The bullet with her name on it hung around her neck.

She was the one who had it engraved with her name, Sarah, in a cursive script by the badger in Tulsa who had asked no questions of the hard green eyes and grim expression of her orange feline muzzle. Still, the bullet had been meant for her. It had been intended for her skull, but she kept it now in a simple gold locket on a chain, and it bounced in the cushion of her white furred chest with every steady step of the common appaloosa she rode. The bullet made a soft click as the locket moved, an unneeded reminder that it was there.

The bullet hadn't been intended for the locket. Once it had been in a gun of a lowlife who would do almost anything if you paid him a large enough sum of money. For example, for a certain amount, he would kill a small family. A handsome black furred tom, tough and stubborn as a frontier farmer can be, a teenage boy who had the dark fur of his father but his mother's green eyes, and her. She was seen as low risk, and he fired first at the tom, then the boy. Though he was just a lowlife, the man who would do things for money was a accurate, fast shot. Just not fast enough to fire three shots before the fury of a wife and mother fell on him, and she scratched at his eyes then smashed his head with the fireplace poker. But he had fired two. That blow that killed him, Sarah believed, though in her rage and grief she had made sure.

She rode now wearing trousers, blouse, vest and a wide brimmed hat, and the horse she rode on had a sweet gait, and she rubbed it's ears with fingerpads. She had purchased it with the money from the sale of the farm. Their farm. She had sold everything, even the small, common orange kitten that her husband had said had eyes that reminded him of hers. She couldn't remain where they had died. So, she went to the city with the money and there heard that that the buyer of the land had bought many parcels of land where the railway might soon lie, and there were many other owners who had 'accidents.'

So, she bought a few other things in town and prepared to travel. She listened where others talked and learned a location where she could find such a rich man, and she learned a name. She asked for one other engraved bullet from the badger, a bullet with that name she had found out. She loaded that bullet into the revolver that now rested on her hip. And she moved down that prairie trail without fear, the bullet with her name on it unable to kill her, for it was in the locket.

But she was going to kill that son of a bitch.