This one is a western that I began last fall. Haven't worked on it for a while, and figured I'd post what I had so far and gauge some reaction before I continue. Here is the first of 10 chapters. More to come. And yeah, my first attempt at a western. Here goes:

--------------------------------------------------------------------------


1

The cool night breeze found its way indirectly through every possible gap in his clothing as he sat in silence away from the crackling, inviting glow of the fire. The breeze was not quite a full out wind, and the temperature wasn't unbearbly or painfully cold, but before morning light both aspects would more than likely become the latter. He tried to find some appreciation in the fact that the biting air distracted him from the pain being inflicted by the rough cut rope binding his wrists. And his thirst was growing worse with each passing hour. The last precious drop of water had been given to him around mid-day, when the sun was high, hot, and oppressive. To the best of his estimate that had occurred roughly ten hours prior. If there was any way to get to his right side shirt pocket he could pull out the pocketwatch that had been given to him on his fifteenth birthday by his father. It had ornate gold inlays on the inside of the cover which depicted dogs on the path of a fallen gamebird of some sort. Once opened the face had the color of old parchment, even when new. The hands looked to have been crafted from ageless iron, and painted black to stand in stark contrast to the face, even when viewed at night. It was a work of art, and the only piece of adornment allowed a true everyday man of the time. The only other adornment his father approved of consisted of his two heavy revolvers, which had only left his hips before now to be hung by the bed at night. He imagined now that the men over by the campfire had laid them unrespectfully down onto the dirt of this place. If they had any real comprehention of how much blood those guns had spilled they might have some reverence about them as to how they handled such items. But these men lacked reverence to anything, be it the rarity of the revolvers or the shining silver star that was pinned to his left shirt pocket, directly above the heart that had sworn an oath of protection and upholding whatever semblance of law afforded these savage lands.
Paul Simmons had nearly lost his thoughts of the cold as he was taken back to the day his father had given him the pocketwatch. He was but a boy of fifteen then, not quite a man physically, but every bit a man in his mind and maturity. He guessed his age was around thirty-five now, making it ancient history as far as these times were concerned. He blinked his eyes hard and winced at the pain that the act brought upon him. They had knocked him several good ones across the face, and one particualrly bad gash ran down his right temple where the youngest of the group had knocked him face first into the dirt with the butt of his twelve gauge shotgun. But the pain brought him back to reality enough, it seemed. He saw a shadowy figure rise against the backlight of the fire and approach him. In his heart he hoped that it meant some reprieve from his thirst, but in his head he knew better. The figure approached somewhat closer and he could make out some features. The swaggering gut, the unkept beard, and the limp the man walked with as he favored the right leg. It was Stanley, one of the hired guns of the group leader. Of the group he was probably the one Paul despised the most, as the man lacked any hint of remorse, not to mention personal hygiene.
"Marshall Simmons, you got two minutes to piss before bed time. And that started when I got up to walk over here."
"I appreciate your compassion, Stanley. Can you at least help me up?"
The man grunted and chuckled a little, grabbing Paul roughly by the armpits and hoisting him onto shaky legs. He led him about ten feet further away from the campfire and stood sentry behind him as he stood.
"Well, with my hands tied behind my back I can't exactly undo my pants here."
"Piss in 'em for all I care. I ain't untying you, and I sure as hell aint gonna unbutton yer fuckin' pants, Simmons. You got about thirty more seconds."
Paul sighed and reluctantly let the water flow into his pants. It was about as shameful an act as they could have made him do, and they knew it. There were more shameful ones, and Paul was sure that they would get to them in time. It was the nature of desperados out here in the scrublands to find whatever humor thay could in any given situation. Times of levity were far and few in between. Especially at the expense of others. He was nearly done when he was pulled back quickly by his elbows. He landed hard onto the sandy ground on his back, still urinating as he did so. Paul felt anger and hate rise inside him and knew that in the end he would have to do whatever he could to repay this particular favor.
"I told you time was up. Now git back over yonder. We're movin' on first light. Be in yer best interest to find some sleep. Yer gonna need it. We got thirty miles of open desert before we git where we goin'."
"Don't be so kind next time, Stanley. You're a sweetie, ya know?"
"Shut yer face, Marshall. And kindness ain't exacly one of my qualities. you know that. After all, 'twas you that arrested me in El Paso back in '68. Wasn't exactly kind then either, was I?"
"No, don't reckon you were. After all, kindness ain't exactly a quality a man that murders an entire family usually holds dear."
"Now Marshall, you know I never admitted to that. It was yer damn judge that says I did that. But I got out alright in the end now, didn't I? Didn't hang on yer gallows fer it, obviously."
"Not yet you haven't. There's always more time."
"Not fer you, Marshall. You 'bout nearin the end o' yer road here, I'm 'fraid. Now shut up and git back over there before I let Justin whack ya again with his scattergun."
Paul did as he was told, but sleep was a long time coming. He watched the men from a distance, trying to decide what and when his next move should be. He knew as well as the sun would come up the next day that if he failed to act he would die soon. These men didn't believe in anything else as a means to an end. He watched as the men turned in one by one, leaving Justin, the young one, to stand guard. Paul could see his outline sitting nervously by the fire. The man couldn't have been more than seventeen. Just a boy, really, but one that had his fair share of a long record on his shoulders. Mostly it consisted of cattle rustling and slaughtering herd out of pure meanness. Now he was in the big time with this bunch. The assault and kidnapping of a U.S. Marshall put him into a whole new league that Paul doubted the boy fully understood. He felt the wind pick up for a second and it made his eyes water. At least they had let him lie closer to the fire, but not quite close enough to get any real heat from it. Paul figured that they had done it as a tease and yet another means to break him down. He lie still for another fifteen minutes or so, until he heard faint snoring coming from inside one of the tents. Then he began to fight himself up onto his knees and began to walk on them, toward the distracted boy and the light from the campfire.