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.