Payette. Another town among many towns. It was just as dusty, tired, and quaint as any other town within one hundred miles. One of the more observant folks coming through the Oregon Trail might even think that they've gone in a circle, and ended up back in Boise by accident. Anybody that had lived here a half a day knew better than to say that to the Mayor, whoever that was. Dia couldn't never remember his name, but she had seen the man, speaking chin music to anyone who dared mention this place in any less than a positive manner. He got on her nerves with his incessant banter, but she admired his spirit. He did love this town.
She was leaned against the outside posts of the local deadfall, eyeing the males gambling out front carefully. She wasn't the most attractive woman by petty Eastern standards, but a woman was a woman. It didn't help that her small, five-foot-three frame was not the most imposing sight to behold, but looks could be deceiving. Dia would just as soon shoot a man as warn him to roll a blanket and scoot. It all depended on her mood that day. This reputation was likely the only thing that kept her safe in these parts. For a woman, she dressed with an air a practicality.
Hand-altered, loose jeans. Tanned leather holster for the big iron on her hip: a Smith and Wesson No. 3 Schofield; a gift from her late father. Long, rolled up sleeves on a blood red shirt. An old hat she won from a feller in Boise keeping her long hair out of her eyes, and a duster coat tied diagonally across her chest. Her Bowie knife shined brightly from the open sheath on her other hip, and her back was - on long trips - reserved specially for the Winchester 1873. Nobody could ever say Dia wasn't prepared for any violent situation. That didn't keep the eyeballers from tossing glances at her from a distance, though. A sigh of contentment escaped her lips as the sun shined hard from above. It was a dry heat.
She was leaned against the outside posts of the local deadfall, eyeing the males gambling out front carefully. She wasn't the most attractive woman by petty Eastern standards, but a woman was a woman. It didn't help that her small, five-foot-three frame was not the most imposing sight to behold, but looks could be deceiving. Dia would just as soon shoot a man as warn him to roll a blanket and scoot. It all depended on her mood that day. This reputation was likely the only thing that kept her safe in these parts. For a woman, she dressed with an air a practicality.
Hand-altered, loose jeans. Tanned leather holster for the big iron on her hip: a Smith and Wesson No. 3 Schofield; a gift from her late father. Long, rolled up sleeves on a blood red shirt. An old hat she won from a feller in Boise keeping her long hair out of her eyes, and a duster coat tied diagonally across her chest. Her Bowie knife shined brightly from the open sheath on her other hip, and her back was - on long trips - reserved specially for the Winchester 1873. Nobody could ever say Dia wasn't prepared for any violent situation. That didn't keep the eyeballers from tossing glances at her from a distance, though. A sigh of contentment escaped her lips as the sun shined hard from above. It was a dry heat.
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