1887, somewhere out west
Morgan had been riding across the prairie for a few hours, and he and his horse were getting a little sun-baked. He took off his hat and tried to wipe some of the sweat away from the hatband and his forehead, then replaced the hat over his just-starting-to-gray hair. He spied a couple of trees up ahead, and he thought that would be a fine place for a lunch and water break. The closer he got, though, the clearer it was that someone was already there, sitting astride a horse. Morgan figured he could handle the company, and so kept going.
The guy under the tree was younger than Morgan, slender with medium-length, shaggy brown hair and clean shaven. He wore no hat and no shirt, just an unbuttoned leather vest on his upper body. He was also missing his pants, but he worenatural leather chaps so nothing covering his crotch or behind. I saw he had his boots on, at least, with spurs. He was fumbling with something in his lap – rope, maybe. And what the Devil gives all us men between his legs, which was fat and half-stiff already.
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