This is a work of fiction any similarities between the characters, events, or locations in this story and actual locations, events, or people are purely coincidental.
© 2004 Warlord
Krista led us back to the kitchen entrance. We walked in, to be greeted by Gabrielle coming at a dead run. She launched herself into my arms full speed, staggering me back against the kitchen wall. Gabrielle was silent, holding me tightly, verifying my safety by her touch. Krista smiled as she untangled me from Gaby. K petted Gaby, calming her.
K came close, regarding me carefully. She asked softly, “Are you alright?”
I nodded, as I leaned forward for a kiss. I asked, “How about you?”
She nodded soberly as she said, “It happens so fast! It’s all about our training and conditioned reflexes; only later, you realize the consequences.”
Krista looked up at the clock on the kitchen wall. She pointed and said in a very businesslike tone, “We need to get you to the stage office. J and D will stay here. I’ll drive you. Your clothes and equipment are upstairs. Come along – it’s time for you to get dressed.”
Krista led me upstairs to our room. It was out of my dress clothes, and into work clothes. My shoulder holster and mid back sheath knife both came off and immediately went back on after I dressed in jeans and a cotton shirt.
Dan had picked out a long-barreled Colt in a straight up cross draw holster on the left side, with a Bowie knife on the right side, and twenty-four big .50-95 rifle rounds directly in front. I called it my ‘Texas Ranger’ gun belt, after the many pictures of rangers attired like this before their manhunts. The walnut stock for the Colt went in a pocket on the jacket.
The jacket was sheepskin lined, with a cowhide exterior. The coloring was a kind of a natural camouflage. A short-barreled twelve-gauge shotgun was carried in a scabbard on my back, accessible over my left shoulder. The shotgun shells went in the cavernous left jacket pocket, with more rifle cartridges in the right.
K looked at me carefully as I completed dressing. She pulled me into her arms and kissed me. Leaning back slightly, she made eye contact as she said, “Be careful, but not too careful. Take the risks that are warranted.”
K handed me my .50-95 Winchester. She handed me each shell as I loaded the magazine through the side loading gate. K picked up my saddlebags. packed for the trip. She kissed her fingertip, and touched it to my lips. It was time.
We walked downstairs and into the kitchen. Gabrielle was ready to travel, dressed in a smartly tailored burgundy and blue-velvet-with-suede riding jacket and split riding skirt – the ‘skirt’ was actually loose pants, with a decorative front panel buttoned on. Gaby had a petite cameo brooch at her throat, white with a black rose at its center.
She wore a satin covered buckram riding hat. The hat and its long back bow were, of course, color coordinated with her outfit. The hat’s veil was stylishly down over Gaby’s eyes. Gaby had her very full carpetbag packed for the trip.
Emma kissed me thoroughly before she hurried out of the kitchen. Caitlin kissed me as she handed me my straw skimmer. The surprise was Jan, who pulled me into a bone-jarring kiss, driving her tongue deeply into my mouth. She simply said, “Come back,” as she walked out of the kitchen, rejoining Dan in the bar.
K led us out the door, where Francis was already harnessed to our buckboard. Gaby refused my help with her bag, setting it on the back of the wagon. I helped K and Gaby aboard, then I joined them on the single seat.
K clucked at Francis, and we were off. I had hoped that, leaving at midnight, we would depart quietly, catching the robbers off-guard.
A low-key departure was not to be. Pandemonium is a far better word to describe the scene.
As Francis turned toward the stage office, the street was packed with yelling men, carrying torches and passing bottles. This mob was merely here to watch the stage depart!
Preacher Norton had his entire congregation standing in the street behind the stage singing hymns and loudly praying for Hannah’s safety.
A very drunk Junius Brutus Booth was standing, naked, on the balcony across the street from the stage office, with two equally naked young ladies. He was yelling the St. Crispin’s Day speech from Henry V at the top of his lungs.
A gambler in a top hat and tails was standing with a large blackboard, just down from the stage office, loudly taking bets on the stage’s likely demise.
