DAKOTA RAWHIDE BOOK 1 MS

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DAKOTA RAWHIDE
“GENUS: Panthera” part 1

Seth Sandoval squinted at the figures silhouetted by the heavy halogen bulbs. They were sweating him. Fucking Feds were always such drama queens. “Yeah, I remember her. Passed through here ‘bout three months gone. So?”

“Where’d she go,” demanded the figure on the right in a nasally monotone.

“Fuck if I know. Rode in outta the snow from who knows where. Ain’t nothin’ out there but rock and gasses that’ll make you green ‘fore you start bleeding out yer or’phices. Rode in on a horse, mind, not no auto-mule or nothin’. A real horse. Spirited thing, sleek as a silver bullet, pale as a moon stone.” He sat back and fancied how many bedrooms the animal could buy him. “What do y’all care? Interpol tryin’ to capture their own money now?”

The two figures put their heads together and whispered too low for Sandoval to hear, though he strained to do just that. He tried to look nonchalant as he leaned forward to listen. When he still couldn’t hear a thing, he gave up and tapped one of his well-worn leather boots on the packed dirt floor of the little shack that acted as a makeshift interrogation cell. He took off his wool-lined trench coat and slung it over a chair-back. He had already begun to sweat through his fitted button-up, and his fraying jeans had seen better, cleaner days. Sandoval’s sandy-blonde hair hung in limp, sweaty curls around his brows and ears, and his three-day stubble started to itch. He scratched it unconsciously with a hand be-ringed in plain, heavy brass, a couple of which sported a garnet or two. It was irking him. These Fed bastards had caught him in the middle of a job. Seth hated feeling so disheveled while being interrogated. He loosened the scarf that covered two long, puckered scars, one on either side of his neck. He idly fingered one of them as he thought about what the girl might have done to attract Interpol’s attention. That lot did not usually trouble themselves with Range Moon bounties. They left those to the Hunters, like himself. Seth grunted at the heat pouring from the lights. He didn’t think he would ever wish for the icy air and the snow outside, but those lights were beginning to test him.

“How’d she escape?” asked the figure on the left.

“Ay?” said Sandoval, caught off guard.

“You gotta be just dumb as a rock to let a little girl like that git ‘way from ya’,” nasalled the figure on the right.

“I wonder if you boys’re thinkin’ you can just clap her in irons and she’ll come along, pretty as you please…?”

“We got a couple more men waitin’ in orbit to-”

Sandoval barked a laugh and sat back in his chair. “A couple? Really, that many? You may be all high an’ mighty, well-to-do and whatnot, but you sure as shit don’t know everything. I don’t know who you think you’re goin’ after, boys, but I do know someone let you off the apron strings too soon. That little filly’ll hand you back yer balls ‘fore you can squeeze off two rounds.”

“Don’t worry ‘bout us, Hunter,” said right-man, nasally smug.

“Oh, I ain’t worried. Don’t much care for your kind ‘cept for you payin’ the bounties an’ all. Four less Feds might even make the stars shine a little brighter.” He gave a toothy grin to show he did not give a damn if he offended them one way or another.

“There’s only one o’ her. And she’ll die from a bullet just like anyone else,” grated left-man. He shrugged slightly, adjusting his blazer. No doubt they were stifling in the heat of the lights.

Sandoval nodded agreement and leaned forward again. “True. But let me tell you somethin’ ‘bout Miss Rawhide an’ her uncanny way of just not bein’ where the bullets hit.”  Sandoval settled into the rickety chair and folded his hands in front of him on the table. Both pieces of furniture creaked under his weight and the little shack did the same as the wind pushed in from the east. “As I said, she didn’t ride in from the city or the tarmac, she came from the snow an’ the drifts…”

*

The snow blew in powdery waves that were pushed westward by the seemingly ever-present east wind. When one wave settled, a few minutes found another one following. One such duster passed to reveal a lone rider trotting in from the north. No one ever arrived from the north. Twenty miles would find you entering a Red Zone where the terraforming had not yet taken effect. Noxious gasses would kill within minutes, either from inhalation or simply by melting away the skin like a plastic bag on a hotplate. The rider was swathed in a fur-lined rain poncho the color of dark charcoal, and jeans pulled down over fitted, leather and mesh boots. Everything was that same dark charcoal except for a white scarf wrapped around the rider’s nose and mouth. The wide-brim of a flat-crowned hat was pulled right down on top of dark glasses. Just visible under the poncho was a thin belt that held a suede holster to the thigh, and a rifle scabbard was slung through the saddle girth.

People stepped away from their daily activities, stood in doorways of shops, peered out of windows, or leaned against railings to scrutinize the stranger. Perseus, the main city on Eurobos Moon, was several miles to the south, yet this drifter was wandering in from the opposite direction. Small settler caravans and the occasional government vehicles might arrive in Red Rock, but a stranger on horseback was something entirely new. Nobody there could afford a horse. There were some beat up auto-mules and choppers, and other hovercrafts of a larger variety for hauling ore and supplies, but it was doubtful if any of the onlookers had even seen a real flesh and blood horse before.

Seth Sandoval stepped out of the saloon to see what everybody was staring at. He grunted as the icy air filled his lungs. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the general white and gray, then he saw the rider on the north end of town. He blinked at the horse. He doubted any of the gawkers really knew what they were seeing. Even for his keen eyes it was difficult to tell through the snowdrifts. Sure they knew it was a horse, but he doubted if they knew the animal was worth more than everything in their crappy little town, people included. Sandoval had been all over the Range Moons. He’d even been to the Centre, Andromeda IX, where only the wealthy in their unwritten caste lived in their beloved tropics and temperates. Sandoval knew his horses and knew an Arabian when he saw one. A purebred like that, the opalescent gray of a moonstone, a deep chest that spoke of endurance, and the proud neck and light step of a bride after her wedding night, was probably worth more than one of the terraforming refineries. Pure breeds of anything these days were rare. If someone could afford that kind of animal, what in the blazes were they doing in a run-down pueblo town like Red Rock? What were they doing on any of the Ranges?

Sandoval turned toward the warmth of the saloon and his whiskey, but whipped his gaze back to study the rider. He had passed the figure over as simply being small, but something about the sinuous roll of the hips in time with the gate of the horse caught his eye. It was the slender hands that decided him. He didn’t need the black, rawhide whip hanging off the saddle pommel, or the heavy silver earrings lined with tiny silver bells to tell him who he was looking at. He grinned wolfishly and stepped back inside.

Geary, a bear of a man with black whiskers covering his head, looked up from the poker game with stark blue eyes as Sandoval sat himself at the table again. “What’s all the to-do, boss?” asked Geary in his gravely voice. Sandoval smiled.

“Oh, only about a quarter mil sittin’ atop the finest piece o’ horseflesh ever foaled in this here universe.” He grinned again, beside himself with glee. The eight men in his crew just stared at him. He silently swore and, not for the first time, wondered why he did not take on a brighter lot. Well, bright or not, they were dead shots, every one. And they were too stupid to run when their lives were in danger, except, perhaps, The Prince and Ghost Keener. They just didn’t care overmuch about anything or anyone. “She’s here. Right here in Red Rock an’ her new warrant barely finished downloadin’.” They just blinked and said nothing. He shook his head again at their boundless ignorance. He whipped out his phone, punched a button and out popped a holographic figure, text scrolling beside her, and in extreme bold letters over her head: WANTED, $250,000 Reward. “Rawhide, you dumbasses! The seamstress filly that done in the Baron on Paris and the Wheltiers.” He barely got the sentence out before all his men were crowded in the window staring at the horse and rider as they moved slowly past the saloon. They had all heard the stories. Rawhide was something of a growing legend. They did not know her real name, she was just Rawhide, on account of her dexterity with the twelve foot whip that now hung coiled off the saddle.

“Damn. That there is a fine lookin’ woman,” said Stork Owens, thin as a reed and quick as a snow-cat. He gave a low whistle.

