Archive of Our Own

The first thing Pixal notices when Ninjago’s most infamous outlaw pushes through the doors to the saloon is how very quiet she is. The Blue-Eyed Belle carries herself with an understated dignity, her downcast face hidden by the brim of her black hat and the bottom half of her face concealed by a dusty red kerchief, looking at no one at all. On anyone else, it probably would have worked. She probably would have been dismissed as a ranch hand, come in for a drink after a long day’s work. But if an outlaw like her is hoping to pass through town without drawing notice, she is sorely mistaken. 

Within seconds of the door swinging open, the other patrons are craning their necks to size up the newcomer, conversation dying on their lips like coals gone cold. More than a few wary men reach for their pistols — perhaps thinking of defending themselves if something goes sour, or perhaps thinking of the handsome bounty on her head from the Sheriff’s office.

But Blue Eyes pays none of them any mind, happy to let the metallic clinking of the twin revolvers holstered at her hip do the talking for her. The click of her boot heels are a steady staccato as she crosses the floor, hands in the pockets of her faded jeans. Pixal feels a shiver scurry up her spine as she drifts to meet Blue Eyes at the bar. 

“Howdy,” she says nervously, her hands twisting in her apron. “Somethin’ to drink, miss?” 

Blue Eyes lifts her head, just a slight tilt, but it’s enough for Pixal to learn in an instant that her moniker is no joke. The shade of blue astonishes her, such a fine, expensive hue it is, like bolts of Persian silk. It’s exactly identical to the pure, bottomless blue of the desert sky, utterly cloudless and without flaw. For as long as she’s lived, Pixal has never left the little town of Dunfort, and yet she looks at the Blue-Eyed Belle, and thinks she can imagine how it must be to bathe in the ocean. 

“Howdy,” says Blue Eyes. Her voice is as soft as mink, with just a shadow of rasp right at the end of her words. Pixal imagines her lips moving behind the patterned fabric of her kerchief, how they might shape around her smoothly-drawled words. “I’ll have a beer. Whatever you got.”

“Comin’ right up.” She grabs a tankard and fills it until the crown of white foam is just barely spilling over the edge. “It’s the house ale, I hope you like it.”

Blue Eyes nods, and reaches up to pull her handkerchief down around her neck. Pixal drinks in the sight of the rest of her face with a hunger she didn’t know she was capable of, tracing the surprisingly softness of her cheeks down to a sharp jaw and chin. Her lips, when she places them at the rim of her cup, are lush and madder-red. 

Pixal knows she is staring and still cannot help herself. She detests to think how she must come off, a simple-minded barmaid who has never left her hometown, ogling a living legend as though some of her greatness might rub off. But Pixal is afraid if she takes her eyes off her, she’ll slip away in that strange silent way of hers, lost to the desert wastes like a heat mirage. 

“The ale is good,” Blue Eyes offers, apparently interpreting her lingering gaze as that of a barmaid concerned with service. “Thanks.”

“Oh, no problem,” Pixal says, and then can’t help herself, and asks, “Where are you coming from, stranger? What brings you to Dunfort?”

If Blue Eyes is surprised by the inquiry, she conceals it well. “Caught a train from up north. Just stopping by to quench my thirst before I set out travelin’ again.”

“We got rooms for rent,” Pixal says eagerly, latching onto the nugget of information. “If you were lookin’ for somewhere to stay. Ten cents a night, and it comes with a free breakfast.”

“My, my.” If she hadn’t known better, she might have thought the Blue-Eyed Belle was smiling at her. “It’s a tempting offer, Miss…?”

“Miss Philippa Alexandra, ma’am,” she says, wringing her hands. “But the folks here call me Pixal.”

“Pixal,” Blue Eyes repeats. It sounds luxurious the way she says it, as if she’s tasting the name in her mouth like a fine whiskey. She levels a thoughtful look at her. “It’s a tempting offer, Miss Pixal, but I’m afraid I’ll be back on the road by dusk.”

“Oh! I see,” Pixal feels suddenly embarrassed at her behavior, and backs away toward the other end of the bar. “Well, it’s a fine town we have here. I hope you enjoy yourself. Holler if you need a top-up.”

She pivots before she can see Blue Eyes’ reaction and busies herself with polishing glasses. It’s hard not to wonder what this bandit must think of her. When she looks, what does she see? Does she pity her? What is to pity? she thinks to herself, working determinedly with her rag at the milky soap stains. She is the most diligent barmaid Dunfort has ever seen. She has a life here, a job, and regulars who miss her on the rare days she calls out sick. Yes, it may be boring, but it’s stable. Dependable. Pixal sets down the glass, picks up another, and tries to convince herself that she likes it that way. 

“Miss Pixal.”

She startles at being addressed and turns to see the Blue-Eyed Belle contemplating her intensely. 

“Refill?” she asks, but she can hear the hope in her voice that it’s something else. 

Blue Eyes shakes her head, her lips quirked in a little smile. She beckons Pixal over with a crooked finger, and a burst of intrigue thrills through her. 

“Can I ask you a question?” Blue Eyes drums her fingers on the bar top. “Is this your hometown?” 

Pixal nods. “I was born and raised here. Been here all my life.”

“And what kind of town is it, exactly?” she asks. “Have you liked it?”

“I suppose I do. I mean, I never knew anything different, and I never thought to leave,” Pixal says, surprised. She hadn’t expected that Blue Eyes might have any interest in what she thinks. “Dunfort’s a quiet place, pretty much. Most folk work in the mines, or in ranchin’. Everyone knows everyone, but that’s just how small towns are, I reckon.”

“The mines,” Blue Eyes echoes softly. Pixal can practically see the gears turning in her head. “Would that be associated with Heavy Metal Ironworks? The Loachly Mining Group?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Pixal says. “The Loachlys been in this town for decades. They run just about everything around here.”

Blue Eyes hums acknowledgement as she casts a surreptitious look over her shoulder. Several of the patrons hurry to pretend they haven’t been watching her like a hawk since she stepped foot through the doors, but she doesn’t seem interested in any of them. Instead she turns back to Pixal with a determined kind of look.

“I realized I never introduced myself,” she says quietly. “If we’re going to be friends, you should know my name.”

Friends! Pixal thinks, nodding with a calm she does not feel. 

“My name is Nya,” says Blue Eyes, sticking out a hand. Pixal takes it, has one moment to be shocked at the rough texture of her calloused palm, and then her brain glitches as Nya brushes her lips over Pixal’s knuckles, those wondrous eyes never leaving her face. “And I need your help.”

“My help?” she repeats in disbelief. She can feel her whole face has flushed hot from the kiss, her hand still tingling where she swears she can feel the phantom sensation of it. “What can a barmaid help you with?”

Nya smiles then, wide and bright, and the effect is stunning. And Pixal knows that no matter what she says next, whether it’s dangerous or futile or downright crazy, she will say yes. It’s a terrifying realization. It’s an exciting one. 

