Everyone underestimated her… until she eliminated the leader of the most dangerous gang in the West.

In the sun-scorched hills of the Arizona Territory around 1886, a young girl’s delicate hands could churn butter at dawn and burst a feather with a shot from 100 meters away at dusk. Ele Hawkins had mastered her father’s Winchester rifle before she was even of age. She knew how to spell her name correctly.

 Yes, but when the dreaded Crow’s Claw gang appeared at her ranch, all they saw was a pretty face dressed in cotton. That mistake would cost them dearly. Before we continue, tell us where you’re watching from, and if this story touches your soul, subscribe to the channel because I have something very special in store for you tomorrow. The morning sun bathed Copper Valley in amber and golden hues as Elanor finished her morning chores, moving with that natural elegance that only a life of effort and discipline can bring. At 23, she possessed that
A serene beauty turned heads whenever she visited Prosperity, the nearest settlement to the family ranch. But what truly set her apart was something else: a talent hidden beneath worn calico dresses and tanned leather boots. Inside the Hawkins’ adobe house, medals and diplomas, carefully wrapped in oilcloth, were stored in a cedar chest under winter blankets. They all bore the name of Major Jonathan Hawkins, an Army Scout.A decorated and famous marksman in the Third Cavalry, Elianor’s father. What those certificates didn’t say was that at least half of those honors truly belonged to his daughter, a woman whose marksmanship with a rifle surpassed even her father’s legend.

 A lady’s reputation is worth its weight in gold. Around here, his mother, Catherine, used to say as she adjusted Elenor’s hat before they went into town. Some things are better kept to oneself. But Catherine Hawkins was gone. The fever that swept through the valley in ’84 took her two years ago, leaving him in Orzola with his father to keep the ranch going until he too passed away six months ago.

 Now the land was hers alone, along with her father’s legacy and his most prized possession: a hand-engraved Winchester Model 1876 with a polished maple stock, specially tailored to her daughter’s grip. The rifle hung above the stone fireplace, its brass fittings gleaming in the light streaming through the open window. Eleanor glanced at it as she brewed coffee in the old enamel pot.

 That weapon was as much a part of her body as her heartbeat, though few beyond her father knew what she was capable of with it. In her later years, everyone knew her as Ellie Hawkins, that quiet girl who embroidered so beautifully at the county fair and who somehow kept the ranch afloat after her father’s death.

 Many wondered how long it would take her to accept one of the many marriage proposals she received. A woman alone on a ranch was seen as a tragedy waiting to happen in these parts. Sheriff Malcolm Reed was one of the few who knew her secret.

 He was there the day Elenor, just 12 years old, defeated all the men at the territorial fair, competing under her father’s name, disguised in men’s clothing and with her hair hidden under a wide-brimmed hat. From then on, he would occasionally call upon her skill discreetly when a steady hand and a keen eye were needed.

 “Your father taught you well,” she used to tell him, making sure no one else could hear. “It’s a shame the army doesn’t accept women. I would have been a top-notch scout.” That morning, like every morning since her father’s death, Eleanor had gotten up before dawn.

 The ranch didn’t run itself, and appearances had to be kept up, especially for a woman living alone. She fed the chickens, milked the cows, and checked the irrigation ditches that kept her small garden alive under the scorching Arizona heat. All the while, she kept a close eye on the road that wound through Copper Valley; rumors were circulating that the Crow’s Claw gang was advancing from California, leaving looted banks and grieving widows in their wake.

They said they were led by the feared Isaya Hoyo, Blackwood, a man whose cruelty was as famous as his skill with a Colt revolver. Three days ago, Sheriff Reed had stopped by the ranch under the pretext of delivering the mail. “They robbed the bank in Silver Springs,” he said quietly as he helped him repair a broken corral stake. “They killed two men.”

They say they’re coming this way along the old stagecoach route. Perhaps they’re looking for somewhere to hide for a while in the Arizona mountains. Her eyes flicked toward the rifle hanging above the fireplace. Perhaps we’ll soon need your special talent, Miss Hawkins.

 Eleanor simply nodded, holding the stake as if they were discussing the weather. That same afternoon, after sunset and when there was no neighbor within 15 kilometers, she took her father’s Winchester rifle from its place of honor. Behind the barn, in the dim light, she methodically fired 30 shots at an old playing card at 75 meters, just as her father had taught her.

 When she went to retrieve it, the center of the letter was perforated in a cluster so tight it could fit within the width of a pencil. And now, as she carried a basket of fresh eggs toward the house, the sound of galloping horses made her stop. Through the morning mist, she could make out six riders advancing up the valley road.

 Their mounts, though dusty, were of good stock, and the weapons they carried gleamed, well-maintained. They were no passing cowboys or ordinary travelers. The woman straightened her apron and brushed a lock of hair away from her face—the perfect image of a hardworking peasant woman—but her eyes, as sharp as a hawk’s, had already counted the weapons, identified the firing positions, and located the leader: a tall man with a black patch over his left eye and a silver Colt slung under his hip.

The Crow’s Claw gang had finally reached Copper Valley, unaware that they were being tested by the deadliest markswoman in all of Arizona. The riders drew closer and closer to the Hawkins ranch, their horses kicking up clouds of dust in the dry morning air.

 Eleanor deliberately moved slowly as she picked up her basket of eggs, allowing a slight tremor to run through her hands. It wasn’t out of fear, but to keep up appearances. Her father’s voice echoed in her memory. “Let them underestimate you, Little Hawk. There’s power in being invisible until you decide to stop being so.”

 “Good morning, miss,” the leader said, halting his horse in front of the gate. From that distance, Eleanor could see the scar that ran from the patch over his eye to his jaw, exactly as Sheriff Reed had described it to Isaiah Blackwood, the feared leader of the Crow’s Claw.

 “Would you be so kind as to give us some water for the horses?” he continued in a gruff voice, more accustomed to giving orders than asking for favors. “We’ve come from a long, dusty journey all the way from California.” “Of course, gentlemen,” Eleanor replied, forcing her voice to sound higher, pretending to be the typical nervous country girl. “The well is next to the corral.”

 “Help yourselves,” she gestured with her free hand, mentally noting how the morning sun would shine directly into their eyes if they looked toward the house. Her father had taught her to always consider such details. As the men dismounted, Eleanor caught snippets of whispers between them. She lives alone. No neighbors nearby, it’ll be a piece of cake. Her fingers longed to reach for the rifle inside the house, but she forced herself to stay still.

 Timing is as important as aim, her father always said. The youngest of the outlaws, thin, with light blond hair and a nervous expression, approached her cautiously. “It’s not good for a lady to be alone around here,” he remarked, trying to sound sophisticated, though he seemed to be repeating a rehearsed line. “There are a lot of bad men out there.”

 “I manage quite well,” Eleanor replied, a slight tremor in her voice. “Before he died, my father taught me everything I needed to know to run the ranch.” “Your father.” Blackwood approached, his spurs clicking on the hard-packed earth. “It’s no coincidence, Jonathan Hawkins.” Eleanor gripped the basket tighter, feigning genuine surprise. “You knew my father?”

 The bandit’s laughter was as cold as the desert night. I knew him by name. Major Jonathan Hawkins, the famous scout. They said he could shoot a fly’s wing at 50 paces. His gaze narrowed. It was also rumored that he had a fine collection of valuables: military medals with silver decorations and that custom-made Winchester he was so proud of.

 The atmosphere grew tense as the other band members began to circle her. Preparing and telling this story has taken a lot of work, so if you’re enjoying it, please subscribe to our channel. It really helps us. And now, on to the story. Eleanor mentally counted the seconds between each movement, registering her positions and recalling the lessons her father had repeated to her since she was a child. Instinct, he said.

The rifle is an extension of your eyes, your breath, your will. I’m afraid they’d be disappointed, Elenor said. Her voice was firm, though her posture remained deliberately hunched. The army collected all her official medals upon her death. Protocol, they said. “It was a lie.” The medals remained stored in the trunk along with enough ammunition to last half the army.

 Her father always believed in being prepared for the worst while still hoping for the best. Blackwood took another step, close enough for Elanor to smell the tobacco and the dust of the path. Curious, because we heard something different. We were told that the major’s collection was still intact when he died, including that presentation Winchester the army had given him.

 Her hand slid subtly toward her revolver. It seems a young woman alone would appreciate some protection for a fair price. Sure. Elanor stepped back, playing her part perfectly. She couldn’t accept it. “Chief,” interrupted another outlaw. “There are fresh footprints behind the barn. Someone’s been practicing their aim.” Blackwood’s expression hardened.

“Oh, yes. You’re still following in your father’s footsteps, girl. I only know how to scare coyotes,” Eleanor babbled. “He insisted I learn the basics, but I can barely hit a post 20 paces, to be honest.” The leader watched her silently for a moment, then smiled with the same expression a wolf has before attacking. “I have a proposition for you.”

