“Lost nearly a third of our own garrison in that last attack,” Prairie Dog growled.
“Figured as much.” Fargo groaned as fresh pain stabbed him. “Did the doc leave any whiskey hereabouts? I sure could use a shot.”
“He didn’t leave any,” Prairie Dog said, reaching under his bed. “But I got some.”
“With as much blood as you both lost?” Valeria cried, rushing around the bed and plucking the corked brown bottle from the old trapper’s hand. “I should say not!”
She shook her head like an admonishing schoolmarm, shifting her gaze between both beds, holding the bottle as though it were an evil talisman. “I’ll just hold on to this for six or seven days or when the doctor thinks you’re ready for spirituous liquid. Now, you both need to rest. I’ll be back in a couple of hours to check on you.”
Both Fargo and Prairie Dog watched her bottom sway behind the long, green skirt as she stalked off toward the door, holding the whiskey bottle before her with both hands. Her sunset red hair spilled down her back in swirling curls.
“Ain’t right—takin’ a man’s whiskey,” Fargo complained.
“Nope,” Prairie Dog said. “But it’s hard to argue with a girl that fills out a set o’ frillies like that. I wish my memory wasn’t as bad as my hearing and my eyesight, and I could remember how she looked without no clothes on!”
“I’d remind you,” Fargo said, fatigue washing over him. He lay his head back on the pillow, crossed his hands on his belly, and smiled at the image behind his eyelids. “But I’m afraid you’d have a stroke.”