“There is a man behind me,” says Nya, leaning in. She does not turn, but Pixal’s eyes slide to the left anyway and catch sight of a foul-faced gentleman in a top hat. He only has one beady eye, but it’s narrowed in an unmistakable glare at the back of Nya’s head. “His name is Hannibal Loachly. Folks call him the Iron Baron, on account of he owns all the mines in this county.”

“I know him well,” Pixal says softly. He comes to the saloon often; Cyrus, the manager, never sends any of the girls to serve him — too handsy. 

“Then you know he’s about three seconds away from bringing those thugs of his over here and quarrelin’ with me. It ain’t in my nature to cause such a commotion in this fine establishment, and I certainly do not wish to sully the company of such a lovely lady with ungodly violence.” Pixal blushes. “So I propose a scheme.”

“Go on,” she says, setting her jaw. 

Nya beams and tells her the plan. 

Not ten minutes later, the Iron Baron rises from his booth, just as Nya has predicted. He’s flipped back the hem of his fine leather jacket to show the pistol holstered at his waist. It’s a flashy thing, with gleaming silver hardware and a design inlaid on the mahogany handles in mother-of-pearl. But of course, his little posse of goons are what he’s really counting on to protect him as he swaggers over, each of them more hulking and nastier-looking than the one before.

Not for the first time today, Pixal wonders if she’s gone crazy, choosing to help a criminal she has no real reason to trust. Making friends with the enemy of people like the Iron Baron isn’t a pretty place to be in life. Especially not for her, a lowly barmaid with no protection to run to. 

But of course, if all goes well, no one will ever know she’s been involved. 

“Well, well, if it ain’t the Blue-Eyed Bitch,” the Iron Baron spits as he saunters up. One of his boots is a little stiff. Folks around these parts say his foot was crushed in a tunnel collapse in one of his mines and it was never the same. “Gracin’ our little town with her presence.”

“Howdy, Hannibal,” Nya says amiably, the brim of her hat tipped low. She makes no move to reach for her weapons. “How’s business?”

The Iron Baron grins a horrible, mirthless grin. Only a few of his original teeth are still left in his rotted gums, and they are jaundice-yellow. The rest have been replaced with shiny silver fillings that wink and flash in the light. “Couldn’t be better. How’s yours?”

Nya’s voice is sly. “Oh, it ain’t too bad. I get by.”

Furiously polishing a glass, Pixal hovers on the border between being just far enough away not to hear. She hopes the Iron Baron won’t take notice of how closely she’s listening. Or else, she hopes he dismisses her as a gossipy bar girl rather than a co-conspirator. She’s been foolish to let the other patrons witness her speaking with Nya so long uninterrupted beforehand. 

“Still runnin’ those petty plots of yours, are you, girl?” the Iron Baron sneers, leaning towards her. “Still skimmin’ off the top of honest men’s work?” 

“You know, Mr. Loachly, there are plenty of words I could think of to describe a gentleman such as yourself,” Nya replies civilly. Her right hand idly drifts to rest on the handle of one of her dual revolvers. “...Honest ain’t one of ‘em, though.”

“A lecture from a bandit. Now that’s a new one,” he chuckles, looking around at his cronies, who immediately join in. Pixal can’t help but watch in the corner of her eye as the Iron Baron abruptly stops laughing, his lips twisting into a scowl. His voice lowers and she strains to hear it. “Missy, you have a lot of gumption bringin’ your foolish behind into the town I own and expectin’ me to pay it no mind. Especially after that silly little scheme you pulled on Tuesday.”

Tuesday?  

Pixal suddenly thinks back to the newspaper she’d read this morning. Hadn’t there been some kind of train robbery? A cargo locomotive transporting several tons of gold, as a matter of fact, mined from a town a few miles east of here. 

Hadn’t Nya said something about catching a train into town? 

Nya smiles and feigns offense, clutching invisible pearls. “Now, now. I’d hardly call a million dollars worth of missing product silly . You wound me, Baron.”

Rage flashes into the Iron Baron’s eyes, black as tar. It is a beastly kind of hate, and it makes Pixal suddenly scared for Nya. But instead, all the hair on the back of Pixal’s neck begins to stand up as the Iron Baron’s narrowed gaze slides sideways to rest on her. She startles at being noticed, unaccustomed to drawing such a powerful man’s attention.

“Philippa, dumplin’,” the Iron Baron drawls, oily smooth. “Would you mind givin’ myself and my associate a little space to discuss some business?” 

Pixal nods quickly, her face furiously red at being caught eavesdropping, and retreats in a hurry to the other side of the bar. Over here, she can’t hear the details of the words being exchanged, but she watches in the warped reflection of a polished silver jug as Nya juts her chin proudly to say something and the Iron Baron gets more and more hot under the collar. She’s not the only one watching, either. An uneasy murmur is rippling through the room. People are whispering, waiting and watching for the fight that will inevitably break out. 

And so it is not just Pixal who jumps when the Iron Baron suddenly draws his gun and shouts, “You vile thief! I knew it was you! Stand and deliver, you little rat, I challenge you to a duel!”

Pixal gasps, even though the challenge is just as Nya had predicted. She’d known the Iron Baron wouldn’t let her leave without trying to get rid of her. He is too vindictive a man , Nya had explained in a low voice. And when men like that get their pride hurt by people like me, they will chase me to the ends of God’s earth, just to watch me burn.

“Alright, old man,” Nya says. She tilts her eyes up to meet his gaze. They are impossibly, mythically blue. But this time, Pixal does not see sky and sea and silk in their hues. This time they glitter like hard diamonds, like the deep blue of cracked-open glaciers. “Gentlemen’s rules: I name the place, you name the time. I say outside in the square.”

“And I say right now,” the Iron Baron growls, spittle flying. His waxy, pale face has gone quite purple with fury beneath his mustache. “You’ll die today, you impertinent bitch. And I will dance on your grave, do you hear me?” 

To her credit, Nya doesn’t look fazed. She just flashes a hint of white canines and rises to her feet wordlessly. She’d already known the Iron Baron would challenge her right now, had warned Pixal it would happen. Now, as she heads for the door, she glances over her shoulder and gives her a nearly imperceptible nod. 

“Men and wives of Dunfort!” the Iron Baron is crowing as he follows her. “Rise, one and all! See the scourge of the west fall today in our wonderful town! Witness the defeat of the so-called Blue-Eyed Belle!”

The patrons listen. They rise to their feet, chattering in excitement, adjusting their guns and boasting to each other how they wish it could be them putting the bullet in her head. The dread begins to pool in Pixal’s stomach as she watches them flood out for the spectacle, until she is the only person remaining inside. She is abruptly seized by a fear that Nya isn’t as good as she acts like she is. What if the stories are just that — stories? What if she isn’t able to worm out of this one? She’s only just met her, but Pixal knows with burning certainty that she doesn’t want this to be the last time they talk. 

God be with you , she thinks, with a fervor she hardly recognizes in herself. She has never been the praying type, but now is as good a time to start as any. Any port in a storm, Cyrus always says. 

Then she gets to work. 

As she hurries to the back to prop open the back door, she can hear the Iron Baron quieting the crowd. “Ladies and gentlemen! Today the Blue-Eyed Belle will stand and face the people’s justice. I, Hannibal Loachly, nominate my champion, Jet Jack Nielson, to shoot in my stead today!” 

