The stage from Santa Fe was right on time. The early afternoon sun was once again scorching hot. From their vantage point on top of a ridge, Mort Glick and Johnny Leach sat on their horses in the shade of a spreading oak tree.
“Here she comes,” Mort said, grinning as the stage appeared from around a bend in the trail and threaded it way through the pass beneath them. There was only a driver on the box. No guard had been dispatched with this run. “Let’s go,” Mort called to his partner as he lifted the reins and spurred his mount over the edge of the ridge and half sliding down the slope. Leach was close behind.
From the top of a butte, off to the right of where Glick and Leach had sat waiting, a rider on a copper dun sat vigilantly. Steely eyes watched the two men ride off after the stage.
The stage was almost upon them as they slid off the bottom of the slope into the dusty road. They pulled their mounts around and halted, sitting sideways across the trail. Their arms were raised, flagging down the stage. The weapons in their fists were added inducement for the driver.
On seeing the men before him, the driver leaned back, right foot on the brake and hauled hard on the reins. “Whoa, there!” The driver called to his teams. Tobacco stained grey handlebar mustache drooped over his toothless mouth.
The big stage drew to a sliding halt, spewing up a massive cloud of dust engulfing vehicle, horses and riders. The old man held his spindly arms high, still keeping the reins held firmly in hand.
Leach and Glick’s horses shied at the halting coach before them, but they managed to hold them in control.
“’Fraid you fellers are plumb out of luck,” the driver cackled. He sounded almost as if he were laughing, but you couldn’t see his lips beneath the long mustache. “Ain’t carryin’ nothin’ this round.”
“We only want your passengers, old man.” Johnny Leach shouted, waving his pistol menacingly.
“Reckon you’re outta luck on that too,” the old man added. “Ain’t got none.”
“You got Dave Bishop and his bride with you,” Glick put in.
“Well there, sonny, I’m afraid you’re outta luck on that count too. “You see that gol durn Whispering Bandit fella already beat you to it. I guess when he found I warn’t carryin’ no gold, he decided to take my passengers. What for I don’t know. Coulda just taken their money, I suppose. None of my business though. I was just glad he sent we on my way.”
Mort’s eyes flashed partly with anger, partly with disbelief and partly with wonder. “Johnny,” he said. “Check the coach.”
Leach quickly dismounted and ran to the coach, grasping the door handle and flinging the door open. He leaned inside, his right hand brandishing his pistol back and forth in the interior. After a moment, he stepped back. “He’s telling the truth,” Leach said, looking up at Glick.
“How far back did you leave them?” Glick demanded of the driver.
“Couple miles, more or less. I dunno I just kept goin’ and lookin’ straight ahead.”
Mort grimaced angrily. “Get out of here!” He shouted at the driver, pointing his pistol skyward and squeezing the trigger. The stage horses bolted at the blast and the old man simultaneously whipped them up with the reins sending them forward faster. Driver, animals, and vehicle quickly disappeared in the dust; open side door of the stage still flapping loose in the breeze.
“Let’s go get them!” Mort shouted, spurring his horse forward back along the trail. Johnny Leach hurrying to mount up and follow after.
The stagecoach driver didn’t get very far when another rider swerved his copper dun sideways in the trail just ahead. Caleb Gant waved his hands high above his head, signaling the driver to halt. Unlike the two riders before him, he held no visible weapons in his hands, He flashed a big grin as he shouted. “Halooo! Hold up there!”
The driver once again pulled his teams to a halt. He had not yet gotten up to full speed and was already pacing the horses to a more tolerable pace. A mixed expression of annoyance, boredom and humor creeped out around the flowing mustache. “If this ain’t the gol dangdest day ever,” He snorted as he set the brake.
“Just like I told those other fellers, I ain’t carryin’ nothin’ this trip.”
“What about the passengers?” Caleb demanded.
“Them other fellers wanted to know that too. Hell, The Whispering Bandit had already done taken them off’n me some miles back.”
“Thanks for the info, pop,” Caleb said, waving and spurring his horse on back down the trail that Leach and Glick had taken.
The old man sat for a moment, hat off and scratching his thin white haired covered scalp . “Ever body’s gettin’ crazier ever day,” he said to himself. Then slammed his battered hat back on his head, released the brake, clucked to his team and urged them forward. He was already behind schedule. He wondered if anyone else was waiting up ahead to stop him. Oh well. No skin off his nose anyhow. Long as nobody shot him, that is.
“Dave, I can’t walk in these damn high heels any longer,” Angie Allen, now Mrs. David Bishop, complained as the couple trudged along the rough dusty trail. It had been awhile since the stagecoach had disappeared from view far off down the trail.
Angie’s hair was in a state of disarray. Her tight hairdo had wilted in the hot sun and locks were streaming off her sweaty brow. The hem of her brown dress was dragging in the dirt and the folds twisted about her as she tried to move. She was breathing hard with the exertion of trying to walk.
“Can’t you take them off?” Dave Bishop asked. He held her by the left arm trying to hold her up and give her balance. His new blue suit was wrinkled and out of shape, His ruffled white shirt beneath the jacket was soaked with sweat and his new store bought shiny walking shoes were still stiff with newness, yet to be broken in. His feet hurt too.
“Are you crazy?” Angie wailed. “It’s too hot. My feet will burn. I need something on them.” She half stumbled again and Bishop righted her again. She leaned against him.
“Let me get my breath a minute,” she wheezed as she nuzzled her face against his chest.
“Sure. Sure.” he patted her back reassuringly. “We’ll just rest a minute. Then we’ll get off the trail and find some shade for a bit. If we’re lucky, maybe a posse will come looking for us or maybe, even someone might come by and pick us up first.”
“Oh, you think so,” she leaned back and gazed up into his face.
