A rider wearing an elaborate mustache and carrying a Winchester onehanded nudged his quarterhorse toward the sheriff. Hell he’s right there sheriff.
I know it. Im lookin at him same as you.
What are we waitin for then.
We caint touch him now deputy. They got their own way here.
The riders watched as the women left their station wagons and strollers and encircled the outlaw. As if some ancient instinct united them. Silent as wolves and staring intently at the broken man standing there. He saw his mistake and called out to the riders reaching toward them with his one good arm but was struck down with a savage blow from a rolled yoga mat.
That old boy done walked into the wrong parking lot, said the sheriff.
The posse sat their horses and stood silent witness as the women swarmed over the outlaw’s fallen form and soon they could not see him but for the flurry of spandex and ponytails.