Ridgewater Western

 

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The town of Ridgewater didn’t believe in law anymore.

Not since the gallows snapped in the wind with no one left brave enough to use them.

When the rider came out of the west, even the outlaws lining the boardwalks felt it—like a pressure change before a storm. Her horse was scarred and mean, one eye clouded, the other sharp as a blade. The woman riding it matched him step for step.

Sable Crowe.

That was the name that killed conversations mid-breath.

Her fiery red hair was tied back tight, streaked with dust and dried blood, and her icy blue eyes never blinked—never softened. Men had begged those eyes for mercy before. None had found it. A long coat hung from her shoulders, patched and torn, hiding enough steel to start a war. The grips of her revolvers were worn smooth from use, not show.

She stopped in the middle of the street and dismounted slow, deliberate. The sound of her boots hitting the dirt carried farther than any gunshot.

A man on a nearby porch spat nervously. “Hell,” he muttered. “That’s Crowe.”

Sable reached up and dragged her thumb across her throat—checking an old scar, deep and ugly. Then she spoke, voice low and flat, meant for everyone to hear.

“Anybody wearing the Black Mesa mark has one minute to leave this town.”

No anger. No shouting.

Just a promise.

The wind howled through Ridgewater. Somewhere, a chair scraped. Somewhere else, a hand hovered too close to a gun.

Sable’s fingers twitched.

She smiled—finally—but it was cold, sharp, and cruel.

“One minute,” she repeated.

And the countdown began.

    Tim. Not Timmy. Certainly not Timothy. Just Tim. Thats what everyone called him. A simple name for a simple man. He traveled hundreds.of miles through a forsaken desert to try and irk out a halfway decent life.

    All he wanted was a simple homestead, a patch of land he could call his own. But this land was unforgiving. Five years he's been here, and all he had to show for it was a few loose coins, an old rifle, and Riley.

    He set another few spikes up and picked up his hammer. This was hard work, especially under a blazing sun, but it was enough for now. He swung his hammer, driving the spikes in one after another. Thats enough for the day. He had to wait for another shipment of rails anyway. Time to head home.

    He gave a loud, sharp whistle. "Riley! C'mon girl! Let's get home!"

The Black Mesa aren’t just an outlaw gang.

They’re an empire.

They run the trade routes through the badlands, control the rail stops, own half the sheriffs west of the river, and bury anyone who won’t bend. Their mark—a black triangle carved or burned into flesh—is a promise: you belong to us, or you die.

They don’t raid towns.

They consume them.

And once, long ago, Sable Crowe was theirs.

They took her in young. Taught her to shoot. Taught her to kill. Used her as an enforcer—sent her where mercy was a liability. She was one of their best. Maybe the best they ever had.

Until the night they crossed a line even she couldn’t live with.

She left them in blood and fire.

Now the Black Mesa wants her dead—not because she’s dangerous, but because she knows their routes, their names, their secrets. And because letting Sable Crowe live reminds the world that the Black Mesa can bleed.

And Sable?

She intends to finish what she started

 

 

The minute was nearly gone.
Boots creaked on porches. A shutter slammed. Someone prayed under their breath. Sable Crowe stood dead still in the center of Ridgewater, one hand loose at her side, the other brushing the grip of her revolver like a lover she trusted more than God.
No one moved.
Then a man tried to run.
He bolted from the saloon—Black Mesa brand burned into his neck, half-hidden by his collar. Sable didn’t chase. She didn’t hurry. She simply drew.
The gunshot cracked the evening open.
The man hit the dirt before his second step, blood darkening the dust. Sable walked past him, stepped over his body, and fired again—clean, final—just to make sure the message stuck.
She looked up at the gathered faces.
“Minute’s up.”
Chaos followed. Guns came out. Windows shattered. Sable moved like she’d rehearsed this her whole life—because she had. Two men dropped before they even cleared leather. Another screamed when she put a bullet through his hand and left him alive on purpose.
When the smoke settled, Ridgewater was quiet again.
Sable wiped her revolver on her coat and glanced toward the hills beyond town—where the land rose black and sharp against the sky.
“Tell your bosses,” she said to the wounded man clutching his arm, “I’m coming.”

 

 

   Tim walked along the rails back towards Ridgewater, wiping the dust and sweat from his brow.  Riley walked along beside him, her ears perked up, listening.

   "Whatcha listen for girl? Ain't much for critters out here. C'mon, lets get some supper back home."

    Then Tim heard it, the gunshots. He hadn't heard the first, but now he heard them. One after another. He paused and held his hand down, signaling Riley to stop.

    "Hold on girl. Sounds like them Mesa fellers are causin a ruckus. Best we just sit a spell."

    He sat down on the rail and tossled Riley's fur a bit.

    "Don't you worry none, they'll settle themselves soon enough. We don't want no trouble do we girl?"

