Yes, I made a living (for now) selling adult content, and here I would like to share my works, as a contribution back to the society of the GIMPs who'd have honed my content creating skills over the years. With this, I asked for your permission to start Master
The sun was bleeding red over the Sangre de Cristos when Jane Redfeather finally let the reins slip from her fingers. Three weeks on the trail since Red Bluff burned. Three weeks of nothing but wind, buzzards, and the echo of Harland’s last breath in her ears.
She had kept the promise: no blind vengeance, no burning every town that looked at her wrong. Instead she had ridden north, following whispers of a new evil wearing an old face: the Territorial Ring. Bankers, judges, and railroad barons who bought whole counties the way other men bought whiskey. Their latest prize was the little railhead of San Cirillo, a green valley where Mexican farmers and freedmen had scratched out a free town after the war. Now the Ring wanted it gone, cleared for track and profit. They’d already sent the first wave: hired regulators, Apache scouts on payroll, and a hanging judge with a ledger instead of a Bible.
Jane reached San Cirillo at dusk, riding alone, the Comanche feather in her hair now stained the colour of old blood. The town smelled of fear and fresh-cut hay. Children were pulled inside the moment her shadow crossed the plaza. Only one person didn’t run: a tall, copper-skinned woman in a calico dress and a Winchester across her lap, standing on the church steps.
“You the one they call la tormenta rubia?” the woman asked in Spanish, voice steady as stone.
Jane answered in the same tongue. “Depends who’s asking.”
“Maria Valdez. My husband and two sons are buried on the hill because they refused to sell. If you’re here to finish what you started in Red Bluff… ride on. We don’t need another grave-angel. We need someone who can win.”
Jane looked past her to the quiet plaza, the barred doors, the distant glint of rifles on the ridge.
“I don’t bring salvation, Maria,” she said softly. “I bring the storm. Question is, can your people stand the rain?”
Maria studied her for a long moment, then stepped aside and opened the church door.
Inside, lamplight flickered over thirty determined faces: vaqueros, buffalo soldiers, Chinese rail workers, a one-eyed nun with a Sharps rifle. They had guns, dynamite, and a map showing every patrol route the Ring’s men used.
Jane laid her pearl-gripped Colt on the altar like an offering.
“Then let’s teach them,” she said, voice low and sure, “that some land isn’t for sale at any price.”
Outside, thunder rolled across the valley, though the sky was clear.
The storm had found its next battleground. And Jane Redfeather was done running.
