Wildcat Kitty and the Cyclone Kid

by Franklin D. Lincoln

The Concord stage bounced and swayed along the winding, rutted trail out of Thimble Creek. The passengers inside tried to cope with the jolting ride to no avail. They heard the driver up top shouting to the horses and the crack of the whip behind their ears was as loud as a pistol shot, clearly heard above the rumble of the iron wheels against the dry gravel road.

  Matt Starr shifted in his seat as the stage wheels clumped over the bumpy road. He slewed to the right, pressing up against the side and close to the open air window. Dust plumed by; some of it drifting into the coach itself. He was riding backward, having given up his seat across the aisle to the somewhat overweight matronly woman and her rotund husband.

  An immaculately dressed man was shackled to Matt’s left wrist by a set of handcuffs. The man appeared to be in his early thirties. He had a handsome, clean shaven face. Slight creases lined his broad forehead beneath his broad brimmed, low crowned black hat. There was a twinkle in his eye and he exuded a carefree attitude. With his brocaded vest, black string tie and gold watch chain hanging from his vest pocket, he was a fine figure of a man. The way that he carried himself, even while riding backwards on the seat of this jolting vehicle, would normally tell the world that he was a gentleman, or a dandy except for the iron handcuff clamped to his right wrist.

  Marshal Matt Starr failed to hide his expression of annoyance as he bounced against the side of the stage, pressed by his prisoner, sliding into him. He pushed the dandy back to his side of the seat and moved back to where he had been sitting.

  The clatter of the iron wheels beneath them, the pounding of the six up team horses’ hooves, the driver’s yelling at the animals and the crack of the whip echoed in their ears creating a din. More dust blew in from the side door windows.

  The lady across the way grabbed onto her hat, sliding it back into place. Her husband straightened the lapels of his tweed suit coat and grasped hold of a hand strap hanging from the side and next to the window.

  The dandy chuckled at the other passenger‘s discomfort. “The ride’s a little bumpy, but we’re making good time,” the man said. There seemed to be a bit of a smirk on his lean handsome face as he spoke and he seemed a little too cheerful for a man handcuffed to a man wearing a U.S Deputy Marshal‘s badge.

  The overweight lady opposite him merely grunted, “Hrrumph,” indicating her disgust with the dandy.

  “I told you not to bother the other passengers,” the lawman said sternly. He was a young man in his late twenties and had already garnered a reputation for himself as being a competent lawman with considerable skill with guns and fists. He was lean and of medium build. His height when he stood was just under six feet. He had a round youthful face, apple cheeks and brown eyes. Neatly cropped brown hair could be seen protruding from beneath his compact brown Stetson hat, loosely held by a chin strap. He wore a black string tie and a gray shirt that bloused at the shoulders. Tapered black trousers poured into the tops of highly polished black stove pipe boots that reached mid-calf. He wore a matching shiny black leather gun belt with a holster on each side. The right hand holster held a plain black handled Colt. The left hand holster was empty. Matt Starr had packed the other pistol away in his traveling bag, thus eliminating any temptation on behalf of his prisoner.

  “Well excuse me, Mister Marshal. I just thought I was being sociable, trying to make the ride less stressful,” the dandy protested.

  “Well, just don’t try. You’re bothering the lady,” Matt said.

  “What lady?” The more than just overweight man sitting next to her, scoffed. “She ain’t been called that in years. Least wise not in the twenty seven years I’ve been married to the old warhorse.” He laughed smugly. There was a wheeze in his chest as his rolls of fat jiggled around his middle.

  “Chester,” the woman groaned. “Do you always have to be so insulting to me?”

  “Figured you’d be used to it by now, old woman,” he chuckled unsympathetically. The woman turned away from him and stared out the window. Dust was billowing by and she had all she could do to keep from coughing.

  Matt wriggled his nose is disdain at the man’s crudeness.

  His attention was quickly diverted as pistol shots rang out on the trail behind them. Then stage suddenly lurched forward at greater speed, jostling the passengers more than ever. The driver’s voice rang out louder. This time panic was there. His whip snapped time and time again as he urged the teams onward.

  Scuffling could be heard on the roof above as the shotgun guard half crawled onto it. The blast from his Greener was a deafening roar inside the coach.

  More shots from behind rang out. A hole almost appeared in the back wall of the stage as an embedded slug failed to penetrate fully.

  “Get down!” Matt shouted. The elderly couple didn’t need any persuasion. They were already falling to their knees in the aisle. They were both screaming and reaching for each other as if each could save and protect the other.

