Lady Outlaws

by Lady outlaws (NCP) (lit)

  Budd had taken his rifle to a ledge where he sat staring out over the prairie they had left behind. As darkness fell, his silhouette against the dimming sky all but vanished.

  The evening meal consisted of coffee and strips of salted beef, not enough to keep Brandi’s stomach from rumbling for more. It was obvious their hosts had little else, so she was grateful for the portion allotted. They had plenty of tobacco though. It took several minutes of ceremonially wrapping before the thin tubes were lit. As they smoked they exchanged a restrained conversation.

  “Brandi,” Sara said. Her eyes were open but eerily blank. Half her face was shadowed as the firelight flickered, yet there was enough of her expression visible for Brandi to know her own trepidation was being reflected.

  Sara slowly shifted her eyes away from the fire to the night sky. “I haven’t seen a plane go over all day long. Not one. Doesn’t that strike you as odd?”

  She hadn’t noticed, but now that Sara had mentioned it ... “Yes,” Brandi whispered.

  “Remember how mad he got when we asked him if he was an actor?”

  Brandi followed Sara’s line of vision to Devon. He was propped against his saddle, arm resting on bent knee. He nodded periodically as Romy muttered on.

  “He’s not an actor. None of them are actors. They’re real. They’re real, the town was real, the gun was real, and the man you shot was real.” A tear trickled down the side of her nose. “Something has gone very, very wrong, and we’re right in the middle of it.”

  Brandi put her arm around Sara’s waist in an effort to comfort the gentle sobs. She had cried, too, when they had come close to being abandoned. The stark realization that bullets were fueled with gunpowder rather than pellets with paint had been her wake up call. By then it was too late to try to appease the outlaw’s fury, so she had swallowed her questions behind tightly clamped lips. It didn’t help the mounting wash of alarm when Budd had picked her up, like a hungry dog ever watchful for leftovers. She was at the mercy of men who weren’t accustomed to showing mercy. Their frontier-like authenticity was too severe to be a performance for a couple of quivering tourists.

  Yes, something had gone very wrong, but what?

  Romy laughed, startling her to look up from the delicate flames that continued to crackle round the sticks. He seemed courteous enough. He certainly harbored more conscience than Devon. If it hadn’t been for Romy’s insistence they’d be lost and alone wandering aimlessly in the darkness over the prairie. And to think she had been so attracted to Devon. She thought he embodied the ultimate Western male. He was so ready to leave them and then passed her over to his friend like she was a piece of meat.

  Her mind wheeled as though she had been viciously slapped. He was the embodiment of the ultimate Western male because time had changed.

  Pictures, memories voices, the whole day flashed through her head, sorting, sifting, and arranging the simple logic that had evaded her till this one horrifying moment. The saloon girls leaning over the balcony, the young waitress with the dirty tea towel, the gaping pedestrians in the street, and the crying children: these people hadn’t invaded her time, she had invaded theirs. No wonder Dry Gulch had changed!

  She took hold of Sara’s hand. “Oh, what now?” her friend asked.

  “The storm,” she whispered, after having to clear her throat twice in order to get the information choked out. “I think it must have been the storm.”

  “What about it?”

  “Do you remember seeing anyone from the bus after the storm?”

  Sara’s wide eyes grew ever wider. “No,” she said, her voice hitting an unnaturally high pitch. “I don’t.”

  “Me neither. And remember how today we said everything was so authentic?”

  “Yes,” Sara hissed. “I remember.”

  “And how you just said these guys can’t be actors?”

  A squeak was the only response.

  “Well, I have an idea as to what might have happened.” She squeezed Sara’s trembling hand. “Promise me you won’t freak out.”

  “No, why should I freak out?” Every facial muscle quivered. “I won’t freak out because you’re going to tell me there’s a perfectly logical explanation.”

  “I have an explanation but I can’t say it sounds logical.”

  “Go ahead,” she shrieked. “Tell me.”

  Romy and Devon had stopped talking. They were watching Sara with troubled curiosity. Even the horses had flicked their ears to listen.

