“Henry!” The voice shouted. “It’s Judd. Are you all right?”

Henry opened his eyes and sat up quickly. “NO!” he yelled again.

“Henry! HENRY!” it was the voice of Judd Thompson, one of the younger hands at the Rafter Seven. “Are you okay?” Henry shook off the cobwebs and looked around. He had passed out across the seat of the truck the night before. His head began to ache, partly because of the hangover that was quickly beginning to set in, and partly because of the bump over his eye from hitting the steering wheel.

“Are you all right,” Judd had been outside the truck, banging on the passenger side window. Somehow during the night, Henry had managed to lock both the truck doors.

Henry put the heel of his left hand over his left eye and rubbed hard. His head was pounding now. “Hell no, I ain’t all right,” he said, opening the door and pushing himself out. “Do I look like I’m all right?” His mouth was dry and he felt sick to his stomach, although he knew he wouldn’t get sick. He hadn’t thrown up from drinking in years. A sign, he suspected, that his body was actually getting used to being poisoned. This morning, as with many mornings, he didn’t much care.

Henry squinted at the bright, early morning sun, and for the first time was able to take a good, if blurry, look around. Being out on the passenger side, he could now see that the truck was perched on the big rock, something he couldn’t see, nor did he look for, the night before. He looked at the winch cable still attached to the gate upright now lying in the road. Three more ranch trucks were parked in the area and men were scattered around with chain saws, cutting the uprights into smaller pieces so they could be removed. He looked back at the path he had taken with the truck the night before, could see the ruts the truck made in the desert after it had left the road, as well as lumber scattered everywhere. Wherever there were tire ruts, there were two by fours and two by sixes. Not only had he wrecked the truck and pulled the gate down, but he had also lost and ruined the entire load of lumber.

“The boss wants to see you, Henry,” Judd said sheepishly.

“I’ll bet,” Henry grunted.

It didn’t take Henry long to pack his things after he was fired. By now he didn’t have much to pack anyway. A couple pairs of jeans, three shirts (all of them dirty), a coat and his chaps, which he kept in an old satchel, a bedroll, saddle and saddle bags, saddle blanket, slicker, bridles, ropes, and his pistol that he kept in its holster and pushed down in the bottom of the saddle bags. That was all he had left. He had pawned his rifle several years back when he ran out of money. The old Winchester didn’t bring near what it was worth, but by then the gun wasn’t worth much to Henry either, just like anything else in his life. In place of the rifle, he had picked up a cast iron fry pan, tin plate, coffee pot and tin cup somewhere along the way. As much time as he spent sleeping under the stars, it made much more sense to have those items than the rifle.