The crowd parted for us as we rode up to the stage office. K looked around with some amusement, then concern. She turned to me, raising an eyebrow. I replied, “Can’t be helped.”
We rode up to the boardwalk. Gaby again grabbed her carpetbag, heading for the stagecoach. Krista stopped me for a kiss as she softly said, “You don’t come back, Gansevoort is a dead cocksucker.”
I introduced Krista to Hannah Norton. If at all possible -- she was even dowdier tonight, with her floor-length, shapeless cotton dress in drab faded grays surmounted by a gray flounced bonnet, tied tightly under her chin. Her baggy, formless, dark gray flannel coat just added a colorless note to her dreary appearance. She had a fair sized brown wood and leather English hatbox clutched in her hands.
By this time, Douglas Gansevoort arrived, accompanied by his brother Sheriff Lester W. Gansevoort. If corruption had a face, it would be Lester’s. If you remember the “Dukes of Hazzard” and a character named “Boss Hogg,” you know Lester!
Douglas said, “Passengers and U.S. Mail to Fort Cheyenne. I have your money and the deed right here, as we agreed. You can take them with you. Lester is here to witness the transaction.”
I stopped him, saying, “Give them to Krista.”
Douglas balked for just a moment. Krista ostentatiously flipped the leather hold down off the hammer of her ‘fanner.’ She pulled her half glove on her left hand as she began flexing her fingers of her right hand, hovering over the gun butt.
Douglas and Lester took a long look at Krista, with their gaze settling on her Colt’s ivory handle with its inlaid snake. They had apparently heard about Krista in action at The Orient.
Krista suddenly looked straight at Douglas, making eye contact. Her hand froze, poised inches above her gun, and she smiled.
Douglas hastily said, “That’s an excellent idea. She can take real good care of them for you. Put your mind at ease.”
He reached down for a bank sack. “Here. Do you want to count it?”
Krista looked at him. Her expression was glacial as she coldly replied, “No, it will ALL be there. Or you two will make it right personally!”
There was a visible wince from the brothers Gansevoort at this pronouncement. Lester began edging away. Clearly he remembered important business elsewhere. Soon he was ambling toward the nearest bar, out of harms way.
Douglas introduced Earl, the stagecoach driver, a small man tougher than whang leather. Earl spat a massive wad of chewing tobacco, hitting Douglas’s boot toe. Earl looked at me. He said, “Mount up.”
A man of few words, Earl. I tossed a twenty dollar gold piece to the bookmaker. I said, “Safe arrival in Fort Cheyenne.”
He laughed. “Sucker bet.”
I loaded the ladies into the highly polished bright red Concord Coach. Neither would relinquish their bag. I looked to my left; K smiled as she tipped her hat. I touched the brim of my skimmer. I climbed up to sit next to Earl. The top of the coach was covered with mailbags chained to the metal railing. I settled my Winchester between my legs. Earl picked up his ‘ribbons’ connected to his six horses and whip. He glanced over, saying, “Lean back.”
I did and Earl spat across me toward the boardwalk, hitting Douglas flush on the chest with another huge wad. Earl faced front smiling, cracked his whip loudly and yelled at his team. They were at a gallop immediately. I held my skimmer. The crowd scattered before an unheeding Earl as he took us out of town at a dead run.
We galloped through Plume and Lead. Earl slowed us to a ground eating trot as we traveled toward the trail junction called Cheyenne Crossing. Earl looked over, I pointed toward the coach and he nodded.
I stepped over the side of the box, flipping the coach door open, levering myself inside. Just like all those competitions, except this time we were moving at a hard trot on a rough road.
Hannah yelped loudly when the door opened. I entered, to find them on opposite corners of the coach. I apparently had interrupted an argument. Hannah folded her arms and looked sullenly out the window into the darkness. Gaby looked petulant as she began to recount her grievances. I put up my hand as I said forcefully, “I don’t want to hear it.”
Gaby flinched in surprise. I growled, “We will be together in this little coach for this long trip. You two WILL get along. I want you both to be clear that I will not tolerate further arguing.”
