“Are we gonna do anything, Trent, while you’re deciding how to take care of Conners, Summer, and that Atkins woman? I mean, I don’t especially want to sit around here and play cards indefinitely.”
Trent looked at his brother Terrell, annoyed. Several days had passed since he had arrived at the hideout and his men were, indeed, getting stir crazy. “We need some money anyway, don’t we?” Terrell continued.
“Not really,” Trent replied. “I brought back $4,000 and that will last us awhile, but yeah, a little spending money wouldn’t hurt.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Ok. Why don’t you take a couple of boys out, head to Wyoming, hit a few stagecoaches, see what you can come up with. I’ll send Gus and a few others in another direction. But don’t go far and be back by the middle of July. I want them three dead by the end of summer.”
“Have you figured out how we’re going to do it yet?”
“No, not yet. The Atkins woman will be easy, because we know where she is. We’ll blow her old man away, help her enjoy a nice night, then roast her over a fire. That will be a lot of fun, don’t you think?”
Terrell smiled, but Gus Ferrara, who had been nearby and heard, winced. He didn’t like any of this. Killing Conners was ok; he was a man. Killing Allie Summer had two problems—she was a woman and a Ranger. McConnell wouldn’t stop until he found and hanged the whole Tolliver group. Killing an innocent rancher and his daughter—well, raping, torturing, and then killing Kelly Atkins…that not only was dangerous for the long-term health of the outlaws, but made Gus squeamish. He liked to think he had a little decency in him. But when he had looked into Trent Tolliver’s eyes recently, he saw no decency at all. He saw only insanity. And death. And Gus had no intention of opposing anything Trent said or wanted to do.
Maybe it’s time I rode…Gus thought. But he wasn’t going to say that, either.
“Did you hear me, Gus?” Trent asked. “Take Lem, Snarky, Rafe, and Danny boy and go into Idaho. Head down towards that Blackfeet reservation, but don’t mess with them. Terrell, you go towards the Tetons, see what you can run across. No banks, just stages, wagons, whatever. I don’t have to tell you. Just don’t get killed. Me, Rick, and Duck will stay around here…”
So, off to Idaho and Wyoming went some of the Tolliver gang to see what they could scrounge up. Or who they could run into…
Soon afterwards…
Allie Summer was not happy. And that usually meant trouble for somebody.
“I want you to ride down to Carver Junction, Wyoming, pick up Strip Diggs, and bring him back here for trial. And hanging.”
That had been the assignment Captain W. T. McConnell of the territorial Rangers had given to her. Allie hated these transporting assignments—like the one to Denver recounted earlier in this story. “They are sooooooo boring…”
And she tried to find a way out of this one. “Well, I’d like to, Captain, but my horse has a really badly bruised shin and won’t be able to go anywhere for a few days.”
“Oh, that’s ok, you can take the stage….”
Allie had almost gone through the roof at that. If there was one thing she hated worse than transport assignments, it was riding in a stagecoach. They were cramped, uncomfortable, either hot or cold depending upon the time of year—and sometimes both—and always full of obnoxious people. Of course, to Allie, nearly every human being was obnoxious, so it only made things worse when four or five of them were in her presence for extended periods of time.
Like riding in a stagecoach.
But it was her job and she couldn’t get all the choice assignments. It was only fair that she clean the privies occasionally, too. McConnell was to the point, as well, where he saved Allie for the toughest jobs. She was his best Ranger and the one most likely to succeed. But he simply didn’t have anything for her at the moment—except go to Wyoming and pick up some thug who needed his neck stretched.
“You can take a vacation when you get back,” McConnell had told her. “You need some time off.”
Allie had never taken a vacation in the five years she had worked for the Rangers; she had never wanted one. “What am I going to do and where am I going to go? You don’t pay me enough to leave town,” she had told McConnell, much to his annoyance. At least the last statement. But the idea actually appealed to her now. A little time off to relax might be nice… that trout stream… She even seemed, to herself, that she was getting a little irritable and snappy with everyone, so maybe she needed to get away. I guess…
But first, the stagecoach to Culver City. It should be an easy assignment. If Diggs gives me any trouble, I’ll just shoot him and save the taxpayers a trial…maybe I’ll shoot him whether he gives me any trouble or not, I pay taxes, too…
The stage, as Allie had expected, was full of frightfully boring people—well, there were three others in the cabin. One of them was a preacher who wanted to know if everybody was saved.