The crowd roars. Pixal tries not to listen. Her feet pound up the stairs as she runs to her room and pulls out a change of clothes. Nya had requested something loose-fitting, to throw over her dusty jeans. Pixal grabs the skirt which had been handed down to her by one of the older girls at work, and which she’d never had the time to take in at the waist so it’d fit properly. She then grabs a bonnet and a simple cotton shirt which she’d embroidered herself with desert flowers at the collar. It’s a good shirt, and she’ll miss it dearly, but it’s no huge sacrifice to part with. 

She rushes back downstairs in time to hear the paces being counted. 

“One, two, three—”

Pixal reaches the bar and double-checks that everything is in place, and that no patrons have lingered. She thanks her lucky stars that the Iron Baron is such a man of spectacle, and has drawn every last person out to witness the duel. 

“—four, five, six—”

Her heart is pounding so hard in her ribs that it feels like it might just come bursting through. She presses a palm flat against her chest, breathless, and wonders the last time she felt this way. At first, it felt like panic choking her. But now as the deciding hour encroaches, she realizes it has morphed into something far bolder. 

“—seven, eight, nine—”

It’s excitement . She feels alive, wonderfully, painfully alive, her blood roaring with anticipation. Is this how Nya always feels? Would she feel this way if it were her out in that duel, with her only defense that inhuman accuracy and speed she is so famed for? How might a gun feel in her hand? There is a rifle behind the bar for peace-keeping purposes, of course, but Pixal has never had to use it. Now her palms are itching to feel its heft, its animal power.

Pixal realizes that at some point in the last hour, something elemental has shifted inside her. She is not just a barmaid any longer. She is something more, something longing to be freed. 

“—ten!”

The twin gunshots that ring out frighten her out of her own jubilant thoughts. The silence afterward is deafening. No cheers. No jeers. Nothing. 

Pixal’s heart drops. She prays for the second ever time in her life, her fingers interlaced so tightly it hurts. God in heaven, please let her be alive. Let her live, let her live, let her live.

All hell breaks loose. 

From inside the bar, Pixal can’t make out what is said. Maybe one person first shouts something, or maybe many voices rise at once. She can hear the Iron Baron bellowing something in his horrible screech, and men shouting, and guns firing. The horses tied up outside the saloon whinny and scream, and there is the sound of stampeding feet as the audience flee in all directions. 

Pixal doesn’t care. She’s watching the hallway to the back with hope so high in her throat that it burns. Any second now. Any second now. If Nya is still alive, she’ll appear any second now. 

She waits just long enough that an awful spike of terror pounds through her. Her hands begin to shake. Her mouth dries up. Worst-case scenarios are flashing through her mind at lightning speed, so fast she feels dizzy with it. 

But then Nya appears, shining with sweat, panting, grinning like a maniac. She comes barreling through the door and slams it behind her. Not a second later, a mob led by the Iron Baron floods past, shouting for her blood. 

“Ha!” Nya says, grinning. “All according to plan, huh, Miss Pixal?” 

“You’re alive,” Pixal says, so relieved she could cry. She gives herself one second to take Nya in, the locks of wavy hair curling with sweat at her temples and the way her hat is tilted back so her whole rosy face practically glows with glee. She lives for this. It’s written on every line of her face. Then reality sets back in and Pixal sobers. “Come on. I’ve got the clothes at the front.”

Talk ceases as they hurry to where Pixal helps her into the too-big skirt, which happens to fit perfectly over Nya’s hips with the added bulk of her guns. She strips out of her beautiful camel-colored duster and shirt with an efficiency that leaves Pixal no time to blush. There’s just a sudden beautiful expanse of brown skin, smooth in some places, scarred in others, and then Nya is shimmying into her borrowed shirt and fumbling with the buttons. 

“I’ve got it,” Pixal whispers, nimbly fastening the bodice shut, and then circling to the back to pin Nya’s loose braid to the back of her head with a hairpin. She puts the bonnet on and Nya ties it under her chin. 

“I feel naked without my hat,” Nya confesses as she turns around for Pixal’s approval. She’s tugging awkwardly at the hem of her shirt, as if she wishes it would sit lower. “How do I look, Miss Pixal?”

“Like a proper lady,” Pixal says, smiling. Maybe that might be true if they’d had time to really sit down and perfect the look. As it is, Nya is every bit the gorgeous, steely-eyed rogue, whether she’s in leather and denim or floral poplin. No one would be fooled by her sun-tanned face up close, nor the muscular breadth of her shoulders straining at the seams of her borrowed dress. But at a distance? It will do just fine. 

“Good.” Nya looks down at her hat, jacket, and shirt with a pained grimace. “I suppose I’ll charge you to keep track of these for me. Burn them if you think they could incriminate you.”

“Oh no.” Pixal shakes her head. “No one will come suspecting a simple barmaid like me. They’ll be safe in my hands.”

So you can come back one day, if you wanted , she thinks, achingly, and does not say. You could come back and get them. 

“Thank you.” Nya looks solemn suddenly, all of her roguish charm melted away. Her eyes have metamorphosed yet again, this time becoming twin pools of water as gentle and still as a mountain lake. “Really, Miss Pixal. You’ve saved my life today.”

“Not yet I haven’t,” Pixal replies, giving her a gentle push to the door. “Go now, Nya. Take one of the horses outside. Get out of here before Loachly comes back.” 

Nya nods. She heads to the door, but looks back just once, when her hand is on the threshold. She says, shaking her head, “You’re something, Pix.” 

And then she’s gone, slipping through the door as silently as she entered. A moment later, Pixal hears the jingle of reins and harness, and then the beating of hooves on the dirt road, which fade into nothingness. 

Outside, the townspeople are still hooting and hollering, sniffing around every corner for the Blue-Eyed Belle. But Pixal barely hears them. She picks up Nya’s things and takes them upstairs to her room. She stows them away under her bed with the utmost care, wrapping them in her spare linens so no one suspects anything. 

Then she returns to her station behind the bar, just like she always has. And when those that have tired of the chase eventually tire and come wandering back through those saloon doors to slake their thirst, she greets them with a placid smile. They do not even look twice at her. She’s as much a fixture of the bar to them as the casks of whiskey on the shelf behind her. 

“Howdy,” she greets them brightly, blandly. “Y’all find her?” 

“Slipped away,” one man tells her, shaking his head. “She’s as wily as a desert fox, I’ll tell ya. Now we’ll have to bury poor Jet Jack.”

“Real shame,” Pixal says, with a sympathy she does not feel. “Beer?” 

Later, when the last patrons have been escorted out, Pixal goes upstairs to her little room. In the quiet solitude of night, she pulls the bundle of bedsheets out from under her bed and touches Nya’s things with a singular reverence. 

The butter-soft leather of her jacket slips under her fingers like water. There are a few places where she sees evidence of repair done with a precise hand. She feels the seams and imagines Nya in front of a campfire in the middle of the desert, diligently pushing a needle through the leather. Is this rip from natural wear, or did a bullet graze her arm? One of the buttons on the pocket is gold, instead of silver. Did she lose a button while fleeing the Sheriff’s men after a train heist? Did she replace it with gold stolen from the Iron Baron?

