<span class="mu-s">May 29th, 1884
Farson, Wyoming Territory</span>
“A glass of bordeaux, and leave the bottle, if you don’t mind, barkeep. The heat today is simply overwhelming,” a slight woman requests of the bartender from her newly-acquired table. Despite being indoors, the oversized hat stays on her head, and the apricot colored gloves she wears stay on her hands. All-in-all, her outfit is much too orange and ruffly for the desolate scrubland she finds herself in, and alone as she is, she certainly sticks out like a sore thumb. So, sitting at a table in the saloon, alone as she is, it’s only natural that trouble would see her as an easy mark.
“I ain’t got no bore-do,” replies the flinty-eyed bartender, a discerning look crossing his mustachioed face, “and I ain’t servin’ you no wine neither. So how’s about a glass of sarsaparilla? ‘S on tap, ice cold.”
Before she can respond, the bartender blanches, quickly turning away to serve a particularly drunken farmhand sitting at the bar.
With a sigh passing through her lips, the girl turned to the trouble she had heard coming halfway down the street.
“Well well well, you a long way from New York City, little lady,” a rough hand places itself on her shoulder and spins her around. The owner of the hand is a rough-looking miner in a ragged, dusty brown shirt and gray trousers, capped off with a floppy leather hat. His shaggy brown stubble is dusted with gray, and his creased face is caked in even more dirt than his outfit, though his eyes betray a deep, unnatural hunger in him. “But you sure is a pretty sort, even with those nasty eyes o’ yers.”
The girl’s orange eyes narrow, a look of disgust passing over her face. This man is part of the gang she came to this town for, but she had no intention of interacting with any of them this up close and personal. “I have my reasons cretin, now if you would be so kind as to unhand me-”
“Uh uh uh,” the ruffian tuts, “I’m not gonna unhand you little lady. An you’ll be gettin a lot more’n my hand.” His other hand moves to hold her chin, which she slaps away with a surprising amount of force, “I like a little fight, and I like ‘em a little young, we’ll be havin’ a lotta fun tonight sweetheart.”
Now it’s the ruffian’s turn for a bigger hand to place itself on his shoulder, except this time, instead of turning him around, the owner of this hand throws him through the saloon’s window with contemptuous ease.
