In 1899, rumors in the saloons began to circulate about a notorious troublemaker resurfacing to wreak havoc once more. This dishonorable and wild gunslinger was related by blood to the infamous Black Belle.
News of this spread quickly from Valentine...
A day had passed since the gunfight in Valentine, and neither the gang nor Y/N had any desire to set foot in that town again. Dutch was already scheming a way out, rallying the crew to pack their bags, tents, and wagons. Y/N lingered among them, caught in a crossroads of indecision—should she ride on or stick around a bit longer? She sat at a rough-hewn table, methodically cleaning her revolver with a tattered, soaked rag she'd scavenged.
Lost in the task at hand, she failed to notice Micah lurking on the far side of the camp, his gaze sharp enough to cut through iron. He held up a wanted poster, the ink still fresh, and compared it to her visage. There it was: her name, her face, and a price on her head that would make a man salivate. He scowled at the thought of Dutch welcoming someone like her into the fold.
"Somebody they couldn't even catch, and they sure as hell painted an accurate portrait..." he muttered under his breath.
"What's eatin' at you, you nasty old owl hoot?" Sean's voice broke through, startling Micah from his brooding.
"Mind your tongue, you half-wit," Micah snapped back, taking a step away from Sean, irritation flashing in his eyes.
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Meanwhile, Y/N finished her work on the revolver, leaning forward on the table to inspect the marks etched into its surface. The table bore the scars of hard use, much like everyone else in camp. Lost in her thoughts, she hardly noticed the woman in the dress making her way towards her. Lifting her chin, Y/N regarded the newcomer, curious about her next move. The woman had stunning curls that framed her youthful, beautiful face.
She settled across from Y/N, but hesitated before speaking. With a sigh, Y/N extended her hand for a shake. The woman accepted, her smile warm and inviting. "I'm Mary-Beth. You're new around here."
"Y/N," she replied, her tone casual.
"Where do you hail from, Y/N?" Mary-Beth asked, fidgeting with her fingers as if uncertain.
"Just about everywhere, really," Y/N replied, resting her chin on her palm, elbow propped on the table.
Mary-Beth's gaze drifted to the revolver still lying on the table. "I heard talk about you in camp. Folks are mighty grateful for what you did back in Valentine. You're a gunslinger, huh?"
"I suppose you could say that, Miss Mary-Beth," Y/N said, boredom creeping into her expression as she fiddled with the trigger of her weapon.
"She's a gunslinger, alright!" Arthur's voice boomed as he approached the table. He hunkered down, giving a nod to Mary-Beth before sizing up Y/N and her gun. "Sheriff filled me in on you."
"Did he?" Y/N replied, arching an eyebrow and glancing around the camp.
"He mentioned you were with a gang not long ago, and now you're on your own." Arthur's eyes narrowed slightly, skepticism etched on his face. He had heard the sheriff's suspicions about her past with a notorious crew.
"Yeah, now I'm all alone. It's better this way," she said with a sigh, her voice carrying a hint of resignation.
"Can't imagine a loner like you fitting in with a gang," Arthur probed, testing the waters further.
"You'd be surprised, Mister Morgan. Every gang of outlaws is the same; they all fall apart sooner or later. Folks die, betray one another, and then they scatter like leaves in the wind. It's simple." She twirled the gun in her grip before finally holstering it, her demeanor calm yet resolute.
"What was your previous group like, if you don't mind my askin'?" Arthur leaned in closer, his gaze locked on her, eager for her story.
"Idiots," she replied, a bitter laugh escaping her lips. "No, I reckon I was the idiot in that bunch..." She paused, collecting her thoughts. "After I left my mother, I was doin' alright on my own, despite barely bein' out of my teenage years. I was just 19, I think. One day, I was lookin' for work at a ranch near the Lower Montana River and ended up helpin' a fella who claimed a wild bear had gotten his horse. Lucky for him, he managed to escape alive. I helped him all the way to Lake Don Julio, if you know it."
Arthur nodded, the flicker of understanding in his eyes urging her to continue.
"I thought he was just a traveler or a hunter, but when we reached the lake, the welcome I got was anything but friendly. Turns out, the man I'd saved was one of their leaders. They had more men than I could count and twice the firepower. I hate to admit it, but I was scared at first. They hardly had any women in their camp, so to them, I was just another piece of meat. But I held my own," she added, a hint of pride creeping into her voice.
"What happened? Why'd you leave?" Mary-Beth interjected suddenly, her curiosity piqued.
"I ran with those fools for nearly four years," Y/N replied, her tone darkening. "Well, I didn't exactly run with them; I was more like a target by association. They called themselves the Setters. We had our share of rival gangs, one of 'em was the O'Driscolls—big names around these parts. After a long spell of fighting, our boss made a truce with those lowlifes. A few of us weren't keen on it, myself included, and I acted on that. Before long, my own gang turned on me. The boss figured it was easier to deal with me than to let me go, worried I'd come back with the sheriff at my heels. They turned on me, and I had no choice but to fight back."
Both Arthur and Mary-Beth listened to Y/N with rapt attention, captivated by her story. Suddenly, Y/N heard footsteps approaching from behind and turned to see an elderly man making his way to the table. He settled into the chair across from her and nodded his head.
"Hosea Matthews," he introduced himself.
"Y/N Colter," she replied.
"Colter? You ain't from the Colter Tobin gang, are you?" he asked, adjusting his collar, a hint of unease in his voice at the thought of sharing a table with a known outlaw.
"No, sir. That was my mother, Maybelle Elizabeth Colter. They called her Black Belle," Y/N explained, her voice steady.
Hosea nodded, making a mental note. "So you ran with the Setter boys, then?"
"Is that so surprising?" she challenged.
"Quite," he replied. "We had a run-in with them when Arthur here was just barely of age. You might not remember, Arthur, but Dutch sure does. The Setters had a nasty habit of kidnapping women and children, holdin' them for ransom. They wanted to snatch John away from us once."
"Yeah, and if you didn't pay, you got to watch your child die," Y/N added, her voice cool but laced with an edge of bitterness.
Mary-Beth's eyes widened. "So... you were out there killin' innocent children, Y/N?" Shock tinged her tone.
"What became of the Setter boys? I mean, in the end..." Hosea asked, clearly intrigued.
Ignoring Mary-Beth's question, Y/N pulled her revolver from its holster and placed it on the table with a deliberate clatter. "This gun right here? This is my boss's gun. This is what I used to kill him... after I took out all his men."
"That's a dead man's gun," Arthur remarked, recognition dawning in his eyes. Y/N nodded in affirmation, her expression hardening as she recalled the violence of her past.