She tries on Nya’s hat, shy at her own audacity. She peers at herself in the mirror, turning this way and that to examine the sight. She certainly doesn’t look as confident as Nya had in it, nor as daring. But it still thrills her to imagine herself in the role. Perhaps they’d call her the Silver Rider. Perhaps Penny-Shot Pixal. The idea is laughable; her , a fearsome bandit of the Wild West! But she imagines it anyway, feeling richly self-indulgent, like a giddy young girl. 

Lastly, the shirt. She waits until she has gotten ready for bed before she touches it. In the cozy embrace of her bed, she rubs the soft cotton between her fingers, brings it to her face, and inhales deeply. Nya smells like smoke and spice and a tinge of sweat. It’s not a bad thing at all — rather, Pixal is embarrassed at how much she likes it. 

She falls asleep like that, her nose buried into faded blue fabric. In her dreams, she’s astride a beautiful Palomino, riding as fast as the wind. She can feel the horse’s sides heaving under her, its flank foaming with sweat, but somehow she’s able to sense that it isn’t tiring. And neither is she. In the dream, they run and run and never stop running until they reach the pure blue realm of the sky. 

But in the days to come, the excitement slowly drains out of Pixal’s life. Once more, she shrinks back into the girl she was, just a girl working the bar at a saloon. She reduces down to a series of motions: smiling and waving, polishing glasses, dispensing beers. It’s automatic by now. At first she’d spent her days watching the double-doors as they flung open to herald a new arrival. Her heart would jump every time, hoping she’d see that familiar pair of laughing blue eyes. 

But Nya doesn’t come. And adventure doesn’t come. 

Dunfort remains as it always has. The regulars complain of the same things, the new railroad being built through town, the lack of jobs, their nagging wives and squalling children. Once upon a time, Pixal had listened earnestly to them, counseling them and offering sympathy. Now she tunes them out like the droning of cicadas.

Mostly, she looks forward to reading the newspaper, scanning the pages for glimpses of Nya’s exploits. Sometimes she’s rewarded with news of a bank robbery, or a train heist. But most of the time, there is little to report. Apparently, Nya has decided to lay low for the time being. Either that , Pixal thinks wryly, or she’s fled to Bolivia. She supposes she’d be none the wiser if that really was the case. 

She has a little excitement, once, when a stranger comes into town. He’s tall and handsome, with burning brown eyes. She greets him warmly, then cools considerably when she sees the silver star shining on his breast as he takes off his hat to bow to her. 

“You a deputy?” she asks him curiously when she places his drink in front of him. “What county?” 

“Ignacia,” he says, raising his tankard to his lips with his good arm and drinking. She’d noticed upon his arrival the remarkable absence of a second hand. His right arm seems to end just a few inches above his elbow. “Name’s Officer Hitetsu.”

She cocks her head. “You’re a long way from home.”

“I’m tracking someone,” he tells her grimly. “An outlaw named the Blue-Eyed Belle. I heard she passed through. Did you see anything?” 

Pixal debates lying, and then decides on a half-truth. “Sure, she came in a month or two ago. But she got challenged to a duel by Mr. Loachly and no one saw her after that. Reckon she skipped town.”

The deputy’s mouth thins into a line and he nods wearily. “Yeah, that’s about what I’ve heard from everyone else I’ve asked. Problem is, none of you seem to be able to tell me exactly how she escaped, or which way she went. It’s the darndest thing. Like she just went up in smoke or something.”

“Let me know if you need a refill, Deputy,” is all Pixal says with a sweet smile. For a brief moment, she is reignited by the realization that there is still a witness to her crime, someone chasing Nya and confounded by the mystery she had helped orchestrate. The thrill she feels is but a pale shadow of how she’d felt back then, and yet it’s still enough to liven her considerably. 

But then Officer Hitetsu passes through town in the days after that and Pixal slips back into a blur of mundanity. By day, she works; by night, she falls asleep with her nose clouded by Nya’s quickly-dwindling scent. She dreads the day that the shirt loses any trace of her Blue-Eyed Belle, and she has to find another way to try and hold onto the precious memories of that one hour spent together. 

Months go by in this fashion. Pixal fades away. 

Then it’s August, hot as hellfire, and drier than a bone, and Pixal is closing up the saloon after a long night of drunken revelry. The McKittricks’ boy had gotten married to the mayor’s daughter today, so naturally the whole town had flooded out to the local watering hole to celebrate. Pixal has never worked so fast in her life, and her feet are screaming at her as she trudges to go lock up the doors. It’s the last task she has to do before she can finally go upstairs, collapse into her bed and succumb to sleep. 

“Psst.”

“We’re closed,” Pixal says automatically, her eyes drooping with exhaustion. She can’t make out who’s on the other side of the doors, but she doesn’t really care. “Come back tomorrow.”

She hears a low, sweet laugh from the stranger, as the doors part to let a dark figure through, and then a familiar voice asks, “No exceptions for old friends?” 

Weariness forgotten, Pixal’s eyes widen. She hardly believes what she’s seeing, but there Nya stands in all her blue-eyed glory, her smile crooked and shy. Her dark hair is longer, wilder, and loose about her shoulders under the brand-new hat she’s wearing. Her shirt is white this time, and she’s wearing a beautiful fringed indigo jacket. But those are her same, beat-up jeans, Pixal recognizes, and her same steel-toed boots. 

“You’re here,” she breathes, her heart doing a backflip in her chest. Then she does a double-take, realizing that the dark patch on the sleeve of Nya’s jacket, which she had mistaken for a trick of the light, is actually a rapidly-growing stain of blood, which has begun to drip onto the floor. “You’re bleeding! Oh, god!”

“Just a scratch,” Nya promises. “It just needs to be wrapped up, and I thought you might do the honors.”

“Just a scratch!” Pixal seizes her by her good arm and marches her toward the back. “Miss Nya, I’ll thank you not to come round in the dead of night, bleeding all over hell and half of Georgia, just to tell me it’s a scratch!”

They go upstairs to Pixal’s little room, where she strips Nya out of her jacket and dabs the wound with a wet rag. To Nya’s credit, it is actually little more than a scratch, hardly skin-deep, and most of the bleeding is already slowing. Still, Pixal isn’t happy under it’s tightly wrapped under a length of fabric ripped from an old curtain. 

“Satisfied?” Nya asks, bemused, as Pixal checks the triple-knot she’s tied.

“Yes,” she says, sitting back on her heels at last. She looks at Nya’s face and inhales in surprise. Every time she looks again, it’s like she’s seeing it for the first time. She is so painfully beautiful, it feels a crime to sully her face with something as base and hungry as a gaze. But it makes her feel drunk to do it, and she can’t bear to deny herself such an easy pleasure. 

“Hello,” Nya says, smiling. She’s looking back in much the same way, her eyes scanning Pixal’s face as if she craves to memorize it. “I’m very glad to see you.”

