Introduction

Against the backdrop of a fading sun, the desert stars glimmered coldly. A vast open land sprawled out as far as the eye could see, teeming with untapped potential for those brave enough to navigate her mystifying bounty. It was a complex rugged country, breeding hard and rugged men. Among them, few women stood the test of time, carrying more iron and grit in their holsters than could be matched; Janie was one of these women.

Born Janet Marie MacAlister on the 17th of October 1856 to a pair of Scottish immigrants, she had the pull of rambling in her blood from the moment she opened her eyes; the idea of settling down in life never much interested Janie, who was wild with a cunning vision of freedom. Freedom didn't come easy to folks, though, especially if you were some poor girl from a poorer family without much hope of securing anything outside of marriage and children. So, when her Da had arranged a wedding for her at the age of seventeen, Janet Marie MacAlister ran. That woman-child ran in the dead of night, with only the clothes on her back, ready to take her chances anywhere rather than go down that road with a dead end.

Without hope or prayer, Janie survived those first few years with a pinch of luck and a heaping spoonful of tenacity. Roaming from town to town, city to city, the young woman grew smart on the streets. In her ventures, she learned the arts of the trade. That is to say, Janie found herself well with a gun, quick too. Taking up a finesse for drinking, swift-talking, and card playing, it wasn't long before the Scottish she-devil's name started circling from Santa Fe to the Arizona territory. She was liked by most, distrusted by more, running the saloons with a fiery approach. That is, until Janie had a run-in with a kid from New York City, or so he claimed be.

After that, times were tough for a while. Stealing and begging became the next big venture in Janie's life, which she didn't much take a liking to. It was too hard a business, sleeping with one eye open all the time, wondering who was your pal, and who would shoot you in the back for a dollar. It took nearly two years to separate herself from that band of buffoons she rode with. The way she saw it, they were gunning for a war that didn't concern her one bit. No sir, Janie never called herself a Regulator. That just wasn't her style. So she kissed her beau farewell, intent on pushing on to the next adventure. Incidentally, completely by accident, Janie found her calling shortly after that.

In a saloon one night, after too many shots of whisky and losing a fair bit of money, Janie called one of the men at the table a sharpie. Attempting to brush her off for being a good-for-nothing, lousy drunk of a woman, the man found himself faced down at the barrel of a gun. Fighting ensued after that, the fat oaf giving Janie a well-planted fist to her jaw, knocking loose a tooth. Her temper went off like top, and she shot him dead.

It turned out he was a wanted man, dead or alive, with a bounty of two hundred and fifty dollars on his head. So naturally, Janie collected her dues–while pocketing the money she claimed to be cheated out of as well–and the wheels in her head began to turn once more. Bounty hunting was something she could make a decent penny from. She took on prizes for public or private matters, sealing fates or bringing in petty crooks to the law. How much time had passed since Janie took up her newfound profession? She couldn't rightly say, but the longer she was at it, the better she became. The rest is history.

One afternoon, Janie brought in some lanky, snot-nosed kid to the sheriff's station. After returning the would-be-run-away to the authorities, a poster pinned outside the doors begged her to notice. Upon further inspection, she loosened the bandana around her neck and yanked the flyer from the board.

While her suspicions were confirmed, a slew of profanities spewed from her mouth, some in English, some in Gaelic, to which the passing-by townswomen scoffed. Janie pulled a face at them before tearing her anxious eyes back to the piece of paper.

Wanted Alive: John Peters "Johnny" Ringo

For the Murder of David Summers

Cash Reward $50

"That's all they bet your worth, you sonofvabitch? Dinnae ken you very well then, eh?" She spat on the dirt, folding up the parchment and placing it in her jacket.

From inside the shop, the old sheriff came shuffling out, his hands resting on his withered hips. He noticed the missing flyer.

"I know you don't take to my advice, Janie, but stay out of that mess. Johnny Ringo isn't someone you want to get tangled up with–riding around with them Cowboys and all."

Old Fred White looked on, knowing full well the young woman wouldn't be paying him any mind at all.

Just as Janie was about to open her mouth, the boy she brought back to town bolted from where he was being held inside. Fred hollered after him, of course being completely ignored.

In the blink of an eye, a Colt Lightning was fired from Janie's hand, just beside where the boy was running. He jumped out of his skin and turned around to face her, a look of complete horrified shock on his face.

"Next time, I won't miss you!" She yelled at him. "Now, I don't want to see you in any more trouble! Get your scrawny arse home to your Da and your Ma. Go on! Get!"

The child bolted off down an alley.

Fred sighed. "You know I'm going to have to explain that one away. I should take away your gun for that."

"You and I both ken you won't." Janie holstered her weapon, turning the subject back. "So where is he?"

"Janie—."

"Fred, if I wanted a fucking lecture, I would have asked. Where is he?" Her voice held conviction, mingled with pain.

Something didn't sit right with Fred in the way she said those words. Almost as if she had some higher stake in the whole ordeal, other than the money.

Yet another sigh released itself from the heavily burdened chest of the elderly man. He threw his hands in the air and popped his mouth. "Heard talk they all wandered down to Mexico, for what? God only knows. Janie, that poster is a formality. No one is foolish enough to take up arms against them. Hell, why are you bent on it? There's a dozen more like him you could bring in—you're acting like it's personal."

"Maybe, because it is. Maybe it ain't. It ain't for you to ken, you see?"

"You're gonna get yourself killed, is what."

She smirked, taking a step into the street, thinking about which saloon to stop in for a drink. "Nah. Ringo ain't gonna kill me. We go way back."

Dumfounded, Fred White watched on as Janie MacAlister made her way to the Crystal Palace. "Then I pity him," he mumbled.

A/N: I finally did it. I caved into the requests. I finally dug my teeth into creating a story for Ringo. (I mean, we can all agree he has a certain appeal, can't we?) Ah, I'm so excited to be writing this original character as well. It's a total turnaround for me, writing such a spitfire. I figured if Johnny had anyone, she'd have to be a bit rough around the edges herself.

Thanks for reading loves, I truly hoped you enjoyed it as much as I did writing this little introduction. If you've read Foolish Games, you'll have an idea of my writing style and how often I update. Though I will be perfectly honest, while I'm revising and updating Foolish Games for the ending I'm rewriting, this will probably sit for the duration of that.

I'd be honoured to take you on this journey into Tombstone fandom and can already say, this is going to have everything. So if you love a hot romance, trauma, tragedy, fighting etc, buckle up! This is just the tip of the iceberg.

Stay Blessed! -Aranel Xx