Gaby’s mouth snapped shut as she regarded me peevishly. Then she, too, folded her arms, turning her head away from me to gaze out her window at the featureless dark.
I stood in the coach rocking with its motion as we pounded along. I said, “Fuck it.”
As I opened the door crawling up to rejoin Earl. As I settled next to him Earl grinned, saying, “Women trouble?”
I nodded. Earl spat over the side. The immediate feminine yell of distress confirmed Earl’s uncanny ability. Earl half stood as the team broke into a gallop. We ran through Cheyenne Crossing in the early morning darkness.
Earl was trying to build up a bit of momentum. We were on a long upgrade, crossing O’Neil pass. We gradually slowed, until the horses were moving at no more than a brisk walk. I looked over at Earl, asking, “Why?”
He smirked. “Money.”
The he nodded. “The money and you.”
“Me?”
Earl was emphatic. “You’re a very cool customer, Mr. William. I’ll bet sheep count you.”
I shrugged. Earl, worn out from this incredible verbal effort, lapsed into silence. Shortly Earl pounded on the roof of the coach with his whip stock. The ladies’ heads came out of their windows. Earl announced, “You walk.”
I left my rifle in the box as I swung down. I opened the door, helping the ladies down on the road. Earl lightly spanked his team with the reins. They leaned into the harness, walking toward the summit.
I had my shotgun over my arm as we followed after the coach. Standing on the trail in the pervasive dark, both Gaby and Hannah decided that they liked my, and each other’s, company.
They finally began chatting about Deadwood, exchanging gossip. Gaby and Hannah discovered a mutual antipathy toward the brothers Gansevoort. I dropped back a bit, watching our back trail, and just listening to the night sounds. I put my shotgun back in its scabbard on my back
I took a moment to critically examine our hard working team and the heavily laden stage far down on its leather springs. Note to self -- if you survive, kill that lying snake Gansevoort.
I was surprised by the shared laughter ahead of me, as Gaby and Hannah, in a far better mood, were walking along together. They paused with smiles, to let me catch up. Then each of them took an arm as we headed after the coach. Hannah now carried her bonnet as she walked.
Hannah’s long blonde hair shimmered in the moonlight as she talked animatedly about this, her first trip away from home.
Earl finally halted the team as we came down out of the pass. I helped the ladies aboard, then clambered up next to him. Earl handed me a large canteen. I took a healthy swallow, saying, “Thanks.”
He tapped the canteen, and pointed to the coach. I nodded, flipping the canteen strap over my neck. Earl started the team on the downgrade. They were quickly at a trot. I again swung down, joining the ladies in the coach.
This time, Gabrielle and Hannah were sitting across from each other, engaged in an amiable conversation. I passed the canteen to Hannah. After her tiny sips, she handed it to Gaby, who drank gratefully. Gaby moistened her handkerchief, wiping her face and neck. Gaby began unbuttoning her blouse wiping lower.
Pounding on the coach roof interrupted my enjoyment of Gaby’s cooling off ritual. I quickly rejoined Earl, who simply said, “Buckhorn. Change.”
We pulled into Buckhorn, which consisted of a small barn with a shanty next to it. I was off the coach before the wheels stopped, standing on the trail with my Winchester at ready. Earl was yelling for the stableman to help him switch teams.
Gaby and Hannah were out of the coach, much to Earl’s annoyance. They headed for the Shanty’s crude outhouse. Earl had the new team hitched in record time. He stood next to the coach, glowering into the dark.
I walked over. He looked up. “Where?”
“Outhouse.”
“Fucking hell.”
He started to climb into the box. I said. “Don’t make me shoot you.”
Earl stood with his leg up on the small step looking at me. He leaned over to spit. The wad hit a hand’s breadth from my boot toe. Earl scrambled into the box. Leaning down, he tapped the door of the coach with his whip then pointed it at me.
I found our two passengers and hurried them back to the coach. I had them settled and started to climb into the box. Earl stood up cracked his whip and yelled. The horses lunged into a run as I tumbled into the box next to him.
