Excerpt from "Horizon Dawn" book

As the violent thunderstorm finally wound down at the Van Gangen ranch, the bunkhouse boys reluctantly terminated the poker game. A few grabbed the last of the thick, black coffee remnants, filling their cups, then hurriedly swallowing the lukewarm “sludge”. On a working cattle ranch, a little rain did not halt the routine, and, never-ending, tedium of chores.

Slogging through the mud, they gathered fresh, dry wood from under the “winter” storage shed, just a lean-to extending the bunkhouse where wood logs were stored for handy use; the hands made short work of rekindling the branding fire, they laid now-cold irons in the flames.

Slowly, but, efficiently, the effort of round-up got back on track; the cowboys were hazing the cattle, separating the critters into smaller groups of sorting determination, roping one individual animal after another to be “cajoled” by pushing, or, even, dragging, each to the branding fire.

Within a half hour of actually beginning the work, they had branded eight of the herd; the pace would increase once the flow of a rhythm, of sorts, was reestablished. A half mile northeast of the men clustered around the branding fire, three riders hazed a dozen head toward the ranch.

Just as the outriders headed their wards into a holding pen to await their turn under the hot iron, the activity abruptly halted when a blood-curdling scream emanating from the ranch house front porch area reached the collective ears of the busy hands engaged in the branding process; they recognized the female voice-of-alarm as that of the house maid who worked for old Ezra.

Looking to one another in total confusion, the cowboys peered toward the porch area.

The house maid, Gertrude, stood before Ezra, seemingly sleeping in his rocking chair; the maid stood frozen, staring down at her boss while clutching her white apron hem to her bosom. She was wide-eyed; her complexion had paled to a ghostly white façade. The hands ran to her.

As the first of the cowboys reached the porch steps, they paused. It was patently obvious that Ezra van Gangen was dead; a pale pallor of grey-white death shading his face announced his demise; a crimson stain like a blooming rose spreading on his chest, staining his shirt, confirmed the obvious. Several of the men had made a passing, cursory observation of Ezra sitting there; their errant assumption was that the old man had come out after the storm to relax in the cool of the aftermath and had fallen asleep; none had given it a second thought.

While they removed the body to the house, laying the corpse on his bed and covering it with a blanket, the foreman, Will Evers, conscripted Slim, one of the ranch hands, to ride into town

 “Slim,” the foreman instructed, once you get there, look up Sheriff Adrian and inform him of Ezra’s death, explain that it clearly appears that the old man had been ambushed with a large caliber rifle and that the law needs to come out here, to the ranch, as soon as he can make it.”

Will Evers added that Slim was to take his time, that there was no rush in the matter---Now!.

Slim tended to be a man of “good” intentions though not always quick of delivery. By the time he had lazed around the bunkhouse, getting his “gear” together, first finding his always absent canteen hiding under his bunk wrapped in several dirty shirts the cowhand had vacantly discarded there, he took his time walking to the ranch yard well to refill the empty container, stopping several time for long minutes of telling the tale to any who would spare the time to listen of how foreman, Will Evers, had chosen him, Slim, for the important task of fetching the town sheriff to the ranch to catch whoever had dry-gulched old Ezra van Gangen; the five minute task took somewhat better than a full half hour. Slim was a born lollygagging procrastinator.

At long  last returning to the bunkhouse with a full canteen of spring-fresh well water, the hand sat on his bunk to contemplate what he ought to pack for his arduous journey, all the while, in serious deliberations, he sipped on the refreshing contents of his now-found canteen. By the time he had decided he would definitely need his rifle, half the liquid contents were gone.

Slim spent another half hour searching out his long gun, then trying his best to remove surface rust from the metal receiver and barrel since he had not bothered to clean the lever action weapon the last time he had used it. “Now? Just when was that?” Slim wondered, considering. “Oh! Yeah!” He finally decided. “Six long months ago, in the early fall when he and his cowboy buddy, ‘Rowdy’ Roger, had gone antelope hunting.” That the pair had ended up in the Albino Prairie Dog Saloon on the day of the hunt around mid-afternoon; he did not want to dwell on it, that is, until his memory settled on the cute little gal with the skimpy dress and big---Personality!

