PROLOGUE: In his epic composition Study Out The Land, the poet T.K. Whipple famously proclaimed, "All of America lies at the end of the wilderness road."

The bard was correct in his assessment because that is precisely where this great country we lovingly call the United States can truly be discovered.

Who hasn't grown up wanting to be a cowboy? Vicariously, through tales like this one, we all can be.

Whipple also stated, "Our forefathers had civilization inside themselves."

It is we who thrive in the civilization those forefathers created, and inside us the wilderness still lingers. We live what they dreamed and dream what they lived. Our dreams of tomorrow are surrounded by fences, but they dreamed at night when fences weren't there.

Told through the eyes of a young cowboy named Wyatt, Pecos Valley is anything but predictable. With prose as smooth as worn saddle leather, it is a tale full of calamity and a wistful but prevailing human spirit.

Follow the camaraderie that develops among cowboys on the trail and consider what's important: is it the way we live our lives or what we accomplish while we are here?

Now listen close and you will undeniably hear voices sound as sad as a coyote howling at the moon as they sing along for this is the last cowboy song.

Welcome to Pecos Valley.

(***NOTE: For 2018, I decided I need a new writing challenge. This is my first attempt at the Western genre.)



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CAST OF CHARACTERS:

Wyatt - a young cowboy on the Bar JS ranch in the Arizona Territory and narrator of this tale.

John Shelton and Vernon Alexander - co-owners of the BAR JS ranch. They are seasoned, but beleaguered frontiersmen who share a unique and unspoken bond.

Eleanor - murdered lady of the evening.


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Part One: Ridin' for the Brand

The strawberry sorrel with a white star that burst across his forehead, and a flaxen mane and tail, had never been broke. I spoke gently to him as I eased the rope over his head. Before the day was over he would be mine.

How did I knowed? Because John Shelton said so, and what Mr. Shelton said goes. Least ways 'round these parts it does. If a cowboy don't like that he's free to draw his wages, mount up, and ride off seeking his fortunes elsewhere. Funny thing, since I've been here no cowboy's ever rode off, nor have I ever see'd a finer bangtail in all the Arizona Territory.

'Bout the time I climbed on the sorrel's broad back, Vernon Alexander strolled out on the porch. A boar feasted on a rattler--mind you, not a very big one. Reckon the reptile slithered around seeking shade when it runned into the shoat.

"Git! Go eat that snake some place else," Verne said as he kicked the pig in the rump with the toe of his boot.

The porker waddled down the steps as I and the sorrel bounced around the corral. He throwed me high in the sky. I plummeted head over heels and landed flat on my back with a thud. Stars swirled around my eyeballs. Quickly, I scurried to my feet, snagged the rope that dangled around the horse's neck, and remounted. We was off again.

It weren't the snake Verne begrudged the pig. Temperatures scorched and the boar crowding the porch made them hotter. Verne stepped down into the sandy wagon yard. His jug awaited him in the springhouse. He paid little mind to the snorting sorrel I straddled. That was my battle. To Verne's eye, the long light from the western sun took on an encouraging slant.

Nightfall came slowly to Pecos Valley. However, when darkness arrived it offered a welcome comfort. Most days, the sun trapped the valley in thick dust. Abundant roadrunners, stinging lizards, and rattlesnakes found a haven in the chaparral flats.

A roofless barn and three mended corrals were the offices of the Bar JS ranch, half of which Verne owned. John Shelton, his stubborn partner, owned the other half. Weak-willed people was a thorn in his side. Most things was.

The adobe springhouse was so cool Verne often considered living in it, except yellow jackets, black widows, and scorpions called the lumpy building home. When Verne slid the latch and opened the door, he heared the unmistakable buzz of a nervous rattler. The serpent was coiled in the far corner, prepared to strike. Verne decided not to shoot it. On a quiet day in Pecos Valley gunfire would create unnecessary complications.

The townsfolk would hear the shot ring out. They would assume the Apaches or Mexicans was in an uproar. If any of the drunks in the Silver Cent saloon heared the shot they'd most likely run out into the street, guns ablazin', and shoot whoever they saw just to be on the safe side. Worst of all, Mr. Shelton would stomp up from the feed lot only to be more annoyed it had only been a snake Verne killed.

Mr. Shelton held no fondness for snakes, or anyone who abided them. He exterminated the creepy crawlies with whatever instrument of destruction close by. Verne's philosophy was a mite more leisurely. He gave living critters time to ponder the possibilities and remained in the heat of the noonday sun. The rattler seized the opportunity and slithered out a hole.

Verne extracted his jug out of the mud makin' sure no fire ants, scorpions, red-legged centipedes, or other variety of insects had crawled inside the damp burlap his jug was wrapped in. He uncorked the bottle and drank more than a modest swig.

I recalled a story he told me once about a gaucho with low morals. The good citizens of Pecos Valley was ready to string the hombre up at the first excuse they found. After a two-bit poke of Eleanor, the town's resident lady of the evening, the gaucho failed to shake his pants out before putting them back on. He got stung by a scorpion. This angered the gaucho and he shot the madam. The incensed townspeople, most of whom was down below Eleanor's boudoir in the Silver Cent saloon, lynched the gaucho immediately.


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(There is much more to come to this part, however, there are right now 1,189 words posted. By FanStory "standards" that is more than enough for one section. So, this tale will definitely have to be continued.)

***Most FanStorians don't, but READ the notes.