"Justice Will Be Had"

[PollyWannaCracker]

"Justice Will Be Had"​

Sarah Learner was never looking for trouble. She wasn't looking for it when she entered the Dry Gulch Saloon. She found it nevertheless. Some would say trouble was destined for a beautiful, even sexy young woman who paraded into a saloon alone, carrying a pistol on her her hip and dressed all in tight fitting black, including a bustier that emphasized her hourglass shape and generous bosom.

Before her first shot of whiskey had even arrived -- delivered reluctantly by a barman who knew she would be the center of a ruckus -- the first adventurous man approached Sarah, looking to learn more about her and -- as was always the case -- get her out of her clothes to see if her sexual energy matched her outward appearance.

She whispered such that only he would hear, "Get the fuck away from me."

When the smirking man -- a ranch hand, Sarah presumed -- didn't depart but instead only moved nearer, she downed her shot, looked him in the eyes, smiled, and added, "And take a bath."

His smirk faded, and a short, tense conversation that got progressively more public ensued. The man told Sarah she needed to be taught some manners, and Sarah told the man she doubted he had anything to teach her.

As they spoke, the black-clad woman's hands remained on the bar, handling the shot glass and bottle that the barman had left behind. The ranch hand, though, had slowly but surely let his right hand move ever closer to his own sidearm until it was resting on the weapon's butt. Sarah wondered whether he feared or hoped that the conversation was going to lead to him pulling his weapon to save face in a conversation in which a mere woman was obviously coming out on top.

Eventually, Sarah slowly turned left to face the man directly; her own gun hand remained on the edge of the bar. Her rude conversation mate glanced down at the weapon. Sarah took note of his reaction to seeing what he may or may not have recognized as the latest in handgun advancements, the Colt Single Action Army, Model M1873. There still weren't very many of this particular weapon here in the Southwest, and those who did own the very expensive weapon were more often than not rich collectors and certainly not your ordinary cowboy. Sarah knew of a few gunslingers who carried the gun called The Peacekeeper, but most of the men she'd seen packing the fine piece were lawmen who typically had a second, more financially prosperous occupation as well, such as owner of a saloon, brothel, gambling house, or combination therein.

"After realizing that you aren't about to get me out of my clothes," she began in a calm voice, "you seem to have become more interested in pulling that piece of steel on your hip. Am I correct?"

The cowboy smiled, as if confirming Sarah's assumption. In an instant, her Colt was out of its holster and pointing at the chest of the man, so near to him that only inches separated her own steel and his dirty vest. His eyes swelled and his mouth fell open, and despite his tightening his fingers around his own weapon's butt, he certainly didn't pull the gun.

Sarah hesitated a moment, letting her peripheral vision take in the reactions of the others in the saloon, including the two men her conversationalist had been sitting with earlier. No one moved, though the tension in the room was obvious. The man before her slowly lifted his hand away from his own weapon and dangled it by his side. Sarah then slowly returned her Colt to its holster and, still facing the man directly, asked quietly, "Perhaps it is time you got back to the ranch?"

The man's expression was still one of total shock and fright, and it took a moment for him to begin backing away from Sarah. He glanced to his friends, then turned away, growling, "Let's get out of this fucking place."

Sarah had hoped that was the end of the excitement, but as was often the case, there was more to come. She finished a second shot of whiskey, asked where she could find a room for rent -- she was told about Widow Alcott's Boarding House -- and headed out through the saloon's swinging doors.

She found the three cowboy's standing in the street, facing the drinking establishment, their stances speaking of their readiness to draw the weapons on their hips. Sarah studied them a moment, then asked, "So, may I ask, is this a case of three cowards standing together against one, lone, woman ... or are two of you going to stand aside and--"

The answer came when the man she'd embarrassed at the bar pulled his older style pistol from its holster. He had acted first, and he may have thought he would have the advantage as such. He didn't, however. Sarah ripped the Colt from her side and put two bullets through the man before he could even level his own pistol at her.

She'd hoped the other two men would have the smarts to not get involved, but they were each pulling their own weapons as their friend spun and fell to the ground. Saran put one round through each of them, then as they were reacting to the slugs ripping through their chests, she put a second shot through each, just to be certain.