“Are you?” She suddenly feels shy. “I suppose we hardly know each other. I’m surprised you even remembered me, really.”

“What?” Nya sounds bewildered and a little offended. 

“Well, you live such an exciting life,” she says, shrugging. “One plain barmaid in a boring little town… I just figured I might not have made much of an impression.”

Nya’s throat bobs, as if there’s something she wants to say and won’t. She says, after a pause, “I remember you, Miss Pixal. I thought of you often.”

And isn’t that wonderful news?

“Just Pixal is alright,” she says, pinking up. “If you fancy.”

Nya smiles. She takes Pixal by the hand and says, “You must be tired. I don’t wanna keep you up, should we go to bed?”

They stand, and Pixal leads her out to the next room over, which she already knows is unoccupied. Nya reaches into her pocket and presses a quarter into her palm, which she starts to protest, and then accepts with a sigh. 

“I’m an honest thief, Pixal,” Nya says chidingly. “I’ll not steal from this establishment which has been such a friend to me.”

“Thank you,” she says, shaking her head and smiling. 

Pixal looks around the rented room, although she has seen it many times, and observes it with new eyes. It’s a barren little thing, occupied only by a metal bed frame topped with a straw mattress and striped cotton sheets. There’s a pitcher of water on the nightstand, as well as a little wardrobe and a chamberpot, but otherwise there is nothing else. And Nya doesn’t seem to have brought much on her person. 

“It’ll do nicely,” Nya promises, as if she can read Pixal’s dismayed assessment of things. “It’s far more than an outlaw like me deserves.”

Pixal couldn’t disagree more, but she nods assent. “Please knock if you need anything. I’m happy to fetch it for you. Are you hungry?”

Nya grins. “I’ll be fine. Didn’t you say something about a complimentary breakfast last time?”

“Oh, yes. Begins at six and runs until nine if you’re up.” The thought relieves her, as if it’s some guarantee that Nya will be here when the night is up. She says, shyly, “I have so many questions for you. I’ve been thinking about asking you for ages.”

“Alright.” Nya’s smile is sweeter, more subdued. “Ask me everything in the morning, Pix. I’ll tell you everything you want to know.”

Pixal nods and steps back as the door inches closed. She walks back to her room as though in a dream and finally descends into the cozy embrace of her own bed. She tries to stay awake a little longer, listening to the quiet footsteps on the other side of the wall, but quite without meaning to, she falls fast into a dreamless sleep. 

Dawn arrives with birdsong and the soft chatter of Dunfort’s earliest risers beginning their days. Pixal lays in bed with her eyes closed, listening to braying donkeys, nickering horses, and the steady crunch of wagon wheels in the unyielding dirt. John Harrison, the grocer, is arguing with Willy Dunne, the general store owner, as he always does. Children laugh and giggle on their way to church, periodically interrupted by the scolding of their parents, telling them not to muss their hair or dirty their nice clothes. And downstairs, the cook is clattering around in the kitchen. Breakfast will be ready soon. 

Pixal gets dressed at a methodical pace, straining to hear if Nya’s stirring on her side of the wall. But she must be tired. She got in late, after what must have been several days of travel. She’ll need her rest. Pixal resolves not to wake her, and instead to set aside a portion of breakfast in case she sleeps through it.

The morning passes quickly, mostly just tired renters trickling downstairs for their free breakfast: a bowl of oats, along with soft-boiled eggs, sausages, and beans. They sit apart from each other, hunched over their food, and eat in bleary-eyed silence. Pixal circles between them, filling their mugs with coffee whenever they ask. At nine, she makes a plate for Nya, sneaking her an extra sausage, and stows it in a little hidden corner of the bar. 

But then nine-thirty passes. Then ten-thirty. And eleven-thirty. And Pixal starts to get a very bad feeling as she gazes at the now-cold breakfast. 

“I’ll be right back,” she tells Skylor, the other barmaid on shift. “I’m just gonna pop upstairs and grab something.”

Skylor waves her off and so she climbs the stairs and walks to the end of the hallway, where her room is. Nya’s door is slightly ajar.

“Hello?” she calls, rapping her knuckles gently on the door. “Nya?” 

The door swings open at her touch. Inside the room is a perfectly-made bed, with no trace of occupancy. 

In some ways, she had expected it, and so it is less hard, this time, to go back to normal. After doing a thorough walk of the room to make sure Nya has left nothing that could interest someone like Officer Hitetsu, Pixal returns downstairs. For some illogical reason, she’s tempted to just toss the cold breakfast plate, but she is too practical for that. Instead, she eats it in the back of the kitchen, feeling nothing at all. 

Then, it’s just everything as it’s always been, that painless, toothless way of life. It doesn’t hurt so much this time. In fact, it feels almost like a balm to the pain. The first encounter with Nya had been like fire, bright and lovely and intoxicating, leaving Pixal ice-cold after she’d left. But this second encounter was cool, cool water, and being without it is far more survivable.  

She does not let herself wonder about Nya this time. She throws herself into her work, and when she does allow herself time to dream, she dreams of things within reach. She dreams of seeing the ocean. She dreams of cooler weather, of forests and trees. Although she’s lived in the desert as long as she can remember, she longs for the temperate chill of the coasts. Dust and heat has never much agreed with her. 

And it’s easy. It’s nice. Sometimes she and Skylor talk about all they will do when they finally have the money to leave Dunfort. She learns that Skylor is kept here by her father, who runs the restaurant down the street. He won’t let her leave as long as he’s alive, she says, and Pixal sees a conviction in Skylor’s eyes that reminds her of Nya. The look of someone who will do anything to seize their freedom. 

Other than that, it’s just days of serving food and coffee, and nights of pouring drinks. She talks easily with customers, particularly the travelers that stop through Dunfort on their way west. She meets an inventor headed to the World Expo being hosted in New Ninjago City. He’s freckled and funny and wonderfully eccentric, and makes her laugh all night. She meets a miner who’s left his home in Irontown to go work on the big railroad project. His smile is as broad as his well-muscled shoulders, and he tells her of life in the mountains she’s only dreamed of before. She meets a little golden-haired boy who is traveling with his uncle to be reunited with his parents on their farm. 

That’s become a more common story these days, with the increased migration west, first done by grizzled men going to stake out a land and a living, then done by their pursuing families once the homestead has been established. Dunfort has become a key stop on that journey, and so Pixal loses herself in all the excitement of increased traffic.

Of course, then the first letter arrives and all of her valiant efforts to forget Nya are lost. 

Pix, 

I write to you from Salt Springs. It’s been one month since I saw you. 

There is so much I have to say to you and I have so little room to write. For now, I will tell you how sorry I am, for leaving and for lying. I wish I could have stayed and taken breakfast with you and answered all your questions. But I am who I am, and just knowing me puts you in danger. 

I promise I’ve left for a reason. I can’t tell you about it yet, but I truly have every intention of coming back one day. I hope it’s not too much to ask you to wait for me. I will write to you whenever I can. Please don’t try to write back — I can’t tell you where I’ll be next. 

Blue

“Who’s it from?” Skylor asks curiously, peering over her shoulder. Pixal crumples it in her hands and shoves it into her apron. 

