ikissdhimbck | OOM: Buchel Bank & Trust, Cuero, TX -- 1888

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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.

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Smoke curls from Ferguson's six; red blooms from the banker's shoulder, face contorted, body falling back in an unnatural position. The other hostages scream, and Ferguson starts to laugh. For a moment, she's stunned.

(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.

"I fink y'broke my fuckin' face!"

Ferguson beats the floor, headache rising sharp behind his eyes.

The laughter has well and good stopped.

"Maybe it'll encourage you t'keep your mouth shut!"

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.

Adler's starting to panic. Miss James, or Mrs. Evans, or whoever the hell she really is, may prefer to act as nursemaid, but with the law coming and Ferguson on the ground things aren't looking too good.

"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.

Butch is not grabbing the bags because Adler told him to--no, he’s doing it because the bags are now full, and the police are coming, and they need to get out of there. So he nudges the safe closed and slings the bags over his shoulder, just in time to see Adler--

“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.

"Am I gonna die?"

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!

Edited 2012-11-28 04:55 (UTC)

Back to the horses and they're ready to go, reins looped over the rail but no longer tied, they're ready and Ace's heart is hammering so hard in his throat he half-wonders if it'll burst right through the skin and still, still no one is coming. Across the street the lawman is talking to the two boys, they're nodding, shaking their heads, one of them is pointing across the street...

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!"

Shit.

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 ..."

Ferguson yelps when he feels a fist curl in his hair.

"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.

"Adler! Lowe!"

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.

Lucky for all of them, he doesn't try her resolve. The steely glare he's trained on Lowe wavers, along with his gun hand. Even though all this while Lowe's been nothing but the jolly buffoon of this endeavor, he has no doubt he means what he says, and it sends ice water straight to his heart.

His eyes slide to Kate. With a growl, he holsters his weapon and makes for the gate, shooting Lowe one last dirty look.

Butch doesn’t care much if Adler’s annoyed with him--let him be. Nobody else is getting hurt here, if he has anything to do about it. He follows after him, gun still out at the ready just in case he should get any ideas. But he doubts the man will.

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.”

She's much too tense to crack a smile at the little wave and nod the Pink gives Butch, but later — much later — it'll no doubt make for a good story 'round the fire.

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.

Adler's sack catches on a stanchion, bringing the ornate gold pole down with a clang. It rips a hole in the burlap, and the heavier coin currency starts to spill to the floor.

"Horse shit!"

Banknotes flutter to the ground.

"Keep movin'!" Kate barks, tossing the Pinkerton's six back to Butch's ready hand.

The rest of the hostages yelp as her Smith & Wesson swings into view; however, she's barely paying them any heed. Her eyes switch between the three boys in turn.

"Get out! Get out!"

She'll take up the rear, make sure they're not followed. She collects what Adler dropped, her hands pregnant with coin.

"Everybody out!"

Finally. They're coming, they're getting out, they've finally heeded his warning but as Ace turns back from the bank door, towards the street and the horses and freedom, his stomach twists again because it's too late. The lawman's coming for them sure enough, walking across the dirt with even deliberate strides and his hand on his holster and his eyes pinned on the bank door where any moment Kate and the others are going to emerge.

Oh, shit, he thinks, doesn't say out loud. They're coming out into a trap, waited too long inside the bank or did he wait too long to tell them -- but he can't think about that now, mind frantically running through options of go back, find another way out and whether or not he has enough time to warn them.

<Keep it moving, Kate,> a voice says, calm and friendly in that woman’s head - and only hers. No need to freak out any of her men and the town’s going to be in an uproar enough without worrying about telepathy. But Rachel sounds calm, collected, and a little smug when she adds, <I’ve got this.>

One lawman from the apothecary carrying one little handgun. There was minimal movement before she’d morphed, when she’d still had decent eyesight. For a town this size, Rachel doesn’t imagine she’ll be looking at any more than five, six human men, all carrying small handguns, no more than six bullets each.

It’s laughable, really. But if she’s going to get attention, Rachel’s pretty sure she picked a good morph.

Texans have seen bears before. But unless they’ve been wandering around north and west lately, they’ve never seen a bear the likes of a fully grown male grizzly, lumbering down Main Street.

They don't exactly burst through the doors with trumpets blaring, but it is enough to get the attention of the lawman ambling their way. No sooner has he shouted a cease and desist does the familiar voice echo in Kate's head, and she smirks, blinking through the noonday sun to see the lawman jump three feet out of his skin at the grizzly lumbering off a side street.

Atta girl, Rachel.

They're through the doors before Ace can say anything. He hears the shouted warning from behind him and has just enough time to think dizzily that it's all over before it's even begun. This is where it ends, he realizes, ends with the jailhouse and the noose or just a bullet in his back when he tries to run. He turns slowly, not wanting to see what he knows will be waiting for him, the law and the guns and the end of the line.

"Holy Mary mother of God."

