The Legend of Wildcat Kitty and The Cyclone Kid

By Franklin D. Lincoln

This is the fourth and final chapter in the western saga of Wildcat Kitty and The Cyclone Kid. It tells the complete story of how it all began and how all ends with the creation of a legend that lives forever.This is the story of an unlikely 'good' outlaw gang of old men, led by a young girl and her grandfather. With humor, romance, suspense and high adventure, The Wildcat Gang fights to bring law and order to the old west while finding a place in history and legend. Ride one last time with the legends.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Monogram Press
• Release date: Oct 28, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311271419

Book preview

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THE LEGEND OF

WILDCAT KITTY

AND

THE CYCLONE KID

Franklin D.Lincoln

SMASHWORDS EDITION

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PUBLISHED BY:

Franklin D. Lincoln on Smashwords

The Legend of Wildcat Kitty and The Cyclone Kid

Copyright © 2015 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.

Smashwords Edition License Notes

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Melody Isbell,

Grampa’s Girl

The Real Wildcat (She’s really a kitten)

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The Last Ride

The screech of the hawk echoed like a ghostly banshee across the desert plains and throughout the canyons, rocks, and rills below. The giant bird flapped its broad wings rapidly, pulling draft beneath its feathers; then spreading them wide and soaring in a graceful glide on the air currents, as it circled above and around the dry arid expanse below. Its keen large eyes with vision far keener than man or beast, searched the desert sands, rocky canyons, buttes and granite spires for signs of living movement; food in the offing to be dove upon and swooped away for an afternoon meal.

The dark shapes moving below on the desert floor were far larger than the usual fare of lizards, rabbits and other desert creatures. They were riders and horses moving slowly and deliberately in the desert sand, but the promise of death was in the air and the big bird soared low to examine what could soon be a feast of human and equine bounty.

With another loud screech, the hawk buzzed close over the heads of the riders and then soared upward into another sweeping arc over the landscape and accelerating to higher altitudes; the dark shape of its body and outstretched wings disappearing as its form was obliterated by the silvery hot sun whose usual golden orb now burned so hot that only a blinding center and streaming funnels of heat and brilliance remained, sucking the blue out of the sky and turning it to pale pastel.

On the desert floor below five riders of justice rode in the sun, pushing onward despite the foreboding warning of the circling hawk above and unaware that death waited in ambush in the canyon up ahead.

Gol durn, hawk! The Cyclone Kid said pulling on the reins and bringing his big chestnut mare to an abrupt halt; the horse’s hoofs sliding in the burning loose sand and spewing hot granules of desert up around her hocks. Just waitin’ to have us all for dinner, he wailed as his four companions reined their mounts to a halt beside him.

The Cyclone Kid was an elderly man with broad shoulders and a large build. His expanding girth was hidden beneath a gray duster. Even in the heat of the desert, he had not chosen to stow it away with the rest of his travelling gear, behind the cantle of his worn out old saddle. Gray hair hung below the dilapidated high peaked ten gallon hat. The brim was wide and the crown was stained with sweat, turning what was once a white hat to dark gray. A polka dot yellow bandana hung loosely around his thick neck.

I don’t think he’s big enough to stuff all of us into that tummy of his, Cy, the tall man sitting astride a big gray stallion, to the left of The Cyclone Kid, said. He was not quite as old as Cyclone, even though his hair and stubble beard was snow white. He was known as Arapahoe Brown. Although, not very bright and quite naive, he was still a very capable gunman with plenty of bark on for a man of his age.

He’ll be back with plenty of company, Cyclone mused, still watching the bird circling above. You can bet on it.

