Chapter Text
"God, does everythin' in this rottin' shithole room have to smell like smoke?”
Tilting your head to the side, you ask the man you’re sitting on top of, the barrel of your silver revolver inside of his mouth as he muffled out a desperate-sounding response. A half-burned cigarette laid in an ashtray on the bedside table, a light trail of gray smoke curling in the air, and you scowled.
"It smells like cigarettes, fire, and gunsmoke all mixed up, and it's makin' my stomach flip. Just like when I look at your ugly mug."
Sweat glistened on his forehead and his eyes darted around the room as he laid helpless underneath you, not daring to move in case you pulled the trigger. His naked skin was pressed up against your white bloomers as you straddled him, showing you all of his frail and weak body, including his minuscule dick. Fitting for this slimy excuse for a man.
A wicked smile crept on your face as you made burning eye contact with him, causing him to gulp air. You leaned over, keeping the gun in his mouth, and whispered in his ear, your voice as sweet and warm as honey, but each word stung like venom.
“Y’know... everythin’ about you is disgustin'. So, you hire a woman of the night. Fine; so do a lot of other men. But, then... You rob her for all the money she's made that evenin'." You paused, pressing the gun into his mouth further. "You rape her ‘cause you still want what you came for, but don't wanna pay." Again, you pushed the barrel deeper. "Then, you kill her after she's already suffered so much." Finally, you hit his gag reflex, backing up your hand a smidge as he coughed into the loaded cylinder.
"And, you did it three times, thinkin' that no one will catch you. You almost did it again tonight, but you picked the wrong dove. You picked me, and I knew exactly who you were and what you had done. You stupid, evil, son-of-a-bitch." The whites of his eyes grew with each word, his body trembling with fear underneath you.
"You’re the most disgustin' piece of shit I've laid eyes on. Which is sayin’ a lot since I see it every goddamn day in my line of work.”
You positioned yourself upright again and turned your head to look at the rundown room you were in. It was dark and dingy, the only illumination coming from a stout candle, and the silver moon peeking through the dust-coated window. The sanguine-red, overly provocative gown you had borrowed from one of the working girls was pooled next to the bed, beside the dirty clothes on the bastard you were currently pinning down. Once you told the girl at the brothel that you’d be hunting this monster down, she was more than willing to let you borrow one dress. At least you pointed your gun right after he was naked, and you still had your underclothes on.
You thought about the three scarlet ladies who had lost their lives in tiny hellish spaces like this, their last thoughts being filled with terror as this man decided it was time for their death. None of them deserved what happened to them. Just because they worked in the local brothels didn’t mean that their lives could be taken from them whenever someone felt like it. Sure this was the Wild West; the law was crooked, the rules bent, but someone had to be there to give justice to the innocent. Most days, that was you.
Rage seeped through your entire body, and the longer you sat there, staring at the man’s pitiful expression, the more hateful you became. After sitting there in silence for a moment, stewing in your thoughts, the miserable man began to cry. His weeps were stifled from the metal against his nicotine-stained teeth, his mustache twitching each time he sniffled his nose.
“Don’t you fuckin' take pity on yourself. You deserve every bit of what is comin' to you. Those women were just doing their job! Making an honest livin' to support themselves, livin' a life that is absolute hell on earth. You think it’s easy forcin’ yourself to lay with men like you? ‘Cause, it ain't. Maybe... maybe, I should tie you up here and I’ll whore you out to anyone who wants to pay, let you see what a hog-killin' time that is. Except I reckon nobody would want you, considerin' you’re as ugly as homemade sin.” You hissed, weak whimpers coming from him as tears coated his cheeks, his hands grabbing on tightly to the sheets next to him as he shut his eyes.
To any regular person, your actions would be horrifying. They would think you were some demon, relishing in tormenting someone so much, but you knew he deserved to be scared. This man had done unspeakable evil, and all you were doing was giving him a taste of his own medicine.
The same instantaneous fear in all the women's eyes before their deaths was now reflected in his dark, tear-welled eyes. The humiliation you inflicted on him felt addicting, and you just wanted to see him suffer more.
With your finger on the trigger, feeling the cool metal on your thumb, you debated pulling it; seeing the life dissipate from his body in a flash. God, you wanted to shoot him so bad... but the law wanted the bastard to be turned in alive, and you really didn't feel like becoming an outlaw over one man. Taking a deep breath to calm yourself, knowing you couldn’t spill his blood, you thought of an even better scheme.
