Saddle Dust

Part 1: Chapter 1

Historical accuracy notes:

1. While people, places, and dates may be inaccurate as to when and where events happened or who lived when, or if the person even existed (as is the case for Casey) the general basis of the story is true to its time.
2. You will come across all types and varieties of cursing in this story but you may also notice that one famous curse is missing. The f bomb is never so much as even hinted at simply because 'fuck' was just not a word used or even widely known until the mid/late 20th century. People just simply didn't use it. So while I am sorry for having to cut this word out of the dialect, I do not apologize for any other curses that are thrown around particularly by Casey.
3. Lastly but most importantly, I would like to acknowledge that the land the Hartford's built their wealth on was part of the Homestead act which was made up of the lands of the Native people who lived on it first until the American government regularly and often violently displaced and cheated the Native people off of.

1865

She is one of those people you meet only once in your life. She's not your friend, your enemy, nor your soulmate. She's just one of the rare people you may stumble across and can see in their eyes, in the way they walk, how they carry themselves, that they see the world in a very different way than the average person. The story or adventure of a lifetime usually follows these people around and they'll invite you along for the ride, if you can keep up.

The dandelions whispered in the hot wind around the wide black and white striped hooves of her horse whenever she trotted into town on Steadfast, the mighty black draft horse. Sweat foamed around the blue-green wool saddle blanket and dripped off the muzzle of the beast as dust clotted together in his wide pink nostrils and ran in muddy streams down his broad chest. A white stripe ran up the front of the horse's face, the very top of which narrowed and disappeared beneath a mop of black mane.

There she sat, tall and proud as the desert sage, taking in the very movements of ants with her keen eyes. She kicked on Steadfast with her tough black and maroon bearskin boots. Headin' to the corral.

The grass gave a puff of dust as she slid from the saddle, square-toed boots crushing the few browned blades as she gently unbridled the horse and led him to cool water. No respite from the heat today. The outlaw's fingertips left sandy smudges on her black hat as she tipped it away from her forehead, red bandana barely visible beneath the collar of her desert-gray duster.

The outlaw took long, slow cattle-chasin' strides as she crossed dusty divots in the road to the saloon. The swing doors of the saloon clacked back in their hinges as she sauntered into the bar and took up a stool at the counter, an oiled cedar wood that was sticky with the sweat of patronage.

Had the outlaw been at any other saloon, she would have been thrown out immediately by the barkeeper because of her gender. But here, she was known both by fear and respect. These were two of the three things the outlaw considered that one needed in life. The third thing was a good, strong horse.

Tipping the hat onto her lap, the outlaw slowly picked out a silver dollar from a pocket and ticked it twice on the counter before clacking it down flat in front of a young, tidy looking bartender in green pinstripes. The man tossed a white dry towel over his shoulder and leaned on the counter.

"What'l keep ya cool?"

He questioned through an oiled-out handlebar.

"Two' sum." 

"At'l do."

The bartender replied, sliding two frosted glasses from under the counter, and dipping ice into both.

"Over easy?"

"Yup."

The bartender poured a light gin over the ice.

"Out cold?"

"Double up."

The bartender took out a third glass, filled it partway with whiskey and lemon juice, and poured the two shots into the swirling mixture.

"Tart as a tulip."

The bartender said, showing yellowed teeth under his mustache and sliding the drink over to the outlaw. She drank deeply and leaned her left arm on the counter before taking in the rest of the scene.

Two old soldiers in Union uniforms sat playing cards at a corner table. A group of quaint-looking cowboys sat quietly nursing their beers at another table. A middle-aged miner to her left, lost in thought, stared, contemplating the glassware eyes of the boar head mounted behind the bar.

Slow as molasses today. It was the afternoon, she supposed, sipping her oily-looking drink and sliding even deeper into that summer daze that always comes after a long ride under the hot sun.

Whether it was the hollow knocking of hooves on the street outside or the yelling and cracking of men and guns that brought her back, she would never know. But the sounds of the gang outside had the same effect as if someone had broken an ice block right on her head. The outlaw jerked around just in time to see a mosquito object smash through the glass, then turn into a horsefly object, and then slam into her right arm with the force of a locomotive. A second bullet barreled its way into her shoulder, close to her neck. It knocked her off of the barstool and kicked her left hand out from around the butt of her gun which she had been automatically pulling out of her belt. She hit the floor. Hard. Black hat falling gently into the growing pool of blood.

Weeks later, the outlaw would come to be slightly ashamed of the incident, her pride smarting almost as much as her arm. It was only the second time she had ever let her guard down. But for now, all she could think about was the growing numbness in her arms. Her legs. Her chest. Her mind. Dust from the floor was clogging her nose and seemed to be working its way into her brain and her sweaty face was sticking to the dirty saloon floor. Her eyelids were becoming heavier by the second, the floor was comfortable. Why should she move?

With her one good arm, the outlaw clamped down on her arm wound. Tight. And everything came back into focus. Hard. Sharp. Then blurry. Fading. Bright. Steady now, steady. She forced herself up, first to her side, then her belly, then got her knees and eventually, feet under her. She took her hand off the wound momentarily to grab her gun and almost blacked out completely. The floor was quicksand and the world was riding a wild bronco. Not again. Not again.

She staggered over to the shattered window and stuck the barrel of the gun through. It was a powerful, long-barreled revolver. Custom made just for her. The broken glass squealed on the gunmetal. She took careful aim, or as careful as she could, on the one thing she could focus on, a wild and foaming chestnut horse ridden by a tall man dressed in gray and firing wildly into the air. In the second before her brain told her finger to shoot, she saw dull, green eyes flash wildly in her direction from the man. She pulled the two-ton trigger. The recoil snapped her shoulder back, but the shot hit.

The buckle snapped, the bullet having drilled a hole clean through. The saddle and the man flew off of the horse. The terrified creature pulverized the hard-packed clay as it ran off. The man in gray lay still on the road as the last gunshots faded.

The last thing the outlaw saw before a dark sky filled her vision was a sweeping view of the ceiling. Bullet-hole stars crisscrossing with each other. The face of a boar dancing its way through the ever-thickening Milky Way. And stabbings of deer antlers weaving snakily through floating candles making them look as if they were the dull eyes of...?