  Matt pulled his Colt from its holster and slid across the seat, this time deliberately, and banging into the side wall. He dragged his prisoner with him. He leaned out the window, pushing his pistol through first, his eyes searching the back trail through the thickening cloud of dust being churned up by the coach’s wheels. He heard more shots. The guard’s Greener blasted again.

  Through the haze of dust the shadowy outlines of two pursuing riders intermittently appeared and disappeared, but each time they appeared it was obvious that they were beginning to flank the stage and coming closer. Matt squeezed off two rounds. Apparently, they hit nothing for the riders were still there. The sound of their pistol shots was louder as they grew nearer, but no lead projectiles came near Matt, the other passengers nor entered inside the coach. More pistol shots sounded from the other side of the coach. There were more bandits than the two Matt was busy with, but the lawman had no way of knowing how many in total they were dealing with.

  The shotgun guard must have reloaded his double barreled Greener, for it blasted again, just as Matt loosed two more shots, himself. The two riders on his side reined their mounts up a little and fell farther behind.

  Matt fired again and again. The outlaws continued their barrage and the shotgun roared again. Horses’ hooves thundered. The driver’s voice rang out louder and again and again, his whip cracking in rapid secession. Iron wheels rattled, clanked and churned in the gravel rising to a clattering crescendo level. Fleeing quarry and determined pursuit were swallowed up by the ever increasing cloud of dust.

  Up ahead, a little farther along the trail, on a ridge above, five riders sat in their saddles on their mounts, waiting. One rider sat a paint horse and was obviously a woman.

  The big man on a chestnut mare, next to her, checked his pocket watch; then returned it to his vest pocket beneath his black duster. He murmured almost to himself, but also for the benefit of his companions, “Stage ought to be along any minute now.” He was an elderly man with broad shoulders and a large build. His expanding girth was hidden beneath the duster. Gray hair hung below his dilapidated high peaked ten gallon hat. The brim was wide and the crown was stained with sweat turning what was once a white hat to dark gray. A polka dot bandanna hung loosely around his thick neck.

  They had been waiting a half hour for the stage to come along. Once they would see it round the bend down the trail, they would pull up their bandannas, ride down and block the road.

  He had no sooner proclaimed his prediction when the first sight of the stage appeared. The horses were running full steam; hell bent for leather, dragging the stage around the bend.

  “Looks like they’re in one hell of a hurry,” the tall man on the gray stallion next to him said. This man was not quite as old, even though his hair and stubble beard was snow white.

  “Hurry nothing,” the female rider interjected. “They’re being chased! Look!”

  There were four horsemen in pursuit of the stage. Their guns barked time and time again.

  “Well, don’t that beat all,” the older man muttered.
His voice was high pitched and raspy. “Outlaws hornin’ in on our business. They oughta know better’n that. Damn fools are rank amateurs. Everyone knows you don’t chase a stage. You ride right out in front of it and stop it.”

  “What do you think we ought to do, Grampa,” the girl said. She was small framed. Long auburn hair hung down below her brown tied on Stetson. She wore a fringed buckskin jacket open over a red checkered shirt tucked into black jeans.

  “What we came for,” the old man snapped. “We’re not going to let those upstarts beat us out. Come on let’s go.” He pulled his bandanna up over his face, pulled his pistol from its sheath, and gigged his horse forward, angling down the incline. The others followed suit, pulling their bandannas into place and following the old man.

  Matt Starr was still firing back at the outlaws, when he saw the riders on the ridge. He was sure he recognized at least two of the horses and smiled wryly to himself. He opened up and poured three more shots after the pursuing outlaws.

  The riders from the ridge opened fire at the outlaws as they came rushing down toward the trail, firing and filling the air around the bandits’ heads with a hail of bullets. The bandits reined back, slackening their speed as the newcomers caught their attention. They turned their guns onto the interlopers and returned fire.

  Their retaliation didn’t last long. The oncoming riders never slackened their pace nor let up their attack. They just kept throwing lead as they came on. The four bandits quickly realized they were in trouble. One of them, probably the leader, signaled to the others, as if urging them to give up the fight and wheeled his horse to ride back along the trail from which they had come. The others followed suit and retreated after him in a cloud of dust

  The oncoming riders were still firing as the bandits rode off until they were out of pistol range, then they turned their attention to the fleeing stage coach which was already passing them by. It was too late to get in front of it and block the trail. They wheeled their horses in pursuit, three of them riding alongside the stage while the other two rode forward, racing with the teams until they were abreast of the two lead horses; one rider on each side of the team. They each reached out and grasped the bridles and pulled them to a halt.

