A Western Story, 3 of 10: Vicki

In the morning the saloon was well-lit and nearly empty. He sat alone at a table with his whiskey. Vicki came over and sat down.

“That was Derrick’s brother on the roof,” she said. “You hit him in the shoulder, but the sheriff says you murdered his brother.”

Dan lifted his glass, refusing to look at Vicki.

Vicki became impatient, angry. “Are you going to just sit here and let them hang you? I know it was self-defense. I saw what happened.”

Dan looked at her. “I’m tired of running.”

“I’m tired of living like this too,” Vicki said. “But I stay alive.”

“I thought you liked it,” Dan said, a crinkle in his eyes.

“Men!” Vicki said gruffly, pushing her chair back and standing. “You coming?”

Dan got up slowly, almost reluctantly. “I came here to get you,” he said.

“I know,” she said.

He followed her upstairs.

Copyright 2013 George Lowell Tollefson


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