We cleared the summit before noon, and Pepper called a 15 minute shit break. Which I was happy for since my ass was taking issue with Cooky’s beans; and am sure the meat was his old dog Roger who got bit by a cougar a few days back. Looking over the valley there was no sign of the Sheriff and his posse, nowhere. Pepper was all about the sleeping when we die shit, and I was beginning to believe that crazy fuck. If we get through this I’m taking my cut and moving to Mexico, screw these sonsabitches. I hear there’s places where the blue ocean reaches further than you can see. Just get me a señorita with nice titties, and a round rump, and live on tacos, beer, and pussy until I’m too old to wipe my ass. That’d be weeks away, for now I was sweating like a bitch and wondering who of these bastards was going to garrotte me while I slept. Still 200 miles to Los Angeles where we jump a boat South, and I know it won’t be smooth sailing. Six of the most ruthless bastards I have ever met, and when I do get a chance to close my eyes, it’s only one, with a hand on precious Ruby; God Bless you Sam Colt. Hell, I aim to wonder if I’d best beat them to it and introduce each of the 5 bullets to my new found friends, then beat Pepper with the handle until the cherry wood busted off in his skull. Speaking of which, that shit heal Pepper asking what I’m writing her. I told him none of his business. Gotta sign off, he’s coming over.