  The stage rumbled to stop in a swirl of dust as the six up came under control. The two riders turned to point their guns at the driver and guard. The driver quickly raised his hands, still clutching the leathers in his fingers. The guard was slumped over, half lying on the top of the coach. Blood oozed from a gaping shoulder wound. His shotgun had apparently fallen back along the trail.

  The other three riders pulled up alongside the coach. “Alright, you folks, inside. Come on out of the coach. Keep your hands in sight and don’t try nothin’,” the man in the polka dot bandana ordered. He fired a shot into the rim just below the stage coach door, just to emphasize the necessity. The other two riders dismounted; guns in hands and approached the stage. The tall bandit in the gray duster pulled the door open.

  “You’re just as much out of luck as those other jaspers would have been,” the driver up top said. “We ain’t carrying nothin’ but passengers, this time.”

  The old man wearing the polka dot bandanna said, “Don’t give me none of that hogwash, mister. We know you’re carrying that army payroll to Fort Lowell.” He raised his pistol higher and aimed it straight at the driver.

  “They changed their minds. They’re going to send it out on another run. The money is still back in the Thimble Creek bank.” The guard’s voice was quivering now. Almost pleading to be believed.

  “You’d better be lyin’,” polka dot growled angrily

  Then to the younger rider that had helped stop the horses, he said, “Jeremy, check the box. See what they’re carryin.’”

  The passengers were starting to crawl out of the coach now. The rotund man in the tweed suit was the first to step down. His hands were held high and he was shaking like a leaf.

  Jeremy rode up alongside the stage and lifted himself out the saddle, climbing into the boot. He had to push the shotgun guard aside to get around him. The wounded man groaned. He was clutching his wounded right shoulder with his left hand. He offered no resistance.

  The groan caught Jeremy’s attention and he turned the man slightly to examine him. “Looks like he’s been hit pretty hard, Grampa,” the boy said.

  “Never mind him, boy. Is the box up there or ain’t it?”

  The old lady was climbing out of the coach now. Her husband didn’t bother to help her. Anger was on her face and she held herself stiffly erect as if impervious to fear.

  “No. There’s nothing up here but a mail sack,” Jeremy reported.

  “Dab nab it,” the old man blustered. “If that don’t beat all.”

  The other rider who had helped Jeremy stop the horses, rode up alongside the old bandit. He was a thin, spindly man. He wore a denim jacket, print shirt, buckskin trousers, knee high moccasins, and a flat brimmed black hat with a domed crown. Three eagle feathers were fitted into a wide red hat band. Thick glasses covered his dark eyes above his bandana. His pistol was in his hand and trained on the disembarking passengers.

  Matt Starr was stepping down now and pulling his prisoner behind him.

  “Well, well. Look who we’ve got here,” the girl bandit said, stepping forward toward the lawman. The dandy was just getting his footing on the ground.

  Matt smiled broadly as the petite bandit grew near. “If you’re going to rob me, I’m afraid I haven’t got anything you’d want,” he said. His muscles were tensing and he could feel a weakness in his knees. Excitement was welling up inside of him and he could feel butterflies fluttering in his stomach.

  “I don’t know about that, cowboy,” she said. Her voice was low and inviting. “I think you‘ve got just about everything I want.”

  “Hello, Kitty,” Matt whispered.

  She pulled her bandana down, threw her arms around his neck and kissed him hard. His own arms came up, encircling her lithe body, and pulled her tight against him. They kissed long and deep, as if totally unaware of the circumstance of their meeting and as if they were the only two people in the world.

  The polka dot man groaned again. “That tears it. There you go slobberin’ all over that dad blasted law puppy again. Girl, don’t you know he just as soon take you in as to kiss ya?”

  They broke from their kiss and Kitty turned her head toward her Grampa. “Yeah. I guess I’ll take the kiss.” She turned back to Matt and they went at it again.

  “Doggone you, Matt Starr,” the old man said. “I oughta shoot you right here and now, you no good piece of horse….”

  Matt broke from Kitty, glanced up at her grandfather and smiled. “Good to see you again too, Cyclone.” Then to the man next to him. “Hiya Chief.”

  To the other man holding a gun on the other passengers he said, “Rap. Long time, no see.”

  “Oh, hell,” The Cyclone Kid muttered. He pulled down his polka dot bandana.

  Chief Henry Two Owls and Arapahoe Brown followed suit. Jeremy Carlin had just climbed down from the coach and saw there was no longer a need to remain masked.

