by Cotton Smith
“I wonder if the general store has any pretty dresses for little girls.” Carlow stepped over to the jail door and opened it. “Or one of those dolls.”
“Maybe a fine leather-bound book . . . in German, me son.” Kileen grinned.
“Oh, I’ve got to get some cigars for Will, too. Said I would.” Carlow shook his head. “An’ I’ll bring us back a couple of steaks.”
“A wee sup of Irish whiskey would be a fine touch.”
“Sure. Come on, Chance.”
Carlow strolled outside in the easy night air with Chance at his heels. He reached down to push the knife handle back into place in his right legging; it had worked its way up. His spurs mixed with the sounds of music and laughter from the saloons.
Kileen stood in the doorway, watching him, then looked up to the star-blossoming sky. “Aye, Mary Lucent Carlow. There be standin’ a Ranger—or me name ain’t Aaron Lucent.”