Last Ride

The bar was dim, lit by the fading neon sign that buzzed in the window. Gus leaned on the bar, his gnarled hands tracing the rim of a glass that held no more than a quarter inch of whiskey.

The bartender, a stocky man with a face like a weathered boot, was wiping down the counter and glancing at the clock. “Closing up in ten, Gus,” the bartender grumbled. “You want another?”

Gus chuckled softly, a sound more like gravel sliding off a hill. “Another? Naw, Jim. I’d be nursing it till morning, and you’d have my hide for making you stay late.”

“Fair enough,” Jim muttered, tossing the towel over his shoulder.

Gus tipped his hat to the barkeep and slid off the stool with a stiffness that spoke of too many hard tumbles. He shuffled out the door. The cool night air hit his face as he stepped outside, the stars above winking down like they knew all his secrets.

He walked down the empty street, his boots scuffing against the boardwalk. The wind carried a faint scent of sagebrush and dust, and somewhere in the distance, a coyote howled—a sound that had once thrilled him but now only reminded him how far from the saddle he’d fallen.

“Gus?” a voice called out behind him.

He turned to see a young man leaning against a lamppost–a lopsided grin on his face. He wore a clean white button-up shirt and jeans that hadn’t seen a day’s work. His boots were polished, his hat near perfection.

“Donny,” Gus said, nodding in greeting. “What are you doing out this late? Ain’t you got a girl to be wooing or a dance to be at?”

“Just got back into town,” Donny said, pushing off the lamppost and stepping beside Gus. “Figured I’d find you where I usually do.”

Gus chuckled again. “You found me all right. Though I ain’t much of a sight these days. Just an old man trying to outdrink his regrets.”

Donny glanced at him, his grin fading. “You talk like your story’s all told. But I remember the stories you used to tell us boys when we’d sit around the fire. You were something, Gus. Rodeo champ, wrangler, the best damn bronc buster this side of the Rockies.”

Gus stopped walking and looked up at the stars, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his old coat. “That was a lifetime ago, Donny. These days, I’m just trying to figure out where a man goes when he’s too old for the saddle and too young for the grave.”

“You’re not as old as you think,” Donny said, his voice softer now. “And you’ve got more left in you than you give yourself credit for.”

Gus shook his head. “You’re kind to say so, but the truth is, the world’s moved on. Cowboys like me? We’re relics, reminders of a time that’s gone and ain’t coming back.”

They walked in silence, the only sound the crunch of gravel under their boots. When they reached the edge of town, Gus stopped and turned to Donny.

“Thanks for walking with me, son. You take care now, you hear?”

“You too, Gus,” Donny said, hesitating before adding, “You ever need a place to go, you know where to find me.”

Gus tipped his hat. “Appreciate it.”

As Donny walked back into town, Gus stood there, staring at the open desert beyond the last streetlamp’s glow. The wind whispered through the cheat grass, and for a moment, he felt the pull of the wild again, the call of open spaces and endless horizons.

He took a deep breath, straightened his hat, and walked toward the hills.