One spring morning a pretty horse was born.

Her name was Lacy.

She grew up and years later she had twins and was sold by the farmer.

The twins were a boy and a girl, the farmer named the male twin, Smelly, and the female twin, Oily Heart.

Then a three-year-old horse was bought by the farmer. He named her Trixy.

She birthed a filly and all the farmer could do was sit and take care of the farm. Then many, many years later the farmer got gold and more sliver, and he bought saddles, bridles, and saddle cloths. The filly that Trixy had had forever ago was now old enough to have a foal. Her name was Checkers.

She had a colt and he was named Checkers #2, then he was stuck in the barn, he was never let out of the barn, ever. And Trixy had another foal, it was a filly, she was named Lil Jim Bob, in honor of a story the farmer read when he was a young boy. When Lil Jim Bob grew up, she was renamed Big Jim Bob.

Before Big Jim Bob grew up, Checkers had another foal too, it was a filly named Burnt Toast.

Burnt Toast was a strange little filly. The farmer noticed that she had a temperament of one out of ten from a very young age. Bombproof, they called it. She never spooked for anything--not even when the coyotes got through the fence and howled around the stables. The other horses whinnied in terror and kicked at the stable doors. The farmer ran out, firing his gun to frighten off the starving creatures. The horses whinnied all the louder in the stress of the situation.

None of the horses were really the same after that. Forever after, whenever they saw a dog or heard a distant howl, they would shy and spook in fear. But that night, when the farmer raced in to check on his horses, he found Burnt Toast sound asleep. She'd slept through the entire thing.

Burnt Toast got older. Her spotty black-and-brown pattern turned into an eye striking coat. Her silky mane was black and long. She loved slapping flies and even the farmer's hands with her dark tail.

One day, a stranger showed up to the corral.

"Howdy, partner," said the farmer. "What brings you here?"

"I need a new steed," said the stranger. "And I'm willing to pay whatever's fair."

The farmer nodded and took the stranger to see the horses. He saw Checkers, and Checkers #2, and Big Jim Bob, but when he got to Burnt Toast, he stopped and stared.

"Ah, that's a mighty fine one," said the farmer. "That one ain't scared of nothing."

"Is that a fact?" asked the stranger. "Would she mind if I rode her, tried her out?"

The farmer nodded and saddled Burnt Toast. The stranger rode her around the fields. Burnt Toast liked him--he was a magnificent rider, kept a good seat and a firm but gentle hand on the reins. The stranger liked her too--willing, obedient, and entirely unfazed when a flock of birds flew up right under her nose.

He bought her from the farmer and led her away from the stable she'd lived in all her life. Then they rode off across the plains at a gallop, the stranger clearly in pursuit of something or someone.

Burnt Toast had never run so far or so fast in her life. The stranger rode like the wind was chasing him, and Burnt Toast matched his urgency stride for stride. She didn’t know where they were going, only that the land blurred past in a streak of gold grass and red dust. By sundown, they reached a lonely canyon where the stranger finally slowed her to a walk. He dismounted, patting her neck with a gloved hand.

“You’re somethin’ special,” he murmured. “A horse like you… you might just keep me alive.”

Burnt Toast flicked an ear. She didn’t understand the words, but she understood the tone: tired, relieved almost as he led her into a hidden camp tucked between boulders. A few rough-looking men sat around a fire, their faces lit by the flames. They stopped talking when they saw him, and her new owner relaxed immediately.

“Well, I’ll be,” said one with a scar across his cheek. “You actually got yourself a new mount.”

“She ain’t just a mount,” her owner replied. “She’s bombproof.”

The men exchanged impressed looks. Burnt Toast stood calmly as they approached, sniffing her, patting her flank, testing her nerves. One man dropped a tin plate behind her with a loud clang. She didn’t even blink.

“Perfect,” the stranger said. “We’ll need her tomorrow.”

Burnt Toast didn’t know what “tomorrow” meant, but she sensed tension in the air, like the way the clouds hang low under the sun, dark and bruised before a thunderstorm rolls in. That night, as the men sharpened knives and cleaned rifles, Burnt Toast dozed peacefully. Gun oil, smoke, and leather filled the camp. The men spoke in low voices.

“The sheriff’s got a posse ready,” said the scarred man. “He knows we’re comin’.”

“Let him know,” the stranger replied. “He can’t stop us. Not with little lady.”

At dawn, the camp stirred. Burnt Toast stood steady as the stranger mounted her.

“Easy, girl,” he said. “No matter what happens, you keep runnin’. You hear me?”

Golden had been the Sheriff's mount for nigh on five years now. Sheriff Jackson was a strict man, and ran his town like he ran his horses. With a firm grip, and no hesitation to reach for the whip. On any given day, you could expect to find at least two or three occupants in the jail house. Golden delivered most of them herself, hog-tied across her rump, while the Sheriff kicked his heels into her sides to urge her on. It wasn't unusual for Sheriff Jackson to wake up at the crack of dawn, saddle her up, and start their patrols around town. By noon, there was usually someone across her back.

