DISCLAIMER: I OWN NOTHING.

A/N: Since I've run out of ideas for my first Young Guns story "Culture Shock," I decided to post this story that's been brewing in my head for a while. This one tells the tale of events before, during, and after the Lincoln County War through the eyes of Serena Riddle. As always, reviews and constructive criticism are appreciated.

My name is Serena Marisol Riddle, and this is my story. I was born on March 7th, 1859, the daughter of a white settler and an Apache medicine man. My mother wasn't the maternal sort to say the least. She disappeared from my life when I was around two, leaving my father to raise me. I have no memories of my mother whatsoever.

My father, Black Fox, was heartbroken when my mother abandoned us and vowed never to have any more children. So I became both daughter and son to him. I learned tasks delegated to females, such as sewing and cooking, but Father also taught me tribal medicine, how to hunt, and most importantly, how to defend myself. I taught myself English by reading some books my mother left behind, which certainly didn't make me popular with the other children who lived at the Warm Springs reservation.
Sometimes, I was ostracized because I looked different, having inherited my mother's blue eyes and blond hair. I never let it upset me.
I knew my father loved me no what matter, and I preferred my own company anyway.

From an early age, I had a special connection with animals, especially with horses. Somehow I knew instinctively how to communicate with them, how to teach them obey without scaring or hurting them. Stallions somehow became less agressive around me, and mares allowed their newborn foals to romp with me.

I grew up with few luxuries and only the barest of necessities, but I was perfectly happy.
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About a month before my fifteenth birthday, Father heard a band of white settlers were planning an attack on Warm Springs. They'd already done what they pleased with women from other tribes, so Father was naturally concerned for my safety. He begged me to leave. I by no means wanted to, but knew better than to argue with my extremely stubborn father.

I didn't know if I would ever see my friends and family again, so it was with a heavy heart that I mounted the blue roan stallion I had tamed myself. There were tears in Father's eyes as he handed me his hunting knife and medicine pouch. I nudged Storm Cloud's sides with my heels and the two of us galloped away.

I zigged, zagged, and doubled back on myself all over the trails near the reservation. The last thing I wanted was to lead the attackers to my family at Warm Springs. I rode until past dark, trying to find the safest possible place to camp. I hoped to find somewhere with plenty of brush, but I wasn't that lucky. I felt very exposed in the open prairie; Storm Cloud, sensing this, kept vigil over me as I slept.

I soon arrived in a little town called Lincoln. As much as it pained me to do so, I took a job in Murphy's Saloon. It was the only way I could support myself other than crime. I worked as a barmaid, until the day someone overheard me singing. Apparently, I had good voice, because I was promoted to evening entertainment, a drunken pianist as my only accompaniment.
I didn't know very many songs, but customers poured in from miles around to hear "Ravishing Riddle." Not only did I make very good money, my promotion also provided me with a wardrobe of fine dresses and a luxury boudoir upstairs. Customers were never allowed in my room; Murphy wanted to "protect his investment."

After a few months went by, I was approached by a well-groomed man who introduced himself as John Tunstall. He told me he was in need of help on his ranch, which I thought was odd. Why come to me? I found out later that customers were growing bored of my singing and more interested in my body. Murphy was planning to force me into becoming a whore, so I guess you could say John rescued me.

It took only two trips upstairs to collect everything I owned, then I was out the door.

"Do you have any particular skills, other than your lovely voice?" John asked pleasantly.

Blushing at the compliment, I said, "I'm good with horses. Riding, tacking, breaking, I can do it all. And I can cook well enough. Haven't made anyone sick yet. I read and write, know a bit about medicine. But there's nothing special about me, really."

"I believe there is, Miss Riddle." John said with a smile.

I swung myself onto Storm Cloud and followed John to his ranch outside of town. John carried my belongings into the simple whitewashed adobe house and led me to a back bedroom. White linen curtains were open to admit sunlight, which danced over the highly polished oak dresser, nightstand, and writing desk. The featherbed also had an oak frame and was covered with a colorful patchwork quilt.

"This cozy little space will be your room," John said. "I hope you find it to your liking." He put down my things and started to leave. "If there is anything at all you need, please don't hesitate to ask me."

After I unpacked, I explored the ranch property until John called me in for dinner. Most men (besides my father) are terrible cooks if left to manage on their own; John Tunstall was the exception to that rule. After supper, John asked me to read aloud a few articles from the local newspaper The Independent. Tired from my long day, I went straight to bed afterwards.

John was a bit reluctant to allow me to go on the cattle drive the next morning, but I persisted. He relented, saying there was a spare saddle in the barn I could use. Lifting the thing was a chore; Storm Cloud shied from it, then reared onto his hind legs when I cinched the girth around his belly. It took nearly an hour to get the saddle completely on him.

I'd only ever ridden horses bareback, so all the bouncing around when I trotted and cantered left me aching. Clearly, Storm and I both had a lot to get used to.

Over the next several weeks, I evolved into a jack-of-all-trades, able to do even backbreaking work. John admired my tenacity and strength; he loved me like I was his own daughter. I liked John fine, but he was still no replacement for my father. I missed him terribly and constantly worried if he was even alive.
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Later in the year, a young man named Richard Brewer stopped by the ranch. He was just passing through, he said, and wondered if we'd be kind enough to give him something to eat so he could keep going on his way. He'd moved out west from Vermont and was looking for work. John, in his charmingly persuasive manner, convinced him to stay.
The next night, Josiah Scurlock, who preferred to be called Doc (as would I if my first name were Josiah), joined us.

This is when John Tunstall's reputation as a philanthropist began. He never turned down anyone who needed a job or a place to stay for a night, no matter how wrong the fellow seemed to have gone. Over the next year, our number expanded to include a brawler named Charley Bowdre ("pugilist," John called him) and a bank robber/petty thief named Steve Stephens (also known as Dirty Steve).