The Adventures of the Lone Jack Kid: A Western Adventure (Western Fiction, by Joe Corso Book 1)

by Joe Corso

  The new oval-shaped Concord coach traveled at a pace of five miles per hour and sometimes it reached a speed of eight miles per hour - with rest stops ranging from between 15 and 20 miles between stops. Charlie was lucky because the Concord coach had six horses pulling it, when most trips called for a much smaller coach pulled by a team of four horses. Still, the coach was bouncy, dusty, hot, and uncomfortable. Horses were changed frequently and you had to eat your meals in a hurry. Meals cost twenty-five cents and the food was terrible and since the time between changing the horses was quick, sometimes taking only ten minutes, you had to rush your meal or you wouldn’t eat. Outhouses were available at each rest stop for passengers to answer the call of nature.

  About 35 miles east of Franklin, a town that bordered on Indian territory, the stage coach was nearing the end of a slow descent down a long curve at the base of a mountain, when a gunshot startled the passengers. Charlie stumbled over two passengers as he rushed to the window to see what was happening. He saw the shotgun rider slumped over in an unnatural position - apparently having been shot - maybe dead. There were two men on horseback pointing their guns at the driver. Charlie turned and quickly pushed his way to the other window to see what was happening on that side. A man holding his horse’s reins in one hand and a shotgun (possibly the shotgun rider’s) in his other hand walked slowly toward the door. The passengers knew they were being held up and they started to panic.

  “My God,” a woman gasped. “After they take the strongbox, they’ll rob all of us.”

  “And maybe kill us all,” a man nervously blurted out.

  Charlie reached under his heavy coat and pulled his Colt 1860 army and as a matter of habit, he quickly checked to make sure that each cylinder contained a bullet. Then, stepping over passengers again, he stumbled to the door furthest from the man with the shotgun. He’d rather take his chances with the two Pistoleros than the guy holding the shotgun. He knew he had to do something before the man with the shotgun opened up on them, so he opened the door a crack, took a deep breath, and dove out the door and onto the ground, rolling acrobatically, and in one swift movement, came up with his guns blazing. The act by the Kid surprised the two men on horseback and before they could react, he shot and killed both of them. Then he quickly spun around and looked under the coach for the man with the shotgun. He didn’t want that shotgun pointed in his direction under any circumstances. The man holding the shotgun heard the shots and instead of opening the door as he planned to do, he ran past it to the rear of the coach. The Kid bent down on one knee and fired at the man’s leg, knocking him off his feet. The shotgun scattered along the ground away from him. Charlie cautiously took a look to see if the man was still a danger to him. As he chanced a look, a gunshot rang out, hitting the boot of the coach, narrowly missing him. Charlie called out, “You don’t have to die today. Drop your gun and we’ll get you patched up. If you don’t throw down your gun, I’m gonna kill you and leave you here so the vultures can feast on your body. Now which is it to be?”

  The passengers heard what the Kid said and were relieved, knowing that this young man had saved their lives.

  “Okay, okay. I’ll throw you my gun. Here it is.” Charlie heard the gun hit dirt and when the dust cleared he saw it lying in front of him, but he wondered, did the man have a second gun? That question nagged at him so instead of walking around the back of the wagon straight toward him, he crouched low to try to get a better view of the man. He took one look and relaxed; the man was definitely unarmed, bleeding badly, and in a lot of pain.

  “Lie back; I want to check your wound.” The man lay back while Longstreet took his boot knife and cut the trouser covering his leg. The wound was bad. “Listen up. The bone is shattered. I’m gonna wrap a tourniquet around your leg to stop the bleeding and I’ll try to make you comfortable, but a doctor has to attend to that leg.” Charlie helped the man hobble to his feet, grabbed his arm, put it around his shoulder, and pointed to the roof. “You’ll have to ride up there.”

  The wounded man looked at Longstreet and asked, “Why didn’t you just kill me?”

  Charlie told him frankly, “If I had to kill you, I would have, but I didn’t. Now if you want to live, shut up and get up there on top of the coach.”

  “Wait,” the injured man said. “What’s your name, stranger?”

  Longstreet looked at him and shrugged his shoulders. There was no sense lying to the man. “Charles Longstreet’s the name.”

