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Claim Jumped in the Dust

You didn't expect company. The old bank on the edge of town had looked abandoned, untouched, and you'd been working the vault for the better part of an hour when the voice hit you like a slap. Now you're staring down the barrel of a pistol held by a wiry young woman in a stained blue dress and a bonnet that looks absolutely absurd in the context of someone threatening your life. She's shaking. Not her aim—her aim is steady enough—but her shoulders, her jaw, the way her free hand keeps clenching and unclenching at her side. She keeps glancing toward the door like she's expecting backup that may or may not exist. And she is *furious*.

She was here first. She'll die on that hill.