Quiet, too quiet
Watching, watching everything
Smiling, that ever present half smile

She doesn't walk, she moves with purpose
She doesn't blink, ever
She doesn't take her glove off, ever
Or the heavy pistol at her side

Forget the eye, watch the hands.

Tall and slim, almost thin
Dark chestnut hair
Blue eye, the colour of no other

Usually dressed plainly in sturdy clothes
An occasional glint under her short coat
A wide hat worn low shadowing her eye
A bright scarf the only real colour

Everything about her seems deadly
The heavy shotgun held on her hip
The shells looped into her pants
The worn pistol hanging low by her side
The large knife, almost a short sword
The flat stare under the brim of her hat

The tattered crow suddenly appearing on her shoulder at times croaks harshly, a warning ? a greeting ? or just a plain bird with red eyes and scraggly feathers ?