Cowboy Up

by Shane Allison

  Bronco collapsed as his accosters sat on the floor, catching their breaths and drinking the dregs of the whiskey Bronco had left beside the bed. After their few moments’ silent respite, Red rose, yawned, and buttoned up. “All right, amigo. Time to get dressed. We need to tie you up and get you back to Española.

  Bronco narrowed his eyes and spat.

  * * *

  Just as Red had promised the sheriff, he and Justice rode back into town with the bound and gagged fugitive slung across the hindquarters of Justice’s horse. The lawman rose from the bench outside his office to greet them.

  Red grinned as he dismounted and walked around to slap the captive Bronco on the ass. “We tried to pull him along on foot behind the horses for a while, but he kept falling. Didn’t want him dragged to death before we got here.” Justice laughed. “If you open the cage, we’ll toss him right in.”

  “Right this way, fellas,” said the sheriff.

  Bronco moaned through his gag as Red and Justice roughly slung him onto the hard cot at the back of the barred cell.

  The sheriff locked the door behind the prisoner, pausing to gaze into his red eyes long enough to be certain this was the right man, then pocketed the key.

  A dusty, road-weary Justice looked over longingly at the familiar pitcher in the corner.

  “Mind if I…?” he asked, in his deep Texas twang.

  “Why don’t you head over to the hotel instead,” the sheriff advised. “You can wash and rest up a bit while I make arrangements for the county judge, and fetch your reward.”

  Mr. Calvin T. Farley, owner and clerk at the small but tidy Española Hotel, was overjoyed to introduce himself to and thank his two new guests for bringing in the villain who’d laid his nephew low. Anything he could get for them would be his great pleasure. Red asked for a nice juicy steak and a bottle of red wine, while Justice requested a bath, scalding hot. Farley hinted that, afterward, he might be able to procure the hospitality of one or two of Miss Lena’s gals for them, but he was met with polite refusal. “Just as you say, gentlemen,” replied the small, moustachioed man, surprised to find that the gunslingers were, perhaps, gentlemen after all.

  Eating and soaking accomplished, it wasn’t long after before the sheriff was knocking on their door. He brought in two hand-tooled saddlebags full of dollar bills and gold nuggets, and laid them carefully on an overstuffed chair. “You’re welcome to count it.”

  “No need, Sheriff,” answered Red, waving the idea away.

  “Bill,” corrected the sheriff. “Bill Thomson.”

  “Pleased to know you, Bill,” said Red, lowering his hand for a shake.

  “Right pleased,” echoed Justice from the bed, pulling on a new pair of socks that Mr. Farley had been kind enough to provide him.

  “Judge’ll be here late tomorrow,” Bill reported.

  “That’s good news,” said Red.

  The transaction complete, the three men fell silent.

  “Well, I’ll be getting back to the office,” Bill announced. “Got old Harry Parsons spelling me while I’ve been taking care of business, but can’t leave him alone too long.” He chuckled. “Probably asleep with his head on the desk right now.” He turned to go.

  “You’ll be spending the night there with Bronco—the prisoner, I imagine?”

  “That’s right,” Bill said, facing Red squarely. “He’ll stay put and face the law when the judge comes, rest assured.” There was a determined pride in his posture and his promise.

  “A sheriff’s work is never done,” affirmed Red, holding the door open for the older man.

  Bill nodded as he left, and Red closed the door behind him.

  After unbuckling first one saddlebag and then the other, Red dug his hands into piles of neatly bound bills and hefty nuggets. “Now that’s what I like to see,” he told Justice. “A promise kept by a good, honest sheriff in a good, honest town.”

  Justice snickered and leaned back against a stack of pillows. “So long as it don’t rub off on us.”

  “Damn right,” said Red, tossing a small chunk of gold at his partner in crime.

  Justice snatched it out of the air, just before it would have struck him in the face. He looked it over as Red joined him.

  “Only one thing I hate about this work,” he grumbled, sitting on the bed’s edge.

  “The waiting,” answered Justice.

  Red made a grunt of assent as he watched Justice’s strong, nimble fingers toy with the glittering rock. “What say you put those hands to better use while we wait for this honest little town to lock its doors and go to sleep?”

