The Brave

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Sally could actually read Wind's thought process for once: She studied her stew—I am quite hungry.—looked back up to Sally—Oh, but would she really not mind?—then, after a few moments of indecision, gripped the spoon—Ah, the hell with it.—and violently dug in.

"Atta girl," laughed Sally.

After a minute of non-stop scarfing, Wind stopped for breath, chin and lips soaked in gravy, and asked, "So who's Horace? You keep talking about him, I don't know who he is."

"Oh!" Sally laughed to herself. "You know, you might stick out like a sore thumb but I keep treatin' you like a ring finger," she said, sliding Wind a napkin. "Horace was the last guy who ran this place. Dropped dead 'bout a year and a half ago."

"Sorry to hear that," said Wind, wiping her face clean.

"He was old, did what he loved. I miss him, but it ain't nothin' to be sorry for. He's with the Lord now."

"He was your husband, I take it?"

"Oh God no! More like my father. Not literally my father, he just took me in after...well, after my actual husband passed, 'bout five years back."

"And what happened with that? Can I ask?"

"Bandits," said Sally. "Bastards broke into our house, shot 'im right in the back. If that had killed him, they woulda gotten me too, but he started shootin' and made me run for it." Sally closed her eyes, briefly overcome. After a breath, she continued. "Literally collapsed on the doorstep of this place after riding all day and night." Wind's water glass was empty, so Sally ladled some more in while she finished her story. "Horace saw me as he was lockin' up, got me into a bed, and I started workin' for him the next day as a saloon girl."

Wind shook her head. "Nobody should have their home taken from them like that."

Sally dropped the ladle back into her bucket, and stopped what she was doing. A moment later, she nodded to no one in particular. "Yeah." She turned back to Wind, empathetic. "You'd know, wouldn't ya?"

"I have thoughts on the subject, sure," admitted Wind. "But this isn't about me right now. They still out there? You know their names? Maybe I know something."

"How's that?" Sally asked, head slightly cocked, movements suddenly delicate.

"It wasn't a straight line from home to here. I've been catching bounties all across the frontier, hearing all sorts of stories. If the men who took your husband met their ends, I could probably tell you how. Help you sleep easy."

Sally nodded her head, gently chewing on the inside of her lip. "Can't say I know their names," she eventually said. "But it's all right. I sleep easy enough. I miss my husband, but I like this life. I like these people. I might even forgive 'em for being such jackasses 'bout you, if you don't mind me saying."

Wind shrugged. "Not like I'm staying long enough to be offended. But you don't want justice?"

Sally stopped herself before she said that justice was overrated, something an obvious world-class bounty hunter probably wouldn't want to hear. After all, shouldn't she want justice? What did it matter if she selfishly wanted justice to work for her without working against her? This was Sam.

"I think my husband wouldn't want me to worry about it," Sally eventually answered. "I think the life of a yellow-bellied bandit only ends one way, and it ain't in bed. They'll all get what they deserve in the end. Me, I'm livin' my life, best I can. Do I think about it sometimes and get angry? Damn straight. But there ain't nothin' I can do, so it ain't ownin' me. Dyin' ain't necessarily 'bout not drawin' breath."

There was that smile again; thin, small, thoughtful this time, but dazzling all the same. Was it because she didn't see it too often, or was it just that pretty? "I like that," said Wind. She looked up, connecting her surprisingly soft chocolate eyes with Sally's bright crystal blues. "I wish I knew how to think like that," said the native.

Sally smiled back. "Don't beat yourself up, darlin'," she said. "It's harder than I make it seem."

* * * * *

Sam returned to her that night. Once again, his bliss came exclusively through fingers and tongue. Once again, it didn't seem to matter until after.

The next morning she woke up, dressed, and fixed her usual breakfast of bacon and eggs. As her meal cooked on the fire, she considered her guest up above, and how she tore into her stew the day before. She cracked a couple of extra eggs into her pan, and laid a couple of extra slices of pigskin next to them. Wind didn't eat any supper, and it seemed cruel to leave her famished until it was time for her free lunch. It wouldn't kill her to provide a free breakfast to her sole guest as well; who would know?

Sally left her little nook behind the bar and carried the plate she fixed for Wind—along with a mug of fresh coffee—up the stairs. Placing the mug carefully on the plate, she rapped on Wind's door; strong enough to wake her, gentle enough to remain friendly.

