“Stop pouting about it, Francis,” Bud Gorman said. “It happened. It’s over. There are other jobs we can pull.”
“I’m not pouting. I’m thinking. And don’t call me Francis.” He got up from his perch on a large boulder and started to pace nervously about.
The four young men had picked a grassy knoll to stop and rest their horses. They were all barely out of their teens, but all four wore cartridge belts and brand new pearl handled pistols. Three of them wore one gun each but the one called Francis wore two guns and he seemed to be clearly, the leader of the bunch.
“Bud’s right.” Pete Gibbons said. “Just chill it.” He was sitting in the shade of the big boulder with Bud Gorman and Garth Pearson.
“Chill it?” Francis said, whirling about; anger on his apple cheeked face. He stormed over and stood towering over his followers. “You don’t tell me to chill it. You don’t tell me nothin’. I tell you. I’m the boss around here, in case you fellas have forgotten. In which case, if any of you want to take my place, you know what you gotta do.” He drummed his fingers on each pistol handle.
“I.. I didn’t mean nuthin’ against you,” Bud said. “I was just sayin’ it wasn’t your fault that other gang horned in on us. It was just a bad break.”
“Yeah,” Garth said. “The way they came at us, all we could do was run.”
“We didn’t run,” Francis said. “We retreated. There’s a difference.”
“Of course there is, Francis,” Bud said. “Garth didn’t mean nothin’ about it.”
“How many times, I gotta tell you guys? Don’t call me Francis. It’s Frankie.” He wiggled his two colts in their holsters, “It’s Frankie the Kid.”
“Sure. Sure it is,” Bud said. “I just forget sometimes. Been calling you Francis since we was school boys back in East Sedalia.”
“Well, just remember. Will you? Someday I’ll be as famous as Billy the Kid and nobody will remember this Francis business.”
“Sure, Frankie,” Bud placated, emphasizing ‘Frankie’.
Frankie paced away a few steps. Then turned and said, “What we need is another job to pull. Maybe a bank or a train. Something big like that. Make a big haul fast. Make the name of Frankie the Kid something for people to talk about. A name to be feared and respected.”
“You’re talking dangerous stuff, Frankie,” Pete interjected. “Maybe we should stick to robbing stage coaches for a while. At least until we actually do rob one.”
“Nothing is too dangerous for Frankie the Kid and I do the thinking around here.” He walked off, climbing to the ridge above them.
He stood there awhile, thinking. He gazed at the countryside below. Far off pointed mountain peaks jagged into the still clear blue sky. Rolling grassy hills spread out below and far to the east he thought he saw movement. He squinted his eyes as if it helped to focus, but it took several minutes before he could make out what was down there. He could hardly believe it. Maybe today would not be the bust he had thought it turned out to be.
He quickly turned and ran back to his companions. His morose mood was gone and replaced with excited elation. “Fellas,” he shouted as he ran back to them. “Come up here! You ain’t gonna believe this.”
The others quickly jumped to their feet, brushing off the seats of their britches as they ran to meet their leader. As they came close, Frankie turned and ran back up to the ridge.
“You see what I see?” He said as his friends joined him.
“Just a bunch of riders,” Pete said, failing to see the significance.
“Not just a bunch of riders,” Frankie said. “Five riders.”
“So,” Pete said.
“So, how many riders beat us out of that stage this morning?”
Pete’s eyes shifted back and forth trying to remember “Five?” He guessed.
“Look at those horses. The pinto, the gray. Look at their gettup. They’re the ones.”
“So what?” Pete said.
“So they got the money off the stage,” Garth filled in.
“Right,” Frankie the Kid beamed. “All we gotta do is take it back from them.”
Wildcat Kitty and the Cyclone Kid Page 7
