The Girl With No Home

Out in the West Texas town of El Paso, there was a girl. A girl with the color of fire in her hair and the moon in her skin. A girl with the speed of horses in her feet and the will of the wolves in her veins. A girl who lived nowhere but in the saddle, a girl of legend.

She had stopped in El Paso on her journeys, but no one quite knows what those journeys were. They know of her many great deeds from Mexico through Texas, they know how strong she was and how she gave help anywhere she came, but they’ll never know what she was journeying for. Except for right now, in this story, you’ll never know.

She rode a horse of desert sand with mane and tail of cloud. A regal mare that towered above most others and spoke in a tinkling chime. The girl herself did not speak. She pointed at goods she wanted and counted out the money silently, and she did not reply when people spoke to her. She stayed at an inn and she was hidden in her room at most times.

The town whispered about her, thinking she was a fugitive. When she did come out, she was ignored unless she made a silent purchase. Then a man came to town. He was dressed in all black, with skin the color of aged beer. His had no hair and his horse was dark as the starless night with a deep rumble of a voice.

“Where is she?” the Man-In-Black demanded. “Where is the preso?”

He pulled out a gun and shot two men in the legs. He repeated his question in Spanish, “Donde esta el prisionero?”

The girl with hair the color of fire, moon in her skin, horses in her feet, wolf in her blood, stepped out of the inn. “I am no prisoner!” she cried, speaking for the first time. Her voice was a baby’s high soprano, and it did not fit her enraged face. “Flee this town, Ganzalez!”

The Man-In-Black, the Gonzalez, turned his gun upon her. She dropped to the ground and rolled as he shot at her. She jumped up and ran at him, pulling his gun from his fingers and kneeing him in the gut in one swift movement. She danced away, a loaded rifle in her hands.

“There are seven men on the horizon, come for me. You will surely die here, preso!”

“I may die, but I will not go alone!” she answered, pulling the trigger. He grabbed his chest, watching the flower of red blossom. Then he fell and breathed no more. But indeed, as he had said, seven men came riding upon the town. The residents of the old inn watched from the windows as she shot another two from the saddle.

“Lay down your weapon, femenino,” one ordered, raising his gun to point it at her chest. She shot him and, with his last act, he pulled the trigger. She put her hand to her breast and it came away red.

“Leave this town!” a man from the inn came forth and waved them away. “She is dead! Leave and take your battle with you!”

“We will be back on the morrow for her,” another Man-In-Black answered. The Black Men rode away, and they did come back. They didn’t get her body, though.

I tell you this because I know for what she traveled. She was accused of shooting her own brother, but she had found out who the true killer was. She traveled not to clear her name but to kill the man, Ceci, who killed her brother. She traveled to shoot him down.

I know this because she is me. I am Ventira, the Girl With No Home. I did not die that day. I rode on and met with the Black Men many other times. I shot and killed Ceci, and I lived long enough for my fire hair to be doused with grey. I never found a home for I never cleared my name. I traveled until I died fighting those Black Men, and looking back on my life in death, I find no regret. I am proud of my name, and I am proud of what I did for my brother. I am proud to be Ventira, the Girl With No Home.

I am proud to be me