 “Why don’t you show us what you can do?” He pulled a playing card from his waistcoat, the ace of spades crumpled at the edges. “If you hit it from 30 paces, we’ll leave without a problem. But if you miss,” he left the threat hanging in the air. “A woman alone around here needs protection, after all, and we’d be happy to offer it to you in exchange for a reasonable share of your income.” Eleanor let her lower lip tremble. She couldn’t.

“Oh, but I insist,” Blackwood said, his hand now firmly on his pistol. “Do you consider this a friendly competition in honor of your father?” Eleanor looked around. The men surrounded her, their faces a mixture of mockery, anticipation, and confidence. None of them saw her as a threat. They saw only a woman alone, defenseless, just as she had wanted for years.

The sun was rising in the sky over Copper Valley as Elanor Hawkins faced her unwanted visitors, the basket still trembling in her hands. But that trembling wasn’t from fear; it was from the effort of restraint. Six targets, she thought coldly, all piled up, confident of their superiority. Her father would have said that was a grave tactical error.

“Well, young lady,” Blackwood said, holding up his playing card. His scarred face twisted into a sarcastic smile. “Don’t tell me the daughter of the celebrated Major Hawkins is afraid of a simple friendly shooting competition.” Elanor feigned a slight start at his words. “I’ll need a rifle,” she replied, her voice deliberately hesitant.

 My father’s is inside, above the fireplace. Santiago ordered Blackwood to the youngest of the group. “Stay with her and make sure she doesn’t do anything foolish.” His hand never left his revolver, a veiled warning of the danger lurking in his words. As Elanor led Santiago toward the house, she noticed details her father had taught her to perceive. The gun belt hung too loosely.

 Her index finger fidgeted restlessly on the sheath, and her eyes wandered nervously around the room instead of focusing on it. Rookie mistakes, her father would have said. Mistakes that send men to their graves. The long gun gleamed on the mantelpiece in the same spot where her father had left it when he died. Elanor stretched with exaggerated clumsiness, pretending she’d almost dropped it. Santiago stepped forward to help, just as she’d expected.

“Carefully, miss,” he said, his voice slightly broken. “It’s a very special piece to handle like this. It’s heavier than I remembered.” The noor whispered, letting her take it in her hands. While he admired the weapon, she took the opportunity to bend down and reach under a loose board by the hearth for the hidden compartment her father had prepared.

 Inside was a small bag of handmade, balanced cartridges, precisely calibrated for long-range shooting. “This is the commemorative model, isn’t it?” Santiago asked, stroking the decorated barrel. “My father was very proud of it,” Elenor replied gently, putting several bullets in her apron pocket. “He used to say that a gun like this wasn’t just a tool, it was a responsibility.”

Something crossed the boy’s face, perhaps respect, perhaps nostalgia. My father also knew how to shoot before the disease consumed him. He showed me a little, but then fell silent and resumed his role. Come on, the boss is waiting. Blackwood and his men had positioned themselves in an irregular semicircle.

They had placed the card, the ace of spades, on a wooden post exactly 30 paces from where Eleanor stood. An insultingly easy shot, even. Her father had been teaching her to shoot at distances five times greater since she was a child. “Remember,” Blackwood shouted. “If you hit the card, we’re leaving.” His hand patted his gun purposefully.

 And if you miss, well, we’ll see what we do. Elenor feigned insecurity as she handled the rifle as if she were about to drop it again. “It’s been so long since I’ve practiced,” she said, her voice trembling. “My father would be very disappointed.” The men laughed brazenly and confidently. “Maybe we should move the target closer,” one joked, and the laughter grew louder.

She raised the rifle, deliberately holding it awkwardly. The butt wasn’t resting properly on her shoulder. Her posture was wrong. In her mind, she heard her father’s voice correcting her, as he had a thousand times before. “Breathe, little hawk. The weapon is an extension of your gaze.” She fired. It missed the card.

 The post broke about 15 cm to the right of the target. Laughter erupted. “You’re going to need that protection, kid,” Blackwood remarked, stepping forward. “Now about our deal, wait,” Elenor said quickly. “My father always said I should take three test shots, please.” Her eyes filled with tears as if she were truly frightened. Blackwood stopped.

 Then she opened her arms in a theatrical gesture. “Well, gentlemen, what do you think? Let’s give the young lady a fair chance.” The men smiled and nodded, enjoying the spectacle. Only Santiago seemed uncomfortable, still holding the box of bullets he had brought from the house. Eleanor fired the second shot. This time the bullet hit the post, but on the left side of the letter.

 Closer, but she kept missing. She heard more jeers and saw the men relax even more. Their hands moved away from their weapons. After all, what danger could such a clumsy peasant girl pose? “Last chance, girl!” Blackwood shouted. “You’d better hit it.” Elanor took a deep breath, focused, and remembered her father’s most valuable lesson: Sometimes, when faced with adversity, the best shot is the one that doesn’t come.

With a single, decisive movement, he shifted his stance. Feet perfectly aligned, weapon pressed firmly against his shoulder, cheek against the stock. Before the bandits could even register the change, he squeezed the trigger. The ace of spades didn’t just fall; it shattered into three equal pieces.

 The perfect shot sliced ​​the card along invisible lines that no random shot could have hit. The morning air crackled with tension as the shattered pieces of the card floated to the floor. For three heartbeats, no one moved. Then Blackwood’s hand flew to his revolver, but Elenor was already on the move. The Winchester spun with fluid grace, pointing at the gang leader.

 “I wouldn’t do it,” her voice transformed. The trembling girl from the ranch had vanished, replaced by a hardened woman forged by countless hours of practice and her father’s relentless training. “Can I shoot you in the hand before you even touch the gun? And unlike that letter, this time I won’t need three tries.” The gang members froze.

 The confident smiles vanished, replaced by unease as they grasped the gravity of their situation. Eleanor Hawkins stood before them, completely transformed. Her posture was impeccable, her aim steady—the spitting image of her father. The sunlight reflected off the details of the rifle’s barrel, making them gleam like fire.

This story has been created with great care and dedication. If you’re enjoying it, please subscribe to our channel. Your support means a lot to us. Now, back to Eleanor’s confrontation with the dreaded Crowclaw gang. “You tricked us,” Blackwood said. His scarred face contorted with rage as he faced the barrel of Eleanor’s Winchester.
The remains of the letter fluttered in the morning breeze. All this time, Eleanor replied, without taking her rifle from his hand, but keeping an eye on the others’ positions, “my father taught me more than how to shoot. He taught me that sometimes the best advantage is the one your enemy gives you of his own accord.”His eyes shifted to the others. “Hands where I can see them, gentlemen. Santiago gathers your belts with weapons.” The youngest of the group hesitated, glancing at Eleanor and then at his leader. In that moment of indecision, the one with the red bandana made his move. His hand went down to his belt, but before he could reach for his weapon, the Winchester roared.

 The hat flew off, a clean hole through the crown. “That was a warning,” Elanor said calmly. The rifle was already pointed at Blackwood again. The next one will go lower. Santiago, the gun belts, please. This time the young man moved cautiously, collecting the weapons from his astonished companions.

 Eleanor watched as he performed the task with ease, as if her father had indeed taught him how to handle weapons properly before illness took his life. “You won’t get away with this,” Blackwood growled, though his hands remained visible. “You’re just a woman. We have allies throughout this territory. They’ll come looking for us.”

 “You mean the rest of the Crow’s Claw? Are they camped out in Devil’s Canyon?” Eleanor asked, and he blinked in surprise. “The ones waiting for your signal to raid the Prosperity Bank.” A faint smile touched his lips at their surprised faces. “Did you really think my father only taught me how to shoot? He was a tracker, gentlemen, the best in the 3rd Cavalry Regiment.”

 He taught me how to read footprints, how to follow tracks, how to observe. I already knew they’d been coming for days. Sheriff Reed has been watching that canyon since yesterday. He continued. It was a calculated bluff. He had sent a tip to the sheriff about the footprints found, but hadn’t received a response yet.

 Even so, his father taught him that certainty can be just as effective as the truth. “You’re lying,” Blackwood said, though his voice no longer sounded so firm. “Oh, yes, like when I pretended not to know how to shoot.” Elor kept his tone calm. “Santiago, when you’re done with the guns, there’s rope in the barn. Thick rope like we used to break in horses.”

As the young man obeyed, Eleanor addressed the group again. “You have a decision to make. The smart option is to surrender peacefully and face justice for your crimes.” The other left the threat hanging in the air, letting each person imagine the outcome. “You can’t watch all of us,” muttered the one with the red bandana, touching where his weapon should be. “The moment you’re distracted.”

“193,” Eleanor interrupted. “What did he ask?” “193 consecutive hits on target in the Army’s marksmanship tests at Fort Yuma, spring of ’81. They thought it was my father. Sure. He was wearing his jacket, his hat down, but every single one of those shots was mine.” Her eyes met those of the man in the red bandana.

