In true Rembrandt fashion the prairie stretched out, reaching lazily towards the horizon. Where many easterners thought it was only a green mass, there was a myriad of subtle shifts and hints of color that crept in gentle waves across the land. Grass scorched and dried to a golden hue broke off against a strand of bushes, while the hint of a creek or watering hole in the distance brought an emerald green into the pallet. Majestic cliffs rose in the east, gray and golden red as they slanted down into the green and brown of sand and joshua trees.
Slowly drifting over the landscape, glistening as the sun hit the tiny particles just right a dust cloud showed the trail of a stagecoach.
A team of six horses pulling the coach, a favored method of frontier travel now in competition with, but not yet made obsolete by the train.
The carriage was filled to capacity with six passengers. Three male sitting facing the terrain behind them, three women sitting facing forward and with a wicker hamper on the floor by their feet.
"Oh, this is so exciting," the youngest, a brunette exclaimed as she looked out the window. "This is our first time out so far west, and it's just delightful. Don't you agree Mr. Smith?" She had found the dark haired man next to the window opposite her to be the one most open to conversation.
"This is just mostly dry land, I think you'll like it better when you get closer to Oregon," he smiled. Not so much older than she, and with a dimpled grin. "The forrests there are truly magnificent. And you got rivers with so much fish they'll just about jump into your pot."
"I think, Mr. Smith, that you're laying it on a little thick," the older of the three, a respected aunt, declared. "If you don't mind my saying so."
"Not at all Ma'am," he admitted. "And perhaps a little thick, but not so much as to be outrageous. The country up that way is quite plentiful. Though I do fear you need to actually cast a line to get any fish."
"Have you spent much time there?" the younger asked.
"Not really," he shrugged. "For some reason me and my friend has mostly found ourselves down here in the heat and the dust. It seems to suit us, even if it is not for everyone."
"And what of you, sir?" the brunette instead turned to the sandy haired man sitting in the middle.
"I reckon me and my pard seem to like it just fine down here, Ma'am," he mumbled. "Never did hanker much for the big cities or the cold up north."
"Cities can get crowded, but there are indeed advantages to civilization, Mr. Emerson," the aunt stated with a nod. "I for one must say I do miss the comforts out here. And I pray you do not think us weak and spoiled for it."
"Would never think of it Ma'am," Smith declared with a smile. "While I am quite happy here, a little more civilization here and there would not be a bad thing."
"Would either of you gentlemen like another bite to eat?" the older sister with a mass of auburn curls indicated the basket. "We did not know how much we would need, and I fear we may have packed too much."
"Perhaps a little chicken, Mr. Emerson?" their aunt tempted though before the tall blonde with the overly large ears had time to answer a loud report tore through the still air.
The women gave a cry of fright, simultaneously as Emerson had drawn both colts .45 that he wore in a holster on each side. Crowded in the middle, and being unusually tall he was hindered in his movements as he lunged towards the right side. Over a middle aged man who seemed mostly interested in sliding off the seat and out of danger. He had chosen this side because on his other side, Mr. Smith had his gun drawn and his head edging out the window trying to see what was going on.
Several more reports were heard, and by now the loud whoops of about eight riders were heard. Emerson got off about a dozen shots, hearing the man on the other side firing, then the first bullet hit the coach and he pulled back in with a curse.
"What are you doing?" the aunt demanded. "Can't you stop them?"
"Drivers stopping, and they're overtaking us. If we keep shooting they'll keep shooting," Smith stated grimly. "And then one of us in here is likely to get shot. Best we can do now is to just stay calm. If you got any easy accessible money or valuables on you, I advise you hide them best you can now." Pulling a scratched and dented pocket watch from his coat pocket he suited actions to words and hid it in his boot.
"Oh dear," the elder of the sister opened her purse and fished out a small roll of bills.
"Not all of them, Ma'am," Smith stopped her from slipping it down her bosom. "If they don't find any, they'll like think you're hiding something. Let them get a couple, and save the rest."
Following his advise she quickly peeled off a few bills that she slipped back into her purse. By now the coach had come to a stop and a loud hoarse voice demanded they got off.
They found themselves surrounded by a half dozen men on horseback, and two on the ground. Two on the horses were covering the driver with their guns, while four more held their guns on the passengers.
"Alright folks, you know how this goes," the leader called. "You men, throw your guns on the ground, slowly, or you'll catch a bullet. Don't try anything fancy, and hand over your valuables."
"Look, no one is going to do anything foolish," Smith carefully pulled his Schofield out of its holster with thumb and forefinger. "You are frightening the ladies, there is no need for that, is there? Why don't you just put those guns down, alright?"
"Fat chance, now hand it over," one man barked.
"Hold on, now, wait one doggone minute," one of the owl hoots nearly choked on the bandana covering his face in his excitement. "I recognize that damn beanpole. That's Emerson, one of them damn Texas Hellraisers."
"You sure?" their leader demanded.
"Sure as day," he nodded. "He caught me and my pard some ways back. I'd know him anywhere. And I got a score to settle with them to. If that's Emerson, you know the other one is Valentine. Never saw his face, but they never split up, everyone knows that."
"Now hold on, you must be mistaken." Smith held his hands up defensively in front of himself. "My name is Joshua Smith, me and this gentleman has never met before we got on this stage. I don't know who you think I am, but I can assure you, my name is not Valentine."
"Too bad that I say you are," the owl hoot glared.
"Now look here," Emerson frowned. "He ain't Larry…" he shook his head. "I think I oughter know. He's my partner, ain't he?"
"Well, well, the Texas Hellraisers," the leader leered. "I never thought I'd see the day we got the better of those Lonestar hellions."
"Now sir, I've told you, you got the wrong man," Smith tried again.
It was then that the last passenger acted, trying to pull a hidden pistol out of his coat. Smith only saw the movement out of his eye, and half turned to stop him. Covered by a half dozen guns, and with three ladies were no time to try anything so foolish.
"Hold on there Mr." He started. "Don't do that."
"Boss, he's got a gun!" one of the owl hoots called, and all hell broke out. The women screamed again. Emerson cursed up a storm as he threw himself on the ground to see if he could reach his gun. A bullet striking the dirt in front of him, kicking dirt in his face and temporarily blinding him made him think better of it. Smith, never holding hope of reaching for his gun had tried to stop the foolish passenger when he felt like he was kicked by a mule. A blow struck him over the arm and he stumbled into the side of the coach, watching dazed as the man who'd tried to fire fell to the ground, his chest bloodied.
He swallowed down the nausea he felt, when he told them his name was Smith he had not been entirely truthful. Smith was a name pressed upon him when a friend and a lawman had to cover for his two outlaw friends. Smith and Jones, in truth Hannibal Heyes and Kid Curry. Two outlaws that together led the Devils Hole Gang. However when he led the group, he had never held with robbing the passengers themselves. Only the safes and strong boxes, and there had never been any gun play. They didn't shoot anyone, and that was a rule he had enforced most strongly. No one was to get shot, bystander or gang member alike.
"Get all the money, quick, then get Emerson and Valentine," the leader of the group barked. One man rifled through the pockets of the fallen man, while two more started demanding the women to hand everything over.
"Now hold on," clutching his injured arm to his chest Heyes was unable to fully rein in his temper. Robbers who shot passengers were just sloppy. "My name is Joshua Smith, I assure you I am not who you seem to think I am. This is just some form of missunder…" he got no further as the bandit who had been taking the money from the passengers struck him with a hard fist. He was thrown backwards, colliding with the wheel of the coach before a bright light exploded behind his eyes and everything faded into blackness.
TBC
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