Evan is ready to leave when we get back to the cabin. Jack scowls, which I ignore so he’ll see his place, then we head out with just bedrolls, canteens, and hardtack. Evan says there are towns on the way, so we don’t have to cook none. His spirits seem high, shed of grief, and I find appeal in him looking more colt than man.
As we ride along, I try to recall the colt in myself, but at his age I was brawling more than not. In a way, he seems older than his years, but also younger, and much as I try to keep my mind to the task ahead, I drift all too often to thoughts of getting into him.
We stop twice to rest the horses, and at the first of these, Evan starts to talk. He’s squatted with a stick in hand, drawing circles in the dirt. “Bart was looking to marry a woman over in Lovell. Said he’d give up outlawry, get him a spread, and settle down, so he’d be gone from me either way, with her or dead.”
“What’d you plan to do once he married?”
He shakes his head, runs a line through his circles, stands, and throws away the stick. “Bart never asked, but he never said come with him either, so I knew I’d be on my own.” He looks to me and I see grief in him again, but it’s not for Bart, it’s for himself, being cast out.
“How long you been outlawing?”
“Whole life.”
I wait because I know there’s more, and after he looks around some, he gets to it. “I wanted to be like Bart from the first, him coming home with money, giving some to the folks, who were dirt poor, Pa sick most of the time. After supper, Bart and me would get away, just ride for a bit, and he’d tell me his adventures, which up against the life I knew was something no kid could resist. The folks tried to keep me to the straight and narrow, but I chafed at the bit, then ran away at fourteen and hooked up with Bart, who said I was old enough. He had two men in his gang, so we was four, but one got killed and the other ran off, so then it was just us.”
“Fourteen. And how old are you now?”
“Twenty come September.”
The first number strikes me as much as the second because of me taking my fateful turn at fourteen. I like this sameness. “I come to it young as well. Suppose most do.”
“Never wanted do different,” says Evan. “Nothing tying me down, nobody trying to make me what I’m not. Even with Bart dead, I still don’t want no different.”
We continue north to Wyoming, and when we see a patch of green up ahead, we stop since there’s water there. The horses drink and we do, too, eat some hardtack, fill our canteens. When Evan pulls off his shirt, showing no undershirt, I’m set onto a path that leads forward at the same time it veers to one side. My dick says to act upon my wants, but something else says to hold off, and I’m struck by this as resistance is unfamiliar. Evan wets the shirt and himself, then stretches, water drops shining on him. I’m hard, but still don’t do anything. I’ve always taken what I want, but there’s a beforehand kind of feel to this, knowing it’ll happen and enjoying the prospect. I could look away so as not to rile myself, but this beforehand thing keeps me enjoying sight of the kid. My gut churns some, the whole of me slipping into a sort of spell, then it’s time to ride on.
Sundown finds us near the Wyoming border at a town called Mercy, which don’t seem right as it’s not much more than shacks. The saloon is the finest building in town, not much but above the rest, and I buy Evan a couple whiskeys, wanting him loosened up, myself, too. We eat supper there as well, then set up camp a few miles from town. Evan builds a fire while I see to the horses, and I then find him laying out his bedroll. I do likewise, knowing the beforehand will soon come to an end.
Night air cools the day’s heat, but not so you can’t shed some clothes. The land smells sweet as light dies away. Then Evan takes off his shirt, lies on his bedding and looks up to the stars, and I lie on the other side of the fire and watch him. I note his straight nose and firm jaw, lips a little apart, eyes open to the sky, and I wonder does he count stars? What runs through him? He seems more patient than most young men, giving off a calm that in itself has appeal. Like he’s both easy and difficult.
It’s as I think these quiet thoughts I see his hand slide to his thigh and from there to his crotch, where it rests atop a good bulge. I’m fixed on the sight when he says, “You mean to fuck, you’d best come over here.”
Stunned by his directness, I almost laugh because it’s not said out like that. Men just don’t do that, but here’s one saying come get me, and I’m thrown. The kid gets this, and when I’ve done no more than raise up, he undoes his pants and pulls out a hard prick that shines wet. He takes it in hand, smears the stuff down the shaft, and starts working himself. “Your need is drifting over here like smoke, so let’s get on with it.”
I
