by“Another time,” said Bart Maverel, “back in the summer of ’72, when Kansas had had several years to settle down into peacetime statehood, I was just riding along quietly, somewhere near the Missouri line, hoping to make the nearest town by nightfall, maybe even find decent bed and board there, along with a good game of poker...”
It was a fine evening in early summer, not too hot, now and then something making a little splash in the river—all in all, everything seemed pretty self-satisfied and tranquil, when all at once—out of nowhere, it seemed—here comes someone rushing up to my horse Brownie. I saw it was a young lady, looked like she had a healthy share of Indian blood in her. Long, flapping black braids, high cheekbones, dark eyes... All in all, she made me think of Pocahontas and e
