We were a mite out of town among some rocks and mesquite, and we'd been there a while when I heard somebody singing "Oh, Bury Me Not on the Lone Prairie," and Rocca pushed his hat back off his eyes. "Don't shoot," he said, grinning at me. "That's John J."
And it was. Battles came up through the brush and looked us over, and we told him what the score was.
"Where's Spanish?" he wanted to know, and Rocca told him.
"He found himself a gal down yonder. Her name is Conchita, and if she gets mad at him the Apaches will be a relief."
(from The Lonely Men, by Louis L'Amour)
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