soggy sod sill.
He found no targets for his overloaded Yellowboy. The far side of the trail had been hastily vacated by the sons of bitches who'd replied so rudely to his request for a parley.
He moved over to the newspaper gal's position, saying, "Change places with me. You've only got two rounds in that Spencer now. So see if you can reload as you guard the empty slope."
Then he saw what she'd been aiming at out back, and whistled in sheer admiration as he made out the three bodies scattered in the tall dry grass. He didn't see anybody moving out yonder now. He still trained his own rifle on the view to the west as he told her flatly, "Three stopped with five rounds is what I'd call downright swell marksmanship, Miss Weaver. Where in thunder did you learn to shoot so fine?"
She answered simply, "I grew up on an army post. My father was stationed at Fort Marion after the Seminole had calmed down. It was awfully hot for most sports. So we spent a lot of time on the rifle range."
Longarm watched the scattered brown forms out back as he slowly concluded, "You surely must have. You either killed the three of 'em totally or scared 'em so bad they're afraid to draw breath now. Were they charging mounted or afoot?"
She demurely replied, "On horseback, of course. There were five of them. I'd have gotten them all if they'd been coming slower!"
He said he believed her, and asked how they were doing out front. She said, "Not a sign of life. They must have thought their main body could move in past a mere girl as they kept you distracted from that other side. But I guess they've learned their lesson, and I'll just bet that's the last we'll ever see of them!"
He said, "Don't bet next month's salary or your favorite hat on that, Miss Weaver. They're still out there. The leader who got 'em in this mess would never be able to show his face at a dance if he just cut and run. They have to stick around until dark, if only to see if they can recover their dead
He started to say something else. But he figured she had more than enough to worry about. So he held the thought.
It didn't work. A gal paid by a newspaper to think on her own two feet had gotten good at it. In a desperately casual tone she asked, "Is it true Plains Indians never attack at night, Deputy Long?"
To which he could only reply, "Never is an overconfident word, and my friends call me Custis, Miss Weaver."
She said, "In that case you'd better call me Godiva. For anyone can see you're the only friend I have for miles right now! What if we made a break for it just after dusk? I don't see how just the two of us could defend this hollow shell against an all-out attack in total darkness, do you?"
Longarm said, "Nope. But it's barely high noon, and that leaves us nigh eight hours to figure something out."
She brightened and said, "You mean you do see a way out for us, other than a running gunfight against odds or digging in to be dug out like cornered clams?"
He chuckled at the droll picture and replied, "Nope. I only said I had around eight hours to study on it. I agree with you on the only two choices we seem to have, Miss Godiva."
CHAPTER 8
By late afternoon the interior of their roofless shell was an oven, and Godiva had removed her travel duster to reveal a sweat-stained frock of brown paisley cotton. She'd set her veiled hat aside as well, but left her hair pinned up to let her neck sweat all it wanted. Longarm had been right about her hair being a dark shade of honey, and if she looked a mite more mature without that veil, she was still on the brighter side of thirty. Some kindly old philosopher had once remarked, doubtless in French, that a woman was ripest just before she commenced to wrinkle.
He didn't see what good that was likely to do either of them as he stood at a window space in his shirtsleeves, sweating like a pig as he soberly stared through the shimmering heat waves at nothing much.
They'd long since told one another the stories of their lives,
He found no targets for his overloaded Yellowboy. The far side of the trail had been hastily vacated by the sons of bitches who'd replied so rudely to his request for a parley.
He moved over to the newspaper gal's position, saying, "Change places with me. You've only got two rounds in that Spencer now. So see if you can reload as you guard the empty slope."
Then he saw what she'd been aiming at out back, and whistled in sheer admiration as he made out the three bodies scattered in the tall dry grass. He didn't see anybody moving out yonder now. He still trained his own rifle on the view to the west as he told her flatly, "Three stopped with five rounds is what I'd call downright swell marksmanship, Miss Weaver. Where in thunder did you learn to shoot so fine?"
She answered simply, "I grew up on an army post. My father was stationed at Fort Marion after the Seminole had calmed down. It was awfully hot for most sports. So we spent a lot of time on the rifle range."
Longarm watched the scattered brown forms out back as he slowly concluded, "You surely must have. You either killed the three of 'em totally or scared 'em so bad they're afraid to draw breath now. Were they charging mounted or afoot?"
She demurely replied, "On horseback, of course. There were five of them. I'd have gotten them all if they'd been coming slower!"
He said he believed her, and asked how they were doing out front. She said, "Not a sign of life. They must have thought their main body could move in past a mere girl as they kept you distracted from that other side. But I guess they've learned their lesson, and I'll just bet that's the last we'll ever see of them!"
He said, "Don't bet next month's salary or your favorite hat on that, Miss Weaver. They're still out there. The leader who got 'em in this mess would never be able to show his face at a dance if he just cut and run. They have to stick around until dark, if only to see if they can recover their dead
He started to say something else. But he figured she had more than enough to worry about. So he held the thought.
It didn't work. A gal paid by a newspaper to think on her own two feet had gotten good at it. In a desperately casual tone she asked, "Is it true Plains Indians never attack at night, Deputy Long?"
To which he could only reply, "Never is an overconfident word, and my friends call me Custis, Miss Weaver."
She said, "In that case you'd better call me Godiva. For anyone can see you're the only friend I have for miles right now! What if we made a break for it just after dusk? I don't see how just the two of us could defend this hollow shell against an all-out attack in total darkness, do you?"
Longarm said, "Nope. But it's barely high noon, and that leaves us nigh eight hours to figure something out."
She brightened and said, "You mean you do see a way out for us, other than a running gunfight against odds or digging in to be dug out like cornered clams?"
He chuckled at the droll picture and replied, "Nope. I only said I had around eight hours to study on it. I agree with you on the only two choices we seem to have, Miss Godiva."
CHAPTER 8
By late afternoon the interior of their roofless shell was an oven, and Godiva had removed her travel duster to reveal a sweat-stained frock of brown paisley cotton. She'd set her veiled hat aside as well, but left her hair pinned up to let her neck sweat all it wanted. Longarm had been right about her hair being a dark shade of honey, and if she looked a mite more mature without that veil, she was still on the brighter side of thirty. Some kindly old philosopher had once remarked, doubtless in French, that a woman was ripest just before she commenced to wrinkle.
He didn't see what good that was likely to do either of them as he stood at a window space in his shirtsleeves, sweating like a pig as he soberly stared through the shimmering heat waves at nothing much.
They'd long since told one another the stories of their lives,
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