LADY OUTLAWS
By
Ellen Ashe
© copyright October 2005, Ellen Ashe
Cover art by Eliza Black, © copyright October 2005
ISBN 1-58608-755-x
New Concepts Publishing
Lake Park, GA 31636
www.newconceptspublishing.com
This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, and places are of the author’s imagination and not to be confused with fact. Any resemblance to living persons or events is merely coincidence.
This book is proudly dedicated to my best friend of thirty-three years, Edith Rector. She has patiently endured my obsession of the Wild West, and I have dragged her into this story as my side-kick. A special thank-you to my husband, Stuart, who has nurtured my every step of the writing process! Words could never describe how important both of you are to me.
Chapter One
“Ladies and Gentlemen, could I please have your attention.” Holding a microphone toward a plastic smile, the tour guide waited until the audience’s conversation dulled to a low mumble. “My name is Sissy,” she chirped, “and it gives me great pleasure to welcome all of you to Frontier Land.”
"She looks like a Sissy,” Bonnie whispered.
Janet stifled a giggle. “Be nice. I’m sure she’s gone through this routine a hundred times, so listen and learn.”
“In a few minutes,” Sissy went on, “the bus will be taking all of you new cowboys and cowgals to Dry Gulch for your week-long reality experience of the Wild West, so take one last look around at civilization as you know it.”
The anxious group of about thirty threw glances at each other and the concrete walls of the information center. Each was dressed according to the persona they had chosen. Men were adorned with wide-brimmed hats, ankle-length greatcoats, faded trousers and knee-high boots while the women shuffled uncomfortably under long skirts, bustles and high-necked blouses. Meticulously suited, each and every one could have walked directly from a group photo taken from a dusty 1880’s Texas town.
“The town of Dry Gulch already has a thriving population of a hundred and thirty three citizens,” Sissy sang. “Once you get there it will be impossible to distinguish between tourist and staff. But that doesn’t matter because you all will be taking part in taming our great frontier.”
“Won’t be too difficult to pick you two out,” said a sarcastic voice beside Bonnie. She turned to see a Wyatt Earp look-a-like give her the once-over. He was sneering down at her from beneath a bushy black moustache.
Bonnie had convinced her best friend that it would be by far more comfortable to spend the week dressed in trousers and loose fitting shirts. The costume designer at the center had chosen lovely long dresses for them and balked when each stated they wanted cow ‘boy’ garb. “Women rarely dressed as men,” she said strictly, peering knowingly over glasses perched on the end of her nose. “Except for the occasional lady outlaw.”
“Fine,” Bonnie had answered defiantly. She didn’t appreciate being spoken to like a novice, especially since she considered herself a self-taught expert on the ways of the West. It was true, however, that frontier women kept their place as subservient homemakers, dressing conservatively in order to please their husbands. The exception to the rule was rare. But Bonnie considered herself an exception. “Then outlaws we’ll be.”
After a short pause the elderly woman tutted. Regardless of her obvious disapproval she found them trousers and shirts, jackets and boots. “I suppose you’ll be wanting guns as well?” she asked wryly.
“But of course,” Bonnie insisted. “Might as well go the whole hog.”
Now, as Wyatt Earp continued to give her a malicious frown, Bonnie flipped aside her buckskin jacket to show him her imitation Colt 44, neatly tucked in her belt. “If yer lookin’ fer a fight, stranger,” she grinned, putting on her best Texan accent, “I’m ready.”
“You’re really getting into this, aren’t you?” Janet said, pulling her friend off to one side. “We’re not even in town yet and you’re asking to get shot!”
“I don’t think these paintball bullets are going to do much harm,” Bonnie answered. “I’d be more careful who I challenged if the bullets were real.”
“Somehow I doubt that,” Janet retorted. “If you had been born back then with the disposition you have now, you’d never have made it past twenty-five.”
