Do be aware that, as seems to be a habit with me, this story proceeds fairly slowly, with a relatively small amount of explicit content. This first chapter, for example, has essentially none. If that would trouble you, you needn't waste your time in reading it.
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Mid-afternoon. Summer. The sun burned high and bright in a cloudless August sky, searing down upon a dusty little town a few miles off the Rio Grande. Siesta time. Too hot to work, too hot almost to move - even the air outside held still and quiet as all the men and women hid indoors from the heat. Low homes of white adobe and of wood lined the wide boulevard to the center of the town, building up to the comparative majesty of a two-story saloon and flophouse. Four horses tethered up outside before a murky trough of water, shifting occasionally on their feet as they patiently waited for their riders to return. Far in the distance, the faint cry of a carrion bird delighting in some newly-discovered meal.
But closer issues were at hand. A sound of struggle rising past the batwing doors of the saloon, of angry exclamations and scattered furniture, building towards violence - at least until a tired holler cut through the growing din, loud enough to be audible even from the street outside. "All right now, you fellas take that outside. Ain't gonna be no brawlin' in here, understand?"
The reprimand won a few moments of quiet, of reprieve. Then all at once, three figures burst from the doorway, spilling out onto the wooden veranda - one man in front, shabbily dressed and lanky of build, shoved bodily backwards by those behind. The second of them larger, younger, his fists clasped furiously at the first man's lapels; the third man following closely after, smaller but still itching to throw a punch.
"You damned cheat." Sweat shimmered in a faint sheen on the larger man's face, hot and angry, as he bellowed down at the half-battered figure before him. A violent shove sending him to spawl upon the ground, his back striking one of the wooden columns with an uncomfortable
crack
. "Where's our money?" And as though to emphasize the point, the second of the aggressors delivered a savage kick to the prone man's side.
Breath hissed through clenched teeth, flecked with blood. The man on the ground doubled up protectively, writhing in pain but still defiant. He spat at the foot of his assailant, glared back into grizzled, crimson features. "I ain't a cheat."
The foot came down again, a filthy boot heavy on the older man's neck. "You're a cheat and a liar, Slim." A warning, a rumbling growl from deep in the throat. "You expect to live through the next few minutes, you better start whistlin' a different tune."
While the bigger man spoke, his companion dropped down to the wooden walkway, hands checking industriously at the pockets of their target while he was unable to resist. Just a scarce few moments later that he rose again, now clutching a small back of coin. "I got it, Jack." Pleased satisfaction in his voice as he pulled at the drawstrings, peering into the jingling leather sack. "We can split it up proper, make sure we each get back our stake. Little bit extra in here, too, looks like."
"Dammit, that money ain't yours." 'Slim' snarled up angrily, struggling fruitlessly against the larger man's weight. "You're so sure I cheated, fine, take back what you lost. But you ain't got no claim to the rest."
"You shut your mouth, Slim." The gun came out then, a revolver dark and ugly in Jack's hand. Hanging down loose, uncocked - a threat to which the older man's eyes were inexhorably drawn. "I got half a mind to fix you right here."
"Hey, now." A bit of diffidence gathered now in the voice of the smaller man. Hesitation. "We got our money back. No need to get yourself in no trouble over this louse."
"I hate cheats." His eyes blazed fiercely, still glaring down at his captive. "I hate'm, more'n anything else. You get robbed by a desperado out on the road, least he's got some damn guts. This piece'a shit..." He spat, a thick gobbet of saliva and tobacco remnants splattering messily on the older man's vest. "Ain't even got a gun. He's a damned coward. Expects folk'll let'm off the hook if he don't got a way to fight back." The barrel of the revolver rose up in his hand, deliberate and menacing, aligned with the eyes of the man below. An expression there now almost resigned, expectant. No longer struggling. "I ain't feeling that merciful."
"Quite a friendly scene."
It was a new voice that now spoke, drawling slow and sarcastic past the moment's tension. Not quite rough enough to hide its still-youthful pitch and purity, nor the subtly feminine melody of its tones. Three pairs of eyes rose up to find and boggle at the speaker - a woman's face looked back at them, but the garb beneath was that of a man. Perched atop a mid-sized chestnut stallion, she wore the long leather duster of a ranger, heavy boots with muddy spurs. Flashing green eyes and serious features bronzed by the sun, staring out from below a dark Stetson hat. Beneath the large and shapeless garb, one could scarce discern the smoothness of youthful curves, the low shoulders and narrow waist of the woman hidden away.
A moment passed in silence. Shocked at this interruption, and at the faintly preposterous figure behind it. "Well?" She spoke again, as her horse harumphed. "What's all this about?" Narrowness in her eye, and a curl of warning at her lip.
Finally, Jack stirred, waking from his surprise. His head shaking in disapproval still faintly astonished. "You best just move along, missie. This ain't gonna be pretty."
"You aim to shoot him?" Archness lined the question, her gaze flickering down to the silent man beneath his gun, then back up to his eye.
"Don't much have to aim, at this range." Black humor sparked in his expression, tugged at his lip. "But you got the notion of it. This man here's a low-down dirty cheat, and I mean to show what I think of his kind." The hammer of the revolver clicked into place, a punctuation mark on this dark promise.
It could have been an eyeblink, a lightning strike - the woman's hand scarcely seemed to flicked beneath the edge of her coat before emerging again with a weapon of her own. A long forty-five with a heavy barrel, polished steel shining like silver; on its side, a light tracery of engraving captured the image of a rose in bloom, tangled with thorns. "Where I sit," she spoke still cool and quiet, "That sounds like murder."
"Lady..." Jack sputtered in annoyed disbelief as his compatriot backed slowly away, hand dropping down near his hip. "You best put that thing away 'fore I decide to take you serious."
A moment's irritation flashed in the woman's gaze, her mouth tightening to a low frown. Brief deliberation, glancing at the uncertain watchfulness of the man behind, and at 'Slim,' looking up at her bloody from the corner of his eye. Then all at once, an explosion shattered the relative quiet of the afternoon, the two standing figures flinching backwards as the black revolver kicked suddenly to the air, clattered noisily across the wooden walk. The smaller man pulling his own gun, only to find the woman's steady aim and gaze already centered on him.
"My
