About Red Skin

by Tracey Shellito
27 pages / 12800 words
ISBN: 978-1-60370-149-5, 1-60370-149-4
Available file types - html. lit, pdf, prc

Roslyn, or Ross as she prefers, is on her own in the world after the hard-handed ex-Marshall finds her with another girl in a compromising situation. With only her horse and her wolf for companionship, Ross sets off, impersonating a boy to make her travels easier.

Between her half-breed heritage and her love of women, Ross has to be careful who she meets up with out on the range, and she faces a lonely existence until she finds Ahina, a Choctaw outcast woman making a life for herself and her young son. Can Ross and Ahina find a place of their own?

Sample

 “Show ‘em how it’s done, kid. I got good money riding on this.”

Dawg yipped and gave me yellow eyes. I shrugged and slouched over to the line drawn in the sand of the corral. A motley collection of beer bottles, corn dollies, and stick men formed targets on fence, barrel, and bale. I refused to wince at the Injun jokes and lined up to take my shot.

“Hell, no! We seen what that kid c’n do! We gotta shoot against Ross, he gonna be standin’ way back here!”

Somebody stamped out a line a good eight paces farther away. Would have bin farther than that, but Dawg showed ‘em his teeth, and the rowdies muttered and chose something less foolish. McClintoch starting whining as to how unfair it was, but I got a feel for the direction the wind was blowing and figured I could hit ’em. While they was arguing, I shuffled to the new line and bull's-eyed every one of ’em.

Chief McClintoch whooped and hollered up a storm, collecting everybody’s wagers while I inspected, then holstered, my smoking guns. He slapped my shoulder.

“You’d have been wasted as sheriff in some hick town. Still don’t know why you didn’t try out fer Pinkerton’s or Wells Fargo, but every time you win us money I sure am glad you didn’t. Wha’ da’ ya say we go get a drink and some real food at the saloon?”

He knew how much I relished home cooking after the vittles on the trail. I looked at Dawg and he wagged his excuse for a tail. Maybe they’d find him a bone? So I nodded, collected up my cleaning stuff, and followed Clint McClintoch down the rutted main street through the swing doors of the town’s single saloon. Dawg trotted at my heels.

Was too early to have much custom. Old guy asleep in the corner, drooling on the table with a half filled glass of rum, looked like the town drunk. Pair of well-dressed guys playing poker, probably there from the night before. Guy with a plate of something that smelled like mutton stew, scooping up the dregs with a thick slab of black bread, was probably a regular. Then there was us. A pair of dusty cowboys. The bartender was polite enough when he saw the color of our money. Greenbacks make a deal of difference to folks' attitude wherever you go. I left Dawg outside with a bowl of water.

We bought us a bottle of bourbon and settled at a table where we could watch the door. Old habits die hard. I ordered up a plate of whatever was going, hoping it’d be the stew, and Clint poured us both a shot, talking about the weather, the drive, and the trail ahead. While I waited for my food, I yessed and noed in all the right places and cleaned my Colt Peacemakers.

“Treat them things like they was ladies, all that attention you give ’em.”