The black clad rider was just in time. The afternoon stage, on the trail below, was fast approaching The Whispering Bandit’s hiding place in a stand of pine on a rise to the right of the trail.
As the rumbling coach came close, the bandit pulled a Winchester rifle from the saddle sheath.
The coach passed by and the bandit rode out from cover and with rifle held high with the left hand guided the big black stallion down the rise and into the spewing cloud of dust rising behind the churning wheels of the stage.
The bandit was almost immediately parallel with the coach’s boot. Right arm reached out and body stretched as the bandit grasped the rail on top of the stage, lifted out of the saddle and swung up onto the roof top. The black stallion drifted off to the right and kept pace, following.
The shotgun guard started to turn as the bandit landed behind him with a thud muffled by the clamoring rattle of coach and thundering hoofs of the six up team, up ahead.
Hard, cold steel pressed hard into the guard’s thick neck and he froze with shotgun still held low; too late to raise. He tossed it off the side as indicated by the menacer behind him.
It caught the driver’s attention almost immediately, but he too knew they were held at bay. The bandit’s whisper was hardly audible, but the driver knew he was being instructed to keep driving. Wheels kept churning.
“Strong box!” The bandit instructed the guard. “Over the side.”
He reached down into the boot beneath his feet, lifted the box and shoved it over the side.
As the box went over, landing in the dirt as the stage rolled on by, the guard grinned wryly, but with still a hint of fear on his face as he looked back at the bandit. “Looks like you’re out of luck, feller!” He shouted. “Look!” He pointed off to his left.
Appearing on a ridge some distance away, three men were snaking their mounts down the incline. Sunlight glinted off metal on vests. Law!
Gib Randall and his two deputies had ridden out to guard the stage. They had topped the ridge in time to see The Whispering Bandit take over the stage, but the stage was already passing them by.
It only took a glance for the bandit to quickly decide. With a hard shove, the outlaw pushed the guard off the side. He landed hard in the dirt.
In almost the same motion, the bandit smashed a fist into the driver’s face. As he fell back, the outlaw grasped the leathers from his hands and gave him a shove too. He, too, went over the side.
The outlaw dropped the rifle in the boot, used both hands to take over the reins and urged the teams to greater speed.
The stage had put distance between it and the posse, by the time Randall and his deputies made it to the trail behind the fleeing coach. They urged their mounts to full gallop; guns drawn.
They quickly closed the distance and began firing their pistols even before obtaining pistol range. They were careful to shoot high. They couldn’t risk stray shots hitting passengers inside the coach. The shots were more for warning and effect than anything else.
As the stage rolled on, the bandit would occasionally glance back and see the posse coming closer. The teams were tiring and beginning to falter. A crack of a bull whip over their backs pushed them to faster, longer strides.
Off to the right, the big black stallion was keeping pace alongside with strong strides; neck stretched forward, black mane and outstretched tail flying in the wind.
The posse paid no attention to the discarded strongbox as they passed by, horses hooves kicking dirt and debris over it as if it were worth nothing. As they passed near the fallen guard on the trail, one deputy fell back, slowing his horse, leaping from the saddle and running to the still figure. Gib and the other deputy continued on in pursuit; passing by the driver who had already risen to his feet and apparently not too worse for wear. They were closing the distance behind the stage, now. They refrained from firing weapons and concentrated on closing the gap.
The bandit, looking back, saw the lawmen closing in. It wouldn’t be long before the stage would be overtaken! One more crack of the bullwhip and then the bandit tossed the leathers forward to fall beneath the teams’ galloping hoofs. The bandit turned to the right, stood and leaped off the side to land in the saddle aboard the gallant black stallion.
With a twist of the reins, the bandit turned the black to the right and galloped off to the east.
Seeing the bandit riding off, leaving the coach without a driver, Gib Randall motioned to his deputy to follow, overtake and stop the runaway.
Meanwhile he turned his own mount and rode off after the fleeing bandit.
****
Chapter Thirteen
The Whispering Bandit Page 12