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The small town of Audrey Springs, Colorado, 1859.

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The sound of the ruckus downstairs didn't mean much to Reuben. Hell, nothing meant much to him anymore. As he tugged up his trousers, he found himself swaying a bit, almost as though the wooden floorboards were those of a ship.

"Going so soon?" The aging whore looked over her shoulder at him as he dressed, apparently both eager for him to leave, and skeptical about when shed be getting her payment.

"Hmph. Nothing of the sort. I'm just going t' get myself another drink. I'll be back in just a bit, and we'll see if you have any holes tighter than that sad gash you're tryin' t' sell me."

"That costs--"

"I know it costs extra. Jesus, Mary and Joseph, woman. I hired you as a whore, not as a wife. Quit your nagging and fix your face. You've dropped an eyelash." He buckled his gunbelt low on his waist, where it would be easy to draw from, and stumbled out into the hallway. He just had to get to the bar, then remember his room. Second on the right. That was easy enough. He gripped the wooden railing tightly as he strode, heavy-footed, down the stairs, scuffing his boots against the steps to force them on more solidly.

The gathering-room downstairs was quite a sight. Something had clearly gone down, but whatever it was, he didn't much care. He somehow managed to land himself in a seat along the bar, where he raised a finger to catch the barkeep's attention. He placed an order for bourbon, by the bottle, and rolled a heavy coin idly along the scratched wooden bar as he waited.

A heavy hand clapped him on the shoulder, and he went for his gun instinctively.

"Whoa, there. No need for that, Luckshot! I'm not lookin' for any trouble." The speaker was a thick-gutted man, with soft features and often-patched clothing.

"Tarson." Reuben looked at the portly man distastefully. "I told you the last time I saw you, I'm not going to be your hired gun. I'm over all that shit." His drink arrived, a stout bottle, and he forced the cork free with a slight grunt of exertion. He took a long drink, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He felt the slowly greying bristles of stubble, and realized it'd been a couple of days since he'd bothered to shave. Damn, but time passed quickly when you were waiting around to die.

Tarson waved his hands before him, as though trying to physically dispel the notion. "No, no, nothing of that sort. I won't keep you for long. I'm sure you have... other things to occupy yourself with." He looked Reuben up and down, taking in the taller man's unkempt appearance and crookedly-buttoned shirt. Given the reputation of the saloon, there was little doubt what Reuben had been up to.

"The fact is, Mister Luckshot, that there might finally be a job to keep your interest." He smiled, a rather oily, untrustworthy look. "You see, there is a proposition that appeals to all of your interests. A chance at wealth, lovely company, a spot of vengeance, and even--"

He was cut off by the thump of the bottle against the table. "Say your damn piece, man. I've a middle-aged woman who says she's twenty to get back to." He started to rise from his stool, gripping the neck of the quickly-emptying bottle.

"Alright, I'll be brief! I'm sorry, mister Luckshot, sir. There's a girl who was in here, real young-lookin' thing, right pretty if I do say so myself. She were lookin' for someone like you to help her get vengeance or something. Said she could pay handsomely..." He trailed off as the other man stepped back toward the stairs.

"I'm not interested, Tarson. I'm no Luckshot anymore. I'm just Reuben Caerwynn now. And fact is, I'm not interested in any get-rich-quick plan of yours. I'm sure you mean well... no, actually, I doubt that, but either way, I have a cheap whore who wants to be paid. Let me know if you want to share a drink some time, but don't waste my time with rescue or revenge." He turned away from the sputtering man, stumbling more and more as the bourbon, his third bottle that day, started hitting. He elbowed roughly past a couple of upstarts crowding the way, growling under his breath at them. They were the sort to start wearing a gun once they left home, wispy mustaches and like-new boots telling more about them than their likely-to-crack voices could.

Back up the stairs he went, relying more and more on the handrail as his boots nearly slipped. First door on the... no, that wasn't right. Second door. Which side? Left. No, that couldn't be. Right? He thought back to coming down the stairs. No, it had to be on the left. He passed the first door, then at the second on the left, he threw the door open, hands on his belt buckle to begin undoing it as he did.

"I'm back, you worn-out piece of meat--" He stopped, seeing a young woman resting, fully clothed on a bed that was not the one he had been in. "Who the hell are you?"

Among many other God given gifts, Abigail had a keen eye for faces, making it immediately apparent that this particular gunslinger wasn’t any of the fools she’d seen downstairs not a half hour prior. That of course didn’t make him any less of a fool, since it was also apparent by the drunken lust in his eyes and his opening words that he definitely hadn’t come calling on account Abigail’s intended purpose.

It didn’t take her long to have him figured out. The bronzed tone of his skin, them beaded hints of his attire, made it perfectly certain there was some variety of native swimming around in that blood of his, and judging by his unkempt presentation and the bottle he had gripped tighter that a stolen purse full of gold - combined with them low riding guns on his belt - he had all too many reason to be drowning his principles in alcohol and harlots. Washed up old men like him were a dime a dozen in a place like this.

A smooth lowering of her brow let him know of his flagrant imposition, and she already had that hammer cocked before he finished spluttering out his initial dismay upon entering her room, though at this point she felt no need to raise her cannon from her thigh. To be perfectly straight about it, she wasn’t at all jumpy or perturbed by his mistaken choice of doors to enter, it was more of an intrigue that he still had the capacity to keep standing on his own two feet.

“It’s generally customary for a gentleman to introduce himself upon entering the room of a lady. But I see first up you ain’t no gentleman. Had you not been slop'n around in the unholiest of holes when I arrived, you might have had the honor of know'n just who I am and what my purpose is here - And I can tell ya right now; what I’m do’n here ain’t got an iota of similarity to what you have plague'n your mind.”

Now, Abigail had way with the misleading sweet pleasantries of her voice, and it wasn’t uncommon to captivate folk with her spoken demeanor. It therefore wouldn’t have been at all surprising had Reuben not found himself a decent reply at this point. She gave two taps of her trigger finger against the guard of her gun, in the case he wasn’t already aware of the pretty, hand engraved barrel pointed directly at his head.

“There’s no question about it; I ain’t the whore you’d been expecting to find, Chief. Apparent you’ve gone ahead and gotten yourself lost. Maybe your undignified state of mind got you all confused between your left and right.” She slipped her slender finger gently over the trigger itself and prepared a good squeeze, yet she still hadn’t raised that gun from her thigh. “And I know what you be think’n, that this fresh piece of meat before you is a whole lot more please'n on the eyes than that penny grip'n whore you left idle in some other room – but don’t you go getting any ideas about mounting this young filly. …Way I see it, right now you got a choice as to just how much of a mistake you’ve made by walk’n in here. I’m hereby give’n you a choice, old man; back on out of this room real slow like, keep’n your hands off them six-guns of yours, or perhaps I’ll be so inclined to splatter them drunken brains all over that wall behind ya.”

