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Your hand hesitates, hovering equidistant between your chest and the outstretched palm of Brown, the proprietor of the general store. His gaze is unflinching, you see his mouth stay very still, very still. You slowly shift your eyes without moving your head to the stock you’ve brought to the counter. You slowly shift your eyes back to Brown. Your last dollar, the very last of your power to manipulate man’s world.
Almost imperceptibly at first, your hand crawls through the air. So…slowly. You’d just made your hundred, you’d just climbed out of the shit for what seemed like the thousandth time in your life. Your hand only just shifts over the countertop when Brown relieves you of the paper. Hands like lightning. Broke again. Figures. Your humors do rise as you pick up the victuals and place them in your satchel. With a deep sigh you leave the store, back into the air. Past noon and much more importantly past supper. The sun is lazy, in no great rush to find the bottom of the world, but it plods along. Finally, it’s done. You are prepared with weapon, shot, food, treatment, and poetry for your ascent to the deep, high places in these mountains.
That can all be held at bay until tomorrow, until you fill your stomach and lay down your head. Whittier promised you an empty tent just cleared out by a seasonal. It stands at the end of one of the rows, and is nothing smart to look at. It does have a cot, with fresh linen, and a mirror and table. In your sorry state, you’re happy to have it. You ply the cook woman at the logging site for another plate of bacon and tomatoes. She acquiesces with little protest, her eyes avoiding your cracked cheeks while doling out your meal.
The bacon is hot, as is the grease. You devour it mercilessly, along with cornbread and a dram of whiskey. Little swirls of grease and tomato juice fall pink and brown down your chin. Full up, you retire. In your tent, you strip off to your long johns, stowing your satchel as a pillow behind your head, and pulling the triple linens up to your chin. It’s around 4:00 in the afternoon, the sun is touching its nose to the horizon, the late birdsong chatters. You are warm. Your belly is full. You haven’t slept for almost two days, and you’re speared by old Morpheus in less than a minute, his harpoon dragging you deeper and deeper down.