“Ye can’t ev’n see nothin’ of ‘er ya dumb ass,” said Hal in his slow drawl. Hal was a well-built young man, no more than mid twenties, but he’d seen more than most men twice his age. He had grown up working the Ranges and their towns, punching cattle, fixing heavy hovercrafts and the smaller auto-mules, hiring out as a mercenary sharpshooter, and doing any other job that came his way.
“I got’st imaginin’s…” mumbled Stork Owens. The rest of the gang was silent.

Sandoval watched her pass, standing well back from the saloon door. What serendipity! He only meant to stop in Red Rock for two or three days to restock his ship, and the universe saw fit to drop Rawhide right in his lap. He grinned again.

*

“You could’a taken her right there,” said left-man. Sandoval blinked at them in turn.

“Shoot her from the shadows? Shoot her in the back like a yellow-bellied Fed; all craven and gutless like y’all? Reckon you boys don’t know me very well.” Right-man walked around the table and leaned over Sandoval.

“You keep flappin’ yer tongue at us, Hunter, and we’re likely gonna cut it out.” Sandoval got his first good look at the Fed. He had sun-dark skin except where his beard would have grown. There the skin was pale. His suit was well worn, and there were sweat stains on the collar of his white shirt. He wondered if the Feds were hurting that badly for cash. They could not even keep their shirts starched and white anymore.

Sandoval chuckled. “Yeah, well, you go shootin’ someone all gutless like that, only reward you’re like to see is the golden rope ‘round yer neck right b’fore the justice mob lynches you.”

“Scared of a few peasants, ay?” chided right-man as he shifted his feet.

“I don’t shoot folks in the back. And I especially don’t shoot women folks in the back. I don’t shoot any folks that ain’t shootin’ at me. ‘Sides, she’s worth ten K more alive.” Sandoval cleared his throat as right-man resumed his place near the blinding bulbs. “Course I might’ve repondered that notion if someone had told me b’fore that she could thread a needle a mile off with that Devil Star.”

“Devil Star?” graveled left-man, mockingly, shrugging his shoulders.

“Her fuckin’ rifle you back-water dumb-ass. Shit, you boys don’t know nothin’ do ya’? Go back home, son. Little filly’s gonna put a hole through that pretty little head o’ yours. And I can’t say I’d be sad over much if she did.”

“You sound like yer on her side, Hunter,” nasaled right-man softly.

“And y’all don’t much sound like yer from the Centre.” There was no response. Sandoval just shrugged and said, “I respect her. You should too. I’m on her side until I see her again, then that quarter mil is mine…”

*

Dakota noted every face that stared at her. But the sandy-blonde man that stood just outside the saloon caught her eye from the end of the street. He was well dressed. Stylish, but not fancy. His hair was perfectly messy, and his jacket and jeans fitted, most likely custom to fit so unerringly. But she knew his kind, and not because of the stupidly greedy grin that blossomed when he saw her. The bullet belts and holstered automatic gave him away. Damn Hunters. Well, he wasn’t the first, and certainly would not be the last. The price on her head had gone up. It would not be long before every boy, guy and man would be coming out of the woodworks with action-hero dreams to collect such a high bounty.

The Hunter would not want to start a gunfight with all the townsfolk milling about, as they were liable for the damage they caused. She would just have to keep a weather eye at her back. She rode straight to the small hotel in the middle of the town. It was the only building with a second story, made of wood, built atop the red-rock ground level. Every building she could see was made of that red-rock, except a couple of small shacks made of wood and concrete. Dakota saw the monstrous bulk of the terraforming refinery just shy of the southern horizon, barely visible through the snowfall, which had finally lost most of its weight. And she could see the lights of the city, a sprawl of skyscrapers and factories that had no real order or reason to their placement, seeming to pour out from the base of the massive terraformer. There would be a few more scattered towns like Red Rock around the perimeter of the Green Zone and as the air grew hospitable, more towns would go up until they were some fifty miles from the behemoth contraption, then they would bring in another refinery and, over the course of a few decades, the moon would be inhabited. At the Centre they claimed they were making the moons civilized, but those folks had never been in the Ranges, else they would not dare utter that word.

Dakota dismounted in front of the hotel. She let the reins fall to the ground. Amrit would not move as long as they hung down. She had trained the mare well. Anyone that grabbed the reins without Dakota handing them over got a swift, heavy hoof. She grabbed her saddlebags and the rifle scabbard and walked inside. It was warm indoors. A pleasant respite from the biting snow. Dakota unbound the scarf from her face, tilted her hat back a little and folded her sunglasses into her coat pocket. She looked in the mirror of the small lobby and saw her cheeks were red and wind blasted.

The rotund, balding man behind the front desk blinked behind round spectacles. “You’re a she!” He blinked again.
“You’re astute,” responded Dakota with a quirked up eyebrow.

“Not meanin’ no disr’spect mind, just… saw you saunter into town and thought you was a he. What brings y’out here missy?”

“Just passing through, mister. I’ll take a room, up top, overlooking the street.” She laid a cash card on the counter and the man swiped it and handed it back all in one motion, smooth as a magician.

“Why, but o’course! Best rooms the Ranges got to offer, right here at the Red Rock Inn, missy. You’ll not find a better one in the whole system. Exceptin’ you go to the Centre o’course, but I ain’t that heightened. I’m just poor Jerry Ormac, I am. But my rooms’re clean, and the baths’re hot and refreshin’. Yes, missy, this here’s the finest establishment to orbit Andromeda. No vermin or nothin’, not here. Not at the Red Rock Inn, missy.  Rest and relaxation’s all yer gonna find in these here beds. Some mighty fine eats at the saloon, too, if’n you got an app’tite and all. And if not-”

“Then, Jerry Ormac, how about showing me this oh-so-clean room you speak of…?” cut in Dakota, slightly amused but mostly exasperated and weary from her snowy ride into town.

“Sorry, missy, mouth flaps away somethin’ fierce. Why, sometimes- um… yes, the room.” Jerry grabbed a key from the cabinet and walked around the front desk to a narrow flight of stairs that led to the top floor. “Right this way, missy, right this way…” His mouth flapped away something fierce the entire way to the room until Dakota shut the door and locked it. She tossed her saddlebags on one side of the bed, tossed her hat and scarf on the bags, and propped her rifle scabbard against the headboard. She hung up her poncho and unbuttoned her thin suede coat. Her once white wife-beater was now travel-stained and grimy.

“Gross,” she said to herself. She pulled off her jacket and tossed it on the bed. She pealed off the tank top and threw it in the corner, then poured some warm water from a pitcher that rested on a hotplate on the lone table into a wide bowl. Dakota grabbed a hand towel, dunked it in the bowl and gave herself a quick scrub. Her jeans were low-rise and fitted around the hips and thighs, with a narrow gun belt running through the belt loops. A heavier bullet-belt rode low on her hips. She wore them like other twenty-somethings wore Prada. Actually, the gun belt and holster were Prada, with her own embellishments added on in the form of custom embroidery and some brass studs.

The room was chilly and she broke out in goose bumps as her wet skin quickly cooled. But she hardly noticed. Dakota had eyes only for the heat unit in the wall, which she flipped on and it whirred and rattled to life, blasting out warm air. She stood in front of it until it almost felt stifling, then moved towards the window and twitched back a corner of the curtain. Up the street, on the opposite side, she could see the saloon and, as she anticipated, the sandy-blonde was standing out front on the boardwalk under the awning. The snow had nearly stopped, but the dark, pregnant clouds promised more before too long. Dakota was dead tired. She had landed her hi-jacked moon cutter just before dawn, sure nobody had seen the landing. She could not have landed in the city, they would have required her to sign in and produce the registration. She had ridden all morning from her landing site and arrived in the middle of the day, cold and weatherworn. The flight from the Soma Moon to Eurobos had taken most of the previous day and night. Moon cutters were one-man crafts with no autopilot, meant simply for hauling small loads. Amrit had barely fit in the ship. Dakota had had to leave Soma one step ahead of a sniper’s goodbye kiss, and that after only a couple hours of sleep.