Reuben Caerwynn considered himself a gentleman. Sure, he had a fondness for drink, and sure, he occasionally hired a whore or two, but on the whole, he figured himself about as upstanding as any man could be in this mess of a world. As he looked down at the young woman on the bed, gun included, and heard her cutting words, he realized that his outer appearance likely did little to convince others of that opinion.

The girl was something else indeed. She was a cute little thing, if a bit young. Despite the confidence with which she held the Colt, she couldn't have been more than a teenager, and a youngish one at that. He shook his head disapprovingly.

"Old man... why that's right unkind, so it is! Heh. Little thing like you shouldn' be talkin' that way. Shouldn' be toting a gun that size either. The second you fire the thing, it'll practically take your arm off." He chuckled a bit, alcohol and misplaced confidence making him forget the gun for a moment. "Don' get your knickers in a bunch, kid. I've no quarrel with you. Jus' mistook my door 's all." He slurred the words, putting a bit more emphasis into his drunken speech than was strictly accurate, hoping that playing up the image of a confused drunk would add to the image of his innocence.

It was a bit of a surprise to him that the child didn't recognize him. Sure, this wasn't his area of influence, but he'd been quite the legend in his day. He edged the bottle closer to his mouth, then thought better of it, setting it on the dresser. Perhaps it was for the best. He was trying to put his past behind him. He couldn't do that if he was recognized at every saloon he stopped at. Hmm. Maybe he should see about growing a beard.

Somehow, he snapped his addled mind free from such thoughts. Something about the girl was familiar. He hadn't seen her before, that was certain. He'd have remembered such a thing. No, it wasn't her face... Ah, that was it. Her voice.

"Say, miss... You were the one hollering downstairs a few minutes past, weren't you? Yeah, that'd have to be it. A fellow I know said you were bounty hunting or some damn fool idea like that." He leaned against the dresser, making himself at home a bit, despite the gun. "I suggest you take a cue from my book." He picked up the bourbon once more, extending it in her direction. "Have a drink, find a shrimpy fellow to bounce around on. Or a woman, whatever your tastes. Keep away from vengeance. Doesn't lead anywhere good. And stop carrying a gun out in the open. You're asking to be shot, is what you're doing." He nodded sagely, as though he had shared some great gift of wisdom with the younger traveler.

He made no move for the door, but nor did he go for his gun. To all outward appearances, he simply didn't count the girl as a threat, but still wanted to be treated with something approximating respect.

It was no shock at all this man’s advice revolved solely around his current ambitions in life, even less a surprise that - considering his current frame of mind - the circumstances surrounding his question conflicted a great deal with said advice. She of course didn’t answer his question, since it sounded more rhetorical than anything deserving of an answer.

“The amount of give’n times a cowboy, be him drunk or sober, had found it his duty to bestowed his less than sound wisdom on me is downright stagger’n, to say the least. Now, I can’t make up my mind if you’re just plain stupid or if maybe all that alcohol has numbed your sense of self preservation.”

Abigail hadn’t been expecting anything less than a defensive reaction from this man, in fact, that was the intention behind her scornful speech. There was really only one way to derive at the more honest intentions of any man, and that was to throw his own self-worth into question and see how he might react. It was just pure instinct to attempt upholding a substantial appearance, most especially in the company of a young and attractive lady. Normally, any attempt to preserve such dignity or needed sense of respect would have been displayed in some insulting retaliation before heading out the door, and yet this here particular individual was of the inclination to make himself at home instead.

His decision to remain in her room without even giving birth to the slightest insult of his own, had her mindfully questioning the steel of his constitution. Sure, his response was of a questionable nature, but it was apparent he intended no ill will. Yep, It could have been that he was just plain stupid or, perhaps, he didn’t care about preserving his own life at all, which was more than likely the case to be fair about it, but there was also the very slim possibility that he just couldn’t bring himself to feel threatened by a girl, despite the fact that the mouth of her cocked barrel was gaping right at him. She’d been underestimated before, usually before the one doing the underestimating lay all bloodied up on the floor.

She did, if only for the purpose of careful planning in the testing of this man’s steel, accept his offer for a drink.

She didn’t let her guard down. That would have been downright dumb as shit. Instead she presented the man with a positively grimacing look, letting him know he was crowding her space, and kept her Colt in position on her thigh while relieving him of the bottle with her other hand.

She didn’t take a swallow of the drink, however. She rather gripped the neck real tight and lowered the bottle real slow, pressing it snug into the crook of her crotch and finally raised that gun off her thigh – Swifter than a pony on lava she had the end of that pretty barrel pressed dead against his manhood. He would have no doubt felt that cold steel through the fabric of his trousers.

“Now why don’t you go ahead and take a seat in that chair over yonder," She gives a flick of her head to indicate the chair at the foot of her bed; “before I add myself an iron nugget to that sack of yours?”

Right now, Abigail’s tone of voice had more than mildly changed its demeanor. Any half whit standing between the East and West coast would have known to heed to the severity that had suddenly taken charge of her tone - See, unfortunately this cowboy still hadn’t managed to introduce himself, and that was annoying the hell out of her. Even more importantly, he had managed to overlook a very important detail of truth laid out before his very eyes. This ignorance alone was enough to make her wonder just when he would stop to ask himself the most obvious question of all: Why in all of hell would a young lady like herself be in possession of such a weapon, no less renting out a room in a saloon equally unfitting to her supposed status in society?

“When I say take a seat, I mean take a seat, or maybe you don’t mind lose'n your already fleet'n chance of cursing some poor kid by become’n their daddy. Once you’ve got yourself seated, why don’t you try and do the gentlemanly thing by introducing yourself. Heck, by do'n so you might even find a trace of respect you so obviously need from me right now - and maybe then we can find ourselves in a position to hold an enlightening conversation. Make no mistake, I'll sooner squeeze this trigger than lose the strength of keep'n this Colt held up."

Though initially his tipsiness and well-founded self-confidence prevented Reuben from feeling any fear at the gun held by the small young woman, the feel of the cold steel barrel against his nether regions quickly snapped him back to reality. Petite or not, young or not, this young woman had a gun at his tool, and the odds weren't bad that she was willing to use it, at that. He realized in that moment that he had been taking this with far less seriousness than he should have been. Apparently she was right: alcohol had numbed his sense of self-preservation.