    He set his hammer amd rifle down beside him and dug into his pocket.

   "We'll just have to play a little ditty while we wait huh?"

   He pulled his old harmonica out and started playing a lively tune, Riley joining in for the harmony.

Sable heard the harmonica before she saw him.

It didn’t belong out here—too gentle, too stubborn. A tune meant for warm kitchens and bad coffee, not gun smoke and settling dust. It drifted down the rails like it had every right to exist, and that alone put her hand near her gun.

Then the dog howled.

Sable crested the rise just enough to see him sitting on the rail—broad-shouldered, dust-caked, not hiding, not running. A rifle rested near his boots. A hammer lay beside it. Rail man, by the look of him. The dog sat close, eyes sharp, body tense but loyal.

He wasn’t Mesa.

Sable knew Mesa men the way you know a sickness—by smell, by posture, by the way their hands never stopped touching steel. This man had callused hands, not greedy ones.

She rode closer. Slow. Let him see her coming.

He stopped playing when he saw her. Good. Smart enough to listen.

The dog rose first. Protective. Sable respected that.

He didn’t reach for his rifle.

That told her more than his face ever could.

“You headed into town?” she asked, already knowing the answer didn’t matter.

He spoke plain. Honest. No tremor. No bravado.

Rail men were usually ghosts—here today, gone tomorrow—but this one sat like he belonged where he was. Like the land hadn’t chased him off yet.

She clocked everything: the way he kept his body between her and the dog without making a show of it, the way his eyes flicked once—just once—toward the smoke over Ridgewater. He knew what the Black Mesa were. He’d heard of her too. Everyone had, whether they admitted it or not.

She told him her name.

Watched his face carefully.

No fear. Just a tightening around the eyes. Recognition without worship.

Interesting.

When the hoofbeats came—Mesa riders, riding hard and sloppy—Sable felt the familiar pull in her chest. The old reflex. Kill fast. Leave nothing standing.

She glanced at the rail man again.

He stood. Picked up his rifle. Didn’t ask permission. Didn’t ask questions.

Most men begged at this point. Some ran. The smart ones lied.

He sighed.

That did it.

Sable turned fully toward the sound, coat shifting, guns ready.

“They’re not after you,” she said, almost kindly. “Yet.”

He answered like someone who’d already made peace with worse odds than these.

Maybe he’d die here. Most people did when their paths crossed hers.

Or maybe—

Maybe the Black Mesa had just made another mistake.

Either way, she decided, the rail man and his dog were no longer bystanders.

They were involved.

And Sable Crowe never involved people by accident.

    Sable Crowe. Wanted, dead or alive. Three hundred dollar reward. Three hundred! Tim didnt want trouble, and trouble came walking with a whole heap more right behind it.

   "Knew i ought to have left soon as them Mesa boys showed." Tim said, mostly to himself and Riley but loud enough that Sable surely heard.

    The Black Mesa gang caused trouble, sure, but Tim figured if he kept his head down, they'd move on once the town had no more to offer and he could keep on as he had been. Now, they were riding in and he was standing next to Sable Crowe. They'd shoot him down before he could put his hands jn the air.

    "Well miss Crowe, I reckon there ain't nothin but a standoff for us now. Ain't no place to hide round these parts 'cept the town. And we cain't rightly get there now."

    Tim pulled his rifle up. This wasn't some proper rifle a milita man would have, it was meant for hunting. He looked to the town, where the riders were coming from. Six of them. Six mounted, armed men against the two of them, and Tim would only get one shot, reloading this old thing would take twenty seconds he wouldn't have.

     The homestead was a fools dream anyway. He would have worked himself to death before he could afford a patch of land, even in this desert. 

    "Riley, go on home girl. Go on, git!"

Sable didn’t look at the wanted price.

Three hundred dollars was nothing. Pocket money for the Black Mesa. Enough to make desperate men stupid—but not enough to change how this ended.

 

She watched Tim instead.

 

The way his shoulders set when he raised that hunting rifle. The way he counted riders without moving his lips. Six. He’d already accepted the math. Most men didn’t. Most men begged the numbers to lie.

 

When he told the dog to run, something old and sharp twisted in Sable’s chest.

 

Don’t, she thought—but she didn’t say it yet.

 

The Mesa riders crested the rise in a loose V, dust boiling up around their horses. Sloppy formation. Confident. One of them laughed when he saw her. Another lifted his rifle early, eager.

 

They knew her.

 

They always did.

 

Sable stepped half a pace forward, just enough to put herself between Tim and the riders. She didn’t look back when she spoke.

 

“She won’t go,” Sable said. Calm. Certain. “Mesa shoots dogs for sport. She knows that.”

 

Riley stayed.

 

Good dog.

