VIII. There'll be laughter when the bells of freedom ring.
[ To plant the seeds of justice in our bones...]
She rode out of town with little rush, and no great manner of circumstance. There were a few wandering eyes from the streets, the boardwalks, the neighboring shops and storefronts, but their glances shied away when her eyes came too near. No one bothered her. No one acknowledged her.
Which was just fine by her.
She urged Beaut into an easy canter, heading down the broad way past the dirt lane that led off to the Walker's opulent estate...
They wouldn't be getting a visit from Katherine Barlow.
(Not today.)
It didn't stop her knuckles from turning white against rugged brown leather as she rode on, though.
Eventually, she pulled up on the reins, making one last stop before she left town.
(She knew she'd never be back.)
Her heels echoed softly off the hardwood and high walls.
Water seemed to stick to her like tar, and instead of feeling cleaner, she only felt dirtier.
There was the sensation of burning in the muscle of her shoulders, the skin of her brow, through bone and rib in her chest.
She knelt, and bowed, and did not speak for another twenty minutes.
It wasn't a custom she grew up with, but she'd seen it done. Knew what it was for. It seemed only right.
Beaut's hooves kicked up a light trail of dust as she headed down the southbound road, toward Refugio.
A single candle was left flickering behind her, in a dusty old church.
(It was not for the sheriff's soul.)
.
She rode out of town with little rush, and no great manner of circumstance. There were a few wandering eyes from the streets, the boardwalks, the neighboring shops and storefronts, but their glances shied away when her eyes came too near. No one bothered her. No one acknowledged her.
Which was just fine by her.
She urged Beaut into an easy canter, heading down the broad way past the dirt lane that led off to the Walker's opulent estate...
They wouldn't be getting a visit from Katherine Barlow.
(Not today.)
It didn't stop her knuckles from turning white against rugged brown leather as she rode on, though.
Eventually, she pulled up on the reins, making one last stop before she left town.
(She knew she'd never be back.)
Her heels echoed softly off the hardwood and high walls.
Water seemed to stick to her like tar, and instead of feeling cleaner, she only felt dirtier.
There was the sensation of burning in the muscle of her shoulders, the skin of her brow, through bone and rib in her chest.
She knelt, and bowed, and did not speak for another twenty minutes.
It wasn't a custom she grew up with, but she'd seen it done. Knew what it was for. It seemed only right.
Beaut's hooves kicked up a light trail of dust as she headed down the southbound road, toward Refugio.
A single candle was left flickering behind her, in a dusty old church.
(It was not for the sheriff's soul.)
.