Wildcat Kitty and The Cyclone Kid Ride Again



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  WILDCAT KITTY

  AND

  THE CYCLONE KID

  RIDE AGAIN

  Franklin D.Lincoln

  ****

  PUBLISHED BY:

  Wildcat kitty and The Cyclone Kid Ride Again

  Copyright © 2014 by Franklin D. Lincoln

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  ****

  PUBLISHED BY:

  Monogram Press

  Wildcat Kitty and The Cyclone Kid Ride Again

  Copyright © 2014 by Franklin D. Lincoln

  ISBN 9781310785825

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Once Again For

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  Melody Isbell,

  Grampa’s Girl

  The Real Wildcat (She’s really a kitten)

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  Chapter One

  They were like dark specters riding on radiant streaming sunbeams from the half orb of morning sun as it peeked over the ridge; early gray dawn melting into a pale blue sky behind it.

  There were five riders cresting the ridge. Dark shapes on galloping horses plunging onto the incline of the sharp embankment that led down to an expansive, lush meadow of crop grass, below.

  Duster tails were flapping in the breeze caused by the speed of their galloping mounts.

  The riders leaned back hard in the saddle, reins outstretched to the limits, trying to retain their balance, giving their mounts’ their heads as they stretched their necks far out in front of them, aligning the back of their necks with the backbone of their spines, spreading their bodies into a straight line from head to rear.

  Iron shod hooves dug into the moist sod and wet foot high gamma grass entwined about their fetlocks, slowing their descent The shade of the morning sun behind the ridge had still left the slope slick from morning dew.

  As the riders came barreling down the hillside, they were no longer strung out side by side, but randomly sliding from left to right and drifting into a haphazard alignment with some riders in front and others behind or slightly close to the others.

  As the riders approached halfway down the hill, another group of riders topped the ridge. There were about a dozen riders and they all had guns out and were firing at the five riders ahead of them. The fleeing riders were too intent on making their way down the embankment to fire back. Their weapons were still holstered.

  The first rider to negotiate the foot of the hill and ride out into the meadow before the others, was smaller than the rest of the riders This rider was riding an Ovaro; a black and white pinto. And unlike the others, this rider did not wear a duster. Long auburn hair streamed from beneath a black Stetson tied on with a chin strap. She wore a red and white checkered shirt and blue denim trousers. She was known as the notorious outlaw, Wildcat Kitty and she was the reputed leader of the gang known as The Wildcat Gang.

  The members of The Wildcat Gang consisted of Kitty’s grandfather who was a big, elderly man on a chestnut mare. He was known as the legendary Cyclone Kid. Also in the gang were Arapahoe Brown; another tough old man who still had the bark on, and rode a big gray stallion. Chief Henry Two Owls and Kitty’s brother, Jeremy Carlin rounded out the rest of the gang.

  As The Wildcat Gang rode into the meadow, flying lead was all around them as the pursuing riders advanced down the hill behind them. Bullets were coming much too close now and one clipped the loose part of Cyclone’s duster sleeve.

  Pointing to the left, urging his companions to ride that way into the meadow, Cyclone hauled up on the mare’s reins, pulling her to a sliding halt in the dew slicked grass. He wheeled her around as he slid his Winchester from the rifle boot that rested beneath the saddle fender and his right thigh.

  Bringing the rifle up shoulder high, he fired one handed at his pursuers.

  One rider took the hit and spilled from his saddle, falling to the ground and rolling down the hill. The riders behind rode him over before slowing their pace.

  Cyclone had wheeled his horse back to follow after the others, only to find them turning back toward him.

  Farther down the meadow another group of riders were heading toward them. They also had their guns out and were firing.

  The Wildcats had no choice but to ride the other direction. They knew it wasn’t a good choice, but was the only option available to them.

  They dug their spurs hard into their horses’ flanks and whipped them wildly with the excess length of reins. The horses responded with galloping speed.

  As the Wildcats sped on, they could see the meadow narrowing off. They knew that it would eventually pinch off into a narrow canyon. Getting trapped in there would mean their finish, but with their pursuers merging in from two sides, they had no other choice.

  The firing behind them began to subside as The Wildcats increased their lead.

  With the canyon entrance looming not far up ahead, the pursuers probably saw no need to waste ammunition nor push their horses harder.

  Once in the canyon, The Wildcats would be trapped.

  As the meadow began to disappear, the ground became harder and rocky until the trail wound into the mouth of the canyon.

