June 18 - Breakfast

Hello everyone...

Well, I was thinking in the car this morning:
"Oooh, Friday - Team Breakfast..." 'Cos every Friday we go for the Friday Five Full English Special in our works restaurant...

[My order, always:
"Two white toast, well done bacon, well done sausage, bit of scrambled egg and a few beans when we get that far down the counter, ta luv."]

So,
Simply because the first of the month fell on a Friday I give you:


Breakfast


(Nice and easy, huh?)

True story... I was looking for inspiration for this months prompt and I turned to a book my daughter gave me... "712 things to write about"... I flicked completely at random and thrust my finger onto the page.... It read " It is 1880, you are in the Wild West..... you walk into a Saloon and order a drink..." The prompt above it was guff about favourite shoes... and below was rubbish about a magazine.   How fab is that.  Meant to be, so here goes...

Breakfast

The horse shuddered to a halt outside the Saloon and I gratefully slipped off into the dirt. I threw the rein at the hitching rail, knowing the horse was too beat to take another step, and climbed to the batwings.  The wonderful smell of smoke, sawdust and cheap whiskey, or was it cheap women, assaulted my senses, as my eyes took a beat to adjust to the gloom.  There were lamps over a mirrored bar to one side, and a few gambling tables, with lamps swung low over them, set right at the back of the long room. Other than that, it was just a bit of daylight crawling in through the grimy windows at the front.

Good and dark.  

Just how I like it.  I got a face people like to tell me they’ve seen before, and I am not in the mood to be telling anyone just how wrong they are.   I NEED a drink and what I don’t need is interruptions.  

My shoulder is still stinging, from that last bullet.  I didn’t think I was getting out of that bloodbath alive.  I saw TJ hit the ground with his eyes wide open in shock, and I heard Dagwood get his as we fled.  Inch lower, and that damned bullet would have clipped my wings for sure.  I been riding since noon, pushing that horse like the devil himself was after me, not even knowing if I been hit or not.  Guess as I’m standing at this bar, I must have got lucky.

“Whiskey”  

No more half planned, half baked, crackpot, no good, dumb-ass, get rich quick schemes for me.  From here on in, I’ll do the planning myself.  I got me a million good ideas, right up here in my head.  I don’t need no half-cocked, jumped up, lame brained, no account gang leader telling me what needs to be done.  I can tell me, what needs to be done, better than any of them.

From here on in, it’s Wheat Elroy Carlson going it alone.  There's not one job I pulled, I couldn’t have planned, and done better myself.  Safer, and more profitable, if I’m on my own.

The barkeep puts a dirty glass in front of me, and pours.  He doesn’t turn a hair when I give him the stare to show him I’ve noticed the slight to my character.  I’m dirty, so the glass is dirty.  He can see I’m too beat, to argue the point, anyway.  More importantly, he hasn’t recognised me from the wanted posters, so he doesn’t know who he’s dealing with, or things would be different.

My hand shakes as I lift the glass and down it in one.  That surprises me.  I thought I was over the scare.  I close my eyes and my mouth, to swallow down the hogwash, and use the gasp, as it hits, to order a second. That bodged holdup has got me rattled.

It was a doozy alright.  No pay, and the whole Williams Gang slaughtered.  They’re probably all on display in the Hartsville jailhouse right now, with signs on their chests saying just how dumb they were. How’d I let myself get mixed up with them?   If I hadn’t hung back, seen the lay of the land, took in all the possibilities.  Used my God given brains, instead of mule headed greed, to go rushing in on top of the guns. That could have been me lying on display in that jailhouse.   It was just plain stupid of TJ to hit that stage again so soon.  Of course, they were going to hire guns for protection.  After last time.  Needed thinking out.  Proper planning by someone with brains.

The second shot of whiskey didn’t shake so much, but it went down just as fast.  My eyes were adjusting to the gloom and I took me a look in the mirror, to check out the rest of the clientele.  

Up at the end of the bar, stood a real dandy, clean shaved, white teeth, with his arm around one of the young doves.  New boots, fancy rig, clean clothes, no patches, not even one, looking like he owned the place. Cautious too.   I saw his sharp blue eyes cut to the mirror a few times, obviously checking me out.  Too fly to be the Law.  Young and cocky.  Gun worn low and tied down.  Probably styles himself as one of them fancy Shootists like Doc Holiday.  

