by Jake Logan
“You going to stand there the whole day and block the damn road, mister?”
Something familiar in that voice made him look hard at the woman on the seat with a handful of leather reins and wearing a wide-brimmed man’s hat, collarless shirt, galluses over her breasts, and new canvas pants. A Colt with a redwood-handle stuck out of a holster on her side. With her dusty boot planted on the dash, she smiled.
“It’s me. Margie.”
“You the cook for this outfit?”
She winked at him. “And a damn good one. This bunch would fight you if you messed with me.”
Slocum rode up close holding his hands up. “I don’t doubt it. You like it?”
“Beats the hell out of bedding every sorry sumbitch comes through the damn door and having to like it.” She wiped her nose on her sleeve, holding the mules in check. “I sure don’t miss it.”
Slocum winked at her. “You still owe me.”
“I’ll pay you back too—someday. But I better get my butt up there and make camp for tonight. Get up there, Jud. Judy! Get your fanny over.” She clucked to them and blew him a kiss.
Santa Maria was the sleepy town across the Rio Bravo where the music was sweeter and the women prettier. He twisted in the saddle and watched the rocking canvas top of the Bar K chuck wagon. Margie was driving her mules toward the old North Star. No pig ranch for that girl.
He set the dun horse in a lope—Santa Maria called him.