“They call ’em Matchlock.” Giles spat out the name like it was a mouthful of bitter tobacco smoke. “Because they use an old homemade matchlock rifle when hunting.”

“Not exactly much of a match for anyone who goes in armed with anything better than a bow and arrow,” I said.

“Tell that to the last six men who tried to collect on that bounty,” said Giles.

“Still, I like my chances,” I said. “Anything else you can tell me about this mountain man of yours?”

“Woman,” said Giles. “Matchlock is a woman. That’s just about the only thing we do know.”

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