boo.
the price we pay
may i stand unshaken
monserrat pinto.
devil wears a suit and tie
There wasn't much to look at in a town like Crimson Run, so called because of the red clay that spotted the nearby creek. It wasn't really a town to begin with, although it did have a post office, so at least there was one point in the barebones ledger. Not that it received much mail, and the postmaster was really the owner of the one inn to be found, but it was something and the people who lived in the settlement were determined to make something out of themselves. Slowly but steadily, Crimson Run was growing, although it was still little more than a pin mark on the trails between the Bighorns and Fort Collins, the nearest military outpost this side of the Missouri. If that seemed like an impractical distance to measure by, that's because it was, but there wasn't really that much else to go off of.
Of course, if you were to ask Pinto where Crimson Run was, she'd tell you she had no idea, that she'd just stumbled upon the place as she was riding north to her relatives in Sheridan. That was why her horse was laden with saddlebags and a plains rifle, why she often kept her faded yellow kerchief pulled up over her nose and her wide-brimmed hat tugged low, because you never really did know what to expect out here with folks you didn't recognize. 'Just passing through' was her story, and it seemed that most were content to accept it.
But if you paid close enough attention, you might wonder why, if that was the case, she was still here after a week of good weather, boarding on the inn's second floor and spending good hours holed up in the saloon instead of... well, going on to Sheridan. She had a story for that, too—her horse had a bad shoe and once she'd gotten it replaced from the town farrier, she wanted to give him a few days of rest. Well, that seemed fair enough, except that it was a lie and she wasn't exactly lounging about because of laziness.
There were a lot of things about Pinto that were lies. Where to start? The fact that she spoke low and nursed her tobacco and posed as a man, or that she had had no relatives, had no intention of going to Sheridan, and that she was in fact working a bounty here in Crimson Run? There were a lot of things to unpack there, but rest assured, those were hardly her most offensive secrets. Not that she had any intention of ever unveiling them; both were central parts of her identity, even if the whole bounty hunter thing was technically more socially acceptable, in a fucked-up kind of way. Wasn't that just sad?
But Pinto wasn't here to lament her repressed femininity. She was here to finish a job, and that job was starting to feel a little frustrating because everyone in this rinky-dink town seemed to want nothing to do with Willis Sykes, the man she was here to kill.
All her information had led her here to Crimson Run, where the Abbott boys were supposed to have set up a base of operations, and yet the harder Pinto tried to glean information from casual conversation, the more she found herself coming up empty-handed. It was as though the people here had some reason to protect him—that, or they knew they could get their asses beat by any sort of association. That wouldn't have been surprising, considering the kind of man Sykes was. Pinto's employer had been half-blinded by a stagecoach robbery gone wrong, and claimed that Sykes and the Abbott boys were behind it. As a certified bounty hunter, Pinto wasn't here to question the facts; she was here to dish out putrefied justice, and her employer preferred blue lips to a pair of handcuffs. That was fine by her.
The gang had to have a hideout somewhere around Crimson Run, but she had yet to find a real lead, and she was quickly running out of ideas. One more time, she found herself loitering in the local saloon, a place affectionately known by the locals as Red Rum (yes, very inventive. Pinto had rolled her eyes the first time she heard it, thinking it was a joke). The sun was setting, casting an orange glow over the sagebrush horizon, although Pinto found herself holed up inside with a wreath of drowsy smoke circling her head and a sweating glass resting against her palm. She didn't much feel like getting drunk but with the mood she was in, she knew it was best to get her tongue a little loosened before she made the rounds again, strategically butting in on conversations and listening to others above the quiet roar of chatter. As nightfall began to reach over the horizon, men from around town were starting to gather, just as they did almost every night.
Pinto waved her hand.
The conversation lapsed for a moment as Vince helped another patron, and Pinto took the time to glance around the bar, taking note of the various figures. People from all walks of life ended up here—farmers, ranchers, businessmen, you name it. What she was looking for were unfamiliar faces. Her fingers crept up to tug at the faded yellow bandana wrapped around the base of her neck, poking out just slightly from the thick fabric she had wrapped loosely around her shoulders to ward off the night's chill. Some strands of dark, curly hair had escaped where she tied it back, frizzing out and framing her face. She almost felt the urge to pull the kerchief over her nose but it went as soon as it appeared, as she reassured herself there was nothing to be particularly paranoid about here.
Vince returned, wiping out a glass.
Pinto's attention was immediately piqued.
Bingo.
