The First Time

Texas' heat hadn't taken many steps in reverse since sunset, still making a handkerchief rise to mop a wet brow from a hard seat that overlooked Main Street. Inside the saloon where the outside air couldn't permeate deep enough to stir the layer of smoke that puffed out of numerous mouths, the temperature ticked up instead of down. The number it reached, if it had been known, never mattered there anyway, for once it reached a certain level, the colorful descriptions that were put on the heat were their own form of digits. No Texas regular, however, would have been able to wear the label if he couldn't endure summer's fiercest elements. The fans only for the ladies to flutter, the men were left with little options when the sweat stains became multiplied, but the one that was turned to most often was a drink. But why settle for water, when a certain brew would do?

That was why he entered, the dainty doors separating as his narrow waist hit them. He figured if he downed another canteen full of water that might have tasted wet going down, but as it was far from the color of crystal clear, he might wind up spitting mud before the night was through. Only something hotter than the air could cut the feeling in his throat. He had to wade through a crowd to get it, but finding the only open spot, he slapped the coin on the bar top.

"Whiskey."

The natural drawl made his lip turn upward, catching the eye of a scantily clad woman who needed more than a waving fan, for her other hand was closed around a cup, not empty, but that could be fixed with a simple swallow. Yet as she swept her skirt closer, getting a better look at what was behind at the same time as a shift to the full mirror of what was in front, she turned to find a more appropriate suitor. He was too young to tempt. She had just topped her thirtieth year, and if she had been like her own ma and married at fifteen, wouldn't that make her old enough to be his mother?

She passed him with a pat against his shoulder, and noticing her abrupt change in directions, he turned to place his back against the bar, watching as she befriended a man who was willing to offer a portion of the bottle that was in front of him, and perhaps later, something more. Of course he had noticed her eyeing him. His lashes weren't that long to hide the distinct look she gave, and although she would have been defined as more than pretty, he was grateful that she had walked on by. He wasn't ready for that type of touch against his lips. After all, he had barely been introduced to the other kind of flame, the one he was drinking.

He tipped the glass up to his lips, the bitter taste dancing on his tongue before taking the dive down his throat, and although he set his jaw in the position of stone, the responding expression couldn't be delivered as plain. Another better go down to try to tame the wince. He shifted his body to face the bar, the second coin ready to be slapped, but in doing so he nudged the man next to him. It would have been impossible to miss the outstretched arm in their tight space with men lining the entire bar, but the one he struck didn't seem to understand that was all there was to it.

"You pushing me out of the way, boy?"

"No," he answered, the cup in his hand hitting the wooden counter with a smack. "Just coming in for a refill."

"Then watch what you're doing."

"Maybe you should be the one keeping an eye out."

"You talk kinda tough for a kid," he said, grinning as he reached for the bottle that was beside his arm, and in an action done merely in showing off to the younger, he put the top to his lips to down a long swig.

"I reckon that's because I've been on my own for more'n a year."

"A year!" The guffaw drew the attention of half of the saloon, but since it was being held longer by a group of four around him, it was obvious that they were all together. "Take a look, fellas. He thinks he's seen it all because he's been out in it for a year. What's your name anyway?"

"My name's Jess Harper," he said, watching the unchanging faces in front of him. They hadn't heard of him. Yet. That would change someday. And then at the sound of his name would be wide-eyed awe.

"Well now, Jess Harper," said the man, not yet lost of his smile that was growing snarkier by the moment. "Since you're a man of this world, tell me, how old does one have to be to reach such a milestone?"

"I'm sixteen."

"Oohh." The thin mustache above his mouth twitched as he jabbed his elbow into his closest friend's side. "Listen to the big man boast. Sixteen! What does that make him ripe for, sweeping sidewalks or delivering newspapers up and down the street?"

"You reckon my gun'll be a good enough answer?" Jess asked, his step away from the bar done without flaw as his hand hovered over his iron.

"You draw on me, boy, and you won't see seventeen. You see, I've been around a lot longer than a year."

"I'm not afraid of the challenge," Jess said, the blue of his eyes reducing to menacing slits that didn't show the fluttering that suddenly began in his middle. The only way he knew to eliminate the nervous grind of his innards was to harden it with experience. Here was an opportunity to put another notch in that quest, but also to put a notch in his gun, one that would grow his name closer to one of fame. "You?"

