. . THERE’S GONNA BE HELL TO PAY . . .” CLAWED MY MUDDY-HEADED way back from the other side, and found myself stretched out on a lumpy cot in one of Marshal Caleb Oakley’s spartan jail cells. Boz sat next to me in a straight-backed, cane-bottomed chair. Wafting smoke from his well-chewed panatela smelled mighty good. He noticed my eyes had opened. The tougher-than-boot-heels Ranger smiled, leaned over, and offered me a sip of water from a tin dipper he pulled out of a wooden bucket. “Feeling better there, pard? You’ve been gone between thirty minutes and an hour. Knew you weren’t all that bad off. Seen you get hurt a helluva lot worse at least a dozen times.” As I sipped from the dipper, heard Buster Caldwell grumble from somewhere, “Wuz hopin’ the son of a bitch had died myself. Wish all you Rangers a blood-spittin’ departure, and an early welcome in Satan’s fiery pit, by God.” Boz glanced to a spot somewhere over the top of my head and snapped, “Shut your stupid mouth, Buster.
