This fascination for cards escaped him, but he never missed sitting in, occasionally playing a hand. Always watching, always listening. He was torn now by the need to be with Patience, to ease her way, to serve as unwelcome protector should it be required. But this was a crucial time when he might discover some bit of valuable information. When all but one would be close enough to sober to speak sense, but drunk enough for loose tongues. He’d been with the gang only a short time when he’d learned that not everyone was part of the conspiracy. These four were the inner sanctum, and Hoke, not Custer, was the voice of authority in all things that pertained to the real purpose for the Wolves existence. Hoke, who was quieter and smaller, who held himself aloof from most of the interactions of the gang, speaking little in his ruined voice, was always cold sober, and by far the most dangerous. “Your woman keeps to herself.” Hoke spoke. The rasping whisper, emitted from a mutilated throat, strained to reach across the fire that was rebuilt in the morning chill, burned in the suffocating heat of the day, and would be their only light come nightfall.
What do You think about A Wolf In The Desert (1995)?
