Hange Zoe | cowboy

The sun was just creeping over the rocky horizon. Posters were fresh on the board walls of the water tower, on telegraph poles, and on the oak doors of the sheriff's station. Three people were looking at passersby from thick, cheap paper: Erwin Smith, a handsome man with a heavy, frighteningly calm gaze, for whose head they promised a fabulous five thousand dollars. Next to him is Levi Ackerman, a guy with a perpetually discontented, fastidious face, rumored to be the most dangerous shooter this side of the Mississippi. And finally, Hange Zoe, the woman whose insane grin in the drawing made the local lawyers cross themselves. "Alive or dead," read the bold inscription at the bottom.

You pulled your worn shawl closer around you, and pushed open the doors of the saloon.

Your work here wasn't romantic. Carrying heavy tin mugs, wiping sticky tables, smiling at drunken cattle ranchers and dodging raking hands in time. Sometimes, of course, was unlucky: bruises on thighs from someone else's slaps were commonplace, as were insulting whistles in the back. But in a town where the law existed only on paper, there was no choice.

By noon, the saloon was filled to capacity. The air became thick and bluish with smoke. Four gold diggers in the corner were arguing loudly, throwing greasy cards on the table, and at the bar a couple of local cowboys (although call them that to their faces and you'll get a bullet) were already barely able to stand on their feet, demanding more whiskey.

Everything changed in a second.

The oak butterfly doors didn't just open - they slammed into the walls with a bang. A silhouette appeared in the doorway, against the background of the blinding midday sun. Her wide-brimmed hat was pushed off, and her poncho, covered with road dust, was swaying with sudden movement and her face was covered with a bandana. Before anyone could even curse, the woman abruptly raised her hand. There was a deafening shot at the ceiling. Wood chips, plaster, and dust rained down from above.

​"Everyone freeze, boys and girls!" a loud, unnaturally cheerful and even cheerful female voice rang out. "Put your weapons on the tables, put your hands behind your head, and for God's sake, don't do anything stupid. I'm in a very playful mood today!"

It's like you've been blown away. Dropping the mugs, which clattered across the floor, you darted like a fish behind the massive oak bar. The old bartender was already sitting there, hunching his head into his shoulders and clutching an old shotgun that was shaking in his hands. You pressed your back against the wooden planks, pulling your knees up to your chest.

​The attacker was walking slowly through the hall. By the sound of it, she was lazily kicking the toes of her boots on the fallen chairs.

"Wow, what a warm welcome," her voice continued to ring. She pulled the handkerchief off her face, and a soft, frightened exhale swept through the saloon. Round glasses flashed from under the brim of his hat, and a wide, almost insane grin played on her lips.

Hange Zoe. In person. The most wanted woman in the state.

"Hey, bitch! Do you even know whose territory this is?!" One of the local bandits, who was sitting by the window, barked. He slowly lowered his hand to his holster. "We don't care how much they pay for you. You'll only come out of this saloon dead".

Hange stopped abruptly. She didn't even turn her whole body towards him, just tilted her head slightly to one side, examining the man with sincere, almost childish curiosity.

"O-ooh, what a specimen!" She drawled admiringly, ignoring the insult. "Tell me, my dear, didn't your mother teach you that interrupting a lady when she's talking is the height of bad taste? And to grab a gun at the same time..."

"Fuck you!" the man roared, sharply pulling out a revolver.

Zoe didn't take her weapon out of its holster-her revolver was already in her hand, hidden by the folds of her poncho. A brief flash. A deafening bang tore through the air of the saloon for the second time.

The man froze. His head jerked back, spraying blood on the wall, and his heavy body fell onto the table with a thud, knocking over beer mugs.

Someone in the audience sobbed. Hange sighed ruefully, blowing on the barrel of the revolver.

​"Well, I've spread the mud again," she chuckled and turned her head around. "Okay, then. Get to the point. I need someone who won't faint at the sight of a corpse and can pour me a decent bourbon. And, it seems... I saw someone behind the counter".

