His head hurt.
The Kid and Gonzales rode at a walk beside him, and the Kid was complaining about the heat again. Gonzales told him to shut up unless he could think of a better way to make a living.
Cutlass gestured with a nod of his head.
"Up there," he said.
The trio reined off the bend of the road and almost at a leisurely pace wended their way up the gentle rise of a hill a scant 50 yards distant.
"They ain't many trees," the Kid grumbled.
"Ain't gotta be," Cutlass said. "I steer you wrong yet?"
"Reckon not."
"Then button up and listen." Idly, he stretched out his right arm, half-leaned from his saddle, and plucked the square of weather-beaten paper from the trunk of a scrubby cottonwood. "Long as y'do what I say, you'll keep seein' these. Soon's you stop, they won't have to be printin' no more."