  “Longstreet? The Lone Jack Kid?” There was no living it down now.

  “Yeah, that’s me. I’m the Lone Jack Kid.” The passengers sat in stunned silence upon hearing who their traveling companion was. With the bandit lying on his back with a shattered leg, on top of the coach and no longer a threat, the Kid asked the driver, “How’s your buddy?”

  “He’s dead. They killed him. Would have killed all of us if you hadn’t been with us.”

  Charlie nodded and looked at the two dead robbers. “Come on, let’s bury your friend and these two bushwhackers. The wounded man ain’t goin’ nowhere, he’ll stay where he is . . . and if you don’t mind, partner, I’ll ride shotgun for you.”

  The driver, a grizzled veteran, looked pleased. “I’d be mighty grateful to ya and I’d feel a whole lot safer with you riding shotgun up here with me.”

  It was ten miles to the next stage stop and the driver drove the horses hard to make up for lost time. When they arrived at the stop, the lathered horses were unhitched and taken to the corral where two boys tended to them. Fresh horses were then hitched to the coach, and after drinking a quick cup of coffee and eating some slightly worm-infested moldy biscuits, the passengers got back in the coach, and with a crack of the whip, the coach lurched forward for the final leg of its trip to Franklin.

  Instead of heading to the corral, the driver pulled his team of tired horses in front of the sheriff’s office. He jumped down from the coach and bounded through the door to the jail to fetch the sheriff. Within seconds, three men with badges rushed out of the door. They helped the injured man down from the coach and carried him to a jail cell, where the doctor would tend to him.

  “Go and get the doctor, Swede,” the sheriff ordered his deputy, then he looked at Longstreet. “So you’re the notorious Lone Jack Kid, eh?”

  The Kid looked at the sheriff and smiled. “Not something I ever wanted or encouraged, but it does seem to follow me wherever I go like a hound dog on a hunt.”

  The sheriff laughed and slapped the Kid on the back. “Come on in, and let’s have a drink. I’ve got an unopened bottle sitting in my drawer and I’ve been waiting for a reason to open it. I guess this is as good a reason as any.” The sheriff opened the bottle and poured three drinks. “Have a seat, Kid, I’m Sheriff Thompson and this is my deputy, Karl, and my other deputy is Swede. You know, we’ve been looking for those three robbers for six months now. They’ve committed eight robberies during that time, and they killed another of our stage drivers besides the one today, and they got away with the payroll every time. The stage line is offering a one-thousand-dollar reward for each man, which means you’ll have a good poke in your pocket when you leave here.” The sheriff poured another drink and as he handed it to the Kid, he gave him a hard look. “Are you planning on spending any time here in Franklin?”

  Here it comes, Charlie thought. He figured he was about to get the bum’s rush, with the sheriff escorting him out of town in a hurry. “Well, I figured on taking the stage to Virginia City. I have a brother there I’m planning to visit. Why do you ask?”

  “Well . . . I thought if you were going to stay here for a while that maybe you’d like a job as my deputy. The driver told me how you handled yourself today and I can use a good man. You know, you probably saved the passengers from getting robbed, and possibly killed.”

  “Well, I appreciate the offer, sheriff, but I’ll be on the stage when it leaves.”

  The sheriff nodded. “I received a wire a little while ago. They’re sending an inves
tigator here by train and he’ll be here in the morning, which means the stage won’t leave until the day after tomorrow. Meanwhile, Butterfield Overland has to find a man to ride shotgun for them and when the investigator gets here, he’ll want to ask you a few questions. Okay, now that I’ve said my piece, let’s take a walk over to the Crystal Palace; there are a few boys I’d like you to meet. We’ll have a few drinks, sit down like gentlemen, and have ourselves a good long talk. ” Charlie wasn’t in the mood to meet anyone, but since he was getting three thousand dollars in reward money, he didn’t want to appear ungracious, so he accepted the sheriff’s offer.

  At about the same time the sheriff and the Kid left for the Crystal Palace, the newspaper’s only reporter, who was also the owner of the newspaper, which was located next door to the telegraph office, was interviewing the stagecoach passengers at the Franklin Chronicle. After he finished interviewing the passengers, he wrote a quick editorial for the next day’s early edition. But before putting the story into type, he telegraphed a copy of it to Ned Buntline at his Bowery office in New York City.

