scurlock | oom: green lake, texas

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oom: green lake, texas

The final half hour of the ride into town feels like it takes just a few seconds - not long enough to get his nerves under control - but it isn't long until he's riding into Green Lake with the late afternoon sun. He hadn't pushed the paint too hard, not knowing the conditioning of the horse all that well, yet. Plus, he'd wanted to take his time in making sure that he didn't get there too early.

His plan, as it was, stood simple. Try to blend in - which he knew would be difficult, in a small town - and eventually find a way to figure out where the Barlow ranch was. From what Katherine had told him, she'd grown up somewhere in the county so it would be within riding distance. Hopefully he'd be able to get directions.

And maybe she would be there. The annual Independence Day picnic seemed as if it wasn't some fresh idea for a party they threw together the year she brought him to visit. Tradition and heritage were important.

So were first impressions.

He took the main road, that the stage line used, on his way into own. It was obvious as he neared it that there was indeed a picnic going on. Things looked a little bit different, but he'd expected that. Then again, he looked different too.

This was not the well to-do teacher from New York City stopping in for a visit, this was the soft spoken, slightly worn 'round the edges cowboy who was looking for work and a place to shack up for the night. With a tired horse, and promise of a bit of relaxation on the holiday, it seemed as if Green Lake would fit the bill quite nicely.

Doc leads the paint into town, and tips his hat politely to each person he passes, until he finds a rail with a water trough at it and guides the horse to it. He dismounts the horse easily and ties him to the rail, letting him drink while he tries to figure out just how to go about this, brushing his shirt off to rid it of some of the dust.

Texas in July is warm, which is why his coat is tied to the saddle and his pack, and he could use for a cold drink himself...

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The Fourth of July shindig brings in all sorts of folk from all over the county, and a few surrounding areas. They come for the wares; they come for the food; but most of all, they come for the fireworks display.

So it ain't unusual to see a few strangers milling about the square.

(But that don't mean the town ain't keeping their eyes on them the whole time they're there.)

It don't take long before Doc catches the eye of a middle-aged gentleman. He's wearing a fine gray coat, with matching vest and trousers, a gold watch in the breast pocket of the vest. A gray derby hat sits atop his head (his hair is brown, with wisps of gray at his temples).

He keeps his posture fairly relaxed as he moseys on up to Doc. One hand is in his pocket, while the other reaches up to tap the brim of his hat in greeting.

"Howdy."

Doc notices the man walking up to him, but it takes him a tick or two to actually recognize him. Given the gap in years, it's not all that surprising to see the Doctor younger, but he does have to do a slight double take, mentally.

Outwardly, he shows none of his thought process, and instead just nods his head politely, with a tip of his hat.

"Howdy," he replies. "Afternoon, sir."

Then he reaches to his hands to pull his gloves off, and they get tucked into the back pocket of his corduroy jeans where they'll be secure for the time being.

The good doctor smiles genially at Doc's polite reply, waiting until the gloves have been tucked away before pulling his hand from his pocket and offering it to him.

"You new in town, son?"

That gets him another nod.

"Just come south from up Galveston way," he offers, as he reaches for the gentleman's hand and gives a good, solid handshake, that of a line-rider and a man who's not afraid of hard work. "Horse could use a break, figured this seemed an awful nice place for it. Jay Gordon."

"Galveston, is it?" remarks the man, voice impressed.

Whether he's impressed by the locale, or the firm handshake, it's not quite clear.

"Dr. Hawthorn, but most folk 'round here just call me Doc," he offers kindly, returning his hand to his pocket once he's taken a step back from the young man. "Your horse picked an awful nice spot to rest a spell, I'd wager."

"Pleasure, Dr. Hawthorn," he replies, using the full title for two reasons. One, it's easier to not have to call the man 'Doc', and two, he's not very familiar with the gentleman and proper manners would dictate that until given permission to address the man in a more casual manner, he call him by his well-deserved and hard-earned title.

Then, to answer his question in regards to Galveston, he nods. "And yes, sir. Galveston." He adjusts the leather gun belt at his hips slightly, now that he's standing, before he glances around a little. His focus is still on the doctor, however. "I was workin' in one of the port stockyards for a spell."

Doc Hawthorn nods, smile still on his features as he listens to 'Jay' speak.

"What brings you south, Mr. Gordon?"

The question gets a moment's pause, but it's a brief one.

"Well, sir, I was thinkin' about eventually ending up in either San Antonio or Laredo, pick up with an outfit comin' up the Chisholm. Been slow up in the stockyards, not too many cattle goin' outta the port for New Orleans, so...figured I'd head t'where they were. Lookin' for some sort of work."

Man's gotta support himself, after all.

This gets another understanding nod.

"If cattle's what you're looking for, you're headed in the right direction," he affirms, shifting his weight slightly where he stands. "If you pick up with the Chisholm, that'll lead you on up through Oklahoma an' Kansas. Plenty of work to be had, but it's hard labor."

