Memphis Run

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“Did you see that?” the girl asked.

“See what?” responded the lean man in buckskins. His keen blue eyes scanned the lush foliage ahead as his hands dropped to the pearl-handled Colt Python revolvers strapped around his narrow waist. The westerly breeze stirred his blond hair.

“I saw something,” the girl insisted.

Frowning, his sweeping blond mustache curling downward, the gunman took several strides in front of the child. “What was it? Another blasted mutant?”

“I don’t know.”

“I’m gettin’ fed up with havin’ to blow a mutant away every fifty miles or so,” the gunman commented.

“I don’t think it was a mutant,” the girl said. “It looked like a man.”

“Are you sure, Chastity?”

The girl walked up to the gunman and tugged on his right pants leg.

“Would I lie to you. Daddy?” She wore a blue jump suit in need of a thorough washing. Her shoulder-length blonde hair framed a face of angelic innocence, and her blue eyes looked at the man accusingly.

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