“One thing has been botherin’ me girl,” Cyclone started to say.
“Here it comes,” Kitty thought to herself. She knew her grandfather had been dying to ask it ever since they slipped off the train when it stopped for water at Junction Station.
The train robbers had been tended to and incarcerated in the train’s freight car. The Wildcats knew that when the train would finally arrive in Kansas City, the local authorities would be waiting to come aboard and take custody of the outlaws. Even if the authorities would only be interested in them as witnesses, they couldn’t take the chance that they might be recognized as wanted themselves.
It had been a long, hot, grueling trek from the station at Junction Flats to Century City, a good three quarters of a mile away.
The shiny new shoes the men were wearing were thickly covered with dust and perspiration had started to seep into the new suits. The men carried the luggage; one bag for each of them. Rap carried three; one for himself and two for Kitty. He didn’t know why Kitty needed more than the rest of them, but he didn’t really care. He would do anything for Kitty. He didn’t seem to wonder why one of the others couldn’t help.
They had been in Century City for almost two hours, now. Kitty had purchased tickets for them all, and they were waiting for the next stagecoach out of town.
They were all tired and their feet still hurt from the long hike in new store bought shoes that were obviously made more for fashion than comfort of walking cross country. Conversation had dwindled down to none at all while they waited. Cyclone had been stewing about something the whole time, Finally, he brought it up.
“Girl, I want to know, Just where did you get that derringer that you pulled on them gents?” He was angry because he already knew the answer.
“From Jim, of course, Grampa,” she said flippantly.
“From Jim! I knowed it all the time. You got it from that Dandy.”
“Then why did you ask, Grampa?”
“I... I just wanted to hear you say it. No! Doggone it! I didn’t want to hear that.”
“Well make up your mind, Grampa. Jim thought I might need it to protect the money. He was right, wasn’t he?”
“Sure he was,” Cyclone blubbered. “That’s what makes me so durned mad. It’s Jim, this and Jim that. He’s the one who keeps savin’ us our money. Gettin’ so you won’t need your old grandpa no more.”
“Oh, Grampa,” Kitty said, taking his big hand in hers and squeezing it. “I’ll always need you and you know it.”
“Then how come you didn’t let me have a gun instead of packin’ them away?
“Because, you would’ve brought it out blazing at the first hint of any trouble.”
“You’re durn tootin’, I would.” Cyclone affirmed.
“See what I mean,” Kitty said. “You would’ve imagined trouble and we would have been in the middle of some fracas, we didn’t need to be in.”
“Imagine? I don’t imagine anything.”
“You thought that man on the train was a Pinkerton detective. If you had a gun you would have been pulling it out.”
“Maybe he wasn’t a Pinkerton man, but he was a dad burned outlaw.”
“Never mind, Grampa. You’re still the man around here. I still need you, So quit your pouting and get ready. Here comes the stage now.”
From down the street, the big Studebaker coach with three teams of horses thundered into town. Stage drivers always liked to whip up the teams for that last short distance as they came into town. It was a show to give the impression of speedy transportation. Seldom if ever did they travel that fast on the main routes.
Kitty, Cyclone and the others gathered their things and were getting ready as the six-up horses whipped passed them, slowing to a halt, bringing the coach up close in front of them.
A dust cloud lingered over them and the coach as the driver brought the entire entourage to a halt.
The driver secured the brake, tied off the reins and hopped down from the boot. He was a spindly man with narrow shoulders and a thick beard covering his cheeks.
“Stand back, everybody,” he ordered as he attended to the stagecoach door to let passengers out.
There were four passengers; two men and two women. There were expressions of annoyance as they had to step down and squeeze between the coach and waiting Wildcats. They hurried away toward the express office door. An attendant had come out and climbed up onto the stage and started handing luggage down to the driver. There had been no shotgun guard on this run.
“I don’t know about this, Kitty,” Cyclone said. “I don’t like the idea of ridin’ on a stagecoach. It ain’t safe.”
“Of course it is, Grampa,” Kitty said.
“Oh, I don’t think so,” Cyclone said. “You never know when some owlhoots might come along and try to stick it up.”
“Oh, Grampa. Who’s going to hold us up?’
“We might,” Arapahoe put in. “We hold up stages all the time.”
“You dumb idjit,” Cyclone blustered. “We can’t hold ourselves up.”
“We can’t?’
“No, we can’t”
“Well then,” Rap beamed with glee. “We got nothin’ to worry about.”
“Me worry-um about you, crazy paleface,” Chief said.
It was cramped inside the stage. Fortunately, the Wildcats were the only passengers. Even though the seats were made to accommodate three passengers each, they did not comfortably seat three big men, as was the case of Cyclone, Arapahoe and Chief.
Kitty and Jeremy were smaller, so they sat in the rear seat with Cyclone. Across the aisle facing them, Rap and Chief sat riding backward.
The driver and the attendant were still tying down luggage on the roof of the coach.
Kitty had still kept her hatbox with her; on her lap.
