It's a bit of a story behind all that, really. I'd just been down in Hanged Man's Branch the day before, shuffling through the bushes and scrambling through the ravines, just trying to keep politely out of the Marshal's sight, see. Man like that's got no business seeing a man like me, and I'd figured that doing us both a favor and going our separate ways was the best move for all of us, least of all his daughter Clarissa. Now, I know what you're thinking - rough gentleman like me, quick with the iron and a bit too undignified to dip my toe into a pure stream, if you follow my trail. Of course, if you're the Marshal, I'd rather you didn't, but for all else, suffice it to say even a disreputable sort like myself can develop a silver tongue and a bit of good, solid angling when you've got a girl like that beaming up at you like you're the sun after a rain.

That's about when I'd figured I'd be caught, really, when we wandered out by the river and tried to figure out a few things. A gentleman never kisses and tells, but I suppose a gentleman wouldn't be finding some of the slipperiest tinctures this side of the Big River on Lady Clarissa's request, and he certainly wouldn't be putting it to good use with her within earshot of a quiet, nice little town like that. For all I know, they did hear the hollering and groaning we were mixing with the wind, but I suspect what it was that did me in was me teachin' Clarissa how to shoot. A man like the Marshal's never too keen on what he sees as his learning how to be more of a who than a what, after all, and pretty soon, I was finding whatever shade I could as I scrambled away. Left her one of my irons, at least, buried by the windmill out East, and a note, but that was that, and I'd soon find myself slinking in the back of a train and putting on my best airs for the lords and ladies of the new money in there.

He was a bit of a strange chap, really. Kind enough, once I'd shared a few sparks with him, rambling on and on about the queerest things. How he knew about Clarissa's taste for having her ankles next to her ears, I'm still not sure, but he sure knew the value of knowing to keep holdin' onto what matters most.

Now, you've probably heard me telling all this before, but I reckon you know how it goes; in the telling, life and more often death just turn into games, and a week or two doubles into decades. There's been a few more stories since then, when the warmth of summer melted into winter white. That night in the cave, when the stars had seemed to go black and the voices spoke; the long, hard ride across the Southern Draw, and through it all, I couldn't help but wonder if she'd remembered me, or if she was sat up in the Marshal's house still, counting his coffers and letting memories fade.

Still, cold nights have a way of bringing one's thoughts back to the past, and sure enough, that old man was sure right about one thing- after a while, every hand's a loser when you're looking for warmth a fire can't give. Hell or high water, though, I'd started the slog back to Hanged Man's Branch, listening to the wind. Some days, I wondered if she was riding my way, if she'd been visited by the same voice with different eyes.

She's still out there, I know, and I'm still out here, and I already walked away once. Now, I reckon, it's time to set my compass to a different star, and it's time to set in hard and run.

I'm honestly not sure why I chose to fuse a pun-laced take on a Kenny Rogers piece with a bit of weird, Old West-inflected romance, but I'm kinda happy with how this one turned out!

As always, I'm happy to hear from you, even if you've got a wildly different idea; it's always a pleasure to see what others come up with. Cheers, and thanks for reading.