Foreword: The Gal With No Name is my attempt at an action-adventure fic for RDR2. It's set 11 years before the events of the game, but the present day will be making an appearance at times. This story is mostly a love letter to the Western genre. You'll find numerous references to Western stories like 'The Lone Ranger', 'The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly', and more. As always, enjoy reading!

The Ballad of the Lucky Blonde

Chapter One - Inspirations

1899
Lemoyne

There are two kinds of people in the world, Mary-Beth. Those that read stories, and those that write their own.

Her old auntie's words echoed in the young woman's mind for the third time that afternoon. Perhaps it was true, she supposed. All her life, she was sucked into numerous universes that goes beyond the mundanities of reality. She experienced stories that provoked her thoughts, known characters that made her cry, laugh, or boil with anger, and transported to places she'll probably never set foot in. And all that because someone far far away decided to write the fiction they created in their minds with only a measly little pen.

That thought always fascinated her. To be able to create a whole new world with just words and paper... it was what kept her dreams— to become the next Jane Austen of the world—alive. It didn't take a run-in with the infamous Van Der Linde gang to change that. Even with Miss Grimshaw's endless supply of orders, that fire in the freckled lass was still raging on. Someday, she'll become recognized. Popular, even. But how could that transpire if she couldn't even seem to write today?

"Micah! Have you seen my gun somewhere?"

"Well if you aren't such a damn featherbrain, Uncle, you wouldn't be asking such a dumb question like that so early in the morning now, would you?"

Micah's quip was enough to snap Mary-Beth back to reality. She stopped her longing gazes to Flat Iron Lake's still waters and shifted her sight to the blank pages of her book. Heaving a sigh, she gently set her pen down the wooden table and rested her chin on her hand. She hoped that nobody would stop her from hogging the camp's main table.

She was about to yawn when someone tapped her on the shoulder.

"You okay there, Mary-Beth?" a gruff voice proclaimed through the air. It was Arthur's. "You look like a sick vampire. Did you even sleep last night?"

The freckled girl yawned anyway. "I was tryin' to write a story... but I can't seem to come up with even an ounce of an idea."

Arthur could only chuckle. "Sometimes, Mary-Beth, you don't find ideas. Ideas find you."

With the burly yank's words of undeniable wisdom, the young woman smiled at the pang of realization that hit her. Arthur was right. It was a bad idea to frantically search an idea for a story, especially when she was just at camp doing nothing but that. Inspiration doesn't come from nowhere. All the best drafts she wrote- all of it was made into words because of an experience sometime in her life that was worth spelling out on paper. The best writers she knew probably did the same. If only Miss Grimshaw didn't keep her as some sort of camp slave, then she'll figure to go out more and wander around America's bustling pockets of civilization and pretty landscapes.

"Hehe, I guess you're right," Mary-Beth said. Her will to brainstorm for the day was about to fade out when an idea suddenly formulated inside her mind.

"Just don't let Miss Grimshaw see you, or else you—"

"Hey, how about this?" Mary-Beth cut him off, turning to him. "How about... you tell me a story. From the old days?"

It took a moment for Arthur to digest the idea. A second after staring at Clemens Point's marvelous view of sparkling still waters and the looming shadow of mountains from the North-East, he sighed.

"I'm afraid I don't know what to tell you," Arthur said. "If stories are what you're looking for, then Hosea might have some."

Mary-Beth cruncher her nose. "Him and his conman stories? No thank you, I've heard them all before."

"Then I'm afraid I have nothing interesting to tell you. Unfortunately, I haven't met any handsome Europeans and rich princesses West of the Mississippi River."

"No no no, not that!" Mary-Beth exclaimed. A part of her was mildly insulted at Arthur's assumption of her interests in novels. "Any story. It doesn't matter if it's good material or not."

She might not be a connoisseur of reading Wild West stories about gunslingers and sheriffs, but she did have some knowledge about their underlying themes and concepts. Besides, it should be fairly easy converting some elements of Arthur's story to her own lane of genre as inspiration. That is, if he actually decides to tell her something.

A commotion erupted from the other side of the camp. It was Bill, Hosea, and Dutch arguing about the Braithwaites once again. Slight hesitation entered Mary-Beth.

"If you're not busy..." she continued. The deputy badge on Arthur's chest was evidence enough of their hard work at Rhodes. Somehow, they managed to be deputized citizens in the area, and the freckled lass wouldn't want to be disrupting whatever plans they have.

