Your whiskers drift down both sides of your mouth and overhang your chin, and though you're tryin' to look stern, a relaxed pleasure shows in the curve of your mouth and in the glint and happiness in your eyes.Your whiskers drift down both sides of your mouth and overhang your chin, and though you're tryin' to look stern, a relaxed pleasure shows in the curve of your mouth and in the glint and happiness in your eyes. The other guy is older, but not much, and stands with a hand on your shoulder, bowler in hand at the other side, and the light glints off his dark hair, parted in the middle and slicked back. There's only a shadow where the beginnings of a beard sprout, but his bushy mustache sets off a half-smirk and the musculature of his cheeks accents it even more. In his eyes are pride and an earnestness, and not a little humor at the situation that put him there. There's a noticable bulge in his rough trouser material where it's brought tight against the top of the thigh of his forward leg. The older guy, you well know, is me--and always will be, podner-- and my hand is not just lyin' on your shoulder casually, but graspin' in a gesture of possession, need, and protection, just like it has been ever since both sets of our parents died on the wagon ride from the east and the party decided we'd have to continue the trek in each other's company, me in charge. The watch on my vest in the photo catches your eye. Your hand instinctively goes to that same watch in your pocket. With a look of relief and familiarity, you pull it out, wind it, and place it on the bedside table. Then you turn to me. "I'm a mess," you say, "I'd better wash some of this range dirt off me, and pheeee-yew, I smell!" I take you gently by the shoulders and, turning you around, guide you into sitting on the bedspread. |