The Brave

"Does it hurt?" she asked.

Will's eyes were wet with fear as the world grew dim around him.

"I'm sure it does," she said. "Lucky for you, bullets aren't very expensive." Wind held the bit she had taken from him up to his face. "This bit should be more than enough to cover one more." She aimed her gun between his eyes.

"No—" was all he had time to say before her next gunshot put him out of his misery.

Sally didn't see the mess that was made, but she saw enough to know there'd be a mess to clean. As the crowd gasped in horror at the unscheduled execution, she noted that if the kid had bothered to look—assuming he even knew anything about guns—he'd have noticed Wind was carrying .38 Colt SAAs. These were certainly not uncommon, but they were still not the type of six-shooters one would just luck into, least of all a native woman. If he'd stopped to think for just a minute, if he wasn't so desperate to start his legend, maybe he'd have lived to be known for something other than "the kid who got out-drawn by a squaw."

Wind turned to the crowd, stunned silent by what they had witnessed. Looked them over carefully.

"If anyone else has a problem sharing space for a week with a Lakota woman—not 'squaw,' not 'savage,' not 'redskin,' Lakota—I suggest they take it up with me right now." She motioned to Will's fresh body. "I promise you, if we talk face to face, it doesn't have to end like this."

Nobody dared.

Wind nodded, holstering her gun. "Like I said." She turned back to her seat, back toward her water. "I'll be gone in a week, and then you can get back to—"

Wind suddenly spun back around, catching a glimpse of something in the mirror behind the bar. Before Blindside Bob could level out his .45, Wind drilled him through his eye with another loud bang and a juicy splat, knocking his suddenly-dead body onto its back and the fear of God into the crowd.

And because they clearly didn't get the message, Wind shouted in a nigh-demonic timbre that rattled the foundations of the saloon and the surrounding buildings:

"FACE. TO. FACE."

A good chunk of the crowd vacated Sweet Sally's as fast as they could while Wind calmly reloaded her Colt and went back to her spot. Sally picked her jaw up off the floor and turned back to Big Jake, frozen in a similar shock, spattered with a bit of Will's blood.

"Jake." She called for him in an earnest, businesslike tone. Once she had his attention, she held three fingers up to his face. "How many?"

"Three."

"Take over the bar for a lil' bit, keep whatever you're paid. I need to be outside."

II. - Play With Fire

It was only a three minute walk down the dusty main street of Grant's Hope from the Sheriff's office to Golden Rock Saloon. Charlie Sykes was there in one, beating feet in a straight line to Sweet Sally's and only slowing down when he saw her waiting outside. He was only a little older than the late Will Steedle was, reedy and dark-haired, far more handsome if only from the lack of Will's smug, disdainful perma-smirk. "You're not hurt?" he asked, not needing much to get his wind back.

"I'm fine," said Sally, "but don't do it."

"Do what?" asked Charlie. "All's I heard was that someone shot up Sweet Sally's and they got Blindside Bob and some kid."

"That someone's a native woman; Lakota, she says. Came in this mornin' wearing man's clothes, been drinkin' only water since. She's still in there."

Charlie blinked. "I'm sorry, what?"

"It was a native woman who killed Blindside Bob and that kid. And it was self-defense." After a brief moment's thought, she added, "Mostly self-defense."

Charlie's brain seemed to catch fire with all the friction it had to subject itself to just to get Sally's words to make sense. "First of all," he said when he finally gathered words of his own, "what's a Lakota woman doing in your saloon?"

"Waiting for someone, I s'pose." A half-truth, something innocent to help ward Charlie away from suicide-by-attempted-arrest.

"And you're saying she outdrew Blindside Bob? She didn't shoot him in the back?"

"Got him straight through his eye," said Sally. "I'm telling you, Charlie: Don't. Do it. Much as I respect you got a job to do, this ain't the same as facing down a band of outlaws by yourself. You'd be arrestin' a woman who was only defendin' herself, and who'll likely defend herself here no matter what that star of yours says. Her gettin' in more trouble later won't make you any less dead."

Right on cue, Mr. Hoffstead, the town's undertaker, pulled up with a horse-drawn wagon and headed inside with his son in tow.

"She ain't stayin'," Sally continued. "She's here to take care of whatever business she's got, and then she's gone forever. She's sayin' it'll be a week."

Charlie paced in a circle, weighing her words. "You don't have a problem with a native—a pure, full-blooded native—on your property?"

"Can't say that I do."

