Indians got 'em. His shirt was as wet from sweat as if he'd been underwater a week, and even his hatband was sweated through. Roscoe had to admit that was true, except for a whore now and then. Clara looked puzzled for a moment--she had forgotten that that was what they called the picnic spot on the Guadalupe.
The dust their running horses kicked up was turned golden by the sun. The steer had never been to Montana, of course, but he had led several herds to Matagorda Bay. She offered her body--it was all she knew to do. He would even cowboy, if he had to--it beat taking his chances with the Suggses.
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