High in the Colorado Mountains and deep in the Sacramento Mountain Range, Pop Dawson’s hidden outlaw refuge was well concealed from the law and the rest of the world. Years ago Pop Dawson, then known as Bob Dawson, was the scourge of the west. A bandit of renown. Stage coaches and trains were held up at his mercy. Banks were impervious to his sudden attacks. Lawmen were helpless to prevent his lawlessness and came up empty with no success in locating the elusive bandit.
Then one day, the banditry ceased. Bob Dawson disappeared. Never to be heard of again. That was twenty years ago. There was speculation that the outlaw died, but there was never any proof of it. Soon Bob Dawson, the bandit, was forgotten. There were many more outlaws to take his place, as there always would be, as long as there were ruthless, greedy men in this world.
But, Bob Dawson had not died. No one knew what caused him to give up outlawry, but, he did. Perhaps, it was because he found a good woman. He found a hideaway in the mountains and built himself a cabin. He became self sufficient there and built a good life for himself and his wife, Minerva. The law would never find him there. The trouble was; it was a lonely life. It didn’t bother him so much, as it did his wife, Minerva. She longed for the sight of other human beings. That’s when Bob decided to build a town. A town as a sanctuary for those seeking refuge from the law. He was careful not to attract the really bad element. There were always those who had gotten on the wrong side of the law for one reason or another.
The venture had proved successful and over the years, many fugitives found refuge in this mountain haven. Over the years, Bob Dawson aged gracefully and eventually became known as Pop Dawson. He had named his stronghold Robin’s Roost. No one ever knew the exact reason why he chose this particular name.
The entrance to The Roost always remained a secret. Trusted sentinels guarded the twisted and winding pathways into the stronghold. Newcomers were blindfolded as they were led in, just as those who left after their stay. No one was permitted to carry weapons during their stay in the haven.
A few of Pop’s guests were trusted with the secret of the way in and out. The most trusted of these was The Cyclone Kid. This was why he was chosen to pick up and deliver mail from the Leadville stage. He and Kitty had been doing the duty for the past couple of months that they had been laying low after their last skirmish with Simon Price in Thimble Creek.
The sun had risen higher into the sky and clear blue peaked out between the mountain peaks as Cyclone and Kitty rode into the single street of Pop’s town. The air was crisp and cool at this high elevation. People started to stir in the streets. There was excitement in the anticipation of the mail Cyclone and Kitty were bringing. Surprising as it may seem, there were even women beginning to gather in the street. Like Minerva Dawson, some women had chosen to stand by their men and forsake the outside world. At any given time there were usually sixty to seventy inhabitants of Robin’s Roost.
The single street was comprised of several log cabin structures for living quarters on both sides of the street. In the middle of town on the east side was a large two story log cabin structure. This was Pop Dawson’s place. The downstairs was a general store. Upstairs was his living quarters. Directly across the street was a restaurant, and bar, all rolled into one.
Cyclone and Kitty angled their horses off in front of Pop’s store, stepped down from the saddle, spun their reins around the hitch rail and ambled inside. Kitty was carrying the mail sack over her shoulder.
It was fairly dark inside in contrast to the daylight outside. Pop still had a lighted lantern hanging high above the store counter. Until the sun would rise to mid morning and begin to stream light through the large front windows of his emporium, the lantern usually stayed lit well into the morning hours.
A stout woman was standing behind the counter, bent over an open ledger before her. She stood erect when she heard the footsteps approaching, thudding across the bare plank flooring. She smiled and greeted, “Hiya Cyclone, Kitty.” Her smile was warm and her eyes twinkled. Her hair, though graying, still displayed a great deal of brown from her youthful days. It was still full, though tied back and rolled into a tight bun at the back of her head. Her trim figure, unfortunately, had disappeared and had been replaced with a plump, broad silhouette that added to her sparkling, jovial personality.
“Pop’s out back,” Minerva Dawson said. “I’ll get him.”
She didn’t bother to move. She just turned her head and bellowed at the top of her lungs. “Pop, mail’s here!”
Cyclone cringed at the shrillness of the pitch.
It only took a moment for Pop to emerge from the door to the back room. He was pulling his suspenders up over his faded long john under shirt, stretching the gallouses over the rotund belly that spilled out over his belt, as he shuffled up to the counter.
“You don’t have to get all gussied up on our account, Bob,” Cyclone chuckled as they stepped up to the counter.
“I ain’t gettin’ all gussied up for you, you old mossey horn. I gotta be openin’ for business soon. Gotta look good for my customers.” He smiled through stained and missing teeth, although almost unnoticed by the scraggly short gray beard that covered his round cherubic face. His voice was raspy and gravely. “Besides. I’m in the presence of a lady.” He bowed toward Kitty. “How’s my girl?” He said with a beaming smile.”
“Just fine, Pop,” She said, dropping the canvas bag on the counter, letting the contents spill out.
“How many times I gotta tell ya, ya old scalawag, she’s her Grampa’s girl and nobody else’s? So don’t you don’t go hornin’ in, tryin’ to make no claims on her. Ya’s uner’stan’?” Cyclone whined.
“Let’s see what we got here,” Pop said, spreading the mail out on the counter, ignoring the previous conversation with Cyclone, which was just the usual meaningless banter anyhow.
Pop and Minerva slid the pieces of mail into a manner of sort. For the small volume, it could hardly be said that there was enough to be made into piles. At one point, Pop paused and held up one piece. “Kitty,” Pop said, a trace of surprise in his voice. “Here’s one for you.”
Kitty’s green eyes turned dark and she reached for the envelope. Her fingers trembled a bit. Holding the envelope with both hands, she looked at the postmark. St. Louis Missouri.
“What is it, girl?” Cyclone was fairly busting with curiosity, but at the same time he feared something bad was coming his granddaughter’s way.
“It’s too dark in here,” Kitty said. “I’ve got to go outside to read this. I’ll tell you about it later, Grandpa.” She gave him a quick kiss on the cheek and hurried outside.
Cyclone felt the wetness of the tear rolling down her cheek. He fought down the urge to follow after her, but he knew she would come to him when she was ready.
Besides, it would be almost impossible to get out of the emporium for a while. The door was now filled with people clamoring through hoping to find some contact with the outside world waiting for them in this month’s mail.
The Return of Wildcat Kitty and the Cyclone Kid Page 2
