Outlaw

by Lisa Plumley

  “Please, I’m only trying to do my job,” she said, gripping the smooth russet leather seat beneath her with both hands to steady herself. Her palms squeaked across it, too damp to offer much purchase.

  “I believe we know what line of enterprise you’re in,” said the elderly man, pausing in his struggles with the satchel long enough to leer at Amelia. His gaze dipped and centered itself on the lace-trimmed neckline of her new traveling gown. “Ain’t that right, Horace?”

  The miner’s bushy eyebrows furrowed in concentration as he peered at the satchel’s lock. Briefly he glanced at Amelia. She fought the urge to yank her perfectly respectable bodice higher.

  “No, you’re wr—wrong,” she stammered, “I—”

  With a savage thrust, he rammed the tip of his knife blade into the lock. Amelia jumped. What kind of men were these, to ravage her poor satchel so viciously? Wiggling his knife fiercely back and forth, the miner worked at the lock.

  Amelia stifled another moan. At least he hadn’t meant to use that knife on her. Then, realizing they’d probably destroy the books if they managed to pick the lock open, she lunged for the satchel again. Her fingers brushed the black rubber cloth, caught hold of the handle…

  The stagecoach heaved and came abruptly to a stop. Hatboxes, assorted baggage, and the banker’s wife all fell to the floor. So did Amelia; she found herself inelegantly on her hands and knees, staring at the elderly man’s shoes. Dust swirled, filling her nose with a dry, ticklish itch. She sneezed mightily—right on his laced-up brown oxfords.

  Above her, the miner abandoned the lock and stuck his head out the stagecoach window. Taking advantage of the distraction, Amelia reached around his denim-clad leg and snatched her satchel from the elderly man’s lap. Luckily, the mean old lecher was too engrossed in what was transpiring outside the window to notice. She got warily to her feet, hugging her bag tight against her chest.

  The miner looked over his shoulder. “We’re bein’ robbed!” he said, the wad of tobacco in his lip waggling with the words. He spat, then looked out the window again.

  “Robbed!” The banker’s wife clutched both pale hands to her bosom and gave a little moan of fear. Her husband glanced heavenward, his lips moving silently.

  Amelia gasped, nearly dropping her satchel with shock. Robbed? Her heart racing, she lurched toward the other window. The canvas curtain slapped her nose. She leaned back just in time to miss another stinging blow. The canvas, unrolled from its mooring, flapped noisily in the breeze. She couldn’t see a thing past it.

  “Oh, for pity’s sake,” she muttered, shoving her satchel toward the banker. “Would you hold this please?”

  Before the words had left her mouth, Amelia had re-rolled the stiff black canvas. Her trembling fingers made fastening it considerably more difficult, but finally she managed it. She stuck her head out the window.

  “What’s happening?” wailed the banker’s wife. “Can you see anything?”

  Amelia’s breath caught. Near the driver, just to the rear of the horses, stood a man dressed entirely in black. His rifle was aimed directly at the driver as he shouted something to him.

  “Don’t be tiresome, Miss O’Malley,” prodded the banker from the depths of the stagecoach, “what do you see?”

  She ducked her head toward her shoulder and spoke rapidly. “We are being robbed.”

  The banker’s wife burst into tears. Amelia pulled her head back inside and wrapped her arms around the woman’s bony, lace-enshrouded shoulders. “There, there,” she murmured, giving her a little pat. “I’m sure everything will be fine. All any road agent wants is the strong box, and the driver’s probably handing it down right now. Don’t you worry a bit.”

  The woman wailed louder. “They’ll k-k-kill us!” she cried, sniffling. Her head bobbed wetly against Amelia’s neck. “Ohhhh!”

  “Shhh,” Amelia soothed, patting harder. She glared at the banker, who still hadn’t moved to comfort his wife. He clutched Amelia’s satchel, looking terrified himself. Were there no good, brave men in the west?

  “There’s only one robber,” she said to the woman, trying to sound comforting, “and he’ll do no such thing, I’m sure of it.”

  She wished her stomach were sure of it, too—Amelia’s insides somersaulted with fear, despite her brave words. If she were to die on a lonely Arizona Territory road, who would tell her family? They might wonder forever what had happened to her. Why, oh why, had she agreed to deliver Jacob’s book orders?