  The canyon floor was strewn with boulders and smaller rocks. Mounds of shale had piled up at the bottom of the walls as years of corrosion had splintered off chunks of rock that broke to dust as they hit bottom.

  The Wildcats had barely entered the canyon and traversed about a hundred feet into the high walled rocky canyon, when gunfire erupted in front of them from within farther down the canyon.

  Bullets hailed around them and ricocheted off the rock walls around them. The firing came from high up the canyon walls from both sides, where the ambushers were hidden behind rock cover.

  The Cyclone Kid motioned for the others to hold up. They leaped from their horses backs and sent them running on through the canyon.

  Cyclone, however, had managed to retrieve the saddlebags from the big chestnut mare, before joining the others to take cover behind some large boulders at the side of the trail.

  Bullets trailed after them, but they all made it to cover without a scratch.

  They quickly took up positions behind the rocks; guns ready to fire at the attackers fro
m both directions.

  Firing from inside the canyon ceased The Wildcats held their fire and waited.

  The sound of horses’ hooves was coming closer from outside the canyon. Light filtering in from the entrance of the canyon flickered as the shapes of riders and horses filled the opening. The riders had halted, none of them inclined to enter the canyon, nor did they see a need to.

  “Cyclone Keed!” a Spanish sounding voice rang out. “We have you trapped, Senor. You wish to make it easy on yourselves and give yourselves up or do we have to keel you?”

  “You’ll probably kill us anyways, Manuel,” Cyclone shouted back. “We might as well take some of you with us. For sure I’m taking you down.”

  “That’s mighty big talk from a fat old man,” Manuel responded.

  Cyclone glanced to the others. Kitty was pressing close to him. She nodded affirmative. So did the others. Cyclone always knew where his companions stood with him. He answered back to Manuel. “Come on and try me.”

  “Oh, Senor Cyclone,” Manuel chided with a whine. “Do not make us keel you. You know all we want is the money.”

  “Then, you’ll kill us after you get it,” Cyclone came back.

  “Why would I want to do that, my old friend, Cyclone? Why, you..you’re just like a ..a.. grandfather to me. You’re too old to be my father,”

  “Do you even know who your father is, Manuel?”

  “Quien Sabe. I don’t even know who my mother is. But no matter. I am happy with whiskey and women. But, alas, I need money for that. So if you just give me the money that Senor Gunderson gave you. I’ll let you live.”

  “What if I told you, we didn’t get the money?’ Cyclone yelled.

  “I wouldn’t believe you, my old friend. I saw with my own eyes that he gave it to you. It’s in those saddle bags you have.”

  Cyclone turned to Kitty. “He’s going for it.”

  Then back to Manuel, he shouted, “How about we split it? Times have been tough, we really need the dough.”

  “How about I just keel you?” Manuel’s voice still sounded jovial.

  “Well, now that you mention it, Manuel, that don’t sound like a good idee.”

  “Alright then, Senor. I really do hate to have to keel you. And your pretty granddaughter. It would be such a shame to keel a beautiful girl like that. But, if, that is the way you want it friend, we’ll all start shooting again, until you are all dead.”

  “Wait a minute, Manuel,” Cyclone answered. He tried to put a bit of a stammer in it. “You promise you won’t kill us if we give you the money?”

  “Cyclone! Cyclone! All these years, we been friends. Of course I won’t keel you. All I want is the money. It won’t hurt none. You can always get more money.”

  “And I bet you’d come along to take that away too.” Cyclone glanced at the others. They were all smiling.

  “Of course, amigo. All the more reason for me to let you live. Get me more money.”

  “Well, if I give this money to you now, it’ll be the last time you take anymore.”

  “Don’t say that, my friend or I may not have a reason to let you live. I could change my mind,” Manuel warned.

  Cyclone didn’t answer. He waited out the silence.

  “Senor! Why you not answer me?’

  “I’m thinkin’. I’m thinkin’,” Cyclone shouted back.

  “Do not think too long, my friend. You might think yourself dead.” Impatience was starting to creep into Manuel’s words.

  “Alright! Alright!” Cyclone answered. “You promise that after you get the money, you’ll let us go?’

  “Si,” Manuel answered.

  “I’ll just toss the saddlebags out. You pick them up and ride out,” Cyclone said.

  “No, no, no, my friend,” Manuel said, grinning. “First you toss your guns out. Then you step out into the canyon where I can see you. Bring the money with you.”

  Cyclone waited a beat. He didn’t want this to look too easy. Then said, “Alright, you win. Here comes our guns.”