"Hold on, now." The barkeep's command was completed with a thud, bringing a rifle out of its hiding place behind the bar to slam its barrel against the counter. "No troubles in here, understand? You want to fight, then outside."

"That's fine with me." Jess slowly lifted an eyebrow, pushing the challenge completely on top of his opponent. "Cooler out there, too."

"All right," he answered, his gaze shifting slightly to the man next to him, and with a toss of his head toward the door, the silent message sent two of the four companions to the door. "But just so you know, if we're baking, frying or skating on ice, I've still got the advantage."

"We'll see."

The saloon grew silent as Jess followed the older man to the dark line that was the separation between in and out, expecting once they reached the other side that the sound of their guns would end a life. But just like the youngest man involved, the crowd didn't notice the intent of the two men that had made the earlier exit, for there was an entirely different battle in mind.

His body through the saloon doors, his wrist was grabbed by a rough set of fingers, jerking Jess' body off of the boardwalk and into the dirt. He rolled, his hand searching for his gun, but as contact was made, a boot darted forward and a sharp toe collided with the iron's butt, sending the weapon far out of reach. The fury outweighing his fear, Jess leapt to his feet, an arm already poised for a strike, but there were two stronger hands that gripped each arm, and with a command from a mustache-topped mouth, he was hauled to an alleyway. No witnesses meant no repercussion. What went even better was that the interior had forgotten, the saloon already back in its normal racket.

Jess was let go when he was swallowed with darkness, but even though he couldn't see the faces, he aimed for them. He was able to make contact with a mustache before he was knocked to his rear, and once dropped he would never regain a shred of control, even as he was raised back to his feet. The punches flew at him in all directions, his face taking the brunt of an untold amount, but once his head began to droop, the belts change direction. His stomach, his ribs, his thighs, his back. Everywhere felt the repeated stings and when he could hold himself upright no longer, his body crashed to the ground, that particular blow nothing compared to what was yet to be heaped on him.

"You gonna kill him, Doug?"

The mustache was given a slight wipe as he emitted a chuckle. "Why not?"

.:.

His pa and uncle were thickly wrapped in their discussion and as it had long since trailed into uninteresting territory for his ears, he pushed his chair back, the request quick to appear on his tongue that he could walk around town before it was time to leave. Granted, he set his hat on his head as he put the diner's fragrance of every variety of beef behind him and chose the direction of his walk. Left. There was no reasoning in his decision, just that it had more light shining from the windows that bathed the otherwise dark street.

The general store was the first to be passed which barely caught his glance as he had already been inside its walls before suppertime, his eyes giving it a long enough look over then when his pa delivered their short list to the clerk. Next in line was a dressmaker's shop, his foot giving a pause as the light flickered in the window, showing a woman bent over a frock with needle in hand going up and down in such a fast motion he could hardly see the fingers fly. His attention would have been piqued more if the color of her hair wasn't showing shades of gray, but since it never hurt to look, he gave one last glance and then moved on.

It was a small town, and he would have admitted that he had seen most of it in daylight, but since his travels to other parts of the country were limited, he wanted to see the Texas sights at night. In reality, it wasn't much different. The glimpse inside of the dressmaker's shop was only possible with the shifting from light to dark, but what else was there to see that was different? He knew, and he was looking at its noisy bustle from across the street, but that had been part of the stipulation of being allowed to wander.

"Just stay clear of the saloon, Son," said his pa when he stood to leave and he nodded his promise.

He was eighteen and he had been in the one at home before, even tasted both whiskey and beer, but he understood his pa's instruction. A different place with different faces could mean trouble, and already at his young age, he had made the choice to remain one stride in front of trouble. He would do the same this night. However, his long legs could stay away and still see a portion of what was making the saloon's walls sway.

Taking a wide turn around the light that splashed from the two windows and the smaller rectangle that was the door, his steps slowed at its center, but the piano's unmelodic tinkle couldn't keep his head aimed to find an outline of who was pounding on it. There was another sound that had a stronger urge to view and he walked into the alleyway, each step making the grunts and slaps louder, but it was the wheezing cough underneath that made his steps crush harder and a head whipped around to discover his approach.

The hoarse whisper was louder than if a real horse was creating the words. "Stop, Doug! Someone's coming!"

