With his tongue he flipped the lick of whiskey down his tumbleweed choked throat. Then with a stamp of his feet, the last of the sand slipped down the seams of his boots onto the floor. Now he could feel the road had ended, he was back in town. A town so far away from the wet isle of green that he would have shed a tear if any drop of moisture had been left in his eyes. He wanted to settle there, find an end to roads. He took a seat at the table with the only unoccupied chair. He looked at the man with the star on his vest and tried to ignite the small talk that was always awaited there, “Sure is dry out here—-dry as bones—-here in the West…” The man, who was only two hazel eyes peering out from a long, brown dusty beard, took his last gulp from his glass. He looked at him long with a squint, not one word slipped past his lips. He set the glass down hard on the table. The rumble of glass and splintery wood brought the player piano and town gossip to an end. All ears waited to hear what would be said, all eyes watched to see what would be done. “We don’t much like strangers here.” His elbows unfolded and his hands glided down to the holsters at his hips. The shutters that served as a door to that saloon, flipped and flapped as some of the patrons left that room not even taking a chance to wet the spittoon. “Them vipers are after you, it seems as if it has been weeks, what ya’ gone and done?” One hand let loose of the trigger and tilted his hat back to reveal a head bald and scarred from the edge of a tomahawk. Paddy didn’t know how to answer, how to soothe the air from the rising storm. Since landing on those shores he had always tried to play the good guy. He dressed all in white, even his vest was Charolais cowhide. It held six bullets, a few silver coins and his dear sweet chewing tobacco. It had never been spotted by blood. He was innocent of that at least. He knew he had to say something so he let his tongue loose like a horse sharply spurred, “They started to follow me as soon as I got off the boat, it was if they were waiting at the shore…it’s not my fault…” There was that silence again, deeper than when the embers of the campfire blacken into midnight out there on the range. After a pull of breath, the sheriff’s tongue flicked like a flame, “Ya’ gotta’ go, y’have to leave town. We don’t want their kind here slippin’ and slidin’ on our one main street and in the few alleys in between—-this is a respectable town and it has to stay that way—-so long as I’m wearin’ this star.” The sheriff’s fingers and thumb fumbled with those five silver points. It’s weight light, its duties heavy. Paddy could feel how his heels began to rub the silver spurs on his boots, making them ring just like the bells in the tower once did far away back home, not his home anymore. He had left with the coppery alms from the old padlocked box of the church. Humble offerings he had stolen, his first step down the wrong path. He had grown tired of helping those who came in tears there and stood in front of him pleading. And now with the famine they even bellyached more. Like so many of them he paced the fetid decks over the Atlantic with hope for the far shore. The hope had diminished, but he was alive with more than enough in his pockets and his stomach filled. The only bellyaching he had to hear was his own. He yearned for a new life, the old one behind followed him still. They were always biting at his heels and trying to poison his heart since he first landed on America’s shores. It was supposed to be a promised land flowing with milk and honey. But who needed milk when there was whiskey and a tortilla—-much better than any soda bread. But would they ever leave him in peace, it had been so long ago. He tried every day to live the life of a saint, there were just some things that got in the way. He quickly made the sign of the cross and bowed his head. But he couldn’t keep his head down long. He looked up and then around through the fog that never lifted from rising cigars. Through the haze he could see the round tables made out of old wagon train wheels. He had sat in many a town on his way out West many a time, playing poker at the table, cheating just a wee, little bit. It wasn’t something he could help, he could always hear the prayers of the others as they begged God to give them just the right card. He knew what they needed which fulfilled his needs to win the hand. They all said he was the luckiest man alive and stopped inviting him to their tables. He wasn’t a bad man. He had always donated half his earnings—-which was much more than any tithe—-he dropped those chipped coins and tattered dollars into the offering box at the Mission without the Padre ever seeing who it was. The only one looking down on him was the crying Virgin. Was she crying for him? He lit a two penny offering candle in hope. What hope he didn’t know. Being the luckiest man alive his reputation spread from town to town like a late August wildfire. The only table he could sit at was for drinking and there in the desert whiskey was medicine so he still hoped it might help clean the flecks on his soul. He placed his finger and thumb on those beads in his pocket. Pulling each one he contemplated what he had done since coming to the town the evening before. He had not spent his night at the hotel, there was a lot of whoring there. Rather, he was a reverent man. He had paid the silver dollar for two weeks at The Golden Nugget Boarding House. He hoped to be staying there longer than anywhere before. Just somewhere to rest for more than a night. He didn’t bring a bought for woman to his room, he weathered that temptation. If only he hadn’t been under the covers in the proprietress’ bed. It just happened. She said she liked his boots and his brogue of a tongue. He came undone. With sweaty fingers he rolled the last of the 59 beads through, 59 ladies’ names had slipped through his lips, three of them were even named Mary. None of them a virgin, though. “‘ave you been listenin’ to me?” that beard with eyes shined brighter than that over-polished silver star. His thoughts came back to where he was. Without a word, he knew he had to go. He took the staff held tight to his back and unfurled the leather strap. It was the one thing that had held him steady in all the years his feet had trod the earth. In silence, and maybe a bit of reverence, he walked out those two flapping slatted wood half of doors. He looked both ways down that dust road and decided to follow the setting sun, the promised West. His heart heavy lead in the golden sunset, he crossed the line where the sign read: Paradise Gulch Population 73 7 dogs 1 old grouch and his wife A smile came as he said farewell, he blessed them all in their little lives of hell. He turned his back on them and took ten steps until there was no longer a road. He was a wanderer on his way, but didn’t know where. As the sun sank into the horizon, he heard them. They were waiting for him, no longer the man he had been, but their memory was long. The dark came, a night without a moon and only a few diminished stars. His boots held so much sand and spurs of tumbleweeds he could barely lift his feet. His eyes were tired, half-closed, and then he stumbled. He fell. Even though he knew he had fallen long ago. He thought he’d give up his last breath and hit stone in that pit. But it was soft and sibilant. He had fallen, fallen into a nest of vipers. They had been gathering there since the time he had forced them out. They had long expected his fall and struck at him with their long gathered venom. He remembered that the holy ones had rolled in nettles to show their contrition, maybe this was the same for him. He let them bite and bite. Then came the last poisoned fangs to his heart, he contemplated in that last minute, was he a sinning saint or a saintly sinner. Whichever he was, he was glad to have crossed the waters and travelled the desert. His bones lay there covered by the dust of wind and tornadoes. No shrine for Paddy, just an unmarked grave. No one came, no one asked a favor, he could rest in peace. He had finally shed his Old World skin. Back in Ireland in a small chapel, there was an empty plinth where a saint had once stood through centuries of belief, until he decided to follow his kin over the waves. The serpents knew they could now go back, but who wanted to leave the land of opportunity.