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...
Unlike Colm O'Driscoll, who hired muscle in droves for his gang back in the late 1800s, and unlike Dutch Van Der Linde, who scooped up every orphan and lost soul he found along the dusty trails, Y/N Marston wielded her power with smart guns. Y/N knew how to recruit the best shots around, convincing them to be loyal to her cause with promises of survival in a world teetering on the edge of modernization.
In an era where outlaws were seen as no better than vermin, only the fittest survived. Criminals who could shoot straight, rob quick, and never shed a tear. Y/N wasn't proud of running a gang or being part of one, even with Black Belle and Flaco at her side. But she had carved out a reputation since her debut in the outlaw world, and not a single soul had seen her show a moment of weakness since.
The Colter gang handpicked men—and women—who had iron wills and would bow to no one but the queen of outlaws herself. And Y/N wore that crown with pride, or at least, she made damn sure it looked that way.
Months rolled by, and Y/N kept vanishing from the Colter campsite, claiming she was off "hunting." Some folks didn't buy her story, though she always came back with big game lashed to her horse. Flaco, in particular, didn't believe her for a second. But he wasn't about to cross her or her mother, Black Belle. Those women would chew him up and spit him out. There was something off about how Y/N always brought in more game than they needed, like she was trying to make up for something.
One day, Flaco decided he'd had enough of the mystery. He figured he'd follow her out, just to make sure she wasn't a rat like Jude Spark. Keeping up with her horse was no small feat. Everyone knew Y/N had a thing for fast, powerful horses and would go to great lengths to get her hands on one.
As he trailed her, Flaco noticed Y/N was heading into areas where hunting was scarce due to the lack of herbivores. Every now and then, she'd stop to rest and grab a bite to eat. But once they crossed into New Austin, it hit him – Y/N had been lying all along. Not once had she brought back a carcass from New Austin, so what in tarnation was she doing out there?
After long hours of galloping through the crimson heaths of the wastelands, Y/N finally slowed her horse, becoming more aware of her surroundings. Just before rounding the bend of the cliff, she halted, anticipating her stalker. Flaco, oblivious, kept riding until he nearly collided with her.
"You!" Y/N called out, unholstering her revolver. "What are you doing? Following me?"
"I knew you were up to something, Cobra," Flaco replied, drawing his gun as well.
"Where's the trust?" Y/N asked, her horse moving in a slow circle around Flaco. Her tone echoed that of Dutch, who was often insistent on faith and trust—though look where that led him.
"What trust? I don't think you deserve any. Only God knows what you're up to," the Mexican man's eyes tracked Y/N's every movement.
The woman fearlessly dismounted, striding towards Flaco with her gun still aimed at his face. "What now? You gonna kill me? What will my mother think of it?"
"I don't give a damn what your mother thinks about it," the man muttered, his eyes fixed on her trigger finger, watching for any sudden movement. He stayed on high alert, aware that she was too close for comfort and could pull something at any moment.
With her gun practically in his face, she noticed his gaze shift from her body to the weapon. Seizing the opportunity, she swung at him. Grabbing his coat with one hand, she pulled him closer and smashed her revolver into his nose, sending him sprawling off his horse.
Flaco, startled, fired a wild shot past her. He might have been a decent shooter, but he was no fighter. Y/N, on the other hand, was in her element up close.
The moment she struck Flaco, it was clear that only one of them would leave this standoff alive.
"What's wrong, bean eater? Snake got your nose?" Y/N taunted, her voice dripping with mockery.
Flaco sprang to his feet, grabbing Y/N by the neck. He didn't waste a second, landing a punch that she swiftly returned with a solid headbutt to his nose.
Furious, Flaco pulled out his knife, slashing the air dangerously close to her.
"You never were much of a fighter, Flaco," she taunted. "Just filled the space. It'll be a pleasure to see you gone for good!"
"Keep dreaming, traitor!" Flaco roared, slicing Y/N's left knee. She dropped to the ground with a groan of pain, only to receive a hard kick to her face.
Looming over her, his shadow cast large and menacing, Flaco aimed his gun, ready to shoot—to kill.
But before he could pull the trigger, Y/N grabbed a handful of sand and flung it into his eyes.
"You gringa bitch!" he shouted, blinded and enraged.
The woman kicked him away and quickly got to her feet, wincing at the pain in her knee. She smashed him across the head with her revolver, and when he finally hit the ground, she aimed at him one more time. The last time.
After a moment, Y/N scoffed and pulled the trigger, putting the bastard down for good. She exhaled and slumped down next to the lifeless body of her former gang member.
"Gringa bitch? Famous last words," Y/N sneered. As she glanced at him, memories surfaced. Memories of killing Jude—she reminded her of Micah Bell, and that was why she didn't hesitate to take her out. Y/N couldn't afford to keep making the same mistake over and over.
Later, Y/N arrived at Maggie's hidden moonshine shack, sporting a sliced knee and a bloody face.
As soon as the older woman laid eyes on her, she let out a dry chuckle. "Didn't have a fun trip gettin' here, huh?"
"A friend of mine was tailing me. I can't keep sneakin' around like this. Folks back at camp are gettin' suspicious."
"And your friend?" Maggie asked.
"Cold as a wagon tire."
"Right. Well, get yourself cleaned up. We're just about done here."
"What do you mean?" Y/N walked over to a bucket of water conveniently placed by the window. She quickly splashed some water on her face, washing off the blood, and then walked back to Maggie.
"I mean, you'll sign off on your cooperation, and I'll guide you to your new home, Y/N."
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"It's really that simple? I reckon there's a catch."
"No catch," Maggie said, her voice steady like a calm prairie wind. "You done what I asked of you, time and again, and now you get what you wanted."
"Good," Y/N exhaled, a sense of relief washing over them, and the two clasped hands firmly in agreement.
Y/N could hardly believe how straightforward it all seemed. When John Marston struck a "deal" with the government, he ended up betrayed and dead after doin' every dirty job under the sun for Edgar Ross. But then again, Maggie wasn't Edgar Ross, and this wasn't some shady government affair.
