it made even more sense. More importantly, it just felt right and for once he decided, he wasn’t going to analyze it. He was just damn well going to follow that feeling because it felt right.

He wasn’t one for acknowledging feelings or understanding them. No. he’d learned that if you ignored them long enough, they’d weaken and pull back into the dark places, as if they hadn’t even existed.

But this one had gotten out and it flowed in him with a gentle strength, and he didn’t deny it. He felt a calm come over him and he knew it was right; wondered why he hadn’t considered it before.

Ha, he thought. He must be losing it. Now he was having what….a feeling?

What in the blazes is happening to him? Sun must be bakin’ his dang mind.

But would Rachel go with him, an older codger? There was a chance she wouldn’t and that thought cast a shadow on his new plan which for a moment had shown like a bright and hopeful dream, and he wasn’t one to have dreams like that. It felt right.

No matter, he thought. He didn’t dwell on what it was or where it came from, or that she might not consent, but he was going to ask her after this here… situation was resolved, and they could be on their way to cold water country within a week.

All he had to do was be patient at the card table, and smart, and win that one, big money pot; and then it was cold water country for him and Rachel.

He decided that, if the kid did show, he would not fight him. And with that decision, the tension which had been coiling in the warm, slick darkness of his stomach eased; and he pulled in a long, steady stream of the dusty air, felt it curl into his lungs. It was the deepest breath he’d taken that day and it filled his chest and his insides stirred only slightly against it. His body’s acceptance of the warm air was a sign that he was on the healing path.

Good, he decided. There would be no gunfight today. Suddenly, instead of plodding listlessly into the future, he actually felt some excitement about this adventure.

“Bill,” came a sharp voice. “Bill.”

Bill’s eyes snapped open, realized he’d been drifting off to sleep. Took him a moment to focus, but he found the direction of the voice and he remembered, it was the kid, looking for trouble.

He rocked forward in the chair and raised himself slowly for a couple reasons. He didn’t want to alarm the kid into action. Sudden movements did that and somebody’d be getting killed. Slow movements were calming movements. He needed time for his head to clear because the haze of sleep was still with him, and he needed to be sharp. He needed to know exactly where the cowboy was and he could tell by the kid’s posture if he was really going to draw, or not.

Bill moved to the edge of the wooden porch, shrugged his shoulders, focused on the muscles across his back pulling loose. He was feeling better, more ready.

The kid was in the middle of the street, the sun beating him straight on.

“You don’t have to do this,” Bill said evenly. He figured he’d let the sun work on him a while.

He kept his face somber and calm, showed no anger, no fear. He looked into the eyes of the young cowboy who stood but fifteen feet away and what he saw in them was uncertainty.

“Look son,” he said, “let’s shake hands. I am not sure what I did but I am sorry.”

The fierce determination in the boy’s eyes wavered for a moment.

“You shouldn’t have touched her,” the cowboy said, the anger flashing again.

That’s it. He’d touched someone; probably where he shouldn’t be touching them, most likely one of the saloon dancers. Heck, he’d touched a lot of “ladies” last night. He had no idea who this mysterious lady could be, and it didn’t matter anyway. Last night was all kind of a wild blur because, as usual, he’d drank way too much and today, he was paying the price.

“You’re right,” he said, “and I am sorry.”

“We don’t need to do this,” Bill said. He faced the boy squarely, watched him closely. He kept his drawing hand loose, ready to snap the pistol from his holster though he didn‘t feel ready to draw yet.

The moments of silence gave him time to assess the kid. His holster was riding too high, he figured. Best if it was riding low so the gun did not need to be pulled so high out of the holster. If the holster was riding low the pistol had a shorted distance to travel, saving time.

Bill spoke again in the same calm tone, almost friendly. “I don’t want to fight. I’ve told you I’m sorry and I won’t do it again. You have my word.”

The sun was pouring its light into the single dusty street of the town. He tried to ignore the baking earth, the sweat crawling on his back and across his face like tiny bugs. He focused on the kid, tried to read his eyes, saw doubt.

