Aaron Trenholme stepped out of his small printing shop onto the wooden sidewalk of the main street, and consulted his pocket watch as he looked up the street to the hotel. Half an hour late! He thought, rubbing his thumb over the crystal surface. The stage was never late. He frowned, knowing that was not true, it was just his impatience. The special type fonts he'd ordered from Idaho were expected to be on today's stage and he couldn't wait to get them into use.
He watched for a few moments more then went back inside to help his assistant get the press ready. They had acquired a new batch of advertisers for the upcoming, first cattle auction held in Tuckerville, and Aaron wanted to impress them with the new type fonts he'd purchased.
"Nothing yet?" John, his helper asked.
"Nothing. Wouldn't you know, the one time punctuality is necessary."
"Pretty exciting stuff though, all those cattlemen driving herds here for auction."
"Yep, it's a big event that's for sure. The Chicago buyers are here. The railroad representative. All we need are the cows . . . and our ads if that darn—"
"It'll be along, sir, the stage always comes."
As if prophetic, no sooner had the words been spoken than there was anxious shouting from the street and Aaron rushed out the door, seeing the stage brake to a swaying halt, the lathered horses prancing nervously in the traces. He joined a crowd hurrying up toward the hotel, sensing immediately that something was very wrong.
"Get the Doc and the undertaker! We got two dead and one wounded!" The grizzled driver jumped down from his seat and began wrestling with the frightened horses. Aaron could hear the shouted questions and the stunning answers as the driver, cursing, finally settled the team down.
"Ambushed at Black Creek station." He croaked, his breath coming in short gasps. "Six of 'em started shooting the minute the stage stopped." The driver pushed his way through the milling crowd and yanked open the stage door. A head and one arm dangled out, and a woman screamed over the collective cries of shock.
"Gimme a hand here. These two is dead, the wounded one is up top with the luggage."
Several men crowded around the stage, dragging the bodies off and helping the injured man down onto the street. The Doc arrived, coattails flapping and his black bag bouncing against his chubby leg. While he looked the wounded man over, and ordered a bystander to get him down to his office, there was a loud gasp from the crowd.
Aaron looked up to see a young woman, dress torn, hair in disarray, and carrying a rifle, climb down from the stage and stare at the two bodies. When nobody moved, He stepped forward and took her arm gently.
"Are you alright, ma'am? Do you need the doctor?"
"This here's Miss Harriet, fella, and the only reason we made it here." The driver pulled off his hat and slapped it against his leg. "Ma'am, I don't know what to say. The stage company is sure gonna hear about this and you are gonna get a reward by jiggity."
The woman moved away from Aaron and looked up at the stage. "I'd like my trunks brought to the hotel, please." She gathered the torn dress and walked unsteadily around the stage, dragging the rifle, and up the steps to the hotel entrance.
"What the heck was all that about?" Aaron asked.
"You wouldn't believe it if I told yuh."
"Wouldn't believe what?" The sheriff finally arrived, out of breath, wiping at the shaving soap sticking to part of his chin.
"Let me get the team watered and wiped down and then I need a drink . . . a big drink. I'll tell yuh all about it then."
****
Some of the townsmen helped to unload the stage and then hurried to the saloon where the driver held court at a table in a front corner by the window. The sheriff, Aaron, and the mayor, roused from his siesta with the startling news, sat together at the table while a dozen or more men huddled around to hear the driver's story.
"We come down outta the pass making good time, considerin' the load." The driver wiped his chin and continued. "That Miss Harriet had two trunks that weighed plenty, along with all the other luggage and packages we carried." Aaron chewed his tongue, it was not a good time to ask about his type. The driver gulped down some more beer and burped loudly.
"Pulled into the corral at the station and jist as I was climbing down, the shootin' started. There was two men in the coach with the lady and the other was up top with me. He grabbed my rifle and started to fire back. Next thing I knew he was lyin' in the boot, groanin'. I quick like crawled under the stage, I didn't have a gun." He looked around the group and had another swallow of beer.
"So, what happened?" The sheriff encouraged.
