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Manners as bad as her reputation

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Rippin' off the wanted poster, Harley scoffs. A mere one thousand? Cheapskates. She's worth more'n that, especially alive.

This insult calls for somethin' strong to chase it off with.

Tugging her kerchief from her nose, she throws open the batwing doors and announces her arrival with the heavy clop of her boots. Instantly, the room falls silent – music, laughter, conversation and all.

"Don't stop now," she says with her best grin.

Hesitantly, the piano player picks up his tune again, though it's lost its jauntiness. The saloon girl fixes Harley with a warning glare and crosses her arms, not moving to the music.

Harley's good for now. She needs a drink first and entertainment second. The customers stare as she downs a row of shots, none daring to speak. It's all the same to her. As long as the sheriff's outta town, she can do whatever she wants, whether it's shootin' someone for sayin' the wrong thing or nothin' at all.

Slamming her last shot glass onto the counter, she snatches the bottle of rye, but before she can make for the nearest jewel-bedecked lady, the saloon girl's on her case.

"You're going to pay the man," she says, smile like a knife.

"You wanna stop me?"

By way of reply, Harley's smashed into the nearest table. "Kate left me in charge because I can handle scoundrels like you."

"Oh darlin'," Harley croaks, somehow turned on beyond measure. "There any chance you'd stay with me if I stole you away?"