I was in a conversation corner sipping tea with Pamela and an old guywhen it happened. He was telling us about the 40s and it was kind ofinteresting. "The demonic machines apeing the minds of men" was florid,but it really was what pure AIs were. He'd actually been a survivor ofthe Brighton Massacre, we did that at school but a flesh and blood talewas kind of smooth. But I saw Pamela's face light up and when I sawwhat she was looking at I understood.Adonis walked toward us.Wasn't his name but that was how I thought of him. He was putting acrested helmet on a side-table because he was in uniform. Red jacket,cummerbund, breeches moulded to powerful thighs. Saber at his side hecut quite the figure. Broad shoulders above a trim waist, shortishblonde hair for a Georgian. But the face...gleaming blue eyes, square-jawed and about perfectly symettrical. He even had better eyelashesthan me. Looked early twenties so a bit old for me, but a girl candream can't she? Pamela promptly. I pulled the trigger of the Hawken almost reflexively when I saw the mountain lion stalking the mules. Had Wizzer not been looking directly at the cat, I might have missed him in the near dark. “Who’s there?” the sentry shouted.“It’s Lewis. Wizzer woke me and I just shot a mountain lion,” I replied.Everyone was up and armed now. Most stopped to pull on their pants and boots before exiting their bedrolls. With Wizzer at my side, I hung the cat from a sturdy branch so I could skin it in the morning and then went back to sleep--after cleaning and reloading the Hawken.Saturday August 11, 1849After eating a cold breakfast, I skinned the cat and rolled the head and paws up in the skin. I’d be the one skinned alive if my Indian wives found out that I didn’t save the claws and teeth. They wore trophies of my many kills proudly, but none more so than those from the four grizzly bears I had killed near Fort Laramie.Shortly after lunch, the narrow pass we were traveling through finally widened.
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