“The girl’s right, Boomer. That hoss don’t start at forest sprites.” “Ah, shit, I was just gettin’ comfortable,” Drago said as Greta helped haul the old outlaw to his feet. Spurr walked over to Cochise and draped the spare saddlebags over his own pair behind his bedroll. Quickly, he and the others tightened their latigos and shoved the bridle bits through their horses’ teeth. Spurr racked a round into the chamber of his “new” carbine, all the while staring nervously back along the creek. While Greta and Drago continued to ready their own mounts, Spurr walked out toward the creek, leading Cochise by his reins. When he was halfway between the cabin and the trees, he stopped. His heart hiccupped when he saw a single rider trotting toward him along the game trail, holding a rifle across his saddlebows. The man’s head was turned to his left. When he turned it forward, staring toward Spurr, he drew back on his horse’s reins, stopping the mount in the trail.