She wanted to plop down on the bed right there, but knew that she should first mosey on into the saloon and see what that Hunter was about. He might be a threat, he might not be. She sat on the bed and bolted to her feet instantly. If she sat down she knew she would fall asleep. It would have to wait; as would her much needed bath. She grabbed a clean shirt from her saddlebags, buttoned up her coat and stuck her hat back on her head. She checked her .41 to make sure it was loaded. It was, she knew, but it was a habit. She spun the cartridge and it whirred and clicked softly and with a flourish she re-holstered the gun. Dakota threw on her poncho, took a deep breath, opened her room door and stepped out into the hall. She went down the stairs with a slight heaviness to her step. She really just wanted sleep. It made her hate the Hunter even more. She acknowledged Jerry Ormac with a mere nod and walked out into the frozen street. She was pleased to see a bucket of water had been brought out for Amrit. She scratched the mare’s nose and Amrit nuzzled her shoulder. As she did so, she spoke softly to the Arabian, telling her how beautiful she was, all the while studying the street and the front of the saloon. “Mister Ormac,” she called. The round innkeeper trundled out of the door.

“Yes young miss?” he said, stepping onto the boardwalk.

“Is there a shed, or a barn maybe, for Amrit? It won’t do to keep her out in this weather.”

“Why, but o’ course young miss! I’ll see to it myself.”

Dakota handed the reins to Mr. Ormac and gave Amrit a solid pat on the neck as the innkeeper led the mare around the back of the Red Rock Inn.

Dakota turned and slowly meandered down the boardwalk. She walked as though she had all the time in the world, though she really just wanted to be indoors somewhere. It was freezing! How did people live here? Most of the townsfolk avoided looking at her now. Their gazes just slid off the black rawhide whip that hung from its holster at her left hip. She smiled and nodded and asked after their wellbeing. They just mumbled unintelligibly and quickened their pace. At the batwing doors of the saloon, Dakota stopped and leaned against the doorway. She pushed one door open just enough to see through the crack. She saw men playing cards and drinking and eating. The usual. She stepped inside and walked slowly to the bar. When she took a seat and glanced in the large mirror, she swore under her breath, “Fuck.” Dakota felt sweat break out all over her body. She had not been able to see clearly from outside. She should have been more careful. Being tired while reconnoitering could get one killed, or thrown in the slammer. She thought the place had been filled with townsfolk, but only a few of them were from around here. The other nine men had a well-worn look about them that spoke of a life on the move, with too many scars to be casual travelers. Sunken knuckles meant more than a few brawls and bullet belts shouted like neon signs. Hunters. The only other person sitting at the bar was a tall man with broad shoulders and dark hair. She knew he was not a Hunter, but he was certainly not a local either. He had a hard look to him with his deep-set eyes and a bold nose. Dakota decided to keep an eye on him too.

“Fuuuck,” she whispered again through gritted teeth. She forced an outer calm. The way the sandy-blonde was bantering with the others, and them uncomfortably bantering back, it was clear he led the pack. Moving as slow as cold honey, Dakota loosened her .41 in its holster.

“What’ll it be, missy?” asked the bartender, a middle aged man, though his full head of hair was completely gray.

“Any wine?”

“Red.”

“I’ll take two,” said Dakota, and returned to her surveillance of the pack of Hunters in the mirror. Murder of Hunters was probably more appropriate. A sardonic thought, but true. They were as raucous as crows and she knew better than to equate them to geese, though gaggling might have explained their behavior better. But geese would not descend and peck her eyes out for a handful of pretties. Jackdaws, the lot of them.

“Ice water’d be better,” mumbled the broad-shouldered man at the bar. He didn’t turn to look at her; he just spoke into his glass of bourbon. The smell of spirits was thick in the air. Great, a mysterious man, and he was hammered. Dakota stared at him, unsure of a response. He glanced at her and saw the question. “To cool that head o’ yours. I don’t feel like getting shot.” He wasn’t slurring, but he wasn’t far off either.

“I can handle a little wine, dude.”

“Ha! You’ll just catch a bullet in the teeth,” said the man with a lazy smile.

“Okay wise-one, you have a better plan?”

“Take a breath and pay ‘em no mind.”

“Gee, brilliant. Thanks so much.”

Then he looked at her a little more closely, gave a quick glance up and down. “… As much as you are able to ignore a pretty boy,” he said returning to his bourbon, his cynicism plain.

“A goddamn Hunter.”

“A good lookin’ one too. And he knows how to use it… almost as well as he slings that gun on his hip.”

“I think I can take care of myself.”

“Maybe,” he responded doubtfully. “But Seth’s wily and less than half stupid. More than I can say for most folks.” He squinted slightly at her as he spoke. The implication was plain.

“What’s the matter, you two having a lovers’ spat?” She chided.

“I hate him less than I hate most of his lot.” The man returned in the same quiet manner. “Our paths cross from time to time.”

“Aw, did he try and lock you up, and break your heart?” She cooed, all attitude and sarcasm. The man’s mouth opened slightly to answer, but he paused, gave a wry chuckle and just shook his head. He finished his drink and signaled the bartender to replenish it.

“You know, you could do worse than listen.”

“And you’re hammered drunk,” she returned,

“Yes.” He paused a moment, then nodded to punctuate the affirmation.

Dakota frowned at the man, then glanced up at the large screen above the mirror, and the holograms that were projected out a couple feet. The news, it seemed, was always the same. The sports hour had finished and now it was crime time: Some folks mugged and shot in back alleys, a ring of child-pornographers collared, a couple politicians that overdosed, an attempted suicide bombing at one of the terraformers on the Mizu Moon, and conspiracy theories creating top secret, government-run mafias; all of it complete with motion graphics, animated examples of what high-powered rifles did to the human head, and the celebrity of the day that voiced their opinions on violent crimes and their consequences. “I hate the news. All I ever see is rape and murder, and abductions and… it’s fucking depressing. I mean, really? Really? Is this the sort of shit people fill their time with? It amazes me the suicide rate isn’t higher… I mean, beyond a couple OD’ing politicians. Depressing.”

“It’s all people care about. They love seeing folks worse off than they are.”

“And you’re depressing too,” She said into her wine glass. “I mean, why not show something uplifting, to know there’s hope in the universe?”

“People can feel a little better about their own problems if they see that others are suffering more than they are. We are now a species that sees our neighbor as a commodity that will either help or hurt our bottom line, so their suffering is just a gauge for our own wellbeing.”

“Wow, you’re really positive.” Dakota pulled out her phone and hopped online. She navigated the holographic pages with dexterity.

The man gave her a sidelong glance. “This giant screen not good enough for you?” he mused.

Dakota glanced up at the monstrous panel above the mirror, wrinkled her nose and returned to her browsing. “I don’t trust that shit. They’ll spin it whichever way the Big Bro wants them to, no questions asked, and no effort to preserve the truth.”

“You know, you can learn a lot if you just read between the lines. Look at what they don’t say and you’ll usually glean everything they want to hide.”

“Gee, that’s deep. Whatever dude.” Dakota flicked through her download queue and pulled up the newest issue of Vogue. She browsed the latest RTW collections, added a few to her lookbook and moved on to some random blogs and feeds, mostly underground or independent fashion designers pushing precariously toward the edge of acceptability. She did not like to go that far herself, but she was always fascinated by the experimental materials employed by the avant garde: liquid armor pads as thin as cotton, thermoptics that always seemed to do more than the last version, jackets with animated adverts on their backs and boots, like hers, that could blast out a controlled burst of air to boost one’s jump just enough to be nearly dangerous, originally designed for the basketball pros. “Look, I just don’t like that lecturing tone. Pisses me off. I’m not a child and I don’t really need you being my dad, lookin’ over my shoulder… blah, blah, blah,” she said almost absentmindedly. The man’s face darkened slightly and he said nothing as he took a deep drink.  Dakota didn’t notice, she just wrinkled her nose a moment and kept on fidgeting. The man let the hard spirits settle in his mouth for a moment before swallowing slowly. His gaze gained distance as he stared into the glass. Dakota tapped her heel against the leg of the bar stool, continued browsing and tried to keep an eye on everything at once.