Wouldn’t he be surprised, if he knew he was bellying up to a bar with the wanted outlaw, Wheat Elroy Carlson.  Lucky for him, I'm not in the mood for mixing it up and showing him how a real man handles himself.

Then, he’s joined at the bar by this other flash type.  They make a pair alright.  This one, has a fancy black rig and hat, and he’s all studded with silver.  He’s been playing the tables, and judging by that wad of notes he’s stashing in his fancy jacket pocket, I’d say he was quite a gambler.

That other one must be his muscle.

Well, all I see is easy pickings.  Like I said, I got a brain.  I don’t need no one else to plan me a robbery.  All I need is opportunity.

“Breakfast?” asks the muscle.

“Sure… Give them time to pass around a little of their money…  to each other, for a change” says the Gambler.

And they head out the door.

Only one place they can be heading for food at this time of night in this Godforsaken hole, though how anyone could call it "breakfast" is beyond me:  Fan Wong’s Food Emporium across the street.

And that’s just fine with me.  

When they come out of there, after dark, all nice and softened up on Wong’s noodle hog swill, that’s when I’m going to introduce them to the famous outlaw Wheat Elroy Carlson, and my good friend Smith and Wesson, of course.

No, I don’t need anyone else to do my thinking for me.

Seems like the inspiration went in the same direction this month ;-)


It was a day like many others. Fortunately, I earned a little money this week, enough to have me an evening at the saloon. It wasn’t much but would buy me a few beers. Cradling the mug in my hands I stretched it out, just to stay a mite longer and have a nice talk with others. I don’t like being all alone.

The patrons were nice that evening and the atmosphere got even better when that young dark lad came in. He strode into the saloon as if he owned it, cocky and self-conscious, followed by a couple of rough guys in high spirits. He was friends with everyone. An amiable voice, a friendly pat here and there and an infectious smile on his face. And he could talk, man, he could talk! Talk as fast and good I never heard before. He jumped on the bar and made a little speech.

“Are you fed up with being hungry? Waiting for another ‘big chance’? Come on and join me! They say, that crime doesn’t pay, but they are wrong!” He pulled a bundle of dollar bills from his pocket, dropped them carelessly on the bar and announced, “All free for all my friends!”

Folks cheered him and we had a fine time with all them girls and drinks going free tonight. I was struck by the dark-haired lad leaning at the bar. He had a fine time, too. A girl on both his arms, a face beaming joy and a friendly word for everyone.
He made no difference between us, he even talked to me. I was baffled and I couldn’t hide my admiration.

“I see, you have had better days, friend, grew up on a farm?” he asked me.

I nodded.

“Yeah. ‘twas nice an’ cozy but my Ma died an’ the boss had told me leave. Was here an’ there. Doing this an’ that. Worked at the rails for a time. Got inta trouble. Called me a good-for-nothing, a chicken thief. Well, I’m alright most time, but man, ya do a fine talking here...”

“What have you done at the railroad?” he asked casually and ordered me another drink.

I nodded thankful and told him about my job. “Track building past the Rockies. ‘Twas a lotta fun with all the dynamite!”

“Dynamite?” surprised he lifted his dark brows. “That’s a mighty responsible task...”

“’Twas fun an ‘twas good paid. Yet they didn’t like how I handled it.”

“Tell me more about it, my friend,” he said, laying his arm around my shoulders and turning me towards the bar. “C’mon Charlie, pass us a new bottle! The good stuff!”

We talked a while and he was real nice to me. We got a little more drunk before he went upstairs with two of them girls. Yet he turned around again and looked down at me.

“When I leave town, you can join me if you want. I swear you won’t go hungry again. Just hang around here on Monday mornin’. What’s your name, friend?”

“Kyle. I sure will, Sir.”

“Well, Kyle, until Monday then - I’ll see you for breakfast! And call me Heyes.”

Breakfast


“Do you want some breakfast?”  Her voice purred, rousing and stirring me.
 
