the rifleman inquired. Edie’s jaw slackened, disbelief trumping fear. “That’s a rhetorical question, right?” “Yes, we want to live,” Caedmon answered. He stepped forward, his right hand extended. “Tonto Sinclair, I presume?” “Well, I sure as hell ain’t Dr. Livingstone.” The pony-tailed Native American, whom Edie placed in his early sixties, tipped the rifle skyward. To her relief, he flipped on the safety. Still scowling, he stared at Caedmon’s proffered hand. Rather than take it, he shrugged out of his brown flannel jacket and flung it at Caedmon’s chest. “Leech the lead from your asses. He’ll soon be on the hunt.” Edie assumed that their “guide” referred to Rico Suave. “Put out the flame, did he?” Caedmon handed her the jacket, silently mouthing the words Put it on. The other man shrugged. “You only singed him. He’ll live.” “Pity.” Caedmon gallantly swept his arm, drops of water plopping to the ground as he did so. “By all means, lead the way.”
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