THE FIRST GUNSHOT pulled the Irish girl from the very edge of sleep. It was sometime before the gambling tables closed, while the streets beyond her hotel room still echoed with songs of revelry and shouts of anger and excitement. She had grown used to the ruckus by midnight, and just as she was about to melt into her bug-ridden bed, when her brain was buzzing with the release of consciousness and she saw only black against her eyelids, that was when it came.

A thump. A dull explosion. A lonely firework close by.

Somnolence snapped. Her heart took off as her eyes opened. Her ears rang. At first she wondered if it was thunder. It didn’t sound like thunder, it sounded like a gun, but she rationalized anyway as she stared at the ceiling. Hoping any threat nearby might go away if she only didn’t look. Somehow she almost convinced herself the day’s blue sky had come over with clouds—when the next explosion rang out.

Louder, closer, just outside her window, a short boom mere inches away.

It was not thunder.

She was overcome not so much with courage but a spasm of alertness as she slipped out from bed, now too curious and too afraid not to look. She peeked behind the curtains and saw smoke from a black powder charge trailing off into silver moonlight. Down the street was a man face-down but still moving, and muffled through the glass a voice called, “You shot me!” again and again.

He squirmed up and down. Holding himself on his forearms. Swearing, standing before falling back to the dirt. After that he stilled.

The girl crouched against the wall in fear she might be seen. The assailing gunman was shrouded in shadows, but his dark shape grabbed a second revolver from the ground and went through the fallen man’s pockets. When he stood he shoved both guns in his pants and walked back toward the saloon across the street. He disappeared through batwing doors backlit by amber.

Three days. Three days in New Sonora Territory, only a few hours since she arrived in this town, and she’d seen her first murder. She had expected the frontier to be wild. It was violence that called her to this place. She was no stranger to rough living. But to see it up close ignited a long fuse of dread. Maybe her uncle had been right about this trip after all.

She pulled the curtains closed.

Her heart hardly calmed as she settled back into bed. Like any decent person she wondered if something should be done. A report for the marshal? Should she go help the man? Was he even alive? An hour passed before she decided to act. It took another thirty minutes for her to slip her boots on. The laces tightened…

Another pattering of gunshots sounded against the walls. The familiar popping of cartridges in call and response—well, she knew the call, but until now she had never heard response. The noise was identical to a 4th of July night, except here, when the show was over, screams came instead of cheers.

The girl’s courage left her again. Her arms went paralytic. She let her boots fall to the ground. She took off her stockings. She retreated back into bed. She covered herself, and she decided the bedbugs were just the company she needed that night.

The air had been 115 degrees when she arrived in town. The night wasn’t much cooler. She covered herself anyway. And an hour later, when another shot rang, at least this time she felt farther away than she really was.

But no matter how safe she felt, gunshots kept her up all night. They didn’t stop till dawn.

In the next morning’s already hot sun the Irish girl stared down at the body outside her room. The air reeked of shit and iron. Dead things did not bother her, but she had never seen a man shot before. She could not get the thought from her mind that maybe, had she moved more quickly, she might have saved his life. He was scrawny, ugly, calloused, and middle-aged, and a scavenger had stolen his boots and jeans during the night, so that now he wore only a vest, a reddened shirt, and beside him on the dirty road was a black gambler’s hat.

His nakedness did nothing to endear him. The girl found him repulsive. But he was a man. He’d had a life. Thoughts and wishes and desires, just like her. Now all gone. He could have been a monster and she still would have regretted staying in her room. No one deserved to die like a stray dog, choking on dust in the streets, abandoned and forgotten and alone as darkness overtook him in his final moments. She should have done something. Fear was no excuse.

She kicked him. He didn’t flinch. She glanced around. A few people went about, women in bonnets and men in dusters and boys with papers. She even saw an Indian, with black hair and a dark vest and a tie and white coat that went to his knees. None appeared concerned over the body.