"Yes?" came Wind's response from the other side, slightly groggy.

"It's Sally," she said. "I got bacon, eggs, and coffee if you want it."

There was silence; longer than Sally expected. "Sure," Wind finally said. "Come on in." Sally opened the door.

Wind sat up in her bed, facing the sun rising through the window, rubbing her eyes, her naked back to Sally. The sight stopped the blonde in her tracks, nearly causing her to drop her guest's breakfast. Recovering, she took a moment to study Wind's slim, appealing form.

"Oh," Sally finally said in the last throes of her shock.

Wind jumped ever so slightly, as if she remembered some small errand she had to do that day, and pulled her bedsheet up, holding it over her chest with her arm. "I'm so sorry," she said, turning her head. "I've been on my own for so long, I forgot my propriety."

"Uh, it's quite alright, darlin'." Sally's free hand was noticeably less steady as it reclaimed the mug of coffee. The glare from the window masked Wind's expression, but Sally felt their eyes connect, and she could swear The Brave was smiling. "Um, I could leave this on the floor and let you be," Sally added, "but I wouldn't wanna insult you."

"I understand," said Wind. "Just leave it on the night table." With what sounded like a suspicious but appealing bat of her eyelashes, she added, "Unless you're not comfortable, that is."

"No-no, it's fine, as long as you don't mind...neither do I."

The glare fell away as Sally closed in on the nightstand, on Wind. She could soon make out the bronze color of her skin; smooth and luscious, taut against her lean, symmetrical musculature, with surprisingly few scars for someone with her lifestyle. Sally couldn't take her eyes off her, which led her to nearly trip on the bed.

"Ow, dangit," she muttered, breaking eye contact with her guest for just a second. In her attempt to reestablish it, she got a momentary glimpse over her shoulder; the bedsheet effectively covered all but the small swells at the top of her breasts, but more intriguing was her black hair, slung across her front, long enough to gather in her lap. This close, it looked so fine and soft...

And at that point, Sally suddenly remembered that she was supposed to be bringing this girl her breakfast. She placed her food on the nightstand. "There you go," she said. "Just bring the plate and fork down with you."

"Sure," said Wind. "It smells delicious. Thank you."

"My pleasure." Sally's heart was beating out of her chest, her mind caught between admiring Wind's stunning form and being aware of the transgression, even if it seemed to be...welcomed? Wind couldn't possibly be so okay with being buck naked in front of her, could she?

This led Sally to another generous thought. "Hey...do you need your clothes cleaned? Mrs. Cleary does my laundry, I can throw yours in as well."

"Thanks, but I'm fine."

"You sure? You been wearin' the same outfit for two days straight at least, I can't imagine it feels very good."

"Well, do you expect me to sit at your bar with nothing on?"

The thought made Sally smile, then made her wonder why she was smiling before remembering that she needed an answer. "I got some clothes you can borrow," she said. "They ain't black, and they might be a bit big, but I think they're just about your style."

"Hm. And this won't put you out? How much does she get?"

"Whatever's left over from that gold eagle should more'n cover it."

Wind didn't respond.

"Tell you what. I'm sure it ain't helpin' you decide when I'm standin' here while you ain't, uh, decent. So I'll just leave my clothes outside the door, and if you want your laundry done, just replace 'em with your own. She'll be here in about 20 minutes, so you got time to decide."

"Sounds good. Now, if you'll excuse me..."

"Of course." Sally quickly slipped out of the room, shutting the door behind her. On the way down the stairs, to no one in particular, she whispered "Wow" out loud, taking note of how damp it had suddenly gotten between her legs.

She kept some farmhand clothes in her dresser for various reasons. Partly, it was a matter of utility; lots of drunks liked to throw up on themselves, and they appreciated a barmaid who could provide a change of clothes when needed. Mostly, though, she just plain preferred them to dresses, especially when she had to make a trip out of town for a little while. She threw in a pair of drawers, and briefly considered lending her a corset before deciding that her bust was probably too small to fit it properly anyway.

When she came back up, Wind's clothing was already outside the door. Sally smiled and knocked. "Clothes are outside, hon," she said.

"Thank you," she heard back.

"My pleasure," said Sally. To Wind. To herself.

IV. - Koskalaka

"Gotta be honest." Charlie had stopped by for some whiskey and a free lunch; like any lawman, he paid in conversation, even though the bar was completely empty save for the four of them. "White ain't your color, ma'am."

