He popped the top of his Dr. Pepper and put the pedal to the metal, heading home. The day was hot--damned hot, even for September, but there was a nasty storm brewing and he needed this feed and corn and shit home before it broke.
Rusty zipped down the highway, slowing before every place the state troopers tended to roost, his curls sweat-damp on his neck, itching at him. Old Man Ketchum had remarked on his hair, noting that Granny wouldn't have let him out of the house without a trim, that Pappy'd been smooth-shaved and well-trimmed every day of their fifty-two years of marriage.
Yeah, well, given that he didn't have Pappy or Granny or anybody else helping him run the goddamned farm for damned near a year now? Rusty was damned lucky his hair was the only thing out of control.
Well, his hair and the fence between him and the Henderson's and the house plumbing and that damned bull that kept coming up lame and Miss Pol who insisted on biting every damned colt she got stabled next to. Old bitch.
Something was smoking like all get out up ahead and he slowed, peering to see what was burning. He damned near passed right by when he saw it was a stranger, but his better nature kicked at him and he pulled over. Once that storm hit, there'd be no one on this stretch of road and Granny'd roll in her grave to think he'd just left some guy to fate.
He killed the engine and stepped out, tipping his hat, hand near enough to his bowie--decent, but not stupid. "Howdy. Anything I can do to help?"
"You got a gun?" came the instant reply. "I'm gonna shoot this old bitch and leave her here to die." The fella that belonged to the voice stepped out and turned to grin at him, tipping a battered old straw Stetson back to show him a lean, tanned face and a flash of a white smile.
He chuckled and tilted his head towards his gun rack. "I do, but I tell you what, I'm not sure the buckshot'd get past the steam. Where you headed?"
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