“Ah, Cy,” Rap said. “You know I can’t ride backward.”
“Oh, hell,” Cyclone groaned. He pushed himself up, bent over and head bumping the top of the coach.
Rap did the same and the two seemed to do a dance, falling all over and around each other and finally falling into the appropriate seat. Everyone else was squishing from side to side, making room to accommodate the transfer.
They had just settled themselves when the stage door opened wide.
A man stood there looking into the coach. His upper torso and head filled the opening. He was a big man about fifty. He had a drooping salt and pepper mustache. His eyes were dark and stern. A sheriff’s star was pinned to the tan leather vest he wore
The Wildcats froze in silence. Their eyes flitted back and forth to each other and to the lawman.
“Sorry to bother you folks,” the lawman said flatly. His voice was deep and raspy. He didn’t sound apologetic. “I’m Sheriff Tom Vestry.”
Kitty and the others breathed a sigh of relief. At least his lawman was not after them. Yet. But their apprehension prevailed. They just hoped that it didn’t show.
“I’m afraid, I’m going to have to ask you slide together and make room for an extra passenger. He grabbed the side rail next to the coach door and hefted his large frame up into the coach. He slid into the space next to Chief and Cyclone; wriggling his big butt to and fro squeezing Chief up against Cy and pinching him up against the outside wall of the coach.
Cyclone hunched his shoulders and held his arms straight down, clasping his hands together between his knees. “Dad burned law-dog,” he muttered to himself.
“Did you say something, sir?” The sheriff asked.
“No. No,” Cyclone said defensively “Just sayin’, just you make yourself comfortable.” He flashed a fake smile. Then turned away to grimace toward the window.
“Are you just traveling, Sheriff?” Kitty asked, keeping her voice demure. “Or....” she continued hesitantly, “Are you expecting trouble?”
The lawman glared at her with steely eyes.
Suddenly, the sound of a bullwhip snapped. The stage lurched forward as the driver could be heard shouting. “Heeah”
/> The coach rattled and bounced on the leathers as it rumbled off into the street. Dust spewed up from the wheels and drifted in through the windows.
“Nothing for you to worry about,” The sheriff said as they all bounced against each other while trying to settle down in their seats.
“I didn’t see a shotgun rider,” Jeremy said. “So I assume there’s nothing of value being shipped.”
The coach was already out of town by now and the driver slowed the teams down to a mere trot.
“Don’t be alarmed if I tell you, we’re carrying a hundred thousand dollars on this run.”
Cyclone, squashed as he was, could’ve fallen out of his seat. He half choked and coughed. “Hundred thousand,” he gasped to himself.
The sheriff leaned forward to look around Chief at Cyclone. “You said something, sir? The noise of the coach and horses is just too loud.”
The lawman’s attention lingered a little longer than Cyclone was comfortable with. He stared directly into Cyclone’s face. There was a hint of recognition in Vestry’s dark eyes, but he again, sat back in his seat as if he had determined that he was probably mistaken.
“Nothing,” Cyclone gasped, stifling his cough. He glanced at Kitty. She didn’t seem amused. She just nodded back and forth, signaling him to remain calm.
“There’s no guard because we didn’t want to attract attention,” the sheriff continued in response to Jeremy’s comment. “We thought it would be safer if I just rode along inside. If there’s an outlaw anywhere close by, I’ll know it.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.” Cyclone thought to himself. He squeezed farther down in his seat.
“I can smell an outlaw a mile away,” the lawman continued to boast.
Rap, who had remained quiet ever since the arrival of the big sheriff leaned close to Kitty and whispered, “You think I smell, Kit?”
“Course not,” she whispered back. “Just relax and keep quiet.”
They had seen the lawman watching them as they spoke, but Kitty was sure he couldn’t have heard them.
The stage rolled on for miles. The cramped quarters, the jouncing coach and dust pouring in through the windows all made the trip seem long and endless. The passengers rode in silence. Cyclone pretended to go to sleep.
Across the aisle, Rap was asleep. Kitty stayed alert and occasionally glanced across the way at Chief and the lawman. She would smile slightly whenever the sheriff caught her looking at him, then she would look away out the window. The dust had died down. The desert had passed away behind them, Trees and green grass was now more prevalent as scenery.
They had travelled for about two hours, when the stage started to slow down. Cyclone sat up more erect, opening his eyes and readying himself for trouble.
Arapahoe jerked suddenly awake. His hat had slid down over his brow. He sat up straight and adjusted the hat. “Wh.....what,” he muttered. “Are we there yet?”
“Driver’s just stopping to rest the horses and give them a drink,” Sheriff Vestry said flatly.
“Whoa, whoa,” they could hear the driver calling to his teams. The stage rolled to a halt.
There was an opening in the roof of the stage, just under the driver’s seat, so he could communicate with his passengers. They all could see him wrapping reins around the brake pole.
“Giving the horses a breather,” the driver called down. “You folks, might want to get out and stretch or whatever.” He winked at Kitty. She quickly looked away.
