You were desperate. Tired, desperate, and fed up with the shit you’d gone through. You had all of your shit stolen, your camp ransacked, and you were sliced in the face. A fresh wound made it hurt to talk.

But you found someone’s camp, a long haired man. His horse laid by his side, sleeping in the morning. You were trying to be quiet, take something. See what he had.

“I wouldn’t do that, pretty lady.” his southern drawl had you on guard, gun pointed. He raised his hat to look at you.