[P] [m] like a pair of thieves, tumbled locks and broken codes

WARNING: This thread contains material exceeding the general board rating of PG-13. It may contain very strong language, drug usage, graphic violence, or graphic sexual content. Reader discretion is advised.

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Through the Valley, Monday the 20th

The red horse was eager.

He shook his head and snuffled, his ears pointed toward the small band of equines milling around on the outskirts of the little campsite. His flame-colored tail flicked, and when he threatened to whicker in excitement, Dolores shushed him and patted his neck. Her eyes raised in the direction of the little campsite, its worn-down wood coverings and the leaning tents just outside the circle of firelight, but no one stirred.

Soft hoofbeats turned Dolores' head, and she caught Donnie's eye. The woman flashed her a mischievous grin, and she pulled her little trailhorse up beside Red.

"Y'all ready?"

Dolores reached over to give her arm a squeeze in answer, then kicked her heels into Red's flanks to spur him forward. He broke out into a lope, tossing his head excitedly, and they drove right into the midst of the little herd.

The animals scattered, and Red wove through their panicked bodies when Belladonna raised her voice in a howl. He cut across their paths, sending some fleeing out into the night, while others were chased toward the campsite to trample the tents and embers. Dolores grabbed a handful of arrows, reaching out to smack their flanks like a switch, and reeled Red back when she thought it was sufficient.

"Come on, buddy," Dolores whispered to him, tugging his hackamore, but he shook his head and fixed his eyes on the horses, breathing in the scent of coyotes and fire. "Come on," she urged again, and gave one of his ears a tug in the right direction. He snorted and shook his head again, then drove his hooves into the earth and turned toward where Donnie and Kidd were waiting to make their escape.

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no spirit is unbreakable, given time, and the whip

Sometimes, Twelve just needed the warmth of man beside her, a strong, muscled torso to cling to into the night. Well, maybe just for an hour or two, she wasn’t the type of gal to fall into peaceful slumber wrapped in the arms of a lover after a good fuck.

But, the itch needed to be scratched, and Wayne had a perfectly good tool to scratch it with. The second go had cemented a sort of pact between them; this was a good thing, for now at least, and so why not enjoy it.

Wayne, satisfied, or so she hoped, had fallen asleep in her tent, and she was sitting outside in a somewhat half-sleep. Twelve was leaned up against a nearby tree, to where her mule was also hitched and sleeping. The night was dark and warm, and her insomnia seemed to be leaving her be for now. Her head lulled forward, her maw slightly open and emitting raspy snores.

However, the former slave was never fully asleep, unless she drank. Tonight, she was sober.

Orville stirred, his hooves moving against the worn ground was enough to wake her. Groggily, she turned her eyes to him, and was about to chide the big oaf when she noticed the way he stood. Tense, ears forward, eyes trained into the darkness.

Then, all hell broke loose.

The Posse’s herd of horses, which often were kept together, suddenly were sent scurrying in all directions; she could barely see them in the darkness. Then the night was split by the shrill cry of a wolf; it sent shards of ice into her gut.

Twelve was on her feet, and heard the sound of stampeding hooves coming directly at her. Orville brayed and pulled against his tether as the horses ran by, nearly missing her tent. Shit! She said, as an equine beast came barreling towards her.

Drawing on her instincts, she stepped in front of it and raised her arms, Whoa, whoa! She said. The horse stopped short, snorting and kicking, and a second got drawn up behind it; it was Wayne’s horse.

She grabbed the first by the bridle, wheeling it around until it settled enough for her to look out where the horses had scattered. There, she saw woman on a red horse; a she-wolf.

This was the ambush.

WAYNE! Twelve screeched, though she had already heard the man scrambling from the tent. In her mind's eye, she suddenly and vivedly recalled the haunting image of the Reverend's head rolling into the dirt. Her eyes went wide with madness, and she snarled in the strange sort of way only a coyote could, Let’s get these cock-suckers! She mounted the horse, saddle-less, and the chase was on.

OOC || +455

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