Even as the men were coming to stillness on the ground, Sarah was reloading her now empty Colt. She'd seen supposedly victorious gunfight participants shot down by their only-injured competitor in the past, and she wasn't the type to let that happen to her. In the end, though, additional rounds would be unnecessary: the three men were most certainly dead.

Sarah stepped away from the saloon's doorway, looking through the window for signs of other friends of the men she'd killed. Several men had risen and were coming slowly to the doorway to review the damage done, but none seemed to be a threat to Sarah.

The person who eventually interacted with Sarah wasn't coming from inside the saloon but was instead approaching from down the street. The town's Sheriff and one of his Deputies approached, asked the now present barman what had happened, and got a rundown that included the facts that one of the dead men had not only started the fracas but had been the first to draw.

"I'll need you to come with me to my office," the Sheriff told Sarah. Then, glancing to her reloaded and now holstered weapon, he said, "And I'll need to take that, if you don't mind."

"I do mind," Sarah said without hesitation. Seeing the tension in the faces of the Sheriff and his shotgun toting Deputy, she smiled to him and added, "But once you have me inside your office, where I don't have to worry about some cowboy taking a shot at me, I would be more than happy to turn it over to you, Sheriff."

Apparently, that worked for the Sheriff, who gestured Sarah to follow and led the way. The Deputy fell in behind them, and as the crowd back in the dirt before the saloon dealt with the dead men, the three of them covered the two block distance to the jail house. She surrendered her weapon, still in its holster, and -- while she'd expected to be put in a cell for safe keeping -- she found herself gestured to a chair opposite the Sheriff as he sat at his desk.

"Cup of coffee?" he asked before adding, "So, what's your story, Miss?"

 

[PollyWannaCracker]

Sarah took the offer of a cup of coffee, wincing at the acidic nature of the thick brew when she put the mug to her lips. The lawman asked...

"So, what's your story, Miss?"​

"No story, Sheriff," Sarah lied. Oh, she had no intention of telling him her entire story, at least not truthfully. But she most definitely had one. She sipped the nasty brew again, not wanting to offend its maker, and continued, "I'm just heading west and stopped in on your town for a few days rest ... maybe look for some work to replenish my dwindling funds."

"And what happened back there at the saloon?" the Sheriff asked.

Sarah didn't immediately respond, wishing to pick the right explanation that would get her out the door instead of into a cell. She finally only said, "A misunderstanding."

The Sheriff informed Sarah, "The man who I'm willing to bet my badge on was the cause of that ... misunderstanding is ... or was Roland Baker ... son of Walter Baker. Walter Baker is a cattle rancher round these parts."

Behind Sarah, the Deputy laughed. His boss glared, and after gaining control of himself, the Deputy clarified, "Walter Baker owns this county. His ranch is over 10,000 acres, he has more head of cattle than all the rest of the ranchers in the Territory combined ... and he has a crew of ranch hands that all trained killers--"

"That's enough," the Sheriff cut his underling off. He looked to Sarah, who seemed unaffected by the news. Smiling, he told her with a touch of humor, "They aren't all trained killers."

He rose from his chair, retrieved Sarah Colt from the shelf where he'd placed it, and set it on the desk before her. "I'm conflicted, Miss...?"

"Learner," she said, adding as she extended her hand, "Sarah Learner. Nice to meet you...?"

"Jasper Dawkins," he said, hesitating before taking Sarah's hand but doing so nevertheless.

"And why are you conflicted, Jasper," Sarah said, choosing to use his familiar as opposed to his title.

"I'm conflicted ... because although I'm certain that you did not initiate the shootout back there at the saloon ... I'm also certain that you did nothing to prevent it. Legally, I have no reason to put you in that cell or call in the Circuit Judge to try you for murder. Realistically, though, I have every reason to ask you to leave Dry Gulch ... before you are involved in more bodies dropping to the ground."

"Which they will--"

"Which they will...!" Jasper cut in again, glaring at his subordinate before looking back to Sarah and finishing, "...if you remain in town until Walter Baker returns from his business trip to St. Louis."

