Fight for the Mother Lode and . . .
FIGHT FOR SHILOH
They had all laughed at him, but Carey was past caring. He picked up a tintype of Laurie and himself on their wedding day, pushed it into the slim warbag and stumbled outside, sixgun buckled carelessly around his waist, the holster almost in the middle of his back, rifle trailing. The alcohol made everything blurry — life and the pain. He noticed that the hardcases kept their hands on their gunbutts as he staggered to his horse — just in case he found enough guts to try something stupid.
He clawed his way into the saddle and rode out without looking back. He desperately wanted to leave the place, so he had no regrets. He told himself that Tully had done him a favor . . . until he was halfway down that mountain.
Then it hit him like an avalanche.
He was leaving, and that was what he wanted to do, but where was the dignity in quitting?