  Matt turned his attention back to Kitty and they continued.

  “Oh my stars,” Cyclone groaned again. “Ain’t you two ever gonna stop this consarned foolishness?”

  Neither Matt nor Kitty seemed to hear nor care. They just continued wriggling in each other arms until Kitty finally realized that something was not quite right. Matt’s hands seemed to be all over her back. All three of them?

  She suddenly opened her eyes wide. She could see Matt’s were still closed. The hands were still roaming up and down here backside. Alarm registered in her eyes. She broke from Matt turning her head to look over her shoulder. There was another arm there. A handcuff attached to a wrist.

  She turned her head to the right and saw the dandy smiling at her. He’d been fondling her too?

  She pushed herself away quickly. Matt fell back a step in surprise as Kitty backh
anded the dandy across his face. He fell back, almost landing on the ground, but prevented by the handcuffs also attached to Matt Starr. Matt stumbled a little but managed to stay on his feet.

  “What the hell is going on?” Matt said.

  “I’ll tell you what’s going on, you dad blamed idjit,” Cyclone chided. “You just let your fancy friend paw all over my granddaughter. Bad enough, you sloppin’ all over her yourself.”

  Matt glanced from Cyclone to Kitty. Then to his prisoner. He finally realized what had happened. He yanked his prisoner erect. “This isn’t a friend. He’s a prisoner. See?” He raised their arms so the old man could see the handcuffs. “Meet Dandy Jim Butler.”

  Butler waved his other hand. “Hiya fellas,” he smiled broadly trying to be charming to a bunch of outlaws.

  Cyclone grunted, dismissing Butler as if he wasn’t there.

  “Now are we going to get on with business or not?” Cyclone moaned. “Is this a holdup or a reunion for fools and misfits. In case you all forgot, this is a holdup.”

  “But there’s no strongbox, Grampa,” Jeremy reminded him.

  “I know that, you blamed idjit. You already done told me that. You don’t need to keep rubbing it in.” Then to Arapahoe Brown he said. “Rap. See what the passengers got on them.”

  “Well I don’t have anything,” Dandy Jim said. “I’m afraid your marshal friend took everything I got.”

  “I know you don’t got nothing’” Cyclone blustered. “And he ain’t my marshal friend neither. So keep your trap shut.”

  Rap Brown turned to the man in tweed. The fat little men blurted nervously. “I haven’t got anything. Just a few dollars. He nervously reached inside his coat and pulled out his wallet.

  Rap snatched it from him, opened it and found some bills. He pulled them out, dropped the wallet to the ground and stuffed the bills inside his duster pocket. “Not much for a man wearing a fancy suit,” Rap said. His jaw fell slack. A wry smile spread across his angular face.

  He waved his pistol under the man’s nose. “Now, mister, you sure you ain’t got nothing’ else.?” The man cringed backward to avoid the foul smell of alcohol on Arapahoe Brown’s breath, just as Rap spied the gold watch chain hanging from the man’s vest pocket. Rap lifted the pocket watch out and stuffed it into the duster pocket along with the cash.

  “Let’s see what else you got?” With his free hand, Rap started to pat the fat man down.

  Sweat beaded on the man’s brow. His shaking increased as Rap’s hand roamed over his body.

  “What’s this?” Rap chuckled as he felt the bulge under the man’s shirt around his middle.

  “You wouldn’t be holdin’ out on me, mister. Now would you?” Rap pushed the muzzle up into the man’s nose, bending and mashing the skin and cartilage.

  The man went cross eyed down the length of the pistol barrel. He started to cry and Rap had to practically hold him up to prevent his knees and buckling.

  Rap pulled the man’s vest up. “Kootchy, kootchy, koo.” He drummed his fingers on the man’s fat middle, tickling and giggling. The fat man failed to laugh. Then Rap yanked the shirt open, buttons popping and flying about.

  “Lawdy, Lawdy,” Rap chided. “What have we got here?” He snaked the money belt loose and held it up, letting it drape vertically. He pulled the gun away from the man’s nose.

  “Pretty fat, ain’t it. Just like its master. How much you got in here Mister?”

  The fat man didn’t answer right away. The pistol barrel returned to his face. “Maybe you didn’t hear me, Mister,” Rap said. “I said, how much?” He shook the belt in front of the man’s face.

  “Three….,” he choked out. He once again felt the pistol in his nose. “Three…three thousand.”