  Brandi leaned to Sara’s ear and whispered. “You’re right. This is all real, and you know why, don’t you?”

  Sara's eyes widened even further.

  “I think the storm flung us into some sort of time slip. Sara, I think this is truly 1885.”

  The first dry laugh sounded near enough normal, but it grew in hysteria until finally Sara was cackling uncontrollably. “Time slip. Sure. That explains everything. Oh boy. Great. I could have been on a deck chair…on a cruise ship ... in the Bahamas, but no, I let you convince me to see what the Wild West was really like. And here we are, seeing what it’s really like.” Her voice dropped into a demonic growl.

  “Are you okay?” Brandi said, taking hold of the vibrating arm.

  “Me? Fine.” With that she leapt to her feet and ran shrieking into the darkness, both hands flaying like miniature pinwheels.

  The great escape was short lived. Romy immediately dashed after her and reappeared through the dark night carrying a limp and whimpering Sara under one arm.

  “I’m a nursing assistant,” she babbled. “I drive a Nissan, and I have a cat named Kloey.”

  “Still like the silent type?” Devon puffed, shaking his head in disgust.

  “Good thing I caught her when I did,” Romy laughed, sitting on the bedroll with Sara held tightly in the circle of his arms. “She was heading straight for a crag.”

  “My plants will need to be watered,” Sara said before concluding a weak attempt to struggle free from Romy’s embrace. Her head tipped into his chest and with a sigh she was sound asleep.

  “Guess I’ll get some shut eye, too,” Romy said. He folded a blanket over Sara’s shoulders, tipped his hat forward, and within seconds was softly snoring.

  Brandi shivered. She suddenly felt very alone. Alone in the wilderness, alone with her thoughts, and especially alone with a secret no one would understand. She couldn’t even understand what had happened and had struggled inside to keep from reacting with wild hysteria like Sara. At least Sara was being comforted.

  Devon poured the last of the thick black coffee into his tin cup and lit another cigarette. “If you wanna run off be my guest,” he said without looking at her. “I ain’t gonna chase after you.”

  “No, I’m sure you wouldn’t.”

  A half smile crossed his mouth. “If you wanna slide on over here, though, well, that’s a different matter.”

  Brandi ached to be held by those strong arms. How reassuring it would be to hear a voice in her ear say everything was going to be all right. And then have that voice explain to her the logic of this bizarre situation, logic that was just beyond her reach. Yet he didn’t deserve her affections. Devon Fault, in all his glory, was a cold ignorant man.

  She had prayed to have the chance to be with a frontiersman, and her prayer was answered. Now she prayed for the chance to get back home.

  The lonely cry of a coyote stabbed the calm night air. Another answered the call. They sounded close but she had no way of knowing if they really were.

  Brandi swallowed her pride and crawled beside Devon on his bedroll. Despite her dread over the situation, she had to survive. Maybe in the light of a new day she’d think more clearly. Tomorrow she’d find a way back for them both. Devon, cold and hard, was the only comfort she had for now.

  He flicked what was left of his cigarette into the flames and threw out the contents of his cup. She stiffened, expecting that his next move would be to grab at her, pull her down with him on the bedroll, and begin performing
unspeakable acts of feigned affection. But he didn’t. He nestled back against the saddle, folded his hands across his chest and closed his eyes.

  Stars twinkled in the cloudless night sky. A thin white streak flashed and then disappeared, too quickly for Brandi to make a wish. A wish on a falling star. If she waited and watched another would fall, and she would be ready.

  And what would she ask for?

  Brandi brushed away a tear that had rolled down her cheek. She’d ask that Devon Fault would hold her.

  Chapter Four

  “Get up.”

  The toe of a boot lightly tapped Brandi’s hip. She had been dreaming of giving a lecture to a group of skeptical college students about the realism behind the myths regarding life in the Western frontier. And she had paused to take breath, remembering how the vacation to Dry Gulch had been so thrilling. But despite its authenticity the bus had rumbled up, a week from dropping her off, and she climbed aboard, satisfied with the closest experience to reality she could hope for. Other than being trapped in a timeshift. But that was science fiction, a whole different class down the hall.