  The woman raised her red, puffy face to Amelia’s. “H-how can you be so s-s-sure?”

  Despite her tears, she looked a little calmer. For that, Amelia was glad. Being the person somebody turned to for help was a new, unexpected experience for her. It made her feel surprisingly brave herself. She drew in a deep, courage-enhancing breath.

  “Because it’s the poet bandit out there,” she explained, dabbing at the young lady’s watery eyes with the soft corner of her lace shawl. “Haven’t you heard of him?”

  Mutely, the banker’s wife shook her head.

  “Well, I have,” Amelia rushed to assure her. “I’ve read all about the poet bandit in the periodicals—publishing is my business, remember?”

  Delivering book orders for her father’s company hardly constituted a future in publishing, but Amelia figured it couldn’t hurt to embroider the truth a bit. It was for a good cause, after all.

  “The poet bandit is strictly a gentleman. He won’t hurt us, really he won’t. He’s never hurt anyone, in all his stagecoach robberies.”

  The banker snorted. Just beyond him, the miner dragged the elderly man up by his shirt and shoved him toward the window.

  “Look, he’s comin’ this way!”

  The banker’s wife shrieked.

  “Now you’ve done it,” said the banker, waving his plump finger in Amelia’s face as though she’d brought the whole thing on them herself.

  “Save yourselves!” yelled the elderly man. Amelia watched in astonishment as he wrenched his gold pocket watch from its chain and flung it out the window. His billfold was next, followed by a pocketful of coins.

  “Give him everything you’ve got!” he cried, whirling away from the window. Rushing forward, he plucked the dangling pearl earrings right from the young lady’s ears. Her screams of pain became one continuous, ear-splitting cry as he tossed them outside.

  “It’s our only hope!” said the banker, his gaze roving over Amelia—looking for valuables, she presumed. She clapped her hands over her earlobes, protecting her new gold flower-shaped earrings.

  “The poet bandit doesn’t care about that!” she protested. “He only takes the contents of the strong box, not personal belongings. He—”

  No one was listening to her. The banker’s wife pulled a folded wad of money from her bodice and flung it toward the window, then, shaking, went to work removing her jewelry.

  The banker gaped at the satchel on his lap. He leaned backward, eyeing it as though the bag was a rattlesnake ready to strike.

  “I’m not dying to protect your books,” he shouted, raising her satchel in both hands. Amelia rushed forward, too late, as he hurled it outside the window with all his strength.

  “Nooo!” She hung out the window set into the stagecoach door, her fingers biting hard into the edge, and watched in horror as her satchel thudded to the ground. Dust billowed around it, stirred by the impact. She clapped her hand over her mouth, hardly able to breathe. Everything was in that bag—her money, her order book, and most of the J.G. O’Malley & Sons books to be delivered. Without it, Amelia’s chance to prove herself in her father’s eyes was gone too.

  “Yeah—I ain’t dying for nobody,” cried the miner from someplace behind her. An instant later, her second satchel followed the first, sailing past only a few inches from Amelia’s head. Hearing it land on the ground outside the stagecoach was like hearing the door close on her future. Jacob would likely lose his job because of her, too—and now he had a wife, Amelia’s best and cl
osest friend, to support.

  “Nooo!” Amelia screamed again, twisting the handle of the stagecoach door. The door swung open and she swung with it, her toes dangling above the ground. It was too high to jump; she’d probably break an ankle. Frantically, Amelia stretched backward.

  The toes of her new high-laced balmoral shoes scraped the thin iron coach steps, then settled atop them. She scrambled down, mindless of modesty as her gown and petticoats billowed upward in the warm breeze. Her gaze fastened on her satchels. She could retrieve them both and be back inside the stagecoach within seconds, she knew it.

  The stagecoach drove away almost before Amelia’s feet touched the ground. Her heart, already racing, thundered in her chest. They were leaving her! Whirling around, she opened her mouth to yell for the driver to stop and choked on a huge mouthful of dust instead.