  CHAPTER 6

  There was a loud knock on the door. When there was no answer - another knock, only louder. The loud pounding on the door abruptly awakened Charlie from a deep sleep. He turned on his side, still not quite awake, and reached across the bed to his holster, which hung over the chair close to his bed. He pulled his revolver; it slid smoothly out as if it were on ball bearings. Now fully awake, the Kid jumped out of the bed and positioned himself at the side of the door at the possibility he was facing a man with a shotgun. “Who is it?” he asked suspiciously.

  “It’s Sheriff Thompson. Open the door.”

  Longstreet recognized the voice and he let out the breath he was holding. He opened the door a crack to confirm it was the sheriff, then he opened the door and let him in. The Kid yawned and dropped his gun on the chair, then he reached over the bed board, picked up his pants and shirt, and began to put them on. “What are you doing, waking me up so early for, sheriff?” he said as he checked the time on his pocket watch. “Hell, it’s only ten to seven in the morning, much too early to be wakin’ me up.”

  The sheriff looked at the Kid sideways with a hint of a smile on his face. “The stage ain’t leaving until eight tomorrow morning, Kid, so I decided it would be prudent of me to hang around with you today. Now you don’t mind me hanging around with you today? Do you, Kid?”

  The way the sheriff smiled as he broke the news made Longstreet think that something wasn’t quite right. “Okay, sheriff. I’m wide-awake now, and I can see that gleam in your eye and that shit-eating grin on your face, so what’s up? Why are you here? Is there something you’re not telling me? Something I should know about?”

  That was all it took for the sheriff to do a little two-step. He laughed mischievously, waving a newspaper in the air in front of the Kid. “I’ll say for sure that something is up, Kid,” he said, laughing harder. “Here, read it for yourself.” And he threw the newspaper on the bed.

  Longstreet had one sock and boot on, and was holding his other sock in his hand when he glanced at the Daily Star’s headline. He put the sock down and picked up the paper. “Holy shit. I can’t believe they’re printing more of this garbage.” Charlie opened the paper and read a part of the story, and then he threw the newspaper back at the sheriff, who caught it while still laughing.

  “Hell, they’re gonna get me killed if they keep writin’ this crap about me in the papers.”

  The sheriff removed his hat, bowed slightly and, with a sweeping motion, brought his hand across his chest gallantly. “And that is why I’ll be tagging along with you all day today, and all night tonight, and I’m even escorting you to your coach tomorrow morning. Oh, and by the way - you’re riding shotgun all the way into Indian territory. But don’t worry about money, ‘cause you’re gonna be paid the enormous sum of two dollars a stop.” The sheriff broke out laughing at his little joke - seeing as how the stage line owed the Kid three thousand dollars in bounty money. “You’re getting two dollars a stop. Think about it, Kid. With all that money, you’ll be able to live high on the hog, right? Maybe when you ride into some of those towns you’ve been visiting lately, you can take some more of those fancy perfumed baths that you’re getting used to. Wow, two dollars a stop. Wish I made that much money.” The sheriff was having a great time teasing the Kid. “Come on, Kid, let’s get some breakfast. My treat.” There was no doubting it, the sheriff was having whole a lot of fun at Charlie’s expense, and he wasn’t finished yet.

  As Charlie and the sheriff walked across the dining room floor to sit down for breakfast, everyone’s eyes were locked on the Kid amidst murmurs and looks. It seemed that everyone wanted to get a look at the Kid. The sheriff casually looked around the room, then he turned to the Kid, apparently amused. It appeared to Charlie that the sheriff was enjoying himself a little too much, like he was holding something back and waiting for the right moment to tell him. The sheriff had the same thoughts. Well, he thought to himself, it’s time for more fun - and this looks like as good a time as any to tell him.

  “You’re becoming quite famous, Kid. But when Buntline’s next book that he’s writing about you comes out, you’re really going to have to watch that famous ass of yours.”

  “What book? What in hell are you talking about, sheriff?” Sheriff Thompson took a swig of coffee to wash down the mouthful of toast he just finished chewing, then before saying anything more, he dabbed his lips and chin with his napkin, and then he continued talking.