  The guns clattered on the rock floor as each of The Wildcats tossed them out

  They stepped out from behind the rocks into the center of the canyon trail.

  Riders from outside rode into the canyon, bunching up close and cropping out any light protruding from the outside.

  Footsteps crunched in the rocky trail behind them as the gunmen from the interior of the canyon came up behind them. In a matter of seconds, The Wildcats were completely surrounded by men with guns at the ready. They were a hard lot of gun-hands; disheveled and dirty. They were mostly Anglo with a few Spanish mixed in.

  Manuel and his riders pushed in close around them; all remaining in their saddles as the horses bunched the riders together within the close confines of the canyon walls. The riders were all Caucasian except for Manuel. Even as a minority, the Spaniard was obviously in charge.

  Manuel sat loosely in the saddle, brandishing his six-gun as if it weighed nothing. It waved back and forth taking in the whole group of captives.

  He was a broad shouldered man with an ample belly. His gaudy flowered shirt hung loosely about his swarthy body and carried the grime and sweat of many days without washing. He had gleaming, large teeth that filled his small mouth. They were extremely yellowed, but appeared white beneath his dark drooping mustache and dark tanned complexion. Several days growth of black beard stubble covered his sallow cheeks.

  “It’s so good to see you again, my friend Cyclone,” he said, jovially.

  Cyclone and the others had their hands raised. The saddlebags were slung over Cyclone’s broad right shoulder.

  “And you too, Meester Rapahoe,” Manuel continued. He was relishing this moment too much.

  “Not half as much as I’ll be glad to see you, next time,” Rap said flatly. No idle threat in his tone; just a statement with a promise underlying it.

  Then to Kitty he said with a smiling, leer. “It is especially good to see you too, senorita. I have heard much about The Wildcat Girl. You are not a disappointment to me. I like my wimmin to be a little feisty.”

  “Forget it, Chili Pepper,” Kitty warned. “I’m just a mite feistier than you want. So put your ideas away out of sight. And by the way, you are a disappointment to me. You stink much worse that I heard about you.”

  “Aw Pepita, you insult me. I am deeply hurt.” Obviously he wasn’t.

  “Let’s get this palavering over with,” Cyclone interjected with impatience. “You came for the money. Well, it’s right here.” He patted the saddlebags. They bulged with content. “You gonna take it and ride outta here and leave us alone or are you going to just sit there and stink us to death?”

  “Ah, Cyclone. I see we are still good friends.” He grinned broadly, hefted his pistol thoughtfully; then dropped it back into its holster.

  He dismounted and stepped close to his prisoners. He reached out for the saddle bags. Cyclone let them slide from his shoulder and thrust them out toward his captor.

  Manuel snatched them out of Cyclone’s hands. The weight of them surprised him and his arm sagged. He grinned again and hefted the bags up and down, verifying the weight.

  He smiled broadly. “Now that wasn’t so hard, was it my friend?” Manuel jibed.

  “Now that you got it, Manuel, how about gettin’ away from here and let us be?” Cyclone snapped.

  “Do not be in such a hurry, Senor,” Manuel said. “First I must make sure this is the money.”

  “Of course it is, you nitwit, Do you think we woulda gone to all this trouble to save it if it wasn’t?” Cyclone cackled.

  Manuel was already unbuckling the saddle bag straps. He flipped the flap over and peered inside. He smiled broadly. “I always knew I could trust you, my friend,” Manuel said as he gazed on the bundle of money inside.

  “Sure you did,” Cyclone agreed sarcastically.

  “That is why I know it is all there, Amigo. Don’t I?”

  “Of course, it is all there,” Cyclone said. “We didn’t
have time to spend it. You know that. You were on our tail five minutes after Gunderson gave it to me.”

  “Then you don’t mind if I count it, Amigo?” Manuel said, rummaging through the bag, feeling of the bundles of cash inside.

  “If you can count, go ahead.”

  “Aw Cy. Once again I am hurt. Of course I can count. Six bullets in my pistola. Five of you. I can count enough.” He pulled a bundle of cash from the saddle bags and glanced at it. A thought glinted in his eye. The glint turned to suspicion as he looked back at Cyclone.

  He draped the bags over his left wrist and arm so he could hold the bundle in his hand and leaf through the bundle with his other hand.

  His eyes turned dark; their black centers matching the stubble on his cheeks as he flicked his fingers through the pieces of paper.