  Sputtering and coughing, she ran after the stagecoach. It outdistanced her easily; the driver laid his whip on the horses like the devil was after him. Before long, the lash of the whip faded into the hillside, along with the racket of the coach wheels and the horses’ hooves. She stopped, panting, in the middle of the rutted, narrow road. Her sturdy boned corset dug painfully into her ribs with every breath.

  She was alone. Amelia hugged herself, looking around at the quickly darkening countryside. There was no sign of the poet bandit; evidently he’d vanished as quickly and noiselessly as he’d appeared. In fact, Amelia realized, there was no sign of civilization at all. Nothing. A wave of frustration washed over her. What had the driver been thinking, to just drive off and leave her like that, leaving her in such danger?

  Obviously, he hadn’t known she’d stepped out of the stagecoach. When the driver realized his mistake, surely he’d turn right around and come back to get her.

  Wouldn’t he?

  Yes, Amelia told herself. Everything will be all right. She made herself start walking back toward her J.G. O’Malley & Sons satchels. Every step sounded loud; every scrape of her shoes across the sandy soil wound her nerves tighter. What if the poet bandit was still out there? Humming quietly between her clenched teeth, she glanced over her shoulder, then kept walking.

  It occurred to her that they might not be back to get her for a long time. A very long time. Amelia quit humming. Standing beside her satchels, she watched the last of the daylight fade as the sun sank beyond the jagged, tumbledown mountains in the distance. What was she going to do?

  Meet the stagecoach part way, she decided. She had to try. First she scooped up the money and jewelry the other passengers had thrown on to the dusty road so she could return it to them later, then opened one of her satchel and dropped everything inside, feeling a little pang of righteousness despite herself. She’d been right—the poet bandit hadn’t wanted anyone’s money.

  Unfortunately, that was small comfort now. Lifting a satchel in each hand, Amelia breathed deeply and set off. Even if she didn’t catch up with the stagecoach right away, she was bound to run into a town or a stage stop a few miles down the road.

  Anything was better than simply standing there, waiting for fate to take its course with her.

  If she were back home, or even at Briarwood Young Ladies’ Seminary, nothing like this would’ve ever happened to her, Amelia thought, staring out at the unfamiliar landscape as she trudged along. Nothing ever happened in Big Pike Lake, Michigan—especially to her. Her father and brothers simply wouldn’t stand for it.

  In Big Pike Lake, trees lined the streets—big maples and oaks, not the scrubby bushes that passed for trees in the west. And the streets were paved roads, not bumpy dirt trails that would almost certainly ruin her shoes before she caught up with the stagecoach. Amelia tightened her grip on the worn ivory handles of her satchels. Feeling sorry for herself wouldn’t help anyone. Still, she couldn’t help but wish—

  A sound in the underbrush caught her attention. A wild animal? Or maybe an Indian? She’d read all about the dangers of the West in the dime novels sold by J.G. O’Malley & Sons—was she about to come face to face with one of them herself?

  Amelia steadied her pace, darting a quick glance toward the sound. She couldn’t see anything there. Slowing, she turned her head toward it to take a closer look, and promptly walked into a hole in the road.

  Her foot remained in the hole, but the rest of her just kept going. With a shriek, Amelia tried to break her fall with her hands; her satchels flew from her grasp and skidded away. She landed on her hands and knees in the dirt, her palms stinging.

  Hoisting herself onto her backside, she raised her hands and gingerly brushed away a few sharp pebbles. It was too dark to tell how badly she’d scraped her palms in her fall, so Amelia turned her attention to her hurt ankle instead. Tears burned in her eyes, blurring her view, making her ankle look huge and wobbly. She didn’t see how things could possibly get any worse.

  “Come with me.”

  The words came from just behind her; Amelia jerked her head upwards, her heart hammering. She could barely see the man standing there, because his clothes were so dark. She had a brief impression of masculine height, strength, and danger—and then she had no more time to look. He grabbed her arm with strong leather-gloved fingers and hauled her to her feet, nearly in one swift motion.

  Chapter Two

  Amelia’s body collided with his. She shrieked, her pulse racing madly. It felt as though she couldn’t possibly get enough air to keep breathing. A second later, her ankle refused to support her weight. It buckled beneath her, sending pain up through her calf. Amelia clutched at the man for support—he was the poet bandit, he had to be, she was ninety-nine percent certain of that—and tried not to cry.