 Do you want to see if I’ve improved since then? The impact was immediate. Yuma’s tests of strength were legendary among marksmen. Elenor noticed the exact moment. The fight faded from their faces, replaced by the realization that they weren’t facing a lucky peasant girl, but a markswoman whose talent perhaps surpassed even Major Hawkins himself.

 “Your father would be proud,” Santiago murmured as he returned with the rope. There was something very close to admiration in his expression. “My father would say I was conceited,” Elenor replied, a hint of nostalgia in her voice. “He always taught me to avoid confrontations when possible, but he also told me that if someone starts something, you have to know how to finish it.” She raised her voice slightly.

 On your knees, gentlemen, with your hands behind your backs. Santiago, start with your boss. With Blackwood’s gang subdued, except for Santiago, whom Elenor had separated from the rest, another problem now arose. The morning wore on, and Prosperity was still 12 miles away.

 He needed to get a message to Sheriff Reid, but he couldn’t leave the prisoners unattended. Santiago called out to him without taking his rifle out of the group. “Bring me my father’s saddlebags that are in the barn.” The young man moved quickly, eager to show he was on his side.

 Eleanor had noticed something about him, a possibility of redemption that reminded her of the stories her father used to tell about young soldiers he’d helped set right. “You’re making a mistake trusting that boy,” Blackwood growled from the floor, his hands tied.

 Santiago has been one of us ever since we took him in, half-starved, that winter in Texas. “Trust is a strange thing,” Elanor replied, watching Santiago disappear into the barn. “My father used to say it’s like the sights on a rifle. You have to adjust them according to the distance and the wind.” She kept her voice steady, even though her arms ached from holding the gun for so long.

 Right now I trust Santiago more than you, which isn’t saying much. Your father isn’t here, girl. Red Bandana spat, kicking up dust in his rage. All those sayings of his won’t do you any good when he fell flat on his face as he saw Elenor slightly turn the rifle in his direction. When what? she whispered calmly.

 “When the rest of our gang comes looking for us,” he snorted mockingly. “So you think Sheriff Reid is keeping an eye on things? Let me share another one of my father’s sayings,” Eleanor retorted, her finger firmly on the trigger. “The best surprise is the one you plan yourself.” Before they could react, a distant gunshot rang out from the valley road.

 Elanor quickly swung the rifle toward the sound, but soon relaxed as she recognized the signal. Three quick shots, a pause, then two more. Sheriff Reed’s signal just in time, she murmured, “This way, Sheriff.” Sheriff Malcolm Reid appeared mounted, leading four deputies and seven bound prisoners. The rest of the Crow’s Claw gang.

 His normally immaculate mustache was dusty, but his eyes gleamed with satisfaction at the scene before him. “Well, Miss Hawkins,” he said, dismounting smoothly. “Looks like you’ve had a busy morning.” He nodded to Blackwood. “Isaya Blackwood, I owe you a talk about what happened in Silver Springs.” Sheriff greeted Eleanor, barely lowering his rifle.

 I see you found their camp. Exactly where you said, Rid confirmed. He turned to his aides. Boys, secure these gentlemen along with the others. We’re going to need the town wagon to transport them all. As the officers carried out the order, Santiago left the barn with the saddlebags.

 He stopped when he saw them arrive, but Eleanor beckoned him closer. “All right, Santiago, bring them over.” The sheriff raised an eyebrow at how she was treating the young ex-outlaw, but said nothing. He knew Eleanor well enough to trust her judgment. From her saddlebags, Eleanor pulled out a bundle of papers, maps, and detailed notes on the Crow’s Claw gang’s movements.

 Documents he’d been gathering for weeks. He explained his entire operation, handing the papers to Red: routes, hideouts, stashes—everything he’d been able to piece together by tracking them and listening to rumors. “You’ve been planning this for a while,” Blackwood said, finally understanding, his scarred face contorted in surprise.

All that stuff about playing the scared peasant girl after the failed shooting. The scared peasant girl is exactly what everyone in Prosperity expects to see, Eleanor replied. It’s amazing what people’s tongues will spill in front of someone they don’t consider a threat. Then she turned to the sheriff. There’s more. They weren’t just planning to rob the bank.

 Show it to him, Santiago. The young man hesitated for a moment, then reached into his vest and pulled out a folded piece of paper. Complete plans to attack three banks at once, he said quietly. Prosperity, Silver Springs, and Fort Benson. They had men infiltrated into each town for weeks, studying routines, gaining the staff’s trust.

Reed whistled under his breath as he reviewed the documents. This would have been the biggest heist in the territory’s history. He looked at Santiago with interest. “You’ve been a great help, son.” Santiago had been looking for a way out for some time. Elanor intervened before the young man could reply. “Right, Santiago? That’s why you left those footprints near my barn two days ago, clear as signs for anyone who knew how to read them.”

 Did you want to get caught? The boy’s shoulders slumped, finally freed from saying what he’d been holding in. “They killed a cashier in Silver Springs,” he murmured. It shouldn’t happen. Blackwood said there would be no more deaths, but Cather let herself be swayed. She shook her head. I tried to leave after that, but they said they’d hunt me down.

 “Nobody’s looking for you anymore, son,” Rid said, though his eyes were fixed on Eleanor. “Miss Hawkins, would you be interested in a deputy’s badge? The territory could use someone with your aim.” Eleanor shook her head and gave a faint smile. “My place is here, Sheriff. The farm needs me.” She paused, then added, “But if you’re thinking about new deputies, how about someone who knows the inner workings of a gang? Someone young enough to learn a better way.” Santiago looked up suddenly, hopeful, fighting with the

Disbelief crossed her face. Red Bandana let out a harsh laugh. “They’re delusional. This isn’t one of those cheap novels where everything is neatly resolved without a hitch. Real life doesn’t work like that,” Elenor agreed, recalling her father’s teachings, the long days of secret practice, and the years spent playing a role without ever losing her aim. “Real life is harder, more complicated.”

That’s why you need people willing to risk everything to do what’s right. The clouds that had gathered over Copper Valley finally parted, releasing the first fat drops onto the dusty ground. It seemed fitting. A purifying rain washing away the violence of that morning. “We should get these men to town before the storm intensifies,” Rid said, looking up at the increasingly dark sky.

 “Miss Hawkins, would you mind joining us? I don’t like leaving you here alone tonight.” Eleanor opened her mouth to decline. She’d been alone for months, but there was something in the sheriff’s expression. There was concern, yes, but also something more. Perhaps respect, not for the quiet country girl she appeared to be, but for the woman with the rifle who had captured the most feared gang in the territory. “I appreciate your concern,” Sheriff, she finally said.

 “But I must take care of my animals before things get worse. I’ll come when everything is in order.” Rid nodded, understanding what hadn’t been said. Eleanor Hawkins would do things her way, as always. Then we’ll send a car for you. And Miss Hawkins, be prepared. There will be quite a stir when people find out what happened here today. Eleanor looked toward the horizon where lightning flickered among the gathering clouds.

I can imagine, Sheriff, but I’ve weathered other storms. As the officers began moving the prisoners toward town, Santiago stayed behind, doubt etched on his young face. Miss Hawkins began uncertainly. What she said about making me a deputy, did she mean it? Or was it just to make herself look good in front of the others?

 Eleanor watched him silently for a moment. My father said that you should be judged by the choices you make when things get tough. And you made your choice when you left those footprints for me to see. She nodded toward the walking sheriff. Reid is a good man. If you earn his trust, he’ll give you a fair chance. He paused, but the rest is up to you.

 Santiago straightened up, a look of determination etched on his face. “I’m not going to waste this opportunity.” “You’d better,” Elenor replied. But there was a new tenderness in her voice that hadn’t been there before. When everyone had left, Elenor remained alone in the courtyard. The rain was now falling steadily. She placed the Winchester back on the mantelpiece. Her fingers stopped moving.

 For a moment, she stood on the polished wood. “Well, Father,” she whispered toward the empty house. “I don’t think I would have done it the way you would have.” Too much fanfare; she could almost hear his laughter. That phrase he always said. The results speak for themselves. Little Hawk. As she sheltered her animals from the approaching storm, Eleanor thought about what would come next.

Her carefully constructed facade of a defenseless peasant woman had been shattered, at least for those who witnessed what happened. News would spread, questions would arise. The rain intensified as thunder rumbled across the valley, finishing its chores. Eleanor stood on the threshold of the barn, watching the storm transform her land.

Water was life in the Arizona Territory. It brought renewal, change. And like the storm, change was coming to Eleanor Hawkins’ life. Whether she was ready or not. Later, as she packed a small suitcase for her trip to town, Eleanor noticed a piece of paper that had fallen from Santiago’s vest during the confrontation.

Upon unfolding it, he found not another robbery plan but a carefully preserved Wanted poster. It wasn’t for Blackwood or any member of the Crow’s Claw gang, but for someone nicknamed Ghost Rider. A mysterious figure who had been robbing stagecoaches on the California border.