 

Sable rolled her shoulders, feeling the familiar weight of steel settle her spine. She spoke again, low, meant only for Tim.

 

“You get one shot,” she said. “Don’t waste it. Take the man on the far left—the one riding like he thinks he’s immortal. He’s got a repeater. That’s the real threat.”

 

She finally glanced at him then. Really looked.

 

“You didn’t want trouble,” she said. “Neither did I, once.”

 

The riders slowed, spreading out. Their leader—a thick-necked bastard with the Mesa triangle carved fresh and ugly into his cheek—raised a hand.

 

“Sable Crowe!” he called. “Lay down your guns. Ain’t no need for this to get bloody.”

 

Sable smiled.

 

It was not a nice smile.

 

“You rode six men for one woman,” she called back. “That tells me you’re already afraid.”

 

The leader’s grin faltered. Just a flicker.

 

That was all she needed.

 

Sable moved first.

 

Her gun cleared leather like it had been waiting its whole life for this moment. She didn’t aim for center mass—not yet. She shot the leader’s horse. The animal went down screaming, throwing him hard into the dirt.

 

Chaos bloomed.

 

Tim fired.

 

The far-left rider jerked backward, off his saddle, repeater slipping from dead fingers. Good shot. Damn good.

 

Sable was already moving, firing again. One rider dropped. Another spun, clutching his throat. She vaulted onto her horse in one fluid motion, coat snapping behind her like a torn flag.

 

She leaned low in the saddle and shouted back at Tim through the smoke.

 

“Reload and move for the rocks!”

Then, quieter, because some truths deserve to be heard:

“If you live through this, rail man—nothing stays the same.”

 

Riley barked, sharp and fearless.

 

Sable rode straight at the Mesa line, guns blazing, because fear was a weapon—and she had always known how to use it.

 

And behind her, Tim was no longer a man waiting for trouble to pass.

 

He was in it.

 

Right where the Black Mesa never wanted him to be.

    Tim took aim at the left riders, just like he was told. Deep breath in, half a breath out, and squeezed the trigger. The man fell back off his horse, dead. Tim had never killed a man before, never wanted to. But he had seen what these Black Mesa men were willing to do, and didn't have much choice in the matter.

    Tim.hunched low and broke for the rocks, a few bullets kicking up dirt around him as he dove behind them. He pulled out his powder and started to reload his rifle as Riley ran up next to him and nudged his boot.

    "Damn willful ain't ya. I told you to go on home. Ain't no reason we both ought to die here girl."

   He took a second he didn't really have to rub her head before going back to reloading. 

    "Riley,. Sit."

   This time she listened. Riley sat down next to Tim, alert and ready.

    "Good girl Riley. Now stay."

    Tim finished reloading his rifle. He wasn't sure what kind of hell had broken loose while he was hiding behind those rocks like a good for nothing, so he poked his head around the rocks to survey the situation.

     "I reckon that Miss Crowe is fixin to put us all in a pine suit girl. You best stay till I holler ya hear?"

     And with that Tim swung his rifle up and stepped out, taking aim at another rider. He wasn't a soldier, or a lawman. And he certainly never wanted to be some damnable outlaw. But he was a hunter, he could handle this old rifle well enough.

    Another breath in, half a breath out, and he squeezed the trigger.

Sable heard Tim’s second shot even over the thunder of hooves and gunfire.

She knew the sound of a clean hit.

She wheeled her horse hard, dust stinging her eyes, coat snapping like a warning flag, and caught sight of him stepping out from the rocks—rifle steady, posture wrong for a killer but right for a man who meant what he was doing.

Damn it, she thought—not angry. Impressed. Worried.

The rider he aimed at was already swinging his repeater toward the rocks. Mesa didn’t forgive mistakes. They punished them loud.

Tim fired.

The bullet caught the rider high in the chest. Not instant. The man stayed in the saddle long enough to look surprised, then slid off like he’d simply forgotten how to sit a horse.

Four left.

Sable didn’t waste the opening.

She drove her heels in and cut straight across the field, riding into their fear instead of away from it. One Mesa bastard panicked and fired wild—hit nothing but air. She put him down without slowing, two shots, precise, merciless.

She didn’t feel it when she killed anymore. Not like she once had. Now it was just math and motion and keeping the dead from becoming a problem later.

But Tim—

Tim was different.

She clocked how he moved. Careful. Deliberate. No joy in it. No hunger. Just resolve wrapped around a shaking truth: If I don’t do this, we die.

She respected that more than she respected most men.

A bullet snapped past her ear. She ducked low, leaned out of the saddle, and fired upward. Another Mesa rider toppled, dragged halfway before his foot caught and snapped loose.

Three down. One wounded. One still riding hard.

The last one—young, scared, eyes darting—locked onto Tim.

Sable saw it a heartbeat before it happened.