I was so comfortable and relaxed, warm in the comforters and quilts.  With her soft body next to mine, I did not want to move.  I felt safe and cared for, something rare for me these days.  My eyes wanted to stay closed and drift back into soft dreams.  Then her hand skittered down my chest, and I stopped thinking for a while.
 
I was about to drift off to contented sleep again, when once more her voice sliced into my thoughts.
 
“If’n you want some breakfast, we’ll have to get out of bed.  Horace’ll come pounding on the door soon, asking for another payment, if you want to stay longer.”
 
A deep sigh came up out of the depths of my soul.  I should know better than to expect more than what I paid for.  I forced my eyes open to see the rays of the sun washing away the magic of the night and leaving the reality of the seedy room, in yet another dusty saloon.  I sat up and the blankets slid and pooled around my waist.  My fingers ran through my sweaty curls as I stretched and turned to put my feet on the floor.  She ran her fingernail down my back.
 
“I wouldn’t mind if you kept me for another night.”  I turned to see a halfway honest look on her face.  “I heard you boys were flush.”  Her hand spread down the small of my back to my bare bottom.
 
A smile that didn’t reach my eyes crossed my face as I turned away from her.  I stood and started gathering up my clothes.  Swiftly pulling on my long johns, I half turned to answer her.  My sense of comfort was gone.
 
“Sorry, sweetheart, but I’m certain Heyes has some other plans for today.”  I pulled on my henley and then reached for my pants, fastening them as I sat in the chair to pull on my boots.
 
“Cain’t be as pleasant as what we all could get up to by ourselves.”  She smiled up again at me, looking through her lashes, trying her best.
 
I finished dressing and was buckling on my holster before I turned back to her.  Then I did give her a genuine smile.  “Oh, you got that right, darlin’, but then it would be Heyes who would be comin’ up here knockin’ on the door.”  I shook out my curls and set my hat on my head, dropping an extra gold piece on her dresser.
 
“Maybe next time.”  I walked out to find Heyes, and breakfast.

Most of this isn't new, but when I thought about writing an ASJ breakfast story, I kept thinking "but you already have."  It's a couple of scenes from a story called "The Part Before We Say Goodbye," with something added from Curry's perspective and a bit less from Heyes's.  People do like to feed Kid Curry, don't they?  

When I reached the kitchen, Sandy was busy at the stove, fully dressed in one of her simple black dresses and with her dark hair loosely tied back. Rachel was sitting up in a cradle she was getting too big for.  I picked my daughter up in my arms, as she made appropriate "happy to see mama" gestures and noises.   "Are you cooking for the entire Fifth Regiment?"

"I figured they ought to have a real good breakfast before starting out."

"If they eat half that they're not going to be starting out. They're not going to be able to move."

"You just don't understand men," Sandy said, only a little smugly.

Apparently I didn't understand feeding them, I reflected.


Among Sandy’s many delightful qualities, thought Kid Curry, as he made his way into the kitchen, was knowing just what a man wanted to eat, and on what occasion.  Of course, if he was the man, and he was, you could argue it was almost anything, at almost any time.

He looked at the spread she’d put before him, and even he, with his mighty appetite, quailed a little. Did Sandy think they might not be seeing food again at all, until they got home again in a few months? There was bacon, and ham, and eggs, and porridge, and potatoes, and there were mountains of it all. And it looked like she was mixing up the batter for griddlecakes.  He stared at her for a moment, drinking in the sight.

The Kid knew that this breakfast was a sort of offering to him, a way of saying what she couldn’t quite bring herself to say.  That she would miss him.  That she wanted him to take care of himself.  That she hoped he’d be home soon.  And he couldn’t let her gesture go unappreciated, could he?  He followed her with his eyes, as she continued to bustle about the kitchen.  Sometimes he couldn’t quite believe how beautiful she was.  He’d just have to keep looking for the sign she was finally ready.  When her back was turned, he loosened his belt a notch, in preparation for doing justice to her farewell feast.


Heyes approached the breakfast table with a spring in his step.  He’d certainly worked up a bit of an appetite, upstairs with his wife.  However, when he looked at the mounds of food in front of him, he was astonished.  Sure, he’d always had a smaller appetite than the Kid, but he couldn’t imagine even a dozen Kids getting through all this.  It did look good, though, he had to admit that, taking a seat and filling his plate.


