by Cindy Sample
Up ahead, Fletch paused at the Center Street intersection. He had two choices––either turn left and run into the rest of the Wagon Train on Main Street, which I imagined must be in a complete state of confusion by now, or turn right and merge onto Highway 50. Even with banners proclaiming Wagon Train Days and the reduced speed limit of forty m.p.h. through town, most travelers wouldn’t expect to find a stagecoach chasing after a horse-drawn carriage on a four-lane highway.
Fletch made his decision and turned right onto the highway. Scott skillfully held on to the reins as he attempted to catch up with Fletch, but the bulky stagecoach was no match for a speedy surrey. A couple of cars passed us in the left lane. Passengers rolled down their windows to view our progress.
I had no idea how Fletch planned to escape, and I had a feeling neither did he. My primary concern was to reach my grandmother before she suffered an accident or a heart attack. Tears blurred my vision as we raced past the clapboard and brick buildings that backed up to the creek on our right. Up ahead, the light at the Bedford Street intersection abruptly switched from green to red.
Good. Fletch would have no choice but to wait for the light to change again. After driving less than a block, my lower back and my butt hurt. And my twenty-first-century butt possessed far more cushioning than the posteriors of those early settlers.
We were slowly gaining on Fletch, who twisted around in his seat to check our progress. He must have decided that waiting was not an option. He flicked the reins and expertly wheeled the buggy around in a U-turn, reversing direction.
Scott attempted to follow in Fletch’s buggy tracks. The unwieldy stagecoach tilted to the left then it rocked to the right as we also attempted the U-turn. I clung to the bar with a death grip, my stomach and chest heaving. I’d better not heave myself out of my bustier, although at this point, a wardrobe malfunction seemed the least of my worries.
Scott finally steadied our vehicle, and we began gaining on the carriage. Fletch glanced back at us. He bent down, pulled out his gun and aimed it directly at me.
I ducked.
Scott wasn’t so lucky. The bullet hit him in his left forearm. He cried out, dropped the reins and fell against me. I grabbed on to his good arm, worried he would fly out of the stagecoach and land on someone’s windshield.
With no one driving our vehicle, the horses sped up, free to do whatever the heck horses do when no one is in charge. I bent down, scrambled to grab the reins and yelled, “Whoa.”
The two lively bay horses snorted in unison, completely unimpressed by my piloting skills. Scott’s face matched the ruffled white shirt he wore; his jacket sleeve was covered with blood.
“Are you okay?” I shouted at Scott. “Should I head for the hospital?” I tried to sound upbeat, not disclosing that the horses were kind of in charge right now.
He waved his right hand in a forward movement and accompanied the motion with a guttural curse, “Go get that asshole who shot me.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
I screamed at my horses to move it, hoping to narrow the gap between our horse-driven vehicles. Those must have been the magic words because they sped up, and we were soon closing in on Fletch. If only the traffic would disappear.
Cars veered to the left and right, leaving Fletch sufficient room to maneuver his buggy to the side of the road. He slowed it almost to a stop. Then in one athletic move, he jumped off and ran up the steep Coloma Street off ramp.
With no one holding on to the reins, Black Beauty went wild, and the buggy rocketed down the highway. From a distance, I could see the frightened horse swerve back and forth, her white stocking feet making me dizzy. At one point, Gran stuck her head around the back of the buggy. Although I couldn’t see her lips move, I guessed they were crying, “Help!”
My first priority was rescuing Gran, but I was also worried about Scott’s condition. Not to mention the killer was on the move. Suddenly, an unlikely hero burst on to the scene.
A chestnut quarter horse ridden by an unusual looking cowboy galloped down Center Street. The cowboy wore a San Francisco Giants black and orange baseball cap and a plaid shirt I’d ironed on many an occasion.
“Hank,” I cried out. His horse bolted over a red Mini Cooper heading east, knocking off the antenna before it successfully landed in the inside lane of the westbound highway.
