Henry got to the Mitchell ranch mid morning and quickly found the office, which was attached to a very large and very well kept red barn. The sign on the door said, “Please come in,” and so Henry did. He entered into a small, but comfortable outer office where Sally Mitchell, Sam’s daughter, sat behind an orderly desk.

“Good morning,” she smiled, almost as soon as Henry came through the door.

“Mornin’,” Henry said clearing his throat. “I was wonderin’ if Mr. Mitchell might be around.”

“Yes, he is,” Sally said, still smiling. “He’s in with his foreman right now, though. Can I tell him who’s calling?”

“Henry McBride,” Henry winced, as if saying his own name out loud hurt him in some way.

“Well, Mr. McBride,” Sally got up from her desk. “I’ll tell him, but it may still be a little while before he can see you.”

“That’d be all right,” Henry forced a smile. “I’m not all that busy today.”

Sally disappeared behind a large wooden door for only a few seconds, before returning.

“He said you could go right in,” Sally held the door open for Henry.

“He did?” Henry asked, a bit surprised.

“He did,” she smiled.

Henry walked to the door and just before entering, removed his hat. Once inside, the heavy door closed behind him with muffled thud. In front of him, behind a large wooden desk sat Sam Mitchell, a heavyset, balding but obviously well-off rancher with a large graying walrus moustache and matching eyebrows. Every time Henry had seen him in the past, he always had a small patch of stubble somewhere on his face that he missed that morning when shaving. On this day, the stubble was on the cleft of his chin.

To Henry’s right, sitting in a chair near the wall, was Willy Pratt, a life-long cowboy and foreman of the Mitchell operation. Willy was dressed in faded light brown trousers that buttoned up the front, high-top cowboy boots in which the bottom of his trousers were tucked, red suspenders over a chambray shirt and a wide-brimmed felt hat. Willy had round, wire-rim spectacles and a large black handlebar moustache.

“Damn, Henry,” Sam said from behind his desk. “You look like hell. You okay?”

“Fine sir,” Henry replied. “Thank you.”

“To what do we owe this visit, Henry,” Sam smiled.

“Well sir,” Henry started. “A little while back you offered me a job here but I couldn’t take it because I was still at the Circle R. I just wanted to let you know I’m available now.”

“Henry,” Sam’s smile faded slightly. “That was twelve years ago that I offered you that job.”

Henry sat quietly for a second, taking in what Sam had just said. “Twelve years,” he said under his breath.

“I understand you’ve been hitting the bottle pretty hard since the accident.” Sam said matter-of-factly.

“No sir,” Henry looked down at the hat in his hands. “Not really.”

“Sorry Henry,” Sam said, looking at the disheveled Henry and shaking his head. “Even as good a hand as you are, you’re of no use to me or anyone else in the condition you’re in.”