Holding his hands out before himself protectively, he stepped back half a pace, then did as he was told. It didn't sit right with him, being ordered around, but a gun is a gun. Best to play along... for the moment, at least.

With a hand on the chair's back to steady himself, he eased down into the seat carefully, trying not to make any sudden moves. "You're a right firebrand, so you are. Take care you don't burn yourself." As he sat, he added "No need for any of this unpleasantness. I'm certain that a couple of rational, reasonable people like you and I could come to some sorta non-violent-type agreement, now wouldn't you agree?"

"You... wanted my name, correct?" He was hesitant to give it out so easily. He was a bit protective of his identity, though, of course, he was a good bit more protective of the region threatened by the Colt. "My name is Reuben Caerwynn, called Luckshot by some, though not so much anymore." He chuckled to himself, with a dark, self-loathing humor. "Back in the day I was quite the character. They wrote dime novels about me, did you know that? It wasn't even more than a couple years ago that my name made blackhats shake in their damn boots." He spoke without a hint of pride, as though he were resigned to the fact that he would be easily recognized, but had tried to put such things behind him.

"And you? I heard a bit o' what you were splutterin' downstairs, but I can't say I caught your name. Only seems fair, since I told you mine and shared my drink. Hell, all you've done for me is kept me from a damn unpleasant whore and pointed a gun at my nethers. Now, either let me get back to my business, or see about explainin' yourself."

Abigail had the bottle gripped snug to the contour of her crotch, keeping the Colt aimed steady and following the backward path of the man until he was seated. At that point she lowered the gun back down, resting it on her thigh once more, though the barrel didn't cease to be directed at him. She held her peace, allowing him to finish his delivery without word or even the slightest hint of emotional expression that might interfere with his flow of reasoning.

She was more than well aware there wasn't a real man alive who wouldn't have felt his pride bitten by the ordering around of a little girl, no less at all for his manhood being placed into jeopardy in such a manner. It must have truly been tearing him up inside. Nevertheless, she had succeeded in doing exactly what she had intended. The Mustang had been tamed... for the moment, at least. She was furthermore somewhat inclined to honor another aspect of his self-control, or be it more a principle thing. Most men would have used her rather accurate placing of the bottle as no less than a perfect excuse to keep their eyes wondering to that region of her anatomy. He, however, did not. In fact, he had done a relatively stringent job of keeping his eyes on hers for the most part of his introduction. Still, she wasn't fully certain that he'd stop thinking with his head and start thinking with his penis if given the opportunity, especially now that his life wasn't in any immediate danger.

A little time was taken in developing a cordial response, leaving the room in relative silence for a minute or so. The only sounds to be heard were the ongoing of folk down in the saloon, blended awkwardly with moaning of the whores in nearby rooms while Abigail, keeping her unaffected stare on Reuben's eyes, started rocking that bottle back and forth real slow against her crotch.

" Your name ain't no secret," She confided, her voice mellow as a priest in a confession box; "You're reputation has managed to make the acquaintance of my ears on more than just one occasion. I suspect that's no surprise to a man of your reputation, be what I heard about ya to be true, or otherwise."

Reuben was then graced with the smallest hint of a short-lived smile, accompanied by what could have be considered a playful wink as she stilled the rocking of the bottle between her legs. Her slender fingers then slipped from its neck, raising her hand real slow to the pocket of her shirt and produced a fold of paper.

"Names Abigail Kate Clementine." Removing her other hand from the gun, she carefully began unfolded the paper as if it were some delicate, ancient parchment, all the while keeping her eyes fixed on Reuben. “As Fred or… The Ear was so deliberate to enlighten me on, I have no doubt gained my own reputation through my behavior over the prior six months. Seems folk in some places have given to calling me Colt Clementine. For the time be’n, I ain’t none too certain how that particular title sits with me, henceforth I’d appreciate it if you referred to me as Kate.”

Someone fired their pistol down in the Saloon, followed by a great deal of commotion, and Abigail waited till the commotion had settle considerably before re-commencing her speech.

"Recently I had the opportunity in obtaining the services of a certain artist to draw out this particular depiction for me. I should warn you upfront to prepare your eyes, since the face on this parchment might just reach the standard of being the ugliest son’va bitch you've ever seen in your life."

With the paper between her finger and thumb, she holds out the portrait for Reuben to take a good looking over, ensuring he had a good eyeful before commencing her tale with a sinister lowering of her voice:

"This here is Jacob Manning, also known as Nightmare Manning and the reason for my presence here today.” She pauses for just long enough to watch carefully at Reuben, see if his response was one given to familiarity of the face in question. “Jacob and his gang of equally distasteful scum arrived at my family’s home up in Nevada for no apparent reason’n and hanged my two brothers from an oak tree in our yard. They then shot a hole in my daddies head bout the size of a grapefruit. The sight of his brain kiss’n the deck of our porch, it be an image I see most ever night in my dreams. Them boys, however, didn’t stop at that. They had both me and my mother captive, make'n me watch while they strangled the life from her. I can still recall the words them boys were talk’n - making jokes and such - say’n how they better get her while her body was still warm. Needless to tell ya, that’s exactly what they did, hump’n her good and long till her body turned cold, at which point they commenced to taking their efforts out on me….”

Abigail lowered the picture of Jacob, folding it neatly to be placed back in her pocket while she continued the story.

“…If I recall correctly, there was most like nine men take’n their turns with me, and as you may have already deciphered, they weren’t none too gentle about it either. I blacked out before they were done. Don’t know how long they continued in the absence of my mind, and I don’t rightly know how long it was before I came to again, but Jacob and his boys had already gone and fled by that point. All that remained for me to see from my position on the kitchen floor was the stone cold stare of my mother’s dead eyes gaze'n back at me.”

It was then that Colt Clementine removed the Colt from her leg and placed it on the bed beside her, no longer having the barrel pointed at Reuben. She took up the bottle and had herself a good long swallow of its contents before sitting up straighter, back rested against the wall.

“Now… you informed me not just five minutes ago that vengeance, as you put it, ain’t no good thing to be pursue’n. But I do believe you may have missed the part where there is always an exception to the rule. Did you not, Luckshot?”

Leaning forward, she extended the bottle for Reuben to take off her hands.