Sarah stood, picked up her firearm, checked it again to ensure it was still loaded, and holstered it. She looked into the Sheriff's eyes, smiled slightly, and tested him: "You have every reason to ask me to leave Dry Gulch. But ... you don't have the right to force me out ... correct, Sheriff?"

Jasper studied Sarah a moment, then turned to return to his chair as he told her, "No, Miss Learner. I don't have the right. All I can do is advise you to leave town ... and soon. Walter Baker is not your only threat. The Baker Ranch, even with the boss gone and many of his men with him, still has at least a dozen men, maybe twice that on that vast property somewhere. And they will have learned about Rolly's death within hours ... a day at the most. Even without Walter's direction, they will come looking for you."

"I thank you for your concern, Jasper," she responded, back to his given name again. "I assure you ... I'll be fine."

"But will my town?" the Sheriff asked with obvious concern.

Sarah only smiled, asked if she was free to leave, and after being told yes, headed out onto the boardwalk again. Immediately, she saw signs that the news of the shootout was already spreading: the Undertaker was on the scene, with the bodies already loaded up in the back of a buckboard; dozens of people were standing around the scene of the gunfight; and as soon as she stepped back into view, most of those people turned to look at her with expressions ranging from anger to awe.

Ignoring them but not without keeping an eye on those who were armed, Sarah made her way down the street, past the saloon, and into the stables to retrieve her saddlebags. Her next stop was Widow Alcott's Boarding House. She was greeted by an elderly woman with a sour expression who immediately asked, "You 'sponsible for killin' the Baker Boy, girly?"

Sarah nodded, not wanting to show pride or delight in what she'd done but also not wanting to act like she was hiding what couldn't be hid in this small town. "Would it help if I told you I didn't draw first?"

"No, it wouldn't," Widow Alcott snapped back, adding, "'cause I don't give a whooped dog's ass that y'all killed that lil shit."

She tapped a long, arthritic shriveled finger on the open guest book, saying, "Sign in, legibly!. If ya can't write, I'll do it fer ya."

"I can write," Sarah said, her smile widening as she dipped the quill tip and neatly wrote her name as she asked, "How much?"

"How long?" the Widow countered. When Sarah didn't respond, the Widow said, "Dollar a day."

"Dollar?" Sarah asked, feigning surprise at what she knew was actually a fair price for what typically came with the stay.

The Widow filled in quickly, "Comes with breakfast'n'dinner ... clean sheets daily if ya need'em. Lunch is an extra two bits. Ain't no gentleman callers allowed in the ladies' wing, so if yer looking to--"

"I'm not," Sarah cut the woman's warning off. Then, contemplating that the boarding house was just a big, square structure without any, she asked, "Wings?"

"Left side of the hallway is the gentlemen's wing," the Widow explained. "Right side is the ladies'."

"What keeps someone from just crossing the hall and..."

Sarah didn't have to finish her question: the Widow had already been reaching under the counter and now lifted a club up, slamming it down on the check in counter's top. Sarah only laughed and said, "Oh."

"If ya want lunch, I'll make ya a plate of dried beef, bread, fresh milk, and pie now for two bits, like I said," the Widow said as she turned the register around and added, "Miss Learner. Eatin's done in the dining room, not the rooms upstairs. If you don't want lunch..."

She handed Sarah a key, explaining, "...yours is the second room on the right."

Sarah thanked the woman, said she'd like to have lunch, and headed upstairs after saying, "I'll be down to eat after I freshen up a bit."

Upstairs, Sarah found the room to be a bit more than she'd expected: a neatly made bed with extra pillows, a wardrobe with hangers, a desk and chair at the window looking out over one of the town's back streets, a bureau upon which were a pitcher of water and a washing basin, and a second door that led out onto the balcony that looked out upon Dry Gulch's main street.

Sarah dropped her saddlebags onto the bed, splashed some water on her face, and cleaned her neck with a wetted rag. Downstairs, she dropped into a chair at the dining table to eat her lunch; there was no one else present, though Sarah did see a few men and one woman pass by the open door, sometimes slowing to give her a look.