Earl spat just past my head as he kept the horses at the gallop. We galloped past the Four Corners. He settled the team in the ground eating trot as we headed toward Mule Creek.
3-BAR ranch on Mule Creek was our meal stop. Emit and Clara Stauffer, with their twelve children, ran 3-BAR. Emit and Clara came to the territory after his service in the civil war. Emit bought his land from the tribes. The deer hide with the One Hundred Section Land Grant hung in their dining room.
Despite their rather amiable relations with most of the tribes, 3-BAR headquarters was a study in fortifications. It occupied the highest elevation of ground, with lofty timber walls connecting the stoutly built ranch buildings. Emit diverted the creek into his waterwheel, also providing a fine moat in the process.
The attic of the main house peeked over the walls; it had loopholes for firing points around its perimeter. All twelve of the Stauffer children, male and female, were well qualified in using firearms. They had beaten off attacks by Indians, mostly young braves out to steal horses and count coup.
Emit still drove a couple head of cattle into the nearest Indian encampment every spring. He knew they were hungry after the blizzards of winter.
3-BAR was more profitable than any goldmine, providing beef cows, horses and mules to Deadwood. 3-BAR also provided the teams for the stagecoaches, and was a principal stop for the Deadwood-to-Cheyenne line.
We galloped up to their gate. It swung open, allowing us to enter without slowing. Earl ran us into their large barn. We dismounted as the Stauffer’s efficiently unhitched our old team, replacing them with fresh horses.
One of the Stauffer sons was sitting in the hayloft with a shotgun, two more with rifles occupied the roof of the main house, and the gate was already bolted closed.
Gaby and Hannah were on the porch by now, talking to Clara. We stopped by the corral, while Earl watched his team settle in. I turned to him, asking quietly, “So, Earl, tell me about the gold.”
Earl spat, then he turned to me, asking, “When?”
I answered, “O’Neil Pass. Fucking team looking like they were pulling stumps.”
Earl nodded. “Douglas took the coach to the mines. They packed the boot with strong boxes; that’s why mail sacks are on top.”
“Son of a bitch. Fucking cocksucker. He said MAIL!”
Earl said, “His lips were moving. He was lying.”
“Earl, remind me to blow his fucking balls off when I get back.”
Earl snickered. “Yes, sir. Let’s eat. No sense in dying on an empty stomach.”
We walked up to the ranch house. Gaby and Hannah were already sitting on crude benches at an outsized table. Clara was busy in the attached kitchen. One of her daughters, Abigail, was serving coffee from a jumbo sized blue enamel coffee pot.
I walked up to Clara, saying, “Ma’am, I can tell that you are a good cook. I want to thank you for feeding us today.”
With that I took her right hand between my two hands holding them for just a moment. Clara’s eyes got big as she realized that she was holding several silver dollars. When I let go, she plunged her hand into her apron pocket. She smiled at me happily. I asked quietly, “And the two ladies?”
Clara nodded emphatically as she walked rapidly into her pantry. I sat at the table with Earl, Hannah, and Gaby sipping my coffee.
Hannah led us in saying grace, asking God’s blessing for our meal. I decided that, given the amount of trouble I was in, a bit of grace might be a good thing.
The first plate on the table was my massive steak, with an enormous pile of fried potatoes and a half-dozen fried eggs. The girls’ plates had large slices of ham, potatoes and eggs. The biscuits and gravy were served separately, along with the baked beans with pork. Thick slices of homemade bread, with hand churned butter and wild berry jam, completed the repast. Pitchers of fresh milk, cooled in their icehouse, washed it all down.
This was not the normal stagecoach lunch that they furnished under contract for a flat fee. One of the older sons had the temerity to question the quantity and type of food. Clara promptly and in no uncertain terms let him know that it was not his concern. Abashed, he slunk out of the kitchen.
Earl looked surprised at the feast, but somehow, that shock did not diminish his appetite. For a little guy, he could seriously pack away the food.
