Naturally it is Sophia's sworn duty to comment on this fact as she passes by with a tray of coffee mugs.
(Four of them. They were out of coffee at the house. Ma, get the coffee, Dorothy says, and given that here's the only place she can get Playgirl without Dorothy or making a fuss -- or Blanche stealing it within two minutes -- easier not to say anything, slip through the door, and tuck the magazine in her bamboo handbag for later on her way out.)
"So, what, it's Halloween and you're in a John Wayne costume?"
"That's good, because that isn't a very good John Wayne costume. You look like some kind of office cowboy. Like the one who gets to sharpen the pencils."
Sophia's gesticulations are impeded by the coffee tray in her hands. She is beginning to feel this lack rather acutely.
Target practice is a fine thing, and something of which Ellen wholeheartedly approves. In fact, she would probably be engaging in some right now, except that she's currently got another project to engage her: getting her Brahmin used to the idea that there will be both a weight on her back and shooty noises back home.
Okay, given the cow's previous stint as a pack animal for a mercenary company this is not really new territory, but one step at a time. We're not talking someone who knows animal training well here.
We are, however, talking about Ellen leading a two-headed toasty brown cow towards the target range, a number of sacks full of gravel strapped to its back at about the point where she estimates a human would sit. She's not going downrange from the shooting line, of course. Just near enough for sound and smell acclimatization.
Ben checks the clip for the Glock; satisfied, he jams the magazine home.
He's racking the slide when he sees movement in his periphery. He doesn't quite double-take when he sees the Brahmin, but it's close enough to count in horseshoes.
The mountain on the far side of the lake throws back definite echoes of the shots fired at the range. Sunshine certainly hears them.
She'd started taking her daily run around the lake shore earlier in the day, after meeting so many people the first time she'd done so. The sunlight isn't as strong in the mornings as it is at noon when she had been taking her run, but it still holds that delightful promise of the day still to come.
When she rounds the last curve of the lake, heading back towards the bar, she turns aside and heads towards the shooting range, curious.
Rae may be mostly unfamiliar with guns, but she isn't stupid. She makes sure to approach from a direction that is nowhere near the direction in which the shooter is aiming, and announces her presence way before she's nearby.
"That target must've done something pret-ty bad to deserve such kali treatment," Rae says, smiling at Ben once she sees it's him.
Gina Cowell is in luck today. At least if she prefers her patron-watching to include a hint of the exotic.
As in very tall, very long-haired, very handsome male dressed in riding clothes - tight-fitting pants, a short tunic embroidered with minuscule silver flowers, and a thin silver circlet - making his way to the Bar to order wine.
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Naturally it is Sophia's sworn duty to comment on this fact as she passes by with a tray of coffee mugs.
(Four of them. They were out of coffee at the house. Ma, get the coffee, Dorothy says, and given that here's the only place she can get Playgirl without Dorothy or making a fuss -- or Blanche stealing it within two minutes -- easier not to say anything, slip through the door, and tuck the magazine in her bamboo handbag for later on her way out.)
"So, what, it's Halloween and you're in a John Wayne costume?"
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Though not my much - he doesn't have to, as this lady is on the near side of half-pint.
"No, ma'am. The outfit's of my own volition, for better or worse."
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Sophia's gesticulations are impeded by the coffee tray in her hands. She is beginning to feel this lack rather acutely.
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He pushes back from the table, preparing to stand, and nods toward the tray.
"Is there somewhere I can take that for you?"
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These weapons are all so terribly loud.-
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He puts down the musket, and rounds a hay bale to rip down the used target at the end of the lane.
Spotting Urquhart, he tips his head in acknowledgement.
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"Why do you people from the future insist on shooting such incredibly noisy weapons?" he asks, rhetorically, shaking his head.
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"I don't believe I've ever been referred to as a person from the future," he says, taking down the battered paper target.
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Okay, given the cow's previous stint as a pack animal for a mercenary company this is not really new territory, but one step at a time. We're not talking someone who knows animal training well here.
We are, however, talking about Ellen leading a two-headed toasty brown cow towards the target range, a number of sacks full of gravel strapped to its back at about the point where she estimates a human would sit. She's not going downrange from the shooting line, of course. Just near enough for sound and smell acclimatization.
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He's racking the slide when he sees movement in his periphery. He doesn't quite double-take when he sees the Brahmin, but it's close enough to count in horseshoes.
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"No, no, you're not interruptin'," he says, raising his voice to carry. "I've heard good things about this two-headed beauty of yours."
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She'd started taking her daily run around the lake shore earlier in the day, after meeting so many people the first time she'd done so. The sunlight isn't as strong in the mornings as it is at noon when she had been taking her run, but it still holds that delightful promise of the day still to come.
When she rounds the last curve of the lake, heading back towards the bar, she turns aside and heads towards the shooting range, curious.
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He tips back the brim of his hat, surveying his handiwork. Not bad, considering the weapon is mostly unfamiliar, but he could certainly improve.
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"That target must've done something pret-ty bad to deserve such kali treatment," Rae says, smiling at Ben once she sees it's him.
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"Well, good mornin' to you, too."
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As in very tall, very long-haired, very handsome male dressed in riding clothes - tight-fitting pants, a short tunic embroidered with minuscule silver flowers, and a thin silver circlet - making his way to the Bar to order wine.
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While she doesn't out-and-out stare, this particular patron earns more than simple passing interest.
She glances over as he approaches the counter, studying him discreetly over the rim of her over-sized ceramic mug.
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"Hi."
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