 The description was ambiguous, but one detail caught his attention. The Phantom Rider, known for his exceptional marksmanship, never left witnesses, but he also never killed. Shots that pierced hats, weapons knocked from hands—the signs of someone trained to prioritize precision over force.

 Elanor examined the poster, feeling a chill run down her spine despite the warmth of her cabin. The last robbery attributed to the Phantom Rider had occurred less than 80 kilometers from Silver Springs, just before the Raven’s Claw had stormed the bank there.

 Eleanor carefully folded the Wanted poster and tucked it inside her father’s journal. There was more here than just a gang on the run. The connection between the phantom rider and the raven’s claw wasn’t yet clear, but her father had always taught her that seemingly disparate paths often lead to the same well.

 Tomorrow would bring a barrage of questions from the villagers, curious glances about her aim, and even unwanted attention, but perhaps also some answers. The Raven Claw gang had been captured this way, but Eleanor felt that this was only the first chapter of a much deeper story.

 As the storm raged outside, Eleanor Hawkins cleaned her father’s old Winchester rifle once more before putting it back in its special case. She didn’t place it on the mantelpiece as usual, but by the door, ready to use at any moment. The quiet country girl facade had served its purpose.

 It was time for the shooter to face who she truly was. The drumming of the rain on the roof couldn’t mask the sound of approaching hooves. A lone rider was hurrying forward despite the bad weather. Elanor reached for the Winchester. His movements were calm, confident, as if they were second nature.

 Sheriff Reed wouldn’t have sent a wagon so soon, much less a single man, in this storm. Someone was heading to the Hawkins farmhouse, desperate to get there before the prisoners reached town. “Looks like we’re not finished yet, Father,” he whispered, checking his rifle’s load as he settled himself by the window.

 The storm was about to get much more interesting. Through the rain and gloom, the rider’s silhouette took shape: a hunched figure on a sweating horse struggling against the storm. Elanor watched from the window, the Winchester rifle ready, but not yet raised.

 Years of practice had taught her not to rush in; first, observe, then act. The horse stopped abruptly in front of her gate, and the rider removed her soaked cloak, revealing that it was a woman. Even in the rain, Eleanor recognized the posture of Abigail Collins, the telegraph operator’s daughter in Prosperity. Miss Hawkins called out to Abigail, her voice barely audible over the thunder, “Miss Perkins, please.”

 Eleanor dropped the rifle and ran out onto the porch. “Abigail, come inside before you get soaked to the bone!” A short while later, the drenched young woman was shivering in front of the fireplace with a hot cup of coffee in her hands.

 Her usually neat blond hair hung in wet clumps over her pale face. “They never made it to town.” She abruptly released Abigail, her eyes wide. Sheriff Reed, the deputies, the prisoners. None of them appeared. A chill settled in Eleanor’s stomach. “What happened?” Nobody knows for sure, Abigail said, trembling as she clutched the mug.

 My father received a telegram from Ford Benson informing him of the capture of the Crow’s Claw. He sent Timothy to find the sheriff and tell him that a federal marshal was coming from Tucson. He swallowed hard. Timothy found two dead deputies on the eastbound route, with no sign of the sheriff or the prisoners. Eleanor’s mind raced with possibilities, each worse than the last. The rain would have washed away any clues, but the message was clear.

 Someone ambushed Reid’s group and freed them from the Raven’s clutches. And Santiago asked Eleenor. Abigail shook her head. There’s no sign of him either. And they’re panicking in Prosperity Town, Abigail admitted. When Timothy broke the news, my father sent me to warn you while he gathered the men. They’re forming a search party, but her voice broke.

Miss Hawkins, there’s something else. Before I left, three strangers arrived in town. They were asking questions about you. Eleanor went to her trunk and took out a pair of trousers, a flannel shirt, and a well-worn leather vest. “How many men does your father have?” “Eight. Maybe ten.”

 Abigail responded, looking puzzled as Eleanor changed behind a screen. “What are you doing? The quiet peasant girl won’t be much use tonight,” Eleanor said, emerging dressed with purpose, her hair pulled back tightly. There was no trace left of the shy young woman the village knew. “Tell me about those two strangers.”

“A woman answered Abigail, unable to tear her gaze away from the change in Elenor. Fine clothes. Eastern European accent. They said they were from the Pinkerton Detective Agency and were on the trail of the crow’s claw. Elenor adjusted her father’s old belt, checking the Colt revolver before placing it back in its holster. The Pinkertons don’t work in groups of three, much less dressed like aristocrats,” she remarked as she gathered ammunition, a kitchen knife, and several small items, which she concealed in her pockets. Every movement was precise and deliberate.

 It certainly wasn’t the first time she’d prepared for a dangerous situation. “Who are you?” Abigail whispered, her eyes wide. Eleanor stopped and looked at the young woman calmly. Abigail Collins had always been kind to her in town and had never participated in the gossip about poor Hawkins girl, whom everyone insisted would fail without a husband. She deserved to know something of the truth.

 “I’m exactly the same as always,” Eleanor finally said, though she hadn’t fully shown it. She handed Abigail a sealed envelope she’d taken from her father’s desk. “If I don’t return in three days, take this directly to Judge Hollister in Tucson. No one else, understand?” Abigail nodded, clutching the envelope tightly.

 “What are you going to do?” Eleanor checked the Winchester one last time before slinging it over her shoulder. “I’m going to find Sheriff Reed and Santiago and find out who these so-called Pinkertons really are.” “You can’t go alone, it’s crazy.” “I won’t be alone,” Eleanor replied firmly, adjusting her father’s old riding hat.

 I’m counting on the element of surprise. Everyone’s still looking for a defenseless peasant girl, but she’s not the one they’re going to find. The storm was beginning to subside. As Eleanor rode off, the clouds parted just enough to reveal a thin, silvery glimmer of moonlight. Abigail had agreed, albeit reluctantly, to stay at the farm.

 He promised to leave at dawn to deliver Elenor’s message to the villagers. Avoid the eastern path, he warned. Ele had his own trail to follow and didn’t need the well-meaning neighbors. The desert air smelled of sage, soaked with possibilities, possibilities of rebirth or bloodshed.

 Elanor rode along a path that ran parallel to the main road, invisible to the untrained eye, but familiar to her from her hunting days. Her father’s voice echoed within her. “Always approach from an unexpected angle, little Hawk. Become the huntress no one sees coming.” Two hours of careful riding brought her within sight of a faint glow nestled at the foot of the plateau.

 A carefully concealed campfire, yet not lost on trained eyes. Elanor dismounted, tied her horse to a sheltered stream, and continued on foot. She glided like a shadow through the rain-damp undergrowth, drawing closer to the camp. Her senses were on high alert for every sound and movement.

 The first thing she noticed were the voices, soft and polite tones that confirmed Abigail’s description of the eastern accents. “They should have arrived by now,” a woman said, her annoyance evident in her impeccable pronunciation. “Patience,” a male voice replied. “Our contact assured us that Miss Hawkins would be coming.” The message sent to the town was quite clear.

“I don’t like relying on local talent,” another man chimed in, “especially not the kind who are capable of ambushing law enforcement officers.” Eleanor moved even closer, shrouded by the deepest shadows. Through an opening in the bushes, she could make out three figures gathered around the small campfire.

 Victoria wore an elegant riding habit, though adapted for practical use. The two men wore equally fine clothes. Their demeanor conveyed refinement and wealth. They were not Pinkertons, certainly, but neither were they mere outlaws. A fourth figure stood apart. His back to Elanor, his shoulders slumped, his posture defeated.

 Even in the dim light, Eleno recognized Santiago. One of the tall men, with a neatly trimmed beard and an aristocratic air, took out a pocket watch and checked it. Midnight. If he doesn’t arrive soon, we’ll have to resort to something more direct. The colonel was clear, Victoria replied. We must approach Eleenor Hawkins with caution. After what happened, she’ll be on high alert today.

 Harrington’s men were supposed to create a distraction, not massacre the sheriff’s group. A chill ran through Elanor. These strangers knew who she was, they were waiting for her, and they had orchestrated the attack on Rid. But they were also speaking of the colonel, her father, with respect and familiarity. What were they plotting? The bearded man concluded. The deadline still stands.

 We need Miss Hawkins and the key before tomorrow night, or the operation will fail. The key? the second man asked. I thought we were here for the cipher. The key unlocks the cipher, Victoria explained impatiently. The colonel’s final message cannot be deciphered without it. According to our information, he gave it to his daughter before he died. Anor’s mind was racing.

 That key could be nothing else. The pocket watch his father had left him in his final moments, asking him never to part with it. But what code? What message? Santiago stirred and finally raised his head. In the firelight, Elianor saw the blood trickling from a wound above his eyebrow.

“She won’t come,” he said, his voice breaking. “Not after what they did to the sheriff.” “Or she will,” Victoria replied coldly. “If her father taught her even half of what’s in our Elanor Hawkins report, she won’t abandon her duties or her friends.” Santiago spat on the ground. “You don’t know her.”

