(no subject)
Dec. 21st, 2008 08:09 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
young_gun_billyIt's kind of hard to keep track of time out on the desert. The sun rises and falls and the pain comes and goes as the whiskey and tequila run out but Billy hasn't been counting the passing of either.
His back is always burning and he can't sit straight in the saddle of his borrowed horse for very long. Someone somewhere took the slug out and drowned it in whiskey for him, could've been Socorro... or was it Albuquerque?
He got stitches, he got liquor, and he left.
Drifting along he passed through several villages, head down, hat brim low and features dark no one anywhere recognized him. If they did they didn't say, just crossed themselves and hurried away wondering if they should trust the printed newspapers or the ghost they've seen.
It's August and it's hot but he's always cold. Riding in whatever direction his horse chooses to amble along he waits for the wound to heal or kill him and is disappointed when it's the former.
He ain't dead. All the boys are dust and bones and here he is still breathing.
I'm still alive, Pat.
He's got no path, he's got no plan, just the slow wandering waiting for someone, the law, a friend, an old enemy or God, to claim him.
Asleep in the saddle, the horse plods on with its own head bent low, slow to register when its own hooves fall on wood floorboards instead of shifting sand.
His back is always burning and he can't sit straight in the saddle of his borrowed horse for very long. Someone somewhere took the slug out and drowned it in whiskey for him, could've been Socorro... or was it Albuquerque?
He got stitches, he got liquor, and he left.
Drifting along he passed through several villages, head down, hat brim low and features dark no one anywhere recognized him. If they did they didn't say, just crossed themselves and hurried away wondering if they should trust the printed newspapers or the ghost they've seen.
It's August and it's hot but he's always cold. Riding in whatever direction his horse chooses to amble along he waits for the wound to heal or kill him and is disappointed when it's the former.
He ain't dead. All the boys are dust and bones and here he is still breathing.
I'm still alive, Pat.
He's got no path, he's got no plan, just the slow wandering waiting for someone, the law, a friend, an old enemy or God, to claim him.
Asleep in the saddle, the horse plods on with its own head bent low, slow to register when its own hooves fall on wood floorboards instead of shifting sand.
