But then before he realized it, he’d grabbed the reins and bolted off his heels and into the saddle that felt familiar and comfortable beneath him. His old saddle. His horse . . . the skewbald paint he’d bought after he’d sold his father’s business and lit out on the vengeance trail after Anderson and Spoon. He and the horse had dusted many trails together, chasing or being chased. The cavalry had confiscated Renegade at Camp Collins, when Cuno had been taken into custody under the watchful eye of Sheriff Dusty Mason, and that had been the last he’d seen of Michelle Trent, the Lassiter children, and Camilla (had she ever told him her last name?) . . . until now. Cuno reined the horse toward the girl, who watched him a little skeptically, no doubt a little repelled by his swollen and purpled nose and eyes. He blinked, frowned. “You came for me?” She smiled a little sadly. “I am sorry it took so long.” Cuno looked around at the men of her gang milling on horseback, dust rising in the morning sunshine around their pintos, bays, mixed Arabians, and paint mustangs, the guards standing against the barracks walls holding their hands high above their heads.
What do You think about .45-Caliber Desperado (2011)?