“You know what, somethin' awful just showed up in my head." His eyes flashed open with fear, meeting your furious ones. "I’m not going to kill you... yet. But, I don’t think you’ve faced enough sufferin’ for one night. So here’s what’s gonna happen. I’m gonna take this gun out of your mouth, but if you make a peep, squeak, groan, what have you, I’ll shoot ya.” He nodded and you slowly slid off of his naked body, shuddering as you momentarily touched his clammy skin with yours. Sliding the gun nice and slow out of his mouth, you kept it cocked to reinforce that you could pull that trigger at any time.
“Stand up.” You commanded, and he obeyed, scurrying off the bed. He went to grab his trousers but before he could, you pressed the gun against his back.
“No clothes, not even your drawers.”
He dropped the fabric and carefully stood up, the metal still digging into his skin.
“Now listen to me very carefully. You and I are gonna go for a bit of a walk. I’m gonna keep this gun pressed to your back the whole time, so if you even think of runnin', I'll shoot your legs. And no, I don’t give a shit if it makes a fuss, I’m sure it wouldn’t be the first time in a dump like this someone got shot. Now, git.”
With that the man opened the door, tears still flowing from his eyes as he walked out of the room. Every inch of his body told him not to go, not to do this, but he knew he didn’t want to die, even if it meant everyone down in that saloon saw him like this. This was a new saloon, knowing to never murder his women in the same ones to keep a low profile, so at least these people weren't his friends or colleagues. The thought still didn't feign his embarrassment.
You followed after him, draping a part of your petticoat over your arm, concealing the gun on his back, as your other hand was resting on his shoulder, guiding him. The old wooden door of the room squeaked open and the two of you stepped out into the hallway.
Within seconds you were collecting stares and giggles from other women, as the men looked on in shock, avoiding looking at his body as much as they could. It always amused you how uncomfortable men were seeing each other naked, like they'd burn in hellfire for lingering for even a moment on another man's penis.
Flashing a cheeky and almost shy smile at each person you saw, you made your eyes big and innocent for the crowd as you walked behind him, almost as if you were saying, "He paid me to do this!"
The man’s soft steps echoed through the silent space as you continued walking with him, down the stairs into the main part of the saloon. The piano music was loud and rowdy as the thundering of dancing boots reverberated against the wooden walls, but as soon as the group cast their eyes upon the naked man, the hootin’ and hollerin’ stopped. More whispers, more giggles, and more shocked mouths opened at the sight of him, vulnerable in front of everyone. A mixture of tears and sweat flowed down his body, and you cursed under your breath at how sticky your hand on his shoulder was getting. After dealing with all of this filth you would need to have a nice bath.
The two of you made your way through the swinging front doors, and you heard the whispers and laughs become more boisterous after you left. The man started weeping again from his embarrassment and you pressed the gun against his back even harder.
“Are you hard of hearin’? I said shut the hell up.” His lips quickly closed together as you sighed.
“Now, walk north until I tell you to turn.” You commanded as you walked with him in the moonlight, the bottom of his feet and hem of your underskirt collecting the dirt with each step, turning it into a light brown. A few random passersby peered in your direction, but quickly looked away when they realized what they saw.
The night air was chillier than expected, and the man quickly had goosebumps popping upon his flesh, but you felt no need to provide him any mercy. Only wearing your corset and undergarments you sensed the chill too, but your adrenaline was raging, making you unable to feel it.
Finally, after walking for what seemed like hours in the dark night, you were right in front of the familiar sheriff’s office. The outlaw turned his head back to look at you, face lighting up, and the tears slowing as he realized that you weren’t going to kill him.
“Don’t look so happy yet, I ain’t done with you. I've done you a favor by lettin’ you live, now, you’ll do a favor for me and talk.” You said through gritted teeth, pressing the gun harder into his back. “Tell me where you put the fuckin' money, the money you stole. Is it in your house? Tell me where you live.” You fired off questions at him, and he stuttered as he kept up with everything you asked.
“I-I live.. o-on 15 Blueberry Road... out in J-Jackson County in a small home... I-I don’t have it anymore... the money... I s-spent it all... gamblin’... on the drink... I couldn’t... I know I have a problem...” He said through shallow breaths, his eyes closed tight from fear.
“Shit, of course, you don’t have it. I don't know what I was expectin’.” You said grazing your thumb over the cool silver hammer on your revolver. “You’re a vile animal. Men like you deserve to be put in a pen for the rest of your life until the day you get hung.” Then using your free hand, you reached under your skirt to grab your knife, unsheathing it and pulling it out, the blade reflecting dimly in the shadowy evening.
“Turn around and get on your knees.” You said, spitting at him. With his face twisted in confusion, he knelt in front of you, unsure of what you were planning next.
