The Brave

"He told him, 'Full commitment, son.'"

A terrible blast rang out and Merrill's face exploded. His gun slipped from his hand, and his body fell sideways out of its seat. From the bar, Sally stood with her smoking Winchester One in One Thousand Carbine, all business in poise. She cranked the carbine's lever and tried to decide whom she should ventilate next.

Before anyone could register that yes, Sweet Sally did actually just blow Merrill's head off, Wind kicked over the table, sending cards and booze and money flying every which way. Stone pulled his gun but didn't count on Charlie being against him, and was caught right between his pretty eyes before he could fire a shot. Wind, meanwhile, drew both her guns, nailing Goss in the chest and Garrick through his liver, ensuring him a slow, painful death in case she couldn't finish the job the way she wanted.

Which was looking likely, because neither Charlie nor Wind could finish off the monstrous Goss before he could clear the distance on them. He knocked Charlie aside before he could get a shot off. Wind managed to pop him again in the shoulder, but the giant only felt it as much as her first bullet. He tackled her, sending them both tumbling to the ground. Sally aimed her rifle, but couldn't get a clear shot at him. Goss, aware of the threat, lifted Wind up by her neck, shielding him while he squeezed the life out of her. Darkness was encroaching in Wind's peripherals, and she could feel her neck about to give.

Goss growled, "Goddamn redskin WHO—"

And that was his big mistake: Charlie ran up with the unbroken bottle of Tabasco in his hand, leaped up, and jammed it, bottom first, down his throat. Goss dropped Wind and reached up to his mouth to try and clear it, but Charlie, hanging onto his shoulder, slammed his palm down over the cap, wedging the bottle in deeper before dropping off the monstrous deputy. Wind then leapt back to her feet and swung her fist just below Goss's jaw, shattering the bottle, lodging shards of its glass into his mouth and tongue and windpipe.

Goss collapsed on the floor, eyes bugged in pain, making horrible choking sounds as blood and pepper sauce gushed from his mouth. Charlie, in turn, stomped on his face—again, again, again, until his boot went through with a sickening squish and the body went limp. And Charlie kept stomping, on the verge of screaming, until a recovering Wind and a concerned Sally pulled him away.

Charlie caught his breath. Looked at Sally in her fraught, loving eyes, unsure of what to say. Sally, wiping some blood away from his mouth where Goss had hit him, wordlessly assured him that nothing need be said.

They both looked at Wind, quietly confirming that they were all right. Wind nodded back, and went to finish her business.

Garrick was slowly stumbling toward the door leading outside, hand over his wound trying in vain to hold his life inside. Just as he had gotten his hand on the door, Wind grabbed him by the back of his collar and dragged him away, throwing him against the knocked-over table with a pathetic yelp.

Wind reached down and picked up her rope bracelet, looked at it curiously. "First time I took this off in sixteen years," she said, slipping it back on her wrist. "Felt strange to be without it."

"I got a wife," cried Garrick. "I got a daughter!"

"Good for you," said Wind, dispassionate. "Should I go get them?"

"I got right, goddamn you!" Garrick cringed through the waves of pain that were pulling him further and further away from life. "Those days up in the Dakota, they were insane! We had a territory to settle and we had a people that wouldn't let us settle it! We all did what we had to do!"

"Just like I'm doing what I have to do," she said. "Just like Hannah Duston did what she had to do. We all owe debts, Sergeant. Your fellow men have all paid their shares in full; your number's up."

"I'm a good man, dammit!" He turned to Sally and Charlie, watching impatiently. "I'M A GOOD MAN!" he pleaded again. His insistence fell on deaf ears.

"Sergeant Thompson Garrick," Wind continued, "you owe a blood debt for my friend, Wicapiwakan. For her father, my chief, Canowicakte. For my true parents, Paytah and Ojinjintka. For my brother, Howahkan. For the countless members of my tribe that you slaughtered, whose names I won't name out loud because we just don't have all day." Wind reached into her vest and took out a small, sharp knife, causing Garrick to recoil. "My name is Tateohitika—Brave Wind—and I've come to collect. Any last words?"

Garrick breathed shallow, building his resolve, until he was able to spit out "Fuck you."

Wind waited for him to say more. When he didn't, she sliced his throat, severing his vocal chords. Garrick's hands shot up to his newest wound, gasping, choking, while Wind grabbed his thin hair and began making several cuts around the top of his head. Garrick's legs kicked and kicked as if trying to stay afloat in freezing water, but it only burned him out. With eerily muted rips and tears, Wind separated Garrick's scalp from his skull, then stepped back to watch him die.