Charlie placed a hand on her shoulder. "And you're really okay?"

"Honest, Charlie, I'm okay."

Charlie nodded. Then he made his way to the door.

"What are you doing, Charlie?" Sally didn't hesitate to give chase.

"Gotta talk to her," he said, scooching over to let Hoffstead and son pass him by as they carried Blindside Bob out to the wagon.

The crowd had recovered a bit, but it wasn't even close to its usual mood. As soon as Charlie entered, Sally following him inside, no less than five people pointed to the black-clad stranger at the bar. Of course, Wind made an impression as soon as she turned to look at him; it was hard for her not to when she was doing anything besides slouch over the bar.

Nevertheless, Charlie kept his cool and asked his first question: "You wanna tell me what happened here?"

Wind motioned to Will's body. "That kid started hassling me, hoping I'd spend the night with him. When I said no, he hit me, so I hit him. Then he pulled his gun...so I pulled mine. Then I told everyone in here to speak to me if they had a problem with me being here. Someone from the crowd decided to pull instead of speak, so I pulled on him too."

Charlie nodded. "You know that someone from the crowd was probably the best gunfighter in this territory, right?"

"Wasn't aware," said Wind.

"Yeah, we...well, I was gonna say we called him Blindside Bob for a reason, but I'm thinking you wouldn't get it." Charlie motioned to her drink. "Don't that water get boring after a while?"

"I need to stay clear," said Wind.

"For that fella you're waiting for? Sally told me something about that."

Wind nodded.

Charlie wiped some sweat off his brow with his thumb. "Sally says you're Lakota Sioux, that right?"

She nodded.

"Long way from the Dakotas, if you don't mind me saying."

"I come from wanderers," shrugged Wind. "Old habits are hard to break."

Charlie nodded. He leaned into Wind's ear, and the words he hushed into her made her eyes jump, but then she relaxed and nodded. Sally figured it had something to do with him being half-Navajo himself, something he didn't go out of his way to hide, but tried to be discreet about nonetheless since he mostly passed as white.

Meanwhile, the whole saloon was waiting for the deputy to restore the natural order—save for Hoffstead and son, who was only concerned with carrying the kid out to the wagon.

"Sheriff gets back in a week," he finally said, feeling every single gaze, "give or take a few days. I suggest you handle your business and be gone before he sees you here."

Wind nodded and returned to her seat. Charlie turned and walked away.

"...that's IT?" Someone from the crowd yelled out, the spark that lit up the whole saloon. Cries of "HORSESHIT" and "ARREST HER" and "MURDERING WHORE" and "YELLOW BASTARD" rang out. Charlie kept getting shoved as he tried to make his way out the door. Somebody had a bottle in his hand and was winding up a throw aimed right at Charlie's head.

"HEY!!"

Sally's voice boomed out from atop the bar and across the saloon, shutting everything down in an instant.

"The lady was defendin' herself from a rapist pig and the kinda yella-bellied coward who'd shoot a lady in the back," she announced from her makeshift soapbox. "Much like you or I woulda done. Much like Horace woulda done, God rest his soul. Her skin color 'n lack of a johnson don't amount to a drop a' PISS in this situation and y'all know it!"

Sally could see in the crowd that people were itching to disagree, but the benefit of saying these things as Sweet Sally was that nobody called out Sweet Sally. Ever. Her word might as well have been law.

"All she wants right now is a place to stay and to be left alone. I tolerate your fightin', I damn sure tolerate your flirtin', and I can sure as spit tolerate an Indian with coin who wants a place to hole up for a week, especially one who don't bother anyone who don't bother her. Any of y'all who can't handle that might as well find somewhere other than 'Sweet Sally's' to drink!

"In fact, y'all take the night to think it over. The bar's closed. If ya don't have a room, GIT!"

After a few moments of confusion, the crowd reluctantly began to file out. "Go on!" encouraged Sally. Big Jake was the last to leave, closing the door behind him after a wordless, affirmative exchange with the barmaid.

Wind finished her water while Sally stepped off her barstool to lock up. "You'll let me know if the sheriff happens to come calling?" the native asked.

"Sure will," said Sally, exhausted.

Wind nodded, headed for the stairs. It was the first time Wind turned her back on the barmaid; Sally caught the small stone tomahawk on her hip, half-covered by the ends of her long hair, a slight red tinge on its blade. "Well, if that doesn't happen," said the native, "I'll see you tomorrow."