"Really? You think it's the color?" Wind kept staring forward, sipping her water, her body smothered in thick white fabric that hung more like a set of drapes than clothes. "I almost broke my neck going down the stairs in these damn things."

"I'm sorry I laughed at ya when ya tripped," said Sally, "but in my defense it was real funny."

"Laundry day's a real pain when you travel light, I know," Jake mused.

"Ooh! I remember when Horace asked Sally to go up to Pike Ridge to pick up some provisions," beamed Charlie, "and I came to keep you company!"

"Oh no! You are not telling this story!"

"She didn't pack any change of clothes, it was only supposed to be a day."

"I'll cut your ass off!"

"The second we walk into town, this nutball screams out 'Be gone, foul Hell beast!' and suddenly—"

"I'll literally cut your ass off! Both cheeks!"

"Aw, come on," Charlie pouted. "It's not like you did anything wrong. It was just your day to get a horse apple thrown at you because some guy thought you were a demon."

"You bastard!" Sally pulled Charlie's whiskey glass away. "There! Now you can drink water with her!"

"You know, among the Lakota," said Wind, "getting pelted with dung is a sign that the spirits have chosen you for a great journey."

"Really?"

"No."

Jake bellowed with laughter. "Goddamn! She can make jokes too! I love this woman!"

Sally thought she noticed another wry smile trying to peek out from that angry, mysterious facade of Wind's and, as usual, felt her heart flutter in response. She liked the mysterious, dangerous stranger that had invaded her saloon, regardless of the business it was costing her. But she really liked the person that kept peeking out underneath that mystery.

"So you two are together?" Wind asked after another gulp of water, pointing between Sally and Charlie. The question was inevitable; anybody who knew those two for more than a moment knew that they were oddly affectionate for mere friends. Everybody from the town gossip to the stoic passerby wanted to know their deal, and Wind was no different.

"Oh no," Sally said, casually. "Well...yeah, we go on and off, but..." They must have talked about this a hundred times before, but Sally still had to rack her mind to find a reasoning that made sense to her without hurting Charlie's feelings.

"We're convenient," Charlie mercifully explained, "but we ain't necessarily right."

"That's a good way to put it," said Sally. "We find our way to each other every now 'n again, but it's more like we're scratchin' an itch than fallin' into somethin', y'know?"

"Sure, I get that," said Wind.

"Tell you what, though, you two might get along well. I think he prolly told'ja, but he's half-Navajo himself. I dunno how different that is from Lakota, but—"

"Different enough to be interesting," said Wind. She looked Charlie up and down. "I'll be honest, Charlie, I'm surprised you're still on the market. You're handsome, you're a perfect gentleman, you should go far."

"Why, thank you, ma'am," said Charlie, tipping his imaginary hat. "If I may say, I'm a little impressed with how educated you seem to be. Hell, you speak better English than any of us!"

"Why thank you," said Wind. "That would come from my adoptive father. After he and his wife took me in, he took it upon himself to educate me."

"If your brains came from your pappy, where'd—"

"Adoptive pappy," Wind corrected.

"My mistake. So where'd the shootin' come from?" asked Jake.

"Adoptive mother, actually," said Wind. "She was a quick-draw artist, he was an intellectual. And she also knew a little of my language, so she helped me with the English as well. But, uh, I'm actually leading you on, Charlie, I apologize."

"None necessary," he said, glancing thoughtfully at Sally.

"I don't know if the Navajo have a word for this, but I'm what the Lakota would call koskalaka; woman who does not wish to marry. We're actually said to have great power." Wind shrugged. "I never really believed that, but I suppose being a quick study counts for something."

"Shoot, I don't wanna marry," said Sally, "at least not now. Does that mean I got great power?"

"If I might be so bold," said Charlie, "I don't know the Navajo for that, but I reckon the reason she don't want to marry is a key factor here."

Wind nodded. "Yeah, I'll just say it; I prefer the company of women."

"Huh," said Sally, the gears clicking into place somehow for the first time. She knew from random overheard conversations at the bar about Leaves of Grass that men could be intimate with other men, so she assumed that the same must have followed for women. The concept in practice was so foreign to her, however, that she never understood how it worked even as it was happening to her.

