The Brave

From there it was a two day ride to Sally and Sam's old home in western Colorado, just past the desert, near a town called Hillspring. It wasn't a very green place like in Wind's dream; it was a little dusty, where grass grew mostly in patches of dirt. The house was sure busted up, though; the paint was peeling, the intact windows were filthy, the door creaked like it had a tail that was being stepped on, and everything inside was smashed up and covered with a thick layer of dust.

"God," said Sally, trembling, "it really is a shithole now."

Wind took Sally's hand into hers. She could see how this place was great once upon a time, before Vic got to it, before he insisted on whatever silly thing he had to kill for. It seemed almost like a small manor, replete with a reading room, a dining room separate from the kitchen, and a whole second floor which Wind supposed held the bedroom.

It was Sally that led the way, trepidatiously, into the dining room, where the key feature was a large table turned to its side, a few bullets embedded in it. Sam Barton's last stand, thought Wind, as the blonde started to move around the table.

Wind squeezed Sally's hand before she could see. Though she wasn't expecting Sam's desiccating corpse, there was a hell of an aura coming from it; even "nothing" could be a heavy load to bear. So the native had to ask, "Are you sure?"

Sally looked back with troubled eyes. "No," she said, but continued on anyway.

There was, of course, no body. But there were plenty of black stains on the table and floorboards, dried blood from Sam's bullet wounds. For a few seconds, Sally was overcome, like she could make out the ghost of his exsanguinated body from the markings. But she breathed, she pulled herself together, if only to stop herself from collapsing in a hysterical wreck, then she sank down next to where he would have been.

"I was right here," said Sally, "bringin' food to the table for Vic and Clem and this other guy, Davis. I heard the gunshots, and suddenly Sam comes racin' in, shootin' behind him, an' I turned this over to give us some cover. He'd already got Davis an' I was tryin' to figure out how to get to a gun, but he said no, just go out the window..." Sally pointed to the broken window in front of her. "...an' get to my horse, he'd be right behind me." She took a deep breath, and lightly punched the black stain next to her. "Lyin' bastard."

Wind kneeled down and reached out.

Sally gently pushed her away. "No. It's alright, really. I'll be fine. I'm just gonna need a few minutes alone...you did the right thing, bringin' me here, but I don't ever wanna come back. Go explore if you'd like."

Wind nodded. Unable to help herself, she ran a hand through Sally's hair before leaving her alone.

* * * * *

There were three rooms upstairs, two of them empty. Future kids rooms, possibly? Did Sally want kids? That would be...difficult, to say the least. Then again, they could always adopt, or maybe a mutual male friend might be willing to Dammit, woman, get a hold of yourself! Master Bedroom! Bird on the sill!

The Master Bedroom was trashed, too. Draws were torn out of shelves, mattress and pillows were ripped open, nothing was in its place and Wind didn't know where to start. Come to think of it, she didn't even know what she was looking for. Should she call Sally in? Would anything in here push her over the edge and leave her inconsolable? Was that the real point of her

"Dream," Wind quietly reminded herself. "It was a stupid damn dream." She turned around, ready to collect Sally and figure out where to go next, just as soon as she picked herself up after tripping over one of the strewn drawers.

"Wind?" Sally called up, already sounding better. "You alright up there?"

"Yeah, I'm fine," Wind called back, standing up, dusting herself off. "Just tripped over a..."

In the drawer was a book of poetry.

Actually, it was a book of John Keats poetry, with one page in particular dog-eared, a page the book opened to as if by muscle memory; it was "Ode to a Nightingale." A poem, she remembered, in which Keats—

"Lord," said Sally, from the doorway, "what couldn't you have tripped on?"

"Was this Sam's?" asked Wind, holding up the book.

"I recognize that book," said Sally. "Sam would read it all the time when we weren't workin' on the house, or...you know. Tried to read me one of 'em, but, uh, he couldn't read poetry like you do."

Wind turned the book to Sally, just this side of frantic. "Was it this one? 'Ode to a Nightingale?'"

Sally looked it over. "No, I don't recognize this. Then again, I don't really remember what it would've been."

"Well, to keep it short, Keats' poetry was usually about the pleasures of life. 'Nightingale,' however, was a reflection on mortality, the finite nature of life...and it seems like Sam was really attached to—look, I'm not saying he wanted to die, absolutely not. But I think when the end came...he was...he was ready. And if it helps to know that for you, then...I don't know. I don't—I just hope it does."