Stop being so pessimistic, you two, the young lady on a black and white pinto at Cyclone’s right elbow, jeered. We’ll be out of this desert before long and the buzzards will have to find something else to feed on. She was young, barely twenty, and was small framed. Long auburn hair, usually hanging down below her back beneath the tied on Stetson, now pushed up and half hidden by the low crown of her hat. She wore a red checkered shirt, tucked into the top of black denim jeans. Her name was Kathryn. Carlin. Everyone called her Kitty and of late she had garnered a reputation as a bank robber and outlaw. She had been dubbed Wildcat Kitty and she was the unlikely titular leader of her companions who had become known as The Wildcat Gang. The Cyclone Kid was her grandfather and the actual leader. He was a legendary hero often times written up in dime novels; although they strayed far from the truth and angered Cyclone somewhat. He scoffed at the idea of being a legend.

The remainder of the gang was made up of Kitty’s younger brother Jeremy and Cyclone’s longtime friend Henry Tolliver, who had oft times been mistaken for an Indian and written up in the dime novels as The Cyclone Kid’s faithful Indian companion, Chief Two Owls.

Chief was a thin, spindly man. He wore a denim jacket, print shirt and a flat brimmed hat with a domed crown. Three eagle feathers were fitted into a wide red hat band. Thick lensed glasses covered his dark eyes. He often affected the guise of a Indian.

By a strange turn of events the outlaw Wildcat Gang had recently been offered amnesty in return for their services on behalf of the law. They all now wore the badge of Arizona Territorial Deputy Marshal.

Hotter’n blazes, Cyclone said, removing his hat briefly, wiping his brow and settling the hat back on his head. Looks like they came through here sometime ago.

The tracks of the outlaw horses they had been following were clear in the sand. Horseshoe outlines were clear and the shapes were well defined, undisturbed by any drifting sand. There had been no breeze in the air since early dawn.

Earlier, that morning, outlaws attacked the morning train as it rolled through Rocky Gorge on the way to Fortune City, Arizona. The city had formerly been called Thimble Creek, but with the coming of the railroad and the town’s rapid economic growth, it had been renamed Fortune City in honor of the town’s most influential man; Simon Price; banker, judge, mayor and owner of most of the town’s businesses.

The train had been derailed and there had been several casualties along with injuries to many other passengers and railroad personnel. The express car was robbed and the outlaws got away long before the Wildcats arrived on the scene. The total disregard for human life was appalling and the Wildcats had set out after the outlaws with determination.

Tracks lead straight into that canyon up ahead, Cyclone said, letting his gaze drift from side to side, examining the entrance to the wide canyon up ahead. The sides of the pass rose high above the desert floor. Although steep enough, the banks angled away on each side, making it possible for a man to climb the inclines. Large rocks and boulders dotted the high terrain.

Cy gigged his big mare slowly and cautiously forward. His companions followed, bunched up close and spread out side by side.

This place gives me the willies, Cyclone muttered. His eyes kept roving the sides of the canyon. Nothing moved and the air was deathly quiet. Even in the broiling heat, he felt a chill slide down his spine and it wasn’t just his sweat. Where the Hell are we, anyways?

Granite Pass, Jeremy answered. No one, hardly, comes through this way anymore. It’s too isolated out here in the desert. The Indians say it’s haunted and have avoided it for years.

Haunted? Arapahoe Brown piped up. You mean with real ghosts?

Nah. Nothing to worry about. There’s no such things as ghosts, Jeremy said.

There ain’t? Rap blurted. His eyes were wide and round.

No there ain’t, Cyclone reassured him with irritation. Then to Jeremy, There! You see what you went and done. You gone and scared the daylights outta him with your talk about haunts.

I am not scared, Rap protested. I’ve said it afore and I’ll say it again. I ain’t afraid of no ghosts.

Me always know you plenty heap brave, paleface, Henry taunted, affecting his Indian lingo when teasing Rap.

There. Ya see, Cy? Told you so, Rap said.

The entrance to the gap had melted away behind them while the banter about Rap’s bravery continued. Suddenly, they seemed to find themselves well within the confines of the canyon.

They hawk glided through the sky above them, appearing from behind one bank and disappearing over the rim of the opposite side. Its shrill shriek broke the silence that had enshrouded them.