As she pondered this, as she re-evaluated her dreams of the last two nights and thought once more of Wind's bare, beautiful back, a short, thin man slid into the stool next to Wind. "Hello, Miss," he greeted in a proper British accent, snapping Sally from her funk. "Your finest whiskey, if you please." He wore a fine gray bowler hat and round spectacles, looking too done up for this saloon by about half.

Almost too quickly, Sally flung a glass in front of the Englishman's seat and poured his drink while he slid over the appropriate coin. He took a thick gulp while Sally replaced the bottle on the shelf behind her.

"Excellent!" the Englishman remarked. "Quite a nice little hole in the wall, if I may say."

"Thank you!" beamed Sally. "I was lucky enough to inherit it from the last guy. He put his life into this place, you know."

"So I've heard," said the Englishman. "The word around town is also that there was quite a dustup in here a couple of nights ago."

Something in Sally's gut started to twist. Wind probably wasn't too comfortable either, which she showed by politely turning her head and asking "What were you told?"

"So you're the savage girl! I was told you liked to wear black."

"Lakota," she casually corrected. "And it's laundry day."

"Ah, Lakota! Is that what you people like to be called? Dreadfully sorry."

"It's no trouble," said Wind. "Where in England do you come from?"

"London," he said, smiling. "Quite a place. I came with some other sons and daughters of royalty to settle a town, New Stratford. Typhoid claimed it after a few years, I'm afraid, but I decided to stay."

"Well, good for you," said Wind, offering her hand. "People around here just call me Wind."

The Englishman accepted her handshake. "George Brinley-Foster," he introduced himself, "charmed."

"As am I," she said. "So what brings you here?"

"Well, I was sent by one H.M. Steedle," George said, taking out his revolver. "He's offered a thousand dollars to anyone who can take you out. Now—"

Wind finished George's sentence for him by smashing her water glass into his face, knocking off his hat, partially blinding him. As he screamed out and the blood started to run down his face, Wind grabbed the back of his head and slammed him into the bar, shattering his spectacles and his whiskey glass, finishing the job her water glass started. Rage clouding her once-beautiful eyes, Wind slammed his howling head again for good measure, and then a third time, lodging the glass shards further and further into his skull and eyes while Sally screamed in terror and Charlie and Jake watched helplessly, Charlie with his hand on his revolver, Jake with his mouth gaped open. After a fourth and fifth head slam, Wind spun George around to face her, for want of a term that implied he still had a face, and buried her tomahawk deep into the top of his skull with a terrifying wet thwick.

The only sound anyone made for the next two minutes was, ironically, George, who babbled something like "Ah daht ben," dark crimson spilling out his mouth, before he collapsed on the floor and expired.

Charlie weighed his options.

Jake made the sign of the cross.

Wind, shaking, pulled her weapon out of George's skull and wiped it off on his fine silk shirt.

And Sally, with tears in her eyes, held her hands over her mouth to choke back further screaming. It wasn't that she blamed Wind. She saw the gun, she saw the sudden shift in the Englishman's eyes; he was going to kill her. She had just never seen such a vicious, horrible defense, even in those wilder days that fueled her dreams from time to time.

"You saw the gun, right?" Finally; Wind was speaking to Charlie.

Charlie nodded. "I'll go get Hoffstead." He left, rather quickly.

Wind turned to Sally, her eyes brimming with regret. "I'll clean up this time."

* * * * *

After Hoffstead had quietly carried out the Englishman, after Wind took up a rag and started washing his blood out of the floor, Charlie parked himself outside the saloon to ward off anyone from going inside. The word got out that some other poor bastard met his end at the squaw's hands, and suddenly everyone wanted to know what was going on and why he wasn't doing anything about it.

Charlie would look at these people dead in their eyes and remind them that there had been four other shootings with similar circumstances over the last three years. Garrick didn't do anything to them, and Charlie wouldn't do anything to her. These people with their complaints would just have to live with them, content in the knowledge that if God forbid they ever had to defend their own lives, they wouldn't face the noose.

Charlie stood by those words. He needed a smoke to do so, but he stood by them.

Sally joined him outside, leaning against the door to her place. Charlie offered his cigarette, and she took a long drag, letting the tobacco smoke work its magic on her harried mind. It was her first smoke since Sam's death; Horace encouraged (but didn't order) her to quit when she started working for him, suggesting that while her lack of so-called refinement was an asset in his place, guys preferred ladies who didn't indulge too greatly in their vices.

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