  “I’m talkin’ about Harry who owns the Daily Star newspaper; he telegraphed Buntline a copy of the editorial he wrote about your shootout with the bandits yesterday. That’s what you were just reading, and you know Buntline better than I do… but my guess is with all the scrapes you’ve been getting yourself into lately, he’ll probably have another book published by the time you reach the next town. Heh, heh, ha . . . And you think that you’re famous now. Ha ha haa. Wait until the next book comes out. Hee haa haaaaa.” Thompson slapped his thigh and was laughing so hard now that people were wondering what the joke was. His laughing was infectious and soon Charlie joined in and was laughing along with him.

  “Yeah, and with all the publicity I’m gonna get from his new book, I’ll have to hire me a publicity agent. And I’m thinkin’ that you would be the perfect man for the job, sheriff, what with all of your socializing and knocking on the door and waking up people skills, there’s no newspaper that would be safe from you. And since you think two dollars a stagecoach stop is a lot of money, then that’s what I’ll pay you. He he ha haaaa.”

  The two men used their napkins to rub the tears from their eyes. The Kid pointed his finger at the sheriff. “Maybe instead of hiring you as my publicity agent, I’ll hire you as my body guard just to get back at you for so thoroughly enjoying my discomfort.”

  The sheriff almost choked on his coffee. “Come on,” the sheriff sputtered. “Let’s get out of here before I pee myself. . . Me, your publicist,” he said, shaking his head and pointing at the Kid. Then he added, “I can just see me as your bodyguard. Ha - ha haaa.” Thompson caught his breath and added, “You know, son. I haven’t had a good laugh like this in years. Kid, I’m really gonna miss you. Why don’t you stay here? The deputy’s job is yours if you want it. Like I said, I can use a good man and I sure as hell could use a good laugh every once in a while and I believe we’d work good together. Besides, if you came to work for me, I’d make a lot more money ‘cause I’d hire myself out as your bodyguard too and then I’d make two salaries, yours and mine.” The sheriff laughed again and gave the Kid a friendly shove as the two of them walked toward the jail laughing, talking, and making light of the Kid’s dangerous situation as friends sometimes will do.

  The sheriff liked this famous kid and he hoped that his fame wouldn’t be the cause of his death, but the sad truth was, he believed that his being killed was an inevitability that couldn’t be avoided. He had no doubt that t
he Kid’s fame would eventually kill him - probably sooner rather than later.

  The two men laid low and kept to themselves for the rest of the day, with the sheriffs watching over the Kid like a mother hen. The next morning, Sheriff Thompson escorted his friend the Lone Jack Kid to the waiting stage.

  The sheriff had another reason for being present at the stage this morning. Two representatives of Butterfield Overland Mail carried a strongbox out to the coach, accompanied by two guards with rifles. It was the sheriff’s job to make sure the strongbox was securely stored in the boot under the driver’s seat. As Charlie was about to mount the stage, Thompson stopped him. “Do you think you’ll ever be back this way again, Kid?”

  The Kid looked him in the eye. “I don’t rightly know, sheriff.”

  “Call me ‘Len.’ That’s what my friends call me,” the sheriff said, and he put out his hand.

  Charlie took it and a smile spread across his face. “Well, Len, I just might pass this way again on my way to New York to give that fat bastard Buntline a talking to, and if the mood strikes me, maybe a spanking too, for all the pain he’s caused me.” They both laughed a last laugh and the sheriff patted the Kid affectionately on the back. He felt a twinge of sadness as the Kid climbed up to the stage’s shotgun seat. The sheriff threw a shotgun up to him, then he reached up and handed him a box of shells and an envelope with a bank note for three thousand dollars in it, the reward money owed to the Kid, courtesy of the Butterfield Overland Mail company that the representative had given the sheriff to give to the Kid after interviewing him about the attempted robbery.

  The driver jerked the reins and the coach lurched forward as six powerful horses pulled the big Concord stagecoach onward toward the open road. The sheriff watched as its wheels kicked up a cloud of dust as the coach rolled along the wide dirt street, then it turned the corner by Smith’s Bakery and disappeared from his sight. He couldn’t remember the last time he felt this sad about a stranger he just met and hardly knew, leaving his town. He liked the Kid and he wished he would have accepted the deputy’s job he offered him; it might just have saved his life. Too late now, he thought.