On the Road
I could get a job of work, or I could step into a saloon
I’d been running Red, my big sorrel gelding, for I don’t know how long, glancing over my shoulder every minute, expecting to see somebody. I glanced again and didn’t see nobody. So, I slowed Red to a trot, then to a walk. I still had to put distance between me and the Wet Whistle, the saloon I’d stepped into for a beer this morning and stayed in until midafternoon, when that cowhand tried to take Mary Ellen from me. Or was she Maria Lynn? No matter. I was on the road now.
I walked Red past an old cabin with a rocking chair on the porch. The man or woman belonging to that chair might be inside, making supper or taking a snooze. Or watching me through the window, wondering if I was friend or foe. Maybe with a Sharps trained on me.
I didn’t have the desire to find out, and I didn’t have the time, neither. But I couldn’t let on like I was feeling pressed, so I kept Red to a walk.
We followed the road up a hill, then stopped on top. The road led down to a fork near some sycamores. Beside the trees, an old man stood in the late sun with his back to me. He didn’t have a gun that I could see, so I rode down the hill slow and easy. You never want to spook anybody — even somebody that doesn’t have a gun. He just might remember you and tell somebody else that he seen you on the road.
