Like a ghastly mirage, through the haze, the cowboys perched atop a slight incline, slumped back in their saddles. I didn’t have time to battle robbers—I must race to the land office before anyone else. After such a fire, they’d expect me to be weak.
But fire was a cleansing, an uncovered hope. I felt remade. Who knew what I was capable of after such an attack?
A grin cracked across my face—brittle, dark, dangerous.
Chapter Five
Through the cloud of dust and ember, the cowboys charged across the field. The butt of my rifle rested on my shoulder, the barrel trained bullseye on one rider. It wasn’t the Lawman. The robber was gaunt, eyes cruel, skin taut across cheekbones, a garish red bandanna tugged up over his mouth. Fellers thought the colorful handkerchiefs added flourish. I thought of blood.
A pulse of rage banged in my palm, and my finger tremored on the trigger. I wanted to shoot. I wiped sweat from my brow with my forearm, smearing layers of gritty charcoal. I didn’t know what other horrors they’d stoop to—but no one was taking this land from me. I steadied my rifle, widened my stance. But, damnation, I couldn’t just pick them off. If I killed them, if I was convicted of any crime, I couldn’t stake claim.
The other cowboy was that spiraling, wayward sort, as if his veins pumped whiskey instead of blood. His clothes rumpled, posture languid, expression carefree, as if he couldn’t even care that he’d just attempted murder. They were close enough. I tipped my rifle skyward, fired a warning shot. I opened the breech and loaded another shell, then focused my Winchester on Red Bandanna. His nostrils flared, but he pulled up on his reins.
“You sons of bitches burn my land?” I hollered.
“Nah,” came a graveled voice. He cantered closer and yanked down his bandanna, spit out some tobacco. “We want this claim.”
“Get off my land.”
“Now, now,” said the drunk, “we just wanna chat.”
I worked the lever on my rifle, chambering the round.
Their horses’ flanks quivered; streaks of sweat dripped between the dust. Bandanna swung off his stallion, and before I could decide whether to shoot, I heard a notch. Well, damn.
“Gots ya down my barrel,” the drunk drawled. “I’m a fair shot.”
I’d been so focused on Bandanna, I’d forgotten to watch the other. If I picked off Bandanna, the drunk would shoot me.
“Sugar, just get gone.” Bandanna sauntered closer. “You obviously can’t survive uncivilized territory. Leave before the situation gets nasty.”
“Gets nasty?You all-fired burnt my land.” On my gun, my palms were slick. “I will shoot.”
“Call it off, bitch. You know you’re beat.”
I swallowed smoke, my hands shook.
Bandanna darted forward and grabbed me. I jerked back, threw a hook. He yanked my arm, knocked my rifle away.
“No one’s taught you how to be a woman yet?” His breath was damp and acrid, like spoiled potatoes. “You bend.”
Horror smeared in my gut. This man was everything reprehensible about the frontier.
Clamping my arms, he yanked my revolver from my holster, tossed my gun away. I elbowed his gut, stomped his boots. But he shoved me to the ground, the earth smoldering with ashes. His body pressed over mine—I spit, kneed him. I smelt the burnt, the hollow, the ripeness of endings. His hands were everywhere. Bile squeezed up my throat. I couldn’t get free, couldn’t grab my push dagger from my boot. I slammed my head against his chin. A punch cracked across my face.
The drunk laughed. He’d unbuckled his pants. I gagged. Humanity was an awful, all-nature tragedy. My hands were crammed atop my belly. I edged my fingers toward my skirt pocket. The cowboy pulled down his britches, tugged at my skirts, the bluebonnet-dotted linsey-woolsey tangling between my legs. “Dratted riding skirts,” he muttered.
I unfolded the spice packet, slipped my fingers inside.
His palm spread across my face and shoved my skull into the ground. As he pulled back, to get at my waistband, his vapid sneer showed between his sprawled fingers. I yanked out my hand and gouged cayenne pepper into his eyeballs, smothering the spice.
He yowled and fell backward.
I yanked his Peacemaker from his holster, shot the drunk clean between the brows. Bandanna slumped off me, clawing at his eyes. I cocked the hammer, pressed the pistol to his rib cage, and pulled the trigger, the gun smacking back against my chest.
He shuddered forward—the horrid weight of his body toppled onto mine. His blood soaked me. Something like a sob scattered through my body, oozed beyond my throat. I couldn’t breathe. I tried to yank my legs free, press out from under him. My head slumped back against the earth; hot tears seared my eyes. I could do this. I shoved him off with a grunt and scrambled back, away from his body.
I pressed my hand to my mouth, felt the stickiness of blood. I’d killed. I stood and walked to the drunk, my steps slow and surreal, my leather boots somehow shiny against the dull coal of the land. The horses stamped and whinnied, antsy from the gunshots and the still-scorching ground. The white stripe down a thoroughbred’s trembling nose was flecked with ashes, his nostrils puffing. The drunk had tumbled down a mound, his face smashed into soot. I kicked him over. His face was slack and numb. Dead.