“Just a friend,” she mutters. 

She tries to remain skeptical that another will come, determined not to get her hopes up just to be let down again. But another one does come. And another. And another. Not every week, but every two or three weeks anyway, always from a new town, always painfully brief. She talks of the weather, the scenery, and the travelers she comes across. Sometimes she rides with a caravan of wagons, or a group of cowboys. Most nights she spends alone, with only her horse for company. 

Sometimes she talks about the past, hinting around a big something that Pixal is slowly puzzling together:

You must think I’m just a greedy thief, trying to strike it rich out here. I don’t blame you. Anyone would, and it’s so hard to explain what it is I want. What I can tell you is I was a child once, an orphan. I had a brother who would have done anything to protect me and provide for me. I learned by watching him what evil men are capable of, and I promised myself I would see them punished one day. 

But most often, she just tells little stories of playing poker with other bandits, trying moonshine and bathtub gin in provinces where alcohol is banned, and being stalked by a cadre of ambitious amateur deputies. It’s almost exactly like all the legends she’s heard about outlaws, except it’s Nya’s real life. 

Gradually, that old longing starts to creep in, plaguing Pixal with dreams of her own freedom. Sometimes, late at night, it’s so strong it makes her teeth ache, and the only thing that helps is getting Nya’s shirt out from under the bed. It no longer smells like her, but to have it is a soothing device, and sets her at ease enough that she can slip off to sleep.

The last letter she ever gets comes just after the thaw, in February. 

My dear Pix,

Everything is almost in place. I’ll be coming back to see you so, so soon. I expect the night of March 1st. I don’t know if you’re still reading these, but I hope you are. I miss you. I can’t wait to have breakfast with you. 

With utmost hope and affection, 

Blue

On the night that Nya is due to return, Pixal gets a different surprise visitor. 

“Officer Hitetsu,” she greets him as he sits down at her bar, late in the evening. “What a surprise. Something to drink, sir?”

“Whiskey. On the rocks,” he says. He looks far worse for the wear than the last time she saw him, his eyes deeply ringed in shadows, his mouth pursed in a tight line. His close-cropped brown hair has grown out into something shaggier, casting his finely-boned face in harsher shadow, and he’s carrying himself with new weight. He must have been traveling a long time. 

She pours his drink and then can’t help herself and lingers near to him. 

“It’s been a while,” she says finally. “How have you been?”

“Miss Pixal, is it?” he asks, peering up at her. She nods as he takes a sip. “I’m alright. How are things here?”

“Same as always. Any luck with the Blue-Eyed Belle?”

He shrugs listlessly, dragging a fingertip around the rim of his glass. It does not sing. “Progress here and there. Sometimes it feels like I’m right on her heels and sometimes I lose her for weeks.”

“But you’re back here,” she says cautiously. She does not think this is a coincidence with the timing of Nya’s last letter. 

“I am,” Officer Hitetsu agrees. There’s something vaguely familiar at the way his eyes crease at the corners when he smiles. It tugs at her. “Did you know Dunfort is the only town she’s ever come back to twice within the same year?” 

Pixal’s heart jumps in her chest. She says, feigning nonchalance, “I didn’t.”

“Well anyway, she’s headed back east, over this way. I realized a while back that it hasn’t done me any good to just chase her. What I really needed was to be able to predict where she was headed. So, I’m takin’ a chance and hopin’ she might be coming back here.”

Pixal eyes him. He doesn’t sound particularly excited about the prospect. Or maybe it’s just exhaustion singing through his voice, stark as anything. 

“I’ll get a room for the night, please,” Officer Hitetsu says, downing the rest of his glass. “How much?” 

“Ten cents, sir,” she says, and he tosses a dime on the bar. 

She retrieves a key from the drawer and hands it to him, rattling off instructions about how to find the room number written on the wooden plaque attached to it. He just waves tired acknowledgement, assuring her that he’ll be able to find it for himself as he disappears up the stairs. 

Now she has all the pieces, and Pixal begins to think. 

First, if Nya is ever planning to keep her promise to return to Dunfort, she will be coming tonight. There’s no use in worrying over whether she will come or not; for the purposes of planning, she is. 

Second, Officer Hitetsu is also in Dunfort hoping to catch Nya and bring her in to the sheriff. If she’s caught, she’ll almost certainly be arrested and quite possibly hanged. Plus, since he’s staying in a room upstairs, Pixal won’t be able to shelter Nya inside the saloon like she was able to before. 

Third, Hannibal Loachly owns every inch of this town. Every inch he does not own is nonetheless owned by some oil baron, or wealthy merchant, or other rich man that, odds are, probably has it out for Nya. 

Pixal stands at the bar, drumming her fingers anxiously and trying to think her way through everything. It’s too risky to let Nya show up here and risk waking Hitetsu. But she has no way to warn her off it. Should she just count on being able to turn her around fast enough? What if she can’t? She’ll never forgive herself if Nya is hanged after trying to come back and see her.

The proper course of action is so obvious that when she first comes upon it, she nearly laughs. Then the fear strikes her, hard and fast. 

She will just have to ride out to Nya and warn her. 

Perhaps I have finally gone mad , Pixal thinks to herself. After all, a lowly barmaid mounting a stolen horse and riding off into the night to prevent an outlaw from walking into a pit of her enemies? It’s ludicrous. It would never happen in any of the legends of the Wild West. 

“Well,” she whispers aloud to herself. “It will have to happen today.”

At one in the morning, a shadowy figure departs the saloon with a bag slung over her shoulder. She wears a camel-colored jacket, a black hat, and a white, button-down shirt, and moves with smooth purpose. Eyes low, she lets the bat-wing doors swing shut behind her and approaches one of the horses tied up outside. 

Pixal hadn’t known how she’d pick out Officer Hitetsu’s horse based on looks alone, but she’d had a hunch she’d know it when she saw it. Now, in the darkness of the night, she sees a beautiful bay with a silver star pinned to its saddlebags. 

“Bingo,” she whispers. 

She’s never ridden a real horse before. Aside from fancy-pants out-of-towners and highfalutin deputies, most folk in Dunfort get by on either ponies, donkeys, or mules. But the principle is much the same, so she tries not to overthink the motion of stepping into the saddle. It takes a couple tries, especially since she’s still in a cotton skirt (she’s never owned any jeans before, as much as she’d prefer them in this scenario), but she settles into place easily enough. The horse whickers and chuffs softly beneath her as she clicks her tongue and uses the reins to wheel him around. 

There’s a stir of motion from the building behind her, and as she’s started trotting away, she glances up at the window above the saloon. 

A disbelieving Officer Hitetsu stares back at her through a crack in the drapes, his eyes wide. 

“Shit,” Pixal says, and then digs her heels in to urge her horse into a canter. 

The adrenaline has begun pumping through her, hot and loud as whiskey in the back of the throat. Horse or no horse, Hitetsu will make chase, there is no doubt about that. Now her only advantages are her head start and her familiarity with Dunfort’s layout. She takes turn after turn, galloping through the sleeping streets of the town. 