A huge Dodge pickup truck narrowly missed ramming Hank and his horse, possibly not noticing the fleet-footed animal that could apparently leap over small cars, that was now passing on his left. The driver gave Hank a one-finger salute then pulled off to the side of the highway. Good move, because our stagecoach was inches from ramming the Ram’s tailgate.
The roar of a motorcycle startled me. I pulled up on the leather reins and much to my surprise, the horses responded. I guided the team to the side of the road hoping a CHP motorcycle would come to my rescue.
I looked to the left and right before I craned my neck to peer ahead. Nope, no bikes in front of me. I peeked over my shoulder at a motorcycle-free road. That’s when I switched my gaze to the only direction left––UP.
A shiny red Harley streaked across the pedestrian walkway that crossed over the freeway, joining the shops of downtown Placerville to the historic residential district on Coloma Street. The biker must be chasing Fletch. If he timed it correctly, he could reach the killer in seconds, depending on the dirty deputy’s speed and stamina. I hoped the pursuer––whoever he might be, knew Fletch was armed and getting more trigger-happy by the minute.
I took a moment to check on my rancher. “Hanging in there, Scott?” I asked. He merely groaned. I couldn’t tell if it was due to my insensitive question or his wound. Blood continued to pool on his jacket and drip onto his pants.
Meanwhile Gran’s carriage careened down the highway. I could see her holding on to her lilac bonnet with one hand as she bounced from side to side. Black Beauty swerved around a police car attempting to halt traffic and aimed for the Kentucky Fried Chicken.
The horse must not have been in a batter-fried mood today. Seconds later, it switched directions and galloped across both lanes heading directly for the enormous hill bordering the right lane of the westbound highway. Gran’s buggy was seconds away from crashing into a slab of solid rock.
I watched in horror, too far away to do anything.
Hank and his chestnut mount galloped down the pavement, only a few feet behind the runaway horse. My jaw dropped in shock as my ex-husband caught up with the crazed animal. Somehow, he managed to grab the loose reins and halt Gran’s carriage mere inches from the unforgiving mountain of rock.
My eight-legged team and I had finally come to a mutual agreement that I was the boss of them. As I approached the buggy, I could see Black Beauty and the chestnut horse nuzzling one another, while Hank comforted my grandmother who seemed none the worse after her terrifying ride.
Knowing Gran, she’d undoubtedly relished every minute of it.
I reined in my horses, and they drew to a stop, surprising the heck out of me. An ambulance pulled next to my stagecoach, and the paramedics quickly loaded Scott for the short trip to Marshall Hospital.
A Hangtown Posse member offered to take my place driving the stagecoach, and I gratefully relinquished my reins to his more capable hands. I slid off my perch and followed one of the EMTs over to Gran’s carriage. He offered to take her to the hospital, but she declined, saying she wasn’t missing out on any action.
I joined Hank who stood to the side of my grandmother’s carriage.
“Amazing horsemanship,” I said to my former husband. “I didn’t know you could ride and jump like that.”
He blinked and his face paled under his sunburn. “Neither did I. Never jumped a horse before.”
Gran put her hand over her heart. “Mercy me. You got guts, I’ll say that for you.” She leaned down and whispered in my ear. “Not too bright, is he, dear, but very gutsy.”
“That motorcycle rider took a chance going after Fletch,” I said to Hank.
“Did you recognize him?”
“Couldn’t you tell?” he said, “that was Tom. I never pictured him for a biker type. He was wearing casual clothes when we ran into each other earlier. Do you know if he carried a weapon on him?”
Oh, crap. I couldn’t decide if Tom was being a hero or an idiot going after an armed former deputy when he himself was without a weapon.
A shot rang out and my heart stopped.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
I’ve never been to Pamplona for their annual running of the bulls, but the pandemonium in Placerville that afternoon probably came in a close second. El Dorado county police cars zipped up Spring Street and down Coloma Street in search of their quarry. California Highway Patrol officers drove their familiar black and whites up various side streets searching for the presumed killer.
If I’d had any doubts about my theory, Fletch’s crazed escape and his Grannapping added proof to the evidence file by the minute.
