Katherine "Kissin' Kate" Barlow (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
ikissdhimbck) wrote2012-11-26 01:01 am
ikissdhimbck) wrote2012-11-26 01:01 am
OOM: Buchel Bank & Trust, Cuero, TX -- 1888
The plan had been so simple.
Cuero's only about a five hour ride from Yorktown, across the Guadalupe by horseback. While the young Mr. Lehane, Mr. Adler, and Mr. Ferguson made themselves comfortable in Yorktown, Kate afforded two scouting trips. She only ever took Butch and Ace, her right-hand man and the lookout, leaving the other two to their devices. Folk remembered her — the young Mrs. Prudence Evans, whose husband the preacher was hoping to settle her somewhere kinder to her consumption — and Butch and Ace looked enough the part of two gentleman parishioners that nary an eye lingered in suspicion.
Everything was as it should be.
They were so confident.
It should have been easy.
11:17
on the morning of Saturday
JULY 28th
Kate's fine laced boots touch down in a shallow mud puddle. Beaut's skin twitches, and she sidles closer to Arrow, while Salty comes up on her right side. The mud draggles the blue skirts Kate wears on her way to the boardwalk. She's calm, and prim, hands gloved in brown leather, hair up in curls and bonneted. She enters the bank first, on business with Mr. Buchel.
The other boys will follow.
Cuero's only about a five hour ride from Yorktown, across the Guadalupe by horseback. While the young Mr. Lehane, Mr. Adler, and Mr. Ferguson made themselves comfortable in Yorktown, Kate afforded two scouting trips. She only ever took Butch and Ace, her right-hand man and the lookout, leaving the other two to their devices. Folk remembered her — the young Mrs. Prudence Evans, whose husband the preacher was hoping to settle her somewhere kinder to her consumption — and Butch and Ace looked enough the part of two gentleman parishioners that nary an eye lingered in suspicion.
Everything was as it should be.
They were so confident.
It should have been easy.
11:17
on the morning of Saturday
JULY 28th
Kate's fine laced boots touch down in a shallow mud puddle. Beaut's skin twitches, and she sidles closer to Arrow, while Salty comes up on her right side. The mud draggles the blue skirts Kate wears on her way to the boardwalk. She's calm, and prim, hands gloved in brown leather, hair up in curls and bonneted. She enters the bank first, on business with Mr. Buchel.
The other boys will follow.
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Kate's voice cuts through the raucity. She gives Adler a warning glare, nodding in the direction of his two hostages. She's beginning to wonder if the two are wholly sober.
Ferguson ignores her.
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This isn’t good. He’s seen men act like this before--this is why he normally just robs with his own gang, with men he knows and trusts. They’re close, so close to being done here, and everything’s gone so well so far--they just need to hold it together a little while longer, and they can be away and the tension will be gone.
“Hey, let’s everybody just stay calm,” he says.
Which goes for their men as well as for the hostages.
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Kate touches Butch's shoulder as she hauls herself back to her feet. His voice does seem to carry enough authority to salve some of the tension, but not at the source. With a nod, she gathers the gun he collected off the Pinkerton.
Coin clinks in the sack she abandons.
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He kicks the banker again, the toe of his boot landing squarely against his pelvis.
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This time the outlaw does stop, turning around to eye Kate as she storms around the counter, skirts in her hand so they won't catch her boots.
"I told you no violence! Yer jus' s'posed t'watch 'em an' keep 'em quiet."
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He narrows his eyes at her.
"Don't forget this isn't my first rodeo."
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Kate grits her teeth, fire and brimstone barreling from her eyes. The man will be all right, as far as she can tell, and so she keeps her focus on Ferguson.
"It seems t'slip your mind on a regular basis. I don't want any fuss here."
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There's a quick movement from behind him.
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But before she can say anything, that movement catches her attention. She looks around the other outlaw, seeing the man on the floor wriggle to lever a derringer from a vest pocket. Kate thrusts out her empty hand.
"No! Don't shoot!"
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The air splits.
People scream.
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Ace is absently adjusting Salty's bridle when the gunshot splits the sky, a crack that sounds like holy thunder in his ears. Salty and Beaut barely move, ears coming forward and heads rising but otherwise still. Arrow jumps and skitters backwards, hits the end of her tether and comes forward again with pinned ears to snap at Ace's arm.
The sharp pain of the bite jerks him out of his jackrabbit-frozen reverie. His eyes sweep the street frantically; he can't think that no one has noticed. He imagines stampedes of people, everyone hearing, everyone knowing. How can they not?
Across the street the two boys have stopped talking. Heads up, they glance in confusion around them as though trying to source the noise. An older gentleman with a wagonfull of dry goods has stopped and is doing the same thing. Ace whips his head around to the apothecary just in time to see the man he'd noticed earlier, the man who just about stank of law, open the door and poke out his head.
No time to think. Ace swallows, tries to force moisture enough into his dry mouth to speak and forces his knees to carry him the few steps to the building so he can poke his head inside the door. "Look alive, ma'am! There's lawfolk headed this way!"
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Is this the problem with hiring strangers? Is this just how most men are, and Butch’s carefully-chosen gang is some outlier? What is it about robbing banks that makes men turn violent?