There was likely an element of truth to Janet’s comment. For as long as Bonnie could remember, she had been fascinated with the “Wild West”, hungrily reading novels about cowboys and gamblers and lawmen and the sordid women that entertained them. She even had a video collection that included everything from True Grit to Young Guns. And she was very aware that this wild section of history paid no favors to cowards or wimps or those who thought all creation should evolve around their pumped-up egos. No, this was an era when men were truly men--strong, daring, handsome, brave--and women stood by them no matter what. This holiday was the closest thing she was ever going to come to actually crawling inside the pages of a book or the shimmering light on the television screen. This holiday she was going to meet a man who would be brave enough to tame her passions. This holiday she was going to meet a cowboy worthy of those passions. And that man was definitely not this counterfeit Wyatt Earp.
“Right,” Sissy blurted into the microphone. “The bus is here to take us into the town. No more hamburgers or running water for any of you,” she tittered, waving the shuffling crowd towards the doors.
Once everyone was inside and the bus lumbered onto the lonely dirt road across the plain, Sissy went into an automatic monologue on the history of Dry Gulch. Established in 1865, it was a lonely trading post for buffalo hunters living in tents. Within a year it grew to include saloons, a hotel, and several stores. The inhabitants included not only buffalo hunters but also cowboys herding long-horned cattle on the arduous trail to Kansas, soldiers on leave from a nearby fort, and gamblers who preyed on the flow of easy money.
“What about prostitutes?” Bonnie shouted out.
The question stopped Sissy in mid-breath; people in the front seats turned to stare at the troublemaker in their midst.
“Well,” Bonnie said, meeting the critical eyes directed at her. “If this is as authentic as the brochure brags, then all those wild men would eventually be looking for more than a cup of tea and a game of cards.”
“Yes, ah, well,” Sissy stuttered, “I suppose that’s true. Our licensing law, however, doesn’t include ... prostitution.” She blushed fiercely.
“Just checking,” Bonnie said, sinking back into the seat.
“Will you behave,” Janet said, nudging Bonnie’s elbow. Despite the scolding Janet was concealing a grin behind a cupped palm.
After nervously clearing her throat, Sissy lapsed into her memorized speech. “Once you are all dropped off in front of the hotel, we leave you to your own devices, to enjoy all the amenities that the town has to offer.” There was a disappointed male ‘humph’ from the back the bus. Obviously another had wondered about the availability of certain houses for ‘sporting’ men. “If, however, there is an emergency and you need to get back to the information center, speak to the sheriff and he will arrange a return trip for you. But only for an emergency,” she said, waving her finger like an austere schoolteacher. “Otherwise, ladies and gentlemen, you are definitely trapped in the year of our Lord, 1885.”
“I can’t wait to get away from that voice,” Bonnie mumbled as she peeked out the window to see the town loom closer. A flutter of butterflies erupted in her stomach. This looked exactly like a movie set, with the false-front buildings and meandering townsfolk. As she leaned over Janet for a better view, she sighed heavily. “Do you think they hired a few movie stars to
parade up and down the street?”
Janet laughed sardonically. “Oh, I’m sure Robert Redford and Paul Newman will be standing there to greet us. All the outlaws back then were that gorgeous.”
“Wouldn’t that be nice?” Bonnie said dreamily, recognizing the dripping sarcasm behind Janet’s remark but ignoring it. Few nineteenth century scoundrels, if any, had movie-star good looks, if the old photos were much to go by. Still, they were real men; something that the twenty-first century had so few of as far as Bonnie was concerned. And that in itself was incredibly appealing.
“Here we are,” Sissy exclaimed with forced enthusiasm. “Now remember,” she said as everyone began rising from their seats. “In order to play along you must use your new names. This will help to fully create the role you all have chosen for yourselves. Good luck, and I’ll be seeing you all again in a week’s time.” She hopped off the bus, smiling inanely, holding out a small basket labeled “TIPS”.
Janet rummaged through her small carpetbag for change. “I wonder if she wants Frontier money or real green backs.”
Like the guns they had been given, the money was counterfeit. The oversized bills weren’t free, however. Bonnie had spent over five hundred dollars, securing almost three thousand in the play money. At least she’d have fun shopping for souvenirs at the various emporiums, drinking a glass or two of sarsaparilla in the saloon and perhaps partaking in a game or two of poker. Even for Dry Gulch and Bonnie’s high expectations, the reality could only go so far.
