The Secret Diaries of Katherine Barlow: Chapter 5
Author: C.L. Curtis
Description: Jake earns himself an official outlaw name, and the pair meets a very interesting character via what was supposed to be a routine stage wagon robbery.
Disclaimer: ….Nope, still not in any way affiliated with Mr. Sachar.
July 25, 1891
Enclosed in a Wanted poster I tore from a building earlier in San Antonio today. In the event that it is indecipherable by the time you read this, allow me to transcribe:
Wanted: Dead or Alive; Jake "Tall Texan" Jensen
"Huh," he had muttered, cocking his head to one side as we surveyed the parchment, prior to robbing the town's only bank. "It does sorta look like me. There's somethin' in the eyes, though, that's not quite right."
"I don't know," I replied, tilting my own head and squinting my eyes. The truth was that the sketched portrayal was far from accurate, portraying the man to my left as an utterly wicked soul with daggers for eyes. In truth, while he is certainly no saint, he is more gangly and mischievous than anything else. That's not to say that I'd ever want to be one on his bad side. "Give it another year or two."
The matter was brought up again this evening.
"Now, really, that ain't fair!" he exclaimed out of the blue, as the fire died and we both prepared for a night's rest. I had already rolled my coat over the bag that I keep my "prizes" in, using it as a pillow and closing my eyes, desperate for sleep.
"What in heaven's name are you on about?" I snapped drowsily. A long day coupled with listening to his eternal useless jabber had made me plain irritable.
"I'm just wonderin' why it is that you get to be 'Kissin' Kate', and I get stuck with 'Tall Texan?" he whined, staring up at the stars wistfully, as if they would give him the answer he was hoping for.
"C'mon Jake," I muttered, trying to ignore the pounding in my temples. "You're over six feet tall, and you're from Texas. You don't like it, I'd be happy to shorten those legs for you."
Sensing that it was time to leave me alone, he was silent for a few minutes.
"Well," he said finally, sounding a bit more cheerful. "It does sort of have a ring to it."
"Mmm hmm," I agreed, without opening my eyes as I rolled onto my side. "I'd shut up if I were you, before you become 'Jake 'Dead Texan' Jensen'"
He chuckled, but I didn't hear another word out of him until morning.
July 26, 1891
We had a change of plans yesterday. As we packed up, I caught sight of something in the distance. Intrigued, I dropped what I was doing to peer out at the horizon, adrenaline coursing through my veins when my suspicions were confirmed.
"What're you lookin' at?" Jake asked, hair tousled and still half-asleep, sluggishly following my gaze.
"What's it look like, Jake?" I replied automatically, hastening in my efforts. "It's a stagecoach!"
The stupid fool had the audacity to make a joke. "That's 'Tall Texan' to you," he corrected me, grinning.
With some effort, I bit back a rather creative threat of death, chewing on my lip silently for a moment to keep from encouraging him. If there's one thing Jake simply can't stand, it's failing to get a rise out of me. Almost instantly, he sobered up, securing his hat and mounting his horse.
"You comin', or what?" he asked, drawing his gun and looking back at me with his signature crooked grin. I mirrored his actions, smiling a little in spite of myself.
We took off at a canter, Jake directly behind me, and I shot my gun into the distance. The driver of the coach was taken by surprise, and as human nature would have it, his predictable impulse was to slow the carriage, making them an easy target. As we drew closer, another shot rang from behind me, and I knew that Jake had hit him. Caught up in the moment, hardly giving a thought to the fact that he had taken such aggressive action without my permission, I dismounted and crossed to the door of the stagecoach. Even as I did so, its occupant stepped outside, both hands in plain view. He was very much an average looking man, of average height and dark brown hair and eyes.
"Don't shoot," he requested. "I'd give you everything I own, but it's all gone now anyway. All that was left was this carriage, and I doubt you'd want much with that." He pauses, looking a little amused. "Although, if that's your fancy, feel free to take that, too. Think of it as a gift." He actually even began to laugh. "Hell, you can even have my driver. He's an agreeable fellow. Won't bother you much."
Now, I have come to learn that people have strange ways of dealing with imminent death. This, however, was a new one. This man was insane. There was no other explanation. Why else would he be so giddy to see two crooks aiming firearms at him?