“On the contrary,” said the bearded man, “we’ve been observing her for months, ever since Colonel Hawkins died, with the nation’s secrets locked in her mind. She no longer belongs to your world,” Santiago insisted. “She’s just a peasant girl who happens to be a good shot with a rifle.” Victoria let out a dry, razor-sharp laugh. “That’s what she told you. That girl, as you call her, was her father’s secret apprentice for 15 years. The colonel trained her in everything he knew.”

 Precision shooting, codes, intelligence gathering. She’d played a role for so long she might not even know where she herself began. Elenor gripped the Winchester tighter. Those strangers knew things about her life she’d never told anyone, not even Santiago during the time they’d worked together.

 But amidst the half-truths, they also uttered blatant lies. Her father had trained her in shooting and tracking, but not in secret codes for espionage. Her father had been an explorer, not a spy. Memories began to swirl in her mind: her father’s frequent absences when she was a child, the locked trunk in his study, those visitors who arrived at night and vanished before dawn.

He had always believed his explanations about army matters, but now doubt crept in like a silent, deadly desert snake. “Where’s Sheriff Reid?” Santiago asked, changing the subject. The bearded man made a dismissive gesture with his hand. “He’s alive for now.”

 It will continue as long as Miss Hawkins cooperates. And Blackwood. And the rest of the gang, Victoria said coldly. Collateral damage. Harrington went too far. Harrington, Elanor murmured the name to herself, igniting a spark of recognition. The spectral rider, that mysterious figure from the wanted poster she had found.

 He wasn’t a bandit, but one of these people. He’d heard enough. Those strangers might know truths about his father, might have answers he hadn’t even dared to ask, but their actions revealed their true nature. Someone who ambushes a group of law enforcement officers and holds an innocent person hostage deserves no consideration.

 Eleanor moved away silently, circling the camp until she had a clear view of the four figures. The bearded man had his back to her, talking and gesturing. Perfect. She aimed the Winchester and fired once. The bullet passed so close to the man’s ear that he reflexively ducked, losing his balance and falling flat on his face.

 “That was your only warning,” Elenor shouted, her voice icy and firm, cutting through the camp. “Next time won’t fail.” Chaos erupted. Victoria immediately crouched down, searching for a hidden weapon. The second man overturned a small table for cover. Only Santiago remained motionless. A slow smile spread across his battered face.

 “Hands where I can see them,” Eleanor ordered, stepping forward until she was in the light, but keeping her distance. The bearded man regained his composure, slowly raising his hands. “Miss Hawkins, I presume. Your reputation is well-earned. Who are you?” Eleanor asked, the Winchester rifle held firm as a rock in her hands.

 Clayton Reed, United States Secret Service, he answered without lowering his hands. My partners are Agents Victoria Harding and Thomas Mercer. We have been trying to contact you for some time, but circumstances have not been easy. Government agents do not kidnap sheriff’s deputies or ambush law enforcement, Eleanor retorted.

 “We didn’t do it,” Mercer protested from behind his makeshift shelter. “It was Harrington, a local contractor who went beyond his orders, and yet they haven’t condemned what he did,” Elanor retorted coldly. “Where’s Sheriff Reid?” Victoria Harding slowly lowered her hands to five miles north at the abandoned Cortes mine. “He’s injured, just being held.”

 Harrington left men watching him. The same ones who killed two sheriff’s deputies, Eleanor said. Reid at least showed some discomfort. It was a regrettable escalation. Harrington will answer for that. It’s not enough, Eleanor retorted, taking a step forward without lowering her rifle. They claim to be from the government, but they act like bandits. They talk about my father as if they knew him, and he never mentioned them.

Why should I believe a single word they say? Re slowly reached inside his coat, stopping when Eleanor pointed directly at his chest. “I can only… it’s ID.” Seeing his nod, she pulled out a leather wallet, opened it, and displayed an official badge with documents. “I can prove we’re legitimate, Miss Hawkins, but more importantly, I can tell you the truth about your father, who he really was, and why his last message is vital to national security.” Eleanor held the

His face was serene, though his mind raced. “First, free Santiago.” Rid nodded to Victoria, who approached to untie the young assistant. Santiago rubbed his wrists, glaring at the agents before limping over to Elanor. “They’re hiding something from us,” he whispered. “They know too much about you, but they can’t even agree among themselves on the details.”

Elianor nodded slightly. Her gaze remained fixed on Rid. Begin speaking. What was my father to you? Re adjusted his jacket, adopting a more serious and formal posture. Colonel Jonathan Hawkins wasn’t simply a tracker serving in the 3rd Cavalry. Miss Hawkins, that was just his facade.

He was actually one of our most valuable intelligence agents, operating throughout the Southwest and extending into Mexico. For 15 years, he gathered information on foreign spies, arms dealers, and revolutionaries acting against our nation’s interests. Despite herself, Elanor felt a shudder.

 Everything was starting to make sense. Her father’s unexplained absences. His insistence on training her to shoot, to track, to observe far beyond what a peasant’s daughter would need. Six months ago, Reed continued, her father uncovered something important: a conspiracy involving European interests, aimed at destabilizing the Mexican government and provoking a new conflict on our southern border. Before he could deliver his full report, he was poisoned.

Poisoned. Elanor’s voice almost broke. My father died of cardiac arrest. A common diagnosis when it comes to certain poisons, Victoria added. We believe Mexican agents identified him and administered a slow-acting poison during his last mission. He managed to return home, but he already knew he was doomed.

 “And what does this have to do with me?” Eleanor asked. Though deep down she already suspected the answer. Reid’s expression softened slightly. Before he died, his father encoded his final report in a cipher that only he knew how to decipher. Our sources indicate that he left the key to you.

 Probably something personal, something she would always keep close. Without realizing it, Eleanor reached into the pocket where she still kept her father’s watch. The agents’ eyes followed the gesture, confirming what she suspected. Even if that were true, she said cautiously, why so much deception? Why didn’t they come to me directly? We tried, Victoria said with clear frustration. We sent agents three times to make contact.

 Each time they tried, they reported that you denied any connection to intelligence matters. Then we began to think that perhaps you were hiding information, maybe intending to sell it. Santiago snorted in disbelief. “They’re crazy.” “Miss Hawkins is the most honest person in this territory and the most skilled at maintaining a facade,” Rid replied, just like his father.

Elenor’s mind raced. If these people were legitimate, they might represent the best chance to understand her father’s final days. If they weren’t, they were dangerous enemies with ulterior motives. In any case, she needed to know more before deciding what to do.

 “I propose a deal,” he finally said. “Take me to Sheriff Reed. If he’s unharmed, as you claim, I’ll hear his full story. Then I’ll decide whether to help you or not.” Re exchanged a glance with his companions. “Accepted, but on one condition: let us examine the key he’s carrying—not to take it, just to confirm what it is we’re looking for.”

 Elenor hesitated for a moment, then reached into her pocket and pulled out her father’s watch. The silver case was worn from use. The initials JH were barely visible. “This is all he left me,” she said, holding it up without handing it over. “He made me promise I’d never part with him.”

 Victoria leaned forward, squinting in the campfire light. Yes, that’s it. Inside the box is the key, a numerical sequence that, when applied to the final message, reveals its contents. Elanor slipped the watch back into her pocket. Then, we have a deal. But let’s be clear about whether Sheriff Reed has been hurt or if they’re lying about who they are.

 I’ll make what happened at Ravens Cloud look like Sunday mass. Reed smiled discreetly. He wouldn’t expect anything less from Jonathan Hawkins’s daughter. As they prepared to leave for the Cortés mine, Elenor took Santiago aside. “Can you ride?” “I’ve been through worse,” he replied earnestly. “Good, I need you to get back to town.”

Find Judge Hollister’s son. He’s staying at the Arizona Hotel. Tell him Scarlet Eagle is seeking confirmation. He’ll know what to do. Santiago frowned. What does that mean? Elinor made sure the agents weren’t close enough to hear.

 It means I’m not as naive as they think. My father may have had secrets, but he also left contingency plans. If these people are who they claim to be, Thomas Hollister, they’ll confirm it. If not, her face hardened. Then they’ll learn exactly what my father taught me about facing the enemies of the United States. Santiago looked at her with new eyes.

You know, I’m starting to think there’s always something more up with you, Miss Hawkins. Eleanor corrected him. If we’re going to be allies in whatever’s coming, you’d better start calling me by my name. Santiago disappeared into the darkness, and Eleanor mounted her horse. Then she turned toward the waiting agents.

The daughter of a simple explorer might have been overwhelmed by these revelations. But if her father had been more than that, perhaps she was too. “Guide the way, Mr. Reid,” she said calmly, “let’s see if your actions back up your words.” The three agents exchanged glances, clearly reassessing their perception of Eleanor Hawkins.