When his hands fell from his gushing throat, when the light faded from his eyes, Wind tossed the unwanted trophy at his feet and said "Fuck you, too."

The rest, as before, was silence. A necessary moment to process the gravity of what had occurred. Five deaths, one betrayal, and the end of what was clearly a long road to revenge with what one person, the only one who really mattered right now, found to be an unexpected result.

Wind looked around the saloon as if it was a miracle it still existed. She walked, with an ever-so-slight imbalance, to the bar, past Sally and Charlie, towards the glass of whiskey that was waiting for her. She took it in her hand; studied it once more.

Sally laid a careful hand on Wind's shoulder. "Darlin'," she asked, "you okay?"

Wind nodded her head. She knocked her whiskey back down her gullet, slammed the glass onto the bar, and breathed through the burn in her chest.

Eventually, she stood, giving Sally and Charlie her last looks. "I don't know how to thank you for—"

"You don't have to thank us for a damn thing, Wind," said Sally.

"Right now, I think we're more concerned with what the hell we're going to tell our mayor," said Charlie.

"Well, that's the good thing about having a crazy squaw like me around," said Wind. "You can blame her for pretty much anything."

As Charlie swallowed Wind's bitter truth, Sally heard the front door open, and turned to tell Jake that the saloon would probably have to stay closed for the rest of the day.

"So what'll you do now?" asked Charlie.

"Truth is, I don't know," said Wind. "I, uh, didn't think this far ah—"

"Clem?"

Charlie and Wind turned towards Sally, who had locked eyes on a portly, stubble-faced man dressed in blue. He was ignoring all the carnage around him and hard-focused on the barmaid of Golden Rock, the one they called Sweet Sally.

"Oh, shit," said Clem.

Her carbine was a few feet away, but Sally found it more convenient to pull Wind's off-hand pistol out of its holster and fan its remaining load of ammunition into the man.

VII. - Out of the Blue

Clem never stood a chance. He took two in the chest before he could try to run, caught another bullet under his armpit as he was turning away, and took the last two in the back trying to get out the door, falling dead before he could clear the doorway.

"What in the HELL?" screamed Charlie, the only thing he could think to say at the time. Wind wouldn't say anything; whatever emotions she felt before gave way to shock, then a realization about who "Clem" could have been...had to be.

Sally handed Wind her Colt back and reclaimed her Winchester. Quickly flipping back into distress mode, Wind reloaded her own guns, steeling herself for whatever was to come next.

"VIC VAN PATTEN," Sally screamed out, approaching the window of her saloon, "YOU LOW DOWN LILY-LIVERED SHIT-SUCKIN' SUMBITCH-BASTARD, I KNOW YOU'RE OUT THERE, Y'ALL BETTER GODDAMN ANSWER ME!"

"Vic Van Patten?" Charlie could not believe what he was saying.

There was a moment of...something, a moment that Wind took to place the name "Vic Van Patten" as she and Charlie rushed into cover by Sally's side before a weaselly voice called back. "Sally? Goddamn babe, that you?"

"Oh, shit," said Charlie, realizing that yes, they were in a standoff with one of the most wanted men in this territory, and he somehow knew his occasional lady-friend.

"Tell you what," said Sally, "it sure ain't Sanchez!"

"Well I'll be goddamned! How you doin', Sally?"

"Well, it's been a day, Vic! How come you ain't out springin' your man? Not that he's much good to ya now, what with him dyin' from a snakebite to the johnson, but what the hell? You decide he too brown for ya?"

"Snakebite to the johnson, huh?" Vic called out. "Well, that's a shame. But he'd been warned about messin' with the Drake Hill mayor's wife. Not on us that the dirty bastard didn't listen."

"Oh, shit," Charlie repeated.

"But how 'bout we talk about what you just did to Clem," Vic continued. "You know, that was real rude!"

"In my defense, I'd say it was a lil' less rude than shootin' my husband in the back!"

"Oh, SHIT." Charlie had now understood what Wind had immediately suspected. The native wasn't bothered by it; what did bother her was the picture she was piecing together from the little bits of information she was getting.

"Now-Now Sally, hold on a second now—"

"Why should I? I make ya nervous in front of yer new friends?"

"Sam was cheatin' us outta our fair cuts, Sally! I'm sorry, but—"

"You're SORRY? You sure don't sound sorry!"