Sally was reminded of herself during her first few days after quitting cigarettes, but Wind was right, and the more she thought about how right she was, the more she needed the doorframe for support. She took a deep breath, blinked away the tears welling up in her eyes. "It does," she said, wiping them away. "It helps a lot. Thank you." She took one last look at the room, the broken bed that she and Sam shared, and found little of value inside, save for the book Wind was holding. "Can I—"

"Actually..." Wind pulled the book back. "Sorry, it's just...remember that poem I told you that night in the saloon? Before Sheriff Garrick came in?"

"Yeah."

"That was a Keats poem."

"Oh." Sally blinked, not quite getting it but absolutely on the verge. "And you said you dreamed 'bout this place?"

"Not this place exactly, but...yeah."

"So that'd be—"

"One hell of a coincidence," said Wind, drained of any calm. "Yeah."

Sally nodded. "How 'bout I give you a few minutes of your own?"

Wind nodded rapidly in appreciation. "I'll read you the poem tonight. Take you through line by line. Promise."

"Can't wait," said Sally, with a gentle smile. "Meet you downstairs, darlin'." And she left her.

Of course that's what this was; coincidence. The dream, oddly prophetic as it was, could've been strung together from half-remembered bits of information—Sally would occasionally ramble in her coma, which caused quite a few false alarms—and instincts about grieving. It wasn't that crazy to assume there was no deep connection between Wind's obsession with "Bright Star" and Sam's love of "Ode to a Nightingale," nor was it that crazy to think that, in turn, wasn't connected to how Wind just happened to meet someone with such a similarly damaged soul at a time when they both clearly needed each other the most. None of this needed to be credited to a bigger picture.

Wind sat cross-legged, holding the book to her chest. Closing her eyes, bowing her head, she took a few deep breaths.

On one breath, her body shook. Then she broke.

She didn't cry when she saw her family's bodies. She didn't cry when she left Sacred Star to her fate. She didn't cry after the Fords found her and took her to the cold safety of a strange land far away, and she didn't cry when she settled into it because at that point she felt like her tears didn't matter. Here in this broken room, holding a piece of genuine wakan in her hands, her body gave out, contorting itself through her heavy sobs as nearly two decades of pain finally came to surface.

In her grief, a vision of them formed in the back of her mind, standing behind her, watching quietly with no judgement, only love. Still she cried out, until she felt her hand on her shoulder.

She was smiling, as she always had been; at peace, like the rest of them. It was the first time in a long time she thought of her that way.

Calm now, eyes drying, she spoke quietly, in her first tongue.

"I'm sorry. I would not listen before.

"I promise, I will listen now.

"Thank you, dearest. Thank you all. Go with my love, and be with our elders."

When she opened her eyes, she could still feel them at her back. She suspected they would always be there.

But the weight of them had lifted.

* * * * *

"I had a crazy notion," said Sally as Wind came down the stairs, Keats book in hand.

"So did I," said Wind, grabbing Sally by the waist and pulling her in for a kiss that the blonde happily returned.

"What was that for?" she asked with a cocked eyebrow when they split.

"Just because I love you," said Wind. "And because my idea is more of an insistence. And is going to be a real pain in the ass."

"Well, for a minute I thought you wanted to do me ten feet from where my husband died, so anythin's uphill from that."

"Fair enough," laughed Wind. "You first."

"I'm not turnin' myself in," said Sally. "Or at least, I don't intend to. But I thought maybe I could split most of my share of the Van Patten bounty across the families of the men I killed. It ain't gonna erase what I did; nothin' will. I ain't even lookin' to confront them, much less tell 'em where it's comin' from. But I got paid for avengin' Sam, and the least I can do is pass that along to the people who can't ever have their vengeance, least as long as I have my say."

"I'd ride for that," said Wind. "I'll even throw my share in; we'll give them a hundred each. Where are they?"

"I dunno the names of the men I killed," Sally reminded Wind, "but we can find out. Either way, they should all be past the mountains, to the east."

The coincidences just kept coming. "Perfect! I'm in," confirmed Wind. "Since we're going that way anyway, I think I should reconnect with the Lakota, speak to an elder. There's a tribe in that area that I traded with before."

"Of course! I mean...would I be welcome?"

"I could explain the situation," said Wind. "And if I can't, this wouldn't be permanent either way. I don't think my place is with them. Only problem is, it could take anywhere from a couple of days to a few months."

"If it matters to you, it matters to me," said Sally. "Don't care how much time it takes. Only question is, what'll we do after that?"

Wind had one idea, but was reluctant to suggest it. "Did you have any ideas?"

