My Hands Hold My Story (Rough Draft)

Chapter Two

Of course I'd known there was the risk of this happening when I began, but I had convinced myself that the stories were often exaggerated and travel was as safe as it had ever been.

How stupid I'd been.

The coach slowed and then came to a stop as our driver and his shotgun decided that there was no use in flight. As soon as the coach halted, the door was pulled open and a rifle came into sight and jerked. No doubt the owner of said gun barked out an order for us to come out.

Sending a concerned glance in my direction, the kindly man who had looked out for me was the first to climb out. He moved with slow, deliberate actions, his hands in view at all times. The other men followed suit and then it was my turn.

I swallowed hard and leaned down to pick up my slate. Then, as I stepped out, my boot caught on my long skirt and I pitched forward. Four hands caught me before I hit the ground, which I was grateful for until I looked up and discovered that the hands belonged to two of the masked men.

My cheeks burned with embarrassment and, as quick as I could, I joined the other passengers. The kind, silver haired gentleman stepped to be between me and the masked men. I peered over his shoulder, half curious and half afraid of what was happening.

That was when I saw that the brave 'shotgun', who rode up with the driver was hunched on the driver's bench. There was no sign of his rifle. Narrowing my eyes, I spotted something bright red where his hand was pressed against his shoulder.

He'd been shot?

Any charity I might have felt over the mannerly way I'd been assisted vanished in that moment. What would drive someone to do this, shooting a man and then rifling through other's belongings? Just for money and then be on the run from all society? It made no sense!

One by one, the other passengers were 'encouraged' to give up any money or valuables on their person. And then, one of the masked men gestured at me. My fingers tightened on my reticule and the kind gentleman held his arm out as though to create a barrier to keep the man from me.

A rifle came up and the man was forced to take a step to the side. Raising my chin, I stared at the man as I held out the reticule. He couldn't know that I kept the majority of my funds in my boot. It was a trick I'd learned early on, keeping just enough money in my purse for the day so that if such a thing like a robbery, a thief would think nothing of it and not search my person any further.

The thief's eyes stayed on me as he took my purse. He tossed it to one of his partners and caught my hand. The handkerchief covering his face kept me from seeing whether he spoke, but he must have. He brought my hand up and kissed my fingers through the cloth of his mask.

Swiftly, I pulled my hand away, a shiver running down my spine. His head went back as though he were laughing. My cheeks felt as though they were even more on fire, embarrassed by the attention and being helpless to stop it.

My gaze dropped down. While his brown trousers were like any other, same as his red shirt, there was a strange design on the toe of his boots. I had seen leather marked like that before—saddles and saddlebags came to my mind—but I'd never seen boots like that.

Staring at it, I tried to commit it to memory. When we reached the next town and this holdup was reported, perhaps this small detail would help identify these men. After all, I couldn't describe what their voices were.

Within a few minutes, the thieves were on their horses and going their way with the money they'd collected and all the guns. The driver—Charlie, I think was his name—jumped to assist the man who had ridden shotgun.

The other passengers were furious about what had happened. One man in a wrinkled business suit threw his hat on the ground and ran his hand through his oily hair. Whatever he had to say on the matter I couldn't see for he turned so that I could not observe. From the way the other men nodded, they agreed with what was said.