“Hey, Yack?”
Yack spat a glistening wad of phlem. “Whaddya want, ya inbred cuss?”
“You remember that Ghost, that Ringo? Him whose compadre we ventillated?”
“Spec, how the hairy Jesus could I forget? Them bastards bus’d up our gang un’ lef’ ussen blowin’ in the wind. And why in the name of probably-Virgin Mary are you bringin’ it up now?”
Spec adjusted his namesake glasses, a small gesture that annoyed the piss out of Yack. He glanced quickly behind their horses before returning his wide, bloodshot eyes to his riding mate. “I only sez it now cuz two of his cronies has been followin’ ussen since we cut outta Allentown.”
Yack’s blood froze. He stopped his horse, swinging his head around to stare behind him. Less than two hundred yards away, another horse stopped as well. Yack could just make out two riders astride in the failing light. For just a moment, the fading sunlight glinted off a bottle.
“It’s that whore and her stud, cuss their eyes!”
“What do we do now, Yack?”
“What do you think we do! We run!”