Disclaimer : The usual. I don't own any of this except for my character Isabeau. Her name is pronounced "Is-a-bow" by the way (it's French).

To Umi, my best friend, of whom you all know as Tiffany or Kate Tunstall, thank you SO FARGIN' MUCH for making me watch this movie! Luv ya dahlin'! Normally, I don't care for western movies because I am very sensitive on American Indian issues. American Indians are the main issue that pisses me off when it comes to the US Government. So it was nice seeing a western FINALLY present them in good way!

Author's Note After seeing both one and two on the same night, I've decided something! NONE of them die! Not even Dirty Steve! 'Cause their adorable, and I heart them! No dying on me! Charley, Dick, and Dirty Steve are alive! And Doc, Chavez, and Billy live too! No dying like in second movie! It was about 3 in the morning when I saw the second movie…and it just about killed me 'cause everyone was dying! So ha! No more dying for you! Except…John's still dead. Because, if he hadn't died, we wouldn't have our outlaws.
Also, I am of Irish descent. Irish is on both my mother and fathers side. So Murphey REALLY pisses me off, but just as there are bad Irishmen there are bad Englishmen coughPrince Charlescough.

01. The OutLaw Star

Isabeau was on the run. She pushed her horse into the wind hard. The wind whipped passed her, and caused her hat to fall back, allowing her long brown hair to be free. She looked back and saw the U.S. Calvary starting to fall back. She was loosing them. Thank god. Night was beginning to fall as she entered the border of New Mexico. It had been months since she left Idaho territory, but she had finally made it.

Isabeau was an Indian fighter a.k.a. she fought for the Indians and against the U.S. Calvary. She helped the Indian's that were being repressed, and killed Buffalo Soldiers if they tried harming them. Her parents had brought her up on fighting for the Indians. Both of them didn't understand why the American government oppressed them. Her mother and father had been first generation born from French grandparents. Isabeau had never seen France. She had grown up in Idaho territory and the Indians had been her neighbors. She had often spent time her free time and summers with the tribes of the area, teaching her how to survive, and how to protect herself. While they taught her how to use a knife in combat, and use a bow and arrow, her father gave her lessons in traditional European combat – fencing. His father had taught him, and since Isabeau had been a girl, her father thought it couldn't hurt for her to learn – he had to pass the tradition on somehow.

At one time, her father's sword had been with her. It was the most difficult thing she had ever done in her life, but she ended up pawning it off for some money. She used her knifes normally, but in emergencies, she had her gun. Unfortunately, she wasn't the greatest shot, but she was working on it. Left with little money, she often pick pocketed money or bullets, or when she really needed money, robbing was always fun. She chose quite towns with little stores. She had enough honour to never ask for all the money. $20 always went a fairly long way for her, and she had not yet harmed anyone when she robbed. Of coursed she threatened, but that was the way it worked.

She dismounted Jax, her horse, and tied a long, thin rope to the rains, and tied it to her ankle. She took the blanket off from under her saddle and covered up. Jax grazed on what food he could find. Tomorrow, she would find water for them both; a pump, a well, just something. In the middle of the night, she was awakened by Jax lying next to her. She went back to sleep and drifted away into her only means of escape – dreamworld.

Images drifted into her mind, but left quickly. It was like they were lost in the shadows : finding their way into the light, only to sink into darkness again. A face suddenly jumped at her inside her dream; the face of the man who had killed her parents.

Isabeau sat up. Sweat beaded her forehead. She had killed this man only a few weeks after he had hung her parents. Her first kill. The memories of that event, she knew, would echo within her memory forever. She didn't like killing, but she did when she had too.

The sun had risen; it was probably 7:30 in the morning. She shivered as she realized the ground was covered in frost. Jax was on his feet, ready to go. Isabeau placed the blanket back under the saddle and hooked it back together. Swinging one leg over another, she made her way south. If she could reach Las Cruces, she would be lost amongst the crowded streets; no Buffalo Soldiers could track her down there.

It had been a few days since she had some food, but she was used to it. As she rode south, she came across a small spring that seemed to be coming from out of the mountains. Isabeau filled her stomach's worth, filled her canteens, and let Jax drink his own fill. "Drink up, Jax, it may be a while before you drink out of a spring." She stroked his fur as he drank. Once finished, she headed out.

Days passed, and Isabeau made quite a path through New Mexico. She would often get off of Jax to stretch her legs and to give him a break. Some nights were filled with scary dreams of the man. Sometimes they brought back memories of her childhood spent with the Indians. But most night were filled with the massacre that she had witness three to four years back, before she became what she was now.

New Mexico became drier and more barren than she had thought. Lincoln was only a few days ride away, and she was so hungry. She ate what little food she had left and let Jax graze while she figured out what to do.

Horses hooves.

Isabeau look up. "Damn!" It was the Buffalo Soldiers. She whistled for Jax, who ran to her side. She threw herself unto the saddle and took off like a bat out of hell. They must not have spotted her, because they didn't even bother with trying to catch her.

She had finally arrived in a small town, whatever one it was, she had no idea. Though off her goal by a few hundred miles, it was better than what was outside of Lincoln. She tied up Jax and let him drink as she looked around. Making sure her hair was concealed inside her hat, and enough dirt on her face to convince others she was a boy, she looked around town.

She stopped inside a salon/restaurant. There she ordered some bread and beef. She snorfed down the beef and packed up the bread in her pockets. She looked around the place. At a table sat six younger men, in about their twenties. She looked over and made eye contact with the youngest member of the gang. He winked, and Isabeau looked away.

"Hey kid, come over here."

Isabeau looked back. "Me?"

"Yes, you, kid."

Isabeau put on her most boyish face and strode over, although she wasn't very good at it. "Well?"

"What you staring at us for?"

Isabeau gazed slightly at the other men before going back to the young man. "Nothing."

A man with blond hair looked up from his book. "You got a home, boy?"

"No, sir, my family's dead." Oh no, not another foster-home-searching group. She didn't want to be put into another stranger's house like she had after her parents' deaths.

The group of men huddled together, but a native kept glancing up and squinting at her. Something told her he could see though the disguise – that she could not be a boy.

She had to get out, and fast. She needed money and bullets. She grabbed the coin purse and a bag full of bullets from the younger man, and ran out the door.

"HEY!" he screamed.

She heard a click of a gun, but kept running. Suddenly, a sharp pain rendered through her thigh, and she fell to the ground, smacking her head on the trough, just a few feet from Jax.