by Patrick Corcoran

Created on: July 07, 2008   Last Updated: July 24, 2008

It was rare not to see a quirley hanging from the corner of Phil West's mouth, so as soon as he was sure he wasn't being followed he stopped the gray to rest, rolled a smoke, inhaled the first tobacco vapors mixed with the sulfur of the match and then relaxed. Phil always dressed like a vaquero, wide brimmed hat, leather cuffs and Mexican spurs with large rowels, everything about him honest and distinctive.

He took time now to look at the cedars, smell their perfume and watch a trickle of a stream snake across the ground, sometimes disappearing into a hole only to resurface some yards away. He reflected on the sky, the hills, and the wildlife that was all around, the creaking of his saddle and the view he had of his horse's neck and mane. This is where he grew up helping his uncle look for wild cattle. "Yep," he thought to himself, "I can't imagine myself anywhere else." A few more seconds of self-hypnosis staring at a mass of blue bonnets and he remembered his current predicament.
Emerging from his pause he continued to work his pony along creeks and rocky ground to throw off anybody who may be trailing him. By the time he neared Twister's place it was well into the night. Phil's pony had to take careful steps descending a small hill mottled in paintbrush, and then the silhouette of Twister's cabin against the horizon came into view.

Twister's home was constructed half out of logs and half from lumbered boards. It had a small stone chimney and a wood roof that leaked quite a bit. It was in the middle of a large area of grassland surrounded by low hills. Twister was given the 70 acres of the land from a large cattle conglomerate. In return, Twister would scout the area on horseback with a rifle and a shotgun, deterring rustlers from the company's stock.
Twister sat up startled looking around, squinting in the dark, not certain he was awake and pretending to not be scared. His right hand fumbled for the six-gun he kept on the floor by his bedside. He thought maybe he was having a dream or hearing things, but then he heard a voice whisper his name.
"Twister."
"Huh, who is it, who's there?"
"Twister, it's me, Prairie Dog!"
"What, Prairie Dog, Phil?"
"Yeah, you up?"
"Of course I'm up, I'm always up at this time, eh, what time is it?"
"I don't know, but it's after midnight fer sure!"
"What are you doing here?"
"I need to stay for a little while."
Twister scratched a lucifer against a small table in an attempt to light a lamp.
"Don't do that Twist," Phil hissed,

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