But today felt different. Golden couldn't help the flicker of nervousness that ran through her. It was unseemly for someone of her position. She was a thoroughbred, from a long line of proud ranch horses, the first to ever work for something as official as the law. She had never imagined this kind of life, but it was her solemn duty now. The Sheriff had chosen her all those years ago, because of her temperament and her shining yellow mane. He'd named her 'Golden' and started her training. She had endured his whip, that wasn't so bad. It was the terrible noises he made from his metal stick, the one that shot fire and smoke into the air, that took getting used to. But now she hardly ever flinched when the metal stick went off -- which was often with Sheriff Jackson. And of course, she never, ever reared.

That would be unthinkable.

He was a cruel man, the Sheriff. But the law was meant to be cruel. They punished the wicked, that was their duty. And from what little Golden had overheard, tied outside the window of the Sheriff's station, the men on their way were some of the very most wicked of all. Golden felt the nerves creep up and she slapped her tail against her back, as if she could swat them away as easily as flies. When the Sheriff finally appeared, metal stick in hand, he fixed her with a hard, steely glare.

"We're gonna get 'em today, ya hear me?" he said, as he grabbed the pommel and stuffed his feet into the stirrups. Hoisting himself up onto her back, his familiar weight bearing down on her. Golden held her head up high even before he yanked the reins, but he yanked with one hand anyway. "It'll be the last time those bastards show their face in this town." His free hand held the metal stick menacingly -- Golden could just see it from the corner of her eyes. Then the Sheriff kicked his heels into her side, and they started off. Heading straight for the center of town.

Burnt Toast felt the stranger’s legs tighten around her ribs long before she heard the first gunshot. She didn’t spook, of course she didn’t, but she felt the shift in him, the way his breath shortened, the way his weight settled deeper in the saddle. They crested a rise overlooking the town. Below, the main street lay still as a painting: shuttered windows, empty porches, dust curling in lazy spirals. But Burnt Toast’s ears caught the faint jingle of metal, the impatient scrape of hooves on packed earth.

Another horse was coming.

She stepped into the street with the Sheriff on her back, her yellow mane catching the morning sun like a warning flag. She held her head high, though her heart thudded hard enough to shake her ribs. Sheriff Jackson’s boots dug into her sides, sharper than usual. He smelled of sweat and gunpowder and something else. Fear; though he’d never admit it.

Burnt Toast and her outlaw rider descended the hill at a steady trot. The outlaw’s men fanned out behind them, rifles slung low. Golden saw them first. Her ears pinned back in dread. She knew these men, heard their names whispered through the bars of the jailhouse, carried their victims to the churchyard.

And now she was going to carry justice straight into them.

Sheriff Jackson raised his metal stick. Golden didn’t flinch, but her muscles tightened beneath her hide. She hated the sound it made, the way it echoed inside her skull. The outlaw pulled Burnt Toast to a halt at the far end of the street.

He tipped his hat, calm as a man greeting a neighbor. “Jackson,” he called.

“Cain,” the Sheriff spat back.

Burnt Toast felt Cain’s pulse through the reins.

“You’re gonna come quiet,” Jackson growled. “Or I’ll put you in the ground.”

Cain chuckled softly. Burnt Toast felt the vibration of it through her spine.

“You’ve been tryin’ for years,” he said. “Ain’t worked yet.”

Golden’s tail flicked anxiously. She wanted to back up, to turn, to run, but she didn’t. She couldn’t. Sheriff Jackson’s hands were iron on the reins.

Cain leaned forward, whispering into Burnt Toast’s ear. “Steady, girl.”

Then the world exploded.

Jackson fired first. The crack split the morning open like lightning. Golden didn’t rear, but her whole body jolted. Burnt Toast didn’t even blink. Cain kicked her into motion, and she surged forward like a bullet loosed from a barrel. Gunfire erupted from both sides in a choking cloud of dust and curses and whinnies. Golden galloped straight into the storm, because Jackson demanded it, tailing Burnt Toast like a coyote on a dog.

They passed each other in the chaos: Golden’s eyes wide with terror, Burnt Toast’s calm as a still pond. For a heartbeat, the two mares locked gazes.

Then the moment shattered as the Sheriff yanked Golden hard to the left, and Cain urged Burnt Toast right, weaving between bullets like she’d been born for it. The battle raged behind them, but Burnt Toast didn’t slow. Cain’s breath was hot against her neck.

“Good girl,” he murmured. “Just keep runnin’.”

Golden, somewhere behind, heard the words carried on the wind. She wished, just once, that someone had ever spoken to her like that.