“No,” she growled, more to herself than the world.

She turned her horse and spurred straight between them, putting herself in the line without thinking. The Mesa rider fired. The shot tore through her coat, burned her arm, hot and sharp, but she stayed upright.

She answered with a shot that ended him.

Silence rushed in fast, sudden and heavy, broken only by the injured horse screaming somewhere behind her.

Sable reined in hard, chest rising and falling, ears ringing. She scanned the field once—twice—until she was sure.

Then she looked to the rocks.

Tim stood there, rifle smoking, dog still planted where he’d told her to stay. He hadn’t run. Hadn’t frozen. Hadn’t missed when it counted.

Sable rode toward him slower now, adrenaline bleeding off, pain creeping in where the bullet had kissed her arm.

She swung down from the saddle a few paces away and looked him over like she was counting parts that might be missing.

“You still breathin’?” she asked.

Not soft. Not gentle.

But real.

Her eyes flicked to Riley, then back to Tim.

“You should’ve been dead twice over,” Sable said. “Mesa don’t usually leave witnesses.”

She holstered one gun and tore a strip from her sleeve, wrapping her arm tight without complaint.

Then she met his eyes—really met them this time.

“You didn’t run,” she said. “That makes you dangerous now.”

Not a threat.

A fact.

Behind her, smoke still rose from Ridgewater, and the Black Mesa lay scattered in the dirt. Ahead of them, there was no going back to rails and harmonicas and pretending trouble belonged to other people.

Sable Crowe exhaled slowly.

“You just chose a side, rail man,” she said.
“And they won’t ever let you forget it.”

Sable let the silence sit between them a moment, thick as smoke.

She crouched first—not toward Tim, but toward the dog.

Riley hadn’t moved. Still sitting. Still watching. Still ready to throw herself into hell if Tim so much as breathed wrong. Her ribs moved fast, eyes bright, dust clinging to her muzzle.

Sable softened without meaning to.

“Well I’ll be damned,” she murmured, lowering herself slowly so she wouldn’t startle her. “You stayed. Good girl.”

She held out two fingers, palm down, letting Riley choose. When the dog leaned forward, just a little, Sable’s throat tightened.

“Reminds me of someone,” she said quietly, almost to herself. “Had a mutt once. Mean as sin to anyone who wasn’t me. Followed me through fire like it was nothin’.”

She scratched gently behind Riley’s ear, right where dogs loved it. Riley leaned into it before she could stop herself.

“Lost him to men who thought kindness was weakness,” Sable went on. Her voice didn’t shake, but it went thinner. “Mesa men, too. Figures.”

She stood again, slower this time, and looked back at Tim—really looked. The hunter with blood on his hands and no taste for it.

“You always talk to her like that?” she asked. “Like she understands every word?”

She gestured toward the bodies scattered in the dirt, the ruined quiet.

“You know this ain’t over, right?”
“You got somewhere safe to take her?”
“You got anyone waitin’ on you who’s gonna wonder why you didn’t come home?”

Sable shifted her weight, wincing just a touch as the pain in her arm caught up.

“Or were you plannin’ on disappearin’ along them rails forever?”
“Were you ever really free out there?”

Her eyes flicked back to Riley, then softened again.

“You ever think about what happens to her if you don’t make it?”
“You trust anyone else to keep her safe?”

She exhaled, slow, controlled.

“Black Mesa won’t let this go,” she said. “Not after today. Not after you put two of theirs in the dirt.”
“So what’s your play now, rail man?”
“Do you go back to pretendin’ this was just bad luck?”
“Or do you keep walkin’ forward, even when it costs you more than you planned to pay?”

Sable reached down once more and gave Riley a final, gentle scratch under the chin.

“Whatever you choose,” she said quietly, eyes lifting back to Tim, “don’t make it get her killed.”

Then she straightened, the wind tugging at her coat, the road ahead wide open and cruel.

“Well?” she asked, not pushing, not demanding.
“What happens next?”

 

    "I suppose I'm breathin for the moment. But I'm startin to wonder for how long." Tim said to Sable. "I mean no disrespect Miss Crowe, but why in tarnation would you go and bring them mesa boys out here? These tracks ain't goin nowhere, least not yet."

    Tim saw the wound on her shoulder, not deep, just a scratch really.  But she got it jumping into the line of fire.

    "Makes a man wonder how you're still breathin yourself, damn fool thing you done out there."

    Tim pulled out a dusty old handkerchief and handed it to Sable to fix up her shoulder a bit.

     "Reckon there weren't a choice for me to make, mam. I know how them Mesa boys are, and once they saw me next to the infamous Sable Crowe, figured they weren't gonna ask too much, just start a shootin."

    Tim watched Riley lean in for a pet from Sable as he listened to her story.