  Justice put the precious nugget beside him and helped Red undo his belt and unfasten his pants. Taking out his stiffening rod and bringing his mouth close, the younger man made a sound of annoyance. “Sure wish you’d take a bath sometimes, Red.”

  “A nice tongue bath’s good enough for me,” Red replied, and shoved Justice down.

  By the time the moon was high, a relaxed Red and a bored Justice were ready to get the hell out of Española for good. With it all dark and quiet in the town, there was just one final errand to manage before they made their discreet exit.

  Justice headed for the stables, strapping the saddlebags of loot over the haunches of two well-bred, well-kept horses that suited him better than the tired mounts they rode in on. Leading the pair quietly out to the road, he couldn’t help eyeing a third whose tawny coat was a perfect match for his jacket and boots.

  Tying his selection loosely outside the sheriff’s office, he slipped in to join Red and Bill in a farewell drink of the wine Red had saved for the occasion. A cuffed but ungagged Bronco Vasquez sat on the cot in his cell, hunched over his knees, glaring out at his captors with savage eyes.

  “Appreciate the hospitality, Sheriff, but we’re hoping to reach Jicarilla by daybreak,” Red was explaining. “Seems there’s some crazy rustler up there, killing horses and Indians alike for sport. Not sure the reward’s worth the risk, but we thought we’d take a look.”

  “A bounty hunter’s work is never done,” said Bill with a frown, downing the last of his wine.

  Justice leaned against the wall and crossed his arms, preferring to stand over the rickety stool available. He watched as Red clapped the sheriff on the back and laughed at his attempt at humor, then glanced at the man in the cell, who remained as still as death but for the menacing glow in his deep brown eyes.

  Bill yawned.

  “Tired, Sheriff?” asked Red.

  “Guess so,” Bill replied with a smile. “But don’t you worry about me. I’ll be…be…”

  His thought was left incomplete as the sheriff slumped forward over his desk.

  Red patted him gently on the back. “You have a good rest now. We’ll see to everything.” With that, he withdrew the cell and wrist-iron keys from his pocket, tossed them to Justice, and then carefully removed his gun belt from around his waist. “Got you some nice shiny new pistolas, guapo,” he said over his shoulder as Bronco emerged from the cage, stretching his long limbs.

  “Vámanos,” beckoned Bronco, leading the way out the door as he strapped the sheriff’s belt around his waist. “I’m sick of this town. Oh, and next time, Red, you get to be the criminal.”

  THE NAKED COWBOY

  Shane Allison

  I had a slew of cars behind me traveling down Woodville Highway on a busted tire. I was on my way to a Mother’s Day cookout at my Auntie Earline’s house when it gave out. One more day and I’ll be there, I thought. I was hoping the tire would hold until I could get somewhere to change it. I veered slowly off to the soft shoulder to let the other cars pass, and stepped out of the car into fat blades of grass I crushed beneath my ice cream Adidas. Horns blared; rednecks that sat in the bed of a truck caked with dried mud hollered a racial epithet that seemed to slice right through me. “WHOAH, LOOK AT THE NIGGER!”

  “FUCK YOU, CRACKA!” I said, shoving my middle finger into the air. I made sure I was careful where I stood. Some kid got cre
amed by a cement truck on that same highway about two weeks ago. News said he died on impact. All that was left was crime scene tape and a bloody shoe. Just goes to show that you can’t take life for granted, ’cuz you never know when the Lord’s about to call you home.

  The whoosh of wind from the cars damn near knocked me over. I popped the trunk and checked in back for a spare. There was nothing but old math textbooks sticky with melted candy, dirty stuffed animals, and clothes in plastic bedsheet bags that Ma hadn’t gotten around to taking to the cleaners. “Damn,” I said, slamming the hood of the trunk down. It wouldn’t have mattered anyway seeing as how I didn’t know the first thing about changing a tire. Sweat was already starting to break across my forehead during that merciless month of July. It didn’t help me none to be wearing a long-sleeved shirt that was fifty percent cotton, forty percent polyester either. I didn’t have a cell phone. I hated the things.

