The Devil's Lair (A Lou Prophet Western #6)
“The voice belonged to Ronnie Williams. Prophet lowered the rifle slightly. The kid gigged his horse down the hill. When the hill instead of the sky was behind him, Prophet saw the kid’s shabby hat, his pale face with the anemic beard, long hair blowing out behind him in the wind.
Ronnie held a rifle across his saddlebows. The chest and withers of his chestnut gelding were lather-foamed, as though the horse had been ridden hard.
“What’s all the shootin’ about?”
Ronnie asked.
Prophet regarded the kid suspiciously. The kid was known to be a good marksman, and several of those slugs had come close to hitting their target.
“How long you been out here, boy?”
The kid’s blue eyes flickered. He shrugged.
“I reckon I got out here about dawn. I’m huntin’ deer for Miss Frieda over to the cafe. Her special tomorrow is deer stew.” He glanced around. “Where’s your horse?”
Prophet’s glance fell on the .56-caliber Sharps set across the bows of Ronnie’s saddle while he kept his own Winchester raised, h...eld in both hands across his chest.MoreLess
Ronnie held a rifle across his saddlebows. The chest and withers of his chestnut gelding were lather-foamed, as though the horse had been ridden hard.
“What’s all the shootin’ about?”
Ronnie asked.
Prophet regarded the kid suspiciously. The kid was known to be a good marksman, and several of those slugs had come close to hitting their target.
“How long you been out here, boy?”
The kid’s blue eyes flickered. He shrugged.
“I reckon I got out here about dawn. I’m huntin’ deer for Miss Frieda over to the cafe. Her special tomorrow is deer stew.” He glanced around. “Where’s your horse?”
Prophet’s glance fell on the .56-caliber Sharps set across the bows of Ronnie’s saddle while he kept his own Winchester raised, h...eld in both hands across his chest.MoreLess
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