The group looked his way, and for a moment, he expected the cluster of men to turn on him, which made his hand find the gun at his hip, but in a sudden scurry of feet, they rounded the corner of the saloon, the pounding against the hard ground indication enough that they had made a full retreat. He was about to turn himself back around when a soft sound crept across the dirt, climbed his leg and tickled his ear. He looked into the darkness, unable to see the figure, but when the waft of air changed to a moan, he stepped into the deepest shadows, his foot barely missing the curve of a leg.

Dropping to one knee, his hands started at the belly and gliding upward, they paused over the chest, the rise and fall obvious by more than his touch. Every breath gurgled from blood in his mouth or nose, maybe even both. Pressing into the flesh along the side closest to the dirt, he felt the misshapen angle of broken ribs and then as he carefully brought his fingertips to the cheek, the sticky heat met his touch before he made full contact. There must have been more cuts on his face than a porcupine had quills. He lifted his head, his lips shifting into a grim line as he followed the escape route of the men responsible and then dropped his eyes back below him.

It was too dark to see any features, but as he slid one arm underneath his shoulders and the other under his legs, the hoist upward making the air in his chest puff out hard only once, he could tell by the weight that lay in his arms that he was young. Too young to be in a fight with five men, but if the boy had been offering punches of his own, likely he wouldn't have agreed with him and sent a balled-up fist to crash into his lip. But the boy was in no position to offer even his little finger in retaliation, for once raised from the ground he fell into a darkness deeper than the shadows he had been lying in.

Getting away from the dark alley to a not much brighter street, he stopped along a hitching post, his eyes spreading from left to right. He had barely paid attention to the sign on the way to Sissy's Diner and since he had walked in the opposite direction at his exit, he couldn't recall its exact placement. But there was a doctor within a reasonable distance, he just had to find it. Shifting his gaze from one building to another, he finally saw the white square in the dim glow from an upstairs window and making sure the body in his arms was in a secure cradle, he hurried to the front step that belonged to Doctor Avery.

He tapped on the door with his foot, and while a bell at the top jingled, his head whipped to what was behind him. To avoid the heat of the day, their stage would be rolling at night, and by the sound of the hooves hitting the ground and then coming to a stop, he knew he could linger only a few seconds more. Giving the door a rougher punch, he finally heard the steps on the other side making approach, and then he lowered the thin frame to the ground. Knowing the time was running as fast as his legs could pump, he reached into his pocket and pulled a couple of bills away from his small roll. The boy would need it more than he. Tucking the money into a palm, he folded the fingers over it and then as the doorknob was turned, he took a step backward, his fleeing not done in guilt like the physician might have thought when he saw the condition of his patient, but hurrying to the other side of town before a reprimand of another could be too strong.

"There you are, Son." The familiar voice reached him as his boots thumped the ground. "I've been looking all over for you. The stage is about ready to go."

"Sorry, Pa," he said, his steps quickening to land beside his pa in front of the depot. "Got sidetracked."

"Well, Ben, I'm glad we could visit awhile." The two men with matching gray at their temples shook hands, the separation reluctant, but as the driver of the coach was getting in his seat, the brothers knew it was time to let go. "Life gets so hectic sometimes on the ranch that it's hard to find time to pull away."

"I understand, Matt. Give my best to Mary."

"We will. Ready, boy?"

"Sure Pa," he answered, waiting for his pa to take his seat inside before putting his foot on the step. "So long, Uncle Ben."

The stagecoach kicked into motion with a raspy call from the driver's mouth, the small town beyond the window's square seeming to rattle with the wheels, but despite the mostly dark view, he searched for a particular piece to latch his eyes onto. Finding the doctor's name with more ease than before since another lamp had been lit, more than likely in the room where a pair of skilled hands worked, he thought of the one whose blood stain marred the sleeve of his shirt.

An unknown name with an unknown face, he had been beaten just short of his death for an unknown reason. It was obvious what kind of men had done the thrashing, but because Laramie was his home and not this dusty hole in the Texas wilds, he would never know what prompted such a violent bruising. For all he knew, the boy was just as vile as those that ran away.

He swallowed, giving a tip of his hat as the stage rolled by the lit window, his whisper aimed for the one inside. "I hope you were worth saving."

"What was that, Slim?"

"Nothing, Pa," Slim replied, the doctor's shingle disappearing from view, taking the boy inside away with it too.