Grouse Thicket so i a[m] i point one back at them but not the index or the pinkie

colt briggs rolled his ragged shoulders and spat wryly into the dirt, a thin brown stream of eternally juicy birch chaw. "reckon i would be deeelighted — under any other circumstances, gun." 
there was enough honeycomb rasp in his voice now to tell the fighter that the cowboy did not lie. they'd been the sort of rough roll he enjoyed quite a bit, but this was something else entirely.
"can't be knocked up an' runnin'," colt grunted. these were words spoken by many a man in the gang but rarely a woman, and so now it had become a sort of law. being slow and lumpy weighed you down; being laid up with grubs promised death when your enemies found where the whole group had been forced to squat.
not a good business.
not a good business for the women, neither.
colt held his ground.