Wildcat Kitty and The Cyclone Kid Ride Again

by Franklin D. Lincoln

“There’s someone on our trail,” Sheriff Tom Vestry announced as he jerked back the reins and pulled his horse to a halt; hoofs sliding in the loose gravel of the road, and kicking up dust around the animal’s hocks.

  His companions brought their mounts to a halt also. They had all been riding at a fast clip, so the sudden halt of all three riders, brought a cloud of dust with it. It billowed high around horses and riders and lingered in the air a bit before settling down around them.

  The deputy and Tyrene twisted in the saddle, looking back along the trail as did Vestry.

  They could all see the approaching dust devil movements behind them.

  “Who would be following us?” Deputy Miller asked.

  “I dunno,” Vestry growled with annoyance.

  “Billy,” he turned to the third man, Billy Tyrene “You got any more kin, that could be on our tail.”

  “No,” he answered. “Ken and Jim are the only kin I got.”

  “Then who do you suppose is back there?” Miller asked.

  “Maybe, it’s bounty hunters, after me and my brothers,” Billy said wide eyed with fear at the thought.

  “If it is, Billy,” Vestry said. “There’s nothing for you to worry about. We got a deal, right?”

  “Yeah...right.” Billy mumbled meekly. “But...what if…….?”

  “Don’t you worry about ‘what if’, boy,” Vestry said. “Don’t you worry about nothin’ at all. Maybe those jaspers just happen to be on the same trail as us.”

  “Maybe…..” Billy didn’t sound convinced.

  “But, just in case,” Vestry said. “We’d better get movin’. We know where we’re going, so let’s hurry it up a mite.”

  With that he turned his mount toward the trail ahead and spurred him hard. They all rode off at a gallop, leaving a cloud of dust behind them,

  “Whoever that is, up ahead,” Peso Martin said. “Must have seen us and have some reason for not wanting us to catch up to them.”

  “Maybe,” Rafe said. “Maybe they’ve got someone else on their trail and think we’re it.”

  “Could be,” Peso agreed. “In any case, let ‘em go. We’ve got our own business to take care of. No sense messin’ into anything that could get in our way.”

  “I hope you’re right about that, my friend,” Rafe said.

  “Of course, I’m right,” Peso boasted. “But there’s no sense in us taking our time.” Peso spurred his mount and rode off down the trail, thinking to himself, “What makes you think I’m your friend?”

  Matt Starr grumbled to himself and the sorrel beneath him. “What more could go wrong today?” he was gazing up at the gathering dark clouds above. They were billowing large and looming. Wind was beginning to pick up and coolness had swept the heat of the day away.

  He had been back on the trail for less than an hour when the weather had begun to change.

  He had been revived by the coolness of the stream, where the sorrel had dropped him. There he laid for quite a while, soaking up the water and the sunlight from above. Eventually, he had regained enough strength to crawl out of the water and lay for a while, on the bank, soaking up more sun. Gradually, he dried out, but the pain increased in his side.

  When he was finally able to, he sat up, and probed his left side with his finger. They came away stained red with blood. He bent over to examine the wound. He had been lucky; the bullet had merely ripped a wide gash in his side. He could see a rib bone sticking out. The bullet had barely nicked the bone and no permanent damage had been done and the flesh wound itself had started to dry and scab over. He would be hurting pretty bad for some time to come though.

  He had painfully slipped the ragged shirt off and tore it into strips, forming a makeshift bandage that he was able to strap around his torso and draw it tight enough to stay the bleeding.

  From his saddlebag he retrieved a clean gray shirt and put it on. Then, with the tenacity of a bulldog, he forced himself into the saddle and set out once more onto the trail.

  Now as the dark clouds rolled in and beads of rain started to splash against his upturned cheek, he grumbled again. “Looks like we better find some shelter, old boy,” he said to the sorrel as if the animal could understand him. “We’re going to have to hole up somewhere. I guess it’s too much to hope that the tracks we’re following won’t be washed out.” He gigged his mount forward, looking for shelter.

  It was late afternoon when the rain finally came. The wind had picked up and dark clouds rolled in with surprising speed. The waning afternoon sun had been completely obliterated and darkness rolled in, turning day into night, without the interlude of dusk.

  As the smell of impending rain had settled in, The Wildcats had stopped and had donned their slickers, tightened the chinstraps of their hats. The wind whipped at the hat brims and the front parts bent upward almost flat against the crowns.