Back upstairs, she moved the chair out onto the balcony and spent the rest of the evening just watching the town below her. She was often looked or even pointed at by some of the townsfolk, which sometimes included armed cowboy typed who might very well have been from the Baker Ranch. But her night was uneventful, and finally, an hour or so after dark had fallen over Dry Gulch, Sarah made her way back inside, wedged the chair up under the hallway door's handle, stripped to her undergarments, and with her Colt well within quick reach, laid down for a good night's sleep.

 

[PollyWannaCracker]

Introducing Gretchen Wolffe; mentioning Harmon Cooper

Sarah snapped out of a deep sleep with a start, instinctively pulling her Colt out from under her pillow and aiming it toward the noise she'd unconsciously heard, the jiggling of the knob of the barricaded, boarding house room's door.

She blinked her eyes back to full usage as she listened and watched, thinking that some of Baker's men had either gotten orders to come get her or had independently gotten up the nerve to come for her on their own. Instead, Sarah heard a soft, female voice from beyond the door announce, "Excuse, Miss Learner...? The Widow Alcott asked me to remind you that breakfast is being served."

Sarah released the hammer of her pistol to a safer position, and after a moment of silence, the girl outside continued, "I brought you coffee ... if'n you'd like some."

"Yeah ... gimme a second."

Sarah rose and casually checked the streets outside through both windows, seeing nothing concerning. Then, crossing the small room, she pulled aside the chair wedged under the handle and opened the door a couple of inches, the Colt leveled at waist height in case there were any dangers to be had out there.

The girl -- no, a young woman, perhaps late teens -- was shorter than Sarah by two inches and looking up to the face of the Boarding House's guest; she failed to see the pistol pointing at her belly. Sarah lowered the weapon, slipping it behind her back, then leaned her head out a bit farther to look up and down the hallway.

"G'mornin'," the other female said in a German accent that Sarah only now noticed. "I'm Gretchen. I work for the Widow Alcott. I live here, too ... downstairs, in the back."

"Smells good," was Sarah's greeting as the scent of the coffee rose to her nose.

She stepped back and swung the door open wider, and Gretchen headed inside to set the platter down on the bureau. It held a carafe of coffee, a mug, a tiny container of sugar, and a similar container with a spout full of cream. Beside all of the coffee fixings was a pastry as well.

When she turned to face Sarah, Gretchen almost gasped at the sight of the other, older woman pulling her simple nightgown up and off, revealing her firm, well rounded breasts. The younger woman's eyes fell to the floor as her hands clasped nervously before her.

Sarah caught Gretchen's conspicuous reaction to her top half suddenly being on full display. She explained in just few words, "I need to clean up."

"Yes, Miss," the other woman said nervously.

The gunslinger smiled, then even chuckled softly. Stepping closer, she asked the younger female, "Have you never laid eyes upon another woman while she was not fully dressed? At home, your mother or sisters...? Maybe at the bath house?"

After Gretchen shook her head energetically, Sarah stepped closer still, reached out, and urged the girl's head up with finger to her chin. "It's okay. You can look. In fact, you should look."

Gretchen peeked up enough for a quick look at Sarah's bosom before looking down again; her face was a fiery red. She asked meekly, "Why should I look, Miss. I ... I don't understand."

"You need to know what you have to offer a man that the next woman doesn't," Sarah began explaining as she stepped around the girl to fill the pre-warmed ceramic mug with steaming coffee. "It could be money, if you have a dowry. It could be land if you have a rich father about to kick the bucket. Maybe you have a delightful singing voice that lures men in like the fabled Sirens of mythology."

Sarah had been in profile to the younger woman who had once more allowed her eyes to peek upwards and to the right -- toward Sarah's naked top half -- before dropping again. Turning to face Gretchen directly again, Sarah said, "But if you have none of that, the one thing a woman always has to attract a man is her body. You should know whether your body will attract or repel men, and you sometimes the difference between those two is based less upon how you look naked and more upon how other women 'round ya look naked."

