“Rouge! That’s one hell of a name for a hoss!”
The gunslinger squinted at the speaker. “You got a problem with that, hombre?” He spit in the dirt.
The sheriff took a step backwards, put on a humble face, positioned his hands well away from his two colt 45s nestling in their leather holsters. “No offence meant, stranger; just surprised. Yes sirreee. Normally around these here parts hosses are called Trigger or Silver or Scout or Tornado or Cisco. Ain’t yet come across a hoss called Rouge. That sure is a good name.”
The other man looked appeased. “Yeah, well, it didn’t have no moniker before I left Dodge City. It was a quick naming ceremony and I weren’t thinking too straight. But fer sure I couldn’t ride across the desert on a hoss with no name. No sirreee.”
The sheriff spit in the dirt. “No sirreee. You sure couldn’t. Waal, welcome to Dry Gulch.”
“Why thankee, indeed. And sure is good to be out of the rain.”
And the sheriff looked up at the blue sky and bowed his head. “Thank you Lord for the blue sky and no rain.”
“Amen,” intoned the gunslinger.