At the end of the meal, Clara appeared. We all thanked her and praised her cooking. She blushed prettily. Her daughter Abigail continued to serve coffee. Abigail seemed to end up standing with her large soft breasts pressed into the back of my head as she poured.
Earl called a halt to this delightful distraction before I got into trouble with mama, who carried a gun! Earl checked his pocket watch saying, “Mount up.”
We walked down to the barn. The fresh team was already hitched. I handed Gaby and Hannah into the coach. Earl pulled out into the yard. I said, “I need a moment with the ladies, Earl.”
Earl stood on the brake as I stepped up into the coach. I gestured for Gaby to sit next to Hannah. They both looked at me expectantly, then nervously, as my expression hardened.
I asked brusquely, “Gabrielle, when were you going to tell me about the gold?”
Gaby made a moue. I said, “Don’t fucking lie to me. You’ve never carried a fucking bag in your fucking life. Now suddenly you can’t put this one down.”
She started to tear up, but I was relentless. “Do you even have a sister? You bitch, all this bullshit about a sister and it’s just to deliver gold. Played me like a fucking piano.”
She was crying in earnest. Hannah had her arms around her trying to comfort her. I turned to Hannah next, saying, “And you, with that fucking hat box crammed with gold. Do you have a sister either? Goddamn it to hell. “
Now Hannah was crying as they sat arm in arm hugging each other. They both were looking at me miserably, as I stormed out of the coach, slamming the door. I yelled at Earl as I clambered into the box. He whistled loudly, the gate opened and we were off at a trot.
Earl looked sidelong as I sat trying to light my cigar. He spat. I nodded. Earl could communicate more spitting than a man with a dozen speechwriters!
We were on the way to Lusk. This was a run through deceptively open county. In fact, hills, dry washes, and rivers provide plentiful potential hiding places for any band of robbers.
I settled in the seat, doing breathing exercises that Dan taught me, until I calmed. Seriously needed my shit together if I was going to survive this little excursion. No range master would blow a whistle ending the exercise.
We continued our southward run. We splashed across Old Women Creek in the sunshine. I looked up into the hills overlooking the crossing and saw a ‘flash’. I exclaimed, “Aw, fuck!”
Quickly I pounded on the roof with my gun butt. When Gaby’s tear streaked face appeared, I yelled down, “Trouble, be ready to get out of the coach.”
Her head jerked back in. I turned to Earl. He nodded. Earl brought our team to a gallop. They were running easily on the flat ground. I was up on one knee, holding a metal rail, looking over the coach at our back trail.
The dust cloud rising from a gully confirmed my guess. Suddenly, a swarming body of mounted men appeared behind us. They were yelling and shooting. They were much too far back for their fire to be effective, but it was startling.
I leaned across the coach, flipping up the longest range leaf sight on my rifle. I fired a couple of rounds, trying to time the bobbing and weaving of the stage as it galloped along the rough road. I didn’t hit anything, but I did let them know we were armed.
The twenty or thirty men continued to run after us in a tight packed mob still hollering with their front rank shooting. I turned back to the front.
We were coming to another creek. I looked downstream to see a grove of trees filled with logs and branches deposited by the spring floods. The tangle of wood was a ready made fort. I pointed, yelling, “There, that sandbar. We make our stand there.”
Earl simply pulled the team off the trail into the stream, splashing in the water to the sand spit. He swung the coach facing south, running up on the bank until we bogged down. I waved my arm, yelling, “Stop, get the girls out.”
I swung down, drawing my Bowie. I slashed the traces holding the team to the coach. Earl and I yelled loudly -- him cracking his whip and me waving my hat sending the unladen team away at a panicked run.
The teams’ arrival in Lusk would bring a posse to look for us. I just hoped we’d still be alive to greet them.
Earl grabbed a Winchester from the floor of the coach box. He swung the door open hauling the girls out. They were quickly under cover in the tangle of logs
I stood next to the coach estimating the range to our pursuers. I flipped up the tang peep sight on my rifle setting the thumbscrew. Draping myself over the back wheel in a stance familiar from my matches, I centered the front sight on the first horseman.
