“Just who are you guys, anyways?” Dandy Jim Butler said. He was riding a black mustang that the two men had provided him. They were a quarter mile out of town and riding at a fairly fast pace. The two men flanked him on each side. One man was short and stocky. The other was a bit taller and much thinner. They both still wore bandana masks over their faces. Neither man had said anything.
“I mean,” the dandy said. “I appreciate you guys getting me out of jail and all, but I’d really like to know if you’re being friendly or do you have something else in mind?”
Neither of the two men answered him. They just kept riding.
“O.K., O.K.,” Butler said taking their silence as an answer. “I guess I can deal with that.”
A few minutes later, the two men, hot and tired of the bandanas on their face, pulled them down. The taller one had a flowing mustache and dark bristle over his cheeks. The shorter one was younger and almost clean shaven save for a five o’clock shadow that was beginning to appear. The trio left the trail and rode up into the hills, slowing their mounts to a careful walk over the rough terrain. Half an hour later they crested a ridge and drew to a halt. Down below in a basin sat a dilapidated shack. Probably a deserted line cabin or old miner shack. Shorty said, “This is your new home for a while, feller.”
“You mind telling me what this is all about?” Butler asked.
“Don’t ask questions,” the taller man said. “Just be glad you’re out of jail.”
“Out of the frying pan, you mean. I just want to know if I’m in the fire now.”
“Naw, we’re just gonna nursemaid you awhile,” Shorty said.
They rode down the embankment and rode up to the shack. They dismounted, tied the horses to a rotted post that was leaning half over, and went inside. It was a one room shack. It was filthy with dust and dirt. Massive cobwebs hung from the ceiling. Obviously, this shack hadn’t been used for a long, long, time.
Butler wiggled his nose with distain. “Maid’s day off?” He quipped.
“Funny man,” the taller man said. “Sit down!” He ordered.
Butler gazed about. There was no furniture not even a crate that could be used for a chair.
“Where?”
“On the floor. Where do you think,” Shorty said.
“But it’s dirty.”
“Ya hear that, Rufe,” Shorty said. “Mister fancy pants says it’s dirty. Now ain’t that just too bad.” They both laughed.
Dandy Jim just stood there watching them laugh. After a moment he decided to laugh too. His captors quickly took exception and suddenly ceased their laughter. Their faces turned grim, with anger in their eyes. Shorty drew his pistol and pushed it under Butler’s chin. The dandy was still laughing. It took a moment for him to realize that something had changed. He suddenly stopped laughing and gulped as he gazed down the barrel of Shorty‘s Colt.
“Now do as my brother Rufe told you.” Shorty growled between his stained crooked teeth.
“Uh.. I forgot,” Jim said. “What’d he say?“
Shorty pulled the hammer of the pistol back. It clicked into place. “He said, sit on the floor!” Shorty shouted.
“O.K., o.k. I was just asking.” He bent his knees and lowered himself to the floor. He could feel the grit on his palms as he placed them on the floor to seat himself. How disgusting it was.
A few minutes later, Shorty and Rufe rode away. Inside lying on the floor, Dandy Jim Butler had been left trussed up like a chicken awaiting a pot on Saturday night.
“They’re dead ringers for us,” Jeremy Carlin whispered. The Wildcats were lying prone on the ground, hidden behind bushes above the dry wash below them. Five riders had hidden themselves there and were resting, drinking and laughing.
“Not quite,” Kitty said. “Look at that one that’s supposed to be me. He’s got a mustache.” As she said it the outlaw pulled the red haired wig off his head. He was completely bald.
“Damn,” Arapahoe said. “You think they was tryin’ to make it look like we robbed the bank?”
Cyclone looked at him with annoyance. He said nothing. Just shook his head.
“You’re getting smarter everyday,” Chief Henry said sarcastically.
“You really think so, Chief?” Rap beamed with pride.
“Will you all just shut up,” Cy rasped. “You want them varmints to hear us.”
The bandit wearing a gray slicker like Rap’s was gazing around as if he had heard something. Then as if deciding he hadn’t he strode over to one of the standing horses and removed a whiskey bottle from the saddle bag.
They waited in silence for a few minutes until Cyclone decided it was time to make a move. He motioned to the others. They had already had their instructions. Chief Henry and Rap would move east above the wash while Kitty and Jeremy went west. Cy would stay where he was. When the others were in place he would start firing his rifle into the wash. The others would follow suit with their own rifles.
It only took a few moments to be ready. Then, Cy opened fire, levering his weapon as fast as he could. Bullets kicking up dust and gravel around the outlaws feet and filling hats full of holes. Whiskey bottles shattered and bullet ridden canteens bounced around the encampment. Horses whinnied and stomped about wildly as bullets plowed into the ground close to their hooves. They fought at their tethers and two of them managed to pull free and ran off down the wash.
The outlaws were taken completely by surprise. The wash had them hemmed in and they had little room to move. It took a moment to realize what was happening and before they could claw for their own guns, more rifle fire came from both directions along the top of the wash.
The man dressed like Chief Henry took a round in the meaty part of his thigh and fell over sideways, clutching at the wound. The man in the black duster took one in his shoulder. He fell to his knees, dropping his weapon.
Quickly realizing the futility of their plight, the others tossed their guns down, raising their hands and pleading for a cease fire.
Cyclone stood up, his rifle still aimed into the wash. The outlaws recognized him immediately. They gazed left and right as the others appeared.
“Since you made it look like we robbed the bank back there,” Cyclone said. “It’s only fittin’ that we get the money. Don’t you all agree?” He expected no answer and neither did he get one. “Now if you’ll all move away from your guns and horses and bunch up a little, we’re comin’ down for a little visit. And you better have that bank money with you.”
After collecting the money and running off the rest of the bandits’ horses; leaving the outlaws to their own devices for survival and getting back to wherever they came from, The Wildcat gang rode off richer than when they had started the day.
“Grampa,” Kitty said as they rode along, “Don’t you think it strange those guys were just lazying around? You would have thought they would have been putting distance behind them before a posse could catch up to them. They just didn’t seem to be worrying about that.”
“I been thinkin’ the same thing, girl,” Cyclone said. “Somethin’ else has been botherin’ me too.”
“What’s that?”
“We ain’t seen no hide nor hair of a posse, neither.”
“What do you think that means?”
“I think it means that there ain’t none. Maybe this was a put up stunt by Simon Price to blame us for another crime.”
“I wouldn’t put that past him either,” Kitty said. “But why let that money out of the bank?”
“Probably figgers on cheating his depositors, sayin’ the money was stolen. But there’s one thing certain.”
“What’s that, Grampa?”
“He’s gonna know we got the money now. He’ll want it back.”
Chapter Six
Wildcat Kitty and the Cyclone Kid Page 6