Even in the earliest moments of dawn the sun burned her pale skin worse than the up-close warmth of a bonfire. Sweat poured down the ridge of her nose. She could not believe people lived here. In six hours it would be like the surface of Mercury on these streets. They would be sweltering like sinners in Hell. And she was not prepared.

So she checked once again that no one was watching, and she took the dead man’s hat.

That hat was the final step. As she put it on and looked ahead and saw the sun-scorched alleys of the town of Vulture, where blood and horse manure and earth mixed into miasma and mingled in her nostrils, she had to make her decision. To go through with all her plans and lock in her identity, or to spend her last few dollars on a stagecoach back to Saint Augustine by the railroad and, from there, a train ticket home. The dead man was the first test of many. Last night’s violence had been distressing, but now in daylight she found herself instilled with a new courage, because now she saw in clear light the things she came to find.

It was then the Irish girl decided she was Cordelia. And Cordelia belonged in New Sonora.

Her hair was auburn and she wore it to her chest, where between her shoulders it framed a lightly-freckled face. She was pretty in a boyish way; unusually tall, maybe 5’10, but there could be no mistaking her slender cut, which, while altogether contourless beneath the unflattering shape of men’s clothes, remained distinctively svelte. Her face possessed a femininity the rest of her figure did not reflect, like a ragged old toy with the head of a fine porcelain doll. Her eyes were blue. She was eighteen.

Now she had a hat.

She spent the better part of that day patrolling Vulture’s streets. The wind carried an incinerating convection that cooked her skin even when shaded. Each breath baked her lungs, but she was determined to see this place in light, to really see it as it was. When she arrived yesterday it had been dusk; she saw nothing of the town except shadows and silhouettes. Now the desert’s scale astonished her.

Vulture. Her hotel was called the Carri-Inn, across from a saloon. There seemed to be five such establishments for every person throughout three blocks. During daytime hours the silver miners were off at work and things were quieter in town. She almost felt like she wouldn’t be shot. A handful of cowboys cantered down the roads on horseback. There was a farrier and a livery and a gunsmith and a doctor and a tobacco shop and even more saloons and all the other amenities one might expect from a small town.

She recognized this place from her dreams. But Cordelia had never been here.

The sheriff lived down by the railroad in Saint Augustine. Here there was only a marshal. His office was ramshackle and wooden near the edge of town, beneath the shade of a palo verde tree, and next door was a building designated JAIL. It was a sauna with brick walls and a tin roof. Anyone left in that place would swelter to death in hours.

A board was up outside the marshal’s. Cordelia stopped to investigate. A dozen fliers with hand-drawn sketches of faces were nailed to it, each beneath the word WANTED. There was one for an Indian, one for a negro, one for a pockmarked German, one for a Mexican, one for a fat man named Durrett with bad teeth—at least all different sorts found opportunity in the West. She took the Indian’s flier by the bottom and looked it over.

He was striking. Serious, in the drawing. Wanted dead or alive for arson, graverobbing, kidnapping, homicide, jailbreaking, bank robbery, miscegenation…

“Don’t think I know you, ma’am,” a man said. He stood on the steps of the marshal’s office, a star pinned to his breast. “You new in town?”

Cordelia nodded.

“You stay within the limits, you won’t have to worry about them,” the man—the marshal, or a deputy—said. “Keep honest and out of trouble and you’ll do just fine, pretty girl like you.”

She smoothed the flier back along the board. “I’m not worried,” she said. She spoke with an Irish lilt. “Just curious.”

“Well,” said the man. “Good to hear it. We work hard to keep Vulture safe.” Cordelia frowned. But he approached her, tipping his hat, and passed her by. As he went he added, “One thing, though. A local ordinance—women aren’t allowed to wear pants here. It’s against the law.”

She stared at him blank-faced.

“Just thought you should know. It’s not often enforced—we don’t often need to enforce it. We’re simple folk here in Tash County. Just something you might want to keep in mind.”