Meanwhile, Arthur remained silent. Somehow, he looked lost. His eyes sparkled with a cluster of emotions that the young woman couldn't decipher. As if he wanted to say something.

"I do have some stories to tell you, but..." the cowboy finally spoke, but he trailed off, looking once again to the reflective waters of Flat Iron Lake.

Suddenly, Mary-Beth was washed over with dread.

This caused blood to rush to her cheeks. "Oh! Umm, you don't have to tell me about..." she gulped. "...Eliza."

Arthur's former love. Mary-Beth didn't know what exactly happened, but she knew enough about how their story ended. It was tragic. She figured it was too personal to be told as a story, even to someone like her.

"Don't be silly, that's not what I had in mind." Arthur, with a faint groan, sat on a crate and laid his arms flat on the circular table. "Everyone knows it, too."

A sigh of relief escaped the young woman's lips. She didn't strike a nerve, after all. "So what are you going to tell me?"

Arthur blinked and hung his head. "I... I don't know if I should be telling you this. but Dutch and Hosea don't know- heck, even John doesn't know."

"Arthur..." Mary-Beth frowned. As much as she wanted to know more about her friend, she didn't want him to suddenly speak out certain events of his life, especially when he seemed hesitant about saying it. She also wanted a story that would inspire her to write her own. Besides, some life-experiences are better off being kept a secret, not unless you get pegged by others, especially Karen, as a nosy woman wanting to know every detail of others' lives. "You don't have to—"

"No. I think it's time I tell this to someone," Arthur insisted. He reached for his satchel and pulled out something. A card, maybe? After examining it with somber eyes, he gently laid it on the table.

With too many questions in her mind, Mary-Beth took it and held it in her hands. She knew this. It was a cigarette card. Flipping it, the card revealed a full-body portrait of a woman. At first glance, one could already tell that this particular lady was a gunslinger.

Under her wide-brimmed Stetson hat was dirty-blonde hair, tied up in neat plait that fell over her shoulder. She wore a black leather duster, swaying somewhat dramatically like a flag catching the wind. And under the coat was a white-shirt, coupled with a blood-red bandana over the collar. The gunslinger was squinting behind the sights of her shiny Lancaster repeater and she had her left boot stepping over a rock, all serving as an eye-catching pose. She was certainly familiar. The words "The Lucky Blonde" was spelled out at the top of the quaint illustration, on the background of the blue sky and desert.

If Mary-Beth's memory of famous gunslingers were right, this woman was called Lucky. It wasn't a name like "Landon Ricketts", "Emmet Granger" or more of a cool nickname like "Black Belle" (derived from the name Maybelle Colter and her choice of clothing). Instead, it was just 'The Lucky Blonde'. Probably because nobody knew her name, and the general public just went with a cool moniker for the famous lady-gunslinger.

But why would Arthur show this?

"Lucky?" Mary-Beth asked. "What about her?"

Tilly and Karen often sung a country ballad about this gunslinger. Lucky was said to be a bounty-hunter that captured numerous criminals back in the Old West. She had a mentor, the lawman named Slim Grant. She disarmed Billy Midnight in a duel at Aurora Dale, and was said to almost kill Otis Miller near the Lannahachee River. Mary-Beth would gladly sing Lucky's ballad if ever Javier decided to play the guitar once again.

Lucky probably got her namesake at her numerous brushes with death, Mary-Beth supposed.

"Lucky..." Arthur mumbled. "Hehe... Back in the day, I didn't call her that. I called her Blondie."

Mary-Beth furrowed her eyebrows in confusion. "What do you mean? You knew her?"

"You see, Mary-Beth, I rode with her once."

1888

The desert sands were boiling. Arthur took one last look at his revolver, making sure every bullet was ready to be fired for what was to come. Someone patted him on the back. He only realized now that a horse just stopped by beside him.

"Ya ready, Arthur?" his partner asked. She tipped her white hat and looked distantly at the town of Armadillo, situated right in the middle of the sea of cacti, dead bush, and sand. Just a few miles behind the small pocket of civilization were towering buttes and ragged promontories— a symbol of the frontier's landscapes.

Arthur holstered his revolver. He turned to his partner.

"Sure as hellfire, Blondie."

