The chips were down
and bullets staked their claim . . .
WHERE LEGENDS DIE
“What are we gonna do with these weapons, Mr. Walker?” Hardy asked.
Although Walker insisted they stop calling him lieutenant, few of the men who’d served under him were at ease with his Christian name, so he became mister to most. Mr. Walker and Mr. McTigue, former officers of a fighting unit that didn’t exist anymore.
“We’ll find a market,” Walker said, lighting his pipe with a burning twig and drawing smoke deep into his lungs. It was his first smoke since the fight and he needed it badly.
Breed Hardy stared at Walker levelly.
“I might know someone who’d take ’em off our hands right now, Mr. Walker.”
Hardy was a half-breed Apache, a broad-shouldered and bowlegged man of thirty with a broad-boned, good-humored face and hair as black as coal tar. A good soldier and the company’s former top scout. Hardy was also a great forager and wheeler-dealer who always seemed to know something, somebody or somewhere that could be turned either to his personal advantage or that of the squad.
The party still referred to itself as the squad even though the War was over.
Or was it?