I was tempted to leap onto the horse Hank had borrowed and search for Tom myself, but I decided the law enforcement officials didn’t need any two-legged saloon gals or four-legged animals clogging up the roadway.
Bradford arrived, slightly out of breath, to check on Gran and me. He told us Mother wanted to come to our rescue, but he’d convinced her that watching her grandchildren was her highest and best use today. I borrowed his cell and spoke with Mother and the kids assuring them Gran, Hank and I were all fine.
I wasn’t exactly fine since I still didn’t know Tom’s circumstances. Who fired that one lone shot? Was anyone hit?
I glanced up at the pedestrian bridge looming over the highway that Tom had roared across only minutes earlier. I squinted when I spotted someone’s dark hair through the mesh panel above the short solid wall of the bridge. It looked like a child with a pumpkin-sized head or an adult crawling back to town.
The head disappeared then bobbed back up as the bridge merged onto the open third floor of the parking garage. Although he’d discarded the frock coat, red brocade vest and bowler hat, that long-legged man was either Fletch or his identical twin. He stopped in the stairwell between the first and second levels and peered at the crowds circulating below, confirming my suspicions when he paused to rub his left shoulder exactly where Gran had thwacked him with her parasol.
The former deputy eased down the stairwell then donned a pair of sunglasses. Fletch’s car must still be parked over on Broadway where the Wagon Train participants met up this afternoon. He couldn’t escape without it or some other type of transportation.
“There he goes,” I said to my stepfather, rapping his bare arm for emphasis.
“What the––” Bradford rubbed his forearm.
I pointed to the deputy now headed into the parking garage. “I think that’s Fletch sneaking back into town.”
“That SOB. I trained him myself.” Bradford pushed Hank aside and heaved his bulk onto the saddle of the chestnut horse. The horse whinnied, complaining about the new rider whose weight exceeded Hank’s by at least seventy pounds.
Bradford leaned over and mouthed something to Gran. She winked then handed her lilac parasol to her son-in-law. He grabbed the ruffled umbrella and galloped down the street as if he were personally leading the charge of the Bumbershoot Brigade.
Drivers of cars haphazardly parked to the side of the highway leaned out car windows and snapped photos and videos of the chase. Instagram might soon receive credit for whittling America’s Most Wanted list down by one.
My immediate goal was to locate Tom. Two of the squad cars that had stopped to assist with traffic control peeled after Bradford. Seconds later, a motorcycle flew across the pedestrian bridge heading for the parking garage, the sun’s rays turning it into a roaring fiery-red dragon.
If Tom rode the motorcycle, I prayed he possessed enough skill to manage the sharp curves of the narrow ramps leading down to the ground floor. My grandmother grabbed my clammy hand and squeezed it tight.
The sound of brakes squealing and the crash of metal meeting metal echoed from the Center Street parking structure.
I dropped Gran’s hand as if it were a hot potato and raced toward the garage.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
Uniformed officers and cowboys in full western regalia sprinted past me, unencumbered by high heels and low-cut costumes. I slowed my pace as I neared the structure, almost afraid to discover who or what had crashed.
I let out a huge sigh of relief when I discovered one squad car had collided with another. Two tan-shirted officers argued, causing me to wonder if they would ticket each other.
Bradford and Tom were nowhere in sight, but I spied a ring of cowboys standing by the Bell Tower. With so many officers milling about, I didn’t feel apprehensive about my own safety, only concerned about the well-being of the men in my life.
I scooted closer to the Hangtown Posse. The local cowboys graciously let me ease through. No need to stomp on anyone’s boot––something I was prepared to do if necessary.
The bright red Harley rested on its side next to the Bell Tower. The chestnut horse Bradford had borrowed from Hank seemed to have handled its second mission of the day with aplomb. My stepfather gripped the shaft of the umbrella, prepared to attack or defend using any means necessary––even a pastel parasol, which I noticed dripped blood on the pavement.
