He’d been watching a Gunsmoke marathon on the Western Channel since the sun went down and the rain rolled in, trying to get a good look at Miss Kitty. There was something about the way the woman wore those fancy ole-timey dresses and those big hats with ostrich feathers that flat out did it for him. Royce had his pants around his knees waiting for his old parts to spring to life, a box of Kleenex and jar of Vaseline handy, the mood usually hitting him when Miss Kitty stepped on or off a stagecoach. Or when she gave one of those coy side eyes to old Matt Dillon. But at the damn moment, he was forced to watch some cock-and-bull story about Chester heading out of Dodge to go fishing and some captured Injun being brought into the general store by the local agent. The agent had a rope tied around the savage, the man being led around like a dog as he was being forced back to the Cheyenne Rez. That dumb-ass daughter of the store owner getting one look at that big-muscled savage and falling for him even though he doesn’t speak a word of English. Royce kept on trying to place the fella playing the Indian agent. Was it Strother Martin?

Damn, where the fuck was Miss Kitty? Hair done up just right, little mole on the side of her mouth. Royce bet she smelled like dusting powder and perfume and would give him a good talking-to. Make him understand manners, a napkin in his lap and how a man should use a knife and fork at the table.

Nothing. Royce hitched up his britches and walked back to the table, where he’d set the rest of the Fighting Cock. He found a quarter bottle and three cigarettes left. He lit up a cigarette and poured a good portion of the whiskey in a jelly jar before fanning out the match. The TV now showing the white girl meeting up with the Indian, who’d shook loose of the agent somehow out back of the barn. The damn Indian couldn’t say jack shit in English but the word help. The white girl told him he needed to go or her daddy was gonna shoot his dick clean off.