*

“Oh, this’ll be good,” graveled left-man. “Got the bitch cornered in the saloon, gots yer posse ‘round you, yet you ain’t got her in cuffs. You gotta be the dumbest fuckin’ Hunter in these parts.” Left-man chuckled as he reached up and scratched his shoulder.

“Retarded fuckin’ Feds,” cursed Sandoval under his breath.

“What’s that you piece o’ shit?” challenged right-man nasally. In two quick strides he was right on top of Seth. “You sayin’ stuff, Hunter?” If it wasn’t for the blinding lights in Seth’s eyes, he might have seen right-man’s left hook coming. Instead he just caught it right alongside his chin and all of a sudden the lights seemed to be inside his eyeballs. He opened and flexed his jaw and tried to blink away the spots in his vision. The blow had nearly unchaired him. He shook his head and glared at right-man.

“Ya’ know, y’all ‘re mighty crass for well-to-do Feds from the Centre. Why’re you wastin’ yer time chasin’ after this girl anyway? Just up the reward and believe me, you’ll have every Hunter on all twelve Moons on her trail and she’ll be sittin’ in the slammer inside a month.”

“Maybe you best leave the smart thoughts ta’ us, Hunter,” said right-man.

“Maybe y’all should find someone smart,” countered Sandoval.

“Maybe that’s offendin’ that gets yer teeth knocked out!” he nasaled as he raised his fist again.

“Shut up, Sal,” said left-man. Sal stopped mid swing. He glared from left-man to Seth and back again. “Let the dumb-ass Hunter finish his story,” continued left-man with an audible grin and a twitch of his shoulders. Sal plodded back to his post.

“Yeah, let me finish the story… Sal.” Right-man shifted his feet and shrugged his shoulders. Sandoval saw the man’s head move slightly to glance at his partner and he stifled a smile. He tested his jaw again and rubbed it with his left hand, while his right was under the table in a clenched fist that nearly hurt. “So, the little filly practically undulates through the doors…”

*

Seth was still a man, so when the charcoal-clad outlaw floated in with a walk that showed off every one of her curves, her poncho slung over her arm like a mink coat, it was not beneath Seth to notice, nor to approve of every feline step. He watched her take a seat at the bar, and he began to wonder if he should try wooing her instead of apprehending her. He chuckled to himself at the thought and turned his attention back to his men. He knew they were uncomfortable with Miss Rawhide so close. He just prayed none of them would be too stupid and try to jump the gun. Of course that would give him a reason to shoot the son-of-a-bitch and cut it down to an eight-way split, thus making his twenty-five percent a little larger since he also took a quarter from anyone that got them selves killed. Even if he was the one that had to do the killing.

Seth kept returning his gaze to the outlaw at the bar. He admired her stylish approach. She had a whip, a six-gun, and some kind of designer boots, all leather and mesh. She looked like she could move with that rhythmic little body of hers. On second glance her six-gun was custom too. He himself preferred the newer .45’s. Twenty-four shots to her six and each of his men carrying another one or three of the same ilk. He knew where he would put his money. Seth could already feel the quarter mil in his hands. With his sixty k, he could settle down in a good-sized manor house with some land on a more settled Moon and only have to take a few bounties a year. The thought made him hungry and giddy as his first time bedding a girl in the barn.

“Geary, you gonna play them cards or just sit there like a pole-axed bull?” Seth chided. He saw Geary’s face sag and almost laughed. For someone as ruthless of a Hunter as Geary, the man sure was sensitive about his feelings.

Geary mumbled, “I ain’t a pole-axin’ bull…” He wrinkled his nose and shot a quick sidelong glance toward the bar. He had a thin sheen of sweat across his face. “… Just takin’ time’s all.”

“Yeah, is that what you told that little whore last night?” piped Radar with his massive ears. “Heard tell you couldn’t even find a hole!” Geary’s face darkened at the jest. “He don’t even know what ta’ do with it. Big as a bull, dumb as a labotty-mized hippy-potamus, shit.” Geary’s knuckles were white from clenched fists.

“At least he has bull-parts to do nothing with. Not like the elephant-eared weasel over here,” enunciated Prince Chuck.

Radar scowled at the Prince. “Yeah, says the Fag Princess. I didn’t hear no squealin’ last night, Princess. No lil’ boys fer ye’ ta’ bugger like a bitch?”

“I’m just glad I don’t take it like a bitch, because I’m not gelded like one,” grinned the Prince. Radar bolted up from his seat with his .50 caliber Eagle in hand, laser-sight trained at Prince Chuck’s mouth.

“Put up the gat… son,” drawled Seth. They all knew what that slow deliberation meant and the other six inched their chairs back a hair.

“But boss,” whined Radar, “he’s sayin’ I ain’t got no-”

“I heard what he said, Radar,” replied Seth from his seat. “He was only teasin’ ya. Now put up that gat or I’ll make Prince here a bona fide prophet. Don’ worry, we all know you got parts…” Radar nodded abruptly at Prince and holstered his gun as he sat back down. “All little girls got parts,” said Seth with a wide smile. The posse threw their heads back and roared like drunken lions. Radar’s ears turned beet-red.

“I could shoot’ch ya’ right-” Before Radar got his words out, Seth’s .45 was jammed into his left eye, hammer cocked, and a handful of hair in Seth’s hand to keep Radar’s head in place.

“Are you challengin’ me, son?” asked Seth, again in his deliberate drawl.

“N-n-nah, boss. Jus’ pokin’ fun’s all. Jus’ like Princess here- Uh, Prince, I mean. Ain’t nothin’ meaned by it, boss. Uh-uh-uh…” Seth eased the hammer down and released Radar’s hair.

“You best check yer jests, son. Liable to get you a .45 caliber ticket on the bullet train express, non-stop to Weasel-Hell, or wherever yer headed.” Seth sat back down. “And fer shit’s sake, Geary play yer fuckin’ hand!” Geary shot a dark look at Radar and laid out his cards, proud as an artisan displaying his crafts. He sat back with a smug look and crossed his arms over his chest. “Geary,” said Seth, eyes squeezed shut, thumb and forefinger pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration.

“Yeah boss?” said Geary smiling, still smug.

“How the fuck you get six cards in Five Card Stud?” Geary’s smile vanished and he blinked.

“They was in my hand, boss. Maybe Radar cheated at me!” Radar squawked and reached for his Eagle, but a warning look from Seth stilled his hand. Seth just threw down his cards, pushed his chair back and stood up. The rest followed suit.

“I don’t want y’all to move.” They sat back down. “I don’t want y’all to speak. I don’t even want to see y’all for a full ten minutes. First one to utter a sound lest I say so, I’m shootin’ in the fuckin’ head.” Stork Owens opened his mouth to say something. Seth reached for his .45, and Stork’s mouth closed with a click. Seth kept his hand on the grip of his gun and glared at each man in turn. He looked toward the bar. The girl was talking with the man two seats down. Dorian Graives. He would give a pretty penny to know what Dorian was saying to her. Seth walked up to the bar and posted up a couple seats away from the duo.

“Seth,” acknowledged the man without turning.

“Dorian,” returned the Hunter.

Rawhide’s eyes widened just a hair. “Dorian Graives,” she said. He just gave her a slow sidelong glance and went back to his newly restored bourbon. “I thought you looked familiar. I read about you… and your brother. Lost your families, your kids when dudes sacked your ranch. You guys massacred like, thirty of them.”

“Executed. Executed thirty of ‘em,” said Seth, barely looking past Dorian to see Rawhide’s face. She returned his concealed gaze. Dorian just nodded slightly and barely raised his glass in Seth’s direction.

“I wasn’t speaking to you, Hunter,” she said evenly.

“He’s just keeping everything… on the up and up, so to speak,” said Dorian. “The law wouldn’t do shit, so we had to. Lost our families and ten ranch hands, friends. So yes, that mob was executed sure as the Moons turn.”

