Dorrie walked into town with a bullwhip in her hand and a Navy Colt on her hip.
She moved purposefully to where a man sat on the sidewalk outside the saloon, with his boots on the railings and his hat tipped over his nose.
The bullwhip ripped off his hat sending it spinning down the street. He scrabbled for his gun and Dorrie waited for it to leave leather before shooting him between the eyes.
She looked down at what had been the father who sold her to a fat slaver.
“You always was too slow, old man.”