Almost as if the hawk had signaled the start, it happened suddenly and fast. Cyclone spotted the immediate flash of sunlight on metal, just an instant before the gunfire erupted, spewing hot lead into the canyon floor. He was already shouting, Let’s get the Hell outta here! He spun his horse around almost in place. The others were reacting in unison and they were bumping into each other as they tried to turn their mounts in retreat.

Dark shapes of men popped up over the tops of the rock cover on each side of the canyon; rifles to their shoulders and firing rapidly into the small group of riders below. Flame and thunder followed by searing hot projectiles of lead poured into the canyon.

The Wildcats had no sooner turned their mounts and started to retreat, spreading out away from each other, when more men with rifles appeared on the canyon sides from which they had come. They were now trapped between the opposing forces. The Wildcats had automatically pulled pistols from their holsters as they maneuvered their horses into retreat and fired blindly and hastily at the men on the canyon walls. The attackers were out of hand gun range and the Wildcats were caught well within rifle range of the ambushers behind and in front of them. Bullets were whizzing past them and around their horses’ hooves like pelting rain.

Side by side, the Wildcats charged forward; riding in an outstretched line, into the gauntlet ahead of them. Jeremy had sidled his mount to the far outside of the group, when he became the first casualty. As if singled out from all the gunfire, the rifle that took him, seemed louder than all the others.

A red splotch spread across the front of his shirt. The impact of the bullet pushed him back in the saddle; his arms outstretched like the wings of a hawk. His horse seemed to run out from under him as his body spilled backward, out of the saddle to land lifelessly in the sand.

Jeremy! Kitty shouted with terror filled eyes. She pulled up on the reins and was turning her mount back. She felt the sting of hot lead. She dropped her six shooter and fell from the saddle.

Beside her, Chief Henry’s mount went down and his body pitched forward over the horse’s neck. By now the firing from above, behind, and up ahead was a continual roar of thunder.

Arapahoe Brown’s gray stallion was the next to go down, falling onto his side with Rap beneath the animal’s weight. Cyclone’s big chestnut mare reared on her hind legs and Cyclone fell backwards, out of the saddle and sprawled into the sand. The mare ran off.

As quickly as it started, it ended. Gunfire ceased and the desert air returned to calm. Silence once again settled into the canyon. The Wildcat Gang lay scattered about the canyon floor and in the stillness, the screech of a solitary hawk echoed above as he soared across the burning sky.

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1938

It was Columbus Day and there was no school for Cathy. Summer had somehow slipped away and autumn had crept into its place, bringing with it, the brilliance of red and gold spreading across the plains of the midwest. The sun was shining bright this day, but there was a crispness in the air that had not been there in the summer. There was a slight breeze and she had to wear a sweater.

But, all in all, it was a nice day. The smells of fall and harvest time were rich in the air. She had the day all to herself and she wasn’t sure what she wanted to do with it. She usually played with her twelve year old brother, Jimmy, but today he was busy with her father, uncles, and cousins, for it was threshing time and they were all out in the wheat fields. Just because she was a girl and two years younger than Jimmy was no reason she couldn’t work like the others too, she pouted. She was always fascinated by the threshing machine and liked to watch the men work, but today they were all away to a neighbor’s farm.

The neighboring farmers all pitched in, every year, to rent the threshing machine. Then they would all help each other with their harvest.

As Cathy wandered about the barnyard, she thought about the upstairs loft in the barn that sat across the road from the white frame house with the 1934 Packard sitting in the gravel driveway.

The loft was a place where unused things were stored and there was plenty of room for Jimmy and Cathy to play. During the summer, while rummaging through the old treasures that had been left gathering dust over the years, their curiosity led them to explore the contents of their grandfather’s ornate chest that sat against the wall in a far corner and covered with old blankets, magazines and newspapers. They had been warned several times, not to touch any of their grandfather’s belongings, but just because it was forbidden, there was additional temptation to search beyond its mystique.