 What they expected—perhaps a fearful mission or a stubborn denial—had nothing to do with this woman with a steady gaze who negotiated with the coolness of a seasoned diplomat. As they rode under the starry night, Eleanor caressed the watch in her pocket, whatever secret it held or the truth behind her father’s life and death. One thing was clear.
 The quiet country girl had vanished forever, replaced by someone far more dangerous. A woman determined to uncover the whole truth, no matter the cost. Behind them, the embers of the abandoned bonfire died away one by one, leaving darkness as the sole witness where light had once revealed new enigmas and old deceptions. Dawn painted the desert in soft, watercolor hues. When Eleanor and the three agents approached the abandoned Cortés mine, the old silver operation had been closed for almost 10 years. Its wooden structures were bleached white and warped by the dry Arizona climate. From the hill where Eleanor stood, she could make out three men moving near the tunnel entrance, rifles slung over their shoulders.

 “Those are Harrington’s men,” Reed confirmed, lowering his binoculars. “The sheriff must be inside the main tunnel.” Eleanor carefully surveyed the terrain, assessing positions and access points. “I see three sentries and Harrington.” Reid’s face hardened. “No idea. After the ambush, he was supposed to secure the prisoners here and meet us at the camp.”

 So either he’s inside with the sheriff or he deserted. Either way, it doesn’t say much for your planning skills,” Elanor concluded. Victoria Harding tensed up. We hadn’t counted on the local sheriff showing up with the entire Crow’s Claw gang.

 Harrington was tasked with creating a distraction that would allow us to meet with you privately. And instead, he executed county agents and kidnapped a sheriff, Eleanor retorted coldly. Excellent choice of collaborators. Third Agent Merceró said uncomfortably, “Perhaps we should focus on what’s important.”

 Miss Hawkins, do you see any way we can approach without alerting the guards? Eleanor glanced toward the mine. Beyond the logistics of rescuing Sheriff Reed, she was judging these supposed Secret Service agents. They seemed to know a lot about her father. Yes, but their methods were shoddy at best and suspicious at worst.

 On the west slope there’s an old ventilation shaft. It connects to the main tunnel about 50 meters from the entrance. It’s narrow, but passable. Reid raised an eyebrow. “You know this place well?” “My father brought me here three years ago,” Eleanor replied. “He said every good tracker should know the terrain within a 50-mile radius of their home.”

 “Track,” Victoria muttered, always with her cover story. Eleanor ignored the comment and focused on formulating a plan. “I’ll go in through the vent. You three set up a distraction at the main entrance, something to draw the guards’ attention, but without endangering the sheriff.” “What if Harrington’s inside?” Mercer asked. Eleanor checked her Winchester. “Leave it to me.”

Reed looked ready to object, but something in Eleanor’s gaze made him back down. He simply nodded firmly. “Very well. We’ll create the distraction in exactly 20 minutes. You should have plenty of time to get into position.” Quin corrected Eleanor, already quickly backing away. “I move fast.”

 As she crept along silently, the agents exchanged glances filled with unspoken doubt. For the first time since this whole thing began, they seemed unsure if they had the situation under control. Eleanor circled the site widely, taking advantage of the natural gaps in the terrain where the morning shadows still offered some cover.

 The ventilation shaft was still in the same place, a narrow opening reinforced by rotten beams and half-hidden in desert scrub. Before climbing down, he checked his gear. The Winchester was his primary weapon, but his father’s Colt revolver was his reliable backup. Even more so was the knife strapped to his calf, silent and lethal in close quarters. The shaft was narrow and steep.

He had to descend carefully, using rusty iron rungs embedded in the rock for support. The dust and cobwebs showed that no one had used it for years. Good for the element of surprise, bad for his lungs. He covered his nose and mouth with a handkerchief and continued down. When he reached the bottom, he stopped, allowing his eyes to adjust to the dimness.

 The passageway to the main tunnel was low, forcing her to hunch over. The smell of damp earth and old wood filled her senses, but she also smelled something else: tobacco smoke. Someone was waiting in the tunnel. She moved silently to the fork and pressed herself against the rough wall.

 Two voices came from the mine entrance. “They should be back by now,” one said nervously. “What if something went wrong? Harrington knows what he’s doing,” the other replied. “We’ll wait here until he gets back,” one said, followed by a short chuckle. And the sheriff, “He’s not going anywhere. He’s tied down like a turkey on Christmas Eve.”

Eleanor analyzed the distances and locations. The voices were coming from about 20 meters away, toward the entrance. Deeper inside the tunnel, she could just make out a barely visible figure sitting with its head bowed. It was probably Sheriff Reed. A distant shout from outside interrupted her assessment. The distraction had begun.

“What the hell?” came the first voice again, now alarmed. “Jackson, go see what’s going on,” the other man ordered. “I’ll watch the prisoner.” Footsteps were heard moving away toward the entrance, but one of the men remained pacing slowly back and forth. Elor kept memorizing the guard’s movement pattern.

 Three steps to the side, pause, three steps back. A predictable movement, typical of someone inexperienced. He counted down in his mind, waiting for the moment when the distraction outside would increase. Just as he expected, a gunshot rang out, followed by shouts. The guard quickened his pace toward the entrance, but didn’t leave his post.

 Jackson, what’s going on out there? That moment of distraction was all Eleanor needed. She stepped out of the ventilation shaft into the main tunnel with the Winchester rifle. The guard, his back to her, was glancing nervously toward the light in the entrance, his grip on his rifle loose.

 Eleanor covered the distance in three silent strides and brought the butt of her gun down hard on the back of his neck. The man fell without making a sound. She quickly tied him up and gagged him with strips torn from her own handkerchief and then walked toward the seated figure. Sheriff Reed looked up as he sensed her presence.

 His eyes widened as he recognized her, despite the bruises that distorted her face. “I didn’t expect to see you here, Miss Hawkins,” he murmured as she cut the ropes binding her wrists and ankles. “Can you walk?” Eleanor asked without hesitation. He jiggled his fingers, wincing in pain. “Give me a minute. Those bastards left me pretty battered.” “Who exactly?” she inquired quietly.

 Those who attacked his group were from Ravens Clan, neither of them, Red replied gravely. Well-trained, armed men, led by a icy-eyed fellow who called himself Harrington. My deputies were killed before we knew what was happening, his face hardening with rage and sadness. Lambert Young, both good men, and the Ravens Claw prisoners were taken elsewhere. Harrington seemed very interested in Blackwood.

He kept questioning him about some phantom rider. Elanor nodded. The pieces were starting to fall into place, and Santiago pulled them apart. Apparently, Harrington thought the boy knew something important. Re looked at her with renewed attention. “Miss Hawkins, what on earth is going on here? Those guys weren’t just any old bandits. They mentioned your name.”

They asked about his father’s belongings. “It’s complicated,” she replied, helping him to his feet. “There are three people outside who claim to be secret service agents. They say they worked with my father.” Rid leaned against the wall, stunned. “Your father, the eldest. I always thought he was a military man through and through.”

 “I thought so too,” Eleanor admitted. “But these guys know things, details that make me think maybe he was leading a double life.” Before Red could reply, there was a commotion at the mine entrance—shouting, then gunshots. Eleanor pushed the sheriff toward the ventilation shaft. “That’s our way out. Can he climb in?” Reid nodded firmly.

Just tell me where. They had barely reached the entrance when hurried footsteps echoed through the tunnel. Eleanor whirled around, rifle raised, just as a figure emerged from the darkness. “Miss Hawkins,” Agent Mercer gasped, bleeding from a wound on his forehead. “We have a problem.” The warning came too late. Behind him appeared three more men, weapons drawn and looking suspicious.

One of them, with cold blue eyes and an immaculate black coat despite the dust, offered a subtle smile. “Miss Elinor Hawkins, I presume,” he said. His accent was elegant, yet sharp. He was very eager to meet her.

 “Harrington,” Elenor said softly, noticing Mercer tense at the name. “At your service,” the man replied with a mocking bow. “Though I must apologize for the circumstances of our meeting. I had hoped for a more civil conversation.” Elenor held the Winchester steady, knowing her men were surrounding her, and asked, “Rid and Victoria?” “They are currently enjoying the hospitality of my men,” Harrington replied gently.

I’m afraid they were a little annoyed when I explained that our agreement had changed. You don’t work for them anymore, Eleanor stated. Harrington’s smile widened. Let’s just say our interests aligned for a while. The secret service wants your father’s cipher.

 My employers want him too, but for different reasons. And who are those employers? Sheriff Reed interjected, his voice firm despite his condition. Harrington ignored him. His attention was entirely focused on Eleanor. Her father was an exceptional man, Miss Hawkins. He operated for years under a false identity, gathering information that could have upset the balance of power in the Southwest, until he decided his loyalty to his country outweighed his commitment to those who actually employed him. A chill ran through him.

It was installed in Elanor’s stomach. You poisoned him. A regrettable necessity, Harrington admitted without a trace of remorse. Colonel Hawkins had become a hindrance. Unfortunately, he managed to encode his final report before the poison took full effect. That’s where you come in.