There's a pause between them as he studies the younger man. There's a sweetness about his face, something soft and kind, but his hands are tough and calloused, and his face worn, almost haggard. Ol' Doc Hawthorn doesn't reckon he'll have any qualms about hard labor.

"Listen, son," he begins, shifting again to tap his boots lightly, as if shaking the dust from them. "Me and my missus, well, we got us a place for those that wander on through. Afraid Green Lake ain't much -- don't got a proper livery or inn -- but she's growin'. Time being, my barn is open to you, and my table, if'n you decide to stay a spell."

He glances up at the late afternoon sky, as if gauging the hours of daylight left - there are still plenty, but it would be rude to turn down such an offer, especially with a tired horse (and rider) - before he nods once, and then returns his gaze to the older man.

"I would appreciate that a great deal, Dr. Hawthorn. I know that my horse could use a good rest and a feed come sundown, and to be completely honest, I could probably use one too," he admits, chuckling lightly with a small smile that breaks across his features. He doesn't look quite so tired, when he smiles like that, with that light in his eyes.

Then he glances at the far side of the square, where most of the folks are gathering for what he guesses is some sort of contest or game. A quick check of the horse's lead, before he inclines his head as if to indicate that he's ready to walk and join the others.

"I've never been to Green Lake," he adds. "But it sure seems an awful nice place to build up a town, what with the water so near and all."

The small smile is a welcome sight, and it immediately puts the older man at ease.

"Well, if a 'feed' s'what you're lookin' for, I'd say you picked the right day to stop into town," he laughs good-humoredly, answering the nod of 'Jay's head with a similar one of his own, turning back to the square.

"Green Lake's an oasis. Folk come 'round these parts, most oft decide they don't want to leave," he offers, as they stroll along the broad way. He gestures idly to a fellow a few dozen feet up ahead, in a blue silk vest and wide-brimmed hat. "That's our Mayor right there, Charles Walker Sr., with his family."

The two men meet glances, and Doc Hawthorn tips his hat respectfully. Mayor Walker, stogie held firm between his grinning lips, tips his head in reply, and starts moseying towards them.

"Can't say I blame them for not wantin' to, little slice of paradise as it is," he admits, taking in the sights of the town - his curious nature at how different it looks 'now' easily passes as a first timer acquainting himself with the layout - as they walk.

At the name 'Walker', he glances forward and manages somehow to keep his expression neutral, even pleasant.

Once they've joined up with the Mayor, he tips his hat and nods his head a bit in greeting.

"Afternoon, Mayor."

"Howdy, boys," replies Charles Walker, voice lilting, and jowls turned upward in a deep smile. He nods again, the gesture directed at Doc Hawthorn, but his eyes linger on 'Jay', narrowing slightly as he takes a drag off his cigar.

He's sizing the boy up.

As he exhales the long pull of smoke, having the courtesy to direct it away from the men, that grin of his widens even further. "We got us a newcomer?"

Behind him, approaches a younger man -- boy, no more than eighteen -- remarkably like Charles Walker Sr. in most every outward fashion.

Doc is well aware that he's being sized up, which is why he keeps his eyes and body relaxed, conversational - but there's a toughness underneath him, from working long hours of rough work and labor in the hot sun.

He keeps the outlaw, the edge, and the razor-sharp bite hidden away.

For now.

"Afternoon, Mayor Walker," he replies promptly, after the question, stepping forward to offer the man a handshake, as well as his introductions.

His eyes notice the younger Walker approaching, and he tamps down the swell of heat that sears up his chest and just offers a nod, and a smile instead.

Doc Hawthorn is polite in his adherence to proper protocol, aiding the introductions along as a mediary between the three men.

"And this is Charles Walker Jr.," he gestures with open palm, indicating the teenaged boy.

"Howdy," he offers, behind his own plume of smoke.

"What brings you to Green Lake, Mr. Gordon?" asks Charles Sr.

Doc Hawthorn places a gentle hand on 'Jay's shoulder before he can answer. "Please excuse me a moment. I must be finding my wife, before the contests are ended."

He nods politely to the Walkers, then heads off toward the crowd.

"Of course," he says, as Hawthorn takes his leave to go find his wife among the crowd of townsfolk, nodding politely before he turns his attention back to the Walkers.

He shifts just slightly on his feet, one thumb hooked easily in his gun belt, at his left hip.

"Well, sir, I was headin' south outta Galveston and lookin' for a place to stop for a spell, and when I came in through town via the stage route, realized that you all were havin' yourselves quite the picnic for Independence Day...figured I might as well see what all was goin' on."

Sr. glances behind him to Jr. briefly, before rolling his cigar absently between his fingers, laughing deep enough to make his shoulders shake.

"You sure picked a humdinger of a day to be travelin', boyo!" he remarks, returning the stogy to his teeth. As he speaks, it makes his words somewhat muffled.

"Yep, we've been havin' our annual picnic this time every year, 'round about since what? '76?"

