Miss Penny Waistcoat tossed and turned. Finally, giving a great sigh of exasperation, she flung the covers from her and arose. Some dame with mighty bellows was demanding to know things and Penny was going to find out what and why!

Enough with this damn playacting, I'ma gonna show them mah true calurs* (*'bout time I kicked some arse around here!*) she thought. Throwing her nightgown to the floor, she stepped into her Wild West costume, with fringed leather skirt and matching vest; high-necked, yet provacative silk blouse of a shimmering green which matched her eyes, and lastly, her high boots of the softest leather both sides of the Pecos. She might not have been born and bred within hollering distance of the High Sierra, but she'd learned the part. Strapping on her belt with the dual, tooled leather with silver studded holsters, she took out first one six-shooter, then the other, checked the chambers to make double sure they were full (she always kept them loaded, but never failed to check), spun the cylinders, and stuck one of them back in its holster. With the other one in her hand, cocked and ready to aim, she slowly opened her cabin door.