CHAPTER SEVEN
They reined in on the rise overlooking the tired, worn-out collection of warped wooden buildings that someone had once christened the town of ‘Haven’. One of the men spat and swore. “This looks deader than a graveyard, Jonas.”
“Graveyards ain’t dead, only those in ‘em.”
“You know what I mean.”
“All I need is a doctor to patch me up, then we’ll be gone.” To give some emphasis to his words, he attempted to revolve his shoulder, an action which brought a string of obscenities to his lips. “It’s been two days, and I feel it going numb.”
“That’s good, ain’t it? No more pain.”
“Are you stupid or you just ain’t got a brain.”
“Ah shucks, Jonas, no need to say such things to me!”
“Gringo,” said the Mexican who sat astride his horse on the other side of Jonas, “if you don’t lik
