Catalina Marrow

Folks called her a bounty hunter, but that was just the polite word. Truth was, she hunted debts, and every man she tracked owed her one thing: blood. Her old man had worn the badge till it got him killed; her ma had met her end in the dust, cut down by road scum. That left the Catalina with her dad´s old lever-action and a ledger written in vengeance. She swore she’d balance it, one name at a time. She drank hard, swore harder, and broke jaws when the whiskey didn’t sit right. Men who tried their luck with her learned fast that a smile from her was worth less than the claws that usually followed. Still, she’d sit across from Varn now and then, two predators trading shadows over liquor, her eyes always scanning the room, always waiting for a whisper, a lead, a chance to scratch another name off her list. The desert had a long memory. And so did she.