Go West, Young Man
Texas, May 1870
The young man, who could not have been much older than 17, got to his feet and prodded the wagon wheel with his boot. "Looks ready to go, sir." The cook thanked him for the swift (and more importantly, free) repairs, and humbly asked if he wouldn't mind riding the rest of the trail with them. Turns out the boss was looking for another hand and he even paid his cowboys pretty well, all things considered.
"Actually, yes, I'd like that very much. Thank you." The stranger grinned and touched the brim of his hat in gratitude, though his blue eyes remained guarded.
Al – he did not provide a last name and they knew better than to ask – proved to be an exceptional cowboy for one of his age. He displayed such an uncanny sense of the cattle and an enviable handling of his energetic bay, the other cowboys automatically accepted him as if they had all ridden together since the beginning of the trail. Despite his infectious laughter and his eagerness to help around the camp (although he was banned from even thinking about preparing the food after ruining the first pot of beans), the latest recruit kept to himself and offered no other information about his past.
If the men had any suspicions about the newcomer's reasons for joining this drive, they surrendered those reservations in favor of trust. Because out here in the untamed grasslands, protecting a herd of half-wild Longhorns against stampedes, unpredictable weather, coyotes and the ever present threat of cattle thieves, all a cowboy could do was trust his partners. They depended on each other for survival, and every man had a job to do in order to complete the drive. It was grueling work watching the cattle day and night, but the cowboys sometimes broke up the monotony with songs and reminiscing and, to Al's secret horror, unnecessarily detailed and gruesome ghost stories that would have kept him up all night if he weren't so damn exhausted by the end of the day.
About halfway through Oklahoma, the wrangler shyly asked if Al had seen any fighting during the war. Instead of the usual laugh, Al only nodded, his expression somber. They resumed tending to the horses in silence, but that night, the wrangler brought out the harmonica he bought with the first money he earned as a freed man and showed the stranger how to play. For a little while, Al coaxed out a few half-formed melodies, the reedy notes drifting up into a starry sky, like a sad, sweet wordless prayer, asking for forgiveness. When he had finished experimenting with the harmonica, he noticed a few of the cowboys staring at him with tear-filled eyes, though they looked away as soon as he glanced in their direction. It was after Al handed the instrument back to its owner that he took off his glasses to rub at his own eyes. He wasn't sure why he had thought of home and someone waiting at the doorstep for his return, it just popped into his mind as he played. But he knew he was already home, in a way, and he didn't think anyone would still be waiting for him now.
When a trio of desperate banditos tried to lead a dozen cattle away one moonless night, the cowboys discovered that their new companion possessed his own danger. There was practically no visibility at that hour, they later swore, but Al calmly shot down each of the escaping thieves with his Peacemaker as if it were broad daylight.
Cautiously, two of the cowboys followed him from a safe distance as he rode up to the cursing, bleeding forms. Once the thieves caught a glimpse of the man who took them down, their eyes widened in terrified recognition and they started babbling in both Spanish and English, begging "de Aguila" to spare their lives.
Al fired at the ground between the defeated men which immediately shut them up, and he motioned to his companions to grab the bandits' horses before they got away. To the men huddled miserably in the dirt, he rattled something off in Spanish which the other two could not follow, but which sufficiently motivated the thieves to haul ass. On foot. To the nearest town. Which was 40 miles away.
Somewhat stunned upon this revelation, the cowboys were very subdued the next few days, each thinking hard about the rumors they had heard. (There was no way, he would have to have started fighting since he was 13 years old… right?) In the end, the men decided to act normally, although they could not help but duck out of the way whenever Al made a motion with revolver in hand.
At last, the band of cowboys reached their destination with minimal loss to the herd, which the boss proclaimed was a first. After receiving his pay and a hearty handshake, Al said goodbye to his traveling companions. But his new friends would not give him up so easily and they tried to convince Al to join them in the saloon for one last drink (or five).
