Queen of the Cowboys

The Eve of Greatness

That night called for revelry before the inevitable takeover in the coming days. The Queen's forces moved to a town about an hour's ride from Chicago by the name of Jolliet, where cowboys and criminals drank themselves senseless.

Mulling over the decision he had made earlier that week, Buchanan found himself at a surprisingly empty saloon, nursing a beer as the barman wiped down glasses. The sounds of celebration pervaded the saloon, seeping in through the walls and flowing through the swinging wooden doors.

Looking back on his time with Burnshire, especially in light of what lay ahead in the coming days, perhaps he had taken this rouse too far. He was a man of business; if he saw an opportunity, he took it. Picking up one lone cowboy who gave herself fancy titles was supposed to be a cakewalk, then he would be on his merry way with a sack of cash and landholdings that would build his family's fortune. He would find a nice girl, settle down, have a few kids, and have an easy life because of the hard work he had put in when he was younger.

How would that future look in a world where Burnshire ran rampant?

The North and South were just about at each other's throats, though they've worked in relative harmony thus far and Buchanan couldn't think of any possible alternatives to the current way of things. But that way of life was at risk as long as Burnshire rode free. Perhaps he could still—

Buchanan's musings were interrupted by the sound of a stool scraping against the wooden floorboards. Someone took the seat beside him, and a glance revealed a burst of red curls and a white cowboy hat.

"Shouldn't you be out celebrating?" Burnshire asked him. She waved down the barman and a drink appeared before her. When Buchanan looked up at her, she had the same steely, unreadable look in her eye as before.

He raised his glass. "What does it look like I'm doing?" He took a long swig of beer.

"Drowning your sorrows. In one sad glass of beer."

That made him hesitate. It just missed the mark of the truth. He shuffled through a list of excuses, landing on one that would leave little room for the conversation to move forward. "In all honesty I am." A raised eyebrow from Burnshire. "It's the anniversary of my mother's death. Didn't much feel like losing my mind to this poison today of all days."

That did the trick. Burnshire's posture relaxed, her eyes going soft at the edges. A look of pity rather than cold calculation.

"Oh, sweetheart," she said with a voice full of honey, grabbing his hand. "You're so full of it."

Quicker than he thought possible, Burnshire whipped the knife from her belt, the one he had seen her sharpening on multiple occasions, and stabbed it into the bar. The next instant, the pain registered, shooting up his arm and making his stomach curl in on itself.

She stabbed him, pinning his hand to the bar counter.

A scream ripped itself from his throat. In a desperate attempt, Buchanan tried to pull the knife from the wood and his hand but found it stuck. Between the scream and heaving breaths, he managed to strangle out, "What the fuck was that for?" Another frantic pull at the knife, but he couldn't bring himself to cut his hand more in the process of struggling free.

Burnshire, on the other hand, looked entirely unfazed by the scene in front of her, even as drops of blood flecked her hat and clothes. "I don't much appreciate liars, and you haven't told me one honest thing since I met you."

"What on God's green Earth are you talking about? Take this knife out of—"

A second, smaller knife appeared at his throat right above his Adam's apple, trimming the hair that had grown there since his last shave. "Now's my time to talk. One more word and you're a dead man. Understand?" Buchanan nodded and swallowed through a suddenly parched throat, feeling the steel of the blade with each minor movement.