  “I said, get up.” The next poke from the boot wasn’t as gentle.

  The reassurance that only dreams can offer popped like a shimmering bubble. Brandi’s eyes snapped open, as did the floodgate of shocking memories--outlaws, shoot-outs, horses, prairie heat--and the loneliness of being stranded in a time a hundred years from hers. For one fleeting second she hoped this Devon would smile down at her and confess it had all been a wonderfully staged sideshow. They’d have a laugh and then return to the town for a hot meal and a soft bed. The stern expression, however, offered no such comfort.

  Brandi rolled stiffly onto the damp earth as Devon finished packing his horse. A chorus of birdsong had sprung up from every direction even though the thin white light of dawn had barely cracked the horizon. The fire had gone out. There were no breakfast smells. A cup of coffee would have cheered her perspective. Would have.

  Sara, still wrapped in Romy’s blanket, sat down beside Brandi. “What are we going to do?” Sara asked. She was pale. Dark circles under each eye denoted a tortured night. “We’re lost,” she said weakly. “No one will know we’re lost for another hundred years. Tell me I’m wrong. Tell me this can’t be happening.”

  “I don’t know what to tell you. Except, for now, these guys are our only chance of surviving. We’ll just have to go along with them.”

  “I’ll never sleep again,” Sara said.

  “At least Romy likes you. I’m stuck with an egomaniac and his psychopathic sharpshooter friend.” Brandi was rubbing her stiff legs. The prospect of another day straddled a horse was not encouraging. She was convinced that soon she’d be crippled. Then she’d starve to death.

  “Well,” Sara said with conviction. “Whoever is behind this elaborate joke is definitely going to get a piece of my mind.”

  Brandi decided not to argue. If Sara believed this was all some practical joke it might give her the courage to carry on. Maybe eventually they’d get answers to their questions, answers that would show them the way back to the world they knew. It was a long shot, but what alternative did they have?

  Romy packed his blanket last and then helped Sara to mount his horse. Devon waited in the saddle as Brandi struggled to get a foot into the stirrup. After several embarrassing attempts she managed to hoist herself up behind the outlaw. It took more skill to balance without being snuggly wedged in the saddle. She was forced to hold Devon’s waist. She did so as lightly as possible. No sense giving him the wrong impression.

  The horses picked their way carefully over the rocky terrain. Devon’s shoulders swayed with the motion and Brandi did her best to imitate the movement. Slowly she was getting used to riding a horse, except her legs were terribly sore. Pride kept her from complaining. She did have a tendency to fidget though, in a vain attempt to find a more comfortable stance. And she was dreadfully hungry.

  Unintentionally Brandi dug her fingertips into Devon’s waist. He twisted slightly to look at her. His quick smile prompted her to speak. “Why did that man want to shoot you?” she asked.

  “Who? Jackson?”

  “Oh, there are more?” she laughed.

  Rather than give an answer Devon clasped her arm, pressing it into his shirt. “Since you dragged me into this predicament,” she said, “I should know a bit about what’s going on. Don’t you think?”

  “Nope. Besides, I don’t remember draggin’ you into anything. You were the one that started shootin’.”

  There was no denying the simple truth of Devon’s comment, except at the time Brandi didn’t realize what she was doing. There was no sensible way of trying to explain that to Devon; if the logic failed her it would certainly not impress him. Second-guessing what must be going through that nineteenth century male mind, Brandi rested her chin in his shoulder and cooed, “I thought you wanted me to be your gal?”

  “Part of me does,” he said, bluntly.

  “And the other part?”

  “The other part wants to get rid of you.”

  “Charmed, I’m sure,” she scoffed, pulling away. “Too late now. We’re together, so I think this could be an appropriate opportunity to explain why you’re so popular.”

  No response. His shoulders swayed to the horse’s footsteps. Brandi sensed his backbone stiffen.

