I started taking breakfast requests. While that was going on the doorbell rang. Our Moms and Dads were back again just in time for Sunday morning breakfast. The Moms asked if they could help. They started another frying pan of potatoes. The stove was now full; no more empty burners.Wendy's phone rang; her Dad was in the neighborhood and wanted to know if he could stop in. "Sure," I replied.I asked Mom if she would check the coffee and do another pot. "There are about two cups left." She said."Just pour it into one of those big mugs. Wendy can hand it to her Dad as soon as he comes in." I replied. It was hardly out of my mouth when he knocked on the door.For the next hour I was a short order breakfast cook. I even tried my hand at making a couple omelets, of course I had plenty of advise on how to do it. It was fun and I fared better than I thought I would.Jenna came over and said, "The breakfast sandwich was great. I will have to see if I can talk the bank into expanding here and let. I figured he was smart enough to ask the Indian if he wanted to know how the man had died. I sure as hell didn't plan to tell him.I had been saddle weary even before the ride back to the fence. The Indian said one of his very few words when we were about a hundred yards from the watering hole. "Wait," he said as he slipped down from his horse.I could have insisted on going along. That most likely would have gotten us both killed. The Indian could slip into the camp count heads and get back safely. He would never be able to do it with me along. I would make enough noise to get us strung up as spies. I was perfectly happy to sit on the ground with my rifle in the moon light. The rifle would be totally useless since it was dark as hell. It just made me feel better.The rifle was an army cavalry issue piece. It was their marksman rifle, a pretty good weapon in its own right. I had the piece redone for me by a gun smith in Saint Louis. He had re-chambered it by hand. The improved rifle.
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