  There had only been a few warning sprinkles before the rain set in with its full wrath and fury.

  With heads held low, guiding their mounts into wind and pelting rain, The Wildcats halted at the top of a ridge and peered down into an abyss of dark shapes in the valley below.

  “There it is,” Reverend Paul Lynch declared, shouting to be heard above the howling wind and raging storm. “That should be Porter City, or what’s left of it.”

  “Gol, blasted,” Cyclone shouted, “I can’t see a durn thing, in this mess. You sure, you know what you’re talkin’ about?”

  “Me not see um nothin”, neither,” Chief agreed

  “Aw, stop that dumb Injun talk,” Arapaho Brown complained. “Besides, you can’t see anything, no how.”

  “Just being entertaining, Rap,” Henry chuckled.

  “We don’t need no enter …Whatchacallit.” Rap complained.

  “That’s it, down there for sure,” The Reverend assured them.

  Then to Jeremy, he said, “You alright, there kid? Can you make it a bit further?”

  “I’m okay,” Jeremy answered, nodding his head up and down. He didn’t have the strength to project his voice, although he did sit better in the saddle since his brief rest while The Reverend had tended to his wound. The bandage had helped stop the flow of bleeding, but the bullet still had to come out. Jeremy was still holding the pommel of his saddle while Rap held the reins and guided the horse close beside him.

  “Alright, then,” Lynch said. “Let’s go.” He guided his mount out ahead and started to descend the embankment. Kitty followed close behind him.

  “Who died and made you boss?” Cyclone grumbled under his breath, to himself, knowing he was totally unheard in the raging storm.

  The grassy embankment was slick from the rain and the horses almost slid down into the valley; each rider leaning far back in the saddle and hauling hard on the reins as their mounts bumped into one another until they reached the bottom of the basin.

  They gathered around each other, in a huddle as they gained flat land beneath them.

  The town’s buildings were still just dark shapes in front and on both sides of them as they rode into the street of Porter City.

  With the rain pelting their faces and the wind forcing their heads down, it was nearly impossible to discern the individual buildings, but as they rode into the center of town, the buildings were sheltering some of the storm’s fury.

  Off to their right, they passed by what was left of a saloon; its wooden sign hanging from one hinge on the left side; swinging angrily in the wind. The pounding sound of a wooden sign flapping against a wooden wall and the squealing sound of rusty hinges was all but obliterated in the wail of wind and pounding rain.

  Rap couldn’t read, but he knew what the word ‘saloon’ looked like. “Lookee!” He shouted as he pointed. “That there looks like a good place to hole up. Maybe there’s been good stuff left behind in there.”

  “Never mind!” Chief shouted back to him. “There’s no firewater in there, paleface. This here, is a ghost town.”

  “Ghost town?” Rap came back. They were just p
ast the saloon. Clearly, they were not stopping here. “I ain’t afraid of no ghost,” Rap mumbled, turning in his saddle and gazing, wistfully, back through the driving rain, then swiveling in the saddle to face forward again. His face turned grim and he couldn’t help but feel a cold chill slide down his spine. It wasn’t the rain or the wind that bothered him now. It was ghosts. He started to feel an eerie sense of an evil presence. To himself, he thought again. “I ain’t afraid of no ghosts.” But he sure as hell was.

  The procession of riders continued on passing more buildings that were practically fallen down. They were half way along the main street, when Reverend Lynch raised an arm and pointed toward a large building off to the right. “That used to be a hotel,” he shouted above the din of the storm. “Maybe we can find a remaining bed or table that we can lay Jeremy on, in there.”

  He angled his horse off in that direction and the others followed, bunched up behind him.

  The hotel looked to be a two story structure and was large enough to have probably housed several guests in its day. The windows had been boarded up, but the door hadn’t. It flapped open and shut repeatedly, pounding a staccato rhythm against the wind. There was a broken hitch-rail in front of the building. The railing was detached from one side and had dropped to the ground.

  Paul Lynch and Kitty dismounted and handed their reins to Cyclone. Gingerly, they helped Jeremy out of the saddle and with one of them on each side of the wounded man, they helped him across what was left of a board sidewalk and guided him through the open doorway and melted into the dark interior.

  Cyclone, Rap and Chief Henry were already heading off down the street leading the extra horses as the hotel door was pushed shut.

  ****

  Chapter Twenty