Elenor’s mind raced. If these men had murdered her father, why were Rid and the secret service agents cooperating with them, even momentarily? Unless Rid doesn’t know you killed my father, she said aloud, the realization dawning on her.

 A detail I conveniently omitted from our agreement, Harrington confirmed. The secret service believes his father died of natural causes after concealing crucial information. They want his code to protect U.S. interests. My employers, on the other hand, are seeking to ensure the continued security of certain European investments in Mexico.

She held out her watch. “Miss Hawkins, give it to him now, and I give you my word that you and the sheriff will get out of here alive.” Eleanor’s finger tightened on the trigger of her Winchester. She could probably take down Harrington before his men could react, but Reid and Mercer wouldn’t make it out of the shootout alive.

 I needed to buy myself time and space to move. “I don’t have him on me,” she lied calmly. “He’s hidden at my farm.” Harrington’s face hardened. “He thinks I’m an idiot. Have you worn that watch since your father died? Check it yourself,” Elanor retorted, keeping her hands visible over the rifle. “He’s not with me.” Harrington examined her for what seemed like an eternity. Then he nodded to one of his men.

“Check it thoroughly.” As the man approached, Elenor offered a slight smile. The watch, indeed, wasn’t with her, but rather in Santiago’s pocket during their brief conversation the previous night at the agents’ camp. A precaution that now proved wise. Although the search was meticulous, they found nothing.

 Harrington’s expression darkened, dominated by a genuine mixture of surprise and anger. “Where are you safe?” Elenor replied simply. “And you’ll remain so until you clearly understand what’s going on here. To begin with, I want proof of who you really are and who you work for.” Harrington let out a laugh, a dry, humorless sound.

You’re your father’s daughter, no doubt. Very well, Miss Hawkins. He made a sign with his hand. As a show of good faith, release the Mercer people. Escort him and the sheriff outside. As his men obeyed, Harrington turned back to Eleanor. You and I will have a more private conversation.

“I think we can reach an agreement that benefits everyone, except my father,” Elinor replied coldly. Something shifted in Harrington’s eyes. It wasn’t guilt, it was calculation. Your father chose his path, Miss Hawkins. The question now is, what will yours be? As Reid and Mercer were led toward the exit, Elinor weighed her options.

 Harrington was dangerous, yes, but he was also the only direct source of information about her father’s true activities. If she wanted answers, she would have to play along, at least for now. “All right,” she finally said. “Let’s talk.” Harrington gestured to a rough wooden table farther into the tunnel, where an oil lamp cast flickering shadows on the stone walls. “After you.” They sat down facing each other.

 Eleanor felt a strange familiarity, as if her whole life had been training for this very moment. Perhaps it was so. Perhaps all those years of preparation with her father had led her here. A deadly game of cat and mouse with the forces that had ultimately snatched the man who raised her away.

 Harrington placed his revolver on the table within easy reach. “Now, Miss Hawkins, let me tell you about the real Jonathan Hawkins, the man beyond the myth.” Outside the mine, the Arizona sun climbed higher in the sky, dispelling the last traces of the night’s storm within the cool gloom of the tunnel. Eleanor Hawkins braced herself to hear truths that would forever change her view of the man who had raised her.

 And somewhere between Prosperidad and Tucon Santiago, he rode at full speed, carrying a silver pocket watch whose secrets could alter the fate of nations. “Your father began his career just as you imagine it,” Harrington said, pouring amber liquor from a silver flask into two metal glasses. He was a scout in the 3rd Cavalry Regiment, decorated for his participation in the campaigns against the Apaches.

His intelligence-gathering skills caught the attention of certain circles in Washington. He pushed one of the glasses toward Eleanor, who ignored it. Harrington smiled discreetly and continued speaking. By 1875, Colonel Hawkins was already operating as a special agent for the War Department.

 Gathering intelligence on foreign interests in the Southwest, but his true value emerged when he was contacted by a group of European investors with interests in Mexican silver mines. “They recruited him as a spy,” Elanor stated coldly. As an advisor, Harrington corrected, well-paid for providing information on military movements and government decisions that could affect foreign investments. A fairly common arrangement, believe me.

 “Until it wasn’t anymore,” Elenor interrupted. Harrington took a sip of his drink. Three years ago, his father discovered something that stirred his conscience: evidence that his European employers were funding revolutionary activities in Mexico, creating instability to devalue land and acquire key mining rights.

 She observed his reaction before continuing. Instead of reporting as Jonathan demanded, she began gathering evidence on her own. For three years, she collected names, dates, payment records, building a case that could implicate powerful people on both sides of the Atlantic. And six months ago, those employers discovered her betrayal, Elanor concluded.

 “Exactly,” Harrington replied, his expression unchanged. “Your decision was difficult. Unfortunately, the colonel proved stronger than expected. He managed to survive long enough to encode the information and hide the encryption key.” Eleanor paused for a moment. This fit with the minor inconsistencies she had noticed in her father’s behavior during his final years.

 Unexplained absences, strange letters, late-night visits. But one question remained unanswered. “Why tell me all this?” she asked. “Why not just force me to hand over the watch?” Harrington’s smile returned, colder than before. “Because, Miss Hawkins, I believe we can come to an understanding.”

 My employers aren’t monsters, just businessmen looking out for their own interests. They’re willing to offer you $50,000 for the watch and your silence. The sum was enormous, enough to ensure Eleanor a comfortable life for decades, but she didn’t let her thoughts show. “And if I refuse, then things will get complicated,” Harrington replied coldly, “starting with Sheriff Reed and continuing with anyone else in the business who matters to me.”

 Don’t forget I still have the Crow’s Claw gang at my disposal. Black Eye Blackwood owes me his freedom. Elanor took a calm, deep breath. I need more than his word. Of course. Harrington pulled a bank note from inside his jacket. 10,000 now. The rest upon delivery of the watch.

 Just as he placed the document on the table, a commotion erupted at the mine entrance—shouts followed by gunshots. Harrington sprang to his feet, drawing his revolver. “Stay here,” he ordered, advancing toward the source of the sound. As soon as he turned his back, Elenor drew her father’s knife from its sheath. When Harrington reached the bend in the tunnel, he threw it with the precision of years of practice. The blade lodged in a wooden post, inches from his head.

Harrington stopped, then turned slowly. His face showed a mixture of astonishment and respect. That was a warning, Eleanor said calmly. Her Winchester was now pointed directly at his chest. The next one won’t miss. Before Harrington could reply, new voices boomed from the entrance. Firm, unfamiliar tones demanded surrender.

 The echo of several boots on stone grew louder. “U.S. Marshals,” Elia Nores deduced, offering a slight smile. “Looks like Santiago delivered my message.” Harrington’s expression hardened. “This isn’t over, Miss Hawkins.” “Oh, I think it is,” she replied. “Drop your weapon.”

For a moment it seemed Harrington might take the risk, but reason prevailed. He lowered the revolver carefully and placed it on the floor. “You’re making a mistake,” he murmured. “The people I work for don’t forgive failures.” “Neither do I,” Eleanor replied. Her voice held the same resolve she had shown when facing the Crowclaw gang. “My father’s mistake was letting you live when he discovered who you really were.”

 I will not repeat that mistake. Harrington’s eyes opened slightly as if he finally saw Eleanor Hawkins. Not as an obstacle, but as a true rival. “Miss Hawkins,” a new voice called from the end of the tunnel. “Marshal James Parker. Are you there?” “Here, Marshall,” she replied without taking her eyes off Harrington. “I have a prisoner for you.”

 As the footsteps drew closer, Harrington offered one last enigmatic warning. “You have chosen your side, Miss Hawkins. I expect you to be prepared for what’s to come.” “I was born prepared,” Eleanor said, thinking of all the years of training, every lesson her father had given her. “That was his final gift.”

 The marshals turned the corner, rifles at the ready. Among them was Santiago, sporting a brand-new deputy’s badge and a victorious smile. Sheriff Reid arrived right behind him, his wounds treated, though his face still showed severity. As Harrington was handcuffed, Reed approached Eleenor. “You have a lot to explain, Miss Hawkins.” “It seems so,” she conceded, finally lowering her Winchester.

 But first, we have to settle a couple of matters with the Secret Service agents. Outside, the desert stretched relentlessly under the midday sun. Eleanor emerged from the tunnel, leaving the darkness behind, and found herself in a chaotic but controlled scene. Marshals were guarding prisoners. She was talking with Parker while an agent argued vehemently with an older man whose presence commanded respect.

Santiago approached her. “Judge Hollister’s son,” he explained, nodding toward the man. “He came from Tucson with the marshals. It seems your message caught his attention.” “And the watch?” Eleanor asked quietly. Santiago touched the pocket of his vest. “Safe, though I still don’t understand what’s so special about it.”

 “I didn’t admit it either,” she said, “but I intend to find out.” Thomas Hollister strode forward and dismissed Reed with a simple gesture. Eleanor stood resolutely. Whatever her father’s cipher concealed, she would face it with the same resolve that had brought her there. The farm girl was gone.