"See you tomorrow." Sally headed to her little room behind the bar to get some cleaning supplies from her closet, but stopped in her tracks just a few moments after she realized the stairs weren't creaking under Wind's weight.

She looked back to the stairs and found Wind looking at her.

"Thank you," said the native.

"Sure," smiled Sally. "Always glad to do right by someone."

Wind seemed a bit taken aback by her words; not offended, just surprised. She wouldn't acknowledge it out loud, though; she just turned and pulled herself up to her room.

Sally was on her hands and knees for an hour cleaning the blood, brain, and bone off the floor. At one point she glanced up and thought she saw that Wind's door was slightly open. On her next glance, it was shut.

She thought, Stars alive, she's a brave one.

And then she thought, Hm. 'Brave.' Funny.

Should probably keep that to myself, though.

* * * * *

That night, Sally thought of Sam.

She would always revisit him in memory; at the river bank, in the hills, in their bed back on the ranch they were supposed to grow old in, but today she imagined him walking through the door, as if he'd been breathing this whole time. In a moment he was alongside her, naked, and Sally felt that she should return the favor, pulling off her shift and letting the linen embrace her flesh.

Imagination is a funny thing. She was at once alone and with him, both cold from the air and hot from his touch in the same places. She heard the sounds of the night and his breath in her ear:

"Damn, Sally."

She didn't bother warming up, because he never did. Sam was a taker, and Sally liked being taken. Her hand darted between her legs and found that her lips were soaked in sweet anticipation.

"How'd you get to be so soft?"

Sally was pliant in her chest and hinder, tapered at her waist. Sam loved to hold tight against her; he relished all the ways her curvy form would yield to his muscled flesh and nimble hands.

"How'd you get to be so sweet?"

Sam's tongue had the speed of a snake, able to repeatedly dart in and out of her with blinding speed, and the strength of a lion, taking big, rough licks that sent spasmodic waves through her juicy lips, up and down her body.

"How'd you get to be so wet?"

Sam loved to finger her. He loved to take the digits that had been soaked in her juices and trace little patterns across her body to lick up later. Sally drew her hand up from her wet cunt, up past her stomach, up between her tits, across one nipple, across the other. She brought the hand up to her face and inhaled her musk—a kind of pleasant spicy citrus scent that Sam taught her to fall in love with—before sending it back down between her legs. With her other hand, she lifted a heavy breast up to her mouth and swiped her tongue across the nipple to pick up the salty-sweet taste of her femininity. The sensations weren't quite the same, but it was enough to trigger her tactile memory while she rubbed between her legs in an ever-quickening circle, lifting her into a brief bit of bliss with a quiet yet sharp appeal to heaven.

Before drifting off to sleep, Sally had an odd thought. A couple, in fact. One, Sam had been blessed with a cock the size of a fence post. Whenever she "remembered" him, she often remembered that part of him the most, but this time it was only fingers and tongues.

Two, Sam's hands were the rough, calloused hands of a working man. She never thought of them as nimble.

III. - Free Lunch

The first thing Sally did after she dressed was go out back and pump some water. When she lugged it back, there was Wind; same seat, same dark clothes, same brooding expression on her face.

Sally caught on quick. She grabbed a tumbler, ladled in water, and slid it over to the native. Wind took the glass in her hand and sipped.

"I'll just say it out loud," said Sally, "just so I know that you heard me. The sheriff ain't comin' back today, and you might blend in a little better if you drink some of our firewater instead. First glass'll be on the house."

"I'm fine, thanks," said Wind. "Don't call it 'firewater.'"

Sally blinked, her eyes bulging in a sort of inverted cringe. "Sorry 'bout that," she said. "Got nothin' to do with you bein' native; common term in these parts."

Wind nodded. "I guess I've just been insulted with it too many times," she said.

"That's fair," said Sally. "So how'd you get from the tribe to here?"

"That's between me and your sheriff," said Wind.

"Oh." Sally felt her gut turn as she considered the answer.

It was fairly well known that, before entering regular old law enforcement, Sheriff Garrick was an Army man who helped settle the Dakotas...which almost certainly would have put him in conflict with the Lakota. When she confirmed Charlie's suspicions that she wandered in from that area, Sally had somehow decided it was a coincidence; clearly, she was wrong.

The funny thing was, Garrick was a decent sheriff who never had any specific unkind words for Sally. But he had a crass air about him, and a not terribly subtle disrespect for those below his station in life; she had no trouble believing that he inspired a blood vendetta or two.