“Saved from what?” Allie asked him.
“Why, saved from sin.”
“What sin?”
“Your sins.”
“How do you know I have any? Have you been following me around?”
The preacher was trying not to get flustered. “Everyone has sins, young lady.”
“And you’re going to save me from mine?”
“Well, not me, but the Lord will.”
“How?”
“If you’ll ask Him to, then He will.”
“Then what do I need you for?”
“Well, I’m here to help you find the right way.”
“You mean I’m on the wrong stagecoach?”
Now he was flustered. “No, the right way to the Lord.”
“So that He’ll save me from my sins.”
“Yes! Yes, that’s it!”
“Will He save me from you, too?”
The preacher decided to try to convert somebody else.
And then, there was the ever-present drummer. It seemed that every stagecoach that Allie had ever been in was transporting a drummer somewhere.
And he tried to do his job. He smiled at Allie. “Would you like to buy some of this elixir, young lady? It’s guaranteed to cure rheumatism, gout…” and he named off about 15 other things it would cure.
“I don’t have any of those things,” Allie said. “And since I’ve never heard of most of them, I wouldn’t know if I did anyway.”
“Well, but some day you will and you’ll be glad you had Mr. Finley’s Potent Cure-All.”
“Are you Mr. Finley?”
“No, I’m just a humble salesman.”
“You sell humbles?”
The drummer blinked at her, then comprehended. “No, I’m a humble man. My product comes before me.”
“Who is Mr. Finley?”
“He’s the fine man who created this wonderful remedy.”
“Do you know him?”
“Well, not personally—“
“Then how do you know he’s a fine man?”
“He has to be to have invented this—“
“What’s in it?”
“Well, it contains all kinds of new, wonderful drugs—“
“In other words, you don’t know.”
The drummer was squirming now. “Not exactly—“
“Then how do you know it works?”
“Well, I’ve tried it myself. Had an ingrown toenail and Mr. Finley’s cleared it right up.”
“You poured it on your toenail?”
“No, it is to be taken orally.”
“You mean you drink it.”
“Yes.”
“Then why didn’t you say so?”
The drummer was pretty sure he wasn’t going to make a sale with Allie.
But she had one more question for him. “Will it save me from my sins?”
“No, I’m afraid only the Lord can do that.”
“Does He drink your elixir?”
“No, my dear, of course not. The Lord is in heaven.”
Allie put her head back against the seat and pulled her hat over her eyes. “Then why don’t you go up there and try to sell Him some of that junk?”
The other fellow in the stagecoach was a middle-aged man, mid-40s perhaps, with blonde hair and a light brown mustache. He had a twinkle in his eye and was obviously amused at Allie’s conversations with the preacher and drummer. When the minister turned to him and started to open his mouth, he said, “No, I don’t need to be saved.” And when the drummer opened his mouth, holding a bottle of Mr. Finley’s best, he said, “No, I don’t need to be saved from all my illnesses, either. You and the preacher should be able to help each other out, though.” Allie laughed at that.
He smiled. “See? That’s all you had to say.”
“More fun my way,” she replied.
“You’ve got a sassy mouth, young lady,” he said, still smiling.
“Do you think Mr. Finley’s will cure it?” And he laughed.
That was the most exciting thing to happen on the trip to Carver Junction, Wyoming.
Until…
Allie had found a new way to carry a weapon. She didn’t always like to have a gun on her hip, so she bought a shoulder holster and trained constantly at quickly drawing a gun out of it. She thought she preferred the hip holster, but having a gun under her armpit wasn’t so bad.
She wasn’t wearing the hip holster in the stage, but she did have a revolver stuck in the front of her pants under her blouse. She was also wearing a jacket that hid the shoulder holster that she wore almost constantly now. And there were the ever-concealed derringers—one in each boot—the razor in the sheath down the back of her neck dangling from a lovely necklace, two knives--one in a hip scabbard and another up her right wrist—and the garrote-bracelet she wore around her left wrist. Allie hadn’t figured out a place yet to conceal her bow and arrows—she had them on her horse as well as a tomahawk in her saddlebags—but she did have another, and longer, garrote wrapped in the inside lining of her hat. It could double as a short rope, if necessary. The Indian headband she wore around her forehead could also be unwound—then wound around some misfortunate’s neck. The only way to keep her from having a weapon was to strip her naked—which is what Nicholas Backstrom had done (as related in River Bend). Allie wasn’t going to conceal a weapon in her…personals; there was a limit and that was it. She was trying to figure out how to get one in her hair, though.
