I was just another cattle rustler, hell with a six-gun, queen of the branding iron and lariat. They called me the devil in the saddle, a terror astride a bronc, the best little whore in Johnson County. Vigilantes danced in the hall, the king of the rustlers played his fiddle. My herd increased. I applaud the ones who apply their own brand.
Life is nothing but a pilfered animal.
We re here no longer than the time it takes to hear a six-gun barking, the groan of a hollow barn, the flap of bleached slats swinging in the storm. So, noose my neck to the cottonwood branch. Watch my knickers kick the air. A few maverick cattle wind up in everyone s corral. Some kind of lariat is finally tossed.