Prettyface was by her side, looking almost as healthy as before the fight. Above Shannon the wild Colorado sky seethed with clouds in every color from pearl to pewter to a strangely radiant midnight. A freshening wind swept over peaks and forests alike, making narrow stone ravines sing eerily and trees shiver and bow. “Nice-looking mule,” Cherokee said from the doorway. Shannon glanced back at the old woman. She was leaning on the cane she had carved to ease the burden on her ankle. Shannon suspected that the cane might become a permanent part of Cherokee’s life. The thought made Shannon frown. It was Cherokee’s stalking skills that had kept both of them alive the past winter, when snow had come early and stayed late. “Last time I saw a mule like that was nigh onto two years ago,” Cherokee said, “when I dusted a Culpepper’s hat with two bullets from more than a thousand yards.” “They thought it was Silent John doing the shooting.” “Close enough. I used his long gun.
