Tales from the West

Chapter 1: La Flamenca

"Dime tú porque te fuiste

No oíste mi triste llorar

Ay, dime porque te fuiste

Dijiste que me ibas a amar

Promesas que el viento dá

Y en este se van a olvidar"

Her jewelry barely shook, even in the rough terrain she was walking in, simply dangling as she moved on through the rocky nowhere, singing flamenco. Her white clothes, tainted blood orange, dragged as they marked her path. Her hair swayed through the wind, as it caressed her like it had never done to other travelers. And her face, weeks before used to furious tears, was now calm, letting her voice speak as it should.

Her fingers plucked the guitar strings, as she had learnt to do in her hometown, the beautiful city of Barcelona. A hobby she had shared with a man who promised wealth and happiness overseas, in the great land of dreams that was called America, only to fall prey to said dreams, and those who were out for them, too. Now he was gone after another woman, leaving the one who would've died for him to die alone, to no one. All tears were justified.

She seemed lugubrious, yet ethereal, mysterious, yet so down to earth. That mystery stemmed from her nomadic nature, walking through the desert, singing songs meant for two, now owning them for herself. And as she roamed these ghostly lands, the fire that burned her heart was now fueling it with vengeance. For Lucía Ortega de Navarro wasn't backing down despite the pain.

"Mis manos tiemblan de frío

Y las tuyas no sentirán

Ay, mi niño, tienen frío

Las tuyas no acariciarán

Porque te fuiste, amor mío

Tus labios no me besarán"

Soon, in the distance, she saw a small town, not many buildings around, but hopefully it'd have what she was looking for. Despite so many songs mourning her lost lover, there was still fury consuming her within. Putting away her flamenco guitar, she walked over there.

As she entered town, all eyes turned to her direction. Men looked at her with curiousness, with disgusting lust and desire, some for her body and some for her jewels. Women looked at her with confusion, with slight envy, some confused by her jewels, others equally desiring them. The air both groups sensed, however, was one of mystery, as all tried to answer the question: Who was she?

More confusion arose as she progressed around town, but it peaked as she entered a building specifically, the one with the sign that read "Gunman Bill's". A nearby passer thought of a snide remark in his head.

"Hey, lady," he said, about to direct her to some other place. The moment Lucia turned around, with an air of seriousness, her eyes wishing death at her surefire critic, the seemingly cocky man backed down, the smile from his face disappearing. She turned around, and entered the store.

An old, bearded man ran the store, the one supposed to be Gunman Bill. He was balding, hair running by the sides of his head only, though what he had for a beard - scruffy and long - made up for his lack of hair. His body was fat, though leaning on a more averaged size, and so were his arms and hands, which were busy cleaning the counter of the store. Upon hearing someone enter, he looked up to see Lucia, greeting her warmly as he did every customer.

"Morning, young lady. How may I help-"

His words were cut short at the sight of a dirty Derringer's barrel.