  “Dollars?” His wife exclaimed with surprise. “You got three thousand dollars? And you kept it to yourself? Here you make me scrimp and scrape and go without, and all the time you got money. It’d serve you right if this bandit hauled off and shot you right here and now, Chester,” she bellowed.

  Chester’s eyes darted to the side. “Now, Hortense, I wasn’t……….” He seemed to fear the woman as much as he did the bandit.

  “Go ahead and shoot the little weasel,” Hortense said to Rap. She sounded like she really meant it.

  Rap eyed her thoughtfully. Her breath caught. Maybe she shouldn’t have said that. Maybe the bandit would shoot him after all. Maybe they were all going to be shot.

  Rap pulled his pistol away from Chester, loosed his hold and let him fall to his knees in the dirt.

  Turning his attention to the old woman, Rap grinned and said, “How about you Hortense. You got anything?”

  “No!” She said emphatically. “Didn’t you hear what I just said? That sniveling snake don’t give me nothing.”

  “I heard you all right,” Rap chuckled. “But I’m gonna find out for myself.” He grabbed her arm and pulled her toward him.

  “What….? What are you going to do to me?” Her eyes were wide with fear.

  Rap started toward the rear of the coach, half dragging her with him.

  “No! No! You can’t do this.” She twisted in his grasp, screaming to her husband.

  “Chester! Chester! Don’t let him do this to me!”

  Chester just covered his head with both hands and leaned into the dirt sobbing.

  “For Pete’s sake, Rap,” The Cyclone Kid fumed. “You gonna take all day with this? Just hurry up and get this over with. We got other fish to fry.”

  Rap paid no attention.

  “And if you two are done suckin’ tongues, girl” Cyclone said to Kitty. “I suggest you pull that law puppy’s tooth and toss it where it’ll take him awhile to get it while we ride out of here.”

  “Sorry, cowboy,” Kitty said as she lifted Matt’s revolver from its holster and tossed it away. Then she kissed him again and said. “Another time.”

  “Count on it,” Matt smiled as Kitty mounted her pinto.

  Behind the coach, Hortense covered her mouth to stifle a giggle. Rap was taking another drag on his bottle. Once they were out of sight of the others, he had pulled the bottle from his duster pocket and took a swallow, then put it back.

  “What…? What are you going to do to me?” She had said.

  “What your husband should have done a long time ago?”

  “No. No. You can’t mean that?”

  “Oh, yes I do,” Rap said emphatically. He opened the money belt and withdrew the cash.

  “Put this where he can’t find it,” Rap said.

  Hortense was dumfounded. She stammered, “You, you’re giving it to me?”

  “Sure.” He pushed the bills toward her. “Put it away, now.” He smiled.

  Hortense thought about it a moment, then quickly grabbed the bundle and turned around, fumbling with her blouse buttons. When she turned back, Rap had a few more bills in his hand. This was the money from Chester’s wallet that Rap had stuck into duster pocket. “Take this too,” Rap said.

  She smiled brightly and took the cash. This time she didn’t turn around. She brazenly undid her blouse buttons, arching her eyebrows and trying to smile seductively. She stuffed the money in with the rest and left the buttons undone.

  “Lawdy,Lawdy,” Rap said approvingly. He took the bottle from his duster and took another drag. Then he offered it to Hortense.

  She took it, put it to her lips, tossed her head back and took a long drag. When she finally lowered the bottle, she grinned at Rap. He started to reach for the bottle, but Hortense snatched it back and took another drag; then another and another without taking a break.

  Hortense was still giggling when she and Rap joined the others. She weaved unsteadily on her feet and her blouse was only partially buttoned; the buttonholes and the buttons not quite lined up properly.

  “What have you done to my wife?” Chester shouted from where he sat on the ground. He was too afraid to sound accusatory nor threatening.

  “What you should have done a long
time ago, you rat.” She hitched her skirt and put her foot against his shoulder and shoved him over.

  “You get everything you wanted, Rap?” Cyclone asked.

  Rap glanced from Hortense to Chester. “You bet I did,” he said. He grinned slyly at Chester. Tears rolled down Chester’s face as he looked up at his tipsy wife. “Oh, Hortense,” he sobbed. “You didn’t.”

  Hortense giggled and hiccupped. “Yes, I did.”

  “Better mount up then, Rap. That payroll’s still waitin’,” Cy said, turning his horse. The others followed as Rap mounted up and trailed after them.

  Kitty pulled up for a moment and looked back. Matt was waving to her. She waved back, then gigged the pinto forward and rode off with the others.

  Chapter Two