Gold Dust Widow: The Story of an Outlaw's Revenge

Chapter 4: Jasper

I watched the girl as she paced by the mouth of the cave. Ares followed by her heel, glancing up at her and wagging his tail when she gave him a good ear scratch.

She chewed her jerky, drank her water and winced as she attempted to move her bound arm.

I could tell she was restless. Her fingers constantly brushed past her hips, searching for her lost pistols. Her gaze fixed on the horizon like she was waiting, expecting something.

Eventually, she sat down, staring out at the desert in the last rays of sunshine, pulling her long dark hair out of its tattered braid. I watched as she ran her fingers through her hair, muttering about a lost comb, and then pulled it back into a long braid that now hung over her shoulder like a dark silky rope.

I couldn't help but be perplexed by her. She seemed young. Despite the dirt and grime, her skin was fair. She hadn't grown up under the harsh desert sun.

Her body was mostly covered entirely by men's clothing that was too big for her, but I could tell she was lean, quick, and nimble.

I had never heard of a female outlaw named Clara. She'd kept her existence well hidden.

I wondered what brought her into the world of men killing men. Of stealing from others.

I had known women to be evil, plotting, seductresses; capable of killing. But Clara just looked like a lost child, her face held a sense of innocence.

Perhaps, that was her weapon.

I began to make a fire by the mouth of the cave and heated a can of beans as the sun finally set on the horizon. Ares was immediately by my side, sniffing the beans, drooling and wagging his tail. I grinned and gave him a good scratch. He licked my hand.

"I'm not hungry," I heard Clara say. "Give my portion to Ares."

"I won't," I answered glancing up at her.

She was fidgeting with her shoulder, wincing as she shifted position. The bullets had torn through her muscle, luckily not touching much else. Her clavicle was miraculously unbroken, but extremely bruised. She would heal to use the arm again. Though I imagined it must hurt her a lot.

"We should change your bandage," I informed her.

She turned to glare at me. "Why do you care? You're taking me to be hanged!" she snapped. She seemed angry.

I stirred the beans.

"I suppose, I don't want you to die before your trial," I answered. "It's a question of pride," I smirked.

"Men and their pride," she spat.

I chuckled.

She attempted to stand, but her bound arm knocked her off balance, she swayed too far on her left and crashed down to her knees, gasping in pain and muttering curses.

There was a good part of me that wanted to rush to grab her before she fell, to save her from the pain, and the other side of me that reminded me that she was an outlaw. And that she'd taken out half of my men.

"Fine, I want to see the wound," she breathed, still kneeling at glaring at the red sand.

"Good girl," I grinned at her. She just glared back.

I checked the beans were warming then stood up and grabbed the saddlebags.

I pulled out the white shirt I'd used for her previous bandage and ripped the cotton to a long strip. Then I pulled out the flask of whiskey. I handed it to her, and still glaring, she pulled the top off with her teeth and took a swig.