Heyes and the Kid had already done some serious damage to Sandy's gigantic breakfast by the time I got there.

Caroline, my young ward, sat with them, idly toying with some bacon while she wrote in a notebook. Before Sandy came back to us, Caroline used to try to help me out with the domestic side of things, at which she was only marginally better than I was. Now she mostly studied, which she was good at, and got underfoot, which she was very good at.

"What are you doing, Caroline?"

"Translating one of your old legal briefs into German," she replied, as another girl might have said "my embroidery" or "reading a novel."

"Why're you doin' that?" asked the Kid.

"'Cause it's fun," she said.

We all looked at each other.

"Uh, Caroline, your idea of fun is kinda scarin' us," said Heyes, finally.

She looked at me, her light blue eyes round with wonder. "Are they laughin' at me?"

"Caroline, honey," I began. "It's just not a regular thing most girls your age would do for fun."

"Yeah, but there's nobody too regular around this house," she replied.

Heyes nodded. "Now, that's true, Caroline. A couple of notorious ex-outlaws, a beautiful Indian princess," (Sandy had never met her father, but we had a pretty good idea he'd been a Blackfoot or a Cree) "the only lady lawyer in Montana territory, and the smartest, prettiest little girl in the whole United States." At this he got up, and took Rachel into his arms. "Yeah, around here you're really pretty ordinary, Caroline. Now anyplace else, people'd probably pay good money just to see you."

Caroline smiled and kept on with her translating.

Sandy finally joined us, with a giant plate of griddlecakes, as if she hadn't already provided food enough for a week. I took some, not having eaten anything yet, and the Kid, with his astounding appetite, took a big helping. His eyes never left Sandy the whole time she sat there, across the table from him.

But after awhile there were no more reasons to delay their departure, and it was getting closer to noon than it should have been. So Heyes kissed Rachel gently on the forehead, and then me, a lingering kiss that I would feel for days after he'd gone. The Kid took Sandy's hand in his for a long moment, so much between them still unsaid. Then he surprised Caroline by swinging her into a goodbye dance, which made her giggle.

"Now that's what girls your age generally do for fun," he advised her, and she solemnly promised that she'd keep it in mind.

We watched them ride away.

Breakfast

“The big man’s breakfast.” I glanced up at the motherly waitress, giving her my order by rote.

“Two eggs over easy, steak rare, home fries, biscuits and butter, short stack of pancakes, and keep the coffee coming, same as yesterday?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Same as the three days before yesterday?”

“Uhhh, yes, that’s right.” Jeez, in a busy place like this, how can she remember a stranger’s order. Not good. If I’m still here tomorrow and I sure hope I’m not, I’ll have to order the trail’s end combo breakfast. He’d prefer today’s selection, though.”

“You ain’t a big man.”

“Well, not in size, Bea, but in other ways…” I give her one of my smooth charming smiles and was rewarded with a girlish giggle. See, my partner isn’t the only one who can flirt. My pasted-on smile is in danger of turning into a frown as all the times I’ve told him to keep it to himself flashes through my mind. After all, flirting when it’s not going to get you anything you need just makes the women remember you for no good reason. Not advisable for two reforming outlaws on the run.

“You gonna eat something more than a nibble at the biscuits this morning? I don’t know why you order all this food when all you swallow is the coffee.”

“It’s mighty fine coffee.” I push my empty cup closer to her, hopeful-like so she’ll take the hint and fill it. She just stands there with a faint disapproving frown, holding the coffee pot hostage. I don’t tell her the breakfast isn’t really for me. It’s for my partner. My partner, who is four and half days late.

He should be here by now. My stomach clenches a little and any hunger is over rode by worry. Not that anyone looking at me could tell. All they would see is a man nonchalantly pursing yesterday’s paper, without a care in the world. I read the article one more time, slowly, as if the words would tell a different story this go ‘round. Heyes and Curry were spotted and a posse was in hot pursuit of the notorious outlaws last seen heading south. The sheriff, certain that they wounded Curry as a blood trail was found, expected to capture or kill the dangerous gunman before the week was out.  Heyes has vanished in thin air by using his smart and wily ways.