“There’s really only one question I need be answered at this point. I see there be some Amerind blood course’n through them veins of yours, so it has me wonder’n just how good ya might be at track’n. That point out of the way, I so too am wonder’n if it be in your tendencies to oblige this young lady on her quest for retribution?”

The young woman-- Kate, as she introduced herself-- kept getting more intriguing. She was forthright, open, and yet simultaneously beguiling. Every action felt intentional, directed to create a different image of herself in his lowly-sobering eyes. The way she held the bottle, for example, rocking it slowly but actively against the meeting of her crotch was nothing if not suggestive. It drew his eyes, against his will. He chided himself for his improper focusing, but then changed his mind, letting his eyes wander over her appearance freely.

She was really quite an attractive little thing. She had clearly been through quite a bit, but instead of crumbling like stone, she had hardened like iron tempered in a forge. Her face wasn't old enough to be terribly wrinkled, but it did have some of the hardness that might be expected in an older woman. Somehow, as he examined her, the enormous pistol she had rested against her thigh seemed to fit her more and more. No wonder people called her by the gun's name, it seemed like an extension of her personality: menacing yet beautiful, cold yet observant. She carried the weapon as openly as she did her past, revealing it without hesitation when the moment demanded it. In every way possible, she was a far cry from the demure little housewives and tired, uninterested whores he had experience with. In a life filled with death, this girl was filled with vibrant life.

Somehow, through an enormous exertion of willpower, Reuben tore his eyes from the enticing figure before him. The bottle kept moving suggestively against her, but he dragged his unwilling eyes to her face, as she spoke once more, interrupted only momentarily by the sound of gunfire below them.

"Manning... Yeah, I've heard of the bastard. He's a particularly nasty fellow, from what I've been told." He was startled by the girl's wink more than the sound of the gunshot. Somehow it seemed more immediately threatening to him. He went quiet as Kate began recounting the horrific circumstances that had led to her search for vengeance.

He didn't have a response to the harrowing tale brought before him. He let out his breath slowly as she finished, her cheeks remarkably free of tears after the recounting. Her eyes seemed hard, at odds with the levity with which she spoke. This tale was clearly one on which she had dwelled significantly. He couldn't place by her age exactly how long ago it would have happened, but she had certainly suffered the effects for long enough that it had reshaped her entire worldview into something grim and humorless. It was remarkable that she was able to maintain such a strong front with something like that shadowing her. He shivered internally. He'd hate to be the man that did this one wrong. She seemed more than capable of fulfilling the threats she spat with vengeance and acidity.

Leaning forward somewhat in his seat, Reuben regarded the young woman carefully, scratching his chin contemplatively as he spoke. "I see. You were done wrong by these men, terribly wrong, and you want to be the one who exacts your revenge on them. A bit of vigilante justice, eh?" He smiled despite himself. Yes... this he could get behind. No good showing his hand so early, but the idea had a remarkable appeal.

As Kate finished off a sip of the drink, he adjusted his seating once more, though the reason was different. There was something enticing about seeing her drink from a bottle that had been so tightly nestled in the crook between her legs. He chided himself for thinking such, but made no effort to look away from the sight, accepting the bottle and downing a hearty swallow himself before setting it aside once more.

"Well. I'm not sure how t' take your callin' out of my heritage. I know plenty of men with indian blood who can't track worth shit. I'm not one of those men, luckily for you. I couldn't tell you if it's my Comanche grandmother or just a talent for it, but I imagine I would be mighty useful to someone like you." He smiled, though it didn't meet his eyes. "I wouldn't dare lie to you and say that your quest doesn't sound as worthy as any I've heard of. Retribution... yes, I admit, I like the sound of that." He slowly, carefully rose from the chair, tugging his trousers up a bit as he did. Fortunately, the pistol was still on the bed, rather than in the fearsome young woman's capable hand.

"I have some things to fetch from the stable first, and there is, of course, the matter of payment for my participation, but dammit..." He trailed off, a light coming into his eyes that gave him the look of someone years younger. "Yes, god damn it, I'll do it." He extended one callused hand before him to shake that of the girl's. "Kate Clementine, let's see about gettin' you some fuckin' retribution."

It had been quite some time since Abigail wore her heart on her sleeve, and regardless of the gladness she felt when seeing that revitalized glimmer in Reuben’s eyes, her face remained utterly impassive. She maintained her seat on the bed unmoving, the supple definitions of her face seeming sculpture-like as only her eyes followed Rueben’s path. He was, after all, no threat to her. The well-known stories of his past, his respectable reputation and present conversation included, warranted no need for further caution, at least not in… certain regards.

Reuben, however, was still a man, and Abigail hadn’t allowed a man to touch her for coming on many months now. The last man to try and go taking her by the hand had ended up in the shallowest of graves. It was natural for a young lady to crave contact with the opposite of genders from time to time, but the condition of her heart, so be it her disdain toward men, had managed to abstain of such cravings. Nevertheless, she did at this time feel the necessity, or be it the obligation, to meet with Reuben’s deal-closing gesture. He couldn’t have known that by doing something so simple as shaking his hand would make this sole occasion whereof she had any variety of contact with a man, since making the acquaintance of Jacob Manning and his boys.

For the first time since he entered her room, Colt Clementine’s eyes dropped from contact with Reuben’s and fell upon the grizzly extension of his paw. There they remained, staring as if she were looking upon a foreboding darkness. Her cute little button-nose nostrils flared along with her eyes, the sound of her teeth grinding clearly heard as she remembered to breathe. Some sufferable moments later, she forced herself to move, extending her reach to his.

The firm heat of his grasp enclosed her own small hand like a glove. She froze, captured by the callused folds and sweaty textures of his grip. Her body shuttered at his touch. A sharp pain stabbed her heart. She felt the warmth of her blood rush her face. Prickles gamboled on her cheeks. The creeping of non-existent fingertips made their way down to the small of her back, causing her to shift like someone had given her an unwelcome tickle. Her facade had been compromised – the realization of which crafted a cooling flush of relief to then come over her, and in that instant, somehow, her power had been enforced. Her eyes, detached of emotion once more, shot back up to meet Reuben’s as she gave his large hand a firm shake.

At the appropriate timing, she pulled away, yet not abruptly so. She found herself unexpectedly savoring the contact. Her soft, delicate touch danced awkwardly over the contours of his palm and down the length of his fingers as she slowly pulled free of his grip, and then sat herself back against the wall with perceptual ease.