    "Well, ol' Riley here ain't got a mean bone to her. 'Bout the friendliest old dog you'll come across I reckon. Smart too. I reckon she knows what I'm sayin 'for I even say it."

    Then Sable brought him back to the reality of what just happened. Six gang members lay dead in the dust. Ridgewater looked like it was about to go up in flames. No, this wasn't over, and Tim was in the thick of it now.

    "Keep Riley safe? HA! You don't know ol' Riley. I'm the one out here barley stayin above the snakes. Found Riley 'bout two years back, wanderin the desert like nothin. No, Riley's gonna be round longer than me I reckon."

    Tim scratched his head, wondering what he would do, COULD do next.

    "Don't rightly know miss. Ain't no way or how I figured I'd be in this sorta situation. Reckon I best head out somewhere though."

Sable took the handkerchief without ceremony—but she didn’t miss the way his hand lingered just long enough to make sure she was steady.

 

“Don’t apologize,” she said, pressing the cloth to her shoulder. “I’ve been called worse things than damn fool, and most of ‘em were earned.”

 

She tied the knot one-handed, teeth pulling it tight, then glanced back toward Ridgewater. Smoke was thickening now, curling ugly and black. A town on the edge of deciding what kind of monster it wanted to be.

 

“You think I brought Mesa here on purpose?” she asked, not sharp, not offended—just curious. “You think I like lead flyin’ past my head?”

 

She snorted softly. “Mesa was comin’ whether I showed my face or not. They always circle towns like this—dry, desperate, easy to squeeze. I just made ‘em hurry.”

 

Riley nudged her knee again, bold as daylight.

 

Sable crouched this time without thinking, resting her good hand on the dog’s chest. Felt the heartbeat there—fast, strong, stubborn.

 

“Friendly ones are the dangerous kind,” she murmured. “They don’t quit.”

 

Her thumb brushed along Riley’s jaw, gentle, familiar. Too familiar.

 

“I used to say the same things you do,” Sable said, eyes distant for a beat. “That my boy’d outlive me. Figured if the world wanted me bad enough, it’d take me and leave him be.”

 

She swallowed.

 

“World don’t work like that.”

 

She looked back up at Tim.

 

“You ever notice how trouble don’t care if you consent to it?”

“You ever try outrunnin’ somethin’ that already knows your name?”

“You think headin’ ‘somewhere’ is the same as havin’ a plan?”

 

She stood, dusting off her knees, pain flaring just enough to remind her she was still alive.

 

“You walk away now, Mesa’ll follow the rails,” she said. “You hole up somewhere, they’ll smoke you out. You go back to the town, they’ll burn it down just to make a point.”

 

Her gaze hardened—not cruel, just honest.

 

“You stay alone, you die tired.”

“You stay still, you die louder.”

 

She glanced down at Riley again, voice softening.

 

“And she won’t leave you. You know that, right?”

“So wherever you go, she goes.”

“And wherever you go now… Mesa will try to make sure it’s your last stop.”

 

Sable shifted her coat, the revolvers settling into place like they belonged there—and they did.

 

“I ain’t sayin’ follow me,” she said. “I don’t offer that lightly.”

“But I am askin’—what do you want more right now?”

“To survive?”

“Or to keep somethin’ worth survivin’ for?”

 

The wind carried the crackle of distant flames from Ridgewater.

 

Sable met Tim’s eyes and waited.

 

Not pushing.

 

Just letting the road open up in front of him.

Anna's place was far enough out of Ridgewater that the town's drama did not reach her doorstep. That's why she chose to settle here 2 years ago. Her cabin nestled against the mountain slope. Clean, clear mountain stream running just to the west of her humble abode. Dave, her late mate, was always amazed that the stream never ran dry nor froze over. He wanted to call their "homestead" Clearwater, for obvious reasons. Anna didn't even consider it and registered their claim, Torn. Simple and with a very deep meaning only known to her. Before Dave left her taking almost all her savings, he had tried in vain to learn why she named it Torn.

 

The thought of him unsettled her this afternoon more than usual. She had just returned riding from hunting 3 scrub rabbits. She deliberately forced the dark thoughts out of her head. There was much to do. Jock, her huge Mustang, had to be brushed, fed  and stabled first. Then a quick wash of her sweaty body followed by preparing dinner. For herself. 3 Scrubbies were too much, but the last one practically begged to be shot. A challenging shot into the sun over a distance of about 150 yards. She shot it through the head, as the 2 before him. The .44 caliber Winchester messes up the meat if shot anywhere else. Her love of weapons had made her a master shot. Keeping her well fed all by herself.

 

After she cleaned herself, she skinned and cleaned the scrubbies. She strolled to her cabin humming on old childhood song. Then started making a fire in the fireplace to cook a delicious rabbit stew. Fit for a queen, or even a king she smiled to herself.

