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“What do you mean you got nothing?”
The voice asking the question took on a dangerous edge.
“I swear by sweet baby Jesus, we’re flat out broke”
The man sat in the driver’s seat of the stagecoach was sweating so much that it looked like a glass of water had been poured over his head.
His nervousness was not helped by the fact there was a six gun pointed at his belly.
The holder of the six-gun snarled: “Toss down the strongbox. If’n you’re lying it’s one in the gut for you.”
With jerky movements, the driver removed the strong box from the roof of the stagecoach and tossed it down in front of the slight figure dressed from head to toe in black who was the owner of said six-gun.
A voice from inside the coach said: “We got nothing too.”
“Shut your piehole, yooz. If I wanted to hear your gums flapping, I’d be asking”, snarled the bandit through the bandana covering their face.
“Sorry, sorry” said the voice and then the only sound that could be heard was the nervous breathing of the driver and the muttering of the stickup artist.
“Well fuck me sideways and don’t serve me breakfast” said the desperado under their breath.
The lock on the strongbox had obviously been shot off.
With one swift movement, they kicked the strong box over and its lid popped open.
And nothing fell out.
It was empty as the town church when the local bordello got a shipment of new whores.
“I was trying to tell you, we was stucked up about 5 miles back aforn we reached you”
The thief let out a string of curses; the driver flinched at each one.
Through gritted teeth, the outlaw spat out: “Vamoose, and vamoose fast”
Not hesitating for a moment, the driver flicked the reins and the stagecoach vanished over the hill.
Pulling down the kerchief, Beca Mitchell looked down at the empty box.
This was the third time in two months that someone had robbed a stagecoach in her territory.
Someone was poaching on her turf.
And that was a thing Beca could not and would not stand for.
This poacher had made an enemy they would regret crossing.
They’d have to be dealt with and darn quick too.
Being a female shootist and desperado required a certain set of skills.
Sure, you have to be handy with a gun, a knife or your fists.
But you also had to be smarter than the men who thought they could put one over on any woman they ran across.
Beca’s success and growing notoriety was a tribute not only to her talent as a shootist but her razor sharp mind.
Once she identified the problem, a bandit working her patch, she came up with a plan, a rather cunning plan if she did say so herself.
In the cave that served as her hideout, lair and home she got together what she needed.
From under her rough hewn bed, she pulled out an old leather trunk.
It was bound with strips of hide and had brass corner pieces.
A piece of fine craftsmanship, and not cheap either.
Above the lock were the initials R E M in gold leaf.
Lifting the trunk on the bed, she popped it open, the contents being exposed to the air for the first time in two years.
“If needs must, but I sure don’t like doing this,” she muttered to herself.
From the voluminous trunk, she pulled out the following: corset, pantaloons, gloves, hat, elegant leather half boots and a green silk dress with bustle. The dress was embroidered with intricate designs and shone when the lamp light hit it.
Each item was of impeccable quality.
Each item reflected a life Beca had left behind her long ago.
With a sigh, she stripped off her well worn comfortable black leathers and started donning the attire of a proper lady.
“Fuck’n corset always digs into my goddamn ribs.” She cursed as she struggled to get ready.
When she was done, she glanced at the polished sheet of metal that served as a looking glass in her abode.
Though distorted, her new appearance obviously satisfied her, because she gave a curt nod.
One last thing was required.
She gathered a lady’s travelling bag and into it slipped a loaded silver two shot Derringer.
Preparations complete, she headed out of her hideout and started the walk into town.
For the next two weeks, Beca rode the local stages, travelling mile after mile down dusty trails.
The only thing she got was a sore arse and a bevvy of inappropriate advances from men who saw a woman riding alone as an opportunity to try it on.
She hadn’t had to use her pistol, but she had wielded her hatpin twice, leaving her targets painfully punctured.
She was almost ready to give it up as she took the early morning stagecoach from Bloodrose to Galveston. Huddled in the corner she’d nodded off only to be abruptly woken when the coach came to a sudden halt.
From outside the conveyance, she could hear a muffled voice telling no one to do anything stupid or their breakfast would be spilt on the ground.
The sound of bags and boxes being thrown off the roof reached the brunette’s ears.
She checked inside her bag to make sure her pistol was cocked and ready to fire.
The door was flung open, and a deep voice ordered the occupants to get out.
On this trip, Beca had been the sole passenger, so she lifted her skirts and daintily stepped out of the carriage, making every effort to appear the flustered lady.
She found herself at the business end of a sawn off shotgun.
The one wielding it was about 5 inches taller than her, dressed in a long, buttoned up canvas duster, a red kerchief covering their face and a hat pulled tight down over their head.
The only thing visible were their eyes, but the early morning light didn’t give Beca a good look at who was watching her.
“Well, aren’t you a pretty wee thing?” the bandit whispered in that oddly deep voice.
“Please don’t hurt me, mister. I ain’t got nothing of value and I get the vapours mighty easily”
To emphasize the point, Beca rocked back and forth on her heels like she was losing her balance.
This movement caused the desperado to lower their shotgun and in a concerned voice say, ” Are you okay, ma’am?”
Beca Mitchell was nothing if not one for taking advantage of a moment.
With the gun no longer aimed at her, she quickly stepped inside the sweep of the firearm.
She grabbed the shotgun near the base of the barrel and jerked up in the air.
This action caused the holder to tighten their finger on the trigger and the gun went off, blasting its pellets uselessly into the sky.
The robber reacted just as quickly, sweeping a leg out and connecting with Beca’s ankles, taking her to the ground.
“Oh, you’re a dead man” the brunette grumbled as she hit the ground.
Behind her, she heard a loud, “hee-ya” and the slap of reins as the driver urged his horse team onwards and away from the ruckus.
“You fucker, “Beca yelled “You don’t up and leave a fucking lady”
Her opponent had managed to undo two buttons on their duster and was obviously trying to access the gun belt that was now visible around their waist.
Beca looked around quickly but her bag, with the gun it contained, was knocked out of reach.
Gritting her teeth, she let out a piercing scream and charged her opponent, catching them around the waist and taking them to earth.
There was a tussle to and fro on the ground, each combatant taking a turn on top.
Beca managed to drive an elbow into the other person’s stomach, and this took the wind out of their sails.
She straddled her opponent and placed her hands on their chest to hold them down.
And received a rather interesting surprise.
The chest she was touching was most definitely not a man’s chest.
It was softer and curvier.
Beca gave a reflexive squeeze.
And much more pleasant to have her hands on.
A voice came from below, higher pitched now the fake voice they’d been using was abandoned.
“They’re pretty damn great, aren’t they? Two bits if’n you want to touch them again though”
Beca removed her hands as if they’d been burned.
She reached forward and swiped off the other’s hat.
Long red hair fell from where it had been tucked up into the hat.
The brunette could see the other woman’s eyes clearly now and they were a piercing blue that cut to the soul.
When Beca yanked down the kerchief covering the redhead’s mouth, she saw ruby red lips drawn into a mocking grin.
The redhead spoke: “Something tells me you’re not much of a lady are you, princess?”
Beca let out a sharp laugh: “And you ain’t a big burly highwayman, are you?”
The two women seemed mesmerized by each other.
“Chloe,” the redhead said, staring up at Beca with a smile still on her face.
“Beca”, the other replied.
“Mind getting off me, Becs. We can save the fun for a little later!”
Beca threw back her head and laughed again: “Oh, Red, I do believe we’re going to be fast friends”
The ginger gave her a wink, “Friends, B. ? I’m hoping for so much more.”
And so much more was what they both received from the path this first encounter started them on.