Hitetsu had said Nya was coming from the west, and the last place she had written about in her letters was Manning’s Cross, a seedy junction town to the northwest of Dunfort, about three day’s ride. With that knowledge, she can reasonably assume Nya will be approaching on the Hatchetroad.

Somewhere in the distance behind her, she can hear some kind of a noise, some clatter or commotion that she can’t quite discern. It certainly can’t be good, whatever it is. 

The edge of town comes into view, to Pixal’s great relief, and she spurs her steed on toward it. The Hatchetroad lays out like a cool sandy ribbon before her, weaving into the cracked desert earth all the way to the hazy horizon. Overhead, the stars are blazing like something holy, the pale eye of the moon a singular witness to her flight. 

And just like that, the hunched, homey buildings of Dunfort have melted away and Pixal is riding free into the wastes. She chances a look over her shoulder now that she’s cleared the city limits, and to her relief, sees no pursuit yet. Hopefully Hitetsu is still boggling his way through the streets in confusion. 

The further she rides out from town, the more the entire horizon widens around her. The desert spills in, filling more and more of her vision with purple-washed sands and slim silhouettes of cacti. In the distance, the far-off mesas cut a stolid geometric shape against the indigo fabric of the night sky. And just up ahead, a lone rider is coming into view, the brim of her hat tipped casually down. 

“Nya!” Pixal calls as the gap between them closes ever so slowly, even with her horse at an all-out gallop. “Nya!” 

The figure doesn’t respond at first, and for a moment she is seized with the terrifying possibility that it’s not her, that Nya has not come and all of this has been for nothing. Hitetsu will take her back in chains for nothing. 

But a crucial stretch of distance disappears under her steed’s frantic hooves, and then they’re within earshot, so the next time Pixal shouts, “Nya!”, the rider’s head snaps up, enough to give the smudged impression of two twinkling sapphires in the shadow beneath her hat. 

“Pixal?” she calls back, her voice uncertain, and then she’s ordering her own mount into a sudden gallop. The distance between them closes in seconds, and then Pixal is in front of her again, looking in those blue, blue eyes, feeling like her heart is going to fire like a bullet out of her chest. 

“Hi,” she says stupidly, stupid with the joy of it all, and the adrenaline and the terror. 

“You’re here,” Nya says in the same breath, and oh, her face and voice and the slope of her shoulders are all the same, just as Pixal remembers, and yet somehow also wonderfully new, like hearing a favorite song again for the first time. “Why are you here? How are you here?” And then, with real alarm in her voice, “Is that my brother’s horse?”

“Your brother?” Pixal repeats, momentarily forestalled. She looks down at the incriminating horse, and then back up again. “Officer Hitetsu is your brother?” 

“You know him?” And then, realizing the implications, Nya’s eyes widen to the size of plates. “Fuck! Is he here?”  

Pixal nods furiously. “I came to warn you, Nya. Dunfort isn’t safe. Officer — your brother is here to take you in as soon as you step foot inside. And if he doesn’t get you, Loachly’s people will. He’s assembled his own little militia since the last time you were here. He was furious after you got away.”

Right on cue, that faint commotion she’d heard earlier swells behind her, and they both turn to look. Pixal can’t make out exactly how many riders there are emerging onto the Hatchetroad. Fourteen or fifteen, probably, with one additional rider a couple hundred meters in front of them, leading the charge. 

“Kai,” Nya says in a soft, wrecked voice, her eyes fixed on him.

“And Loachly’s men,” Pixal adds grimly. “What do you want to do, Nya?” 

Nya stares at the encroaching riders for a long moment, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth. Her black hair is wrangled into a loose braid that rests on her shoulder and even in the midst of all this danger, Pixal wishes she could reach out and touch it. 

“You’re right,” she decides, her lips thinning into a determined line. “We’ll have to run.”

Pixal blinks. “We?”

“Well, I’m sure as hell not leaving you here to be arrested for horse thievin’ on my account,” Nya snorts. “And now that all those folks know you got something to do with me, they’ll never leave you alone. If they don’t hurt you, they’ll kill you, you have to know that.”

Perhaps in some abstract way, she’d known that, but it still leaves her mouth agape as she processes the reality of the situation. 

“I can’t,” she says, dumbly. Nya stays silent, her lips pressed together. Maybe she knows she doesn’t need to say anything, because Pixal is already thinking it through again and realizing, “Oh. I have to.”

“I’m sorry,” Nya tells her, and her eyes are as sorrowful as rain. “This isn’t how I wanted this to go. I’ve been spending all my time paying off my debts and tying up my loose ends so I’d be safe to come find you. But now it’s a mess all over again.”

“Leave Dunfort,” Pixal says softly. “I’ve never even considered…”

But that’s a lie, isn’t it? She’s been dreaming about that very possibility almost every night since she first met Nya. She’s dreamt of the open roads and seeing the ocean and mountains and forests and sprawling metropolitan paradises. She’s dreamt of unchaining herself from this sinking ship of a town, from the men who bitch about the wives who love them, and the squat single-story buildings and the monotony of small town routine. 

She could be someone. She could be anyone . 

Nya’s eyes flash with alarm as she catches sight of something over her shoulder. “Pixal, I’m so sorry, I hate to rush you, but —,”

“NYA!” Deputy Sheriff Kai Hitetsu bellows across the night, with all the mad, horrible desperation in the world. Whoever’s horse he has borrowed is thundering toward them, nose straining forward, and as he approaches, Kai draws his gun, eyes wild. 

Nya doesn’t hesitate to draw her own gun, lips pulled back in a snarl. “Don’t come any closer!”

He brings his horse up short, but stands high in his stirrups, gun still raised. The look on his face is indescribable, half-haunted and half-furious, like an avenging angel in a leather duster. 

“What are you going to do, Nya?” he says through gritted teeth. “Shoot me?” 

Nya scoffs. “Are you going to shoot me ?”

The siblings look at each other, and for a long moment Pixal is afraid they’re both going to make good on their threats and all will be lost. Then, apparently having reached some kind of silent conclusion, they both holster their guns in unison. Pixal reins her horse in, drifting closer to Nya just in case they need to make a quick break for it. For the first time, Kai’s eyes shift to her, narrowing. 

“Miss Pixal,” he says curtly. “I hope you know that’s a dangerous criminal you’re associating with.”

“I do.” Then, to Nya, “They’re gaining.”

Loachly’s men can’t be more than five minutes' ride away, and the way they’re driving their horses, it might be more like three. Even Kai looks vaguely queasy at their proximity, his horse high-stepping backwards and tossing its head anxiously. 

“Look, I just want to talk,” Kai says, voice softening to a plea. “Please, give me a chance to explain myself.”

“If you wanted to talk, maybe you should have thought about that before bringing a goddamned militia with you,” Nya snaps over the sound of the incoming riders. “Pixal, let’s go.”

“I didn’t!” Kai protests. “I mean, I didn’t mean to. They were patrolling already and they followed me when they saw me chasing you. Nya, listen to me, I resigned from the force months ago. I’m not going to arrest you, I’ve just been trying to find you.”

