We're Goin' Out West Where the Sand's Turnin' to Gold

He slid inside the door quietly, flat-brimmed hat pulled down hard over his eyes, if they can't see your eyes, they can't see your heart. He bumped along the back row, feeling for chairs and people with his feet. His eyes were still squinting from the quick move from brilliant Wyoming sunshine outside to darkness all around inside the bar. After a few more shuffles, some muffled, " 'scuse me.. thanks... sorry man.." he found a high-table in the back with a lone chair and slid on down into the chair. As the waitress stepped toward him and smiled and with every ounce of kindness ever embodied in a woman who had spent most of her lifetime being beaten down by life and another man that treated her poorly, she said lovingly, "how are you? You look tired. Can i get ya' somethin' from the bar sir?" Sir. Hell, it had been 20 years since anyone man, woman or child had addressed him as sir. "yea, thanks, just a tap beer and some of those good peanuts in the shell, thanks alot."

As he took the first sip from the tall glass he could feel himself exhale deeply, almost as if he was feeling the deep sadness and loss of the past few months leave his body, at least for a little while. A rather small man up in the front of the room, with long stringy hair and a beat-up old panama hat, a red and black checked plaid shirt and scuffed up black cowboy boots took one last sip from his drink, kissed a dirty-blonde girl next to him that was wearing one of those flour-sack sun dresses that the sun shone right through, and grabbed his acoustic guitar and stepped back up on the stage for his next set. With the harmonica rack around his neck he led into a slow, rhythmic lament, struming along in a strong, sturdy way while he quietly picked his way through the harmonica. When he finally moved his head toward the mic to sing, you could see a deep, reddish scar moving from his right ear down a couple inches toward the corner of his mouth. He looked to be about 40 or so, with a face that seemed to hold every mile of bad road that he had ever run down. His raspy voice started in a low register as he sang about a woman he had met and left in the high country of Mexico -- the Sierra Madre's, Cortelon, Azetal. He sang about how he spent years trying to find her, once he got out of jail in Ponchetula. He never found her, and now he longs to sleep, because he can only find her and see her face in his dreams.