Chapter 4

As dawn crept over the horizon, painting the sky with shades of pink and gold, Christelle gently nudged her awake. “White Hawk,” she whispered, her eyes gleaming with excitement, “you must see this.” In her trembling hands was a crumpled newspaper, the ink still damp with the night’s news. The headline screamed in bold letters: “The Reckoning of Redemption Creek: The Infamous Women’s Emporium Engulfed in Flames.”

Mrs. Blankenship’s heart raced as she scanned the article, her chest swelling with pride. The town was in an uproar, the auction house’s destruction a symbol of the unrest brewing beneath the surface. Sheriff Cutter’s name was mentioned, his outrage palpable in the printed words.

The sheriff’s investigation into the fire was intense and relentless. Every corner of the charred embers was scrutinized, every whisper of suspicion pursued. The townsfolk spoke in hushed tones of a vigilante, a figure of retribution that had struck at the heart of their twisted institution.

Mrs. Blankenship knew that her time in the shadows was limited. She had to act before the net tightened around her. She approached Christelle, her voice a mix of gratitude and resolve. “Thank you,” she said, her eyes brimming with unshed tears. “You have given me the strength to fight, to carry on my son’s legacy.”

Christelle took her hand, her grip firm and reassuring. “Your son’s spirit is with us,” she said, her eyes reflecting the fiery determination that had become ‘White Hawk.’ “Together, we will bring down the monster that is Sheriff Cutter.”

Mrs. Blankenship knew that before she could face the corrupt sheriff, she needed to settle a personal score. The Madam of Hooty Pink’s, the woman who had stolen her dignity and her own freedom, had to pay for her crimes. The Madam had to feel the same fear and powerlessness she had inflicted upon countless others.

With Christelle by her side, she formulated a plan. They would use the carnival as a front, lure the Madam to a private performance, and then, when she was at her most vulnerable, exact their revenge. It was a daring move, but Mrs. Blankenship had learned that in the world of Redemption Creek, sometimes the only justice was that which you crafted with your own two hands.

Days passed, and the anticipation grew like a tumor in Mrs. Blankenship’s gut. Each night, she watched the town’s elite flock to the carnival, their eyes greedy and their pockets bulging with gold. It was a world that she had once been a part of, but now, she saw it for the cesspool it truly was.

One afternoon, Christelle approached her with excitement bubbling in her eyes. She pulled Mrs. Blankenship to the side, her words coming out in a rush. “White Hawk, I’ve found someone you need to meet. His name is Oscar ‘Artist’ Harris. He’s a performer, a boy with a heart of gold and a talent that could charm the devil himself.”

Oscar, 18 old-years lanky young man with skin as dark as the night, emerged from the shadows of the carnival tent, a cheeky grin splitting his face. His eyes danced with mischief and a glint of something deeper, something that spoke of a shared understanding of the shackles that bound them all. In his arms, he cradled a small, nimble monkey named Simone, whose expressive eyes and clever hands stole the breath from Mrs. Blankenship’s chest.

“White Hawk,” he said, his voice a smooth purr that seemed to coil around her like a comforting embrace. “I’ve heard tales of your victory over Gertrude. Your skills in the mud pit are the talk of the town!” His admiration was genuine, but his curiosity was palpable. He stepped closer, his gaze searching hers. “Where did you learn to fight like that?”

Mrs. Blankenship took a deep breath, feeling the weight of her past pressing down on her. She had not spoken of her son’s death, of her escape from the auction house, nor of the kindness of the Indian tribe that had saved her. But something about Oscar, about the openness of his smile and the gentle tug of Simone’s tail, made her want to share her burden.

The words spilled out of her like a dam bursting, the story of her son’s sacrifice, the mad dash through the desert, the bullet that had ended his life. She spoke of the endless nights of running, the days of despair, and the moment she had stumbled into the welcoming embrace of Chief Teatonka’s village. The fire in her eyes grew as she recounted the months of training, her body sculpted into a weapon of vengeance by the skilled warriors who had become her family.

Oscar listened with rapt attention, his eyes never leaving hers, as she described the endless hours of target practice, the bruising combat drills, and the spiritual teachings that had filled the void in her soul. The tribe had seen the fire of rebellion in her eyes and had fanned it into a roaring blaze. They had taught her the ancient ways of combat, the silent language of the bow, and the art of the warrior.

Christelle had watched the exchange with a knowing smile, her own history a tapestry of pain and resilience that she had shared with Mrs. Blankenship in the quiet moments between performances. Together, the three of them formed an unlikely trio, bound by fate and the shared desire for redemption.

Oscar’s eyes grew serious as he spoke, his voice a solemn whisper. “White Hawk, I am proud of what you did. The auction house burned, a symbol of the hope we all yearn for.” He paused, his gaze drifting to the horizon where the sun painted the sky with fiery hues. “My own family was sold to the plantations, ripped away from me by that very same auction. The Madam’s cruel laughter echoes in my nightmares.”