Queen of the Cowboys

To Kill or not To Kill

The short walk from the saloon to the inn gave Buchanan little time to wrap his head around Burnshire's demand for an act of loyalty. The ultimatum was as clear as if she had shouted it from the roof of the saloon: kill the mayor or she would kill him.

His faith in his abilities went a long way, but the long days on horseback and the various uncomfortable inn beds had worn down his certainty. Buchanan had doubts that he would ever find, let alone catch, Kristine Burnshire. Most civilians were reluctant to talk about her actions against towns and people in her way, except to spread the occasional rumor or gossip about the people they knew who joined her ranks. But somehow, someone had gotten word to her that he was in Lanore Hills looking for her, beginning an inevitable streak of misfortune after the dull days and weeks traversing the plains.

The legend of the Queen was shrouded in mystery. With the history of territorial disputes in the area between the United States, Mexico, France, and the Native Americans, and the lack of proper government infrastructure this far away from the capitols and majority of the populations of each respective nation, there weren't accurate estimates of the number of people living in the western half of the continent. Buchanan knew only a few men and women brave enough to leave their families in the hope of striking it rich, and there was no telling how many others might have been of the same mindset.

That, coupled with the fact that Burnshire clearly inspired loyalty or fear, with a terrifying magnetism Buchanan could hardly explain, only having felt it in his brief interaction with her, made the situation that much more uncertain. He didn't think it was possible, but Burnshire seemed to be a natural-born leader in the way that only men were.

Buchanan paced the tiny inn room, furnished with only a bed, a chair, and a bible, the rush of thoughts filling the room and crowding out the air. He stared at Burnshire's gun where he placed it on the chair, a promise that one way or another it would get the blood it was owed.

Kill the mayor? Thereby committing assassination at the request of a known criminal and leaving his fragile place in society to join said criminal's gang, whether for protection or to be surveilled, he wasn't sure.

Tell the police? Putting himself at risk of being exposed as a traitor after Burnshire's clear threats, forfeiting the reward for bringing her in and likely his own life in the process. He couldn't be sure how tightly her web of informants was wound.

Skip town? Leaving him to be pursued by a rogue band of cowboys who knows how numerous and widespread.

Upon further reflection, Buchanan concluded that Burnshire must have known about him for weeks, most likely since he set out on his quest to find her. He hadn't exactly been subtle in his questioning of her whereabouts. And it was not the most common occurrence to see a man of Buchanan's social class wandering the wild frontier alone.

The sun turned the sky orange and red as it sunk toward the horizon, just barely visible behind the buildings through the small window in the room. If he hadn't dug his own grave so well, Buchanan could see himself settling down in a place like Lanore Hills.

Refusing to give into despair, and by extension death, Buchanan chose the only option that left him alive and free enough to live without much fear. If Burnshire was a woman of her word, and given that he already survived thus far he was inclined to believe she was, Buchanan could count on her protection until he had the opportunity to turn her in. And if anyone asked, he could always blame the murder of the mayor on her. She would deny it, but the guilty always do, especially those with a list of crimes stretching from the Mississippi River to the Pacific Ocean.

He would be hailed as a hero.

Picking up the gun and holstering it, he made his way to the mayor's house at the center of town, prepared to kill the one man standing in his way of achieving his goal.