It hadn’t taken long for Kate find a safe place to perch for the evening, one that would afford her a fair view of Lincoln’s Main Street, and all that transpired upon it, when sunrise came.

The Torreon, a tower crafted from stone and adobe, built by the Spanish settlers of the valley for protection against the determined attacks of Apache, sat unoccupied, a silent sentinel watching over the town, a testament to battles remembered now by only a few. The sand encrusted door had been somewhat stubborn, but with patience and leverage, Kate had gotten it open. Climbing up the tower in the dark, the outlaw reached the roof, finding that it offered ready concealment for one who remained low and an excellent vantage point to observe most of Lincoln.

Sunrise arrives, turning the deep black of the sky a bruised purple, the horizon slowly shifting to an orange the color of fire. Looking carefully, Kate sees a pair of men meet next door on the porch of Wilson’s Saloon. One, rail thin, with thick black hair, wears a two gun rig, twin Colt Lightnings in the holsters. Pushing his hat up on his brow, he leans against the wall beside the saloon’s entrance, watching the street. His companion, clad in a long, black duster, takes a seat in one of the chairs and begins to methodically load a Bullard Express, a rifle that appears to have been meticulously cared for, by Kate’s estimation.

A few minutes later, a woman, dressed for the range, arrives, a double barreled shotgun over one of her shoulders, a Peacemaker holstered across her waist. She speaks quietly with the slender pistolero for several minutes, her gaze shifting between him and the street. Finally, a fourth member appears, a tall man, over six feet in height, broad shouldered with thick arms. He grins wolfishly as he climbs the steps to the porch, and Kate notices that fresh blood stains the dark gloves that cover his hands. Showing them to the others, he smiles and nods. His companions chuckle, clearly pleased with whatever the display signifies.

For the moment, the rest of the street is quiet, the remainder of Lincoln still struggling to awaken.

I knew it. Kate pondered.  So she had been right, the problem was, what were they doing?

Kate racked her brain.  Segovia had been the only one to see her with Desiree Thornton, and she remembered the proprietor's words.  But how to exploit it all...

That was when Kate got The Idea.  She marked the Torreon mentally, this was a hell of a good spot if things went sideways, which they would.  Perhaps not here, but if it was here this was a good perch.

Moving on her belly so no one would see somebody was up there, she worked her way back down to the street, carefully closed the place back up, dusted herself off, and wandered off to Wilson's saloon, whistling Dixie.

Kate steps out of the Torreon, easing the door closed behind her, circling the tower before stepping out onto the street, a cool breeze stirring the dust along the wide thoroughfare.

Approaching the porch of Wilson’s Saloon, Kate hears the chuckling quickly die out, the eyes of the gathering all falling on her. The woman and the broad shouldered man with the bloodstained gloves shift to face her, but the rifleman does not move from his seat, continuing to load his weapon at the same steady, unperturbed pace.

The slender man with the twin pistols approaches the steps. He grins. ”You’re a little early. Saloon’s not open quite yet.”

"Feller, are you the one I have business with, or are you wasting my time and getting in the way of my dinero?"  Kate responded nonchalantly.

The big man speaks up. ”Jesse, you, want I should take care of this?” he rumbles.

The slender pistolero raises a hand, giving a slight shake of his head. Addressing Kate, he asks, with a ghost of a smile, ”Exactly what sort of payday do you think you’re chasing, chica?””

"Well you see kind sir I'm an entrepreneur in a specialized commodity and its related services."  She casually flung her duster aside, revealing the Schofield with its pearl grips and custom holster.  "I deal in lead friend.  And I offer lead delivery better than any you ever did see."

When Kate pulls her duster back, the woman on the porch drops the shotgun from her shoulder.

”Settle down,” Evans tells her. Returning his attention to Kate, he says, ”I have to say, that’s a mighty impressive rig you have there. And those are some bold claims you’ve made to go along with it. But as I’m sure you understand, talk is a very easy thing to come by.”

“Who exactly do I have the pleasure of addressing here?”

She didn't make an elaborate answer, she just let the hem of her duster fall again.  "The wanted posters call me Kansas Kate."