“I want everyone to know what you are, what you’ve done. Even if you somehow escape, even if you make bail, every woman alive will know to stay far away from you.” With that, you put your knife against his forehead, your gun back in his mouth, and started cutting, ignoring his muffled screams. If they weren’t silenced, you knew the sheriff would run out as fast as possible to stop what you were doing. The man's hands weakly reached up in an attempt to stop you, but you were relentless, not even flinching at his reaction.
When you took a step back to admire your work, blood glistened on his face, dripping down from the word " pig" written permanently into his skin. You removed the barrel of the revolver from his mouth, releasing the hammer and shoving it in your corset. All the while he continued sobbing as he stayed knelt in the street, traumatized by what you had done.
“I’m gonna go get the sheriff. I trust you won't move.” You didn’t have to worry, this was now a broken man, and he wasn’t going anywhere. Whistling, you swung open the creaky doors of the sheriff’s office.
“Good evening mis-” The burly, blonde-haired man stood up from his chair to face you. His expression changed from tired to shock as he scanned you up and down; your hands and body spattered with fresh blood, a knife still in your hands, a gun shoved in between your breasts, hair disheveled, and dirt covering your nightgown. He ran over to you, grabbing your shoulders with both of his hands, hazel eyes staring at your body.
“Rogue? Is that you? W-what happened to you? Are you okay?” He said, his mouth staying open with surprise as you began to give him a slight smile. “I could hardly recognize you with the skirt and all that face paint on.... and why are you covered in blood?”
“I’m just fine, Sheriff Braun. The man out there though, he’s the prostitute killer from all those three other towns, and he’s been through hell tonight. Go, see to him.” You said as the Sheriff’s eyes grew big, and he sucked in his breath, accentuating his defined facial features. He ran outside and you heard him faintly say, “Oh, God.” Before throwing handcuffs on the man and hauling his naked body inside.
Sheriff Reiner Braun was a large man, so he could easily pick up the weakened killer, although that didn’t mean that he wanted to. Once Reiner put the man in an empty cell, throwing him a blanket to cover up, he turned to you and grabbed you a clean cloth to wipe your hands with.
“Rogue... so this the..” He turned around to the wall littered with wanted posters, faces of pure evil on paper staring back at him. “...'Prostitute Murderer'?” Reiner said slowly as he pulled down the poster, his expression tight and tense as he looked back at your calm exterior. “Do you realize how dangerous it was going after him?”
“Hell Reiner, of course I know how dangerous, but none of your men or the Marshall were even close to findin’ him, and he just kept killin’ more of those women, so I thought best to catch him in the act!” You boasted proudly, meticulously wiping the blood off of your knife.
“In the act?! Did you-”
“Yes, I did. So, here’s the whole story: I was in a brothel at a nearby town for another job, and heard from one of the women that he had mentioned that he was on his way here to 'have some fun'. So, I’ve been goin’ to that damned saloon every night, dressed up all nice, looking for him. Tonight I saw him, got him roostered up, laid on my usual charm, told him I would sleep with him for a discounted rate, then once we were up in the room, he pulled his usual shit and I pulled my six-shooter.” Reiner stared at you the whole time, his expression frozen in a mix of admiration and shock.
“Jesus Rogue, you’re as crazy as popcorn on a hot stove. You could’ve gotten hurt.” Reiner said, putting his large hands back on your shoulders, but you brushed them off and curled your lips into a sneer, looking up at his tall frame.
“You think I give a shit? I’ve gotten more of these bastards on my own in a single week than you have in a whole month. So, stop pretendin’ like you care about my safety, and just give me the reward. Or, how about you do your goddamn jobs better so I don’t have to keep pickin' up your slack.” At that last remark, Reiner gave an exhausted sigh and turned to go down into a locked room, heading to the safe. When he came back, the crisp bills were in his hand.
“Here you go, Rogue. $500 for the prostitute killer. But, I have to say that you’re wrong. I’m not a liar, and you’re a good woman we can tie to. If you die, who’s going to bring in these animals? So don't assume I don't care about your life.” Reiner stuck out the bills and you grabbed them, stuffing them down the front of your uncomfortable corset next to your gun, ignoring his sentiment.
Just as you were about to shoot a snide remark back, the sound of more weeping came from the killer. Reiner shook his head at the man and sighed.
“May God have mercy on his soul.”
“I think his soul should rot in hell. God doesn’t give out a lot of his mercy, so it should be saved for the ones who need it.” You said back with a deep frown growing on your face, and Reiner looked at you with apprehension.