There's a bear. There's a bear, just wandering down the street. It's huge. Ace has seen bears before but nothing like this. The sheer size of it is mind-boggling and it's just calmly walking forwards as though it hasn't got a care in the world, like it's just out for a stroll, each enormous paw setting down easy in the dirt. Paws which could take his head off without even trying, he thinks distantly and fights the hysterical laugh that wants to bubble up in his throat, feet frozen to the ground in terror.

It's Arrow who finally gets him moving again. He hears the scramble of ironshod hooves and a high screaming neigh as she catches the scent of the massive predator. He turns without even thinking, instincts taking over as he darts to her side and grabs for her reins, but it's as he's dodging panicked hooves and trying to soothe her that he realizes what's going on.

A blessing in disguise. When it comes down between bank robbers and bear it's the bear they're all looking at, and it could just give them an escape. Salty and Beaut aren't panicking the way Arrow is (stupid mare, damn fool mare, he curses her in his head) and although the other two mounts are shifting uneasily and pulling at their ties they don't look like they're about to try and take off. They can still get out of this.

He's in the saddle in moments. Arrow rears but he presses himself onto her neck, sticks close, and when she comes down she bolts like she's been shot. It's all he can do to wheel her around so they're headed in the right direction and he has barely a moment to look for Kate -- still standing but she'll get going, he knows -- before they're off.

The grizzly was one of her very first morphs and her preferred go-to for every battle. Over the years, that means hundreds of morphs, hundreds of battles, hundreds of times she’s felt the grizzly in the back of her mind and lifted paws the size of frying pans to brandish three-inch long claws.

And it’s never getting old.

If she needs to, she can taunt the officers with thoughtspeak later - since the one present is soon joined by a handful of others and, Rachel notes, one or two men right off the street who happened to be armed. Gun control is simply appalling here, really.

But if she’s going to do this right, she’ll need to do it in stages. Let them get comfortable before startling them again. So for the moment, Rachel’s content with letting Kate get her men away and continuing to heave all seven hundred pounds of her present shape in a calm walk down the street, toward those armed men.

Butch shoves the Pinkerton’s stolen gun into his pocket as he hurries toward the horses--well, he’s not so worried about needing to shoot at anybody right now; his fellow robbers have shown they’re more than willing to do so, and anyway he needs a hand free for actually getting on his horse and away.

And this is where his training and practice is very handy. His borrowed horse, Salty, isn’t bothered at all as he comes running up and jumps on. The perfect getaway horse, really. Reminds him of the one he’d had when they’d hit Castle Gate--but this isn’t a time for reminiscing. This is a time for getting the hell out of here.

"Ferguson! I swear t'god I will put a bullet in your ass if you even think about stoppin' t'shoot at that animal! Git! Git while the gettin's good!"

Butch is already in the saddle and off, and good for him. She knew she could count on him to keep his head, especially since she pulled him aside the night they met up in Yorktown, explained she was bringing in somebody from the bar to help with creating a diversion. He's got half their haul, and once they stop knocking into each other Adler's off with the other half, followed by Ferguson.

Kate laughs as she takes the saddle, even as the first shots ring out. She wouldn't be surprised if they were coming from the boys riding out, two-bit half-breeds.

"Give 'em hell, Rachel!" she calls, once she's the last one left.

And they’re riding off before the best part, even! So far as Rachel’s concerned, anyway, having spent most of the afternoon tucked into an alley going crazy with boredom.

Right now, she’s putting most of her concentration on walking in a straight line toward a huddle of blurry figures she is really hoping are the lawmen she’s meant to be distracting. And her guess work comes in handy.

Because one of them just shot her.

Stinging pain in her shoulder, surprising her into a sharp bark of a cry and oh, for those who think Rachel has an attitude, they should worry more about what happens when Rachel and the grizzly in her head get pissed off.

Rearing up on her back legs, standing seven and a half feet tall, Rachel brandishes huge paws, hopes she’s facing the correct direction, and lets out a roar to rattle the rickety old foundations of that nearby bank.

Try shooting that, folks.

Oh, no they didn't just shoot Kate's friend. She hangs back a moment, just to make sure Rachel'd be all right, and even though it looks like that bullet was no worse than a bee sting to the seven-hundred-pound grizzly, Kate still sees red.

She levels her Smith & Wesson .38 at the closest gunman, who's still a good hundred feet off, and tags him in the elbow. His pistol hits the dirt and he grabs his arm with a howl of pain. Sadly, it gets somewhat lost in the booming roar Rachel emits.

Kate blinks.

She watches for another few moments, counting heads — and, most importantly, guns — before a bullet hums by her ear. Beaut whinnies and starts, and Kate knows it's time to go. She trusts Rachel to take care of herself. Even if she has every intention of coming right back here if the girl doesn't meet up at the checkpoint in the next half hour.

With just two men running out of the sheriff's office (and one stopping, turning partially liquid, and running back), three in the street, and a whole lot of innocent women and children running for cover, she doesn't think it'll even take her that long.

She spurs Beaut forward, bonnet flying clean off her head and tumbling in the dirt behind her.

Yep.

That went well.

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OOM: Buchel Bank & Trust, Cuero, TX -- 1888

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