Chapter 7: The Siege of the Rusted Spur

The night had deepened, and the shadows outside the Rusted Spur Saloon moved with patient deliberation. Dustwater Creek lay under a hushed tension, every creak of the wind and rustle of the trees amplified by the stillness. Inside, Lysandra Bale lay rigid among her pillows and blankets, the splints holding her pelvis and legs perfectly immobile. Pain radiated through her body, sharp and constant, yet her mind was a steel trap, alive with every detail.

“They’re circling the building,” whispered one of the men at the window. “Could be bandits ... might be looking for easy prey.”

Lysandra’s eyes narrowed. “Good. Let them think they have the advantage. We will not waste strength on panic. Listen to me carefully. Harlan—bring the lantern closer, but keep it low. Shadows can work for us.”

The men obeyed, moving as her eyes commanded, as if her presence radiated authority despite her inability to rise. She directed the positioning of furniture: chairs stacked strategically, tables tilted to block doors, and barrels of flour and sand pushed to create barriers near the windows. Every obstacle was measured to slow any intruder and give her allies time to respond.