Rawhide cleared her throat and looked down at her wine. “Sorry,” she said quietly. Dorian just gave a little shrug and lifted his glass again. “No, well, yes, I’m sorry about… your loss, your kids, but I’m sorry about the… ‘dad’ comment.” Seth just chuckled. Rawhide’s eyes were green fire as she stared at the Hunter, her hand where the man couldn’t see it, already with the hammer cocked on her .41. Dorian shot a warning glance at the girl then turned his eyes on Seth. Despite himself the Hunter’s grin was gone in a blink.

“Don’t fuckin’ start, Seth.”

The Hunter’s smile returned as quickly as it had fled. “I’m just playin’ with the girl, don’t-”

“Maybe I don’t want to play your fucking Hunter’s games, douche bag.”

Seth’s eyes grew a little in surprise. “Well, little filly, you’re sittin’ here lookin’ all sexy-stylish and drinkin’ wine, and about as crass as an auto-mule mechanic. Certainly not as refined as you’d like, ay… Rawhide?” He could practically feel the heat pouring out from her stare, but he pressed on heedlessly. “How’d you do in the Baron on Paris? No doubt you shot the old man from behind whilst he was defenseless.” Seth spat on the floor to show what he thought of that.

“Baron Stamer was neither old nor defenseless,” responded Rawhide, never taking her eyes from Seth’s. “But he was a raging drunk, a pedophile, and a murderer. And no, I shot him in the gut with his own shotgun. He had it coming.”

“Yeah, did the Wheltiers have it comin’ too?”

“Yes. Slavers and mass murderers so don’t go shedding any tears.”

“You shot their children right in their little heads, so who’s the murderer now, Rawhide?”

“Their children were old enough to rape young girls, and old enough to draw their guns on me, and old enough to be stupid enough to think they could win. News just spun it different,” she said, hardly blinking. Oh could he feel the heat in her eyes. Her gaze drifted a little. “Suppose I could have left them orphaned, pay the Wheltiers back in kind,” she said almost absently. “Though we were younger.” Seth’s eyes narrowed fractionally. Dakota snapped her attention back to the men at the bar. She was growing weary of the banter. She wanted a bath and sleep, and she was tired of trying to explain to every bloody Hunter she met that what she did was right. Usually.

The girl stood up, her cheeks flushed a furious red. She took a deep breath and eased her .41’s hammer back down. She stood as straight as her 5’5” would allow, donned her poncho, turned smoothly and walked towards the door.

Seth pushed away from the bar. “Where d’you think you’re off to, Rawhide? You and I-” the girl’s whip was in her left hand before Seth finished, lashing out like a pit-viper, choking off his words as it wrapped around his neck. Almost in the same motion her .41 cleared the holster on her right and time seemed to slow for Seth as he heard the report of the pistol and saw the flame stab out of the barrel. It seemed an eternity before he felt the bullet sear along the left side of his neck, tearing the flesh just above the braided leather that was cutting off his breath. Except for the news, the saloon was silent. Even Dorian’s eyes were not as lidded as they had been.

“Don’t think I missed, Hunter,” said the girl, her slow, quiet manner barely audible over the din from the speakers. “… And it’s Miss Rawhide, if you please.” She twitched the whip and it fell loose. She coiled it back and holstered both her weapons, and with a walk befitting an evening ball, she departed.

As soon as she was gone, Seth’s men were crowded against the window again, talking excitedly like boys after their first game of spin-the-bottle.

Radar gave a low whistle. “Hot damn, I never knowed girls could shoot like that! Where do I sign up fer one o’ them?” He said with a wide grin.

Ghost Keener barked a harsh laugh from the back of the posse, his albino face showing none of his mirth. “Don’t you know? Foxes eat weasels… weasel.” Radar’s grin vanished. The albino would likely castrate him if he looked the wrong way, so the little man kept his mouth shut and his .50 caliber Eagle holstered.

Seth shoved his way through the gaggle of hunters, and glanced out the window, but Miss Rawhide was gone. He rounded on his men, his .45 leveled and swiveling from one man to the next. “You assholes just sit there while she shoots me? Figure you can just let me die and y’all will collect the whole reward? Like hell you could even get close without me runnin’ the outfit, y’all are about as sharp as ball bearings and bright as char-coal and about as dead as-”

“You told us not to move, boss,” said Hal in his slow drawl.

“Yeah, or you was gonna shoot us!” whined Radar, glad not to have the Ghost’s gaze on his back anymore.

Seth’s eyes narrowed and took in each man in turn. He took a deep breath, eased the hammer down on his .45 and holstered the weapon. “I suppose I did. At least I know y’all can follow orders.”

“You should probably thank them, Seth,” said Dorian from the bar. Seth turned to look at the man. He was pulling on a heavy, fur-lined trench coat, not even looking in Seth’s direction. The Hunter always hated that about him. Dorian spoke into the silence. “No doubt if they’d made a move that shot would be lodged in your throat, and we’d be short one pretty-boy, asshole Hunter.” Dorian chuckled, and spoke almost to himself, “Here I thought she was gettin’ rattled, but that damn pistol was steady as stone.” He chuckled again, and Seth just sneered. “Cheers boys,” said Dorian. He tossed back the rest of his bourbon and walked out.

*

Dakota ducked around the corner of one of the neighboring buildings, hoping they didn’t see her. To the Hunters it should appear as though she was just not there anymore. It seemed silly to her, but it also seemed to add to the mystique of  “Miss Rawhide”. It made her seem a little more than human in their eyes if she could disappear, because when you got right down to it, she might be able to reappear as well. She headed back to the Red Rock Inn along the backs of the buildings, but not before she noticed the nine choppers parked in the rear lot of the saloon. With the bulls’ horns attached to some, and the tags painted on others, she knew whom they belonged to. She made quick work of cutting the power and break lines. It would not put them out of commission altogether, but it would at least cost them a half hour for repairs when the time came… and it would come.

She entered the back of the inn and saw Jerry Ormac crouching in front of the window, glancing up the street. No doubt he had heard the gun shot, and word probably spread of war breaking out right there in Red Rock! “Master Ormac,” she said. The high-pitched exclamation the man emitted sounded strange coming from someone of his girth, and Dakota suppressed a smile.

“Oh! M-M-Miss Rawhide! I didn’t, I mean I did, I mean I-”

“I want a bath, and then I want some sleep. If any one of those bloody Hunters steps foot in this building, you’re going to shout a nice clear warning.”

“I, I, I am?”

“Yes, Master Ormac,” she said sweetly as she let her whip uncoil from her hand. “You are.”

“Um, uh, but o’ course Miss Rawhide! O’ course I am. Why, no one comes an’ hassles my guests! ‘Specially sweet girls like yer own self. I’ll give you warnin’ lil missy, don’ you worry nothin’ ‘bout that. Don’t much hold with them Hunters. Jus’ come in and git drunken and cause trouble for simple folks. Not you though, missy. You stand up for the simple folks, yessir.”

“Thank you Master Ormac. Now if you please, my bath.” She re-coiled her whip and holstered it.

“Why but o’course, Miss Rawhide. Lucy!” he belted out. “Lucy! Just you go git a bath ready in Miss Rawhide’s room. Hop to it woman! Don’t you be keepin’ my guest awaitin’!” Dakota shook her head and made her way up the stairs to her room. Lucy came in a few minutes later leading two young men that held a copper tub between them. They laid it near the wall where they swung out two faucets. They stuck keys into the tops, turned them and the faucets gurgled a moment, but soon, clear water was filling the tub.

“Just you kill the water, once it’s full, girl. I’ll not be cleanin’ up after you ya’ hear?” Dakota gave a curt nod and a gracious smile. “There’s a good girl,” said Lucy before she shooed the young men out and closed the door behind her.