Sally shrugged. "I'm a clean slate, hon. Got nothin' to fall back on."

"Well..." Hell, thought Wind, I'm really going to suggest this. "Well, I think as long as we stay in the frontier, the H.M. Steedle bounty is bound to catch up with us. On the other hand, the Fords—the people who took me in—they live in San Francisco, out on the coast. Be pretty easy to disappear forever out there, and honestly, it'd be nice to see them again after thinking I never would."

"That all sounds great," said Sally. "What's the problem?"

"Well, it's civilization," said Wind. "It's amazing in it's own right, but it's big, it's scary, and its idea of public decency is that people like you and me aren't decent. We won't have much freedom to be who we are out there, and yet...I don't know. I can't help but feel like we could make it work."

"Hmm," Sally thought out loud, but her mind had long been made up. "Tell you what," she said. "I did say I'd follow you anywhere. Civilization's as good a place as any."

"All right," said Wind, trying not to sound too excited, "Assuming we survive this next adventure, San Francisco it is." They sealed the arrangement with one more kiss, and with Sally's hand in hers, she asked, without pressure, "Are you ready to go?"

She was, but hearing it spoken aloud with such finality created a natural doubt. Sally took it all in one more time; the ruins of the life that was, the broken promise of the life that could have been, and soon enough, her doubt was overcome.

"Let's go build somethin' different," she said, and with arms and hands interlocked, they left the house behind.

* * * * *

Sally and Wind would survive their adventure. While Wind took about a month to reacquit herself with her people's culture and way of life, Sally would commit to memory the names of the five men she killed—Trevor Horgan, Martin Claymer, David Saxon, Clive Harrow, and William Raine—and, quietly as she could, leave shares of her bounty money with their widows and children. She hoped it would be a boon to them. But she held no illusions that it made things right.

In San Francisco, Wind had a happy reunion with Ellis and Jane Ford, who proceeded to give Sally a crash course in how to pass as a proper lady. Normally, Sally would bristle at such lessons, no matter what purpose it served. It helped that Jane and Sally were fairly alike in their circumstances—two tough, hustling women forced to go along to get along. Sally would later tell Wind, "It's no wonder ya fell for me!"

It also helped that Sally didn't need to play the part for much more than surface appearances. On Ellis' suggestion, the couple would settle just outside the Barbary Coast, San Francisco's Red Light District, and open a small private investigation agency that catered to the downtrodden—they did well enough, but it was a far cry from life among the city's elite. The open-minded along The Coast, the people Sally and Wind interacted with the most, knew the couple's situation, but to most anyone outside the area, Sally—who took the last name "Smithton"—was a young widow with a philanthropic streak and a faithful native servant that she had met in her travels. Those who had "concerns" typically felt that way after Sally would humiliate them for having the nerve to call her servant "squaw."

These concerns would mostly be put to rest after Sally married a young businessman who had moved to the city for "a change in scenery." Charlie, who decided he wasn't interested in long-term relationships anyway, went on to gain something of an amorous reputation. When Sally's so-called friends showed her pity as a way of rubbing their superiority in her face, Sally would merely roll her eyes and laugh at how pathetic men could be, while privately teasing her friend and husband for his terrible taste in mistresses.

It had occurred to Sally and Wind, one wonderful day, that their lives hadn't changed all that much, and in fact could stand to change a little more. With Charlie's occasional help, they would raise three wonderful children together: twins Samuel and Stella, and younger son Jake. Their life was obviously quite complicated and strange, and not without hardship or peril. But on the whole, it was happy, exciting, and long.

* * * * *

But that all had yet to pass.

Halfway between the local band of Colorado Lakota and the train station that would take her to this new life with the woman she loved, Sally, holding tight to Wind's shoulders as their shared horse galloped across the plains, was overcome by a sudden fear of failure.

She worried that she was doomed to evil. That she would fall back into vice and greed and get Wind killed...somehow. She thought that if she could somehow abandon her, possibly at the train station, she could save her in some roundabout way. Who knows, maybe Wind could re-integrate with the Lakota, find a family that was more like her. She didn't need a murderous bitch like Sally dragging her down.

Except, she remembered, she did.

The short poem about her flashed through her mind, the words as vivid as when she first saw them with her naked eye.

She is not Brave because she is unafraid
Of Sun's fi'ry, cleansing light
She weathers Its gaze to save Love overlaid
By frozen, smothering Night

The sky was clear and powder blue from the unobstructed noon sun. Still holding tight to her love, Sally leaned her head back and let the light warm her face.

= = = = =

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