She moved forward again, heading straight for the bar. Every second of her approach seemed like an eternity. The bartender next to you whined and hid under the shelves with bottles, leaving you alone with the attacker.

The shadow fell right on you. Hange's head appeared above the counter. She leaned over the wooden counter, looking down at you. Her glasses slid down the bridge of her nose, revealing brown eyes glittering with fanatical excitement.

"How long are you going to sit there?" there was a voice right above your head. He sounded surprisingly friendly, without any of the menace that the muzzle of her gun had just conveyed. "It's probably really dusty down there."

You swallowed the lump in your throat. Realizing that there was nowhere to run, and a bullet in your back was a bad alternative, you slowly got to your feet, keeping your hands in plain sight. Your knees were shaking, and your fingers gripped the edge of the oak counter until your knuckles turned white.

Hange leaned her elbows on the counter, leaning forward. The poncho shifted, and you saw a belt straining her slender figure, and several more knives hidden in the tops of her boots. There was a slight, slightly insane smile on her face. Attentive, tenacious brown eyes stared at you through the glasses. She was looking at you very carefully.

"Wow, what a cutie," Hange drawled, smiling and looking at your wrinkled work apron. "And how did you get to this God-forsaken place? You work here, right? Are you handing drinks to these unwashed pigs who don't even know how to approach hygiene?"

You were trembling, all the time looking away, at the man's corpse, and then at her.

"Don't look there, it distracts from the point!" Hange waved her hands in front of your face, drawing attention to herself. "Now, my dear, do me a favor. Pour me the best whiskey you have. Just not the stuff you keep for these pigs, but what the old man hides for special occasions. Get up, get up, get moving. The boys and I have a long way to go north, and Erwin... Oh, you should know how boring our boss is when he runs out of normal tobacco and alcohol! And Levi? And it's better not to talk about Levi at all if he has to drink a mess."

She talked about Texas' most wanted criminals as if they were just her moody relatives with whom they were going on a Sunday picnic...

You turned to the shelves on unsteady feet, found a dusty bottle of good whiskey that the bartender was saving for the sheriff, and with a trembling hand poured the liquid into a clean glass.

Woman took the glass, took an impressive sip, squeezed her eyes shut with pleasure and exhaled noisily.

"Great! Ooh... It's a strong infection. This is what I need after three days in the saddle under the scorching sun. Erwin was completely driving us with his plans. "We need to check the southern highway, Hange," "We need to scout the marshals' forces, Hange.".." She twisted her face comically, clearly mimicking her leader. "You'd think I had ten legs and three heads!"

She hid the bottle somewhere in the depths of her poncho. Woman turned back to you, bringing her face close to yours.

"Hey, you're from around here, aren't you? Tell me, is it true that your sheriff brought a new batch of Winchester rifles here? Seventeen-shooters, with a lever-action cocking? Mm-hmm? I just need them to death for one thing... an experiment."

You nodded fearfully, remembering how yesterday two deputies of the sheriff showed off new boxes from Boston at the bar.

Hange's eyes literally lit up. She raised her fist triumphantly. "I knew it! Erwin will be pleased."

She finished the whiskey in one gulp and slammed the glass down on the counter. Turning her back to the silent room, she tossed a five-dollar gold coin over her shoulder onto the counter, an amount exceeding the value of the entire bottle.

"This is for your honesty and good company," she winked at you. "And now I advise everyone to keep their heads down. There won't be many people in the town now... noisily."

Zoe adjusted her hat, abruptly turned around and, rustling her poncho, headed for the exit, whistling some cheerful tune. At the very door, she turned around, looked at the men frozen in horror, and added:

"Have a nice day, gentlemens! And remember: alcohol in excessive quantities is harmful to your health. And don't dare follow me. My little sullen friend is sitting on the roof opposite with optics, and he's not as patient as I am. Ciao!"

She laughed out loud, shouldered open the swinging doors of the saloon, and ran out into the morning sunlight. A couple of seconds later, the sound of hooves of a galloping horse was heard outside.