"The shooting went on both ways for a few minutes then stopped and I could hear moanin' and swearin', then the shooters came out of the station. Five of them, with rifles. One had been hit bad and was kinda crawlin'. They come over to the stage and ordered everyone out. One dragged me out from underneath and kicked me in the side – think he mighta cracked a rib." He rubbed at it to emphasize. "They yanked the door open and after a moment I saw them haul Miss Harriett out, she was holding a rifle she kept with her, by the barrel. The two men inside was dead and the other, up top, shot up pretty bad – they left them there and started pushin' her around and grabbin' at her."
The bartender slid another tray of drinks onto the table and was pushed away for interrupting.
"Go on. What happened next?" The sheriff commanded.
"Well, she struggled at first, a real wildcat. Then suddenly she just stopped and stood still, calm as a desert mornin'. They tried goadin' her but she just stood there, then one of them swaggered over and grabbed her gown again and yanked."
The driver wiped his brow and looked around the table. "He joked about her not knowing which end of the gun to hold. You ain't gonna believe me, but that little thing, in the blink of an eye, took her rifle in both hands and brought it up 'tween his legs like a lumberjack choppin' logs - dropped him cold. Before the others could react, she levered off a full magazine like lightnin'. Dropped the lot o' them too, she did!"
"That woman from the stage! She shot them all?"
"I tell yuh, I never seen nothin' like it – so fast – and cold. Three dead, one wounded. He started cursin' an swearin' then beggin' . . . and she shot 'im!"
"The wounded man!" The sheriff sat back and slapped his leg.
The crowd men began jabbering all at once, surprise, disbelief, some fear, and even admiration.
"Alright! Alright! You men clear outta here, show's over." The sheriff turned in his chair, glaring. He waited until they had moved away leaving just the four men at the table. "What about the one you said was crawlin'?"
"He already packed it in." The driver said.
"What do you think, Mr. Mayor?"
"Hmm? What do I- well you're the sheriff, Becker." Mayor Devlin wiped his face with a flowered hanky, and when he saw them all looking he quickly tucked it away. "You're paid to take care of things like this."
"Things like this don't usually get so complicated, Avery." The first name usage made the mayor blush. "It woulda just bin self defence, but shootin' wounded - well that's- that's complicated."
Aaron lifted a hand and made a suggestion that they interview the young woman and hear her side before making any harsh decisions.
"I reckon she at least deserves that. Saved us, she did." The driver offered.
"We're talking the law here, Oswald." The mayor snapped at the driver. "Black and white. Cut and dried."
"I think Ozzie has a point." The sheriff objected.
The mayor coughed and covered his mouth. "Right. Right, we should have all the facts." His look singed Oswald's chin whiskers.
"Done then." The sheriff stood and tapped Aaron on the shoulder. "You're a reporter fella, you can help me ask the right questions."
Aaron nodded, stunned. This could be a huge story for his little paper. Something significant, meaningful, consequential! The words all meant the same thing and he mentally slapped his head. This was not a time to go off half cocked. This was an opportunity to prove news was important.
At the hotel the sheriff asked for the woman's room and was told she was in the dining room. Surprised, they walked through to the garishly decorated room, pride and personal creation of Colleen DuPrave, owner of the town's hotel, and found the woman concentrating on a large bowl of soup.
"Don't fit with the picture the driver described," the Sheriff murmured as they approached.
"Maybe we should wait." Aaron whispered back, seeing the redness in her eyes and the creases in her brow as they drew closer.
"Beggin' your pardon, ma'am, I'm Sheriff Becker and this is Mr. Aaron Trenholme. We need to discuss what happened at the Black Creek station."
The spoon paused and a pair of startling hazel eyes lifted slowly to take in the two men. Aaron almost gasped aloud at their beauty, in spite of the strain she displayed.
"Does it have to be right now, I'm trying to- I'm still in a bit of shock and desperately in need of this nourishment."
"Well, I reckon—"
Aaron broke in, apologizing. "It can be done later when you are feeling up to it, Miss . . .?"
"Folio. Harriet Folio, I'm the new librarian." She swallowed some soup and wiped her mouth.