“No need to ru -” She slapped her mouth shut mid-sentence, acknowledging the fact that her voice had the trembles, and took a few shallow, calming breaths before continuing with her prior, unfettered tone. “No need to rush. We’ll be head'n out at dawn, so I’ll be expecting you’d be take’n some precious time with them whores and getting yourself some shuteye before we depart.”

She gracefully returned the Colt to the platform of her thigh while using her other hand to brush back a fall of hair behind her ear. It was so, her hardened disposition and manner of speaking may have given some folk the false impression she was older than she actually was, even to the point of eluding their visual perceptions - but for anyone absent the knowledge of said applications, the silk of her skin, the absence of blemish, the largish of her eyes, and the curved softness of her jawline had no way of establishing her appearance a day over fifteen. By strictly all visual and thus deceptive accounts, Colt Clementine was the sweetest little thing to be viewing.

“I have no intention of shirk’n payment for any services rendered. I ain’t expect’n any man to make his mark in my life for pure satisfaction of do’n a just deed for a tender little filly. So don’t you worry none at all about your worldly treasures, you’ll be no less than well compensated for your talents and time. My word is my honor, secure as houses on stone.”

She gives Ruben a deliberate looking up and down, narrowing one eye with some finalizing scrutiny.

“And just one last thing….” She smiles. This act was unlike her prior effort, and could have been coveted as the most attractive gift in all of God’s grand creation. It was enough for a eunuch to feel the lure of. “Welcome back to the living, Mr. Luckshot.”

While her smile ran away, a short wave of her Colt turns Reuben’s attention toward the exit.

“Be sure to close the door on your way out.”

For all that the handshake may have meant to Kate, to Reuben, it was far less. That wasn't to say that he didn't appreciate it; it signified the start of a partnership, and the hand itself was also surprisingly smooth, wrapped up in his own. That concerned him, frankly. If this girl, fearsome though she was, had such soft hands, it hinted at the potential for softness elsewhere. Reuben had agreed to help her in her quest for vengeance, but he'd be damned if he was going to drag a prim little girl through the roughs. The West was known for its wildness, but on the trail, living in the elements... they could test even the toughest. From fending off coyotes to roving bandits, it was a wilderness that allowed for the worst of mankind to flourish.

No need to rush? He could deal with that. He'd paid good money for that whore. It wouldn't do to waste the time he'd bought. The extra time would give him a chance to get his things together, too. He'd stayed in enough rooms here that it could take a good long while.

Something rubbed him wrong as he withdrew his hand. He had trouble nailing it down, until Kate repeated herself. Her voice was shaking a bit... either she was ready for vengeance, and couldn't wait for it, or she really was a normal person, with emotions and all that shit. He looked her up and down again, this time with less restrained lust, and more curiosity. How old was the girl? She talked like a full-blown deputy, but she was soft and small, like a youth. If he had to guess, he'd peg her at fifteen or so. Certainly too young for him to be looking at her the way he had been. He chided himself, but didn't worry about it too much. He was drunk, he could be excused some indiscretions.

As the girl welcomed him "back to life," he realized something startling. If he really went through with this, Luckshot was indeed back. Somehow, though he'd fought for so long to leave that reputation behind, he didn't mind too terribly to be stepping back into those boots. It'd been too long, he now realized. Perhaps he was getting older, but Luckshot was a part of him, sure as his Comanche heritage and knack for being in the wrong place at the right time.

"Yeah... thanks for that." He didn't know what else to say. This girl kept surprising him, kept being more than she seemed, even as he adjusted his opinions accordingly. "Dawn is agreeable to me. If you aren't ready by then, though, forget it. If I'm Luckshot now, my time is worth plenty." He pushed the chair to one side, looking away suddenly as the girl smiled, smiled with such intensity that he was forced once more to redirect his thoughts. You're a dirty old man, Reuben. She's half your age, probably even less. Keep it in your pants.

The door closed more quietly than seemed fitting, and he realized he'd left his bottle behind. That was all right by him. He'd had enough in the last few days, and it might do the girl some good to have a couple swallows in her. Might loosen her up a bit, make her smile like that again. Damn, she had quite a smile.

Reuben was met with a contrast to the youthful, vibrant personality of Kate as he opened his door once more. In comparison to Kate, the whore he'd hired, whose name escaped him completely, just seemed... sad. Her breasts sagged like pendulums, her skin was just a bit too loose, and the makeup was far from enough to cover the wrinkles around her mouth and eyes. The scent of stale booze didn't help either.

He had to give her credit for her willingness, as she dropped to her knees before him, pawing at his belt as though wishing to skip any middleman and take his gold as quickly as possible. Normally he would have given in, taken his money's worth, but the contrast was too much. He pushed the woman away, sending her from his room with but a few terse words. He didn't want to explain his emotions, and he would be better able to prepare for the journey without the old bag filling up the space. She left with a grumble, but left all the same, and in the quiet room, Reuben became Luckshot Caerwynn.

First, he trimmed his beard to a neat, short stubble. He washed his face and hair, then went about dressing once more. The clothes he'd been in were all but ruined, stained nearly beyond repair. Fortunately, he had a clean shirt in a drawer, and after pulling it and a patched, but serviceable pair of trousers on, he tucked his derringer into his breast pocket holster. Next was a thick leather belt, tooled with weaving lines, like a snake's trail on the sand. From that hung a holster and a sheath; the first for his pistol, the last for his bowie knife. The shotgun hung from a leather strap, to be slung over one shoulder once he was actually ready to go.

One final check in the mirror, and he was satisfied. He pulled on the heavy buckskin overcoat, his shield against knives and inclimate weather alike, and finally topped it all off with his turquoise-beaded hat. That'd have to do.

Dressed this way, his shotgun leaned against the bed, he lay back, hat tipped over his face, and caught a few hours of sleep, before his internal clock forced him awake.

The sun hadn't yet begun to rise when Reuben crept quietly down the stairs to the stable. He had his shotgun slung over his shoulder, and was pleased to see that his horse, a paint-patterned mare he'd picked up a couple of years back.

"Hey, girl..." He murmured the words softly, rubbing the horse's neck, his voice totally devoid of its usual gruffness. "Sorry I haven't made it down here in a while. Been right busy drinkin' myself to death. You know how it is. But it looks like we'll have some work now, so you'll be gettin' some exercise. 'Bout time, too." He fed the creature a handful of oats, then gave it one more pat on the neck for good measure. He looked up at the horizon, determined to head out whether or not the girl showed up. If she did, he had a job. If not... well, he'd been in this town too long anyway. It'd do him good to have a trip, even a brief one.