Recalling that delightful encounter brought on a pleasurable episode of more reminiscing; as another twenty minutes slipped away, Slim managed to drain the sweet well water from his canteen, necessitating yet another sojourn to the supply hole replete with the obligatory self-important telling of his coming trek into town to fetch Sheriff Adrian. He even managed to tell the same tale to two cowboys still digesting his recent, original narration of the adventure.

So, to make a long story, short---Yeah! Probably too late for that, now…ole Slim managed to vacate the ranch site just shy of four hours since being handed the important assignment. Well! He did have to round up his cayuse, hammer tight a loose shoe he had been reluctant to undertake, locate the nag’s blanket, saddle and bridle, load up his shiny rifle and freshly filled, for the second time, canteen, mount up, say “Good-bye!” to anyone close by, and, ride out.

And, to be “fair” Foreman Will Evers had told him to take his time; no rush.

A westward-bound afternoon sun shadowed a hinting of around six in the day by the time Slim sighted the south river crossing into Van Gangenburg. There, ole Slim dismounted, just to give his horse a needed rest. Hell! Himself, too. He took a draw on the canteen, surprised to find it nearly empty, once again. Damn! Slim held it above his head to inspect the bottom of the badly dented vessel searching for a hole in it through which had leaked the sweet water. Nothing!

Scratching his head full of thick, greasy, tangled, salt and pepper curly hair, he wondered, with a pained quizzical-look on his scrubby-beard face, completely confused. “It sure enough must have a hole in it,” he considered, in conclusion, “all the water is gone---again! Hmm!”

That Slim had stopped every fifteen minutes, or so, to gauge his progress and check his directions on the lonesome prairie, taking a drink each and every time, did not register with him.

Of course, too, the twelve-mile ride, in any, even imagined, semblance of a “direct” line, should have taken only a bit over two hours without pushing the horse too hard, at all. That ole Slim had managed to meander in every direction around the compass did not dawn on the daydreamer. He had covered at least an additional five miles in his wandering escapade, even following one coulee as it bent back around on itself in a full three-quarters circle; when he exited the long draw, the old sun had shifted its position in the sky to an implausible angle.

Its warm glow fell on Slim’s left cheek!? That just couldn’t be! In that quadrant of the sky, if it was right, the only possible conclusion would mean that he was headed back toward the ranch.

He shook his head, confused, trying his best to make sense of the non-sensical situation.

“Look-ee here, Ole Mr. Sun,” Slim addressed the bright sky as he peered toward the blinding yellow-gold orb, “How in the world did you manage to go and get yourself lost, like that?”

The confusing situation demanded another dismount while the cowboy sorted things out.

After a few deep pulls on the diminishing contents of his reliable canteen and a full twenty minutes of sitting in the shade of the shadow of his mount, he decided that he best turn to his left to get back on the right trail to town; even though it seemed the old sun was, somehow, mistaken, there did exist the slim chance that too long without water might have impaired the savvy cowboy’s impeccable sense of direction. Anyway, Damn! The horsed! It’s his fault!

As he remounted the patient steed which seemed, luckily, impervious to false human accusations, Slim slapped the animal on the neck in an aggravated manner.

“Damn! You! Ole Tom!” He cursed the poor, innocent horse. “Looks like you done got yourself lost; and, me, too!” He added, “From now on, you just let me do the direction-choosing! I am the only one betwixt the two of us that knows where we’re supposed to be going. Hear me!?” Feeling better, with that fiat proclaimed, Slim smiled; Ole Tom just moseyed on, silently..

Since Ole Tom offered no complaint in reply, Slim nodded his own, self-approval.

The “errant” sun was slipping fast into the western sky when Slim, at long last, sighted the river gleaming like an inviting silver thread laying just his side of the town of Van Gangenburg; the shadowed-silhouette of its dark-outlined buildings standing sentinel, close-by the river, and, a bit beyond it. His long sought destination was still three miles away; he’d barely make the town by dusk’s purple dimness. He wished he had a cool drink, but, the abused canteen was---empty!

Fording the rain-swollen river, Slim nearly got caught in a quicksand hollow hidden under the surface of the racing water; the strong current almost caused the horse to fall as it flailed around in the soft bottom trying to secure solid purchase which remained elusive.

The cowboy cursed the “stupid animal” as he spluttered a mouthful of muddy river water; the pair had only just barely averted disaster.

“Damn! You! Ole Tom!” Slim yelled, still choking, coughing and gagging on foul tasting flood water which threatened to drown one, or both, of them; Of course, Ole Tom could swim!