  “My—my ankle’s hurt,” she whispered, forcing the words past her dry throat. Still clutching the sleeve of his dark duster coat, Amelia dared to look up at him. She saw only a shadowed face beneath his flat-brimmed black hat, and a brief flash of whisker-stubbled jaw before she ducked her head again.

  Her belly flip-flopped with excitement. She was being rescued by the poet bandit! It was just like a dime novel she’d read once—The Amazing True Adventures of Miss Beadle in the Villainous West. She could hardly wait to tell Melissa and Jacob all about it.

  “I—I don’t think I can walk far,” she admitted, feeling breathless.

  Perhaps he’d carry her down the road to the next stage stop! The poet bandit was a gentleman, she knew that from reading the periodicals. Embellishing the scene, Amelia imagined herself being carried courageously into town in the poet bandit’s arms, saw the astonished townspeople surrounding her. She’d be a heroine!

  “Hell,” the outlaw muttered.

  The deep, rumbling sound of his voice sent a thrilling shiver through her. He smelled like sagebrush and tobacco and dark smoky leather, like a real man of the wild west. This was undoubtedly the most exciting event of her life. He slipped his arm around her waist to hold her upright, then started walking.

  When she got to Tucson, the townspeople would want to know all about her ordeal, of course. ‘How brave you’ve been!’ they’d say. Why, she’d be the toast of the town for weeks, quite likely. Maybe they’d even write about her in the newspaper. Everyone would want to buy a J.G. O’Malley & Sons book!

  This could only help her mission. She’d return home triumphant, and…

  …And the poet bandit was not carrying her down the road in the direction the stagecoach had gone, Amelia realized. He was carrying her off the road into the desert beyond.

  She was being abducted, not rescued. Screaming for all she was worth and squirming against him, Amelia thought wildly that if she had one of her satchels, she could wallop him with it to make him let her go. And then what? a part of her prodded—she could barely walk. Besides, both her satchels were still on the ground beside the hole she’d tripped over. She yelled louder.

  His free hand clamped over the lower half of her face. “Quiet,” he commanded.

  “Let me go,” she tried to say, but all that emerged was “Mmmph.” With his b
ig gloved hand smothering her it was impossible to speak. Panicked, she couldn’t breathe, either, until she remembered to close her mouth and breathe in through her nose. In, out, in, out; Amelia let herself be led across the uneven ground toward whatever destination he had in mind for her.

  Behind an outcropping of rock some distance from the road he finally lowered her onto a cold hunk of boulder. Her ankle forgotten, Amelia looked up at him.

  He was definitely the poet bandit. Most certainly so. He was dressed all in black—at least she thought he was, it was too dark to be certain—and even his hat was dark. He must have removed the black bandanna he wore to hide his face, but with the exception of that one detail he looked exactly like the artists’ drawings she’d seen.

  “Stay here,” he said, then vanished into the darkness again.

  Now that she’d glimpsed his true nature, the last thing Amelia meant to do was wait for him to come back. In the dark, without the security of the stagecoach and her fellow passengers nearby, the poet bandit was considerably less romantic than the periodicals had led her to believe. He was downright scary.

  The poet bandit might be a gentleman, but he was still an outlaw. Whatever gentlemanly impulses she’s attributed to him had been proved wrong the instant he’d taken her from the road. Amelia wasn’t sure what he meant to do with her, but she didn’t intend to stay where he’d left her and find out.

  Even leaving her J.G. O’Malley & Sons satchels behind was surely better than whatever fate the outlaw had planned for her. Even her father would agree her life was worth more than the books and money she was leaving behind. She hoped.

  Amelia pushed herself away from the boulder she was sitting on and stood up slowly. She listened; the only sounds were the chirping of insects and the raspy, fear-filled sound of her own breathing. What a fool she’d been to imagine an outlaw might rescue her!

  Gathering her courage and putting as little weight on her hurt ankle as possible, Amelia headed for the nearest pile of boulders. All she had to do was get far enough away to hide.