 In his place remained what her father had forged with years of dedication: a woman ready to continue his legacy with his rifle and his cause. Miss Hawkins greeted Hollister formally. “We have much to discuss regarding your father’s last mission.” Ele nodded, thinking of the silver watch, the encrypted secrets, and the road ahead. “Yes,” she replied simply.

 I think it’s time. Three days after the confrontation at the mine, Eleanor Cortés sat at her kitchen table surrounded by documents. Her open silver watch lay beside them. Thomas Hollister, who revealed himself to be a high-ranking military intelligence officer, had given her the key to decipher her father’s final messages, and the result was there.

 Detailed records of European funding for Mexican revolutionaries, weapons disguised as mining equipment, and a network of corrupt officials on both sides of the border. “Your father died protecting this information,” Thomas Hollister said, observing her from the other side. His gray hair and impeccable suit contrasted with the rustic surroundings, but his demeanor was that of a man who knew how to adapt.

 “And now you expect me to just hand it over? I don’t expect anything,” Eleanor replied calmly, her gaze firm. Holister offered a slight smile. “I actually thought I’d have to take it from you by force. I’m surprised by your cooperation. It’s not cooperation, it’s an alliance.” Eleanor tapped the deciphered papers. “These stay with me. You take copies.”

 The government doesn’t usually form alliances with civilians, Miss Hawkins. Nor does it usually recruit women as agents, she replied. But here we are. Holister raised his eyebrows. You’re not suggesting that… My father trained me my whole life. She interrupted. Not just in marksmanship, but in analysis, observation, survival. I speak Spanish and Apache, I can read signs that most scouts would miss. She looked at him without hesitation.

 He was preparing me for something, and this must be that moment. Before Hollister could say more, a knock on the door announced Sheriff Reed’s arrival. The lawman looked better than he had at the mine, though he still had bruises. Beside him, Santiago wore a badge that no longer looked temporary. “Miss Hawkins,” Reed greeted him, tipping his hat.

 Mr. Hollister, any news on Harrington? Eleanor asked, inviting them to sit down. Reid’s expression darkened. Missing. Transferred to Tucson, but he never arrived. Two guards dead with no witnesses. “Your European employers don’t leave any loose ends,” Hollister said gravely. “And I’m one of those loose ends,” Eleanor added. Hollister didn’t deny it.

 You have information that could ruin multimillion-dollar deals. They won’t leave you alone. And Blackwood asked Reed. The Raven’s Claw, Santiago interjected seriously. Still free. We’ve received reports that they’re regrouping near the border.

 Eleanor silently processed the information, already thinking about possible scenarios. Her quiet life was over, perhaps from the moment the gang appeared on her ranch. Now she had to decide what to do with what was left. “I’m going to sell the farm,” she announced. The men exchanged surprised glances. “Eleanor,” Reid began, using her first name for the first time.

 Don’t make any hasty decisions. When this calms down, it won’t. She cut him off. Not for me. Harrington knows I have the documents. Even if we stop him, others will come after this information. She looked around the cabin, every corner so familiar, and realized her world had changed. “My father didn’t prepare me to go into hiding,” she finally said.

 Holister looked at her intently, as if understanding what was about to come up. “What exactly are you proposing?” “I want to continue my father’s work,” Eleanor said matter-of-factly, “not from a plow, but in the field where I can actually make a difference. The government doesn’t hire women as agents.” “Yes, you already said that,” Eleanor replied with a brief smile. “But there are unofficial operations.”

“My father was one, and I can be one too.” Hollister was silent. There was calculation in his gaze. Finally, he spoke. There would be very strict conditions. “I expected nothing less,” she nodded. “No official recognition, no badges, no authority—you would operate on your own, with periodic contact only through designated channels.”

Elanor nodded again. “And you’d have to assume a new identity. Elinor Hawkins, the farmer’s daughter, must disappear completely.” She felt a pang at the thought, but dismissed it immediately. “I’ve already made arrangements. The sale of the farm will give me enough money to settle elsewhere.” “One last condition,” Hollister added, leaning closer to her.

 You would answer only to me. No one else in the department would know of your existence or your movements. Eleanor considered this carefully. Why? Because, Miss Hawkins, there are elements within our own government who sympathize with European interests. Your father discovered this shortly before he died.

 Hollister’s face hardened, which is why he encrypted his final report instead of sending it through the usual channels. Silence filled the room as the magnitude of what he was saying became clear. Eleanor had imagined external enemies, not traitors within the system. “If I accept those conditions,” she finally said. “What’s next, Hollister?” She pulled a thin folder from her briefcase. “We’ve identified a priority target based on intelligence about your father.”

 Blackwood wasn’t working with Harrington by chance. He’d been smuggling weapons across the border for months, using the Crow’s Claw’s reputation as a front for more complex operations. “And they want me to find him,” Eleanor concluded. “Not just find him, but infiltrate his network and identify his European contacts,” Hollister replied, placing the folder on the table.

Your experience with Blackwood and his men gives you an advantage few possess. Re sat up straight in his chair. Wait a minute. Are you asking him to walk straight into a den of assassins? I’m offering him the opportunity to continue his father’s mission,” Hollister corrected.

 “An opportunity that I believe Colonel Hawkins had been preparing for him all along.” Elenor opened the folder and reviewed its contents. Detailed information about Blackwood’s recent movements, his known possible hiding places and routes—everything necessary to track him down and, through him, reach the European interests that had ordered her father’s death. Santiago leaned forward, concern etched on his young face.

 Miss Hawkins, Elanor, you don’t have to do this. There are other ways to honor your father’s memory. Elanor looked at him calmly, holding his gaze. This isn’t about remembering; it’s about finishing what he started. She closed the folder decisively. I’ll need two weeks to settle my affairs here. Then I’ll be ready. Hollister nodded.

 Her satisfaction was evident, though she tried to maintain her composure. “Very well, we’ll establish the communication protocols before I return to Washington.” When the men left—Hollister to make the necessary arrangements, Reed and Santiago to resume their duties in Prosperity—Eleanor remained seated. In her hand she held her father’s watch. The silver case gleamed in the afternoon light.

 It bore initials, a reminder of the legacy that now belonged to her. “You knew, didn’t you?” she whispered into the empty room. “You always knew this day would come.” In the deepening silence, she could almost hear her father’s voice. The best shot, little Alcona, is the one no one sees coming. Two weeks later, a stagecoach departed from Prosperity with a single passenger.

 The locals knew only that Miss Elenor Hawkins had sold her property to the Méndez family from Fort Benson and was heading east to live with relatives. A sensible decision for a single woman. No one questioned much more. Even fewer remembered that quiet peasant woman as anything more than a footnote in the commotion caused by the capture and escape of the Crow’s Claw gang.

 Only Sheriff Reed and his young deputy remained silent as the stagecoach drove away, taking with it the woman who had forever changed their understanding of strength and deceit. “Do you think we’ll ever see her again?” Santiago asked quietly. Ruid’s face, hidden beneath the brim of his hat, revealed nothing. “Not as Eleanor Hawkins,” he replied calmly. “I’m intrigued to know what she’ll become.”

The sheriff pondered for a moment, recalling the transformation he had witnessed: from a shy, reserved farmer’s daughter to a resolute and determined woman who had faced assassins without flinching. Whoever she is, he finally said, may heaven protect those who cross her path.

 Many miles away, as the stagecoach rattled toward the territorial border, Elanor Hawkins, soon to be known by a completely new name, reviewed the documents in Hollister’s folder one last time before memorizing them. The young woman from the farm was gone. In her place remained what her father had patiently forged over decades: a precise and lethal tool with a clear purpose.

 The arid landscape flashed past the windows of the carriage, stark and beautiful in its contrasts. Ele discreetly stroked the holster hidden at her side, recognizing by touch the unmistakable silhouette of her father’s Colt revolver. In her luggage, carefully wrapped in an oiled cloth, the Winchester awaited, not as a sentimental memento, but as the necessary tool for the work ahead.

 Her father had taught her to hit any target regardless of the conditions, and now she had the most important objective of all: justice for Amon, who had served his country from the shadows and had died protecting truths too dangerous to be spoken aloud. Reaching a hilltop, Eliano cast one last look over the Copper Valley, the place where she had pretended to be an ordinary woman for so long.

 He allowed himself a single moment of nostalgia and then turned his gaze toward the future. Somewhere to the south, Isai Blackwood was gathering his men, unaware that now he was the married man, not the hunter. Further on, the European interests that had orchestrated his father’s death waited, confident of their impunity.

They wouldn’t see her coming. That was her father’s final gift: the power of being underestimated. Eleor Hawkins vanished over the horizon that day, but the legacy of that sniper, who looked like an innocent farm girl, was only just beginning. Her story would live on in whispers and legends about a woman who appeared when justice faltered, whose shot never missed, and whose true identity remained her best-kept secret. And as for the truth behind those legends, well, there are stories that are

It’s best not to say anything, at least until the right time.