The second sun dipped behind the horizon just as Hank pulled to a halt alongside the Jeep. The cowboy looked up at Sherry, the terror still in his eyes. When the blonde in the Supra had stabbed out with the knife, he had been certain that it was his throat that had been the target, not just the possum on a rawhide shoelace he had taken from the drunken broad in the motel room across the street from the Bide-a-Wee Taverm back in Dustberg. His relief that the knife hadn't been meant for him, except as a message, was shortlived when the Greek goddess in a too tight nurse's dress rode up, a Winchester carbine slung across her lap. The urine stench in the cab of the old Jeep pickup got worse when his bowels let loose.

"All right, stinky," the horse snarled, "where's the goddamned possum?"

--seed