A woman stood in the camp outside of town. She was the only woman among the tents and camp-fires. And she was likely the only woman in the whole state armed with a bow and quiver of arrows.

The men might've raised some eyebrows at the sight. But since she missed every shot, they were doubled over in laughter instead.

"What d'ya think yer doin'?" One asked before taking another bite of beans.

"Practicing." Her voice was insecure. Any woman would be in the middle of that many men, surrounded by guns and approaching night-time. THUNK went the arrow. It was reassuringly sound, even if it didn't land in the middle.

"Well you sure ain't makin' babies like the good Lord planned," one man said crudely, eyes crinkling with laughter. His surrounding friends joined in, and one slapped his thigh. "Not dressin' like one either." Sure enough, the woman was dressed in a man's duster, and her skirts were split for riding.

"The good Lord also said to drink in moderation," she said. "And you're drunk as hell. And he said a man should have one wife, but I'll bet my bowler your friend in the vest is the same man outside Jenson's whore-house. Don't lecture me on what the good Lord planned for women." THUNK. "And I won't lecture you on what the good Lord planned for men."

A few more chuckled at the quick reply, but even more laughed at her next round of arrows. They all hit the target, but they were splayed out across the gunny sack of hay in every direction. The woman couldn't make a decent group for the life of her. And that's just what irked the amateur archer; her life could very well depend on her ability one day.

The evening drew on into night without her getting much better. Some men rolled up in their tents for the night, others stayed to swap yarns, and a couple continued to watch her in amusement.

"Just what is the purpose of this, ma'am?" asked one man, hat pulled over his face and boots propped on a saddle. "You're not gettin' any better. Hide behind a pistol. Maybe you can scare an injun away with the bang."

The woman sighed and lowered the bow, removing the arrow.

"If you asked any of these men how to shoot, would they deny you a lesson?" She asked. l

"S'not me that needs the lesson," a man, little more than a boy, jeered.

"S'not what I asked," she shot back. "If you asked one of these men how to shoot a bow and arrow, would they turn you away?"

"Like as not," said the boy.

"Well they denied me." THUNK. "Now who do you blame for my inadequacy?" THUNK.

"You."

The voice was not that of a white man. Sure enough, it was a native that rose from past a ruby fire. The red light danced on his face covered in- is that blood? she thought frantically. But no, it was only paint.

"Me?" She asked, heart fluttering worriedly against her ribs.

"You did not ask me." The native man stepped over a sleeping cowboy, making his way towards the woman.

"You'll teach me?"

The man tapped her hand.

"Don't grip. You do not milk a cow." He uncurled her fingers. "Loose." She loosened her hand. Then the man jabbed the bow towards her. It flattened out against her palm, thumb holding it into place.

"Tha-"

"And no jerking. Draw." He made a graceful movement with his hand, sweeping it across his chest and then slowing as his fingers drew along his jawline, halting just behind the bone. "Start down, draw up."

The woman hesitated, then copied the movement, drawing the bowstring and fletching along her jaw.

"Well I'll be damned," said the man behind her. She could hear the leather of his boots rustling against the saddle leather. "The injun's teachin' her."

"Loose," demanded the native man. "Man loose one way. Man tense twenty ways. Be loose, shoot one way. Be tense, shoot twenty ways."

The woman tried to loosen all her muscles, but her arm was strained from keeping the bow in place. It used unfamiliar muscles.

"Next time," said the Indian. "Pull with back." He pressed his hand against her back. "Strength here." He pressed her arm. "Not here."

Her fingers slipped at the contact, and the arrow loosed. It landed in the gunny sack. It still wasn't where she wanted; she hadn't thought to aim. But it flew a different way.

"Again." The voice was harsh. The woman noticed that all the others had fallen silent.

She nocked an arrow and drew up the way the man had shown her, trying to fold her back in instead of yanking with her arm.

"Breath out," said the man. "Eye where you want to hit."

Elbow bent just enough that the string wouldn't scrape her skin clean off, the woman loosed her arrow. It flew straight, landing considerably closer to the center than she'd gotten all night save for flukes.

The man nodded. Then he turned to sit back in his place.

"Thank you," said the woman. Her heart was still racing, but now with the adrenaline of a pure shot instead of fear.

The man sat back down. "Make your path different," he said. "Shoot wicked men. Save good men. One way."

The woman walked off with her memories, armed to make more. And Red Harvest sat, remembering his own.