Wily ways, not hardly. I’m glad my reputation for intelligence and cunning is still intact but I know that this time it’s more of a case of the sheriff sticking to his preconceived notions. Hannibal Heyes is the brains, Curry is just the gun hand. Well, it was a gun hand that has me sitting here and not the Fastest Gun in the West’s gun hand at that. I may not be the same caliber as the Kid but he’s honed my skills to where I’m better than most even if he never shuts up about the so-called twist when I need to fast draw. I’ve always been pretty accurate when I had to time to aim and I’m better than good enough when I don’t. Folks never do give me any credit for marksmanship and we’ve never seen the need to enlighten officers of the law. My own kind, rather the denizens outside the law know better. You can’t run a successful outlaw gang and earn the respect of your peers, no matter who they are, if you can’t competently handle a gun, not in my world, at least.

I got the drop on the few posse members who lit out after me when the Kid and I split up. I’m not surprised they didn’t fess up that they were outgunned by Hannibal Heyes. No, it’s less a blow to their manhood if I, the genius outlaw leader, outsmarted them. But being outgunned by Kid Curry there’s no shame in that. I try to shut up the annoying voice in my head that keeps going over every dire scenario my active imagination can come up with and listen - Is that the sound of familiar hoof beats in the street? I crane my neck to look over the half curtain and up and down the hard-packed dusty dirt to see … an unfamiliar bay ridden by a total stranger. The hairs of my neck rise as I sense someone standing close beside me, and I slowly turn just my head to peer up at the person.

“Another refill, why you’re waiting, Mr. Smith?”

“Yes, thank you.”

I don’t lift my cup so she can’t see my normally steady hand tremble slightly. Too much coffee, too much whiskey, too much worry, and too little sleep will do that to you. It will turn a little everyday sight, an overheard comment, or a remembrance into so much more in your mind. It’s been four days since I last saw most of an over-eager bunch of blood-thirsty amateurs and glory-hound lawmen shooting at my partner. If someone’s shooting at us, knowing who we are, you can be sure they’re aiming at the Kid. Me, they’ll give the benefit of the doubt to. Oh yeah, I’ve had my share of lead traveling in my direction but that’s mainly due to being a convenient visible or accessible target. It’s Kid Curry squarely in their sights if the shooters have a choice. My partner, however, he’s the more overtly dangerous one; they one they want to get out of the way first. They don’t know him at all, just the reputation and the glory of getting the credit for killing the Fastest Gun in the West makes sane men a little rabid in their zealous pursuit of their goal. And if they capture us, Kid'll get the cuffs behind his back and rough treatment more often than not while I get the ropes and my hands tied to the saddle horn.

Plunk, a huge breakfast on several plates is plopped down in front of me. It sure looks good. It looked just as good the last four days I ordered it. Too bad my stomach’s churning, my appetite is nonexistent, and the seat across from me is still empty with no partner in sight. I can be an optimist and I do know when I’m engaging in wishful thinking but I felt sure today would be the day he’d be here. I eye the biscuits and pick one up to slap a little butter on it. When the Kid does get here, he’ll pitch a fit if he thinks I didn’t eat. This way I can honestly tell him I ordered the big man’s breakfast in his honor and ate. He doesn’t have to know what I ate, exactly. Breakfast is his favorite meal, well actually, every meal is a favorite meal but missing breakfast sure gets him proddy, not a pleasant way to start the day.

The boy who brings the morning news tosses a few onto the front counter after he pushes his way through the morning’s hungry crowd

“Hey, kid! Any word if they caught up with Curry in there?” a deep voice calls out over the constant din of the tinkling door bells with a steady stream of customers coming and going and the rise and fall of constant conversation.

“Don’t know, ‘cause I don’t have time to read it. I just deliver them, mister,” the boy shouts back over his shoulder as he adjusts the canvas carry bag.

A few fellow diners lift their heads from their breakfasts, drop the silverware and amble up to grab a paper. Do I want to read another story about the exciting chase and possible capture or worse of the infamous gunman? No, I don’t but I’m compelled to anyway. I don’t know what is worse not knowing and wondering where he is and how he is or possibly reading something I’m gonna deeply regret. I grab one of the café’s copies and take it back to my table. I scan the pages and a little hope rises in my chest. There’s no big bold headline announcing the unthinkable. I start to seriously study each page to reassure myself that I’m not missing any bad news. In this case maybe no news is good news.

