Victor was up before him, cooking up some rabbit. He’d even given the horses a bit of water.  They made eye contact for a split second as Everett rolled up his henskin but Victor quickly broke it. Everett noticed how the tips of his ears were red, he thought that Victor should don his hat before he burns.

The desert sun is anything but forgiving. Everett placed it on the back of his horse. “Where to next, Wiley?”

“Serpent’s Ridge.” Victor didn’t make eye contact, his entire black cloth enveloped frame set on turning the rabbit. “That’s where Otto Armstrong should be.” His back was curled over the fire.

He handed the cooked rabbit, still warm, to Everett who promptly took it. He didn’t care that it burnt his tongue and made his nostrils flare in an attempt to assuage the heat. The feeling of a full belly was all Everett wanted.

“Roscoe’s number two.” Everett remarked. In all honesty he didn’t know much about the Roscoe gang’s internal setup. The majority of his knowledge concerned their lawbreaking. From murder for hire, robbery,  obscenity were their main issues. He’d heard that a while back Roscoe had dragged the body of a dead man by his hands behind his horse for fifty miles because he’d come too close to him.

The man wasn’t dead when he was tied up.

After finishing up cleaning the area Victor and Everett slipped on their hats and jumped onto their horses.  The two made it to Serpent’s Ridge with a few hours of daylight still left. Wooden taverns and buildings splayed the middle of the town. Stragglers filled the area, stumbling from the tavern or pushing the last remnants of hay bales and food bags through to the town’s market.

“Wanna get a drink?” Victor questioned. Everett didn’t seem like much of a drinker but he didn’t know lawmen too well after all. He did, at first, but with every passing day with Everett by his side the world of lawmen became much more complicated.

Everett gave a hearty nod, his blonde hair swung from beneath his tan hat.

In the hour since the boys had arrived in Serpent’s Ridge both had dived into the bottle. Though Everett conducted himself with a bit of a slower pace. He was, after all, in a foreign town and drinking till his eyes crossed wasn’t the idea of a fun time in his opinion.

An opinion that Victor did not share. Hiccupping, Victor finished his drink and motioned for the bartender to pass another one. His hat sat next to him, resting on the sticky wooden bar top.

He rested his head against the bar. His eyelids dance as if the bar top was cold. “Sykes, tell me a story?” His eyes were fluttering bashfully, staring up at Everett. Behind them men swore as they downed more drinks and played a particularly harsh game of poker. Others kept placid faces, each hoping to win the pot of a couple dollars and a pack of cigarettes.

“You want another story?” Taking another look at the obviously inebriated man he decided against it, ”I don’t think it’ll do ya any good in this state.”

“I sure do, Ranger Sykes” he mocked as he leaned in. His whiskey-breath made all of Everett’s hair stand on edge. Wiley scrutinized his every move, as if he was hoping to entice Everett into reciting another story with his wild gaze.

Everett rolled his eyes, “Don’t be a flannel mouth. Just keep drinking, Wiley.” He took a few swigs of Whiskey, paying no attention to Wiley’s antics or to his own reddening cheeks.

The sound of crashing bottles turned him in his seat. Before him Wiley was attempting to choke out a burly man and attacking another one with a half broken bottle.

The bar suddenly became chaotic. In an instant the men began throwing drunk and angry punches towards each other and Victor in the inebriated center. Everett sighed to himself and slid off of his chair. More bottles broke and scattered glass all over the floor, some shards crunched beneath Everett’s footfalls as he made his way towards Wiley.

Moving towards the epicenter, Everett ran right into the back of a man. Much taller than him, he turned with a scowl. Laying a heavy fist into Everett’s stomach lurched him forward. Victor proceeded to knock him to the floor with another found bottle.

“Everett!” he beamed as another bottle broke over his head, spilling shards of brown glass down around them. Despite the chaos. Everett remarked to himself how bright his smile was. How infrequently they’d seen it over the course of their trip.

He hog-tied another man with his own belt. It wasn’t too hard despite the slurred squirming. Everett had always been good at hog-tying; his Pa had taught him how to do it before he could talk. Squealing and squirming pigs made them hard to catch and kill.

Letting the man squirm on the floor, Everett moved over to another man who quickly threw a hook towards him. At the last second and with widened eyes, Everett ducked and charged the man. They landed on a table, toppling it over and knocking the other man unconscious. Everett landed on his shoulder and rolled towards the front of the bar. The swinging door luckily stopped him.

Victor had taken out a couple of men but heaved as he swayed from a standing position. His long dark hair swung over his face. Everett walked over and wound an arm around Victors waist. Holding him up so the inebriated man didn’t fall flat on his face. Turning to the bar Everett set his eyes on the bartender. A heavyset man and picked up Victor’s hat, “Ya got a bed?”

The door clicked behind them, “There's only one bed.” Everett sighed to himself as he hoisted Victor onto the bed. Still a little bit inebriated Victor slowly and shakily slipped off his boots and jacket before flopping back onto the bed.

The room was lit by candle flame. The bed was a small, but a crinkly hay mattress and a patchwork quilt blanket. Blowing out the candle in a puff, Everett joined a limp Victor on the bed. His chest rose and fell in a calming pattern, “Tell me a story.” Victor crossed his arms over his chest as his gruff voice rasped  out the order. His eyes had fluttered to a close.

“A story? Again?” Everett shifted to imitate  him. The bed crinkled under his weight. “Why don’t I tell ya a story when you’ll actually remember it, Wiley?” His voice was gruff in the dark as he stared at the ceiling. Everett could imagine bright stars on the dark ceiling. He’d spent so long on the trails once again that the indoors seemed foreign. There were no crickets chirping or a wind that caresses you from the warmth of the hen skin.

A room so dark it felt more vast than the desert itself.

Everett was immobile for a moment, the quiet lulling him to a peaceful slumber. Unknowingly, to his left Victor wasn’t so lulled, staring at the wooden ceiling alcohol still seized his movements. Tugging the drinks through his veins.

Despite that, the warmth radiating from Everett was a stark sobering. That was the problem with Everett Sykes, he made his hairs stand on end and every nerve burn. “If I was sober I'd kiss ya.” Everett didn’t stir, just as Victor silently hoped, “Goodnight Sykes.” He pulled the comforter up towards Everett’s neck slowly. That way he doesn’t freeze.