Today being my special day, I am dressed to kill in my finest work duds. Hair on sheep skin chaparejos over my blue jeans, my best leather vest over my snap shirt. Fancy stitched boots in the Paul Bond tradition. Fox Johnson style big ass rowels on my spurs, her handsmithed German silver conchos on her hand tooled spur straps. And my big brown five gallon (yes, I am shitting you) hat. Hell, where do they get those gallon measurements? When it comes to watering a horse, mine actually only holds a quart and some. I am all duded up as the party is set for tonight over the campfire if and when I get there. It is so far turning out to be a heck of a 21st birthday for me.
In any case, I’m slicked up and lookin’ mighty purty. Armament wise, before Shadow stole it, I had my .45 Colt on my hip. I still have my backup .25mm derringer in my boot top holster, under Bogey. My skinnin’ knife, where else? In my pocket. My matching .45 Colt rifle is in the saddle scabbard. I have, however, left my grenades at camp.
A girl generally wants to be prepared. But I didn’t feel the need for grenades whilst a chousin’ cows through the brush. Not that I haven’t considered the need a time or two. When those really wild suckers escape and brush up on me, a grenade would sure light a little fire under their tails! But mebbe also start a real range fire, not to mention barbeque their asses. My employer mightn’t nought ‘preciate me burning up their grass.
Of course, now I was questioning my no grenades while cowboyin’ policy. What with the shooting I had just encountered, and the shooters just a long lob away, I had been feelin’ mighty grenade poor then, and hell, who knew where they were now. They could be layin’ up anywhere. Lobbin’ a few firecrackers might roust ‘em out. Yee Haw!
Back in the early 1800s the Mountain Men used to always carry their long rifle across their lap when they were in hostile territory. I, being a stranger hereabouts, just follered ever’one else as to state of alert. I thought we had nothin’ to rustle up but cows. Hence the rifle rode in my saddle scabbard leaving my hands free for steerin’ and ropin’ if need be. Shit, did I pass out?
Cowgirl Thrillers Page 9