Biggest mistake most novice duck hunters make is to merely shoot into the flock. Even in a large, closely crowded flock, there are many more empty spaces than ducks. You have to aim at a specific duck!
Same here. I picked out my first target and carefully began squeezing the trigger. There was a spectacular reaction when the gun went off.
I hit his galloping horse flush in the forehead. The horse stopped! Dead! The horse flipped in a leg-flailing somersault crashing to the ground in a pile. The entire center of the attack degenerated into a mass of falling horses.
I kept firing. I knocked riders off horseback while continuing to drop horses in the front rank. One rider was off to the side attempting to steady his plunging horse. I shot, horse and rider galloped off with him holding his saddle horn. I kept shooting.
I reached down to find no more rifle rounds on my belt. I came out of my tight ‘marksman world’ to find a much smaller group closed to within two hundred yards of my position. They were still shooting continually. Their pistol rounds bounced and ricocheted through the trees. It was time to move.
I stood next to the coach, reloading from my pocket. Flipping the tang sight down using the regular leaf sights, I fired as fast as I could lever the rifle. Then I moved around the coach, into the tangle of deadfall.
Earl began shooting from his position on the bank to cover my movement as soon as he saw me. I kept shooting from behind the knot of logs and branches. The charge finally broke as our attackers scattered into whatever swale or wash offered cover from our fire.
I crawled to the log pile that sheltered my companions. Gaby hugged and kissed me, Hannah hugged and kissed me, Earl spat toward our attackers.
I spent the afternoon on two tasks. I moved up and down the stream bank sniping at our foe, forcing them to stay under cover. For the other task, I stacked an outsized pile of dry wood on the off side of the coach – that is, the side opposite our position.
After I retrieved the canteen, I settled next to my companions, saying softly:
“Standoff. For now.”
Earl nodded. I received a wan smile from the girls. They were all grateful for the water. Gaby tentatively touched my arm as she whispered contritely, “I’m sorry.”
I nodded as I softly said, “I’m sorry I yelled at you. We’ll talk about it after we get to Fort Cheyenne.”
Gaby nodded, as she returned to sitting huddled against Hannah. I tapped Earl, pointing at the coach. I held up my rifle. Hannah took it from me. I drew my shotgun. I crawled back to the coach.
They noticed me when I removed the kerosene coach light. Shots began to pepper my position. Earl answered when he could see a shooter. I sprinkled ‘kero’ on my pile of wood. Then I tossed a match. It flared up nicely. As dusk fell, the fire illuminated the coach very satisfactorily, not incidentally fucking up their night vision as they moved closer.
I reversed up to a spot overlooking the coach, standing with my back against a broad tree trunk breaking up my silhouette. I held my shotgun in my right hand with my left on the short splinter forearm. I had two extra shells between the fingers of my left hand.
I shut my eyes and listened. Just like deer hunting, you hear them long before you see them. Unlike deer hunting, I was allowed to take ‘sound shots’.
I heard movement in the brush below me near the coach boot. Time to remind them I was still here!
I fired the twin barrels of the shotgun almost simultaneously aiming into the center of the bush. The gun was just down from my shoulder when I popped the lever opening the action enough to eject the fired shells. My left hand came up, dropping two new hulls into the breech. I snapped it shut and triggered it immediately. I flipped the lever again, opening the breech, while I reached in my pocket for two more shells. I dropped those in the breech, firing those with the stock tucked against my side.
I ducked down, moving to the side as I reloaded. Now, ‘too late,’ a spate of firing broke out, aimed at my former location. Seemed like they were planning to ‘rush’ us, but those six fast shots spreading buckshot broke up the attack.
The fire was burning high now as the core of dry logs caught. This beacon would be visible far into the night, as it continued to light our stagecoach, preventing their approach.
I was back with my companions overlooking the strongly backlit coach. Gaby expertly rolled cigarette and lit it. She handed it to me. I puffed it gratefully sheltering the glowing tip in my hand. We heard a loud voice. “Mr. Stage Coach Guard, are you still here?”