“Thanks,” she said, but her voice suggested irony. The notion she might be arrested for wearing pants instilled her with resentment. She returned to her exploration more disquieted than before.

That night she watched the sun set. It disappeared early. Vulture was along the northern hills of a valley, the Argent Valley, and the purplish peaks of the mountain ramparts off west cast shadows like the oncoming silhouettes of sharks to swallow the town whole. About eight miles to the south was the city of Saint Augustine, the territorial capital, the oldest settlement in New Sonora. The railroad had done much to tame it over recent years; trains brought women and women brought civilization. From there radiated all the amenities of the East.

But she needn’t go out far to find herself back in the West, savage as it ever was. Wilderness reigned where tracks couldn’t reach. Cordelia stood on a boulder and stared off toward Saint Augustine and caught glimpses of metal roofs in the setting sunlight. The sky was alight with dying embers of orange twilight.

Gnarled saguaros lined the cliffs on the edge of town, cactuses tall as trees and covered in barbs with outstretched arms, some raised high to praise the heavens and others knotted around their trunks like men warming before a fire. An arroyo with banks lined with huge trees swept down from the mountains and off into the desert. Farther out she saw groves of green leaves, and in the distance black slowly enveloped hills covered with brush and cactuses and agaves.

Her image of New Sonora had been a place of sand dunes. Open flatlands. Dried lakes beneath the oppressive gaze of Sol. The sun was hotter than she could have imagined, that was true, but the desert was far from desolate. It was almost forested.

She found some small comfort in that. Forests were familiar.

She made sure to retreat back to the Carri-Inn well before any shooting started. There was a saloon there, too, and a restaurant, but it was small and empty save an old man at a far table and the establishment’s matron speaking to him from nearby.

Stitched to the matron’s dress was a pocket, an old Colt Navy nestled within.

Cordelia sat down at the bar. She took inventory of all her few worldly possessions: an old photograph, a duster coat, a pair of good boots, and twenty one-dollar bills. And a new hat. In fact she only had $19.80 left after lunch and she owed the matron another $1.00 for the last night’s board, so her net worth dipped below $19.00 already.

She had never been very good with money.

She was hot and hungry as she rolled up her sleeves, wondering if she could afford to eat dinner that night, and as she cooled off she pulled the photograph from her pocket and stared it over for a long time. She would be broke within two weeks, but the photo—the subjects thereof—would be her salvation. They were what she came to Vulture to find. She only needed some way to start.

“I take it by the look on your face that you’ll be spending another night,” a woman said. Cordelia looked up and saw the matron had come back around the bar. She mentioned her name last night—it was something Spanish, although she did not look Mexican. Cordelia stared dumbly as she tried to remember. Then—she found it. Sanchez. Mrs. Sanchez. Cordelia put the photo face-down on the bartop, but said nothing. Mrs. Sanchez searched a shelf until she found a bottle of whiskey. She turned. “That a yes or a no?”

A dollar a night. Cordelia would be sleeping in a mine soon enough. But she nodded.

“That’s good. Tomorrow’s Saturday and I serve breakfast on Saturdays, so you can come down early for eggs if you like.” Mrs. Sanchez brought the bottle to the old man. “Here you are, Mr. Hughes. Saved it just for you.” Now back to Cordelia. “Say. Where was it you were from?”

Cordelia frowned. “Does it matter?”

“I run an inn. That’s the sort of thing we ask people who come and go. Get lots of interesting answers. Mr. Hughes here was born in Wales, isn’t that right?”

The old man waved smoke from his eyes. “Can’t remember. But once we met a feller from Turkey come down to grow ostriches for the Army. Feller looked white, you never would’ve known if you hadn’t asked.”

“I think it was camels, not ostriches,” Mrs. Sanchez said. “The Army wanted camels.”

Mr. Hughes lit a new cigarette. “It was ostriches, damn you. You ever seen a camel in New Sonora?”

“No, but I never seen an ostrich either. You ever seen an ostrich, girl?”

Cordelia did not know what an ostrich was and shook her head.