Vestry was quick to open the door on his side and shoved his big frame out, stepping down into the gravel road. He turned back toward the stage urging the others to step out.
By the time they all exited the coach, the driver had already turned his attention to the water barrel stored at the rear of the vehicle. He had opened it and was dipping a wooden bucket into the water.
Rap was stretching, grunting and arching his back as if trying to get the kinks out. Cyclone, ever on guard, made no extraneous moves, whatsoever. Kitty was gathering the folds of his dress, shaking the wrinkles out of them.
The driver had just crossed in front of them on the way to his horses with a full water bucket in each hand, when Sheriff Tom Vestry pulled his gun. “Don’t anybody move!” He ordered.
“Gol Dang it,” Cyclone muttered. So, the sheriff had recognized them all along.
The driver stopped dead in his tracks, set down the water buckets and turned around in surprise.
“Now get your hands up!” Vestry shouted.
“I thought you told us not to move,” Rap said a bit confused.
“That’s right,” the lawman answered. “Now I want you to get your hands up.”
Cyclone, Kitty, Chief and Jeremy were glancing back and forth to each other and back to the lawman. Slowly they raised their hands as ordered.
“Just do as the man said,” Cyclone said to Rap.
Rap looked to each of his companions and seeing them with their hands up, he slowly raised his. “I just wish he’d make up his mind,” Rap grumbled.
“What gives, here, Tom?” the driver asked in bewilderment.
“Goes for you too, Amos,” the lawman said. “Get your hands up too.”
At that moment three horsemen rode out of the brush and brought their horses to a sliding halt in the road bed, next to them.
“I said get them up!” Vestry repeated.
The driver set his buckets down and straightened up, his hands lifted slowly to just below shoulder level. “What’ going on, Tom?’ he asked again.
“This is a holdup,” Vestry answered. There was a slight chuckle in his voice.
“You mean the passengers tried to hold us up? Then how come you got a gun on me?”
“You idiot,” Vestry said. “I’m holding you all up.”
The three riders had dismounted and had their guns out.
“But.....but,” Amos stammered. “You’re the sheriff.
“Of course I’m the sheriff. And this is a stick up.”
“You... you’re not afraid I won’t tell on you?” The driver’s eyes were bulging wide with fear. He already knew the answer.
“No, because you won’t live to tell it,” he answered. Then he shot poor Amos where he stood.
Then to the three men, “Get the loot from the boot, then see what our friendly travelers have for us.”
One man went quickly to the front of the stage and climbed up toward the boot. The other two turned their attention to the passengers.
Kitty was still holding her hat box with the money in it. One bandit stepped up to her while the other one went to Chief and started to pat him down.
“Well, well, little lady, let’s see what you got.” He tried to jerk the hat box out of her hand. She resisted and he pulled harder. He yanked harder and when she let go, he stumbled backward. His pistol barrel tipped skyward. The hat box broke open and bundles of cash spilled out.
Kitty cut loose with her derringer, she had held hidden under the folds of her skirt.
The bandit took the pellet in the right shoulder. A small hole appeared and blood streamed out.
The bandit frisking Henry, taken by surprise, wheeled about and Kitty shot him in the shoulder before he knew what was happening.
Vestry, still standing over the fallen driver, twisted on his heel, taking in the situation in one swift glance. He brought his pistol up to bear on Kitty. Her little weapon still trailing powder-smoke, was empty. Her eyes met with Vestry’s. There was an angry snarl on his face and he squeezed the trigger.
Kitty’s eyes closed and she heard the thundering roar of pistol fire.
She felt nothing. Then she heard another shot and a thud. After a moment, she blinked her eyes open.
Tom Vestry was lying in the dirt, clutching his right leg with his right hand. A crimson trickle oozed out between his fingers. His pistol lay in the dirt a foot away from him. Off to his left, the bandit who had climbed up to the boot, lie still on his back. A big splotch of red stained the middle of his shirt.<
br />
The Cyclone Kid was standing over the bandit lawman. His six-shooter was aimed directly at Vestry’s head, only an inch away. “I know who you are, now,” Vestry growled between clenched teeth. “You’re The Cyclone Kid.”
“If you say so,” Cyclone muttered.
“Then,” he said looking around at the others. “She must be the one they call Wildcat Kitty and the others are the rest of your gang.”
“Good thing for us, you didn’t recognize us sooner,” Cyclone chuckled.
“Grampa!” Kitty shouted. “Where did you get that gun?”
“While you was busy buyin’ our tickets, I took it from my suitcase and tucked it away under my belt out of sight, so’s you wouldn’t know about it. Good thing I did too. That little pea shooter your beau Jim give you was only going to get you killed. Looks like I did better for you this time than that dandy fella.”
“Oh, Grampa,” Kitty said. “I knew I couldn’t get along without you.”
“You’re durn tootin, gal.”
****
Chapter Five
Wildcat Kitty and The Cyclone Kid Ride Again Page 5