  “Let me guess then,” she said. “You were dubbed in a card game. A fight broke out and you killed a man. His friends have been after you ever since. You’re a fugitive of the law, running from town to town, never able to stop because if you do someone might recognize you. Am I right so far?”

  “Nope.”

  “Then you robbed a bank or a stagecoach. That’s why there’s a bounty on your head.”

  His thumb stroked her arm.

  After a pause Brandi came to the conclusion that honesty might be the best policy. “Devon,” she sighed. “I didn’t ask for this but now that I’m here you’ve got to let me inside. I’ve got to know what’s going on. I want to help.” To reiterate her sincerity she squeezed her arm across his stomach.

  He let his horse fall away from the others and with a velvety voice said, “I don’t wanna know ‘bout yer past, Brandi-girl. And I don’t feel inclined to tell you much ‘bout mine. I will say that I surely appreciate havin’ yer company. That’s as far as I’ll be goin’ fer now.”

  “So there is a heart beating in that cast iron chest of yours?”

  He flashed her a short smile over his shoulder. “You and me could make a go of it, I reckon.”

  “A go of what?”

  “You talk too much.”

  “And you don’t talk enough.”

  “Runnin’ off at the mouth's a sure fire way to get kilt. Best to keep yer tongue in check. You’d do well to remember that.” Devon wrapped his fingers around her wrist and squeezed.

  “Aw, and here’s me thinking you didn’t care. You’re a big softie under all that rough, aren’t you, Devon Fault?” she teased.

  “I ain’t soft,” he scowled, holding the reins with both hands. “And I ain’t ‘bout to start thinkin’ kindly towards a woman whose mouth will more likely than not get me kilt.”

  “Who’s Victor Trilby?” she asked, ignoring Devon’s sudden mood transformation. “Why did you think I worked for him?”

  But the conversation was over. Devon’s eyes were focused on Budd who was in turn staring out towards the horizon.

  At Devon’s command the horse trotted ahead. Budd had dismounted and crawled over to a small ledge where he lay flat on his stomach, a spyglass screwed into one eye socket. The flat land appeared vacant. All Brandi could see was an eagle circling gracefully on the currents of wind. As she squinted against the light, however, she caught sight of tiny puffs of dust; this was the direction to which Budd pointed.

  Devon took the spyglass. “Who is it, you think?” he asked.

  “No need to think,” Budd answered. “The horse up front is all white. And the ride
r is wearin’ a white suit. Only man I know that fits that bill is Samson Horn.”

  Romy whistled. “Guess Victor heard real fast we were in Dry Gulch. Seems he’s serious about having our necks stretched before the next election.”

  “Shit,” Devon snapped, passing the spyglass back to Budd.

  “What now, boss?” If Budd was alarmed he didn’t show it. He collapsed the spyglass and stuck it in his pocket. Then he sat patiently while Devon considered the options.

  “Can’t ambush ‘em here,” he said, glancing at the rocky terrain. “We probably ain’t got enough fire power anyway. They might try to starve us out and we got the women to think of.”

  “We can’t outrun them, Dev,” Romy said. “If the girls had their own horses, maybe.”

  “Damn,” Devon muttered. He pinched the bridge of his nose. All eyes watched him to make the decision. Leadership had its tensions, especially for those who waited.

  Devon scrambled to his feet and stood overlooking the wide plain. “We’ll split up, lay low a spell,” he said. “We all got our places to go.”

  The others nodded knowingly.

  “How long?” Romy asked. He was already striding back to his horse. And Sara.

  “I’ll send word, in a couple of weeks. Just keep yer heads down and yer ears open, all right?”

  “Excuse me,” Brandi interrupted. “I think we should have some say in this. And we don’t want to be split up.”

  Her opinion was promptly ignored.

  Budd was the first to leave, his horse cleverly galloping over the path they had just followed before sidestepping in an easterly direction. Romy pulled his reins and veered off to the south. His horse pranced so quickly that Brandi’s last sight of Sara was a ghostly white expression. She raised her hand to wave goodbye, as though resolved as to whatever the future would bring.