Reiner had known you since you first became a bounty hunter and he was just a new lawman. Every few days he would see the new filth you brought into the jail, and yet, even all these years later, he was still shocked at how cruel your methods could be. Reiner could tell that every outlaw you caught, you hated like you had a personal vendetta against them, and without knowing your history, he couldn’t understand that. He applauded how daring you were, but also feared you, happy that you were helping him instead of fighting him.
Gauging by the silence in the room that it was time to leave, you turned your back to the Reiner and walked towards the door.
“Wait, Rogue, come back tomorrow evening. We’re having a gathering to talk about the Scout’s next move, and I know you’ll want to be there. We’ve gotten more information about The Raven.” With his anxious tone, you raised your eyebrows and slightly turned your head for a moment, pausing in front of the door.
“Fine. You’ve caught my ear. See ya tomorrow.” Reiner watched as you hinged the door open and stepped out into the dark, alone and exhausted.
--
After galloping for a while on horseback, you came upon a small cottage way out from town, hidden behind a line of aspen trees. It was modestly sized and private, with no neighbors within view, just how you liked it.
You looked up at the sky for a moment, the moon now completely absent, so you reckoned it had to be close to 4 in the morning. Soon the sun would be poking up along the edge of the flat skyline, illuminating the horizon, and people would be starting their day while yours just merely ended.
With each breath you took, you felt tiredness creep further and further into your bones. A good hunt always left you completely spent, but this was the most exhausted you’d been in a while. Usually, the men you caught weren’t up so late and did their evil deeds in the shadows of the light of day. Plus, you went back to the room to grab your dress and the man's clothes, in case he had anything important on him, putting a detour on your journey home.
“There you go, Lass.” You whispered to your mare as you stopped her in front of the hitch next to the house. Throwing your leg off and stepping down, you tied her up and fed her a carrot before taking out your key and unlocking your door.
You walked into the quiet home, twisting your sore torso and neck as you set your things down on a nearby table. It was decorated how your grandparents had it years ago. You never felt the need to change it after they died, and you felt like if you kept their knick-knacks, it was like keeping a piece of them with you.
Your eyes glanced at a crystal whisky decanter, one of the only expensive things you owned in the house besides your weapons, and took a large swig from the bottle. The burning liquid trickled down your throat and you felt its calming warmth soothe you in an instant, helping to ease your still simmering rage.
This man tonight was one of the worst you’d caught, so his face was going to stick with you for a while. The least you could do to help forget about him for one night was to drink away the memory.
Putting the bottle down for only a moment you stripped off the dirty underskirt and corset you were wearing, throwing them in a straw hamper in disgust, and changed into a men's undershirt and shorts. Dresses were never your thing, preferring men’s clothes for comfort, but tonight you had to play into your role.
Wandering outside to the well, you grabbed a few buckets of water and placed them on the stove to prepare drawing yourself a bath. As the water heated up, you picked the bottle back up, looked at the leather journal sitting on a nearby table, and sat down at it with a quill and some ink.
Lighting the candle next to you, you opened up the spine so you were looking at the first page, staring at the list of names now in front of you. The first one was the first man you ever caught and killed, a teenager who had stolen some booze, then when he got caught by a deputy, he murdered him and went on the run.
- Austin Mayweather. September 15th, 1874. Rattlesnake Desert in Agave County. Pulled his gun, so I pulled mine first.
You hunted him down, five counties down into the desert, and killed him in your first official stand-off, bringing his body back to the Sheriff under the nickname of 'Rogue'. It was a long journey, and you scared the shit out of your grandparents for being away, but you succeeded and decided then that you were cut out for this life. You were only 18 at the time.
When you brought your grandmother the reward, it was enough to pay for your grandfather's medicine, but they were hesitant to accept the blood money. They knew you were violent and liked to bring justice in your own ways, but some part of them deep down wished that you would just be a normal woman.
They set you up on countless failed dates, put you into a woman’s only reform school to learn how to be lady-like (which you promptly got expelled from), and they bought you lots of gowns that you would wear only around them, changing as soon as you got out of the house. All attempts made by them to make you a proper lady were futile, you were going to always do what you wanted to, and you never wanted that life. You never wanted to fall in love or have children. You wanted to fight, serve justice, and feed on the anger that constantly resided within your heart, devouring it with vengeance.
It was something about the rush. Whenever you were hunting someone evil down, seeing the fear in their eyes as they realized who you were, knowing you were about to give them a bitter taste of their own medicine. It was a dangerous addiction you could never kick, not like you wanted to. Once you had killed your first outlaw, you just needed more of that feeling; deciding you would be doing this bloody job until the day it sucked the very life out of you.