I reach for the buttered biscuit, my eyes firmly cast down at the black and white newsprint, and touch skin. Huh? My eyes shoot up faster than a slug from my partner’s forty-five and who’s slid into a seat so stealthy that I didn’t even notice but the Kid. Not good in one way, but yeah, good in the best way possible.

He’s dirty, haggard, and tired looking but there is a great big ole grin smirking at me, crumbs speckling his lips and decorating the faded blue shirt front as he stuffs the stolen biscuit into his mouth in one piece. One cheek puffs out like a chipmunk. Blood-shot blue eyes drop to the table, taking in the reading matter and the crummy smirk fades. He knows, he’s been on my side of the table at times, although those big man breakfasts would have been wiped clean.

“I see your friend finally showed up, Joshua.”

For a woman who is a large as Bea, she sure manages to appear at your elbow without you knowing how she got there. Her coffee pot hovers over the overturned coffee cup.

“Want some?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Okay, let me fill you up and then I’ll come back and take your order.”

Kid turns the cup right side up in the saucer and lifts it for Bea to fill with his left hand, which is the one closest to the cup and to Bea. I notice a slight tensing in the lines of his face and the slow deliberate movement of his arm. I remember the blood trail the sheriff boasted about and slide my eyes up and down my partner, at least the parts I can see. The Kid notices the silent examination, stands up and slowly turns around before sitting back down at the table.

He leans back in the chair as our eyes meet and hold. I don’t have to spell out the worry of waiting to him. He knows. My partner and best friend leans over, his right hand lying causally along side the plate full of nice juicy steak and starts talking low but not so low that it appears unusual just low enough that what he’s saying blends into the background noise of the diner.

“My upper left arm, a graze, and only a graze but it bled a lot and I couldn’t take the time to bandage it for a while. I’m fine though otherwise, just tired and a little saddle sore. I’m looking forward to a bath and a soft bed after breakfast.”

“What happened after we split up?” I know I should wait until I get him back to the hotel but I gotta know at least the basics. The details I’ll pull out of him later with further questions.”

“Well you know, I don’t think those guys were the sharpest tools in the shed. Want to hear how I had them runnin’ in circles and shootin’ at themselves? Not that anyone was any kind of a good shot. Mmmm, my arm must have been a lucky hit. Let me tell you….”

The Kid gave me the rough run down and by the end of the abbreviated and edited version we were both laughing. It felt good and I couldn’t help but to be thankful that even though I tease him unmercifully about him not thinking, Kid Curry has a good head on his shoulders. The law underestimates my marksmanship but they seriously underestimate my partner’s intelligence. And once again that worked to our advantage. He really had a clever way to shake loose the posse and certainly didn’t need my help.

It doesn’t always work out so well for both of us and with a start I remind myself of the blood trail and wound he has hidden under a blue shirt sleeve. Gotta get a good look at that back at the hotel room. All in all, we make a good team both in the gun and mental skills department.

Bea arrived back at the table, her order pad and pen ready. Before Kid can say a word, I grab hold of my plate that’s he been eyeing and trying to inch over to his side of the table.

‘This is my breakfast and I’m starving.” To prove it I take a big forkful of egg, the yolk drips a little down my chin, and I daintily dab at it as I chew with relish. “You can have one of your own.”

Bea looks through slitted eyes at me, knowing that I’ve ordered plenty but hardly eaten any. I wink at her and give a slight nod at the Kid.

“He’ll have what I’ve had every morning I’ve been here. Bring him a big man’s breakfast.”

She plays along and I sigh in relief as she gives a once over at my five-foot, eleven inch, one hundred sixty-five-pound partner, according to the wanted posters.

“You ain’t a big man, either. You gonna eat all that?”

I can’t help it but a genuine belly laugh escapes me and it feels good. “Bea, if you only knew. My friend Thaddeus, here, might not look like a big man but he sure eats like one. In fact, you’d better make that a tall stack of pancakes instead of a short stack and add two more eggs.”