The Girls on the Platform
The town went still.
Even the wind seemed quieter for a moment.
The lawman looked down from the platform.
Unshaken.
But cautious now.
His eyes dropped briefly to the revolver in the cowboy’s hand.
Then back to his face.
“Careful, stranger,” he said evenly. “This doesn’t concern you.”
The cowboy didn’t move.
Didn’t blink.
Only looked toward the three veiled girls.
Too quiet.
Too frightened.
The oldest lowered her eyes instantly when he looked her way.
Like she had already learned not to speak.
Something about that settled wrong in his chest.
“Funny thing,” the cowboy muttered.
“Starts concernin’ me when people look that scared.”
Dust drifted between them.
The girls stood close together.
Hands trembling beneath worn sleeves.
The youngest shifted slightly.
Afraid.
The cowboy noticed.
The lawman straightened.
“Orders from the county,” he said firmly.
“They’re being transferred.”
The cowboy’s jaw tightened.
“Transferred where?”
No answer came immediately.
Just silence.
Too long.
Too careful.
The cowboy stepped closer to the platform.
Boots heavy against the wood below.
Then—
quietly—
one of the girls whispered through her veil,
“Please…”
Barely loud enough to hear.
“Don’t leave.”
Everything changed.
The cowboy looked up slowly.
Expression harder now.
Colder.
He rested a hand near his belt.
Not threatening.
Certain.
Then spoke in a low voice—
“Seems like county business just became mine.”
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