“You damn old idiot! Tom! You know I can’t swim a lick!”

That he had reined the horse into the hazard escaped Slim; the cayuse had better sense! Ah! The exacerbated life of a “dumb” subordinate!? C’est la vie!

Luckily, the swift current swept the horse and rider downstream enough that the cayuse found firm footing on the river bed; Slim straightened himself in the saddle as his mount exited the river torrent by climbing the bank on the western side of the powerful stream where he paused to give himself a good shake like a dog might do under similar circumstances. Slim felt---Sick!

Soaking wet and shivering from cold, and, freight, ole Slim gathered his reins, and, himself, as best he could muster and nudged Ole Tom forward toward the now dark town. His intention had been to go direct to the Sheriff’s office and hunt up Adrian, get the business-at-hand done and over with, then, retire to the Albino Prairie Dog Saloon for a cold beer. He rubbed his throat, dry, at least, on the inside, wishing he had, even, a single drop of water left to drink. He didn’t.

Slim rode past the livery stable; s lantern light glowed warmth and inviting comfort from within. The ranch boys would be setting down to supper, about then; his mouth watered. Damn!

Dripping wet from the swimming lesson Ole Tom had provided the nearly-drowned cowboy, Slim opted to find a place where he could take a bath and get some clean, dry clothes. Hell! It was already dark. Wasn’t much the sheriff could do, now, at least, not before tomorrow. And, offering excuses for his delay, he remembered that Evers had said “to take his time”. Slim rode on until he came to the saloon. Uh, oh! Decision time!? He considered it, then got a whiff of his “fish”-scent and glanced at his dripping attire. Damn! The luck! H groused, moving on.

The barber shop sat on down the Main street past the mansion of Hyatt van Gangen, the bank, the General Mercantile. The two businesses were long-closed for the day, their windows pitch-black. He mosey-ed past the Sheriff office on the opposite side of the street. There was a hotel between the livery and the lawman’s jailhouse, but, Slim had no money for such frivolities.

Riding on, he sighted the red, white and blue twists marking the barber shop; it, too, was dark.

“Am I ever going to have any ‘Good’ luck?” Slim pleaded, aloud. Ole Tom didn’t answer.

Then, like a god-send, there it was. A laundry showed light in its front window. Alleluia!

Slim reined ole Tom to the hitch rail out front, dismounted and went through the door.

A short, squat, funny sounding man with slanted eyes greeted Slim as a bell above the door jingled with the cowboy’s entry; Slim had a very difficult time understanding the proprietor.

Obviously, Slim’s disheveled, soaking wet appearance, along with a few intelligible words shared between the two, laid the groundwork for the cowboy to manage to achieve a sensible understanding that he wanted, and, needed, a bath and his clothes washed and dried.

The man had some sort of tight-fitting “cap” on top of his head; under it, hung a long woven braid of hair. Slim stared at the strange convention, eyes curious. He had seen a rodeo, once, down Omaha-way, when he had been a young sprout. They had a parade before the cowboying events got underway; a passel of pretty girls rode horses which had their tails braided in a fashion resembling the China-man standing before him, now.

The washer-man noticed Slim’s curiosity at his cue. He smiled, proudly.

“Ah!” The clerk smiled, broadly. “You like Wong Ling traditional ‘cue’?” He beamed.

Slim shook his head to jumble the “funny”-sounding words around inside his confused head so as to make some kind of intelligible sense of them.

Frowning,  said, “Sure! I like ’soup. ’Course. I ain’t never had no ‘Long-wing’ kind, a-fore.”

The China-man gave him a curious look; this time, it was his turn to shake his head.

“Ten cents!” The Chinese clerk demanded, firmly, holding forth his hand in demand for advance payment. Slim fished out a nickel from his wet pants’ pocket; the washer-man shook his head and demanded, thrusting the extended hand further toward the cowboy, “Ten cents! Now!”

Slim had no choice, so the deal was struck and ole Slim, reluctantly, ponied up another nickel.

“Might have been the best money I ever spent,” Slim confessed, later, observing the results of the ordeal while peering into a broken piece of mirror at his reflection, slicking back his near-dry hair with a comb missing more than a few of its teeth. He admired his fresh shave, too.

