Alayna Reid
Editor-in-Chief
Old Harlan folded his cards on the kitchen table, rubbing his wrinkled brow in defeat. “I’m afraid you’ve got me beat again,” he sighed.
“AHA! YES! That makes 5, pawpaw!” Little Stevie hollered from the opposite end, laying his cards down face up. 1 Jack, 2 Nines, an Eight, and a Four, Old Harlan had to hold back a grin.
Placing a hand over his 3 Kings and 2 Queens, pops and snaps filled the room as he stood slowly “keep that up, and you’ll be about as good a gambl’r as y’ur daddy.”
“You’re sure right I will!” the boy stood, triumphantly hopping around the table to grin widely at the senior. “Wif you’re help, I’m gonna beat him soon!”
Old Harlan chuckled, bringing a hand to lightly pat his head. Little Stevie giggled before Old Harlan let his hand drop, raising his brow instead. “Now son, I need you to stay out of that desert,” Old Harlan commanded, pointing a finger at Little Stevie’s chest. “Especially at night! Don’t you ev’n think about wand’ring through the bristles and the cacti the second the ol’sun has dipped below the west.”
The boy glowered at his grandfather, crossing his arms and kicking the wall to his left. He had just been plotting to travel to the desert this very night. He had never admitted this to Old Harlan, but there must have been a mischievous glint in the young boy’s eyes that keyed him into Stevie’s scheming.
“Shush it, it isn’t the end of the world and I ain’t gonna listen to you holler about it! Now run on back to your mother, she’ll be wond’ring where you’ve gone to.” He grabbed Little Stevie by the shoulders and turned him around so that he faced down the street, giving him a nudge to get him walking.
Little Stevie groaned and ran away from the old man, making his way into the center of their little western town. Brokespur had only been around for 64 years, and Old Harlan had been there since the beginning. He was a young pup during those days, tall and handsome with a new wife of only 3 months by his side. Brokespur was their first child, grown from sweat, tears, and the dust kicked up from new settler’s horses. Old Harlan built the city center nearly all on his own, it being made up of a courthouse, grocery store, tack shop, and a doctor’s office. And now, Little Stevie, a boy of only 7, marked the beginning of the 3rd generation of the town’s citizens.
He found his mother in her usual place at this time of the day: behind the counter of the local bakery. It was a dinky little building yet stood strong with newer boards than the neighboring convenience store. The bakery was built a year before Stevie came into the world, by none other than his parents. His mother wanted to follow in her father’s footsteps and contribute to the community he had built here in the desert. Her husband, on the other hand, was an outsider and came into the town with bandit parentage. But, despite their quarrels with the law, Old Harlan let them in. It was a good thing too; they helped to open Brokespur Butchery.
“Stevie Dale! Where on Earth have you been? Neither me or your father have seen you all afternoon!” shouted his mother.
Stevie walked behind the counter and took a seat on a stool in the corner. “I was wif pawpaw, mama.”
She sighed and walked over, crouching in front of her son, “its ‘with’ sweetie, a -th, like this—” she mimicked the sound, pointing at her tongue against her top teeth. “And you need to tell me where you’re going, pawpaw’s or not.” The boy looked down at his feet, kicking them slightly. His mother placed a kiss on the top of his head before going back to her counter, rolling out some dough for tomorrow morning’s bread. “How is he then? Pawpaw?”
“He’s doin’ fine. He taught me how to play cards.”
“Did he now?” she kneaded the dough over itself, grabbing some more flour out of the adjacent jar. “He’s gonna turn you into a gambling man one day.”
The boy perked up and smiled widely at his mother, “yeah! And I’m gonna win lots!”
His mother laughed softly and shook her head, “yes, but you’ll probably lose lots too…”
“Nuh-uh! Pawpaw says I’m getting really good!” he stood from the stool and crossed his arms over his small frame. “I beat him five times!”
She picked up the soft dough with a sigh and put it in a bowl to rise, planning to bake it before dawn. She wiped the flour off on her apron before hanging it on an iron hook on the far wall. “Come on, let’s head home for the night.” She made her way over to her son and ruffled his tawny hair until giggles began bubbling out of his mouth. “Maybe you can show Daddy your new gambling skills.” She scooped him up in her arms and walked out the back of the bakery, heading to their house on the edge of Brokespur.