She looked up at the wizened little sheriff. “Is it Jake?” she asked.
“Yes,” the sheriff returned. “He’ll be out soon; maybe to-morrow.”
She lowered her long black lashes. “Much obliged,” she said.
The sheriff flipped a finger at his hat brim, and rode on up the line.
An hour later Wing o’ the Crow was out in the borrow pit, driving a slip team, dully watching a six-horse freighter making it in from Opaco, when seven men came walking down the line. They stopped and surveyed the work, then one approached her.
“Hello, Wing o’ the Crow,” he ventured, grinning.
“Hello,” she returned.
“D’youse know me?”
“I don’t think I do.”
“I seen youse lots o’ times. I been on jobs wid youse in Kansas an’ Colorado.”