Pity Me Not
“Put your good boots on,” Sherah snapped, at her young brother. “Got us a bad man, needs t’ be kilt.” The boy answered to Kemuel; it was a Biblical name, as was her own. He was just turned ten, three years younger than his sister, and nearly as stubborn as she was. He rubbed his sleepy eyes and bounced upright in his bed, glaring in bewilderment and irritation.
A fateful day was begun — a day of judgment, of righteous wrath, in their New Mexico town, in the Christian year 1873. Why was he still sleeping?
“Cain’t we just do like Miss Paxton says? Sheriff, he thinks we ought to…” He…