The Chinese man and his wife had obliged Slim’s needs, very nicely. He got the bath he dearly needed, complete with plenty of scented hot water poured over his head and body rinsing the strong soap away; Slim decided that he could get used to living like this. His filthy, smelly clothes, the woman had scrubbed pristine cleaned, dried over a hot fire used to heat water for their business, even placed his boots on iron rods over the coals so that they dried on the inside.

Even his hat had taken on a new-life! The man’s wife, at least, Slim assumed they were married, had sponged his soiled head adornment with a damp cloth and hung it to dry. Very nice!

When the “adventure” had been completed, Slim felt, and, looked, like a new man.

He mounted and rode Ole Tom down to the livery, roused old Horsehide and asked him to curry the cayuse, grain him good and feed him some alfalfa hay. These considerations, Slim did not have to pay for; the horse was part of the Van Gangen remuda and Ezra owned the livery. Well, at least, he used to own it; now, son Hyatt seemed to be the heir-apparent. The cowboy explained to Horsehide the killing of old Ezra as the reason for his venture into town in the middle of the week and at busy round-up time; the livery wrangler was shocked at the news. Slim chatted briefly with the hostler; soon he shuffled off, on foot, headed to the Sheriff’s office.

The route to his destination took Slim past the Albino Prairie Dog Saloon for the third time in less than two hours-time. Temptation! Beckoned---loudly, and…seductively.

Slim suffered in decision. He knew he had delayed his purposed-visit with the sheriff. Still, the lights of the saloon, only twenty feet distance, deliciously invited his attention; he clearly heard the call of the piano music and the sweet giggles and laughter of the pretty saloon gals. Slim paused, dead still in the middle of Main Street in the dark of night. Damn! The luck!

Shrugging, Slim finally decided to do the right thing: He continued on to see Sheriff Adrian, figuring that the saloon, the cold beer and the worm and friendly gals would still be there, later.

Stepping up onto the boardwalk before the Sheriff’s office, an errant thought struck Slim.

“What if Sheriff Adrian is so upset that he wants to return to the ranch tonight?” He gulped.

Standing before the heavy door to the jailhouse, Slim shook his head. That would be highly unlikely to happen. His own horse was plum wore-out; so was he and there was nothing that the lawman could accomplish in the dark of night. Slim knocked on the door and pushed it open.

The office was empty of humans; even the cells had no guests. Slim could---wait…but?

The closer to the saloon Slim got, the more intense the cacophony registered: Fun times!

His mouth was watering when he pushed through the batwings. Surprise! There sat Adrian!

Seated at a table, alone, facing the door Slim had just entered so as to be able to keep a wary eye on who came and went; smart. The lawman’s eyes were on Slim who gave Adrian a wave.

Walking up to the table, Slim greeted, “Evening! Sheriff! Just came from your office.”

Adrian motioned to a vacant chair at his table saying, “Slim. How are you? It’s been some time since I seen you in here.” He whistled. “Wow! You look like man who just got himself all gussied up. Spiffy!” He nodded, approval. Then, “Now? What can I do for you?”

“Aw! Shucks! Sheriff!” Slim mumbled, embarrassed. “Just had a bath, that’s all.” Then, he frowned, saying, conspiratorially, “Say? Sheriff? You have any idea what ‘Long Wing’ soup is?”

Adrian shrugged, confused. Then, he smiled. “Oh! You met our laundry man. ‘Wong Ling’!”

Now, Slim returned Adrian’s confused look. He politely smiled, but didn’t quite know why.

Taking the empty chair, Slim noticed the sheriff’s table fare, bacon strips, a thick slab of ham and three fried eggs presented on a white dinner plate; a mug half full of beer sat near it.

Slim’s stomach growled; Adrian laughed and called to the barkeep to bring another plate of the same food and a cold beer for his friend, Slim. That offer elicited a wide grin from Slim.

“Thanks, Adrian!” Slim expressed his gratitude. “Ain’t had nothing to eat since breakfast.”

The barkeep brought a fresh mug of beer; Slim licked his lips and took a long draw, emptying fully half the contents. “Food’ll be coming right up, sheriff,” the man said; Adrian nodded.

“Oh! Barney,” the sheriff added, “better bring us two more beers.” He laughed; Barney nodded saying, “Sure thing, Sheriff.”

Now that Slim’s throat had been lubricated with cold beer, he felt a little better; the food would be a definite boost. Remembering his assigned mission, he suddenly felt sick, again.

