The Van der Linde gang was a unique place. Any organization in the 1890's that wasn't all white or all male was a unique one. Still, their "work" gave a little more leniency as far as social tolerance went. Everyone bleeds red. Murderous gangs knew that better than anybody.

His hand lingered on the gun holster of his belt, but he didn't draw it. He didn't have the heart to kill a woman. Much less multiple. It didn't matter that their leader, a snarky little lady with a mouth like a wildcat, had shot him in the shoulder months before. He simply couldn't.

Why were there so many, anyway? They were all part of one gang. He'd realized that, having followed them for days now, fully intending to take revenge on the gang or at the very least shoot someone in the same place he'd been shot back in January, when Dutch had decided they should rob that stupid bank in the middle of nowhere. They hadn't known then that they were on a rival gang's "claimed territory."

He sighed. Better to let it go. He'd lose his own life trying to explain any violent actions to the women back at camp.

"What the Hell?" The words were spilling from his lips before he'd fully registered what was happening. There was an arm around his throat. A scrawny arm, not weak by any means, but certainly not that of a man.

"What'chu doing here, huh?" He could recognize that voice anywhere. Not because he knew it well, but because it was the voice he'd heard shouting right before that bullet had ripped through his bicep. If she wasn't who she was, he'd have turned around and killed her on the spot. But he didn't.