Once Reuben no less than politely shut the door after him, Abigail remained waiting on the bed for him to return for the bottle he’d left behind. Surprisingly, only a little time passed before she heard Reuben ridding himself of the whore in his room in a not so pleasant manner. Thin walls. A minute or two after that, she heard the whore tramping past her own door on rout back down to the saloon.

“He ain’t coming back for his bottle….” She uttered with the forming of a grin and the narrowing of her eyes, fixated curiosly on the friend he’d so easily forsaken. It was surprising just how many discrepancies came to the mind from this one act alone; one minute he’s given to drink and whoring, next minute he’s the preacher’s son. Now Abigail didn’t mind the prospect of a man giving up his sordid ways for a noble cause, of sorts, but she hadn’t come down in the last rainfall either. She was more than well aware of the grip the bottle can have on a man, far be it the man on the bottle. Given this unstable behavior, which may have very well been a common and repeated practice for a man of weak will, it was all very likely a sobering sleep would have him thinking twice about the decision he made tonight. But then… maybe he’d manage to surprise her once again. Either way it didn’t really matter none, if he succeeded in letting her down, she could always just go on ahead and find someone with more of a stable inclination to fill his boots.

As for Abigail, well, sleeping wasn’t on the agenda for the time being. She’d done enough of that in the wilderness two miles out of town earlier that day. Right now she had herself some further business to conduct. Kicking her feet from the bed she sat up, holstering her colt, rubbing her legs, gazing out at the darkness through the open shutter of the window, giving careful foresight to her next due course of action. …Things were gonna get dirty.

She slipped on her black leather gloves.

---

Audrey Springs. Higgins General Store, 10:45 PM.

“We’re closed!"

John Higgins was a little more than startled at the thumping on his door. He stood stricken for a moment, one arm stacked with packaged beef jerky he’d been replenishing the rack on his service counter with. He had to consider his situation for a moment, confirming in his own mind that it was, indeed, well past the hours of trading.

“You’ll have to come back in the morning! You hear?”

A second, louder rapping at the door did not cease to alarm John, this time causing the cradled jerky to loose from his arm. The packaged meat was still settling in a scattered mess on the floor when he turned and unhooked the rifle from the wall. Kicking the jerky from his path, he edged his way to the end of the counter, crouching in the shadow of the rack he had been aiming to replenish.

“I told you already!” He hollered, unable to hide his trembles. “Trading Post is closed for this day. We will be open again at eight in the AM. I would be much obliged if you were kind enough to return at that time!”

A third procession of heavy rapping rattled the door in its frame, but this time the knocking was followed up by a females voice calling in at him –

“Mr. I need your help! Please open this door – I’m in a desperate situation out here!”

John was not good at determining a person’s age by their voice alone, but this particular voice had no doubt been born of a lady in her youth. Despite its nonthreatening appeal, he did not recognize the voice as any of his many acquaintances in the town Audrey Springs. Still, the age and gender of the visitor was enough have him loosen his grip on the rifle, just a smidgen, as his posture straightened some as well. He stepped out from the shadow, angling his head to stare curiously down the aisle. Unfortunately, the nightlight lantern dangling from the ceiling did not prove successful in illuminating any image beyond the upper glass fixture of the doorframe.

“Desperate or no, Miss….” John took two paces toward the door; “You will need to return in the morning or go seek assistance at the saloon across the way.”

“I can’t do that!” She replied, her voice distinct with panic. “I’m just a young girl – I be scared of them folks! Please, Mr. I need your help right straight! Me and my parents were attacked by bandits some distance out of town. I’ve ran all this way. My daddy be dead. My mamma be wounded and bleed’n bad. I do not expect you to leave the safety of your home, but I would be in your debt if you allowed me take some supplies. I need be tending to my mother’s wounds.”

“This is a trading post, Miss! It is not my duty to be tending to such drama. You will be needing to see the sheriff about that!”

“I have already attempted to do just that!” The girl paused before commencing, the anxiety in her voice rising a considerable amount; “But the sheriff did not answer my calling. I do believe he’s otherwise occupied at this time, which is why I am at your very door – I am asking for your help, Mr. Please have mercy. My mother does not have all night. If you could please just find in your heart to help.”

John continued to edge ever closer to the door, one finger tapping the forestock of his riffle in careful deliberation. “How do I know you’re not accompanied by others, little Miss? I’ve been beguiled before on none too few occasions. Now be gone with ya! Return in the morning or head on over to the saloon. I’m confident you’d find a man or two there willing to help a young lady like yourself.”

At the closing of his words, John could hear the girl beginning to cry, her tone breaking with emotion and sniffling back a breath between each pleading phrase she spoke; "I-I’m just s-so scared right now, Mr. …My daddy always told me not to enter them s-saloons alone…. But he’s all dead now, he is…. I’m really, really scared – please…. All I need is a little help. ….Please don’t let my mamma die as well.”

“Shit…” John completed his creeping to the door, bringing his face right close to the glass as to take a good look outside. He couldn’t view anything at first, not until he rolled his eyes down to see just one small person standing there. She had her head hung low, the top of her hat being all he could see, that, and a portion of her shoulder, which faintly displayed the shrugs of her continued sobbing. “You sure you’re all alone, little Miss?”

Th-that I am…. Please just help me, Mr…. My daddy be dead….”

Taking a step back, John lowered his rifle in one hand and fished the key from his pant pocket with the other. With the key in hand, he paused for an instant, calming his nerves before unlocking the door, leaving the key in the hole as he turned the handle. The door swung open in a hurry as the young lady rushed her way through the threshold, head still lowered as she passed him by. He swiftly shut the door behind her, locked it, and then turned around to meet the barrel of a gun staring him dead in the eye.

John let out a long, shaken sigh as he just then realized he’d been beguiled once again. That was the third time this month someone had managed to get the better of his bleeding heart in some manner or another. As his eyes shifted from the barrel in his face, he took focus on the girl. She was standing side-on, feet apart, face covered by a neckerchief, dry eyes barely visible in the shadow of her hat.

“Well, God damn it all to hell, you shifty bitch….”

“To be perfectly honest with ya…” She replied, her softly rasped voice no longer exhibiting the vaguest hint of emotion; “…getting past your door was harder than I had anticipated. So Kudos to you, Mr.” Her gloved finger gently caressed the trigger, barrel steady as any man could hold on target. “Now listen real close to my words. You attempt make’n a peep or raise that there rifle against me, and I’ll decorate your shop with them brains of yours. Now here’s what I want you to do….. You’re gonna extend that arm real slow and place that weapon on the counter. Then, without even so much as one word from your mouth, you’re gonna take two steps to your left and lay yourself face down on the floor. After that, you’re gonna place your hands behind your back and bend them knees of yours. Give me a nod of that ugly head if you understand.”

