53 years after the surrender of New Colorado Protectorate
Nick leaned back, wiped his thinning bangs back from his forehead with his clean hand, and shook blood from his other hand. Pulling the glove off, he muttered, “I’m too damn old for this crap.” He waved at one of the students, a girl of about twenty. “Mabel, you’re up. Get gloved in, pick a partner, and save this cow.”
Grabbing the side of the stall, Nick hoisted himself to his feet, stifling a groan as he did so. Damn arthritis. He couldn’t stay in one position for too long or crouch on the ground anymore, but he could still throw a knife with deadly accuracy.
He washed his hands in the bucket before turning and watching two of his five students use the running water of the barn trough to scrub their hands clean. Nick nodded to