“Uh, Sheriff,” Slim began, reluctantly, “I got some bad news from out at the ranch.”

He cleared his throat as Adrian opined, “Bother Hyatt fire everybody and sell the place?”

Slim gave the lawman a curious look; he did not get the joke, if that’s what it was.

“Uh.  N-no!” He stammered, now confused and unsure of the sheriff’s meaning.

“Uh…” Slim faltered, “Mr. Ezra is dead!” He blurted out. “He got shot this morning.”

One of the bar girls brought Slim’s plate with steaming hot food; suddenly, the ranch hand had lost his appetite. So disconcerted was he that the lonesome cowboy hardly noticed the scantily-clad gal. Well? Almost! Telling Adrian the important news had not gone well, at all.

Slim waited, watching the sheriff for his reaction to the horrible news.

The sheriff stared at the man like he viewed something he did not understand. He sat silent, not moving at all; even his breathing had seemed to stop. Slim did not know what to do.

A myriad of thoughts flooded Sheriff Adrian’s mind: Ezra, Hyatt, Byrne. The ranch. The town. His own sheriff’s job. Suddenly, Bow-leg Rob and the stranger came to his mind. Damn!

“How’d it happen?” Adrian queried in a surprisingly calm voice, intently staring at Slim.

The cowboy was so nervous that he forgot about his half-finished beer and his hot food.

“Uh…” Slim stuttered, “…uh, he got shot---while sitting on the front porch.

“We was branding cattle---We had a us huge storm---nobody missed him---when the rain was over, the housekeeper found Mr. Ezra; she screamed---we all went running to the porch---he was just sitting there, in his chair---he was dead---shot---a big hole in his chest…”

Slim’s words trailed off. Then, he added, “Will Evers sent me in to fetch you to come out…”

He trailed off, again, wondering if he had left anything of importance out of his narrative.

Again, Slim waited, hoping for direction from Adrian as to what he should do, or say, next.

Adrian sat in absolute silence, deep in thought. Then, noticed Slim’s food getting cold.

“Eat!” He ordered, motioning with his hand toward the steaming plate of hot food in front of Slim who nodded and took a bite. With that taste of reality tempting his need to satiate a gnawing hunger, the range hand dug in with greedy abandon. A bar gal delivered the two fresh cold beers that the sheriff had ordered from Barney; just in time, as Slim drained his first glass.

As old Slim shoveled in the tasty vittles, Adrian considered the ramifications of the news.

Ezra was dead! That fact set a whole passel of events in motion. Hyatt had been taking more and more control of the ranch operations, the bank, the hotel, the land holdings. Hell! All of it.

He and Adrian had a “workable” enough relationship: They seldom talked or even ran into each other. Adrian never attended any of the soirees hosted by either Hyatt or Byrne, the latter of which actually threw ninety-nine per cent of the parties; the former could not have cared at all.

Adrian didn’t think his position as Sheriff would be in any jeopardy; Hyatt was hardly ever in town, anymore, always traveling around the countryside entertaining his perverted desires for wind, women and song. Seldom did he and Adrian even see each other in public; never, socially.

His job as Sheriff should go on just as it had for many years; if not, he’d just drift on.

Adrian smiled at that very possibility; he had enough “secret” stash to last him the rest of his days. Rosita was no longer of any interest to him. Hell! He might just go to San Francisco!

Slim had finished his supper meal of breakfast fare; he sat back and drained his second glass.

“Slim,” Adrian opened, having devised a plan and decided how to proceed, “we won’t head out to the ranch tonight; no use having one of the horses trip in a prairie dog hole and break a leg---or, worse…break one of our necks. Makes a lot more sense to get a good night’s sleep and leave early tomorrow morning. Ain’t nothing I can do out there, anyway ,a-fore daylight comes.”

Slim looked at his empty glass, then eyed Adrian; he took the hint and ordered him another.

“Jasper took a wagon down to Omaha this morning; picking up some inventory for the mercantile and a few ‘special-order’ items for Miss Byrne; some finery she ordered from New York. Anyway, he’ll be gone a good five or six days.

“That leaves the jailhouse unoccupied for the time being; you’re more than welcome to stay there, tonight. Or, if you’d be more comfortable, you can go on down to the livery stable, rouse ole Horsehide out bed and tell him I said you can sleep in the hay loft. Either way, you decide.”