Janet found a two-dollar coin and slipped it into Sissy’s hand. “Thank ya,” Sissy sang, jutting out her tips basket for more, and scowled when she looked up to see who was next. Bonnie shrugged as she went by, certain she heard the guide mumble a sarcastic, “yeah, right,” and for the first time was sorely tempted to shoot her first paintball right into the center of Sissy’s forehead.
The door on the bus hissed closed. Once it returned to the distant information center, the only modes of transportation were buggies, carts, and horses. Hot, dry dust billowed up to the occasional swirl of a summer breeze. Even a tumbleweed rolled under one of the boardwalks.
“Well?” Janet said. “Is it what you expected?”
Bonnie scanned the street scene with criticism, searching for nuances that might not be as authentic as the brochure had claimed. She was hard-pressed to find anything to complain about. Long skirts stirred the dust as ladies passed by, a few escorted by their men folk, sharing a twirling parasol from the heat of a dying afternoon. A wagon, filled with wooden barrels and being tugged by two donkeys, came round the corner and stopped in front of the General Store. A group of cowboys leaned wicker chairs against the wall outside the saloon while watching the new residents soak in the ambience. “Very impressive,” she admitted finally.
Suddenly, almost as though cued, shouts from inside the shadowed saloon attracted attention. The bat-winged doors flew open as a cowboy stumbled backwards, lost his footing on the outside step, and rolled into the dirt. As he staggered up he pulled a pistol from his holster, pointing it at another man who had raced out after him. They glared at each other with steely hatred.
“Yer cheatin’ days are over, Deuce,” the man on the steps scowled.
“I ain’t no cheat,” the pistol-toting cowboy yelled in return. “I won fair and square and you know it.”
Pedestrians within earshot of the altercation froze on the spot, waiting anxiously to see how the situation would unfold. They didn’t have long to wait. The accuser reached for his gun with lightning speed, followed by the popping of the pulled trigger. Red paint splattered Deuce’s vest. He slumped to his knees, clutching the soiled vest, gasping before falling face first into the dust. The man on the steps holstered his weapon and tipped the black Stetson against the sunlight.
“That’ll learn you to try to cheat Black Jack McCall,” he shouted before spinning on his heel. Spurs jangled as he thumped back inside the shadows of the saloon.
The witnesses held their breath during the pause that followed Black Jack’s exit. When Deuce rolled over and stood, a wave of applause erupted. He smiled and bowed before returning inside as well.
“That was cute,” Janet said. “We now know two staff members.”
“Wow,” Bonnie sighed. Although he had disappeared, she was still visualizing Black Jack. Tall, dashing, and properly dressed, he epitomized everything she believed a western gambler to be. “I think I’m in love.”
Her slow-motion move towards the saloon was abruptly interrupted, however. “Come on,” Janet said, yanking the fringe on Bonnie’s sleeve. “We need to see our room first before you start making yourself available to local ruffians.”
“Bet I could have gotten a shot off at him,” Bonnie said, fingering her Colt.
“That would make an impression, I’m sure,” her friend chuckled. “Put a hole in his chest and then ask for a date. Good one.”
“It is all pretend after all,” Bonnie admitted. “Besides, my sleight of hand might impress him.”
Janet threw curled knuckles to her hip. “He’s an actor,” she said, exasperated. “A twenty-first century actor. And so are you. Just remember that, okay?”
“You’re no fun.”
“I’m here aren’t I? I let you talk me into coming to this reality show, didn’t I? In my book that’s as far as my fun goes. Now come on. I want to see our room.”
The hotel foyer was luxurious. A deep burgundy carpet covered the whole floor, silencing their footsteps. Landscape oil paintings decorated the walls, and at the bottom of the winding staircase a Grandfather clock chimed six times.
“’Afternoon,” came a friendly voice from behind the counter. The slightly hunched attendant smiled while pushing the register over for them to sign. “Welcome to Dry Gulch,” he said in a high-pitched tone.