Mrs. Sanchez returned to the bar, where she leaned forward. “The point is, people got interesting stories. So I like to ask about them.”

Cordelia grew up feral, or at least that’s how she sometimes felt. She felt a deep desire to play along, yet she couldn’t help herself. She didn’t have the capacity to behave socially.

“Where are you from?” she asked.

“Me?” Mrs. Sanchez laughed. “Oklahoma. Now I bet you’re thrilled you asked. Your turn.”

Cordelia sighed. “Ireland.”

Mrs. Sanchez gave Cordelia a confused frown. “You’re saying you’re Irish?”

“Is it hard to tell?” Cordelia said. She tugged her red hair.

“You sounded plenty American to me last night, sweetie. But whatever you say. You drinkin’ anything? Look like you could use it.”

“Do you know who was killed?” Cordelia stepped on Mrs. Sanchez’s last words. The question had been on her mind.

The old man coughed out a laugh. Mrs. Sanchez folded her arms and said, “You’ll have to be more specific.”

“Outside my window. A man was shot.”

“Did it wake you up? You’ll get used to it. The days are usually calmer.”

“Better to sleep during daylight anyway, too bleedin’ hot,” said the old man from across the room.

“He was probably a miner. It’s usually a miner,” Mrs. Sanchez said. “Often one of your people, too. That’s why I don’t have any tables. Gambling tables, I mean. Boys come up from the mines with their pockets stuffed with cash and they don’t got anywhere to store it or half a clue what to spend it on, so they waste it on whores and drink and gamble the rest away every night. Good business, so long as you don’t mind dodging bullets.”

Cordelia felt entirely out of her element now that the conversation had opened. She was always at a loss for what to say. “Every night,” was all that came to mind.

“Mhm. Say. Sounds like you’ve come a long way. You haven’t come out here to whore yourself, have you?”

Cordelia raised her eyebrows.

Mrs. Sanchez considered her and continued, “I think you’ve got a face to haunt men’s dreams, if you let the sunburns heal. I’m sure we could have a corset made for you in Saint Augustine, too. A little bit thin but some men like that.”

Cordelia found the implication hard to comprehend. The suggestion stupefied rather than offended, unlike the marshal’s words earlier that day. She had an unexpressive face and spoke in low, even tones, so regardless of her thoughts, little was betrayed by her manner. After a long pause she said simply, “No.”

“Well, if you ever change your mind…”

Mrs. Sanchez returned to cleaning the bar. She asked no further questions. The dim room became even more uncomfortable. Cordelia stared back down at her photo.

An idea. She tried to pick the conversation back up: “I’m looking for something.”

“It ain’t love, is it?” Mrs. Sanchez said.

Cordelia flipped the photograph on the bartop to reveal its image. “A ranch.”

Mrs. Sanchez glanced down at the picture. It was a family portrait: a young man, a young woman, and between them an infant of two years. The man leaned a Henry rifle against his leg and held the woman around the waist. Behind them extended a massive pinnacle of some great cliff, and then an in-construction ranch house between it and them. The image was protected by a sheet of thin glass and written across it were the words, in the bottom corner, For Elizabeth – 1866.

The woman looked down at the picture again. Then up to Cordelia. Then back down. Then to Cordelia: “You Elizabeth?”

“Cordelia.”

“That’s Sentinel Rock. It’s due west, around the mountains. There’s a few ranches that way I think.”

“How far?”

“Five miles west, maybe another ten north.”

Cordelia pulled the photograph in closer. Protecting it with her arms, leaning over it like a protective mother. “Fifteen miles.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever met those two. What’s their last name?”

“The Byrnes.”

“Micks too?”

“The man was. He was—my uncle.”

“Was?”

“He was murdered.”

“’66,” Mrs. Sanchez pondered. “Long time ago. I didn’t open the Carri-Inn till—when was it, Mr. Hughes? ’69?”

“Not hardly thirteen years ago,” coughed the old man.

