Storm Watch Butte gunslinger I

Red-eyes, "Foineus", Colt - parroted him the best he could, though his funhouse pronunciation saw an impish smile cross Lynx's face.

Lynceus, he offered again, a paw over his chest. Lynx, é Lynceus.

Lynceus, son of Thyestes. No worth in the patronymic now. Foreign currency with better use as firewood. He wondered where his siblings were. How they had introduced themselves. After he and they died, would there be any more reason to speak Thyestes' name into air?

He licked his lips, eking out a yawn.

Where next, Colt?

His sober black eyes watched the man's face intently in the half-light.