Longarm and the Bandit Queen

Начало книги

The icy bite of the twilight wind cut through Longarm’s clothes and crept down inside the leather tops of his stovepipe cavalry boots, curling his toes and numbing them. He wondered if they might not be turning blue. His hands, on which he wore thin leather gloves—the only pair he’d found when rummaging in his saddlebags—felt like they were blue, too. Longarm wasn’t about to pull the gloves off to find out. His fingers were so chilled that he was afraid one or two might come off with the gloves.

A stray gust sent an icy thread trickling down his collar to rustle the hair on his chest. Damn me for a double-dyed jackass! he thought as he pulled the lapels of his long, black Prince Albert coat closer together. If I’d thought it’d be this cold so far south along the Arkansas in September, I’d have brought my sheepskin instead of leaving it hang in Denver where it ain’t doing nobody any good.

Letting go the reins of his Texas-bitted cavalry mount, Longarm slapped his palms together to bring back some feeling. They flexed enough, with a little beating, to let him slide one hand inside his tight-pulled coat lapels and fish a cheroot out of his vest pocket. He chomped his strong teeth over the tip of the cheroot, clamping the thin cigar in his mouth while he fumbled a match from his coat pocket.

Читать дальше →