  He dropped the bundle back inside the pouch. He drew his pistol and waved it under Cyclone’s chin. His lips curled into a snarl. “What is this, my friend?” He tipped the saddle bags up and let the contents fall out onto the ground at Cyclone’s feet. “You try to make a fool out of Manuel?”

  “I can’t take credit for that. Nature done beat me to it. What’s the matter? Not enough money for you? That was all I could squeeze out of that tightwad, Gunderson. You don’t like the take, you take that up with him.”

  “You thought you could fool Manuel,” Manuel said as if he heard nothing from Cyclone. “Now where is the money, Senor?” Manuel was getting very angry by now.

  “What are you talking about? It’s right there at your feet. Right in plain sight.”

  “No, it isn’t. There is money only on the outsides of the packets. There is nothing but paper in between. “Now I ask you again, my friend, where is the rest of it?"

  “I don’t rightly know what’s going on here, Manuel,” Cyclone appealed. “There was supposed to be twenty thousand in there. If it’s not, Gunderson pulled a fast one on me. You mind if I take a look at the money?’ He was already starting to squat, reaching for a bundle of cash.

  Manuel stepped back without saying a word. He pulled the hammer of his weapon back into place.

  Cyclone heard the click as he picked up a bundle and slowly straightened up. He examined the bundle. His brow creased, deepening the furrowed lines, already etched there. “Dirty, lyin’, cheatin’ weasel!” Cyclone cursed and threw the bundle hard into the dirt. The band around the bundle broke open and the papers spilled out.

  “What is it, Cy?” Arapahoe exclaimed, shuffling closer and ignoring the big Mexican holding the gun.

  “That lyin’ skunk, Gunderson, hoodwinked us. That’s what’s the matter!” Cyclone fumed. “He done phonied up those bundles to make us think he paid us all the money for the silver we give him. That dirty double crosser. Wait’ll I get of hold of that cheatin’ hornytoad.”

  Chief had bent down and picked up a bundle. He held it close to eyes, which were covered with inch thick lenses. “Me no see ‘um what matter. Bad white man wampun? No good?”

  “‘Course it’s no good. Any fool can see that plain enough,” Cyclone answered.

  “Me no see ‘um. Me no fool.”

  “‘Course not you danged blind old Injun. Look’s like I’m the biggest fool of all,”Cyclone said, dejected and defeated.

  “Wait a minute! Wait a minute!” Manuel put in. “I theenk maybe you all theenk Manuel the fool. Maybe this is big trick to make Manuel theenk you no got money. Maybe you hide the real money someplace. Maybe you want Manuel to believe Senor Gunderson cheat you, just so Manuel go away and you get to keep your money.”

  “I wish that was the case, Manuel. But you know Gunderson. Don’t you believe he’d pull a deal like this? Just to cheat us.”

  “Si,” Manuel said. “Gunderson muy mal hombre. He would do such a dirty trick.”

  A hint of a smile crossed Cyclone’s lips.

  “Still, Senor. I think you would also try to fool Manuel. I still think you have the money.”

  “Then where is it?” Cyclone retorted.

  “Yeah, where is it?” Rap echoed, stepping forward and joining into the discussion that was just about to bubble over into a heated contest.

  Cyclone put the flat of his old hand on Rap’s broad chest and pushed him back. “Shut up, Rap!” Cy ordered. Then to Manuel, “Look around, see if you find it.”

  Manuel nodded to the men standing. Four of them moved off into the rocks where the Wildcats had taken refuge.

  In a few moments, they came back, shaking their heads. They had found nothing.

  Manuel pointed out four riders in his group and said, “Go catch up their horses. Perhaps the money is on one of them.”

  They moved out quickly on through the canyon.

  “You, you and you,” Manuel said to three more riders. “Go back down the trail. Make sure they didn’t throw it off someplace, hoping to come back for it later.”

  The riders turned their mounts, brushing up against the other riders in the tight queue.

  A few minutes later the other riders returned with all five of the gang’s horses. Again, the answer was, no money found.

  Cyclone glanced to Kitty, then to Rap, Chief and Jeremy. His face drained its color and he tried to hide the emotion he was feeling, just now.

  When the others got back, the verdict was the same. No money had been tossed along the trail.

  Manuel grimaced and shook his big shaggy head and sombrero. He turned to Cyclone and said, with big disappointment in his tone, “I am sorry, mi amigo. I guess I was wrong. I think Meester Gunderson did sap you after all.”

  “When I get my hands on that weasel......” Cyclone was fuming.