I heard a "click" from behind me, signaling that Jake's patience was beginning to wane. "Don't," I warned him, intrigued by this man. Something told me that he just might actually have something of more importance to say. Or, at the very least, he could prove to be a very entertaining little toy.
"You mean to tell me, big fancy stagecoach like this, and you've got nothing to show for it?" I prompted him, making a small gesture with the outstretched hand that still gripped my rifle.
"Yes ma'am," he reaffirmed. "Got nothin' to my name but this coach, the horses, and the dead man driving it."
"That was a wrong answer, buddy," Jake threatened, a hazardous monotone claiming his voice.
"I'm not looking to impress anybody," he replied, far too casual for my taste. "The way I see it, though, if you're gonna take my coach, my horses, my dead driver, and in a few minutes, my life? You might just want to get to know me first."
"That's not usually an option we offer, pal," I stated darkly, cocking the pistol.
"First time for everything, isn't there?" He asked, disregarding me entirely. "Look, you can see that I'm not in any place to try anything funny. All I'm askin' is for five minutes of your time, before you decide whether or not you want to do me in. Who know? Maybe you'll even discover that I'm quite likeable."
I considered this carefully. Frankly, I was interested to see where it would go. "Five minutes and counting," I told him finally. "Hands where I can see them. Take as much as a single step in my direction and you're a dead man."
"Fair enough," he agreed easily. "Well, for starters, my name is William Pryce. Long time ago, I was an attorney. Has a good life, married a beautiful girl, had two young kids. Until I decided to represent a man now convicted of an terrible crime. An unimaginable crime that touched the lived of many, many people. In a small town, people talk. They don't play around with that kind of evil." An ironic smile played at his lips, and I was unnerved.
"People started to talkin', and it was decided that I was as much at fault as him. They set fire to my house one night. The blaze destroyed everything I owned and claimed the lives of my wife and children."
His detachment unsettled me, to put it frankly. Yet, I could not keep from listening.
"I managed to escape, of course. Ran for my life. 'Course, since then, nothing seems to have worked out for me. This stagecoach—the one you want so badly to kill me for? Ain't even mine. Not really. It was given to me as a gift from a sympathetic young heir who thought it might take me to a place where I could start over. Or, at least, get me off of the street in front of his house."
I didn't understand why he was so apathetically pouring out his heart to two strangers, pointing guns at him. We certainly were no angels of mercy.
"Why are you tellin' us all this?" Jake demanded even as the thought occurred to me, as though he read my mind.
"So you'd understand what I'm about you ask you," came the cryptic reply.
"Any more of this talking, and I just might find that my finger might slip right onto this here trigger—" I began, beginning to tire of this nonsense.
"I want to join you."
I was taken aback by this, unsure of how to respond. This man—Pryce—he was cunning. Cool and collected under pressure, and bold. More importantly, he was as insane as the two of us, if not more so. He had a chip on his shoulder, a reason to be angry.
"How do I know you aren't just playing us, until we've reached some civilization where you can go crying to the authorities, turn us over?" I asked, watching his expression carefully, scrutinizing.
His reply was automatic, a new fire finally blazing in his eyes. He never took that fatal step toward me, but his body tensed in a way that I could tell he wanted to.
"The authorities. You mean, the same authorities that were supposed to protect me and my family?" His voice was quiet, chilling. "Believe me, if I'm every face-to-face with those authorities, the last thing I'll be doing is crying to them."
If anyone could understand what he meant by that statement, it would surely have to be me.
"Fine." I replied, lowering my gun cautiously. I could feel Jake's silent objection even behind my back. "Besides, I need a smooth talker like you around. I'm Kate Barlow, this here's Jake Jensen." I jerked my thumb over my shoulder to indicate the latter.
"Howdy," Jake muttered sarcastically, the scowl of a recently scolded child on his face.
Pryce let out a low whistle. "Well, if it ain't the Holy Grail of outlaws themselves. My pleasure, Kissin' Kate and Texan Jensen."
"You call me Kate, and him Jake." I corrected him immediately, cringing at the prospect of being called by that nickname on a daily basis. "And if you make one wrong move-,"
"She'll kill you," Jake spoke up, giving a short nod for emphasis. "She means it too."
The man raised his hands in defense. "Got it."
"You got a gun, Pryce?"
"Yes, ma'am." He flinched, quickly adding: "Inside, of course."
"Get it. We're out of here."