  I had passed a gas station seven miles back. I looked around, using my hand as a visor to keep the sun out of my face. All that was around were broken-down barns and a hollowed out old Piggly Wiggly with the windows shuttered over with plyboard and two-by-fours. I took the tail end of my shirt and wiped the sweat from my face. I noticed a pasture with a few horses grazing, munching on bales of hay. The stretch of sun-bleached highway hushed. I locked the car and walked across onto the graveled, narrow trail that led up to a large ranch house. The cruel effects of the heat mixed with the stench of cow and horseshit, and I took off my shirt and wiped the excess perspiration from my face and neck. I felt sweat rolling down my back. I threw the shirt over my shoulder and trudged up the road stirring up dust with each step; cows mooed at me with their mouths stuffed with strands of hay. The closer I came to the two-story white monstrosity, the more I was able to make out. There was an old broken-down pickup parked out front, eaten up by rust and corrosion. Before I took another step toward the house, a gunshot rang out that was only an ass hair away from my foot. I jumped out of the line of fire, crawling in the dirt for cover. The gravel felt hard and coarse under my belly and the knobs of my elbows. Two more shots were issued, hitting the rusted-out truck and then a green tractor. Whoever it was, he couldn’t shoot for shit. I ripped a piece of material from my shirt, waved it in the air in surrender, and hollered, “Don’t shoot.”

  “Get off my property,” I heard. The shooter’s words were close enough to take heed.

  “I saw your livestock and thought somebody was living here.” I peeked my head from the bush where I had taken cover. “My car’s on the side of the road with a flat,” I explained. My head was throbbing from all the yelling.

  “Come on outta there,” said the shooter. I was weary of these backwoods types. Don’t give them a reason to put a bullet in your ass. Especially if that ass is black. I stood up, my belly and chest peppered with dirt. I searched the house for signs of life, waving my torn shirt in the air once more hoping I wouldn’t get my head blown off.

  “Come on, keep walking.”

  I followed the shooter’s words. The sleeves of my shirt dragged along the trail that led up to the house. I stood at the start of the road, between yards of fence posts, in front of a porch that that was strewn with metal guts. I noticed the barrel of a gun protruding from the frame of a screen door. My mouth was dry from thirst; sweat burned my eyes. “Can you help me?” I asked. The man showed himself, holding up a rifle that seemed to be aimed directly at my head. He looked to be about middle age, sporting filthy jeans and a T-shirt to match. Black feathered tufts of hair stuck from the rim of his cowboy hat.

  “I don’t have a spare and I was wondering if I could use your phone.”

  “Ain’t got no phone,” he said, before he spat liquid tobacco from his mouth.

  “Shit,” I said. The armed brute noticed how weary and beaten I looked.

  “You want some water?” He threw his weapon over his shoulder and said, “Come on inside.” I followed reluctantly behind him up the rickety steps. “Watch that last step.” I stood out of the way of the rifle’s mouth as I followed him through the screen door. The house was a mess. He lived like he was a bachelor.

  “Take a load off,” he told me as he leaned his rifle in a corner next to the refrigerator in the kitchen. I pulled a chair out from the table and took a seat.

  “You wanna beer instead?” he asked.

  I didn’t care at that point if it was pig piss. I was about to keel over from thirst. “So, where were you headed?”

  “There’s this Mother’s Day cookout thing at my aunt’s house to celebrate all the mothers in the family.”

  He fished out two cold bottles and popped the tabs off. Fizz oozed from the longnecks over his fingers smudged with crud. He handed one to me. The beer washed down my throat as I took a long swig. With the back of his hand, he wiped the drops of beer from his mouth.

  “Thirsty, huh?” He smiled. “’Bout all I can do is give you a ride to your aunt’s house.”

  “Okay, my daddy will go with me later to get the car.”

  We both took another drink from our beers.

  “Name’s Heath by the way,” he said, holding out his hand.

  “Antwan.”

  His shake was tough. A foam of beer formed on Heath’s chocolate-brown moustache. I wanted to lick it clean, but not with a loaded rifle so close.

  “It’s beautiful out here.”

  “My daddy left it to me. Been in my family for generations.”

