Montoya, while I shoot you."The silver bangles on the boy's sombrero shivered as he laughed. "You hear that, boss? Your wife, she say she goin' to shoot me."He struck a pose, his hand hooked on the red sash at his waist, one hip cocked. His leather pants were decorated with silver conchas, his boots stitched with flowers. He had been taken on by the Rocking R to help with the spring roundup. To Clementine's bedazzled eyes he looked as if he'd crossed the Rio Grande only yesterday.Bent beneath her focusing cloth, she couldn't see her husband's impatience but she could hear it. Boots shuffled behind her, stirring up dust. He slapped a coiled reata against his thigh. "Would you hurry it up, girl?" he finally said. "Those cows won't brand themselves. Sun's been up so long the dew's nearly dried."The sun had indeed burned off most of the morning haze. Clementine adjusted her lens to allow for it. She would not hurry her photographs. She would not. She drew in a deep breath, trying to ease the tightness in her chest caused by Gus's hovering.
