Louis L'Amour: The Lonely Men

Apaches aren't bad folks. They have trouble enough without wishin' you on them.

Only it might work out for the best. A session with some of those Apache squaws might teach you some manners." I touched my hat, "I hope I won't be seein' you, ma'am. Good-bye!"

That black of mine went down into the arroyo as if he knew what was behind him, and when he topped out on the rise beyond we were out of rifle shot. I pulled up then and looked back.

She had caught one of the horses and was trying to mount. The horse was worried by her skirt, and was sidling around.

That was the last I saw of her, of Laura, who had been Orrin's wife.

I rode east, with the sun going down behind me, the feel of a good saddle under me, and a horse between my legs. The trail dipped into a wide hollow, shadowy with evening, and somewhere a quail called. Across yonder hills, miles away, was Pete Kitchen's. I'd make camp before I got there, because nobody in his right mind rode up to Pete's in the nighttime.

He was paying me twenty dollars for the job, and might cut me in for some of the profits. Anyway, it was a road stake, and maybe before lining out for somewhere across the country I'd just ride around and call on Dorset.

I liked that little girl. She was pert and she was pretty, and she had nerve.

A star came out, the desert night was soft, and a coolness came over it.

It came on me to sing, but my horse was carrying me along nicely, and I was not wishful for trouble.