  “You stay out here by yourself?”

  “’Fraid so. My daddy died a few years back, so it’s just me now.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Why? You didn’t kill him. I love it out here. It’s quiet and nobody bothers me.”

  I glanced between Heath’s legs, but only for a few seconds. I sat there, drinking the last swallow of beer, and thought of what his dick must look like: hard, moist with sweat, surrounded by musky pube hairs. I wondered if it was cut or uncut. The last time I beat off was that morning under the comforter with the help of a naked biker sprawled out in the naughty pages of a gay stroke mag.

  “So, how about a tour of this place?” he said.

  Heath grabbed two new beers from the fridge, popped the tabs, and handed me another.

  “Come on, I’ll show you around.” We strolled past cows and horses, a pen of pigs, hogs, and chickens. I made sure I watched my step. I didn’t want to step in all the shit that was everywhere. Heath didn’t seem to care.

  “The bank was going to take my land, but I was able to pull some strings.”

  I stared at the bit of asscrack that showed over the waistline of Heath’s jeans. My dick was already thumping in my shorts, rustling around in my underwear. I thought of Heath’s hand on his dick, jacking his piece, his dirty mouth hot on my dick.

  “So what about you? You married, got a girlfriend?”

  I searched for an answer, not all that comfortable explaining to someone like Heath that I worship at the altar of dick. “Naw, I’m not dating anyone right now.”

  “Well, you’re young. You got plenty time.”

  My luck with men was shit. I spent nights in bars and clubs cruising for Mr. Right Now, sucking dick through glory holes in the back of super center sex stores, on my knees in the toilets of college libraries. For me, love only existed in corny gay romance movies.

  “So what about you? You stay out here by yourself?” I asked.

  “Yep, just me. I had some ranch hands working for me for a while, but I fell on bad times so I had to let them go. I’ve had a few incidences of some of my cattle being stolen. Sorry I shot at you back there. Just can’t be too careful. You know things are going to shit when you’re not even safe on your own property in your own house.”

  “I can definitely relate. My auntie, who lives down the street from my folks, got her trailer broken into. Stole her flat-screen TV, her microwave, and her toaster oven.”

  “Dang, even the toaster oven?” Heath asked.

  “Yeah, can you believe it? My
daddy installed a security system in her place.”

  “Hell, my rifle is the only security system I need.” Heath’s laugh was raspy like he had sandpaper in his throat.

  “Well, these animals are beautiful.”

  “I had to sell off a few to get the money to keep my ranch going.”

  “Have you ever considered selling?”

  “I’ve had some offers, but I can’t bring myself to sell this place. It’s my home.”

  My heart went out to Heath. “Would you believe that I’ve never been out on a ranch before?” Heath cut me a surprised glance.

  “Jesus, never?”

  “I’m a city boy for the most part. I have an apartment in midtown.” The July heat was beating against my skin. I could smell the coconut hair grease cooking in my hair. I wiped more sweat from my brow with the back of my hand. “I was born and raised down here in Woodville. My folks still stay out here. I know my way around, yeah, but I’ve never experienced anything like this before. It’s so green and wide open.”

  “You’re better than me, man. I can’t stand the city. Too fussy.”

  “Yeah, definitely no shortage of that, and with the students here, it’s even worse. People think that ’cuz Tallahassee is a small town, nothing goes on here, but the crime and the craziness has gotten so bad. Funny. When I turned eighteen, I couldn’t wait to get out of the sticks, from under my folks, but I miss being out here sometimes.”

  “It’s quiet,” Heath said. “You can think.”

  “Right, exactly. I always have this sense of unease when I’m in the city.” Heath took off his dirt-smudged Stetson, and ran his arm across his brow to clear away the sweat that was popping off his face. “Well, you know what they say. Absence makes the heart grow fonder.”

  “Yeah, that couldn’t be truer.” I honestly had grown way past sick of the city. It was more convenient to get to work, stores, and the bars, but the stores were a rip off and I was spending more of my Friday and Saturday nights at home curled up with a good book or a movie than I did going to clubs only to be ignored by twinks who walked around like their shit didn’t stink.