The trail out of town was barren. Broodville, her old town, was the last official settlement recognized by the Colombian Empire in the southwest of Zedoria. The Empire only deemed it a town to lay claim to the vast western expanse and keep it out of Confederation hands. In reality, Broodville was little more than an outpost, rarely visited by anyone since the civil war.
As Zarael rode for hours, she passed nothing but rolling red hills and swirling dust storms. Occasionally, Midnight would veer toward an outcropping of short purple ferns to take a bite, but Zarael tugged at the reins, keeping her horse on the path. A dense dust storm had kicked up since she left town, enveloping her in a thick fog. She could see only a few yards ahead, but she had ridden the trail before.
She knew if she followed it, she would find a river and a fork. One trail led south to Colonel Lamoure’s ranch, her old friend. The other was an old army trail heading into the vast expanse of empty country and nomadic savages to the west.
Zarael didn’t think anyone from town was following her. They didn’t have a marshal, and she doubted anyone would be eager to pursue her. Her husband certainly wouldn’t push for it. As she sat in her makeshift saddle, with Midnight trotting down the trail at a steady pace, she began to wonder why she had ever married him. He was quiet and inoffensive. He could walk into a room, and scarcely anyone would notice him.
Her mind drifted to their first meeting, only six months back. It was the month before she was to graduate seminary and be assigned to a church. It was her friend’s birthday, and he had come to town to celebrate with her. Zarael’s friend, Sabrian, mentioned that he was looking to marry a minister and move west. It was a requirement for female ministers to be married before they could serve in a church. The rest of Zarael’s class had married in their first year, but at 22 and a month from graduation, she still hadn’t met anyone she felt was marriage material. All the men she met were overly confident and incredibly dumb, a terrible combination.
Then this man came into the picture. He was too quiet to be confident, and she couldn’t tell if he was dumb since he barely talked. The man wanted to marry, and she needed to marry. Their union wasn’t for love; she didn’t want her schooling to go to waste. But she wasn’t like the other ministers either. She drank, smoked, and made most of her money gambling. Without the card games at the saloon, she wouldn’t have been able to afford seminary.
She married the man to become a minister and serve God in a church. Then less than three months into both her first assignment and her marriage, she was running away from both.
Zarael reached into the waistband of her dirt-covered long johns and felt for her book of scripture. It was still there.
Suddenly, Midnight came to a stop, causing Zarael to slide forward. Her patchwork blanket slipped, and she spun until she fell to the ground, landing on her back, barely holding onto the reins with her right hand. The ground wasn’t hard and dusty but instead was deep mud. She planted her left hand into the ground to push herself up, but it got stuck. She looked over and saw a thick line of trees and waist-high brush running down a slight hill. At the bottom of the slope was a small creek.
Her right hand still gripped the reins, but her left was now stuck in the mud. She looked up at Midnight and said, “Don’t run off and leave me here.”
Midnight nickered and shifted her legs, stomping up and down in the wet mud. Zarael quickly dropped the reins, expecting Midnight to run off, but she didn’t. Zarael used both hands to push herself out of the thick mud and right herself on her feet. Luckily, she had passed out in her boots last night, so her feet weren’t covered, but her long johns were beyond dirty. She looked more like a sludge monster than a lady.
Carelessly, Midnight walked down toward the low bushes and began to eat some of the foliage. Zarael made her way down too, pushing through the brush and tall grass toward the water. Before she entered the water, she took off her holster and laid it, along with her pocket scripture, on the shore. The creek was only knee-deep and had a yellow hue from the bright yellow rocks lining its bottom. Zarael kept one eye on her horse and sat down, leaning back into the water, letting it rush over her and clean off some of the mud. She laid like this for several minutes until she heard Midnight whinny and saw her move down the slope toward the creek.
This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.
Zarael got up, dripping wet but mostly clean of mud, and ran toward her holster. She quickly attached it and picked up her book. She moved her right hand to her blaster and waited, listening for any sounds in the distance. Then she heard a group of voices shouting.
“There are tracks here.”
She heard several men dismount their horses.
“Damn this mud,” one shouted.
Over the ridge, she spotted one rider in particular: Donn Shaw. He was a particularly petite man on a striped horse that stood over 20 hands tall. Shaw had arrived in town last month. No one knew much about him, but everyone thought he was a killer, despite his diminutive appearance. He had a naturally clean face and never seemed to need to shave. His shoulders were thin, and his eyes were a boyish light blue. He wore two guns, a long six-shot hand-cannon revolver and an auto blaster, both Colombian officer pistols, though he was no officer. He wore a black outfit made of fine material from the heart of the Empire that was clearly made for a larger man.
He looked down at Zarael, sitting on his horse casually, his left hand resting on the butt of his hand-cannon. Shaw smirked but did not move. Some of the other men began to move toward the slope, noticing her standing in the water.
“There she is,” one shouted.
They all began to run down the hill toward her. Zarael, with a hand on her blaster, shouted, “I’m leaving. Just let me go.”
Jimbo Brood, a big man and the grandson of Broodville’s founder, motioned for the men to stop. Then he spoke, “Zarael, we can’t let you go after assaulting your husband like that. You’re coming with us.”
Shaw paid no attention to Jimbo and calmly trotted his horse down the slope toward the men. His horse was so tall that Shaw’s feet hung at the level of the dismounted men’s heads.
Zarael looked at the other men. They were still in their church clothes, and none of them seemed to have thought to grab their guns. She reached and unhooked the leather strap over her blaster.
Jimbo noticed her move her hand and became acutely aware of his folly in not grabbing his gun before riding out.
“If you won’t come... Shaw will make you,” Jimbo said, staring up at Shaw’s dangling feet above him.
The men all looked up at Shaw, and Zarael did too. Shaw smirked again, eyeing each man individually but never looking in Zarael’s direction. By now, she had pulled her blaster almost halfway out of her holster.
She had only fired her gun a few times at jugs behind the barn, and even then, it was hard for her to hit anything. But she didn’t know if Shaw knew that. She hoped he might think she was a better shot and not try anything.
However, Shaw just sat coolly on his horse as if nothing was happening.
“Why would I do that?” Shaw said, looking at the men.
“Why... because you rode out with us,” Jimbo said.
“I just wanted to ride. Now, if you had made me your marshal like I asked when I came to town, I might do something. But you didn’t, and now it seems you men forgot to bring your guns to the fight. And this pretty little miss minister is about to turn you into some holy men.”
Shaw laughed, though no one else did.
Jimbo looked down at Zarael’s right hand, seeing her grip on the pistol.
“Let’s get out of here. He’s better off without her,” Jimbo motioned for his men to walk back to their horses.
“Not yet,” Shaw said, staring at Jimbo with his eyes barely visible under his large black hat. “You can’t let this lovely young thing ride without a hat.”
Shaw pulled out his large hand-cannon and used the barrel to motion at the blue hat that sat on Jimbo’s head.
With a sigh, Jimbo took off his hat and tossed it down the bank toward Zarael. However, she didn’t pick it up. The men continued up the bank, mounted their horses, and rode back toward town. Shaw, however, remained mounted on his giant horse.
Zarael stood still, waiting for him to say something, but he didn’t. After some time, Midnight, who had been standing off to the side, moved closer to her. Zarael, in turn, reached down, grabbed the hat Jimbo had tossed, and climbed onto Midnight’s back, keeping her right hand on her gun the whole time. Shaw never flinched. He sat on his horse as easily as if he were watching the sunset.
Finally, Zarael brought Midnight to a gallop and headed south down the rough trail toward Colonel Lamoure’s ranch. She looked back and saw Shaw watching her ride.