Out of nowhere, a familiar voice called out his name, his real name, from somewhere behind them. His heart tightened, his breath caught, and in that split second, Al debated ignoring the voice or turning around.
He turned around.
In the dusty street, a young man dressed in a dark suit stared back at him, his expression a mixture of annoyance, shock and utter relief.
"America… Is that you?" He stepped forward and tentatively put his hand on the other's shirt sleeve, as if he could hardly believe this tall, wild-eyed cowboy could be the one he sought.
America gently pulled the hand away, but he nodded and winked, taking in the other's unusual appearance. "You look pretty damn sharp in that Stetson, Canada, you oughta wear it more often."
The other nation ignored this statement, even though it definitely confirmed the man's identity.
"Where the hell were you, America? We've been looking for you for over two years! Do you realize how big this stupid land is? And no one had any idea where you went, and England, he… A-Are you all right?" His voice, while quiet, had taken on a slightly hysterical pitch by the end.
"I'm fine, I'm fine," America reassured his brother, who still glared at him as if he had gone completely insane. (A reasonable conclusion, if Canada had correctly guessed even a third of what the errant nation had been up to since the end of the war.) "And don't start that again," he said, neatly blocking Canada's left hook with practiced ease.
He did not quite expect the next move and nearly fell backward against the saloon's wall when Canada threw his arms around him, the motion knocking his hat off into the street.
"My God, you idiot, you stupid stupid idiot." For once, Canada was at a loss for more descriptive insults, and he kept repeating himself over and over into America's shoulder, his fingers gripping the leather of the cowboy's vest tightly. Not knowing what else to do, America put an arm carefully around his brother's waist.
"Look… I'm sorry. I really am."
Canada looked up and shook his head, laughing under his breath. "Somehow I doubt that." But he stepped back a little, hands sliding to grasp America's grimy gloved ones. "Just… please come home, America. We've missed you."
"Are these women…" Canada winced, but kept his voice down. "Are they… whores?"
"Oh… no." America looked over at the red-haired woman standing by the bar, her bodice almost revealing what she was probably going to reveal anyway. She smiled at the brothers, and then licked her lips most suggestively. "I, uh, think serving women dress like that around here." Which was not a lie, not technically.
Sure enough, she later came by with two plates of what Canada could only assume were meat, from the way they sizzled and glistened with a thick layer of grease. America dug in with relish while Canada held his breath and tried to not gag.
"You… you risked your life to protect the cattle, and now you're eating them?"
"What?" America mumbled from around a bite of steak. "That's what they're there for, to be eaten."
The other nation sighed and poked at his meal with a fork. "I think the meat just mooed at me."
"Ah, that just means it's fresh! Better eat it soon before it gets… not fresh."
Canada gingerly cut off a piece and chewed it with some trepidation. The meat was a little stringy and had a gamey flavor, but it didn't taste bad overall. Besides, if he kept his hands busy, perhaps the waitress would not try to sit on his lap.
"So… I'm eating with you like I promised… Are you going to go home like a good boy now?"
America coughed on the whiskey he was drinking, but he nodded, his eyes wide.
Relieved, Canada started on the steak again, but did not get to finish before the table was flipped over and America hauled him out of the way as a barfight spontaneously erupted.
They managed to escape the fight with their dignity mostly intact, although Canada wasn't sure why the waitress was riding with him.
"Canada, I didn't know you had that in you! What a stud." America looked over his shoulder, a little awed at the other nation's uncharacteristically violent exit.
Canada could not help but grin back as he tried to move the waitress's hands to a more appropriate position. "Well… I had to get us out, right? I couldn't just let them hit us."
The answering laugh warmed him more than he could imagine and America snapped his horse's reins smartly. "Giddyap! Come on, let's get to the station!"
Even if they were reunited only for a little while, it was enough. The two of them galloped off into the sunset, heroes for the day.
[Huge huge fan of cowboy!America here. I am a native Texan after all. Another "classic" written years ago, back when I wrote about nations other than France, I know, you're all shocked.]