Red Tape

Thirst

        Shane's tongue slowly rasped itself free from the roof of his mouth, as It searched in vain for any sort of moisture. He fought the instinct burning inside him to lie down and sleep. He knew that meant never waking up.
         He redoubled his effort to climb the slope, digging his fingers into the burning earth  and pulling himself up. Pain exploded across his muscles, aches searing down every part of his body from the exertion.
         "Damn horse rustlers," he thought . This is why It was a hanging offense. Whoever had stolen his horse might have well put a pistol to his head and pulled the trigger.
           It seemed like an eternity, like he had traversed limbo and yet made no progress, crawling through his own prívate purgatory, but eventually he made it to the top of the hill.
           When he saw the small settlement of random boxes and rectangles far off down below; for a second he didn't trust his senses. A mirage?
           Had his thirst driven him mad and lose what little sense he had?
           Illusion or not the sight was enough to bring him to his feet and half stumble, half walk towards liquid salvation.
          The town was indeed real, though not sturdy. Even as he got closer he could tell everything had a slapped together "we'll fix It later" feel about it.
            He passed a crooked sign:

             Haphazard Spring
             Pop: 232

A spring. Water. Thirst.

          Shane continued to the outskirts, dehydration and exhaustion brought him to his knees.
          He crawled to an animal's water trough, but his weakness and the town's slapshod construction worked against him. He knocked it over, spilling the dank, slimed and dirty water into the dirt. The spill turned the scorched terracota tones into muddy oak browns.
         Shane watched in vain as dry soil soaked up the filthy wash that any dignified man, in any other situation would have refused to drink. Shane would have cried, if his body could have summoned a reserve of liquid.
        "Well, well," came a voice behind him.
          "Seems we've got a fella here with a bigger thirst on him than me!"
          Shane turned to see Clint; the town barfly casting some appreciated shade from the blazing Sun.
           Clint helped him to his feet, and seeing the opportunity to ride some of Shane's poor luck into a line of sympathetic drinks on the house ( as well as play the good samaritan, of course) looked him in the eye and invited him to his local place of worship
           "That's to say - the bar!" He said that word like a preacher would use the lord's name.
           They entered the local saloon to Clint's thunderous oration.
          "Good citizens of Haphazard Spring..."
          He tripped over a poorly hammered nail in the floor, rather ruining the drama of it all.
          "I say, good citizens of Haphazard Spring. We built this humble little community on good Christian values and I know you'll find it in your hearts to help fellow wanderer on our Lord's good Earth; who havin' fallen on hard times."
          Less than half a dozen clients barely looked up from their drinks. Gemidia the bartender, more beard than man was used to Clint's glibness, permitted him a small tab which he in return paid for in hard labor, said "What'll It be Clint?" Interupting what was sure to be a long speech.
         Clint turned to Shane, who coughed out a small cloud of dust lining his throat before uttering the word "Wa-Water!"
          "You heard the man," said Clint, aghast at the lack of spirits in the man's order " water and a whiskey chaser for the good samaritan."
           Droplets of condensation ran down the glass like serpents pushing apples out of Eden.
            At that moment; the horse rustlers who had put Shane's life in jepardy,  confronted the local marshall and his posse. A stray warning shot ricochetted through the window and smashed the glass of cool clear water to pieces.
           Everybody scattered. On seeing Shane frozen in horror and despair, Clint shuffled him out the back door to safety ( not before downing his whiskey in one).
            It was at this point in our story that the Lord chose to take pity on Shane.
            Suddenly, the heavens openned and rain began to fall.
             A downpour that would eventually wash away the town, quenched poor Shane's thirst.