“Christ. We’re getting old, huh? Well, anyway, there it is. Now if you don’t plan on drinking anything, you should scurry off to bed. We don’t run a daycare here.”

“It’s night,” Cordelia said. She was joking—she often joked—but she never gave her sarcasm away. Every comment came as flatly as the last. She seldom smiled.

“You know what I meant. The bar’s for business, not just talking.”

She sighed. But it was no surprise, and she had neither the funds nor the desire to drink. She had hardly slept last night and decided to do as she was told—and follow the old man’s advice: get some rest before the gunfighting started.

Mrs. Sanchez directed Cordelia to a livery on the edge of town. A tall man with a white halo of hair let her inside. He stabled a wide selection. She took the time to visit each animal one-by-one.

The feel of their hair between her fingers. The sound of their breath. Even the foul stench in the air. All of it reminded Cordelia how much she loved horses.

“Business is slow these days, so you can take your pick,” the stablemaster said.

She continued down the line with the intention of doing just that. Eventually one in particular caught her eye. Young, male, pitch black. An Arabian. He was still as she stroked his mane.

“Real beauty, ain’t he? Maybe a little wilder than some of the others I’ve got available, though. Can you ride well?”

“I can ride,” Cordelia said.

The stablemaster hesitated. “They got a lot of horses in Ireland?”

“Yes.”

“If you say so. For a day-ride up to Sentinel Rock I’ll let you rent him out for sixty cents. Bring him back happy and if you need him again, I’ll lower that down to fifty for any other trips you take. Of course it’ll be in addition to a five dollar deposit, and you’ll have to supply your own feed.”

Cordelia put her head against the Arabian’s. She could not afford this expense. It was pointless. She could walk the fifteen miles to the Byrne ranch. She hardly had things to carry anyway, except water. But she wanted him. She wanted a horse. She wanted to play cowgirl. She had always wanted her own horse, and this slender, handsome gelding fit her perfectly. So she decided she was young and that young people were supposed to make bad decisions.

“Okay,” she said. “Five dollars?”

“Just a deposit. You’ll get it back. Now—I don’t suppose you’ll want a lady’s bags? For riding sidesaddle.”

“Only if you provide the dress.”

“I don’t think my wife would appreciate that,” the stablemaster said. “Right this way.”

“Wait. What’s his name?”

He glanced at the brand on the Arabian’s back. “Dunno. He’s new to these parts. I call him Number Four.”

“Beautiful,” Cordelia said.

“Tell you what, Miss Byrne. Take Number Four, and if you get any ideas, I’ll let you choose his new name when you get back. How’s that sound?”

“Deal.”

“Then it’s a deal.” He pursed his lips. “Can I ask you something, Miss Byrne? You said you’re heading up to Sentinel Rock. I don’t suppose you’re any relation to Seamus?”

Cordelia felt her chest freeze in the hot and stuffy stable. She took a long time to respond. “He was my uncle.”

“That a fact? Well I’ll be.” He was thinking something, debating saying it aloud, but he didn’t. Cordelia was terrible at reading expressions. Then he shrugged. “His ranch was up there, I think. Long time ago. Going on twenty years, must be, just after the War. That where you’re headed? Can’t say I’ve been up there myself. But—the place’s got something of a reputation. Sentinel Rock in general, among a few of us old timers. Don’t like going near it. People say it’s haunted, on account of what happened there back in ’67. That was a—a rough business.”

Cordelia liked this man, but he strained her patience. “I’m not afraid of ghosts.”

“That’s not—I don’t know. I don’t know what you’re looking to find, but I just wanted to tell you to stay safe, all right?”

“I can take care of myself,” Cordelia said.

The stablemaster smiled. “I sure hope so,” he said, “since now you got Number Four to take care of, too. All right. That should do it. Follow me.”

That was how she found herself mounting a black Arabian on a hill outside town. And as she set off northward, the company of Number Four was worth every penny of her five dollars and sixty cents and much, much more.