"We did what we had to do, Sally!"

"Boy, if I had a dollar for every sorry waste of a man who said that just 'fore he was 'bout to die horrible!"

"Listen, you goofy cunt! I got four other men out here and they ain't got a problem finishin' the job me an' Clem started at that shithole you called home! But we ain't here for you. We're lookin' for the injun bitch who suposs'ly lives in this place. She killed a rich guy's son, now he's offerin' a thousand dollars for her head. You hand her over, maybe we cut ya in on half, make things square. Whaddya say?"

"It's temptin'. How 'bout you gimme five minutes, I wanna think of the best possible way to tell you to go to hell."

"Now Sally, don't let yer anger cloud your judgement here! Ya got one minute to cool them pretty titties of yers before we come down on you and everyone sorry 'nough to be inside!"

Sally leaned her head back against the wall and released the pressure in her lungs.

"That's Vic Van Patten out there," said Wind.

"Leader of the Van Patten Boys," added Charlie.

"Yep."

"THAT'S who killed your husband?" Charlie asked.

"Yep." Sally knew this conversation was only ending one way; the shame in her heart burned hot, and yet there was so much relief that this was finally over.

"Your husband's name was Sam," said Wind, suddenly short of breath. "Vic allegedly shot the leader of his old gang, Slippery Sam Barton, over a leadership dispute. Sam had a wife he partnered with who disappeared shortly after."

Sally shook her head. "Hard to call it 'leadership' when Sam 'n I was walkin' away; to me, he just wanted more money."

"Oh my Lord," said Charlie, gobsmacked at what was happening. Wind covered her mouth in shock.

"Say it 'n get it over with," said Sally.

"Holy shit," Wind exclaimed, mouth still covered, "you're Black Sally Barton!"

The window of the saloon shattered, and a three-stick cluster of dynamite landed at Sally's feet, the lit fuse only a couple of inches long. She, Wind, and Charlie looked at each other before she reflexively screamed "BEHIND THE BAR GO" and they launched forward, the three of them dashing to the bar and leaping over before the dynamite exploded with a thick and horrible blast that deleted half the lower facade of the saloon.

Sound, for a few moments, ceased to exist beyond the low hum from within their own heads. Sally looked to her friends; Charlie was checking his pistols, somehow ignoring the feelings of betrayal he was entitled to and preparing for war. Wind was sitting, in thought, preparing for something else.

"Salllllllyyyyyyy..." As their ears recovered, Vic's slimy voice oozed through the sounds of the building settling into its new makeup, wood and dust continuing to scatter and settle. "C'mon out, girl. Just wanna talk. Your minute wasn't up yet."

"I'm going," said Wind, starting to stand up and then pushed back down by Sally.

"Don't you dare," seethed Sally.

"Sally, there's only one way out of this," Wind started to plead. "If I—"

"Two ways," Charlie corrected without even flinching, "with the three of us either collecting a huge bounty or getting laid out in Hoffstead's coffins. You're not going anywhere."

"I don't wanna lose you," said Sally. "But I ain't losin' you to that trash, so don't you even think it! I'll knock your ass out if I have to!"

"SALLLLYYYYYY," insisted Vic, "I got plenty more dynamite where that came from, girl!"

Sally began to pick herself up.

"Uh-uh-uh!" Vic cut her off. "Guns on the bar, all y'all."

Sally did as told; Wind and Charlie followed her lead. She stood, hands in the air, and turned.

Vic hadn't changed a bit from the day she last saw him; sharp serpentine eyes, greasy black hair, short stature, even dressed in the same dark shirt and pants he was wearing on that day. It was like he stepped right out of her memory. "Damn, Sally," he said, "you're lookin' good."

"That's funny," said Sally, "I was 'bout to say you look like shit." Vic was in the saloon proper. The four others were outside, three of them with pistols drawn, the other one with another bundle of dynamite in his raised hand, a match in the other. "I think it's obvious I ain't interested in a damn thing you gotta say, Vic, so I don't see why we're havin' this conversation."

"Just wanted to get a look at you is all," said Vic. "To express my regret that things didn't work out differently between me an' Sam. To tell you...we don't have to fight. I mean, you know I never held it against you, right? Hell, I didn't even chase after ya when you ran. Our hideout's only a two day ride from here; it wouldn't 've been so hard."

"I s'pose I 'preciate that," said Sally.