The sheriff leaned against the counter, proudly displaying his position of authority by thumbing the gold star pinned on his vest. He straightened as the girls approached. “Name's Sheriff Rudin,” he announced, giving them the once-over before shaking their hands in turn. “I’m the law in these here parts so if you ... gals have any problems, you come see me.”
“Why, thank you, sheriff,” Bonnie said. “My name’s Brandi, Brandi Glass, and this here is my partner in crime, Sara Lee Kake.”
The sheriff pinched his lips together to keep from smiling. “Don’t tolerate no crime in Dry Gulch,” he said, blatantly dismissing the scenario that had recently unfolded in the street. “You gals just behave yerselves, you hear?”
“Won’t argue with you there, sheriff,” Bonnie-cum-Brandi said.
“Room four,” the attendant said, handing them a large key. “Top of the stairs, first on the left.” He, too, was stifling a smirk.
“Sara Lee Kake?” Janet whispered in disgust as they made their way upstairs. “I don’t remember mentioning a last name, especially one as silly as that.”
“Well, we’re actors,” Bonnie mocked. “Besides, that has a ring to it.”
“I must have been out of my tiny mind,” Janet chuckled. “I gave up Margaritas and a deck chair on a cruise ship for this?”
“Oh, never mind. Where’s your sense of adventure? Besides, it’s only for a week. You can live with a silly name for one week, can’t you?”
“Certainly, Miss Brandi Glass,” Janet-cum-Sara answered. “But why do I get the feeling that being your sidekick is going to make this week seem like a lifetime?”
“Just paranoid, I guess.” Brandi shrugged. “Relax. What’s the worse that could happen?”
“It says here that Dry Gulch was the scene of ‘a shoot-out worthy of any Hollywood film.’” Brandi stretched across the bed’s quilt while examining the hotel’s complimentary pamphlet. “It says, ‘The dry hot summer of 1885 saw a small, infamous band of desperadoes’ ... oh, I like that,” she grinned, looking up over the edges of the thin book. “Desperadoes. That’s such a sexy word, isn’t it?”
“Keep reading,” Sara said. She was sitt
ing on the edge of her bed, the contents of her carpetbag scattered over the surface. They were allowed a few modern conveniences, one being a camera. It whirred softly as she inserted a roll of forty-eight.
“‘A small band of desperadoes ride into town looking for trouble.’ That’s what I hate about some of these articles,” Brandi complained. “They leave too much to the imagination. What exactly does ‘trouble’ mean?”
“I suppose it means they were a bunch of dirty thugs wanting to get drunk and start a fight,” Sara suggested. She placed the loaded camera back in the bag, sorting out small travel containers of liquid foundation and face powder. “Men back then weren’t any different than now. Drinking and fighting, fighting and drinking. It’s just the setting was different.”
“No bitterness there,” Brandi mumbled before reading further. “‘Trouble they found. Eyewitness accounts state the leader, one Devon Fault, shot and killed a law officer upon attempt of arrest. He was quoted as declaring that he’d never be taken alive. The band of five then shot their way to freedom, leaving behind a town whirling with the shock of being molested by such dastardly acts of violence.’”
“Is that it?” Sara asked.
Brandi scanned the rest of the booklet. “Yep. That’s it. No pictures, no follow-up, no happy endings.”
“I bet it never even happened,” Sara said. “I bet that’s written for the sole reason it leads up to a grand display later. You watch--while we’re here this Devon Fault and his band of desperadoes will show up, looking for trouble. It’d be a crowd pleaser, just like the gamblers at the saloon earlier.”
“How cool would that be?” Jumping to her feet Brandi snatched her Colt from the bureau. “And thanks for reminding me. Come on then Miss Kake. To the saloon.”
“What makes you think they’ll show up there?”
Brandi tutted. “Where else do desperadoes go when they ride into town? Besides, there’s a certain tall glass of water by the name of Black Jack I mean to entertain before the real brawl starts.”
Lady Outlaws Page 1