  “You weel not, Senor,” Manuel interrupted him. “It is I who shall get the weasel, as you say, and the money.” He grinned broadly. “You go on your way and we shall remain amigos.”

  “Sure,” Cyclone said reluctantly. “Amigos.”

  “Then I shall be on my way too, Senor Cyclone.” He pushed out his hand to shake Cyclone’s.

  Cyclone hesitated. Thought for a moment then pulled his hand back. “If it’s alright with you, Manuel, we’ll just be amigos without the handshake. It’s not that I don’t trust you, but I’m mighty fond of my fingers and I’m not sure I’d get them all back.”

  Manuel grinned again. Then broke out in a boisterous laugh. He mounted up and he and his men rode off; back the way they had come.

  As they all watched the bandits ride off, Cyclone turned to the others and blustered, “Now where the hell did that money go?”

  Cyclone was still sulking; slouching low in the saddle and grumbling to himself beneath his breath by the time they had traversed the length of the canyon and had emerged on the other side. Kitty was riding beside him. Rap, Chief and Jeremy were riding behind them.

  Kitty had remained silent during the journey, letting Cyclone stew in his own anger. She held back a trace of amusement and finally broke the silence. It was time to get her grandpa talking again.

  “Don’t worry about it, Grampa,” she said. “Everything is going to be all right. You’ll see.”

  “All right?” Cyclone groaned. “Without the money, how’s everything gonna be all right? You forgettin’ what you was gonna use that money for?”

  “Of course not,” Kitty said.

  “Your old grandpa let you down girl. I thought I was so durn smart with that phony money and saddle bag. It was a big mistake settin’ our horses free with the real money still on my horse. I sure wish I knowed what happened to it. What do you think happened to it? You think Manuel’s men found it on my horse and kept it quiet from Manuel?”

  “No,” Kitty said emphatically. “Now if you’ll just sit up straight in the saddle and look off up the trail, you’ll see that money coming back to us.”

  Cyclone startled. His feet pushed hard into the stirrup and he pulled back sharply on the reins. He rubbed his eyes as if that would help him see better. Then he turned to Kitty. His face flushed with anger.

  Kitty didn’t bother to lo
ok at him. She was gazing off into the distance. A rider was coming toward them; his horse at a trot. The rider was all in black; black hat and a black broadcloth suit. He was a riding a tall black stallion.

  The rider sat ramrod tall in the saddle, and as he approached, a wisp of a memory tugged at Kitty’s heart. She remembered another tall man riding this same black stallion.

  “Hiya, Cyclone! Hiya, Kitty,” the rider greeted them as he rode up to them, swiveled the big black around, so he could ride on with them. He pulled up alongside of Cyclone.

  Cyclone tried not to turn and look at the rider. He was a tall man. He had raven black hair that peeked out from under his flat crowned, broad brimmed hat. It couldn’t rightly be called a range hat because it was immaculately clean and curved slightly. He wore an expensive vest, white shirt and string tie. Much too fancy for a range man.

  He leaned forward in the saddle and peered around Cyclone at Kitty on the far side. “I see he still likes me,” Dandy Jim Butler said jovially.

  “I’ll tell ya when I like ya,” Cyclone growled, looking up under the corner of his hat brim and casting a cursive look at the fancy dressed gambler beside him.

  “This should cheer you up a little. Maybe buy myself a little good standing with you.” He lifted saddle bags that had been draped across his horse’s neck and handed them to Cyclone.

  Cyclone snatched the leather pouches and dropped them across the neck of his chestnut mare. “Might’ve known,” he grumbled low, as if to nobody, but he really meant it for Kitty. “You trusted that slick tongue dandy with my money.”

  “You got it back, didn’t you?” Kitty smiled. She couldn’t help but be amused.

  “Just couldn’t trust your granddad to come through with the money, could you?”

  “Of course I did. I just thought it was a little insurance to have Jim get the bags from your horse while it was running loose. Just in case those bandits wanted to take a look. Which they did. Now, be a good boy and thank Jim for helping us out.”

  “I ain’t no good boy and you ain’t my ma,” Cyclone fumed.

  Kitty gave him a mischievous cross eyed look. He stared hard back at her and pursed his lips. Then before saying anything, his lips spread apart and he laughed at her. He could never be mad at Grampa’s girl.

  He gave a quick glance to the left and said, “Thanks Jim.” He jerked his head back and stared straight along the trail ahead of him.

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  Chapter Two