Snake Skin | John Marston

No Winners

Days after crossing paths with Jack Marston, Y/N received the news that Edgar Ross had been gunned down while out hunting. A wave of relief washed over her, knowing that her husband had been avenged—though not by her own hand, but by the blood of his own kin. John had sacrificed so much for the country, for his state, and for the law, yet all that noble work had been nothing but a thin veneer.

Since that fateful day, Y/N hadn't laid eyes on Jack. She figured he was riding a solitary trail, driven by his own demons. As she washed the last of the dishes, the sound of a thunderous herd of horses galloping toward her homestead made her heart race. She tossed the rag aside and rushed to the window, peering out to see a squad of uniformed riders approaching. Lawmen.

Panic gripped her, and she snatched up her revolver, the chilling memories of John's final day flashing through her mind like a bad dream. It was happening all over again.

The lawmen rode in with an air of confidence that sent a shiver down her spine. She leaned against the wall, straining to hear the commotion outside.

"Dear Miss Marston! Don't be shy—come out!" The voice cut through the tension like a knife. It was Reid Hixon. "You are under arrest for the murder of Edgar Ross. Step out peacefully, and we might consider sparing you the hangman's noose!"

How did Hixon find her? Was it Jack who turned her in? Surely not, she mused. Jack of all people understood what betrayal by the law felt like. Had Hixon followed him? A torrent of questions and scenarios clashed in her mind as her gaze flitted around the small cabin she called home.

She'd crossed paths with Hixon before and knew precisely the kind of man he was. Stubborn as a mule, he wouldn't rest until she was six feet under.

At first, Y/N hesitated to answer, but she realized that silence would only provoke them to storm her sanctuary. "I didn't kill that old bastard! I'd rather face the noose than rot in a hoosegow, and you know it, Hixon!"

"I know you're responsible for the death of Edgar Ross, who, if I remember rightly, was the one who put a bullet in your dear husband, John Marston."

"Whole damn country wanted that man dead. You sure you want to pin that on me?" Y/N shot back, her voice steady. She quietly drifted to the far side of the living room, peering through the grimy windows. Her heart sank as she saw lawmen closing in, circling her cabin like wolves ready to pounce. If they hadn't surrounded her from every angle, maybe she could've fought her way out. Now, the odds of her walking away from this were slimmer than a blade of grass in a drought.

"I'll give you ten seconds to step out with your hands raised high. You're surrounded, and this is your last chance, Y/N Colter!"

Y/N clenched her jaw, biting down on her lip as Reid Hixon began his countdown. At four, she exhaled sharply, dropped her gun, and stepped out of the cabin with her hands in the air. The lawmen wasted no time, shoving her to the ground, searching her for weapons, and binding her wrists with chains. Dust filled her mouth and nose as they hoisted her up, dragging her toward the prison wagon. She didn't expect anyone to come to her rescue—Jack was probably clueless about the mess she was in, and everyone else had long since vanished.

Reid Hixon didn't take her to Sisika Penitentiary, nor to a jail cell in Armadillo. Instead, they headed straight for Valentine. The journey stretched over two long days, and Y/N was left parched, starved, and sunburned. Her eyes were red and irritated, shielded beneath a tangled mess of greasy hair. The clothes she wore were grimy and worn thin from the rough travel.

As they rolled into Valentine, women gasped at the sight of the prison wagon and its grim cargo, while men cheered and hollered at the lawmen. A barrage of jeers and taunts flew through the air for Y/N to hear, but they rolled off her back like water off a duck's feathers; she braced herself for the worst.