“Oh! What’s happening?” the woman asked.
Someone’s head appeared in the window of the coach. The face was covered with a hood. “Everybody out,” he ordered, brandishing a pistol. He jerked the door open and Duff and the others had to step outside. In addition to the man who had ordered the coach emptied, there were two more masked men, both of whom were mounted. And like the man on the ground, they held pistols.
“Now, you, driver, throw down the bank pouch,” the man on the ground ordered.
“What makes you think we’re carrying a bank pouch?” the driver replied.
“I ain’t a-tellin’ you again. Throw that bank pouch down.”
“And I told you, we ain’t carryin’ a bank pouch,” G. F. Guy insisted.
Without so much as another word, the outlaw shot the old cowhand who had been riding beside the driver. Hit in the head, the man tumbled across the wheel, falling to the ground. It took but one glance to know that he was dead.
“Maybe you’ll listen to me now.”
“Mister, you done kilt a innocent man there for no good reason,” the driver replied, the fear in his voice evident. “I told you, we ain’t a-carryin’ nothin’ of any value.”
The masked man turned his pistol toward Wang.
“No, don’t shoot the Chinaman,” one of the mounted robbers said. “There don’t nobody give a damn if a Chinaman gets kilt. Grab the little girl. If he don’t throw the pouch down, kill her. ’N if that don’t work, we’ll kill the boy.”
“No! Take me instead!” Emma Lou’s mother shouted.
As the coach robber on the ground reached toward Emma Lou, neither he, nor either of the riders, noticed the almost imperceptible nod between Duff and Wang. Then, moving so quickly that it was done before any of the three outlaws realized what was happening, Wang brought the knife edge of his hand against the back of the outlaw’s neck, and he went down. Even as the outlaw was going down, Duff drew his pistol.
“What the hell? Kill ’em! Kill ’em all!” one of the two mounted outlaws shouted.
The two men raised their guns, but neither of them got so much as a single shot off. Duff fired twice, and the saddles of both horses were emptied.
Emma Lou had rushed to her mother’s side and wrapped her arms around her. Her brother, rather than being frightened, clapped his hands in glee.
“You killed both of them!” he said. “They sure made a mistake tryin’ to steal from us, didn’t they?”
“That they did, sonny, that they did,” the drummer said. He looked at Duff. “Mister, I don’t know who you are, but I’ll tell you true, I believe you’re near ’bout as fast as Wynton Miller.” He pointed to the man Wang had hit. “I suggest we tie this one up before he comes to.”
“He will not wake,” Wang said.
“What do you mean he won’t wake up? He wasn’t shot.”
“His neck is broken,” Wang said.
“How can you be sure about that?”
“I am the one who broke his neck.”
“Just by hittin’ ’im like that?”
“Mister, I have seen Wang break boards, one inch thick,” Duff said. He pointed to the man on the ground. “’Tis for sure this man will nae be waking up.”
“What are we goin’ to do with ’em?” the driver asked. “We can’t just leave ’em here, on the road.”
“Would ye be for knowin’ the name of the cowhand?” Duff asked.
“Yeah, we was talkin’ quite a bit. I don’ know his last name, but he tole me to call ’im Billy. He’s a rider for the Pitchfork brand. That is, he was,” the driver added.
“We’ll put him on top of the coach, for now, ’n when we get back to Chugwater we’ll send word to Mr. Allen out at Pitchfork. ’Tis sure, I am, that he’ll be wanting to make some arrangements for the burial of his hand.”
“What about these here others?” the driver asked. “Think we should throw ’em up there with Billy?”
“Nae, Billy was a good mon,” Duff said. “I would nae wish to make him have to enter the hereafter with such brigands. We’ll throw their bodies across their horses, then tie the horses onto the back of the coach.”
* * *
The arrival of a stagecoach always drew attention from the citizens, but this time nearly half the town turned out, their curiosity aroused by the three horses, each horse with a body belly down over the saddle.
Sheriff Sharpie approached the coach as soon as it stopped, and he looked toward the bodies.
“You didn’t take the hoods off ?” he asked.
“I dinnae want the wee ones to have to see their faces,” Duff said.
Sheriff Sharpie nodded. “Yeah, I reckon I can see that. I’ll take ’em on down to Mr. Welsh. Looks like the county will be paying for the burials.”
“The man on top o’ the coach is named Billy ’n rides for the Pitchfork brand,” Duff said. “I expect Dale Allen will pay for his burial.”
“Billy? Oh, that must be Billy Hughes. A good man, he’s been with Mr. Allen for a long time, so I expect he will want to make the arrangements. I’ll send Deputy Logan out to the Pitchfork and let them know what happened.”
“You said you were going to get some pie,” Emma Lou said.
“Aye, lass, that I did. ’N what about you, Johnny? Will you be wanting some pie as well?”
Johnny was Emma Lou’s older brother, and Duff had gotten to know the whole family better, for the last few miles of the trip.
“I like pie,” Johnny replied with a broad smile.
Fifteen minutes later Duff, Wang, Ethel Mae Joyce and her two children, Johnny and Emma Lou, were seated around a table at Vi’s Pies. Mr. Jordan, the drummer, declined the invitation to join them, because he had business to attend to.
“Emma Lou told me that you liked cherry pie the best,” Vi said. “But didn’t I already know that, the way you go through a piece
