“Oh, to hell with him. He’s not worth a bullet, and besides, the shot might attract his friends.”

Alfredo Ramos Martínez (Mexican 1871-1946) Juana grinned and rubbed her cheek. “He didn’t hurt me.” She looked him over. “Should’ve shot the son of a bitch bastard, though. Let’s shoot him now.”
Maria thought about it. She looked at the man. He was out cold. Blood ran freely from the wound she’d given him and a big lump was forming where Juana had hit him. She found her six shooter and pulled it out. She pointed it at the man’s head and looked at Juana.
“I don’t want to. He’s out. He’s can’t hurt us now.”
“I’ll shoot him. Give me the gun.” She held out her hand and Maria complied. Juana gripped the pistol and pointed it at the man’s head. She waited. “Oh, to hell with him. He’s not worth a bullet, and besides, the shot might attract his friends.” She handed the pistol back to Maria.
“I’ve got an idea.” Maria began pulling the clothes off the man. In short order, his boots, trousers, hat and shirt were gone. He lay in the dirt wearing nothing more than faded long underwear. He looked very silly. She grabbed his things and made a sack with his rurale coat, tying everything into a ball. This she threw on his horse’s back and tied it down securely.
“Come on.” Maria's Trail