Dakota unbuttoned her coat and tossed it on the bed, along with her hat. She ruffled her hair and sat down. Gratefully she pulled off her boots and socks. She pulled her shirt over her head, tossed her gun-belt next to her hat and worked her way out of the slim-fitted jeans. Before getting in the tub, Dakota retrieved her .41 and replaced the empty cartridge. Most people wondered why she used such an antique and did not upgrade to one of the newer weapons that carried more shots. They did not know that she had this one modified to hold the newer, sleeker cartridges, so it was a twelve-shot, not six. And the new hand cannons had electrical parts for efficiency so they could not be submerged in water. She could leave her revolver at the bottom of a river and retrieve it a month later and it would fire straight as ever. So she submerged herself, and her .41 in the tub, scrubbed her fingers through her hair with her free hand and came up with a quiet smile as she wiped the water from her eyes and slicked her wet hair back. Dakota leaned her head back with a sigh.

She thought about the group of Hunters in the saloon. Most likely they would wait until her guard was down. Probably come at her in the night or in the small hours of the morning. That would give her enough time for a few hours of sleep. “Not as refined as I’d like.” She sniffed to show what she thought of that. Still, it rankled her. She had had a rough time of it, growing up on Paris Moon, but she had done her best to educate herself and her sister. Ms. Alejandro had taken them in, but was too pressed taking care of her small ranch to worry over much about them, so they managed as they could. It had always been a thorny point for Dakota, able to match anyone in mental capacity and wit, but lacking knowledge of propriety in the higher circles. Compared to folks that lived on the Moons, she was high class, but a cut below those on Andromeda IX, and she knew it. She frowned, and nearly pouted before she caught herself. “Well,” she said to the room. “I’m glad I didn’t grow up in the Centre, never working an honest day, staring down at everyone. Idealistic assholes. High-toned, civilized… bullshit. Ignorant and sheltered is more…” She slapped the water in frustration then winced when it splashed over the side. Lucy would be disappointed with her, splashing water about like that. Jerry Ormac shouted outside and Dakota tensed. He was at the door to his inn, just under her windows, in a shouting match with somebody. It sounded like the Hunter. She got out of the tub, heedless of the water she dripped everywhere. She stood back from the window and twitched the curtain aside. She could just see the sandy-blond hair past the awning. He was alone…

“What in the hell are you playing at, Hunter?” she muttered to herself. Maybe he had meant what he said about her being “all sexy-stylish”. Not that it would make a difference. Still, most of them gave up after the first time she put a bullet by their head. If he was trying again to canoodle his way into her pants, then maybe he was more stupid than she had assessed. Most men were. They would see the price of the bounty and get thirsty for it. Then they would see the pretty face and put aside thoughts of the small fortune. So easily distracted if she put a little sway in her walk. Of course, boys and men alike had the attention spans of a gnat, so that reward would soon creep back into their thoughts, usually by 2 or 3am, when she would find herself with her .41 pointed at their junk, shoving them out the door or the window, whichever one was closer. She had learned after a few times that Hunters were just not worth the hassle, even if some of them were rather dashing. “Sorry, Hunter,” she muttered again. “You’re S.O.L.” She backed away from the window and toweled herself dry.

Dakota frowned down at the clothes on the bed. She hated sleeping clothed, but she knew she had to be prepared. She had the feeling it was going to be another slapdash escape, half a step ahead of a prison barge. She groaned and pulled out a fresh pair of black jeans, and a new under-shirt. This one was unbleached cotton with short sleeves, and was a perfectly snug fit. She pulled on some wool socks and then buckled her gun-belt back around her hips. She tugged on her boots and coat, and set her hat on the bed beside the pillow. Before lying down, Dakota also checked to make sure the rifle in the scabbard was loaded and ready to go on the instant. She groaned again as she sprawled out on the bed at the thought of sleeping with a gun at her hip, but she was not about to let that pretty-boy pounce on her. She took three deep breaths and was asleep before the fourth.

*

“So you just waited, like a fat goose fer her ta finish her bathin’?” said Sal in that annoyingly nasal voice. Seth really wanted a reason, and a chance, to shoot the son-of-a-bitch. But they had his guns. Sal shifted his stance a mite, putting his weight on his left foot for a moment, then shifting to his right.

“What might you have done in my place, Sal?” asked Seth as he leaned back in the rickety chair and crossed one leg over the other. “Just busted in, guns ablazin’?”

“Damn fuckin’ right! Pop the bitch for makin’ a damn big ass o’ you. If you were half a man, you’d a done it. Pansy-ass Hunters.”

“Well, no doubt yer desperate enough, that’s the only way you’d ever see a bare-naked girl. Least-ways one you don’t gotta pay for,” said Seth with a grin. Even left-man chuckled at that.

“Shut yer trap, Jeb,” said Sal, almost sulkily. Seth shot a glance toward Jeb so quick they probably missed it.

“But it just wouldn’t be polite, bouncin’ in on a girl whilst she’s bathin’ an’ all. Sides, little filly probably had that damn .41 trained on the door the whole while. Could put twelve shots through the wood ‘fore you could turn the knob.”

“I thought you said it was a six-gun,” grated Jeb. He shifted his shoulders to adjust his blazer.

“I did. And I thought it was. When that bullet was sent along my neck I had all the time in the world to admire that little pistol.” Seth sat forward. “See you boys ain’t realizin’ that all this stuff I know ‘bout the girl, I learned in real-time so to speak. You ask me now, I just might run in, blazin’ guns and all. Hell I might even take her on the street, but I got this bloody noble streak makes me want to do things fair and right. Knowing what I do now, a quarter mil might make me forget the nobleness for a spell. But I am on the right side of the Law, so I try and do things in accordance.”

Sal cleared his throat. “Yeah, well you ain’t got no Rawhide, so’s you ain’t gittin’ no quarter mil, so all yer nobleness jus’ makes you look all manner o’ dumb-ass, Hunter… and yer… accordances too…” He said hesitantly. Seth wanted to shoot the man more than ever now.

He looked at them both in turn and his eyes narrowed slightly. “Where’d you boys say you were stationed out of?” They both straightened before they could catch themselves, then they walked around either side of the table and leaned in close.

“We’ll be askin’ the questions, Hunter,” Jeb growled.

“Fer bein’ on the right side o’ the Law, as yer claimin’, you sure do kick and fuss, Hunter. Maybe we’re bein’ too nice, ay?” alluded Sal from his nose.

Seth scratched his three-day stubble and frowned, seemingly unperturbed by the threat. “You know, I’ve had some months for pondering. I know she’s done some fucked up things, and I know they were on the wrong side of the Law. But I’m wondering, now, if maybe those fucked up things didn’t need doing, and just no one stepped up to the plate until little filly turned outlaw. Maybe they weren’t on the wrong side, so much as the left side. Left of center you might say.”

“Jus’ what’re you insinuatin’,” said Jeb in a quiet, warning voice as he casually took a handful of Seth’s shirt and twisted it so that Seth’s collar grew considerably tighter.

“Big word,” said Seth, pretending that Jeb could not just twist his breath right out of reach. When Jeb did twist a little more, Seth rushed on. “Just this: I’ve been all over the Moons for years, and I ain’t never seen Soma Moon look so nice, least ways not with the Wheltiers in place. Fair took me aback, seeing so many smiles on faces.”

“So?” countered Sal. “Don’t make the murderin’ o’ children right.”

“Nor does it make the rapin’ of common folk right,” retorted Seth. “Those children you speak of were eighteen and twenty-one, hardly the babies I saw on the news streams. Not a single tear in folks’ eyes. All of them happier with the Wheltiers gone. Strange.” Sal shifted his stance.

“I think you done enough heavy thinkin’, Hunter,” grated Jeb. “How’d the bitch-”

“So I’m wondering if maybe Baron Stamer wasn’t the raping asshole Rawhide said he was. And maybe he full deserved what he got. Gut-shot and all-”

Jeb threw Seth against the wall, and a right hook split his lip, coupled nicely with a second left from Sal and a fist to the gut. Seth sat down rather harder than he would have liked on the packed dirt floor and had to cough a couple times. “My unc-!”  Jeb cut off and took a deep breath. “The Baron was a good man, and only did what he was entitled to. Go on tarnishin’ his good name and we’ll be breakin’ every dirty bone in yer body, then we jus’ might kill ya’.”  Jeb shrugged his massive set of shoulders.