Soon after, you took up the nickname permanently to protect your identity and your grandparents. You also moved from your small hometown of Shearer as a family out to the bustling Garnet City, hundreds of miles away from where you grew up. No one would even know who you were out there.
A few years later, your grandfather died from tuberculosis, and your grandmother died from a broken heart. You were alone, no one to take care of you but yourself. You didn’t mind being isolated, but you still missed the presence of the only remaining family you had left. After their passing, that was gone.
You picked up the quill, gently dipping it in the dark black ink, and began writing.
- The Prostitute Murderer - Name Unknown. June 7th, 1881. At Bill’s Saloon in Garnet City. Played dress-up and carved pig on his forehead, for a bit ‘o fun.
You blew a puff of air to help dry it off the wet ink and then scanned through the empty pages until you reached the last one. Many years back, after one of your frequent nightmares, you had scribbled three names with spaces underneath them so you could write future notes.
- The Raven - Name Unknown.
- The Eagle - Erwin Smith.
- Mom and Dad’s Killers - Names Unknown.
You read over the words carefully out loud, almost as if you were manifesting their future deaths before closing the notebook and blowing out the candle next to you. Grabbing the hot water from the stove, you poured it into the bathtub before stripping down and grasping some soap. As you slid into the comfort of the hot water, you sighed and closed your eyes, trying to relax, but each time you thought your head was finally becoming quiet and foggy from the liquor, all you could think about was The Raven.
“Hell Reiner, why'd ya have to put him in my head again?” You muttered to yourself, scrubbing soap over your face to try to remove all the makeup you had caked on.
The Raven and the Eagle both were a part of the Scouts, a group of outlaws. They would steal and do whatever it took to get money in their own pockets, not giving a shit about who was impacted, and you hated that. They used to be quieter, hiding more in the shadows to get their jobs done, but in the past few years, as their numbers have grown, they’ve started to become brazen. Now they were known all over this county, but no one knew where their hideout was. Folks only knew about their major power players.
The Raven is an elusive man, shrouded in myth. Even uttering his nickname would get you worried looks, as if he would appear out of thin air behind you if you said it aloud.
Folks say that if he ever told you his real name, he would kill you right after, so no one knew what it was. There are rumors that the Scouts don’t even know his real name, in case any of them get caught and interrogated.
Men who’ve had too much snake oil say that he's tortured and murdered over 100 people, killing whenever he felt like it.
Devoted Christian women gossip at Bible study that because he dresses in all black, he’s the last person you’re supposed to see before death like the grim reaper, and is a product of Satan himself. They say that when he kills you, you’re going to hell no matter how saintly you’ve been.
Lawmen say that his eyes are so light, and his skin is so pale that he almost looks like a ghost walking among men.
People say this and that, but you know it’s all bullshit. Scary stories that women tell their children so they don’t get involved in the wrong crowds, tales that men share around campfires at night after a few too many swigs from the bottle. Sure the Raven was a thief and murderer, but he was only still a man. Not a ghost, not the grim reaper, just a living being who loved to make others suffer.
In a way, you thought of how poetic it would be if you caught him. A brutal, violent woman bringing down a cruel, vicious man who was capable of harboring so much fear. What a wonderful way to end his reign of terror.
But, you were nowhere near finding his location, or anything about him. In a way he was almost like a spirit, appearing out of thin air to rob a store, then disappearing back into nothingness. No witnesses could give solid information about what he looked like, and that’s if the group even kept witnesses alive.
Any bounty hunter or officer who came near him were never seen again, either being found decaying in the grassy plains after being eaten by critters, or scattered down at the bottom of a rocky cliff, or just disappearing off the face of the earth like they never even existed.
That just meant that you had to outsmart the Raven to be able to catch him.
Erwin "The Eagle" Smith was the person who directed the Raven but took a more hands-off approach to the violence. He commands all of the other Scout members and is in charge of their overall operations. Their members follow him blindly, believing in whatever twisted cause that he would come up with to make them do what he wanted. In a way, you felt sorry for them.
If you cut off the snake at the head, the rest of its body still can move, but it doesn’t know what to do without a brain. Much like their group would act like after you took out their commander and most powerful member. The gang would have to separate, maybe find a better life for themselves, move on with their days and find peace doing regular obligations.
Finally, after a while of sitting in the water around while phasing in and out of the present, you got out of the tub and threw back on your underclothes, wandering off to the comfort of your bed as the sun peeked out over the horizon, and you settled into an uneasy slumber.
Tomorrow was going to start your new chapter, filled with opportunity. After tomorrow night, you would finally get a plan in place to catch one of the last names on your list, and he wouldn't even see it coming.