 

While the stew was bubbling along nicely in the well used black pot, she sat down and started cleaning her Winchester repeater. She loved her weapons with a passion. They were not show pieces, they were tools. The Winchester was her general use rifle. Always close by to get to in an emergency. On her hip she carried a .44 colt revolver. Having both as .44 caliber was very convenient. She slipped the side arm out of its worn holster and wiped it clean before returning it to the holster. Only when she settles for the night, will the holster be hung on a peg next to her bed. Till then it remains a companion. By her side and ready to be drawn with astonishing speed. She sat back and took a sip of her strong black and bitter coffee. Maybe later she will watch the sunset across the stream, but for now she just rests at the huge kitchen table enjoying her peace.

 

 

   Tim listened, unreadable, emotionless, as Sable spoke to him. He remained silent until the questions came.

    "Well Miss Crowe, I ain't got no plan. How's a man s'posed to plan for somthin he never reckoned was comin? Sides, ain't no plan a mine gone the way I meant it to."

   He looked back to the town, then back to Sable, his eyes narrowed either from thought or from the low sun in his eyes.

    "We all gotta die some way, Miss Crowe. Ain't no runnin from that. Don't mean I intend to make it easy, mind you."

    Tim slapped his leg twice and Riley came running, jumping up and putting her paws on his leg as he rubbed her head.

    "Well Riley, what do you say girl? Time to move on outta here?"

    Tim pet her a few times and looked back to Sable

    "Ain't much keepin me tied down here. Ain't much round these parts neither. Few homesteads scattered here and there. Small town east a ways, smaller than Ridgewater. Known to be a hole in the wall for criminals, but last I heard tell them Mesa boys never made it that far out yet. Next city's about three days north ways, where this here track was fixin to go. Call it 'Ambrosia' or somthin like that. I reckon I'll head one way or the other."

Three Hundred and Fifty miles Nor'east of Ridgewater, a horse stepped softly into the lush prairie. The grass stood up past the knees of the animal, and an animal it was. No noble beast, just an old brown workhorse. It's name was Luke. Atop it was the same, just an animal. 

 

That animal was named Barney "Strange" Fitzackerly. He wore a wide straw hat stained with dirt. Below this he wore a face lined by the wind and a beard bleached by the sun. Past this, a chamois shirt and thin duck coat with a silver Marshal badge pinned to it. 

 

Hoof fell to Earth, and the distance decreased. He'd left the Marshal's office at St. Louis days, perhaps more than a week ago. Rumors of corrupt sheriffs and territory given over to outlaws always filtered back to the Law. When the waves of those stories broke on the bow of the Law, the Law called upon it's most difficult servants and told them to paddle upstream. Barney was just that, difficult. He liked things his way, he liked them Lawful, and he'd shown before a willingness to plant himself on that and sink with it. 

 

Hooves fell, and grass brushed past, blown one way by the constant wind, a dragged the other by Luke's hide. The horse's narrow chest glid through the yellow-green spires, and hoof fell with a splash into a shallow stream.

 

Barney leaned forward slowly, and seeing that mostly clear water move, approved. He swung himself off the horse, and clapped the scrawny beast on the neck. "Drink if ya's like. " He veritably croaked out. He fussed into a saddlebag, eventually pulling out a wicker wrapped bottle. He popped the cork and poured the old water on top of his hat. He refilled the bottle and took a few swigs as Luke noisily gulped alongside. 

 

With indifferent strides, Barney pushed through the water to the other side. Wasn't a thing different. Just more grass. Nothing to tell him he was going the right way except for his compass. He knew as he moved southwest the grass would dry up some, the land would get hillier. He'd cross vast expanse, village, mountains if need be. The Law required it. 

Sable listened the way she listened before a gunfight—still, alert, weighing every word like it might save or end a life.

 

When Tim finished, she didn’t answer right away.

 

She followed his gaze to the town, to the smoke clawing up into the sky, to the bodies cooling in the dirt. Then she looked back at him, really looked, like she was trying to decide what kind of man stood in front of her now.

 

“You’re right about one thing,” she said at last. “Ain’t a soul alive that outruns the end.”

 

She stepped closer—not crowding him, just closing the distance enough that the world felt smaller, more honest.

 

“But there’s a difference between dyin’ because it’s time,” she went on, “and dyin’ because you let someone else decide when.”

 

Riley pressed against Tim’s leg, tail thumping. Sable crouched again, slower this time, and let the dog sniff her hand before resting it on her head.

 

“You picked her up when you didn’t have to,” Sable said softly. “That tells me somethin’ about you.”

 

She scratched behind Riley’s ears, and for a moment her guard slipped—just a crack.

 

“I lost mine on a road not unlike this one,” she added. “Didn’t think it’d hurt worse than a bullet. I was wrong.”