“Was he entitled to pedophiling? Murdering?” asked Seth in a quiet voice as he tried to clear his head. “Folks on Paris Moon seemed happier too.” He waited for a response, but there was none.  He got slowly to his feet, pushed between his two interrogators, and replaced the chair. He torqued his head to the side to pop his neck and release some tension before it could settle in. Jeb and Sal returned to the lights, Jeb cracking his sunken knuckles and flexing his fingers. “Ah well,” he barked and the two interrogators started slightly. Seth allowed himself a small smile, and winced when it stretched his split lip. “It doesn’t really matter I guess. A quarter mil is a quarter mil, regardless.” He sat up and stretched his arms. All he wanted were his guns. “So, I let the girl rest a spell. A mistake. Twenty-twenty hindsight and all that. But me with eight men and her with no where but the snows to run to, I s’pose I was over-confident…”

*

It was night as Dorian stood at the window, staring out over the snowy desert. The cloud cover had scattered a bit to let some light from the moons do a dappled dance across the pale landscape. He had long extinguished the lights in the room. He had to leave soon, hopefully with minimal exposure and he needed his night vision before he stepped out. It was quiet, a rare moment of tranquility. Precious solace from the weight of doing what needed to be done because there was no one else to do it. Well, there was his brother, Jesse. There was always his brother. They were two of a kind, or at least two sides of a coin. Some said they were the currency of redemption, but sometimes Dorian just wanted to toss it all aside and settle down again. Maybe stop being the big brother for everyone and just trust people to fend for themselves. If only. But it was not about him anymore. It was not about Jesse anymore. After avenging their friends and families, a net was cast and it seemed to snatch them up. They were not the center of it, but they were pivotal.

Three years ago they could barely find anyone that wanted to buy illegal guns and artillery. The only folks that dared were of the seediest breed. Back alleys, derelict buildings and desert hills used to be their sales offices. Now they seemed to be in the backs of clubs and shops, penthouses and warehouses in the middle of large cities. He wondered how much of the crime-time violence the girl had rebuked was his fault. Dorian took a deep breath before his thoughts wandered down that road. He walked to the bed and snatched up his shoulder bag and his high-powered rifle. It was more firepower than most people packed, but it was right for his size and stature. It was dead on for about a mile if the conditions were right, and his forty-shot clip never jammed. A lower barrel could be fitted with various rounds if he needed a little more punch. He put the rifle in its case and slung it over his shoulder.

Dorian stuck his head into the hall and looked both ways. It was dark. He listened intently for a full minute. The silence was palpable. It seemed to pulse in his ears. He smiled to himself and stepped out. He walked down the hall without a sound until he came to a door midway to the stairs. The girl was sleeping on the other side. No doubt she was waiting for the right time to bolt as well. Before he could catch himself he tapped quietly on the door. No answer. He tapped again, but still nothing. He frowned and tried the knob. It was locked, as it should be. He stared at the door for a moment then continued down the hall. Mindful of the steps that creaked he avoided each one.

Dorian walked out the back door and put his gear on his chopper. He punched the ignition and it softly hummed to life as it hovered a couple feet off the ground.  He headed north. The tarmac and his ship were south, at the edge of Perseus, but he wanted to make a circuit of Red Rock first. As he swept around to the east and crested a large hill, he looked down into the town. It was quiet. It almost seemed miniature from his half-mile vantage. He retrieved his rifle and settled it against his shoulder. With a flick of a switch the scope went to night vision. Dorian had a clear line straight into the middle room at the Red Rock Inn. He saw the girl… asleep.

She must have been exhausted. That would account for her clumsiness at the saloon. What law-avoiding citizen would knowingly walk into a bar hosting a posse of Hunters? He frowned again as he propped his rifle upright on his thigh. He did not quite pin her for such a heavy sleeper. That was never a good habit for someone in her line of work. But then he did not quite pin himself for someone that would give a shit. But he remembered hearing about her in the news some months back. He had done his own research, knowing first-hand how good those “journalists” were at spinning, just as the girl had said in the saloon. It was revenge on her part. Justice even. But above all: Retribution.

She was green, to be sure, but he saw the same fire in her that had once impassioned him. If she could not cut it, she would die or get pinched and that was that, but he at least wanted to see what she would do with a fighting chance.

A hint of movement brought his scope back up. He chuckled to himself. All nine Hunters were creeping through the shadows like stalking cats. Well, Seth and the Ghost were like cats, and maybe Prince and Hal too, but the others were closer to bumbling wolf-pups, all legs and no finesse. Even so, nine to one and the poor girl soundly asleep. “What say we level the bottom line a bit,” Dorian said to the night. He pulled a flare from his bag and fitted it to the bottom barrel. He always liked Seth’s inability to let go of the past. The man just had to have fancy gadgets with little lights that told him they were processing, and slick, quiet noises that spoke of robotic parts; dials that did who-knew-what, and buttons that blipped when depressed. Oh, the shortcomings of NVGs.

Dorian leveled his sites on the post at the foot of the girl’s bed. It should not make too much noise… he hoped. He squeezed off a shot from the upper barrel and quickly steadied the site again as he switched to the second trigger…

*

The bedpost split sending splinters flying. Dakota rolled off the blankets and onto one knee before her eyes could focus. She blinked in the darkness, unnerved, her .41 leveled at the splintered wood. Her breath came shallow as she tried to clear her head. Someone had shot at her. She leaned forward and looked to the far window, and the small hole in the glass. No. No the trajectory was off. She stifled a yawn despite herself. Her hands were shaking ever so slightly at the thought of having slept so heavily. She shut her eyes for the space of three deep breaths and then opened them again. Dakota was about to get to her feet but froze in mid motion. She waited. There. A quiet scrape of something sliding across the hallway floor. It was just past 3am. Nobody would be awake yet. She held her breath. There it was again. She brought her revolver up and slowly, silently got to her feet. She took a small step forward and the door splintered open just as the far window shattered and instantly the room was ablaze. The light was blinding and Dakota had to narrow her eyes until she could barely see, but it seemed to be more so for the man filling the doorway. He desperately tried to take off his night vision goggles as the flare filled every corner of the room with the light of a small sun. Geary sprayed the room with bullets as he waved his automatic at everything. “Damn it, I wanted her alive you fuckin’…” hollered Seth from somewhere down the hallway.

Dakota huddled against the side of the bed as bullets seemed to hammer everything around her. “Shit, shit, shit!” She cursed to herself. She hunched up into as tight a shape as she could manage. With a quick breath she threw herself flat on the ground and popped out at the footboard. Her first shot took Geary in the gut. The second took him between the eyes and he crumpled to the ground. She was on her feet before he fell, but Hal came tumbling through the door, with two more men squabbling for the entrance right behind him. The rawhide whip lashed out and coiled around Hal’s neck as he stumbled in, blinded by the flare. With his NVGs on, he saw only blinding white. He followed suit and unloaded his clip in every direction that faced forward. Dakota grabbed her rifle and the blanket off the bed and the next instant her shrouded form went hurling out the nearest window. Hal’s weight caught her just shy of the ground, and her weight snapped his neck audibly. She glanced up and saw his body hanging partway out. His tongue lolled as his bulging eyes stared at the night. At least it had been quick. She let the blanket fall amongst the shattered glass. She swung the whip and it uncoiled from the dead man’s neck. “That’s two,” she said to herself, and mentally checked Geary and Hal off the list.

Dakota ran around to the back of the inn and threw open the doors of the large shed. Amrit whinnied quietly at the scent of her keeper. Dakota slung her rifle through the girth, untied her saddlebags from the scabbard, and threw them over her shoulder. She vaulted into the saddle and reined Amrit around to the door. She eased out of the shed. The back of the inn was empty, but she could hear the commotion inside. A couple lights had been flicked on. No doubt folks were wondering what the din was about. She clicked her tongue twice and Amrit broke into a quick trot along the rear sides of the buildings. Dakota considered heading north to her hijacked moon cutter, but she knew the Hunters would have their choppers fixed and be on her trail before she made half the distance. She turned south towards Perseus. It was the best chance of eluding them. She could see the edge of town, just past a few more buildings. Once she was in the open she would have to gallop full tilt to make the shelter of the city before the wolves were on her.

