Queen of the Cowboys

Hightailed

The wind whipped Buchanan's hair around his face as he spurred his horse onward faster and faster. Burnshire had told him where her camp would be set up, but "north of the town" was so broad that she could be anywhere. How was he expected to find her ragtag bunch of bandits in the middle of the night with little direction?

The ride and the cool night air gave him some relief and too much time to think about what he had done. He had dueled men before, but never to the point of serious injury or death. The most he had experienced was a bullet grazing his leg, just enough to draw blood. The image of Langstrum's slack-jawed face as he held his chest was permanently etched into Buchanan's mind. He couldn't unsee it, nor could he stop replaying the event in slow motion in his mind. Buchanan felt entirely disconnected from the man that had performed that act with that cursed gun from the most wanted criminal in the West.

"Get it together, man," Buchanan whispered to himself, the wind carrying his words away into the night. "If not you, then Burnshire would've come after him. And it probably wouldn't have been a quick death."

Buchanan slowed his horse to a trot, then a stop, listening in the still night for any sounds of pursuit or the encampment he was supposed to find.

That's right, he thought, mind distracted from the task at hand. Burnshire would've tortured him. She's a criminal, and I'm just a man who showed that poor, doomed soul mercy. Lanore Hills is one of the biggest towns I've come across. Burnshire wouldn't just pass it by, and at least this way I earned her trust. When I get the reward money for turning her in, I'll send some money to the Langstrum widow.

Content with his new plan and confident in his airtight interpretation of the situation, Buchanan moved to spur his horse onto their mission again. His horse barely took two steps before an arrow sprouted from the ground in front of him, startling the horse into bucking Buchanan off. All the wind escaped his lungs as he made contact with the ground, and his vision blacked out for a moment from the pain. When he could see again, he was met with a spear tip to the throat and a gun to the head.

Two figures stood over him, silhouetted by the full moon behind them. The one on the left, holding the spear and with an outline of a bow and quiver over their shoulder, was the shorter and slimmer one of the pair. The one on the right was tall and square, rigid where their companion seemed relaxed. Buchanan could barely make out his horse whinnying beyond the blood rushing in his ears.

"Name," the left person said. It was less a question than a command, but what made Buchanan hesitate was that the voice sounded like it belonged to a woman. He was not one to be intimidated easily, especially not by a woman. The anger and embarrassment he felt at the situation made him bold. Buchanan attempted to sit up but felt the sting of the spear as it made a small cut on his neck. Neither the woman nor the spear had moved from their positions.

"I don't ask twice," the woman said.

Still angry, Buchanan mumbled out, "Buchanan Oliver Thompson, at your service, ma'am."

A gruff sound echoed in the darkness, and it took Buchanan a moment to realize it was the larger figure laughing. Another moment later and Buchanan felt the spear slice his cheek, the warm blood oozing from the wound, and a thump of the butt of the spear hitting the larger figure's head.

"What was that for?" the larger figure asked. He walked out of sight, his form blending with the shadows around him. Buchanan heard the faint squeak of metal, the scraping whoosh of a match, and a small circle of golden light encompassing the trio and their nearby horses.

The larger figure, who Buchanan now clearly saw was a man with a thick bushy beard and a bald head under his black cowboy hat, brought the lantern closer to where Buchanan was laying on the ground. A brief glance around the now-illuminated area revealed the wide-open path Buchanan thought he was taking north of the town was actually strewn about with large boulders and other rock formations. There was little tree coverage in this direction, and the ground was dry, the grit and dust caking his backside and getting stuck under his fingernails. Distantly, Buchanan could hear a creek trickling lazily by.

But the most startling sight was that of the person still holding the spear to his neck. While people like the large, bearded man were common out West, the person standing in front of him looked delicate, like a sharp movement or strong wind would break them. Their features were fine, but Buchanan couldn't figure out if they should belong to a man or a woman. Rough, brown hands gripped the spear, bracelets of beads, shells, and stone hanging from their wrists.

Buchanan had just that moment to observe his surroundings and assailants before the pain from his wounds drew his attention back to his face. He could feel thin streams of blood carving paths down his face and neck before dripping to the ground. His hand came up of its own accord to staunch the bleeding, but the spear handler prevented him from moving an inch.

"May I stop the bleeding from my face?" Buchanan asked. He refused to hide the vehemence from his voice, refused to break eye contact.

"What are you doing here? This is Burnshire territory," the spear-holder said. "You are trespassing. We have every right to cut you down where you lie."

The hard glint in their eyes seemed unwarranted for the charge of trespassing, especially given that they all apparently work for the same woman. This person was acting as if they had a personal vendetta against Buchanan, despite him having never met them before in his life. The pain from his fall was starting to settle into his muscles and his neck was starting to cramp from the strain.

"Well, that's great news then because I just came back from carrying out Burnshire's orders." The spear remained in place. "To kill the mayor of Lanore Hills."

Both pairs of eyes went wide at the news. An appropriate reaction for his work, Buchanan thought. The larger man leaned down to the smaller person, attempting to whisper in their ear. The sound traveled clearly in the still and silent night as if he had spoken directly to Buchanan.

"Okala, do you think this is the new recruit the Queen was talking about?" He glanced over his shoulder, almost like he expected Burnshire to appear in the darkness.

"Only one way to find out," the spear-holder, Okala, said. They did a much better job of concealing their voice because Buchanan didn't catch what they said next. They broke their huddle and Okala turned to Buchanan. "Show us the Queen's gun."

Buchanan felt the color drain from his face. The gun. The gun that he dropped back at the Langstrum household in his hasty retreat. He throat dried up, threatening to close completely. "I don't have it," he croaked. "I dropped it as I was fleeing."

His captors shared a glance, an entire conversation happening in that look. Another moment later, the spear was removed from its position over Buchanan's throat and the larger man was lifting him up back to his feet.

"Apologies for the rough behavior," the larger man said. "My name is Davis, and this is Okala." Okala merely nodded.

"A pleasure," Buchanan said, eyes narrowed.

Davis caught the undertone. "Not the most welcoming of first impressions, I'll admit. Without the gun, we have no way of verifying your identity or if you're telling the truth. So, you're getting your wish; we need to take you before the Queen herself." Buchanan's eyes followed Okala as they made their way around the circle of light to the horses, where they pulled something Buchanan couldn't make out from the saddlebag.

Buchanan moment of joy was cut short when he felt the rough cut of rope wrapping around his wrists and ankles. Where there was previously empty space, Okala appeared, tying the final knot of Buchanan's restraints before he could even react.

"What is the meaning of this?" he said. Buchanan felt the anger bubble up in his chest, threatening to spill out in a barrage of curses. His lips trembled with the effort to keep them shut.

"It is either this or we can shoot you now, your choice," Davis said. At Buchanan's silence, Davis guided Buchanan to the horses and situated him, still tied up, on his.