"Hundred year anniversary," Jr. nods when his father turns to him, but he keeps his eyes on 'Jay.'

"Right," the Mayor grins, turning back to squint at 'Jay' again.

"You thinkin' about settlin', Mr. Gordon?"

"Centennial, is that right," he murmurs, seemingly impressed by the town's ability to thrive that long - not that it's hard to believe. Good land, water, and open space are all people need to set up camp and start to put down roots.

Doc looks from Walker to Walker, settling on the Mayor again. "Not sure 'bout the long term," he replies. "But Dr. Hawthorn has kindly offered to let me stay at his place for a spell."

The fact that the Walkers aren't the most educated folk might come readily apparent by the look of confusion on young Charles Walker's face over the word "centennial." His father's focus is on making him a good land man and political figure. He could care less about his diction.

"Ah-yeah, ol' Doc Hawthorn s'got a soft spot for the wayward. You'll be quite comfortable. His missus, Millicent, could part the heavens s'bove, with her cookin'," the Mayor chortles.

Beat.

"What sort of business you into, Mr. Gordon? Or, is that why you're wanderin' a spell?"

"Livestock. The port outta Galveston ships cattle all 'long the southeastern coast, New Orleans, all the way down to the very tip of Florida," he replies. "I was last working for one of the major shipping companies, at the stockyard right there in town."

A slight, one shouldered shrug.

"As for why I'm passin' through, well, business is slow this time of year, summer and all, so I'm takin' a spell to travel a bit."

This earns a slow, considering nod from Charles Sr., as he puffs thoughtfully on his cigar.

"Cattle ain't a bad business to get into, if yer lookin' to make a name for yourself." Beat. "Somewhere down the line, at least."

His son straightens his shoulders proudly, his six iron picking up the late afternoon light across his hips as he shifts.

"My daddy ain't just the Mayor. We own all the land east of this here lake. Most of them peach trees, too."

"Yessir, we don't do too bad for ourselves," Mayor Walker grins genially.

Doc ignores the comment about the cattle business and focuses his attention on Mayor Walker's son, keeping his eyes from glancing at the piece on his hip. He offers him a smile, instead.

"That's a fine bit of land you got there," he agrees. "I rode in that way, long the road, and I would be so bold as to say I could smell the peaches long 'fore I could even see the outskirts of town proper."

A glance at the Mayor. "Sure beats riding down 'long the Rio, near the Chisholm ranches," yes, plural. "If you catch my meanin'," he quips. "Though for a cattleman he ain't done half bad."

Given that they named the trail after him, and all.

But he smiles again and looks around at the town. He nods his head, respectful and graciously. "Fine bit of land, indeed. Seems my horse picked the best little patch of Texas he could possibly find."

Edited 2009-01-09 20:29 (UTC)

Jr. has no reservations about focusing right back, gaze steady and even, impertinent little grin still at his lips.

Charles Sr. chuckles, shifting a bit as his posture relaxes. He likes this kid.

"I do indeed, son. You work with Chisholm, then?"

"Best land in Texas, you dun near guessed it," Jr. pipes in, shoulders still straight. "Ain't just any place lucky enough to have fresh water, this close to the coast. Good soil, too."

"Good folk," the Mayor adds.

"I've worked with some of his line riders before, but I'm not a part of his company, no," he says. "Been down to his place a time or two, but that was some years back."

He reaches up to pull his hat off and brush his hair back slightly, the long strands going behind his ears a bit, before he replaces it on his head. "Awful nice weather you got, coolin' effect off the lakewater and all. Perfect day for such a fine picnic. Folk do seem to be enjoying themselves."

From what he can see over here, anyways. He figures that once the Mayor tires of questioning him, he'll wander off to go socialize with his loyal citizens, that cigar between his teeth and grin planted on his face.

Doc's just looking for a glass of water, and eventually, for her.

But he's in no rush. It wouldn't be proper.

"You get a lot of folk comin' in from all the surroundin' county, I'd imagine."

Indeed, during their brief conversation passersby have paused for an "Afternoon, Mayor!" or a "Good day, Mayor Walker!"

Charles Walker is good enough to acknowledge each greeting, but for the time 'Jay' holds more of his interest than any of the other townsfolk.

"Yeah, mighty fine weather, to be sure. Mild, for a Texas summer." Which means it's hot, but not unbearable if the gentleman around town rather keep a suit jacket on.

Still, a cold drink wouldn't go amiss, and he can see on Doc's face that the young man is thirsty. His lips quirk briefly.

"We get folk on up from all over, boy. The town, she's a-growin', fairly steady. We do all right, we do all right. Happy citizens mean a happy Mayor!" he laughs, clapping Doc on the shoulder, before tipping his chin over his shoulder to address Jr. "Hey son, why don't you go fetch some refreshments for our gentleman guest, here. First drink's on me."

Charles Jr. glances from face to face, before stepping back respectfully and heading over toward the General Store, where they've been pulling up "cold" drinks from the cellar.

The Mayor and his 'guest' stroll a bit.

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