Louis L'Amour by The Cherokee Trail

father had taught her to shoot, and she remembered what he had said. “A gun is a responsibility. Never shoot blind. Always know what you are shooting at and never shoot unless there is no other alternative. And consider every gun as loaded. Most of them are.”
    She must think. The first item was clear and obvious. She might never tell anyone about Flandrau’s guerrilla activities, but he could not be sure of that. He had killed her husband; now he would kill her. So she must consider how it might be done and who might do it. Coolly, cold-bloodedly, she must consider every aspect and then be prepared.
    She was not a man who might be challenged and killed, as her husband had been. They might hold up the stage and kill her in the process, but already she had learned enough of western ways to know that even the worst of men would hesitate at killing a woman. Kill a man and the West might shrug, but kill a woman and men would arise in their wrath and hunt down the killer and hang him without hesitation.
    Ambush…shot while crossing the area from the stage station to her dwelling or moving about between the barn and the corral.
    Somebody hidden up in the trees on the low hillside with a horse waiting back in the brush. There could be other ways, but that was the most obvious and the one she must consider.
    Her father, an old army man, had once said that a battle well planned was half won. Perhaps. There was always the unexpected, but if one had prepared for every contingency, one could then cope with the unexpected. She must be cool; she must be objective.
    Nothing in her life had prepared her for this, yet when she came to think of it, she had often heard her husband and father talking of war, Indian fights on the frontier, and there were some things she remembered. She could not, would not, ask for help. That was not the way it was done on the frontier, but even if it had been, what right had she to embroil others in her problems, perhaps at the risk of their lives?
    Attack, her father had said, always attack.
    To protect herself was not enough; she must not permit a man of Jason Flandrau’s type to come to a position of authority.
    Who was it who told her that her neighbor, whom she had never met, was a political power as well as a wealthy rancher? What was his name? Collier, Preston Collier. She must meet him, and soon.
    Who would oppose Flandrau in running for office? Who stood to lose most if he won? Whoever he was, he was a potential ally, and she would need all the help she could get. Yet she could not come right out and accuse Flandrau, for how could she prove it? This was far from Virginia, Kentucky, and Ohio where he had operated before going West to Missouri and Kansas. Those who might have known of his activities as a guerrilla were scattered, still in the armed forces or perhaps even killed. It would be her unsupported word against his, and he had been making himself prominent in church circles in Denver and elsewhere, had avoided the saloons and gambling halls, and had already won some standing in the area. As for her, she was just a stranger, a woman who, of all things, operated a stage station.
    She turned away from the window and glanced at Wat, eating a piece of apple pie. Wat, that strange, wild boy from only God knew where.
    “Wat,” she said suddenly, “if I had a son, I would want him to be like you.”
    Startled, Wat looked up, his face flushing with embarrassment. She crossed to him. “I mean it, Wat. I mean every word.”
    He looked down quickly, tears in his eyes. When he looked up, he had blinked them away.
    “Ma’am? If you’re goin’ into Laporte, I think you should leave me go with you. I could circulate around a little.”
    “We’ll see, Wat. I’ll go in tomorrow, I think.”
    “You goin’ on the stage? You take the stage, ma’am. It’s safer. Wilbur will be drivin’, and he’s a good whip.”
    What would she wear? Her traveling suit? She could press that, and the white blouse?