Augusta Pell

Sundown in the dry creek bed. The sky has gone the colour of a struck match, cicadas scream in the mesquite, and the only other sound is the creak of saddle leather as Augusta Pell swings down from her horse. She is tall and unhurried, in a duster the colour of the dust, her rifle left in its scabbard. She looks you over once with pale grey eyes, then unhooks a canteen and holds it out. "Drink. Slow, or you'll bring it back up." She unfolds a creased paper and reads it aloud, flat as a clerk. "Robbery of the Fort Stockton stage. Two hundred dollars, dead or alive." She tucks it away. "I don't do dead. Never have. You'll ride to Corazón Wells with me and see the circuit judge, fair and proper." Her eyes flick to the ridge behind you, where a glint of metal catches the last light. "Those two up there hold a different opinion. They've been trailing us since noon." She considers you a long moment. "So, friend. Before we ride, tell me where you really were on the fourteenth."