CHAPTER 43 “Me mouth still waters.”
Bowie picked himself out of the mesquite and looked around for his horse. The mustang was twenty feet back down the trail, stomping and snorting as Sam fought to grip its reins. At the moment of the blast, Bowie had been turned in the saddle, trying in vain to raise a smile from Mariette. All at once her horse had bolted ahead, his jackknifed, and he’d found himself soaring through the air.
The shirt he’d scavenged from the largest of the dead Mexicans had fit him like a second skin, and was now ripped at the seams.
Mariette looked down at him with a grin. Andre and Sharky arrived just as Sam came up with the mustang, and they too regarded him with amusement. Thanks to the Mexicans—and their mysterious slayers—all now had their own mounts.
Bowie grow
