Nor was it just a matter of honor, whatever she might think. The matched set of six-shooters with the dark handles—Dearborn’s guns, surely—were gone. Olive hoped with all her heart that they would be fortunate. The drizzle had become a soft, steady rain.
Although he didn’t know it then, he would sleep badly for the rest of his life. The sooner she did it, the sooner it would be done. He dismounted in the crumbling refinery parking lot, tied his horse to the bumper of a rusty old hulk with the mystery-word CHEVROLET barely readable on its tailboard, then walked toward the oilpatch. She could only stand there while the witch whispered in her ear.
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