Last of a Breed

Part two - Next Morning1

"Mmm," moaned JW, as he emerged from the drunken state of unconsciousness he'd fallen into after a fun filled evening with far too many whiskey's.2

"Damn," he muttered. "Tastes like somethin' crawled in my mouth and died."3

After waking with a headache the size of Amarillo, he bolted up in bed rubbing his eyes to wipe away the sleep. Throwing back the covers he scooted to the edge plopping his feet on the cold bare floor, at the same time, wondering if he'd gotten back to his room with his boots still on. 4

He been known to lose a thing or two when he'd swilled too much of the brown stuff down. 5

With a last final grunt, he clambered to his feet. Still unsettled from the booze he steadied himself with one hand, filled a water glass with the other and gulped it down in an effort to quench the fire raging in his gut.6

Hangovers were not a pleasant experience for JW. They often awakened thoughts of the past one really wants to forget. Not so today, in spite of the throbbing in his head, JW drifted back in time as he reflected on his childhood in the Texas hill country and his daddy's struggle to tame the land. He smiled while thoughts of spring and honeysuckle vines drifted thru his mind. He recalled the freedom of his youth, how he felt running barefoot in the wind and the old swimming hole, where kids gathered to splash and cavort in the cool clear water, on hot summer afternoons. Like most boys JW delighted in the simple things, such as, catching bugs and blue tail lizards while a red boned hound, frolicking by his side, howled as if he'd just tree'd a coon.7

He reflected on the morning, as a young man of seventeen, he left the farm mounted on an old swayback nag headed west, seeking to make his way in the world. And the months that followed before he found himself on the streets of Cochise, Arizona dirty, broke and hungry. The first person he met was the sheriff, a man who prided himself on being a judge of good moral character. He took JW under his wing gave him a job at the jail sweeping up and tending the cells, a cot to sleep on and fed him beans and bacon three times a day. 8

Not much of a start, he later wrote in a letter to his folks.9

In six months JW hired on as a deputy becoming a trusted and tenacious guardian of justice.10

Years would pass before the governor, eager to fill the ranks of his, newly organized, territorial rangers, invited JW to join. By then, a well known sheriff, respected by all who knew him, for being a fair and even handed man, including the outlaws he'd sent to prison. He graciously accepted the invitation knowing full well he'd be among some very illustrous company made up mostly of plainsmen and soldiers of fortune. 11

JW fit right in with this cavalier band of avenging angels.12

Despite his rough and tumble ways JW was a well rounded individual who liked to dance, enjoyed a good cigar and read poetry now and then. Inspired by the moment a poem written on a piece birch bark, by an old range bum, came to mind.
Still afflicted with the dry mouth, a side effect of cheap whiskey, when he tried reciting a line or two his tongue got twisted in the words.13

As if he'd been in a trance when a loud noise occurred, outside his window, he snapped back to reality. Looking at his image in the mirror he scowled at his appearance. Splashing water on his face he scraped away the two day old growth of stubble that covered his rugged good looks.14

Reluctantly ready to greet the day, he stumbled out of the hotel, into the street and meandered across to Charlie Breens cafe. As JW approached the old waitress, still wearing that same frumpy dress, set up a cup at a table nearest the window and filled it with steaming hot coffee. When he shuffled into the cafe she pointed to the cup and nodded.15

"Thanks," JW grumbled in return.16

Slipping quietly into the chair he lifted the cup to his lips and took a big sip. Sighing as the intoxicating liquid slithered down his throat, reawakening his senses. Though it wouldn't kill the pain - with the aid of an aspirin powder, and a little hair of the dog that bit him, he'd be good as new and ready for the trail again.