Johns face had become pale, a tickle of sweat was beading its way down his forehead, a tear of humility in his eye as he regrettably nodded confirmation. Following this, he did just as she had suggested. She may have just been a young woman, and none one too big a girl at that, but her unprecedented whit and cold words had him taking no chances with his life. This clearly wasn’t her first armed holdup.

Abigail kept her colt steadily aimed until John had laid himself down as specified. She then fetched a length of rope, made herself a double noose knot, and thread both of his hands through the nooses before tying the loose ends to his ankles.

“More ya struggle the tighter them knots’ll get.” She tells him, commencing her prowling of the store. “Now just hold tight and quiet like. I’ll be gone before you know it.”

The only utterings John made were a few little grunting sobs while Abigail took her pick of certain foodstuffs and other essentials, including a pretty sum of dollars from the cash drawer. She stuffed most of the contents in a cloth sack and, as a last little spoil, grabbed a handful of lemon flavored penny candy from a jar on the service counter. She shoved the candy in her trouser pocket.

Before leaving she stood above John, boots almost touching his face as she peered down at him. “Thank you for your hospitality, Mr. Rest assured, I‘ll be reimburse’n everything I owe at some point in the future. I’m a woman of my word – Now don’t go get'n it your head to be blabber'n about all this to any lawman at all. If you do that, the only reason I’ll be return'n is to put a slug in your head. Do I make myself perfectly clear?”

“Wait on just a minute….” John finally found the audacity to speak again, given he figured that one last question wouldn’t be any real issue; “Who in the hell are you, anyway?”

Abigail let out a tiny laugh, though more of mocking one as she stooped down to gag him with a rolled up sock and a cut of cloth. “Wouldn’t be none too sharp of me to be share'n my name with ya, would it, Mr?” Standing up, and since the dirty job of contact was now well and truly over with, she tugged her gloves from her hands and let herself out.

---

A short time before sunrise.

While Reuben was reacquainting himself with his horse, he heard the trot of hooves come to a halt in the doorway of the stable behind him. The identity of the horse and its rider were not evident, silhouetted by the flame of a lamppost outside. Regardless of their details being completely hidden in the black of their profile, it was clear by their size and proportions that the rider was not Kate. They were certainly a man, slouched in his saddle and wearing a broken down broad brim hat, handle of a riffle jotting up from his back, quietly staring long enough for Reuben to understand he was being inspected. Once Reuben had become aware of this, the dark rider continued his eerie watch for a while longer before straightening in his saddle, turned his horse around, and then rode off slowly into what was left of the night.

---

Less than a mile out of town, Abigail was stationary, nestled in her saddle upon the first crest of the southbound track, watching the initial gray tint of dawn beyond the hills to the east of town.

-It was a tad funny in a cute kind of way, being such a small rider on that large, Thoroughbred stallion. Most folk might be inclined to say that Jack was too much horse for a girl like her, but she didn’t give god damn what people thought about it. She loved that horse more than life itself, and the horse loved her just as much straight back. Gender and species aside, Jack and Abigail had a great deal in common – two peas in a pod, one might say; they both had an attitude, they were both very smart, neither of them really trusted anybody, and they both had a certain disdain toward men. Truth is, Abigail was the first person he had ever let ride him. He was a loyal beast, following her everywhere, heeded without prompting and obeyed her every command. In a sense, their relationship was the darnedest thing, magical in a certain way of thinking-

When the sun at last peaked over the eastern hills, she was gently stroking Jack’s mane and talking real soft, relaying her doubts about Reuben ever actually turning up like he said he would. She had decided not to wait around in town, of course, since she didn’t feel it too wise to be hanging around in the morning after robbing the trading post, but she also didn’t see it as much of an issue – If Reuben was just a smidgen of the tracker he claimed to be, there wouldn’t be a problem locating her current position.

Saddlebags fat with provisions, the fresh scent of honeysuckle in the air, and the smallest little welling of a tear in her eye, Abigail waited as long as she was willing before giving up on Reuben – that being until the sun had revealed its whole body in the sky - then took to commencing her journey south…. Just herself and Jack alone, trotting on their way at a brisk, steady pace.

Though Reuben had plenty of vices, from a love of alcohol to a fondness for loose women (especially tight loose women), he did have a few strengths. One of these was patience. Hunting required it, tracking required it... hell, most anything worth doing was worth waiting for. The difference here was that Reuben had already seen each of these things pay off: tracking gave him his quarry, hunting gave him food for a week or so. He hadn't had any luck at it himself, but by all reports, gold panning could pay off beautifully if you had the patience.

Waiting for a spite-filled girl to get her makeup ready and her panties straightened was far from any of these. Reuben had little interest in waiting as long as that, and felt that he'd been plenty clear with his instructions. Dawn, he'd said. Well. It was a good stretch past dawn now, and no sign of the girl.

He couldn't claim to be surprised. Maybe he'd hoped that the girl would be more than she'd seemed, but if he was perfectly straightforward with himself, the girl's soft hands and youthful face had been enough to set his opinion from the start. She'd seemed like more for a moment, but that moment had passed.

That was fine. He had prepared for such an eventuality. With a grunt of effort, he swung up onto the paint mare, muttering "Well, Poppy. Looks like this is it for us in this town. Can't say I'll miss it terribly, though there's something to be said about a soft bed and a cold drink." He looked forlornly at the slim flask at his belt. "We'll just have to be careful with our usin' of what supplies we've got. C'mon, now. Off y'go."

The mare wasn't as young as she had once been, but she was no tired, plodding beast, either. Before long, nothing but dust and sun remained behind them. Reuben bounced lightly in the saddle, shotgun sheathed at his left, in a saddle-holster. It was a quiet trail, for a main one out of town. Oddly quiet, though he supposed that there wasn't much reason for anyone to leave home this time of the day. Hell, he would have left sooner if he hadn't wasted his time waiting on the young woman.

He shook his head, dismissing the youth from his mind. It had seemed like a promising path for him to tread again, but oh, well. Life goes on; perhaps it was best if Luckshot stayed dead.

