As the sun began to break over the horizon she scanned the view, below, watching the break for movement. Pushing back her black, silver studded hat she allowed the cool morning breeze to gently brush her face. She stretched her long shapely legs and began pulling on her boots. Standing she stretched and braced herself, staying in the shadows.
Suddenly she saw movement at the far end of the open pasture. A rider coming out of the birch break. She was ready for him. Slowly she lifted her rifle and waited.
As he ventured into firing range, she smiled thinking she had waited a very long time for this day. As he drew closer she fingered her trigger, motionless, waiting. Before he knew what happened, he heard a sharp gun report. His body flew, head over heels, off the back of his black steed, saddlebags flying. His Stetson fell beside him, quiet as the morning air.
She watched and waited for movement. Seeing none, she whistled for her golden Palomino, Cimarron. Swinging up in the saddle she spoke for the first time that morning, "Come on Cimarron, boy. Our work is done. StMark is dead. No Hillary voting Democrat is going to take our ranch away from us. Let's get back to the ranch and tell the girls."
Not knowing what lay ahead, she rode home toward the rising sun.
(to be continued by original writer, the other cowgirls, or any willing participant)
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