Slim took a draw on his fresh glass of beer. After swallowing, he said, “I’ll take the jail.”

The cowboy smiled. Hell! He hadn’t had a night to himself in many years. Great! He would not have to cover his ears to drown out the awful snoring of the other cow hands, tonight.

“Good choice!” The sheriff agreed. “I’ll go on home and sleep there.”

Slim thought it curious that the sheriff made it sound like he did not spend every night at home.

“Oh! Well!” Slim considered, silently. “Sure ain’t none-a my business. I’ll have a private room! All---Quiet!-like!” He smiled at the pleasant thought and took another sip of his beer.

Adrian got up to leave, saying, “I’ll be by the jail around seven in the morning; there are a few things I have to do in the office before we leave. You go ahead and sleep until I come in; I’ll wake you. We’ll go down to the hotel and have a fine breakfast; we ought to be on our way no later than nine, or so. We’ll be out at the ranch before eleven, for sure; then, I’ll have a look.”

Turning, he added, “On my way out, I’ll slip ole Barney the word that he should give you whatever drinks you want for the rest of the night.” He smiled, peering toward the saloon gals congregated at the bar, adding, quiet-like, “The gals look pretty good, tonight, Slim. Uh, you might find them real friendly as the crowd thins out and it starts getting late.” He laughed as Slim’s mood brightened at the thought of some “personal” female company; his hungry eyes naturally drifted to the gals, suddenly even more attractive than they were just minutes before.

By the time it started getting really late, as the tic-tok’s big hand reached close to the nine designation on the large wall clock, a “burning-the-midnight-oil”-tirade for a simple cowboy used to having logged several good hours of sleep by that time of late night, ole Slim had about “howled” himself, plum-out! He did not think he could handle even one more swallow of cold beer; he had lost all sense of whether or not it was cold, or warm, over an hour ago. And, one of them bar gals had sure enough entertained him, in private, he thought it had been the red head, but the beer consumption refused to allow his memory to verify the fact.

Hell! It didn’t matter; he’d had a real time of it. Still, he secretly hoped it had been the red head. But, considering the other two choices, he decided that it really did not make any difference to Slim. The room was beginning to spin, sort of; he considered that he ought to find his way to the Sheriff’s office and try to get some sleep. It had been a very long, and confusing, day. With that decision, he rose, unsteadily, said his “Farewells” and “Thank you”, and, exited.

Stepping off the boardwalk into the dirt street, Slim stumbled forward landing on all fours. His hat flew off getting dirty in the thick dust. Damn! Just had it cleaned, too. Luckily, Slim failed to notice a fresh tear in the right knee of his, until then, clean pants.

Somehow, he managed to head in the right direction and, again, luckily, listed to his right bearing which eventually brought him in front of the Sheriff’s office, his lodging for the night.

He tripped over the step up to the boardwalk cussing the impediment which had attacked his dignity for the second time in---uh…er, Hell! In a short period of time. He fell through the door.

Sometime later, he couldn’t be sure how long, he came to and managed to sit up. Slim was leaning against a heavy wood object; finally he recognized the support as Sheriff Adrian’s desk; then, he reasoned where he was, and, vaguely, why he was there. “Got to get some sleep.”

Crawling into the nearest cell, ole Slim managed, with great difficulty, to pull off his boots; with greater effort and a wrestling match with himself, he removed his pants. Lightning flashed through the bars of the cell’s smallish window as Slim finally laid down on the cot and pulled the blanket close around his neck; somewhere in his fogged mind it registered that rain was in the offing and that it would come long before the morning dawn. He closed his eyes; his head spun.

“Damn!” he mumbled, slurring his words. “It’s too quiet! I must be going deaf; I don’t hear them old bunk-buddies singing. Without that miserable snoring-serenade I’ll never be able to get to sleep. Hell! I’ll probably fall out of the saddle right in front of the sheriff, tomorrow.”

Before the final word slurred through his slack lips, ole Slim was lost to dreamless slumber.

He slept like a baby, right through the thunderstorm crashing through the morning wee hours.

Seven-thirty had come and gone when Adrian finally arrived at the jailhouse. Slim was already awake, dressed and had a pot of boiling coffee going; Adrian stretched, then, sat down.

“Morning, Slim,” he offered. “I see you’re an early riser. Have a good time after I left, last night?” He teased, smiling, not even trying to conceal his merrymaking. “You look pretty good.”