The stage was about 150 miles from Carver Junction when it was hit with a robbery. Three men, with their bandanas pulled over their mouths and noses, appeared from around a boulder, and three rifle shots brought the stagecoach to a halt.
“Whooooaa,” the driver, Anson Harper, shouted. “Dad blast it,” he said to the outlaws. “We ain’t got nuthin’ you want. Leave us be.”
“We’ll make that determination,” one of the outlaws, apparently the leader, replied. Then, he yelled, “You passengers get out or we’ll start shooting—people and coach. I don’t think those doors will stop bullets.”
It was hard to get a good description of the three robbers. They were wearing typical western clothing and all that could be seen of their faces were their eyes. That didn’t help because they all had blue eyes. The rifles they carried were their most important characteristic, at least for the moment.
Allie sighed. She had been taking a nap. “Well, let’s get this over with,” she said. She pulled a derringer from one of her boots and slipped it up her left wrist. She glanced over at the drummer, who looked scared. The blonde-headed man, who had said his name was Stephen, appeared a bit disgusted. The preacher had his eyes closed and was moving his lips in what was probably a silent prayer. “I wonder if the Lord’s got any weapons He can let us borrow,” the Ranger muttered under her breath. She didn’t really need any more, given what she had on her person.
She was the last to deboard the stage. The leader of the bandits was talking. “All we want is your money, folks. Give that to us and we’ll leave—“ Allie then stepped out. “Well, now, what do we have here?”
“I’m a woman,” Allie said, “in case your eyes are in your nose. You obviously don’t think with your brain.”
“Well, ma’am,” the fellow said, ignoring her comments. “I hate for you to be here and see this, but if you have anything we want, we’re going to have to relieve you of it.”
Allie had a wallet in her inside coat pocket, right next to the shoulder holster. She almost went for the gun, but she didn’t like the odds—or the eyes—of the outlaws. So she pulled out the wallet, which contained about $200, and tossed it about 10 feet in front of her.
“There. You want it. Go get it. If you can find it.”
The leader looked at Allie, thoughtfully and with some severity. He motioned to one of his men to get off his horse and get the wallet. “And take any money from the rest of the passengers, too.”
“Sir,” the preacher said, “This is stealing, and the Lord’s commandment is ‘Thou shalt not steal’—“
“Oh, shut up,” the leader said. “If I cared anything about what the Lord said, I wouldn’t be doing this.”
“But you should change your ways. Some day you will meet the Lord—“
The outlaw pointed his gun at the frightened clergyman. “You’re going to meet the Lord right now if you don’t close your mouth.”
The brigand on the ground had picked up Allie’s wallet and now was standing in front of the other three passengers. “Wallets, boys, or we’ll take them off your dead bodies.”
“The Lord hasn’t blessed me financially,” the preacher stated.
“Yeah, well, He hasn’t blessed us financially, either, that’s why we’re robbin’ folks. Since He tells you godly people to give to the poor, we’re going to let you do just that.”
With a rifle pointed at them—the third man was watching the driver and shotgun rider—Stephen and the drummer surrendered their cash without protest. Stephen cast a glance at Allie, but she gave a slight shake of her head. It was just too dangerous. She knew professionals when she saw them, and these men fit that description.
The outlaw came and stood in front of Allie. All she could see was his eyes, of course, but…well, she knew lust when she saw it. “Boss, can we take this lady with us? She sure is a looker. I’ll bet she can cook and wash and do all kinds of things that women are good at.” He cackled.
The boss was apparently thinking about it. “I’ll admit, I haven’t seen one that pretty in a long time.” He said to Allie, “You want to go with us, honey?”
“Where are you going?”
“Oh, around. You know. We’re kinda drifting at the moment.”
“I need to get to Carver Junction. Take me there and I’ll go with you.” Allie wanted her money back. It was actually a requisition from the Rangers and McConnell wouldn’t be happy if she lost it. Besides, if she could get the drop on these fellows, she could haul them in to jail. She continued, “One of your men is going to have to walk, though. I want a horse.”
“Well, we can take care of that,” the leader said, and he turned to the other man and said, “Unhitch one of those horses in front of the stage.” He looked at Allie. “You don’t mind riding bareback, do you?”