Tom shoved a handcuffed former Deputy Fletcher down the stairs of the Bell Tower. A nasty head wound bled down Fletch’s right cheek. Two deputies latched on to Fletch, read him his rights and escorted him in the direction of the garage.
I threw myself at Tom, knocking both of us to the ground in front of the Hangtown Posse, the mayor, my family, and a few thousand onlookers. He sat up, shaking with laughter, while I wondered why the one time we ended up lying next to each other, we had to have an audience.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
He rubbed the back of his head where he’d smacked into the pavement. “I felt fine until ten seconds ago. I didn’t realize you were a linebacker in training. What about you?”
I glanced down at my saloon girl outfit, fearful of a potential fashion disaster, but none of my assets were celebrating in public. I let Tom haul me to my feet where he gave me a proper kiss.
The crowd hooted, hollered, and clapped as we strolled, arm in arm, over to Bradford and his equine pet.
“So who caught Fletch?” I asked the two men.
“Robert bashed the back of his head with that unorthodox weapon.” Tom smiled and pointed at the ruffled parasol. “When Fletch stumbled, I took him down. I didn’t have my handcuffs with me, but your Hangtown Posse came prepared.”
Tom nodded to the men clothed in frontier wear who circled us. They shook Tom’s hand and mine then wandered off in search of more action. I imagined their playacting shoot-outs wouldn’t seem nearly as exciting now that they’d participated in a real chase.
Within seconds, Mother, the kids, Liz, Stan and Brian joined us in a frenzy of group hugs. The Mayor and Tom conversed for a few minutes before Tom joined our noisy group.
Holding tight to my children, I tried to answer their questions. All any of them knew was that Deputy Fletcher had buggy-nabbed Gran, and that Hank, Tom, and a myriad of police officials had gone after him. Not to mention Scott and me, leading the chase. I hoped the rancher’s gunshot wound didn’t end up being too serious.
“I’m confused, Mommy,” Ben said, clinging to my hand. “Where did you disappear to?”
“I think we’re all somewhat bewildered,” Mother remarked. “Laurel, you can enlighten us. Although, first, let me chastise my husband for terrifying the life out of me.” Mother marched over to Bradford’s side. Having sat through a million lectures from my mother, I could imagine the tirade he had in store.
The chestnut horse breathed a horse-sized sigh of relief when the supersized cowpoke climbed down. Bradford tied it to a pole and joined us.
“I don’t know where that horse came from, but hopefully Hank can track down its owner,
” Bradford said, resting his arm on my mother’s shoulder. He looked over at me. “Now, Laurel, tell me exactly how you came to your conclusion about Fletch. Why on earth did he kill Spencer?”
“And tell it quick,” Tom said. “I need to get back to headquarters and interview the guy before he lawyers up. All I know is that former Deputy Fletcher shot at Laurel, although it could have been accidental, and he jumped off a moving carriage leaving your grandmother in danger. The fact he tried to run from the law doesn’t help his case, but I need more than that to charge him with murder.”
“He shot at me twice,” I said, my face reddening in anger. “But wounded Scott Shelton instead. Thank goodness you found that motorcycle and went after him.”
“No one takes a potshot at the woman I…” Tom’s voice trailed off as the carriage carrying Hank and Gran, clip-clopped up the street, halting when it reached us. Hank jumped out, tied up Black Beauty then assisted my grandmother. Mother rushed to Gran’s side while Hank threw his arms around me.
“Help,” I mouthed to Stan. He grabbed Hank’s arm and pulled him away.
“So you did get my message about Fletch,” Hank said to me.
“What are you talking about?” I asked.
“When I called you from Pollock Pines I said the killer might be Fletch.”
“Your call disappeared when my cell...” I glared at my grandmother who was looking at everyone but her granddaughter, “when I lost my phone. Anyway I didn’t catch that.”
“Next time you determine the identity of a killer,” interrupted Tom, “how about calling the cops?”
Hank’s eyes practically bulged out of their sockets. “Like you would believe anything I tell you?”
Hank had a point, but I didn’t want the two men to come to fisticuffs, or worse, have Hank join his former football teammate in a cell.