It was in that old chest, on a rainy day in early August, that Jimmy and Kathy found the collection of old dime novels that had been written about western characters called Wildcat Kitty and The Cyclone Kid. The two children became enthralled with the fictional exploits of these unlikely heroes. Time and time again, careful not to let their grandfather know what they were doing, the two of them, would sneak up into the loft and read the thrilling adventures. They would keep a constant vigilance from the window in the peak of the barn, watching to make sure their grandfather was not out and about, which was very seldom, for he spent much of his time caring for the children’s grandmother, who had been sick and bedridden for the last several months. Each time, when finished, the children would try to put everything back in place, hoping that no one would ever know what they had been up to.

It had been several weeks since Cathy and Jimmy had ventured into the loft. With the start of school, there was no longer the long summer days that could be whiled away up there. And three weeks earlier, the children’s grandmother had passed away. Sorrow had taken the place of a carefree time.

As they all stood over the open grave, heads bowed and tears in eyes, Grampa had squeezed little Cathy’s hand tightly and pulled her close to him. Grampa’s girl, he said, reassuring her.

Her grandfather was a tall man and while he was thin, his broad shoulders were reminiscent of the rugged build he had once had in his youth. He still stood straight and tall. His hair and mustache were snowy white.

Since the day of the funeral, he had been sullen and sat alone for several hours each day in the parlor of the big frame house. He had been quiet and slumped off to bed early each night, but he managed to find some time during each day to reassure the children that all was fine and that they had not been abandoned.

Now, as Cathy wandered about, she thought about the dime novels and the thrilling stories that awaited, buried inside the old trunk. There was nothing else to do, and no one was around. She decided, why not? With a quick little run she raced into the barn and went to the ladder steps that led up into the loft.

As her curly blond head peaked above the floor opening, she saw her Grandpa sitting in an old rocking chair which he had pulled into the corner by the old chest. The lid was open and a pile of dime novels were stacked on the floor next to the rocker. Quick! She thought. Go back down, before he sees you! She started to step back to the next lower rung on the ladder.

It was too late. He had looked up from his reading. Hello, Kitten, he said. Come on up. He smiled, but Cathy was still afraid she was in trouble. She wanted to go back, but still, she wanted to stay.

Slowly and warily she climbed back up the step and crawled out of the opening on to the plank flooring. She stood up and shuffled toward her grandfather. Her fingers trembled a little.

Come on. Come on, her grandfather coaxed. What’s the matter? You’re acting awfully shy toward your old grandpa today.

Nothing’s the matter, Grampa, she said warily. I...I’ve never seen you up here before. That’s all.

Well, I’ve got time on my hands, Kitten. I’ve been thinking a lot lately. Indulging in memories. And I’ve got a lot of memories out here.

Cathy stared at the open chest. Did he know she had been in it? She thought.

Yes, her grandfather said. My chest is full of memories.

You told us not to go in your chest, Grampa, she stammered.

Yes, I did, he remembered. I told myself not to go in there, either. It held a lifetime of memories that I thought should be sealed away forever. But, I was wrong. I realize now, that in this world, all we have are memories and we should cherish them and keep them alive as long as we can. I know now that if we pass them on we can keep those memories alive long after we’re gone.

Cathy looked at him quizzically. She didn’t think she understood.

I should have shared these memories with you before, he gestured toward the trunk. While your Gramma was alive, he added. You shouldn’t have had to feel guilty about looking in the trunk.

Cathy’s eyes widened. You mean you know what I’ve done. And you’re not mad. Without a pause between thoughts, she blurted, Jimmy’s been in it too. We done it together.

Come here, her grandfather said, reaching out both arms. She rushed to him and he hugged her hard. The he pushed her back, spun her around and lifted her to his lap. He squeezed her and held her tight.

We’ve been up here a lot, she admitted. She glanced down at the pile of dime novels on the floor. Her grandfather had put the one he was reading down, opened