Gunshots popped through the hot air. Two horses galloped onto the middle of the town, passing by frightened civilians and running townsfolk that probably weren't expecting the commotion. A lawman was disarmed as a bullet hit his gun. A kid was saved from the path of the horses by her mother. A bottle of beer, held by the local drunk, exploded in a fury of alcohol and glass as it was shot off on his hands.

Jumping over an empty wagon, Arthur quickly dismounted his horse and pulled out his two revolvers. The bounty-hunter beside him did the same. Kicking the door to the bank, they held their six-irons in the air, expecting the folks inside to freeze in fear. They didn't.

"Howdy, ladies and gentlemen!" Lucky exclaimed. "Me and my partner will be takin' whatever you have in this bank of yers! So if you be so kind as to not move, then that would be... greatly appreciated."

Arthur could only gawk at the ridiculousness of Blondie's words. All the years with Dutch and Hosea. That was NOT how one would rob a bank.

"Lucky? What're you doin'?" one of the townsfolk inside the bank asked. The man in the top hat could only stare with utter disbelief at the two gunslingers at the door. "Is that you're friend there?"

The people weren't intimidated. With a disappointed sigh, Arthur cocked the hammer of his revolver and pointed it at the man.

*bang!*

His hat was shot off and flew from his balding head. He quickly cowered in fear and a woman shrieked at the sudden turn of events. But it wasn't enough. Blondie cocked her revolver too, and not a second after the click, she fired five shots and another five hats flew off from their respective heads. At that point, the people were now petrified. Some even dropped down to the floor with their trembling hands up in the air.

Blondie cleared her throat. "I guess I didn't make myself clear! THIS IS A GODDAMNED BANK ROBBERY!"

With the final scream, Arthur and Blondie ran to the door of the bank's counter, shot the lock, kicked the metal doors open, and smacked the bank teller right in the head.

"Woah, woah," Lenny interrupted. "You're telling me you rode with the Lucky Blonde? THE Lucky Blonde?"

The kid had recently joined in to listen to Arthur, alongside an intrigued, yet confused Mary-Beth. It seemed like his story gained a little bit of an audience. Micah, who was sharpening his knives for the millionth time, seemed like he was listening in the distance. Lenny sat at the opposite side of the table from Arthur, and he had just put down his newspaper to listen to his friend.

"I'm confused, Arthur," Mary-Beth said. "I thought Lucky was supposed to be a bounty-hunter? She wouldn't rob banks. If my memory serves me right, the lawmen of Silverstone almost made her a sheriff..."

'That's not true," Lenny chimed in. "She was better than the sheriff of Silverstone at the shootout of Aurora Dale, but she wasn't exactly considered a sheriff."

Lenny, having read many books at a young age, had probably read some stories of gunslingers from the Old West. No doubt he was all acquainted with popular figures like Lucky or Frank Heck. Those action novels were likely his interests when he was younger. Arthur even saw him borrow one of the books he gave to Jack, like Otis Miller and the Boy from New York, or Otis Miller and the Arabian Prince.

"Is that so? But that doesn't explain why she and Arthur were robbing the bank of Armadillo," Mary-Beth said.

"Haha, yeah. I mean, you, Arthur Morgan, robbing a bank, I can see. But one of the most famous bounty-hunters ever?"

"I'm starting to question the credibility of this story, Mister Morgan," Mary-Beth said, tapping the table with her fingers with a sweet smile on her face.

Arthur could only shake his head and chuckle at himself. It seemed like telling that story at that part was sure to be absurd, and he only realized it now.

"Well I told you one of the good parts. Do you want me to start from the beginning?" Arthur asked. The both of them simultaneously exclaimed 'yes, but Arthur remained conserved. "Nah. I don't want you folks to not be doing what you're supposed to do."

Lenny smirked. "I am recently absolved from my duties, thank you very much."

"And I've done my chores already," Mary-Beth said. "Miss Grimshaw be damned."

Arthur leaned back. Mentally, he grinned like a giddy schoolboy. These two were in for a ride. He wasn't just about to tell them a story from the old days. He was also telling them about feats and adventures, previously untold to anyone on Earth. A man he met, an author named Levin, would've wanted to hear this, but Arthur held back at telling him at their time in the Valentine saloon. Perhaps someday, when they crossed paths again, he will. For now, Arthur would have to spill out to the two youngest members of the gang.

Without warning, all the events came flooding back.

"It all started in the summer of 1888..."