Queen of the Cowboys

Inner Circle

The scouting trip was over before Buchanan knew it, no issues having arrived along the way. By dusk, Burnshire and the rest of her gang arrived and set up camp. Buchanan didn't see Okala for the rest of the day, whether by accident or design, he wasn't sure. He was able to grab a moment of Burnshire's time before the start of whatever secret meeting she held in her tent that evening, one to which he was pointedly not invited.

Each subsequent day passed in a similar manner. Buchanan was recruited for a different task, delivered either by Okala or Davis, from joining the scouting party to the supply raid. Move camp, tend the horses, count supplies, ride, sleep, repeat. Burnshire had, he learned, managed to unite a conglomeration of different peoples. Plains Indians broke bread with French fur traders. Mexican revolutionaries, escaped slaves, and immigrants from the East and West executed raids together, rather than fighting over the remaining land on the continent. Slowly, he began to learn some of the names and faces of the people in the camp, sharing meals and stories with them.

Because of that, he would begin to notice when Burnshire and those other familiar faces would disappear for hours at a time, typically followed by a speedy ride to their next campsite. Those men and women would return smelling of gunpowder and sulfur, so Buchanan could guess what they were doing, even if he was never asked to join them.

Each night, he would find Burnshire alone for a few minutes, sharpening her knife or poring over maps of the western frontier. And each night, he would share that time with her until she opted to retire to bed. He could tell she was starting to let him in, bit by bit, her low voice and southern drawl spinning tales from her childhood. A sister she left behind. Her first robbery. A lack, he noted, of romantic love. Her ambition was clear from what she would tell him by the glow of her campfire, but Buchanan still couldn't tell what her goal was. Conquering towns and growing an army and being wanted by the United States government just for the hell of it, it seemed to him.

One night, two weeks after killing Langstrum and joining Burnshire's gang of cowboys, as he was sitting outside his tent whittling a knot of wood, Okala approached him. "Follow me," they said and walked back in the direction they came without checking if Buchanan was following. He was stunned for a moment, Okala having ignored him since the conclusion of their first scouting party together, but quickly regained his wits and followed the fleeting figure through the bonfires.

Based on the path they were taking, it was clear they were headed for Burnshire's tent, albeit he had no idea why. Typically, this is when she held her nightly meeting and he would find her afterwards. A spike of fear drove through him at the thought that he might have been found out. He was so careful, too, avoiding the conversation of his past and reasons for traveling west in the first place. His palms began to sweat in the cool night, the hairs on the back of his neck prickling.

"Inside," Okala said, holding the tent flap open.

Buchanan entered the tent to the sight of Burnshire, Davis, and two other people, a tall dark man and a tall brown woman, around a squat table, a lantern burning on its center. The rest of the area was sparse. A sleeping roll in the corner, a few scattered maps and notebooks, a spare set of clothes neatly folded. He approached the table as the group turned to him in unison, four pairs of eyes staring him down. Okala returned to their place at Burnshire's right, the tent flap swooping closed with finality.

"Mr. Thompson," Kristine Burnshire said. She had a small smile on her lips that eased the tension in his shoulders by a fraction. "So glad you could join us. Come."

Buchanan evened his breaths and relaxed his muscles, putting on the air of confidence he usually carried. Davis clapped his shoulder when he planted himself next to him, another gesture of reassurance. Perhaps he wasn't discovered after all.