Nya’s eyes widen as she looks back. For a moment, that perpetual shadow clears from her face and she just looks like a girl again. 

“Resigned?” she echoes uncertainly. “How do I know that’s true?” 

Kai spreads his hand, his amputated arm lifting slightly to imply a helpless gesture. “I don’t know. You could ask the department if you cared to. I resigned as soon as I understood what you were doing. As soon as I understood that…”

“That it was for you,” Nya says roughly, her eyes fixed on Kai’s missing arm. Pixal follows her gaze and is filled with the unmistakable sense that something terrible has happened, some accident that resulted in Kai’s loss, in Nya’s rage, and it all culminates in Hannibal Loachly’s horrible smile. “I only ever wanted to make them pay, Kai.”

“I know,” he says sadly. “I know that now.”

Nya nods, her eyes glassy with moisture. “Stay in Dunfort,” she says, her voice rasping. “I’ll send a letter. We’ll talk, Kai.”

Something fundamental changes in his expression, like an old wound cleaned and dressed, if not healed. He nods once, twice, and then looks back at Loachly’s militia. 

“Go,” he tells them. “Be safe.”

Pixal squeezes her horse with her heels and she and Nya set off at a canter that quickly accelerates into a gallop. Behind them, Loachly’s men are screaming and shooting at them as they pull away, but Pixal hardly registers the noise as any more than cicada song. 

All she sees is Nya riding beside her, lying low to her horse’s back, her ink-black braid dancing behind her like a waving pennant. She glances over when she sees Pixal watching, her lips pulling up into that wolfish smile Pixal adores so much. Her blue-fire eyes, bright as polestars, gleam a promise that defies words. 

The outlaw and the barmaid ride all night, never stopping to rest. In other legends of the West, the hero rides into the setting sun at the end. But as the first rays of dawn touch their shining faces, they both know that this isn’t any kind of ending. It’s just the beginning. 

When they finally stop to make camp the next night, Pixal realizes she hasn’t brought a sleeping roll. 

“C’mon, we’ll share,” says Nya, barely working to conceal her delight. She pulls back the blanket invitingly and Pixal blushes as she sheds her clothes until she’s just in her little cotton slip. 

“I hope this is okay,” she whispers. In the darkness, there is a confusion of limbs happening, knees knocking and arms brushing and it makes her whole body tingle. 

The smile is clear in Nya’s voice. “You’re fine. This will be good to keep warm anyway.” 

At last, they find a comfortable arrangement by laying with their bodies turned towards each other like young girls, bare legs tangled up beneath the covers. It seems awful to break the sacred silence, but long-suppressed words are burning a hole through Pixal’s tongue, and she worries she will die if she does not voice them. 

“You told me last time that you remembered me. That you thought of me.” Pixal whispers into the darkness that envelops them. Nya’s face is close to her own, yet she can only make out a bare sketch of it — the soft curve of her cheek, limned in moonlight, the slope of her nose, the fullness of her lips. The vibrancy of those beautiful blue eyes are lost to the darkness, but they shine nonetheless, laser-focused on her. “Well, I thought of you, too.”

“Yeah?” Nya whispers back, reaching out to touch Pixal’s face at the jaw. Her touch is like a moth’s, just barely brushing skin before it flutters away. “What did you think of?”

“I thought of what you might be doing,” Pixal confesses. “Whether you had been caught. Whether you thought of me.”

“I did,” Nya says again, her soft breath ghosting across Pixal’s face. “All the time.”

The words warm her stomach like the strongest whiskey. She thinks, wow . 

“Your things,” she whispers. “Your shirt — I slept with it. Every night.”

It’s quiet enough that she can hear it when Nya’s breath hitches. 

“It smelled of you,” she continues, and it’s a miracle how utterly fearless she feels. The words just pour from her, natural as a river to the sea. “I liked it so much. I would dream about being with you, wherever you were. Living an exciting life like yours.”

That same heady smell surrounds her now, that smoke and heat and the wonderful animal smell of another body in close proximity. Nya’s breathing has become shallower, an echo of Pixal’s own. 

“I’ll tell you a secret,” Nya says in a low, rasping voice. She is very near now, and Pixal shivers as she feels Nya’s warm bare calf slide against her own, back and forth, as though she is savoring the contact. “The life of an outlaw is far less exciting than anyone thinks.”

“Oh?” Pixal manages to say, though in truth she is very distracted by the way Nya’s hand is creeping across the space between them to draw idle circles on her exposed shoulder. 

“It’s mostly riding,” Nya muses. “Long days and long nights. Then, once in a while, I get a moment of excitement, like what you saw last time. But then it’s back to the riding, the running, and solitude and silence. Over and over.”

That isn’t quite how she had imagined it in her fantasies. It makes her strangely melancholy. She says, “It sounds lonely.”

“Yeah,” Nya agrees softly. And says no more. Her feather-light touch drifts up Pixal’s arm, then down to the softest part of her side and the curve of her hip. She touches her like she’s holding something back, as though Pixal were a delicate china thing, only to be enjoyed with utmost caution. 

“Are you nervous?” Pixal asks as Nya’s hands still on her ribs, hesitating. 

Nya laughs under her breath. “You must think I’m ridiculous. I certainly think I am. I can duel any gunsman in the west without so much as breaking a sweat. I’ve fled sheriffs and their deputies all across the country. Hell, I’m the scourge of the west. And yet it took me six months to work up the courage to come back here and find you.”

“What were you so scared of?”

A pause. 

“That if I came,” Nya admits slowly, “—I wouldn’t be able to leave again. Not without taking you with me, anyway.”

“Scared to lose your freedom?” Pixal asks, placing her hand over where Nya’s rests on her ribs. 

“Scared how much I wanted to lose it,” Nya corrects her. She squeezes Pixal’s fingers. “Scared of a stranger who made me want to do crazy things.”

Pixal licks her lips and says, braver than she’s ever been, “Like what?”

“Hm.” This time she can hear the smile in Nya’s voice. “Like…”

The darkness shrouds the moment, but Pixal becomes starkly aware that Nya has closed the gap between them. She feels their noses bump, and then Nya tilts her head slightly so the tip of her nose just grazes her cheek and her lips can meet Pixal’s in an intoxicating crush. Nya’s body presses against hers in a single, lovely line, and she is amazed at the heat she radiates. She has never shared a bed with anyone, never let anyone this close, and marvels at how liquid it all feels. As they exchange a string of sweet, lingering kisses, Pixal swears they must be melting into one another, their essences swirling together in the cauldron of night. 

“Nya,” she finds herself murmuring, senseless and sensual. “Nya, Nya, Nya.”

“Yes,” Nya whispers back, her calloused hand caressing Pixal’s side. And all the while, she kisses her like she’s trying to erase the memory of any sensation beyond this, licking into her mouth with tender intensity, her tongue hot and velvet where it slides.

“Thank you,” is all she can muster up, pulling back to look at her. “Thank you for setting me free.”

Nya says nothing, just hooks a bare leg over Pixal’s hip and pulls her closer until their foreheads press together. They stay like that, quiet, breathing together under the sprawl of stars overhead. They fall into dreamless sleep.