It was such a comical scene, even Phoebe was smilin’.

Then Gentry said, “What about you, Emmett?”

Before I could protest or get away, all the whores squealed and ran toward me and dragged me into the puddle. They pushed and poked and rolled me around, and slapped my face with mud cakes, and laughed and giggled. But when it suddenly grew quiet, I noticed it was Gentry layin’ on top of me, kissin’ my cheeks and mouth.

The others backed away, silently.

“I like you, Emmett,” Gentry said.

“I’m honored,” I said. “But right now we need to get through some rough country.”

“Maybe we can get together tonight,” she said. “After we bathe in the White River?”

“A lot can happen ’tween now and then,” I said.

She smiled broadly.

“It sure can,” she said.

Though her mouth was covered with mud, Gentry’s teeth were sparklin’ white. I hadn’t remembered ’em bein’ so pretty the other times she’d smiled. As she climbed off me, she placed her hand on my privates by accident. Only the way she did it, didn’t feel so much like an accident. Then the way her hand sort of stayed there longer than it had to also didn’t feel like an accident.

But it didn’t feel bad.

“Tonight, then?” Gentry said.

“We’ll see,” I said.

 


 

 

 

16.

 

 

Phoebe, ridin’ sidesaddle, looked a muddy mess. But she was handlin’ it well.

“How old a man is Wayne?” she asked.

“I don’t rightly know.”

“If you had to guess.”

We were on safe but uneven terrain, pickin’ our way through scrub pine with no trail in sight. Visibility was sparse, and would be for the next three or four miles. What open areas we found were heavy with bushes. Our horses were fidgety, havin’ picked up the scent of bear, cougar, or wolves. I was more concerned about wolves, havin’ heard a pack howlin’ a couple hours before Ira Glass tried to kill me. Their cries had started miles away and grew fainter durin’ the night, suggestin’ they were movin’ away from us.

But they could always turn around.

I stood in my stirrups and made a wide sweep with my eyes, searchin’ for any motion in the bushes that shouldn’t be there.

“Emmett?”

Phoebe again. She’d asked me somethin’ personal about Shrug three times since the Indian attack.

“Shrug’s age is hard to pin down,” I said. “He could be anywhere from twenty to forty. Maybe older. Or younger.”

“Emmett Love,” she said, “I’m being serious.”

“Me too,” I said.

“Will he pay us a dinner visit before we reach Springfield?”

“It ain’t likely.”

“Why not?”

“Shrug don’t like bein’ around groups of people. He’s not overly social.”

“I find him charming.”

I turned to look at her. “If you want, I can ask if he’d like to have dinner with you.”

Phoebe’s face was caked in mud, so I couldn’t tell if she blushed. “It wouldn’t be proper,” she said.

“I guess not.”

“Unless you’d care to join us,” she added.

“I think I might already have plans,” I said.

“With Gentry? She’s a child!”

We rode in silence a minute. Then I said, “Gentry’s mighty well-formed for a child.”

“You should have the decency not to notice how well she’s formed.”

“That type of formation is mighty hard to overlook,” I said.

“It should neither be noticed, nor commented on.”

“Well, I believe you’re the one brought it up.”

“I most certainly did not.