The bottle of booze was in Rose's hand when the shots rang out. Her gloved hand clenched around the neck rather than dropping it, a long honed instinct from when she was handling things much more dangerous than a glass bottle. Also from long experience, she froze, shoulders jerking, rather than flailing around in fear. All that would do was make her a bigger target.

The other patrons of the saloon weren't quite so experienced. The real cowboys were up in a second, hands on their guns but unwilling to shoot the trigger-happy undertaker in their midst; her girls were screaming, cowering beneath tables or, in some lucky cases, behind the broad shoulders of the men. Rose herself slammed her hands over her ears as more than one bottle shattered behind her.

And, of course, Archie missed. [i]Missed[/i] from three feet away. 

There was blood dripping down Rat's face, but it was far from a killing blow, and all it did was piss him off. Shouts erupted from all sides, people demanding to know what was going on, for Archie to put the gun down, for Sheriff Rey to do something, and Rose could see seven thousand dollars slipping out of her fingers as Rat (smartly) bolted toward the door.

So she did what only she could.

Rose vaulted onto the bartop, the ruffles of her skirts flying with a flash of skin beneath as she stood feet above everyone else, bottle still clutched in her hand, and bellowed in the voice that had filled the big top.

"A THOUSAND DOLLARS TO WHOEVER BRINGS ME THAT MAN ALIVE!"