Chapter 18: Shoot, Luke, or Give up the Gun
The Texan sat up from his spot on the floor, stretched his arms over his head, and rubbed his eyes. "C'mon, Jake -- time to git a wiggle on, boy!" he chided himself as he got to his feet -- a little stiffly, an impartial observer might have well decided. "Damned if'n my old bones don't fuss at me lots more'n thaey used to," he muttered to no one in particular.
Jake rubbed his eyes again, yawned, and scratched an itch in the small of his back. "So, I been wonderin', Perfesser -- you ever done any sailin', or boatin' uhv any kind?"
"I mean, what with you bein' born with that Yankee silver spoon in your mouth an' all." The rifleman's eyes sparkled and the corners of his mouth turned up in barely-suppressed grin . . . perhaps he was pulling the easterner's leg a trifle.
Clearing his throat, he continued. "Reason I ask is that I heard tell somewhaeres that thaeres currents an' such out yonder in the water. An' if'n that's the case, I'm athinkin' that they might have sumpthin' to say 'bout whaere them boats fulla wimmin'll be comin' ashore."
"Is what I'm sayin' makin' any sense, or was the fella who tole me that playin' me for a greenhorn when it comes to boats an' the like? An' if'n it's true, could a sharp-eyed fella spot these-here currents -- or whatever the hell you call 'em -- from the land?"
OOC: Eliminated a word that I decided was just a little too silly.
This message was last edited by the player at 19:15, Mon 01 Aug 2016.