“I—you gave me the right amount, right? You don’t think I took too much?”
“Jesus, I’m sorry I even suggested it! I thought it’d help you mellow out.”
“You don’t think something went wrong, right? Like… I’m not gonna stay this way, am I?”
“You’re fine, just ride it out.”
“But, like, you know other people who’ve tried that cookie, right? I mean, not that cookie, but one like it? Like, a sister cookie? And they’re fine, right? They’re still alive?”
A prairie dog popped its head up out of the ground nearby, and Albert’s panic level quadrupled. “Oh, shit! Anna, he knows! He knows all about this!” Albert sprinted away, leaving Anna doubled over with teary-eyed laughter.
CRACK!
The Wells Fargo stagecoach came to a skull-rattling halt.
“Oh, shit,” the driver cursed. He handed the reins to the shotgun guard and stepped down off the seat. When he surveyed the damage, he knew they were going to be here awhile.
The Sherman Creek Trail was known for being relatively mild: smooth, flat ground, no steep inclines, and a more or less straight as-the-crow-flies shot from point A to point B. Thus, it was a logical route for the Wells Fargo Bank to use in transporting its gold shipments, particularly because the terrain was relatively open almost the entire length of the trail. That meant very few places for outlaws to conveniently ambush the shipments. The only exception was the Copper Corridor, a half-mile-long stretch of the trail that wound through and around a series of large natural rock formations, effectively blocking visibility beyond thirty feet at every point along the way.
The stagecoach had broken down at the center of the corridor.
The driver furrowed his brow as he looked down at the deep rut that had caused the wheel to snap off. “John, this hole’s been freshly dug,” he said with deep concern on his face.
The shotgun guard knew as well as he did what that meant. “Bad news,” he said softly, tightening his grip on his Winchester rifle. “Look sharp.”
Although the primary purpose of the Wells Fargo stagecoach was to deliver gold to its various branches throughout the territory, it was common for the company to piggyback passenger transport during such journeys as well. Thus, a well-dressed family of three—father, mother, and seven-year-old son—waited patiently inside the coach while the two men assessed the seriousness of the breakage. After a few moments, the driver opened the carriage door and addressed the man inside. “I’m very sorry about this, sir, but we need another body.”
The man sighed with mild annoyance. “It’s all right.” He climbed outside to assist them.
Realizing that he had a bit of time to spare, the young boy scrambled to follow his father.
“Don’t you go far, Michael,” his mother said.
“I won’t, Mama. I’m gonna look for lizards.”
The woman shuddered. “Don’t you dare bring any of those awful things in here.”
“I won’t, Mama, I promise.” He scurried out the door and ran across to the edge of the trail. It felt good to run. They’d been cooped up inside the carriage for two days straight, and a young boy couldn’t burn off all his excess energy by fidgeting alone. He scanned the area with sharp eyes, eagerly anticipating the perennial boyhood thrill of capturing a live reptile. As luck would have it, he didn’t have to look far. A tiny lizard darted out from beneath a rock and skittered up the trail. The boy took off in pursuit. As he raced after his quarry, the boy marveled that the lizard’s tiny legs could move with enough speed and agility to make the chase an evenly matched one.
The lizard darted out of sight around one of the large monolithic rock formations that lined the edges of this part of the trail. The boy raced around the corner after it—
—and got the wind knocked out of him. He lay on his back for a moment, allowing his head to clear. When he sat up, he found himself staring at a group of four rough-faced riders, led by the coldest-looking man he had ever seen.
The boy knew something of the famous outlaws of the West from reading stories and playing games with his schoolmates, and, like any boy his age, he was fascinated by the glamorous, adventure-filled lives they seemed to lead. In the eyes of a seven-year-old, these were heroes of a sort, possessing colorful, ribald, charismatic personalities that honey-coated their dastardly acts, making them entirely forgivable.
He could tell instantly that he was looking at a real-life outlaw. However, this man was nothing like the rustlers, train robbers, and gunfighters he’d read about. There was no swashbuckling magnetism here, only a frosty darkness that emanated from eyes as reptilian as the little lizard that had surely by now made its escape. There was something about this man that struck a deep terror into the boy’s heart.
The man knelt down to face the boy. “Hello there, young fella,” he said with a smile bereft of kindness.
The boy sat frozen as the man leaned closer and lightly patted his knee, a sinister caricature of paternal warmth.
“What are you doing out here?”
“I’m—I was… I was chasing a lizard,” he said, his voice quavering.
“Ah, I used to chase lizards when I was your age. You catch him?”
“N-no, he—he got away.”
“Oh, that’s too bad. Are you out here all alone?”
“My mom—my mommy and daddy are here.”
“They are? Well, that’s a comfort, isn’t it? The trail’s a dangerous place for a little boy to be roaming about all by himself.” The man rose to his full height, his sharply hooked brows lifting slightly. “You know, I think I’d like to meet your mommy and daddy.”
The three men were still struggling to pull the ruined carriage out of the rut when the shot rang out. The driver, the shotgun guard, and the well-dressed man froze and looked up at the sound. The woman, who rested uncomfortably on a nearby rock, ceased fanning herself and stared with dread at the newcomers. A group of four, all dangerous-looking, all armed. And their weapons were aimed at the three men. Her young son sat atop the lead rider’s horse, stiff with fright.
Clinch aimed his gun at the head of the shotgun guard. “Drop it,” he instructed calmly. With reluctance, the man slowly lowered his Winchester to the ground.
The boy’s mother bolted to her feet. “Michael!” she cried out.
“Oh, you needn’t worry about your boy, ma’am,” Clinch said with a tip of his hat. “He’s gonna be just fine… provided you all do as you’re told.” He nodded back to the burly man who flanked him on his right. “Do the honors, Ben.”
Ben dismounted, strode over to the wagon, and lifted up the top of the driver’s seat, where the Wells Fargo lockboxes were customarily hidden. Sure enough, he pulled out a medium-sized wooden box coated in peeling green paint. “Got it, Clinch!” he shouted excitedly. The box was sealed with a large padlock. Ben set the box down on the ground and, with just a couple of shots fired, managed to break open the lock. He lifted the lid. “Sweet Jesus, will you look at that,” he uttered with a wide-eyed grin. He turned and presented it to Clinch, displaying its glittering contents.
Clinch’s reptilian eyes lit up like a summer storm. “Ten thousand in pure gold bullion,” he whispered with quiet intensity.
All the outlaws were transfixed by the rows of gold bars, which screamed the promise of a future gilded with creature comforts. Even young Michael, despite his terror, could not help but let a small gasp escape his lips.
There will never be another chance, the shotgun guard realized. He very slowly lowered his hand toward his boot, where he had hidden a spare derringer for just such an eventuality.