As Poppy trod slowly over the well-worn trail, Reuben began to feel his suspicious rising again. It was faint, but off to the sides of the path, and marked into the dirt itself, were the faint traces of someone having passed in the last few hours. It was light enough that most would have missed it, but then, Reuben had never been blessed with a lack of observance. He cursed quietly as he turned Poppy slightly away from the main trail, following the faint sub-trail. Either the girl had decided to test him, or she had changed her mind about having him work with her. Either way, he'd be following her trail. It wouldn't do to set up the precedent that the famed Luckshot missed trails, especially those of people he'd encountered before.

The trail itself grew a bit easier to track once he picked up on his target's quirks. It was like the tells you find as an experienced gambler, just faint enough to escape an inexperienced gaze, and keyed to the individual. After a few miles, he could have picked out this trail as belonging to the target even among a dozen others. Hopefully it led him to the girl, though if it didn't... well. That would be yet another adventure.

By his estimate, Reuben had only left a few hours after Kate, maybe even less than that. Even so, catching up wasn't easy, and every sign pointed to the fact that the girl rode at a surprisingly capable pace. Hours passed swiftly, and the sun rose to its zenith, then began to creep slowly across the sky. Poppy kept doggedly onward, her pace never slacking, and Reuben found himself reaching for his canteen more and more.

Finally, a faint plume of dust was visible. It grew, bit by bit, slowly in the center of Reuben's field of vision, and with a soft "Yah!" to Poppy, he rode toward it. The plume resolved into a silhouetted figure the closer he rode, and eventually, his suspicions were confirmed. As sure as he was fed up with the sun, the figure ahead of him was Abigail Kate Clementine, The insufferable young woman herself. With a pat on Poppy's shoulder, he slowed her just a hair, then rode quietly to the young woman's side.

"So. I see you decided to leave on your own terms." By now he was neck-and-neck with his supposed partner. "I thought you wanted company on this mission of yours." He had been drinking from his canteen all day, but as a sign of his view of his potential employer, he instead reached for his flask, unscrewing the tin cap with his thumb, and then taking a healthy swig from the thin bottle. "We ought to clarify something, 'fore you go and get me killed because you figured it was easier than telling me about some bastard waiting behind some door later on." He pocketed his flask once more.

"You're paying me to help you find retribution. You hired me, instead of some sad fucker in that inn. Your options were plentiful enough, but you chose me, drunk, washed-up has-been or no. I'm not clear on how much you know about me, but I'm sure someone, at some time, has told you something of my reputation. I worked alone for fifteen years. Fifteen years. Before that, I had a partner, but she wasn't dumb enough to do things without running it by me first. Now, if you want to act on instinct or somethin' like that, be my guest. But don't go riding off without me because you couldn't be bothered to take a moment to find me."

He went silent for a long moment, realizing he'd been talking for much longer than he usually did. He took a breath, then continued, to his actual point. "I saw someone, this morning. At dawn, when I was readyin' Poppy here. Didn't get a look at his face, but he was wearin' black, or something damn close. Can't say I recognized him, but he looked like bad news. If that means anything to you, you'd best tell me. I hope I've made that clear enough for you."

Jack was aware of Reuben’s approach first. His brisk trot became a little offbeat, he grunted and shot a blast of air from his nostrils, informing Abigail of the soon-to-have company. She tensed a little inwardly, keeping her cool facade, not even looking back while continuing on her path, now listening at the sound of the horse and rider closing in from behind.

It wasn’t obviously Reuben, but whoever it was didn’t pose any immediate threat, since Jack would have reacted differently had he picked up on any reason for further warning. He was intuitive like that. Still, she did take the precaution of placing one hand on her Colt until Reuben strode up alongside and made his identity known. He immediately started yacking. Apparently, a little travel time gets his tongue to wagging more than what was fitting for a man of his stature. Nevertheless, the man had done himself a little physical upkeep since she’d viewed him last, the trimming of his beard being one of those things. He wasn’t half bad looking to be honest about it and, in contempt of his grooming, managed to keep his ruggedly masculine appeal.

– Life was funny like that. Despite what Jacob Manning and his gang had done to her and her family, Abigail hadn’t lost her physical attraction for men, especially those a little on the older, rugged side. In fact, in some peculiar way, that traumatizing experience may have even had an influence on the contrary to what one might expect. Not that she’d ever be willing to tell anybody that, or even admit it to herself –

She eased back on Jack, allowing Reuben and herself to keep an easier pace together, but she gave Reuben no more than a nod and a fleeting glance to acknowledge his presence. Otherwise she didn’t respond, not so much as an expression to break her cool, that was until he happened to mention the dark stranger he had seen earlier –

Her complexion paled a touch, lips parted slightly, eyes widened. It wasn’t too dramatic, maybe no more than the look of someone who just realized they left the stove burning before leaving the house that morning. It would have however been enough for Reuben to take note of her concern. Oddly enough, she avoided remarking on Reuben’s query, instead reverting to a former topic he had passed by. Her facial expression relaxed to its former cool state as she spoke:

“I waited just out of town till the sun was clear up. Had myself a tad issue prevent'n me from wait'n at a more convenient placing.” She gives Reuben a portioned smile. “Good to see you had no problem track’n me along this single path.” Inspecting Reuben’s mare genially for a moment, she adds; “Jack still has his stud danglers about him, so I’m guess’n he might try mounting that fine gal of yours at some point.” She laughed real lightly, possibly amused by her own stroke of humor. “In any case, I’m glad you made it. Bout time a man had his own balls in tack enough to make an effort under these circumstances. Shows suitable poise in my book.”

Regardless of her banter and persistent cool demeanor, Reuben’s mentioning of the dark stranger had not escaped her thoughts. She inevitably returned to the topic, bit her lip for a second, then shifted a disquisitive glance in Reuben’s general direction.

“I ain’t gonna sully the truth of the matter, I know I’m at a sweet age and not too bad to be look’n at for any man. Gal like me riding alone as I have, it’s bound to attract a hot blooded stalker or two along the way. Don’t let it worry you none at all.” The fact that she was holding back information, yet wasn't at all intimidated by Reuben's blunt interest, may have been evident by her following inquisition;

“Did he have himself a riffle - hat seen well more than its fair share of use?”

While she’s asking the question, Abigail Kate drew a pocket size bottle of whisky from her saddlebag and extended it to Reuben. “Since I’m doubt'n we’ll be making it to the next town before nightfall and we will no doubt be required to set up camp out here - and see’n you’re highly unlikely to be using my prime body for comfort at this point - I’ve taken it upon myself to provide a different variety of sleep’n aid for ya.” Strapped with string to the bottle was a crisp hundred dollar bill. “I’ll be give’n ya the rest of the payment once the job is done.”