“I say I buy you a drink. And we walk away from this, like men.”

Damn. He couldn’t remember the kid’s name. “What’s your name son?”

“I am not your son,” snapped the young cowboy. “Name’s Charles.”

Charles? What kind of a cowboy name was that?

“Sorry Charles. Didn’t mean nothing by it. I am sorry for what I did. I hope you can accept my apology.” He paused for a sincere effect, thought it sounded good.

He tried to put some friendliness in his voice. “What do you say we get out of this heat, head over to the saloon?”

He waited, watched the kid think it over, thought the kid made a decision.

Seemed like the right moment so he tried again. “What’s it going to be Charles?”

He was getting tired of talking, tired of trying to bring this kid down to earth so he didn’t have to shoot him.

He pulled the corner of his hat towards the sun, adjusting the shadow over his eyes cutting the brightness.

Better, he thought.

A warm breeze came up the street, tossing some dust at them.

The need for a drink was growing stronger, starting to gnaw at him. He felt a shakiness enter his arms, trickle down to his hands.

He might have to shoot the kid, just so he could get a dang drink.

“Well Charles,” he said speaking slowly, “I said I am sorry. I mean it. I am getting hot, and thirsty. So, what do you say? Can I buy you a drink?” With great effort he was holding his voice calm, tried to be friendly.

He looked into the kid’s eyes tried to read them. Couldn’t. He always assumed the opponent was going to draw. Bill’s stance was relaxed. He faced the cowboy squarely, rested his hand lightly on the butt of the pistol, his finger already touching the trigger. He was ready.

“Alright,” said Charles nodding his head friendly like, “a drink it is.” He pointed towards the saloon across the street and took a step in that direction half turning away from me.

Turning away from me was a mistake, Bill thought, but he wasn’t going to shoot him for it.

“Alright then,” Bill said nodding, the somberness of his face lightening. He stepped off of the porch onto the dusty street.

Violating one of his own rules of combat, Bill relaxed his vigilance slightly, thinking the danger of a gun fight was past.

There’d been a rare rain about a week ago. The wagons coming through town left their ruts and grooves in the mud and in the past week they dried solid. The surface of the street was chewed up, rough and uneven and when Bill stepped off of the porch, his eyes still on the kid, he stepped on the edge of a deep rut and it threw him off balance.

If he hadn’t been hungover, needing a drink, and just come out of a light slumber, he would have caught his balance. He didn’t, and he stumbled.

The rapid movement caused the kid who happened to turn towards bill at just that moment to pull his gun and fire. Bill tried to draw, but his holster was on the right side of his body, the side away from the kid. He had his pistol out before the kid fired but he couldn’t get it around the front of his body to shoot.

The bullet punched Bill in the chest.

He fell to the ground, twisted over and found himself looking at the clouds, while the fire in his chest spread. He felt the heat of the earth on his back. He gasped at the air.

People came running out of the buildings. Rachel kneeled at his side, took his hand.

“Get the doc,” she yelled. There were sounds of movement.

“He drew on me first,” said the kid.

“Yeah, I saw it,” someone said in a voice which rose over the hushed murmurs.

Rachel was pushing a white cloth on his chest. Bill tried to speak. He tried to focus on her eyes. He looked into them for just a couple seconds, and he thought she knew. She leaned close to him, listening.

He needed to tell her about the plan, needed to tell her how he felt. He moved his mouth, but the words wouldn't come. He fell back and a chill moved through him. He squeezed her hand and thought he felt her answering squeeze.

His eyes closed and he felt himself drifting away from the heat, sliding slowly back into dark caverns. As the darkness closed on him, the daylight faded to charcoal colored skies. There was a light wind and a cool rain. Rachel was there with him, sitting at his side on their wooden porch, as thick clouds tumbled over the snowy peaks in the distance.

His final thoughts were of the mountain rain tapping lightly on the roof of the porch above them, the closeness of Rachel, and the life that could have been.