“Sure. Sure,” he said, not wanting to tell her, he thought it unlikely, until the next day’s stage came through. “Let’s just go get out of the sun.” He was gazing about looking for some sort of shelter.
Far off down the trail to the right, he spotted an overhang in a cliff wall and a cluster of rocks strewn about its base. “We might find some shade in those rocks,” He said, lifting and pointing his chin in the general direction.
Angie followed his gaze and said,” But it’s so far,” she wailed.
“It’s the best we can do Ange,” he said. “We’ll just have to tough it out until we get there. You can do that, can’t you?”
She sighed staring off into the distance. “I...I guess so,” she acquiesced.
“That’s my girl,” Bishop said trying to sound optimistic. He pulled away from her, but still holding her arm and led her off to their now determined destination.
They hadn’t traveled very far when from around a far off bend in the trail, a cloud of dust arose shielding dark forms of two horses and riders. Bishop pulled up to a halt, steadying Angie, who had been stumbling along, as he half dragged her along in the dust. His heart lifted and his face burst into a relieved grin. “Look, Angie!’ He shouted. Although he didn’t have to. She could see for herself. “Someone’s coming. We may not be stranded out here for long, after all.”
“Oh, Dave,” she breathed as if renewed with new life. “We’re saved!”
They leaned against each other, waving their arms in the air hoping to attract the riders.
It wasn’t necessary for Mort Glick and Johnny Leach had
already seen them. “There they are!” Mort shouted. They spurred their mounts faster, drawing their pistols.
It wasn’t until the riders were close that Dave and Angie saw the weapons out. Bishop drew his wife close to him and shouted. “We need help! You don’t need guns!” They were suddenly afraid.
The riders drew to a quick sliding halt in front of them; theirs horses slewing sideways across the trail with a cloud of dust rising above them and settling lazily to the ground. The couple’s faces turned ashen with fear; all hope of rescue dwindling fast.
“What the Hell!” Johnny Leach bellowed, still brandishing his pistol. “That ain’t him!”
“Tell me something I don’t know, Johnny,” Mort growled. He leveled his weapon at the frightened pair.
“What do want?” Bishop shouted. He pulled Angie tighter and she buried her face in his chest. The shirt was drenched with sweat. “We’ve been stranded out here. We were looking for help. We’ve got nothing for you, but my wallet. You can have it. Please don’t hurt us. Help us and I’ll give you more money when we get to town. I’ll pay you anything you want.”
“We’re not here to rob you,” Glick said. Then to Johnny, he said as he put his pistol away. “Put your gun away, Johnny. These people need help and they’re willing to pay.”
To the Bishops, Mort said, “We’re not one’s to take advantage of folks in need, Sir, but If you’re grateful enough for us to help you that you want to give us a little something, we’d be obliged. Of course we’d help you even if you didn’t. Wouldn’t we, Johnny?”
“But Mort,” Johnny started to protest. “That’s not what we came out here for?”
“I know that, but what else can we do?”
“But...but...how? We don’t have horses for them.”
“You never heard of riding double. Besides, we’ve got questions that need answering.” Then to the Bishops, he asked. “Were you taken off the stage awhile back?”
“How did you know that?”
“Never mind. Was anybody else taken off?”
“We were the only one’s on the stage.”
“Dave Bishop was supposed to be on that stage. What happened to him?”
Bishop’s face went blank. “What are you talking about……?” He started to say when, all of a sudden, the crack of a rifle sounded. Dust spewed up inches in front of Mort Glick’s horse’s front hooves. The animal shied away, snorting shrilly, and jumped backward bumping into the rump of Leach’s mount shoving him sideways, just as another shot fired and a bullet struck the ground beneath his horse.
Both horses were now dancing around as more bullets plowed into the dirt beneath their hooves. Mort and Johnny hauled hard on the reins, desperately trying to pull their mounts under control. As Mort’s horse spun around he caught a quick glimpse of a rider high on a ridge to the right of the trail. Sunlight glinted off a rifle barrel. A rider clad all in black, with a black mask and astride a magnificent black stallion was outlined against the clear blue sky above the ridge. A Winchester rifle was firmly planted against the rider’s shoulder and bullets were spewing from its barrel as fast as the rider could work the lever.
Without giving thought to the man and woman on the trail, Mort whirled his mount around, shouting to Johnny, “Let’s get the hell out of here!’ He dug his spurs into his horse’s flanks and set him galloping into full speed and off down the trail from whence they had come’ Leach following close behind, urging his mount onward as fast as he could.
Bishop and Angie shuddered and held each other tight at the sudden eruption of rifle fire and the departure of their would have been rescuers. As the rifle fire ceased and silence, with the exception of the sound of pounding hooves as the two men rode away, once again began to surround them, Dave looked up toward the ridge. The Whispering Bandit sat erect in the saddle, sliding the Winchester back into its boot and still gazing down on the trail. “What the hell does he want with us?” Dave mumbled to himself”
Angie straightened, pulling her face away from Bishop’s chest and followed his gaze. She shuddered at the sight of the black almost apparition above them.
“He must have been watching us ever since he took us off the stage,” Angie wailed. “Just waiting around to make sure no one rescued us. Oh, Dave, what does he want?”
“I don’t know,” Bishop said. “But it seems that everything he’s done has been directly aimed at hurting your father and me.”
“But who is he?”
“Damned if I know, but whoever he is , he seems to have an awfully big grudge against us.”
As he said it, The Whispering Bandit, in one last gesture of taunt, with rifle held high above his head in his right hand, reared the black stallion up on hind legs, forelegs pawing at empty air before dropping back to the ground. The black rider whirled the animal around in place, then rode off to disappear behind the ridge, leaving only empty sky behind.
****
Chapter Sixteen
The Whispering Bandit Page 15