 

She stood and brushed dust from her knees.

 

“East gets you criminals lookin’ for quiet,” she said. “North gets you laws lookin’ to pretend they still matter.”

“Both directions get you noticed.”

 

She tilted her head slightly, studying him.

 

“You ever been hunted before?”

“You ever had men look for you not because of what you did—but because of who you were seen standin’ next to?”

“You think Ambrosia’s big enough to lose yourself in… or just big enough to die anonymous?”

 

Sable turned her eyes west for a beat, toward land that looked empty but never was.

 

“I’ve got unfinished business,” she said plainly. “Mesa business.”

“And they’ll keep sendin’ men until one of us stops breathin’.”

 

She met his eyes again, steady.

 

“I ain’t askin’ you to swear to any cause.”

“Ain’t askin’ you to become somethin’ you don’t want to be.”

 

A pause.

 

“But I am askin’—do you walk alone because you choose to… or because it’s what you’ve always done?”

“And if you’re headin’ out anyway—does the road feel safer with company, or just heavier?”

 

Riley glanced up at Sable, then back to Tim, tail still moving like she’d already made up her mind.

 

Sable exhaled slowly.

 

“Whichever way you go,” she said, “Mesa’ll test you again.”

“So the real question ain’t east or north.”

 

Her voice was low now. Serious.

 

“Who do you want standin’ beside you when they do?”

   "Ain't been hunted by nobody. No way no how." 

    Tim looked from Riley back up to Sable.

    "Always somthin' lookin to put ya under though. If it Ain't a bullet it's the snakes, or the illness. Hell, sun itself'll put a man out of his misery if it finds a mind to."

    Tim thought for a moment about his options.

    "Reckon you might be right, too many eyes in Ambrosia. City man has just as much chance of squeelin' as an outlaw, if the pay is right, or the price of not squeelin'. Maybe I'll head out find that ol' hole in the wall, least for the time bein'."

    Tim pet Riley again, scratching under her chin.

    "Ain't traveled on my lonesome for two years mam. Had 'bout the best comp'ny man could ask for."

    Tim looked to the town again

   "Still a load of them mesa boys in town? Ain't nothin tying me there, but i ain't rightly supplied to go marchin' cross the desert, as I am. Best to get myself a mule, canteen or two, few rations and the like. Not much sense in lettin' the desert kill me while I'm runnin from outlaws."

    Tim looked back over to the bodies of the Mesa gang scattered in the dust.

    "I s'pose.... Ain't nothin more than a outlaw myself now. Far cry from what I ever thought...."

    Once Sable eased Tim's mind, telling him Mesa was cleared out if Ridgewater, for now, he started to make his way back, time to pack up a supply for another trek through the desert.

Arthur Bazchek had ushered the ladies upstairs with the help of Madam Arancia. The lady had taken her four wards upstairs and locked the doors while the rest of the patrons of the bar had cleared out. As soon as Arthur saw many of the men stand up and begin to strap on iron, he knew there would be trouble.

Choosing the city of Ridgewater was hardly an ideal choice, but little of the options between Dodge and San Francisco were. But there were clean streams nearby, plenty enough food, and a steady stream of travelers, enough to justify a bar and, over time, the services of Madam Arancia's ladies. Arthur took Arancia under his wing when she rolled into town off a wagon train. Her husband had died in an Indian raid and she had sold off the items she had as the train made their way across the plains. By the time she had reached Ridgewater, she had the clothes on her back and enough coin to pay for a room and some board. Arthur didn't judge when he learned Arancia took up the world's oldest profession. She was a nice enough lady and she took good care of her girls.

 

Ridgewater was turning into a right decent place before the Mesa's moved in. Once they did, things turned sour. Arthur started losing money left and right, given the Mesa's guns rarely wanted to pay. Likewise, Arancia and her girls faced more untoward advances than they had before, though Arthur's threat of a dry town and Arancia's threat of discontinuing future business kept the bandits civil in that regard.

The shooting was quick and brief. Arthur paused, waiting, but just as he was about to peek outside he heard another barrage of gunfire. A round or two bit into the woodwork of the building but the rounds had the common decency to avoid the few windows he had in the place. Once things were quiet, again, for a longer stretch, Arthur peeked outside. There stood Sable and Tim, peachy as plums, with dead Mesa's scattered around them like pins.

"Oh Lord in Heaven... I don't know whether this is a blessing or a curse." Arthur muttered as he watched the two, curious if they would simply flee or if they planned to make some sort of stand in Ridgewater itself.

Sable didn’t answer Tim right away.

 

She was already moving.

 

The smoke over Ridgewater had thinned, drifting instead of boiling. That told her enough. Panic had burned fast here. What remained would be watching, hiding, waiting to see who claimed the street when the dust finished settling.

 

She checked her revolver by feel.