Of course, if you were to ask Pinto where Crimson Run was, she'd tell you she had no idea, that she'd just stumbled upon the place as she was riding north to her relatives in Sheridan. That was why her horse was laden with saddlebags and a plains rifle, why she often kept her faded yellow kerchief pulled up over her nose and her wide-brimmed hat tugged low, because you never really did know what to expect out here with folks you didn't recognize. 'Just passing through' was her story, and it seemed that most were content to accept it.
But if you paid close enough attention, you might wonder why, if that was the case, she was still here after a week of good weather, boarding on the inn's second floor and spending good hours holed up in the saloon instead of... well, going on to Sheridan. She had a story for that, too—her horse had a bad shoe and once she'd gotten it replaced from the town farrier, she wanted to give him a few days of rest. Well, that seemed fair enough, except that it was a lie and she wasn't exactly lounging about because of laziness.
There were a lot of things about Pinto that were lies. Where to start? The fact that she spoke low and nursed her tobacco and posed as a man, or that she had had no relatives, had no intention of going to Sheridan, and that she was in fact working a bounty here in Crimson Run? There were a lot of things to unpack there, but rest assured, those were hardly her most offensive secrets. Not that she had any intention of ever unveiling them; both were central parts of her identity, even if the whole bounty hunter thing was technically more socially acceptable, in a fucked-up kind of way. Wasn't that just sad?
But Pinto wasn't here to lament her repressed femininity. She was here to finish a job, and that job was starting to feel a little frustrating because everyone in this rinky-dink town seemed to want nothing to do with Willis Sykes, the man she was here to kill.
All her information had led her here to Crimson Run, where the Abbott boys were supposed to have set up a base of operations, and yet the harder Pinto tried to glean information from casual conversation, the more she found herself coming up empty-handed. It was as though the people here had some reason to protect him—that, or they knew they could get their asses beat by any sort of association. That wouldn't have been surprising, considering the kind of man Sykes was. Pinto's employer had been half-blinded by a stagecoach robbery gone wrong, and claimed that Sykes and the Abbott boys were behind it. As a certified bounty hunter, Pinto wasn't here to question the facts; she was here to dish out putrefied justice, and her employer preferred blue lips to a pair of handcuffs. That was fine by her.
The gang had to have a hideout somewhere around Crimson Run, but she had yet to find a real lead, and she was quickly running out of ideas. One more time, she found herself loitering in the local saloon, a place affectionately known by the locals as Red Rum (yes, very inventive. Pinto had rolled her eyes the first time she heard it, thinking it was a joke). The sun was setting, casting an orange glow over the sagebrush horizon, although Pinto found herself holed up inside with a wreath of drowsy smoke circling her head and a sweating glass resting against her palm. She didn't much feel like getting drunk but with the mood she was in, she knew it was best to get her tongue a little loosened before she made the rounds again, strategically butting in on conversations and listening to others above the quiet roar of chatter. As nightfall began to reach over the horizon, men from around town were starting to gather, just as they did almost every night.
"That's horse o' yours doin' any better?"
The rough voice of the barkeep shook Pinto from her reflections. "Naw. A little, maybe."
Her voice was gruff and bore noticeable traces of the Spanish accent she'd never quite been able to shake."Y'know, I'd talk to Mr. Booth. Last I heard, those yearlings of his were maturin' into somethin' special. You'd have a hell of a time bartering with him, though."
Pinto waved her hand.
"Call me sentimental, Vince, but Pluma got what it takes. He just needs a little time."
Her finger traced the rim of her glass before she plucked it up and sipped smoke liquor. "I'm not in no rush."
The conversation lapsed for a moment as Vince helped another patron, and Pinto took the time to glance around the bar, taking note of the various figures. People from all walks of life ended up here—farmers, ranchers, businessmen, you name it. What she was looking for were unfamiliar faces. Her fingers crept up to tug at the faded yellow bandana wrapped around the base of her neck, poking out just slightly from the thick fabric she had wrapped loosely around her shoulders to ward off the night's chill. Some strands of dark, curly hair had escaped where she tied it back, frizzing out and framing her face. She almost felt the urge to pull the kerchief over her nose but it went as soon as it appeared, as she reassured herself there was nothing to be particularly paranoid about here.
Vince returned, wiping out a glass.
"You still lookin' for that Sykes fella?"
Pinto's attention was immediately piqued.
"Yeah."
"Over there,"
he shrugged toward the opposite corner of the saloon, where a group of three man sat quietly around a table, fiddling with a pack of cards. "Said they were waiting for a guy before they head east to Rapid City. Can't be too sure, but I thought I heard one of 'em mention his name."
"I hoped I could catch him here before he left,"
Pinto murmured, watching the trio. "Thanks, Vince."
Bingo.