"Well," said Sally, "can you at least tell me how you got so good with those irons?"

Wind shrugged. "How does anyone? The more you shoot, the faster you get, the less you miss. Tale as old as the stars."

"The stars ain't nearly as interestin' as someone like you blowin' Blindside Bob's eye out."

"Guess he'd have a literal blind side if he lived." Big Jake sidled up to the bar, all smiles as usual. Wind seemed to suppress a small groan.

"Why Jake!" exclaimed Sally. "I do believe that's the first time you entered without commentin' on my assets!" Jake took his usual seat, and Sally leaned over the bar, hands on her cheeks, giving him her most intrigued smile. "Am I losing my touch?" she asked. "Be honest, I can take it."

"Your touch is as good as ever, Miss Stillwell," Big Jake assured, smiling. He motioned over to Wind. "Just got new cause to be extra polite, is all."

"Aw, don't pay her no mind. She was fine with you flirtin' with me yesterday, weren't you?"

Wind teetered her outstretched hand.

"See? You ain't even close to makin' an enemy outta her."

"Glad to hear it," said Big Jake. He looked at Wind directly now. "Ma'am, that was some damn good shootin' last night," he said. Wind seemed a bit taken aback, but tried to redouble her disaffection as Jake continued. "I admit, I'm a little broken up about Bob, but pulling while your back was turned was real low. Can't say he didn't have it comin'; goes double for that little jackass you took out as well. Can I buy you a drink?"

"Well...I hate to insult you, stranger," she said, holding up her glass of water, "but I'm not drinking."

"Sure looks like you are," said Jake, smiling. "If water's your drink, that just means more bourbon for me." Right on cue, Sally poured Jake a glass of his usual bourbon. He took it in his hand and raised it in Wind's direction. "Here's to the Indian Cowgirl of Sweet Sally's Saloon," he toasted. "May I never, ever get drunk enough to call you 'squaw.'"

"Much appreciated," said Wind, drinking. "For the record, I don't like being called 'Indian' either, though it's less a hatred for the term and more of a confusion."

"That's fair," said Jake.

"If I'm being honest," said Sally, "the term I been thinkin' of for you lately, you probably wouldn't be a fan of either. But I can't help but get attached to it."

"Oh really? What's the term?"

"Well, understand: You sit at this bar when Jake and I are the only ones who seem to tolerate you, waiting for a guy who I'm assuming will wanna kill you, and when someone tries to push you away, you dig yer heels in and push right back." Sally poured herself a glass of bourbon. "Hell, Wind, I know it ain't right, but I just think of you as 'The Brave.'"

Wind steely facade broke into a smile. Sally couldn't help but notice how pretty she was when she smiled; it was like a crack of warm, brilliant light blasting through a dirty grey rock. "You know what, Sally?" She raised her glass, laughing a little bit—heavy yet kind of sweet, refreshing and lovely. "I think I can live with that."

"To The Brave, then," said Jake, toasting once more, in which they all joined in.

Wind's surprising mirth would eventually fade away, her cool demeanor rebuilt as she sipped and breathed and stewed in her supposed anxiety for vengeance. But in that moment, for Sally, any semblance of a threat she posed seemed to wither away.

* * * * *

The afternoon crowd was about an eighth of its usual size. All of them would inevitably turn their heads to study the black mark in the saloon, sitting at the bar without a seeming care in the world, and the friendly proprietor serving her some free lunch even though she didn't buy anything to drink.

"I'm sorry," said Wind, looking at the beef stew Sally just put in front of her, "free lunch?"

"A little somethin' Stu Kessler next door whips up to help move my booze. You drink here at noon, you get a free lunch."

"Huh," said Wind. "That's real nice of you."

Sally smiled, shrugged her shoulders. "Nice, but it ain't generous," she explained. "Ever since Horace started doin' it, business boomed. Pays for itself, really."

"Or it used to, I imagine." Wind used her spoon to push a couple of random carrots around in her stew.

Sally pshawed the notion. "They'll come back; this here's the only saloon in town. Never overestimate the will of a buncha drunk cowboys. Now quit worryin' 'bout me and eat your damn stew. I didn't see you with any food yesterday, there ain't no way you're not starved from tryin' ta act like some big shit Billy Badass."

With no points left to argue, Wind collected some stew in her spoon and struggled to savor it. "It's delicious. What's in this?"

"Trade secret, Stu tells me," said Sally, with a little curtsy. "Go on, fill your belly. Ain't got much use for manners here."