New Hustlers' Duet

Chapter 1: A Bad Business

The life of a cowboy in the old west wasn't as grand and bombastic as our books and old western shows might lead you to believe. Life was hard and every day was a slow, repetitive sway of labor. In fact, the word 'cowboy' is a very deliberate term for the kind of life they lived. They were young ranchers who herded cattle only to receive compensation that was measured in cents by day's end. They were ordinary people, who, between the sun's heat and the cracks of parched dirt, hoped to become something greater.

They carried guns to defend themselves and their stock. Out in the country, they often measured disputes in likeliness of life and death. They had to be wary of thieves, crooked lawmen, American Indians, and of course—other cowboys. They carried weapons as a necessity, but it doubled as a powerful tool in all matters of business and sin.

In the country, in the dirt, in the wild west, these beleaguered cowboys had just enough tools to fight—to make themselves and their gangs into the most despicable killers or honorable knights. They had the chance at glory and the whispered words of legend. The life of a cowboy was hard and monotonous labor. But some days, a young cowboy's life might have looked like this:

Yale watched as a stout, dapper man led his horse outside to a small paddock. He had a fat smile on his face as he talked animatedly to the final bidder following behind him. The bidder paid $1,000 for the stallion who came in third place, Whistler was his name. $1,000 for Whistler. $1,000 dollars for third place.

"Mr. Plaid underpants' gettin' tired," Yale muttered, nodding to the guard wearing a bowler hat and a cheap blazer sat by the gate. He was the only guard Yale and Abigail noticed so far. And yes, at one point they both got a wide view of the man's undergarments when he bent down to retrieve his watch after it unfortunately snapped off his wrist.

Abigail nodded, though her attention wasn't on the guard or the two men finishing their business deal. She was busy watching the auction from afar, looking for Isaiah in the bustling crowd as the next racehorse entered the ring—second place. Not their target. They weren't searching for silver. They wanted gold.

Her hands, usually placed firmly on her holstered revolvers, stayed warm beneath her tobacco scented poncho, rubbing together to stay warm. Yale anxiously tapped his foot against the earth, his spurs jingling. They were both losing their patience out here.

Second place entered the ring on violent, thundering hooves. She reared up and kicked the air, dazzling and terrifying an equal number of spectators. "This is an outrage!" She whinnied. "They put a sponge in my nose." Her handler attempted to calm her, but she didn't relent as she stormed around the ring and bucked an imaginary jockey ten feet into the canopy. "They put a sponge IN MY NOSE! And did you see those horseshoes?! Those were lumpier than the bed of a two-dollar whore!"

Nobody could understand her, of course. Nobody except for Isaiah. Tall and young, at only 22 years old, the ranch hand stuck out in the crowd of wealthy bidders, breeders, and land-owners. His dirty dress pants and his disheveled bow tie betrayed his hastily-acquired costume, hinting to the cowboy beneath. He stepped forward, brow furrowing as he listened to the mare's plea.

Isaiah examined the mare with keen eyes. She was a strong, healthy thoroughbred whom he guessed probably weighed just shy of a thousand pounds. And God was she gorgeous. Most of her coat was white with a stark, deep brown bed of fur traveling from the tip of her ears down her neck to the small of her back, painted out to the width of her belly. Her eyes were a piercing sky blue that sparkled even now, contrasted by the red feathers tied into her braided mane. Though she didn't possess the thumbs needed to tie the red highlights in, the way she proudly flicked her hair around left no doubt in Isaiah's mind that they were her aesthetic choice.