“Yeah, I do, but you can and I’ll take your saddle.” He grunted at that.
The driver protested. “You can’t take one of our horses. We’d have an odd number then and they couldn’t pull the coach.”
The leader of the outlaws had an answer for that, too. He very calmly shot one of the other horses. “Now, you have an even number or horses.”
Anson, the driver, was angry, but frustrated. All the rifles were still in the hands of the thieves. “Two horses cain’t pull this wagon, you know that.”
“Well, hitch up that drummer and preacher, then. I’m sure they can help.”
He looked at Allie. “We’ll have you a horse in a jiffy. I’ve got a blanket you can sit on and we’ll whip up a rope bridle for you.”
“Joy,” Allie muttered. She’d ridden bareback many times. In fact, that’s the way she learned how to ride a horse, since her father had been a full-blooded Cheyenne.
It didn’t take long to get the horse unloosed from the stagecoach harness. The preacher tried to be chivalrous and it cost him.
“Sir,” he pleaded with the head outlaw, “I beg of you not to do this. You have our money. Please do not compound your sin by kidnapping this innocent child of God.”
“Preacher, I told you to shut up,” the boss said. “You’re wasting your breath. If you open your mouth and start preaching again, I’ll send you straight to your beloved God.”
The preacher puffed out his chest. “I’d rather die defending people against the wicked than to keep silence in the face of iniquity.”
“Suit yourself,” the outlaw leader said, and nonchalantly pointed his rifle at the preacher and fired.
The minister’s eyes got big as he realized what had happened. And then he slowly sank to the earth with a bullet in his heart.
Allie winced when the rifle went off, then gritted her teeth when she saw the dead preacher. I’m going to send you to hell, buster, where that preacher will never see you again… It took all of the Ranger’s will power not to pull her gun and start firing, but she still feared that others might get caught in the crossfire.
The drummer was staring at the preacher’s dead body. “That’s…that’s murder.”
The outlaw leader obviously didn’t care about “Thou shalt not kill,” either. He looked at Allie. “Let’s go.”
“Are we going to Carver Junction?”
“We’ll see. Maybe in a few days.” He smiled, or at least he appeared to do so under his mask. “You’ll beat this stagecoach there regardless.”
Allie muttered something under her breath, then said, “Let me get my bag out of the coach, ok?”
“All right, but hurry.”
Allie grabbed a small case she had placed under the seat. As she walked past him, Stephen said, “I wish we could do something. But we’ll tell the authorities as soon as we arrive in Carver Junction.”
“Thanks. I’ll be all right,” Allie said. “Maybe I can sass them to death.” He tried to laugh but it didn’t quite come off.
Allie walked over to the horse without the saddle and easily mounted it. The outlaw leader said to her, “I’ll take that knife on your hip, just in case you decide you want to get clever with it.”
The Ranger gave him a sour look. “I only use it to skin fish,” she said, and you look like a trout to me… But she tossed it to him. She had another up her right sleeve, a thinner, throwing knife.
“You don’t have another weapon, do you?” he asked her.
“No,” she replied. I have several… “Let’s go. I need to get to Carver Junction.”
So they all headed their horses among the boulders, then down a long incline towards a wide, grass-covered valley. “Is this the way to Carver Junction?” Allie asked. “I’ve never been there.”
“Well, it’s the long way,” the leader said. “What’s your hurry to get to Carver Junction?”
“I’m supposed to pick up an outlaw there and hang him.” She gave him a smile, that didn’t come close to her eyes. “I’ll drop you guys off with the local sheriff in Carver when we get there.”
The man grunted a chuckle. “You’re funny. What’s your name?”
Allie wasn’t about to use her real name. “Agnes Monami. I’m French. Call me Aggie. I hate the name Agnes. Who are you?”
“Terrell Tolliver. And that’s Hank and Sid.”
Allie’s eyebrows shot up. She knew the name Terrell Tolliver, and she remembered quite well having killed his brother a few weeks before. She thought it a good idea not to mention that at the moment. But, burying another Tolliver wouldn’t be a bad day’s work…especially after what he did to that preacher…
But these men were good. So subtly that it seemed natural, they surrounded her as they rode. And she wasn’t going to outrun them on the horse she was riding. He was built for strength, not speed.
The Lady Ranger wasn’t terribly worried; she’d been in tight spots before. She’d be patient and bide her time.
But neither did she intend to wait around and see if the preacher could talk the Lord into helping her out some.