It’s only money. Not worth a man’s life or his health.
“This wasn’t part of the plan!” Butch snaps, his usual easygoing manner gone, in favor of a grim determination as he hurries to stow the rest of the money in the sack.
They’re going to finish this and get out of here before anything else can go wrong.
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(Sam slumps against her, blood warm,
the sheriff crumples in his seat,
Doc hits the floor, stops breathing,
wet fireworks, a florid explosion.)
The moment passes, and quicker than anyone can react she's swinging her six, barrel warm in her hand. It connects with Ferguson's jaw with a wet thud. Gathering her skirts, she steps over him once he's on his knees.
"I think what y'meant t'say instead'a ‘ma'am’ was ‘boss’."
He groans as if her breath in his face pains him, hand clamped against his jaw. She's past him without a second glance, coming to her knees beside the wounded.
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Ferguson beats the floor, headache rising sharp behind his eyes.
The laughter has well and good stopped.
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The laughter may have stopped, but the screaming hasn't. A woman recoils from Kate as she ungloves her hands and reaches for the man's shoulder, leaving the gun in her lap. He's bleeding awful fierce and trembling.
"You're Kissin' Kate Barlow," he mumbles hollowly.
"Hush up," she says, the words directed at the woman.
She continues to wail.
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"Grab the bags!" he shouts at Lowe, fear turning to anger in his gruff voice.
He whirls on his two hostages, a startled Buchel and the wary Pinkerton, and debates shooting them right now.
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“You do that, you’ll regret it,” he says, quietly enough that only Adler can hear him, but in a tone that isn’t about to take any arguing. “Either in the hereafter, or here with me.”
This isn’t good. They need to get out, away from here. He glances to the poor injured man, hoping he’ll be okay.
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Her eyes are sharp, but not without compassion.
"Not if I can help it. Here — keep puttin' pressure on that."
She's got a wad of makeshift gauze pressed to his shoulder (linen torn from her underskirts), her hands slick and sticky. She leaves smears of copper on his face when she leans in, the intent look in her eyes stern.
"Not all they say 'bout me is true."
That doesn't stay her hand from reaching for the gun in her lap, however. She points it at the shrieking woman.
"Hush up! Swear t'God, woman, git yourself under control. Not a peep from you folk!"
The gentleman beside her, perhaps her husband, pulls her close, muffling her sobs against his shoulder. She recognizes that look in their eyes. It's the same horrified judgment she saw in every face as she rode out of Green Lake.
Let 'em judge. Ain't nobody benefits from a frenzy.
The banker is looking pale and sweaty, and she realizes he'll need attention sooner rather than later. That's when it strikes her. Ace. Did he — ?
lawfolk headed this way!
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His heart goes from beating rabbit-quick in his mouth to still and silent and plunging down into his stomach. The boy is pointing at the bank and now the lawman is looking, peering over, and Ace drops his gaze to the ground as quick as he can but he knows it's not going to stop the man from investigating.
Three steps from the rail to the bank door. Three steps he almost runs, voice high and strained as he peers in with eyes that don't want to focus on the scene in front of him and snaps "Law's still coming, ma'am! We need t'get going!"
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She tries rising to her feet, but the banker grabs her by the wrist. His grip is strong for how shaky he is.
"Jesus Christ."
She relaxes at length, choking down alarm when she realizes that the man has begun to pray. She stills, crouched beside him, carefully working herself out of his grasp.
"What's your name?"
"Cleveland Miller, ma'am."
"Cleveland Miller?" Her voice is all the softness of the schoolteacher, and none of the bite of the outlaw. Gingerly, she leans in and presses a kiss to his forehead. "Y'jus' keep talkin'."
"Our father ... which art in heaven ... Hallowed be thy name ..."
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"Get yer ass off the ground an' make yourself useful!"
The voice is hardly feminine like that, razor sharp and terrifying. He doesn't waste no time, jaw still full of torment but head on straight enough to know when something's an order and not a request.
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Kate comes around the bend like a holy terror, no patience for the near conflict she sees.
Her skirts are crimson.
They started out blue.
"Get outta there!"
She ain't playing now. This was supposed to be easy; everything was going so well. So help her if Adler tries her resolve, because at this point she'd just as soon leave him behind with a hole in his gut than let him get by with insubordination.
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His eyes slide to Kate. With a growl, he holsters his weapon and makes for the gate, shooting Lowe one last dirty look.
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Not if it means having to deal with an angry Miss Barlow. He can’t possibly be that stupid.
The Pinkerton gets a bit of a salute in passing, though. He can’t help it, he likes the guy. “You write that report up again on good paper and send it out,” he says. “There’ll be a promotion in it for you, I’m sure.”
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Her eyes hone in on Buchel as the boys pass her.
"You ain't seen the last of me."
There's a little smirk tossed in it for him, though his expression is as unflinching as a rock face. No doubt the thought's crossed both of their minds that Kissin' Kate Barlow might bring Otto Buchel to his end on this day, but the look in her eyes promises so much worse.
"Keep that in mind, Otto."
She makes sure the boys are near enough the door before she lowers her gun, and with a flash of scarlet she's gone.
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