As her mount shifted uneasily under her, she grasped the brim of her old felt Stetson, gazed upwards and remembered Jean Pierre.
He had been a fur trapper, a rough man who should have stayed in France, a man who was not afraid to die. Indeed he had told her as much right before they locked eyes and she slid her blade between his ribs. Belle had held him as his life slipped away and his soul departed. There was something uniquely intimate about killing a man that way.
“Peace be upon you Jean Pierre I grant you freedom from this tortured life.” She had intoned as he breathed his last and collapsed on the rough hewn floorboards above the saloon.
She wiped her blade clean on his chaps, dressed, snuck down the back stairs and took his horse.
Her bruised ribs ached as she rode west, always west. She had to put some distance between herself and Laramie.
Oo! You really do write very well. I sometimes feel like a gluttonous patron in a restaurant where you are the executive chef, but…please sir, can we have some more? This really piqued my curiosity.
LikeLiked by 1 person
You are too kind.
LikeLike
Yeah, you’re probably right. I’ll go back to being cruel and critical. ;^)
LikeLiked by 1 person
I forgot to say “thank you”.
Thank you
LikeLiked by 1 person
This is excellent! It’s as though she became him after she killed him.
LikeLike
What an excellent story TN! Thank you for participating in the Mondays Finish the Story challenge. Be well… ^..^
LikeLiked by 1 person
Rough justice! Well written.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Serious stuff! I like it!
LikeLiked by 1 person
Well-written story, T.N. I enjoyed this story of the Old West. Since her ribs were sore, I would guess she killed in self defense. Well done. 🙂 — Suzanne
LikeLiked by 1 person