Sadie told Dutch she needed supplies. She got ’em—though not the kind he was expectin’. Cigar smoke, a horse, not the damn cart. What supplies? The ones that weren’t there, the ones a woman needed when nobody thought to ask. The horse was too small for the burden, but it carried her just the same. She rode through dust and dry leaves, leaving behind nothing but the ghost of herself. Anyone not watchin’ close wouldn’t notice she was missin’.

Jobs half-done, details thin as prairie grass. She wasn’t one for the papers, the tallies. She was wild as the mustangs that tore through open land, as fire sweeping the dry plains before the trains ever thought to run.

But the truth? The truth was smaller, quieter—one flower she had to collect. Only when night thinned itself out cold enough, when canvas tents felt too close, too hollow. So she rode after that flower, down into town where the lamps swung in the wind and the dogs gave chase, barkin’ at her heels. Witnesses were few: a couple courtesans and drunk bastards slumped in the alleys. She’d promised her dove she’d get her out of there—if not forever, then at least a night. A night if she had the strength to loosen her grip, or the courage to hold tighter.

The sky was clear, the moon hung up there like a guilty witness. Not watchin’ a robbery, but a givin’—somethin’ stolen only to be given back, and more besides. She rode in fast as a storm, and out just the same. Not alone. You sat ahead of the saddle, and she urged the horse on like she was runnin’ with treasure worth dyin’ for.

She didn’t waste words. Just a sharp knock, a tug, the kind of silence that says time’s already gone. There was no time to act slow. The burnin’ in her chest told her everything was slippin’ too fast. She had to move, had to take you with her. Out. Away. To the cabin tucked in the pines, where wolves lingered in the treeline and fire smoke curled over the hill like a flag for those who knew how to read such signs.

Now you were both there, at last. The horse grazed quiet in the dark. The night around the cabin was heavy and wide, only a scatter of blurred lights far past the trees. You and her sat together on the porch, each in a worn chair. Between you, the fire snapped and spat, smoke risin’ to meet the stars. Sadie turned the dry stick in her hand, the orange glow playin’ over her face, catchin’ the steel of her eyes. She looked at you, lingered, then back to the flames like she had to swallow the sight of you before she dared it again.

To a passerby, maybe you’d look like two women waitin’ out the dark, shadows against the glow. But for her it was somethin’ else. A pause before the road called again.

She shifted, poker stick pressin’ against the coals, then leaned back slow. Her hat brim shadowed her eyes, but her voice carried rough and steady when she finally spoke.

"Hell, reckon I oughta be grateful you don’t snore worse’n my horse. Else I’da left ya back in town.”