Sarah could see that Gretchen was visibly trembling, anxious about this new and unusual interaction. Sarah reached out to force the girl's chin upwards again, telling her, "Look at me, Gretchen."

The young hesitated but allowed her head to be lifted. Her gaze skipped up high initially, to the other woman's own eyes. Sarah stressed knowingly, "Look at me, Gretchen."

The servant's eyes dropped, her gaze shifting left and right and left again to take in Sarah's wonderfully firm and gravity defying bosom. Sarah smiled, then chuckled softly before asking, "So ... how do you compare, Gretchen? Am I going to steal all the men in town from you? Or are you gonna steal their attention from me instead?"

The younger woman's face exploded in yet another blush, and her head lowered to put her gaze on the floor once again. Sarah reached out to caress Gretchen's cheek softly, telling her, "It's okay, honey, I didn't mean to embarrass you."

As she set about pouring some water into the wash basin, Sarah said, "Why don't you go tell ... um, you called her the Widow Alcott. Does my hostess not have a first name, or might she prefer Missus?"

"No, Miss," Gretchen said, her courage built up enough suddenly to take peeks at Sarah's exposed topside when Sarah's own eyes were not upon her. "The Widow Alcott prefers Widow Alcott. I, um ... I think she likes people to remember that she was once married to Mister Alcott. He was murdered here in town, you know ... for no reason at all."

Sarah looked to Gretchen and tried to display surprise. But honestly, hearing of unwarranted killings of innocents in this part of the country didn't surprise her at all. "I'm sorry to hear that. Do they know who did it ... who killed Mister Alcott?"

Gretchen's eyes went to the floor again, and her expression told Sarah that she didn't want to speak about this. Sarah said with a soft voice, "It's okay. Leave it be."

They chatted a bit as the older woman used a wet rag to clean her face, neck, shoulders, and belly. The water was room temperature and caused Sarah's body flesh to explode in goose flesh, which made Gretchen giggle. Sarah turned to show the younger female her bosom and the now much larger nipples, telling her, "That isn't all the cold causes."

Gretchen looked down again, laughing embarrassingly, but then as Sarah's urging, looked up again. She confessed, "Mine do that, too. Out in the cold. Or sometimes when..."

She didn't finish the thought, instead turning red once again. Sarah prodded, "Or sometimes when ... what?"

Gretchen only giggled, but -- as she moved to don her second, less-dirty blouse -- Sarah pressed, and Gretchen admitted something she'd never said to anyone ever, "Sometimes, at the Mercantile, when Harmon Cooper helps me with the Widow Alcott's order ... sometimes I notice that..."

Sarah laughed, finishing the thought, "That your heart speeds up ... that your nipples harden. I don't suppose you get all warm and bothered down there, too?"

She'd pointed to the other woman's groin, to which Gretchen first showed horror at being asked such a thing but then, after a moment of contemplation over the conversation, admitted, "Yes, Miss. Sometimes."

"Well, that's how things are supposed to work, honey," Sarah said, laughing as she sat to don her pants and, as the conversation finished, stood to put on everything else she would be wearing downtown. "How old are you, Gretchen?"

"I turned 18 two weeks ago, Miss."

"And you're still pure of body?"

Gretchen's eyes again dropped as she giggled. Sarah pried for an answer and got a serious nod. "Good for you. You save yourself for Harmon Cooper ... or whomever you wish to honor with the greatest gift you can give the right man."

As Gretchen again giggled and blushed, Sarah contemplated what she'd said. She herself had surrendered her own purity at age 14, to a well-to-do man back in St. Louis. The man had been publicly courting Sarah's widowed mother while privately attempting to seduce Sarah; he had vowed to marry the elder Learner woman and bail her out of her financial difficulties if the younger Learner would simply spread her legs for him.

Sarah had done as the man asked, which promptly resulted in the man abandoning both Learner women. Going to the man's house to confront him had resulted in Sarah shooting the man in the eye socket with her father's old 1860 Army Snub Nose .44 pistol. The next day, the two women fled west.

They finished their conversation, and after Gretchen had been gone for a couple of minutes, Sarah followed her downstairs to join the other guests at the dining hall table.