I handed Gaby my shotgun as I drew my pistol, moving closer to the voice. I answered, “I’m right here, Mr. Robber. Why don’t you step out into the light?”
The voice laughed heartily genuinely amused. I continued to quietly mount the walnut stock on my Colt. The voice asked, “You got any gold for us Mr. Guard?”
I puffed the cigarette into a red glow then tucked it on a branch several arms lengths from my position. I answered, covering cocking my Colt. “Nope, no gold for you Mr. Robber Man.”
The voice again, “You got any silver for us, Mr. Guard?”
I answered, “Nope, no silver for you tonight, Mr. Robber Man.”
I fixed his position as I said in a loud voice, “Only lead!”
I threw the Colt’s stock into my shoulder firing as fast as I could thumb the hammer to full cock. I ducked down as the bullets slammed into the log around my cigarette butt. I reloaded, snapping single shots at the muzzle flashes moving between my own shots.
Earl, Gaby, and Hannah fired volleys toward the attackers, serving to confuse them. The attack broke once more. I continued to fire single rounds at the sounds of their retreat out of the glade.
I rejoined my companions as we sat quietly waiting for the next push by the robbers.
The pink of dawn was welcome as it lit our sand spit while the fire was dying to embers. Taking my shotgun I moved around the trees unable to find our attackers. I returned to say, “They seemed to have pulled out in the night.”
Earl nodded in agreement. I said, “We’ll just sit tight until we’re sure.”
I rebuilt the fire into a roaring conflagration. This time there was no gunfire. Still we stayed under cover waiting. I began throwing green and wet wood on the edge of the fire creating a plume of smoke that went high in the still air.
The yells and signal shots from the road took us by surprise. Earl answered as the posse joined us around the stage.
It would be an understatement to say that they were surprised we were alive and the stage was unplundered. They were more a burial than rescue party!
With their arrival I dug out a celebratory cigar. Gaby took it away from me to light it. She kissed me on the lips as she tucked the cigar in my mouth. I walked around the area picking up my empty brass. Dan would reload it easily.
As I stood quietly, the posse got busy, dragging the stagecoach onto the road and hooking up a fresh team. A small man, carrying a Winchester, was dressed in leather, with a single feather braided in his hair. He rode a small horse in the Indian style, sitting on a blanket with a single rope controlling the horse, and was surveying the field of battle.
He returned to point at me with his gun stock, then at a “ground tied” horse nearby. The owner of the horse quickly gave permission. I stepped in the saddle, joining the scout as he led me through his study of the events.
We had just reached the point where I began firing on the attackers from the coach wheel, when I glanced toward our former location. Gaby and Hannah suddenly realized that I was not with them.
I watched their reaction in some amazement, as Gaby pulled the front panel off her ‘skirt,’ launching herself into the nearest saddle. The horse started to act up. Gaby pulled it in one tight circle, then they straightened. Gaby spurred and whipped the horse into a gallop, leaning low over the horse’s neck. They skidded to a halt next to me.
Hannah merely bunched her long skirt in quite unladylike fashion, as she jumped astride the next horse. She, too, whipped her horse until it was running flat out. She overran us; turning in a tight circle, she brought her horse back
Neither would offer an explanation while they rode side by side, silently shadowing me as I followed the laconic scout.
He showed me the results of my gunfire. The first horse had its head blown completely apart. The saddle was still under the horse’s corpse. A blood trail led away from it. The scout showed me the other blood trails. He led me to the side of the carnage, to show me a severed arm still holding a pistol.
He took us up in the hills to the site of the robber’s cook fire and observation point. The ‘flash’ I saw was their lookout. It was an excellent vantage; he had us cold. The scout continued, leading us through several dry washes, showing us where my or Earl’s fire had drawn blood.
We moved back to the grove where we dismounted. On foot now, he showed us blood trails in the brush where I used my shotgun. Then, again, more blood trails surrounding our final confrontation.
The old scout smiled as he concluded his assessment. He nimbly jumped aboard his horse, saluted us, and rode away, still in silence.