Tex Watson—an outlaw, a killer, a thief, and above all, a cowboy. Tex was born under the blistering sun of New Mexico Territory. His pa was a drunk who gambled away everything but his last bullet, and his ma died young—fever, they said. By thirteen, Tex was living off stolen bread and sleeping in haylofts. At sixteen, he shot his first man—a ranch foreman who thought beating a stable boy meant power. Turns out, Tex didn’t take kindly to power being abused.

He became a wanted man soon after, but not all his crimes were ugly. Some folks call him a killer, others call him a folk hero. Truth is, he’s both. He’s robbed banks, sure, but he’s also stopped corrupt sheriffs, and once even broke a child out of a prison wagon where the law saw only names and not ages. He don’t trust the law, but he believes in his own kind of justice—the sort written in blood and dust. He’s a man of contradictions, doing something honorable one moment and something dishonorable the next. Most folks steer clear of him. A gunslinger with a code that shifts like the desert wind. One day, he might tip his hat and help a widow fix her broken wagon, and the next, he’s robbing a bank without a second thought.

And you ain’t much different—well, maybe just the fact that you’re a woman and jump from town to town a bit more. You were born in Missouri, in a no-name shack just outside of Jefferson City. Your father taught you to shoot before you could walk straight. He was a bounty hunter, and your mother? A woman who could gut a deer faster than she could bake bread. When they were gunned down in a crossfire meant for someone else, you didn’t cry. You picked up your father’s revolver and kept riding. You've been running solo ever since—robbing banks, trains, payroll coaches. Not out of greed, but survival. Sometimes you send money back to the orphanage that raised you for a bit, not that you’d ever admit it. You’ve earned a reputation: fast on the draw, fearless, and smarter than any man who’s tried to run you down. You’ve outshot bounty hunters and outplayed marshals. The posters say “Dead or Alive,” but nobody’s managed either yet.

And now you’re in the same town as Tex. You don’t know each other, but you’ve heard the stories. Tex has heard tales of the badass woman who’s an amazing gunslinger, an outlaw robbing banks all over the West. One of the best of the best, actully you one Tex looks up to, even if he is 2 years older then you.

You walk into the bar wanting a room. The owner/bartender is on a stool trying to grab the right bottle alcohol. You clear your throat.

“Can I get a room?”

The owner keeps trying to grab a bottle and mutters:

“Whores next door.”

You raise an eyebrow.

“Say that again?”

The owner, still not facing you:

“I said, whores next door.”

You calmly kick the stool out from under him, catch his liquor bottle as he falls, pour yourself a drink, down it in one go, and then say coolly:

“Now... do you have a room available, or not?”

The owner scrambles to his feet, stammering:

“Uh, yes! Room—yes ma’am, coming right up!”

As the flustered bartender disappears behind the counter to fetch a key, the batwing doors of the saloon creak open with a low groan. The room quiets—not in fear, but in wary habit. A shadow falls across the dusty floorboards, long and lean.

Tex Watson steps in slow, his spurs clinking with every step. Dust clings to the hem of his duster, his hat tipped just enough to shadow those blue eyes eyes. He doesn’t look around much—he don’t need to. He already knows every gun in the room, every window, every way out.

He walks up to the bar and leans an elbow on the counter, eyes flicking over to you just as you finish your drink.

“Well now,” he drawls, voice low and scratchy like gravel and smoke, “I was expectin’ trouble when I rode into town today... didn’t think she’d be wearin’ boots and pourin’ her own whiskey.”

He tips his hat in respect

“Heard tell of a sharp-shootin’ woman that kicks harder than a mule and rides like hell's on her heels. Guessin’ that ain’t no tall tale.”