 

“Stay close,” she said low. Not an order. A courtesy.

“And if Riley growls—listen.”

 

She walked into town.

 

Ridgewater felt like a breath held too long. Doors shut. Windows dark. Mesa bodies lay where they’d fallen, and Sable counted them again as she passed—once was never enough. Mesa liked to play dead. Mesa liked knives.

 

Saloon first.

 

She kicked the doors open hard, gun up, eyes sweeping. Chairs lay overturned, whiskey bled across the floor, and the air smelled of smoke and fear. No guns raised. No movement.

 

She stepped inside fully.

 

Arthur Bazchek stood near the stairwell, hands visible, posture rigid. Madam Arancia was there too, close to the stairs, her presence calm but watchful, eyes sharp despite the strain. The doors above them were shut tight.

 

Sable didn’t lower her gun—but she didn’t raise it either.

 

She cleared the bar, the back rooms, every shadow where a man could be pretending to be furniture. Nothing stirred. No Mesa marks. No breath where it shouldn’t be.

 

Satisfied, she moved back outside without a word.

 

Down the street she went. Alleys. Stables. Behind buildings where blood darkened the dirt and flies had already begun to gather. She checked every place a wounded man might be hiding to make his last mistake.

 

Tim followed where she signaled, rifle steady, face set. Riley stayed glued to him, ears twitching, nose working overtime.

 

Sable found a wounded horse and ended it clean. Found a Mesa bandanna caught on a fence post and burned it where it lay.

 

By the time she reached the far end of town, the truth had settled into her bones.

 

Mesa was gone.

 

Not retreating. Not waiting.

 

Broken—for now.

 

She stood still, listening—not for gunfire, but for what always followed it. The quiet creak of shutters opening. Footsteps testing the street. The low murmur of people realizing they were still alive.

 

Sable turned back toward Tim.

 

“It’s clean,” she said. “For now.”

 

She holstered one gun and let her eyes pass over the town again. Arthur and Madam Arancia were visible in the saloon doorway now—still silent, still watching. Others began to appear too. No cheering. No relief loud enough to trust. Just people measuring what tomorrow might cost.

 

Smart people.

 

Sable looked at Tim then—rail man, hunter, man who hadn’t planned on blood today—and at Riley, pressed against his leg like she was anchoring him to the earth.

 

“You see it now?” she said quietly.

“This is what comes after.”

Three hundred miles nor'east of Ridgewater, and the Marshal took aim. 

 

The worn bluing on the barrel of his old Mo. 1859 sharps reflected dim evening light as a prone Barney braced it against an upturned palm. His aperture centered itself on the brass front sight. Drop was always a consideration with the old girl, but it was a good problem to have. Good because a 475gr minie ball generally did the job. 

 

He pulled the first trigger roughly, a soft click rewarded him as the sear was set and the firing trigger went rigid. It now needed to move only a tiny fraction of an inch to fire. He pulled the rifle in the his shoulder, firm but never straining. Trigger in the middle of the pad of his index finger, he pulled straight back. 

 

A great thump shook the prairie, and smoke billowed. With reactions to fast for man, the antelope bounded, but was taken amidships by the heavy ball and thrown to the earth. It did not scream or shake, life was knocked from it. 

 

The Marshal pushed off the earth, and rose to his feet with a soft groan and a few cracks. There was no hurry now, the next few hours of his life would be carving pronghorn and building a smoking rack from whatever he could scrounge. 

 

"Luke!" He grunted out as he started towards his fallen prey, and the horse obligingly trudged over to him. 

 

Barney made his way to the fallen beast. He crossed himself at the sight of it. 

 

"Better luck next time brother." He said to the dead antelope. He'd never been sensitive about death before he'd been at Shiloh and Corinth, but afterwards, well, it was just always a shame. 

Anna put her rifle aside and got up to stir the bubbling stew. Adding some dried mushrooms from her last harvest, she pulled the big pot from the heat to simmer on the side. The aroma was terrific and made her realize how hungry she were. She picked up her rifle as she made her way outside to sit on the porch. Enjoying the afternoon cool air drifting in from the mountains.

 

She glanced over at the corral where Jock and her 2 pack horses were kept. Soon she would have to make a back country trip to offload some 'items'. Sitting on such valuable articles is not the brightest of ideas. Only 2 people were aware of what she bought with the bounty she collected on the wanted Shield brothers. A relative fortune that brought her. Not to mention the fun, she thought, smilling to herself. The notorious hired guns was too hot to handle for so many bounty hunters. Hard men turned away and the bounty just kept on growing. The brave ones that tried, was never heard of again. Legend had it that the brothers could spot a bounty hunter from a distance their Sharps rifles, did not miss.

 

Anna sighed and stood up. She started taking a walk down to the stream. Her Winchester resting comfortably in her hands.