Broomhilda crept out of her hiding space inside the small house in which she and Django were laying low. Django had gone outside to deal with the usual threat of a small group of men with rifles and pistols and every intention to drag him off to jail. But this time was different. This time, he hadn't come back. Broomhilda hurried to the window to see what had happened, and on the ground lay a concrete sign that something was wrong-Django's hat and pistols. She picked up the hat, held it to her heart, and began to weep. It had only been a few months since she and Django had ridden away from the smoldering remains of the hell they called Candie Land, yet Broomhilda found herself cursing the very thing that her beloved husband had to become in order to rescue her in the first place-bounty hunters.
Being the fourth largest cotton plantation in Mississippi, word of Candie Land's demise spread quickly. And it was no secret who had brought it about. Django became a wanted man with an astronomical bounty on his head, but only if he was brought back alive. No doubt the authorities wanted to deal with this high profile a case personally. Naturally, this brought on hordes of men who wanted to claim that bounty for their own. Django was usually able to fight them off with a small amount of effort, but bounty hunters can be crafty. Eventually, they found a way to surround and overpower him, leading to his jailing, and undeniably, his execution.
The thought was too much for Broomhilda to bear. She had just gotten her love and her life back! Now it was all gone, just like that. As this thought was passing through her head, a spark lit up inside of her, igniting a flame so hot that the tears instantly stopped flowing from her eyes. This whole situation was wrong. This was no time for crying; this was a time for action. Broomhilda slowly stood, and took up Django's guns. The memories of the small amount of training he had given her with them flooded her mind. She walked determinedly back into the house, to Django's dresser, and opened the top drawer. Inside was more ammunition for the pistols she held. She broke open the cylinder for each gun, ejected the spent cartridges, and replaced them with live rounds.
Broomhilda felt the weight of the newly reloaded weapons in her hands, and felt right. She knew what she had to do. She closed the top drawer of Django's dresser and walked to the wall across from it, where his gun belt hung from a hook. She strapped it on and put the pistols into its holsters. She was furious and determined. Each bullet had the name of a bounty hunter etched into its jacket. No more crying, no more hiding, no more helplessness. The time was now. She lifted Django's hat to her head, opened the front door, and took the first step toward vengeance.