She reigned in Amrit and cocked her head to listen. The wind was picking up, so she may have been hearing things. Then she heard the beep and static of a comm piece. She just could not discern which direction it had come from. Dakota dismounted and pressed her back against the corner of the building. She moved her head until she could just see past the edge with one eye. It was clear. She turned back to Amrit and grabbed the reigns, leading her quickly across the wide alleyway to the next structure. The drugstore. She inched along the rear wall and swore under her breath when she nearly knocked over a trashcan she had not seen in the shadows. She checked her back trail, but nobody was following yet. No doubt they were already spreading through the town though.

Dakota turned her attention back to the front. One more building and she would have no more cover. If they had rifles, they could take her before she cleared enough distance to outrange them. She started forward and, too late, looked up as she heard a high-pitched cry. Radar dropped from the roof of the building and landed right on top of her. Amrit balked and stepped back. He pinned Dakota’s arms to her back and pushed her facedown into the snow. Scrawny as he was, he was all sinew and a good deal stronger than he looked. The little man chuckled to himself. “Boss wants you alive little fox, but he don’t say nothin’ ‘bout you bein’ whole.” He pushed her jacket up out of the way. She felt the snow melting through her thin shirt. Her breath came ragged. He was going to do it. She could not bare this again. She tried to struggle, but he wrenched her arms up and pain shot through her shoulders.

She could barely form a cohesive thought and Dakota knew that she was on the verge of complete panic. She would have screamed but his full weight on her would not allow it. Radar deftly reached around and pulled Dakota’s belt buckle free. “I don’t mind if you struggle a lil’ bit, filly,” he said quietly. “Makes it more fun,” he giggled to himself. “In fact, why don’t you go ahead an’-” He leaned in to talk into her ear, and that was all she needed. Dakota slammed the back of her head into his face and his grip slackened on her wrists. She twisted free, pushed and rolled both of them over. She kept her momentum right over him and bounced up to a low crouch, .41 trained on the elephant-weasel’s broken nose. Her breath was still shallow, and she was shaking all over. She could barely hold her revolver in place. Dakota wanted to drop to her knees and cry right there, but she did not have that luxury, which made her want to cry even more. Her full roundhouse kick caught Rader right in the cheek and sent a couple of his teeth flying. He sat there in the snow dazed. She took the chance to gather herself as best she could, then Seth’s voice piped in over Radar’s comm link.

“Anyone see her?”

Radar’s focus snapped back and he squawked out, “I got her here boss! I got her-” He cried out in agony as Dakota’s .41 discharged. He cried out and began babbling incoherently, throwing in the occasional curse on Dakota’s name.

“Radar! Radar! What’s going on?” All that came over the comm was a babbling rage. “Fuckin’ hell, Radar, what the fuck happened? Where are you?”

Dakota reached down and grabbed the comm. She calmly hooked it around her ear. “Your raping, piece-of-shit weasel is a little… indisposed at the moment,” she responded coldly.

“Well now, that melodious voice sure as hell ain’t Radar. What’d you do to my man, Miss Rawhide?”

“Let’s just say… Prince is now a bona fide profit.”

“Is that Arabian of yours fast?”

“What?” She said, admittedly a bit confused.

“Good thinkin’ on the choppers, but you’ve got about twenty minutes before Francisco has us mounted. And I think your ship is more than twenty minutes away. So you-” Dakota did not care to hear the rest. The Hunter thought she was heading back north. It would not take him long to discover the mistake in his assumption, but it was time she could not afford to lose. Dakota vaulted back into the saddle and left Radar to babble and stare at his damaged goods and, hopefully, to bleed out. Slowly.

“That’s three,” she said to herself. She heeled Amrit to a gallop inside five strides and the Arabian was off like a shot: An opalescent streak over the moonlit snow.

*

“So ya’ jus’ let her get away… again,” graveled Jeb as he reached up to scratch a shoulder. Seth sighed and looked at the walls around him. This game had gotten old. His lip was swollen and split, his jaw was bruised and a dull ache had settled into his temples. He wanted a drink, and he wanted his guns.

“Not in so many words,” Seth mumbled. “But yeah, else I suspect y’all wouldn’t still be looking to apprehend the little-”

“So ya’ jus’ wasted all our fuckin’ time!” interjected Sal, nasally. “Shit, yer a waste o’ fuckin’ time. Flat out.” Seth stood and the two suited men put their hands inside their coats. But Seth just reached for his jacket. He took his time pulling the sleeves over his arms and straightening the lapels until they were just right.

“Well then. I guess that means we’re done here. I wouldn’t want to waste anymore of your time. And I don’t much feel like being your punching bag any longer than is strictly necessary.” He walked around the table and grabbed his gun belt that hung on a heavy nail by the door of the shed. As he buckled it into place, he heard the click of two hammers being cocked, and Jeb spoke.

“You sure yer jus’ gonna walk outta here, easy as ya’ please?”

Seth stopped with the door half opened. He just stood there without turning around and took a deep breath. “Don’t press your luck, son,” he slowly deliberated. “Those fake badges’ll only get you so far.” Not a sound was uttered from behind him. He only heard Sal shuffle his feet. “Get some shoes that fit, and a nicer suit. One that doesn’t itch so much.” Seth opened the door the rest of the way. “And clean up your language if y’all want to pass for Feds. I never talked so crass… ‘course maybe they just don’t make them like they used to.” He walked out into the cold. Grateful for the slight sting of the freezing air on his face, though he knew that good feeling would only last long enough to see him halfway to the saloon. The promise of whiskey would take care of the second half. He really wanted a drink.

“Yer neck,” said Jeb as he stepped out of the shed. “The other side, she could’a killed ya’ again, ay?” He chuckled. “Jus’ can’t handle her, huh? One little girl.”

Seth halted in the snow and looked toward the saloon. He had to hand it to Jeb. If Seth lost his cool and drew, Jeb could kill him by rights. All nicely square. But Seth was too tired to get angry today. He touched the right side of his neck and squinted up at the clouds. They were heavy again, and ready to open up. He thought of the little girl that Jeb referred to, and he knew that calling her a girl, even in his head, was like calling a panther an alley cat. An uncertain panther, to be sure, maybe even a lost one, but a lethal one nonetheless. And he would not make that mistake again. “Yeah… I got the beneficial end of some bargain stick. Lucked out,” he replied as he continued on his way.

“Not t’day,” said Jeb as the shot split the air. It sounded loud and muffled from the snow all at once. Seth had half a blink to brace himself before searing pain exploded in his back. Jeb and Sal hopped on their choppers and fired them up. They roared to life and lifted off the ground, hovering.

“Are you fuckin’ bat-shit?” screamed Sal. “He was a Fed! A real one! Prolly has some Fed buddies-”

“Shut up. Let’s get the fuck off o’ this ice rock,” retorted Jeb. The men opened the throttles and blasted east over the snow. Their ship was in the hills, only a mile out of Red Rock…

His eyes flew open and Seth gasped for breath. He rolled over onto his back and had to gasp again at the pain from knotted muscles. His vision cleared and he saw the sleek carver as it ascended into the clouds. He formed his hand into a gun shape and pointed at the ship, barely holding it steady. He whispered the sound of a shot as he pulled the imaginary trigger. “Oh, Jeb and Sal,” Seth groaned as he pushed himself to his feet, every movement causing his back to spasm. “Oh, you boys’re gonna get yours,” he said through clenched teeth as he stumbled off to the saloon for a much deserved bourbon, and for the third time was thankful for the spinal lining in his jacket.

Fin.

If you would like to read DAKOTA RAWHIDE BOOK 1 in its illustrated form, download the DAKOTA RAWHIDE PDF. Enjoy!