Six Shots Deep

Finding A New Home

"Where the fuck is he?!"

I stood quickly, stepping outside the tent. Arthur had his gun fixated on a certain blonde haired man. His hands were up, surrendering. He looked over to me, that same evil smile forming on his face.

Bang.

Next thing I knew, Micah was on the ground.

Bang.

Arthur continued shooting.

Bang.

Bang.

Bang.

I ran over to Arthur, pulling his arm. He looked down at me, his eyes blown dark in pure rage. He softened when he saw me, lowering his gun. My eyes were desperate to leave, but I didn't know where to go. I just wanted to leave. All eyes were on Arthur as his gun was now down at his hip, no longer firing shots at Micah's corpse.

Dutch stepped out of his tent, his jaw open as he saw a dead camp member. His eyes drifted across my body, noting the marks that deepened on my skin. His eyes lifted to Arthur, who has now holstered his pistol.

"My boy," Dutch walked towards us, "what have you done?"

"Do you see Rose?" Arthur pointed to me, "he did that to her!"

Dutch stared at me, eyeing me up and down. "Is that true?"

I nodded.

Dutch hummed in response. He turned and headed for his tent, drawing the flaps so he was hidden. I turned to Arthur, who was now heading towards Autumn. I chased after him, grabbing his forearm.

"Arthur-"

He swung around, drawing his arm back harshly. "Rose, I'm sorry but I need to be alone."

"But-"

"Don't." He began to back away. "Just don't."

After watching him leave, I finally had enough. I went to mine and his shared tent and changed into a pair of dark brown ranch pants, a black blouse with white and gold accents, and some black boots with silver spurs. I tied my curled hair up into a bun and slid on my fathers hat. I packed my things and loaded up Whiskey and headed on my way.

I wasn't welcomed here.

*****

It's been five years since I left the Van Der Linde gang. I'm thirty two with no regrets, no money, and no desire. I was working as a bounty hunter during the day, and a prostitute at night. The bounty hunting paid poorly, and the prostitution wasn't something I was proud to do.

As morning rolled around, I got dressed for the day and headed downstairs to the lobby of the hotel. I rented a bath and decided to wash up before heading out for my next bounty target. It was a woman named Rita Hoagy, wanted for killing her husband and daughter, then running.

Sheriff Malloy was shot and killed when a gang rode in from west, according to the newspaper. He was replaced with a ruthless bastard by the name of Jeremy Hoosier. I walked in with pride in my step, hiding my shame.

I wore brown saddle pants, perfect for riding. A white button up shirt with the sleeves rolled to my elbows, knee high riding boots, black cotton suspenders, black rifleman gloves, a green and black bandana, and a black duster coat. My hair wasn't up in any way. It instead flowed in the wind, it's dark brown color surrounding my face underneath my fathers black hat. My bandolier was filled with ammo around my shoulder, with my rifle thrown over my shoulder as my spurs clinked against the hard wood floor.