She was always friendly and polite, and she gave them good service, always making sure their papers went where they wanted them, to places protected from the weather and convenient to the customer.She hadn't been able to tell her last customer, Mister Aakarshan, about her upcoming birthday because he'd been out of town. He was an odd old duck with a thick Arabic accent, an archaeologist or something, who traveled a lot, sometimes for months at a time, but never cancelled the paper delivery while he was gone. He tipped well, too, even when he wasn't even around to get his paper.So Kelsey was thrilled to see his car in the driveway as she approached the house. He'd probably be good for a big tip when she told him about her birthday. Smiling in anticipation, she jumped off her bike, leaned it against the fence in front of the house, and ran around to the back door where she usually left the paper. She knocked on the door, knowing that, even if he'd been home all day, it could take him a. Of course, by being mounted on a running horse, I did not have a very steady aiming point, and that was why the sawed-off shotgun was such a valuable weapon.As best I could, I aimed at the waist of the Comanche and fired the left barrel. Some of the buckshot hit the Indian and some hit the horse. I have no idea if any of the hits on the man were fatal, but they were enough to make him loose his seat and tumble from the horse. At a full speed run, that fall had to be fatal.My next shot did not land where I had aimed. Instead, this time most of the useful buckshot hits landed in the face of the Comanche. I did not complain about the location of the hit because this Comanche also fell to the ground and was fatally injured by the fall, if not by the buckshot. I had time to reload, so I did not have to swap shotguns.I was not so foolish as to ride directly toward the center of the group of Comanches because I did not want to interfere with Charlotte's shooting. She had hit another.
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