"And you knew I operated in these parts, even if I never touched this town. You ain't no stranger to killin'. You tellin' me you never thought about saddlin' up in these five years?"

"That's 'cause I wanted it over, Vic."

"'Cause you knew I was right!"

"'CAUSE I DIDN'T CARE!" Sally screamed. "I lost my HEART that day! That's what you took from me, for what? So you could spend a little more coin? So you could feel like more'va man? Well, that's what you got, and it wasn't enough, was it? Just like killin' you wasn't gonna be enough. I didn't leave you alone because I agreed with you, I left you alone because you weren't worth the trouble! You an' Clem, you two were always gonna get stupider than you knew how to handle, and you finally went 'n tried to use dynamite against a bonafide sharpshooter—" Before anybody knew what was happening, Sally's Winchester was back in her hands, pointing at the bright red target Dynamite Guy was holding up, and with a pull of her trigger another powerful explosion had rocked the town of Grant's Hope.

Dynamite Guy was just gone, a red smear in the dirt where he once stood. The man next to him was blown away with enough force to render his body into pieces, while the other two were thrown considerably less further. Vic was blown forward as well, ragdolling against the bar with an audible crack of his ribs before falling back to the ground. Wind and Charlie vaulted over the bar before any survivors could recover, guns reclaimed, and ran outside to clean up. For her part, Sally took her time, walking out in front of her bar the old fashioned way, her carbine at the ready.

She said, "You walked into the wrong goddamn saloon, Vic."

Vic was torn up, struggling to get back on his feet, but seemed to know the futility of it when he heard the click-clack of the carbine's lever. "I really just wanted to be treated fair," he said.

"Lemme tell you 'bout fair," said Sally, right before she blew a hole in Vic's back that scattered his viscera across the floorboards. With a groan, he fell back to the ground.

She thought she'd feel nothing.

Instead she felt relief. There was sadness over just how little was changed, but there was a finality to the act, a closing of a circle. It was a feeling she'd been chasing all her life.

If only she could have felt it while keeping what she had.

She turned away. Wind and Charlie were walking toward her; as stern as her eyes were, there was a little smile on Wind's face, almost as if she couldn't help but find all of this a bit funny. If she did, Sally couldn't have blamed her, so she smiled back, and for a moment, she thought everything might somehow turn out all right.

Then the smile fell open into a gasp.

Charlie pulled his gun. Wind dashed toward her. Sally turned around. Gun.

Two shots rang out, and Vic was down for good. Wind stepped between the two rivals, too late to make a difference. She grabbed Sally's shoulders; there was a horror in the native's eyes that she never thought she'd see.

Sally looked down and saw the gushing wound in her own belly.

She looked back up at Wind. "Huh," the blonde said. "Thought that would hurt more." She felt her legs give out.

Wind yelled "Sally NO" and everything went dark.

VIII. - In Peace

It got a bit fuzzy from there.

She heard snippets of speech and sound that didn't much make sense if they were all said in the same moment. A few specific phrases stood out. "Missed the important bits" sounded good. "Might be infected" sounded bad. She thought she could hear Wind yelling. She thought she felt a pressure on her hand and the sound of Charlie weeping. She didn't know how many more things she'd be aware of.

At one point she saw an all-over glow, instead of the usual blackness. She felt heat and wind on her skin, and she heard furious, unceasing galloping that would fade in and out, in and out.

And then she was in her bed. Except it wasn't really her bed. She didn't feel hungry, like she usually did when she woke. She felt no inertia as she moved; it was more like she was sliding everywhere.

The saloon. Shit. She was supposed to open up.

Her customers were already there, six of them including Merrill, waiting at the bar for some goddamn service. She remembered them well, right down to the holes she made in their heads, or their chest, one poor bastard had it in his throat. But she never knew their names save for Merrill, and they weren't about to tell her. They wanted their whiskey and they wanted it now.

She laid out the glasses and poured them all in a row. Some drank fast, some drank slow. Whenever they finished, they growled and yelled until she was able to pour them more. When the bottle ran dry, she had to go into the back and get another one, and she'd be gone so long that their yelling and commotion would scratch itself into whatever passed for her mind in this place.

It was on one such trip that she started hearing the song. Faint, wordless, but beautiful, flowing like water into her soul, nourishing it, warming her all over. With the fresh bottle in hand, she walked outside and asked if anybody knew what that music was. They didn't seem to know or care, they just wanted their booze.

But that voice, she said. If they could just be quiet for a second.