My Stories
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Gold and Red Water-Chapter One.
Creative
 Created on 3-8-08
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Chapter One Chris opened the door and stepped out onto the wooden plank side-walk. It was the afternoon and the sun was on its way to sink behind the mountains, but sweat still poured down his forehead. He took a breath of the dry, dusty Colorado air. Surrounding were a few saloons, bars and hotels. His father and he had headed into town for a few things while the weather was good enough. His father was in the drug store behind him and would take a while. He had given Chris a few pennies to spend while he took care of business. Chris decided he’d go over to a small tavern across the road. He was sixteen and could pass as a young adult. His ill-fitting leather gloves and duster occasionally slid off with every step so he had to hike them up about every five minutes. He kicked up the dark brown dirt with every step, as he stepped over to the other side. He stepped up onto the other sidewalk. He peered into a milky window. The inside of the tavern was dark and gloomy, with a few oil lamps in the dark corners. There was a good crowd of patrons but they were scattered throughout the room. Chris pulled down the brim of his hat as to make his face less noticeable. He stepped into the tavern. As the double saloon doors swung open the smell of tobacco smoke floated into Chris’s nostrils. A couple of brass spittoons lined the walls, a piano sat in the back, silent, the voices in the room created a low droning like background noise as small pairs or groups of people had secret conversations not made for the ears of others. He walked up to the bar. The tender was turned around, cleaning a glass with what looked like a dirty cloth. Chris waited a little bit, but the tender was still cleaning glasses. Chris rolled his eyes, and tapped on the table. Still the tender cleaned unfazed. He sighed and cleared his throat. Again, nothing. He cleared his throat louder this time. The tender jumped and spun around, “Oh, sorry sir didn’t see ya there.” The tender said. Chris nodded, “Yea, give me a glass of scotch with ice.” He said, trying to disguise his voice as best he could while looking down. “What did ya say there?” The tender asked. “A glass of scotch with ice.” Chris said again. “Sorry, I’m a bit hard o’ hearing’.” Chris sighed and shook his head, “I said I’d like a scotch with ice!” The tender looked taken back, “Ya don’t have ta yell.” “And can I have one of those glasses?” Chris pointed to the left of where he last saw the tender put the glasses. “Sorry, what did ya say?” “Never mind.” Chris sighed. The tender gave him one of the dirty glasses and poured the scotch. He leaned down into the ice box, “Sorry, son, no ice.” Chris dropped a penny down on the bar and took his drink. He turned around and took a sip. As soon as he did he almost spat it out. Warm scotch didn’t go down as well as water. Chris rested and looked around the tavern. It felt good to finally rest and get away from the pressures of the farm, the beating of the sun on your back as you sow and dig every day. It was nice to finally relax in the shade and take a good drink. He was almost lost in thought when a gruff voice shook him from his daydream, “Hey, boy.” Chris looked over to where the voice had come from. There was a small table in the back with a lone man sitting there, “Yea, you. Come here.” Chris raised an eyebrow skeptically, “You think I’m talkin’ to the wall, boy?” Chris nodded and walked over to the man. He looked at the man. He had a gaunt and scarred face. A long white mustache complimented his mop of grey hair that fell upon his shoulders, “Don’t be stupid, boy, take a seat.” Chris pulled out a chair. The silence of the room only added to this awkward and peculiar situation, “Yes sir.” Chris said, still wondering what in the world this stranger would want, “You ain’t from around here, son, are ya?” The man asked, with chewing tobacco making his speech sound somewhat like he was talking through his teeth, “No, sir, I ain’t.” Chris said, “I’m from outside of town.” “Ah, I could tell you were a farm boy.” “How did you know, sir?” “If you were from around here you’d be with the other boys causing trouble. ‘What you doin’ here in town?” “My pa is getting goods for the farm; I had some extra time so I figured I’d have a drink.” “Oh,” the man chuckled, “I remember when I was a youngin’ like you, sneakin’ out late, raisin hell with the boys, came home with ma pa standin’ on the porch belt in hand!” The old man laughed and gave a play slug to Chris’s shoulder. They both took a sigh and looked around, “So what do ya like to do, son? You got any interests? Hobbies? Girls?” Chris shook his head, “No sir, too busy doing work around the farm to think about anything else.” The old man raised an eyebrow, “There must be something you like to do. Somewhere you’d like to go.” Chris thought for a moment, “Not really sir, I’m happy where I am, I have my place.” The old man stroked his mustache. He leaned in, as did Chris and lowered his voice, “Tell me, boy, do you like adventure?” The old man said at almost a whisper. Chris thought, “Well sir, I’ve never been one for adventure. But I’m willing to try something new. Why do you ask?” “Because,” the old man leaned back. He looked over to a window to the west and pointed to the purple mountains on the horizon. He raised his voice to normal again and looked back, “there’s gold in them thar hills.”
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