Longarm laughed as he reined in on a distant rise to get his bearings as he lit a smoke. Then he told his mount, “That wagon trace to Cedar Bend is yonder, beyond that clump of soap weed. I know you both think me a fool. Some night, when I’m all alone in some strange hotel with a copy of the Police Gazette and a hard-on, I’m likely to cuss myself for passing up anything that perky and sweet-smelling. But I really didn’t like her and, even if I had, good old Osage Olive will be waiting for us over in Cedar Bend come morning, just in time for breakfast too.”
He carefully doubled the match stem so he wouldn’t set the dry prairie ablaze, and wryly added, “All right, Osage Olive ain’t half as pretty, but it wouldn’t be possible for such a selfish little snot like Iona to move her hips so generously. So Powder River and let her buck!”