Chase

The heavy leather reins strained against George K’s gloved hands as the stagecoach barreled down the narrow canyon road. Thick clumps of black Montana mud gumbo flew up from the spinning wooden wheels, plastering the sides of the coach with wet muck. Every structural joint of the old wagon groaned under the immense strain. The iron leaf-springs creaked loudly, and the heavy harness chains jingled in a frantic rhythm against the clattering of the horseshoes on the rocky path.

Suddenly, a rifle shot echoed off the canyon walls. A bullet splintered the wooden frame right next to George’s head. Two bandits on horseback emerged from the brush behind them, riding hard and firing. George leaned forward, urging the team of four horses to run faster.

“Lew!” George yelled over the roar of the wind and the pounding hooves. “We need to slow them down! Reach up and grab that bottle of Everclear from the cargo on the roof!”

Shotgun Lew, his face pale with terror, clung to the iron railing of the seat. He looked back at George with wide, panicked eyes.

“Why’n the heck do you want me to do that?!” Lew screamed back. “I’ll get my head blowed off trying to reach up there!”

“Just do it!” George roared, steering the team around a sharp, muddy curve.

Lew ducked as another bullet whistled past. Grimacing, he stretched his arm upward, his fingers fumbling against the canvas covers of the roof cargo. He grabbed the cold neck of the glass bottle and pulled it down, cradling it against his chest. Another shot splintered the seat beside him.

“I got it!” Lew yelled. “Now what?”

“Tear my neckerchief in half!” George commanded, tilting his head toward the red cloth tied around his throat. Lew reached over with trembling hands and ripped the fabric away. He tore the cotton cloth into two pieces.

“Now stuff it in the bottle!” George yelled. “Use that wooden splinter on the floorboards to shove it down tight!”

Lew did as he was told, jam-packing the torn fabric into the bottleneck until it was soaked with the highly flammable liquid. He pulled a box of matches from his pocket, his hands shaking so hard he dropped the first two. On the third try, he struck a match against the rough wood of the seat. A bright flame flared to life in the wind.

“Light it and throw it at that big stack of dry tumbleweeds by the boulder!” George shouted, pointing ahead. “Do it now, Lew!”

Lew touched the match to the wet cloth. The improvised bomb ignited with a sudden, hot hiss. With a loud whoop, Lew hurled the flaming bottle through the air. It shattered directly against the dry pile of tumbleweeds just as the stagecoach cleared the turn.

A massive explosion roared behind them. A wall of orange fire erupted instantly, consuming the tumbleweeds and spreading across the narrow road. Just above the flames, an ambushing bandit had been waiting in the branches of an overhanging cottonwood tree, holding a rifle. The sudden blast of heat and fire swept upward, catching his trousers and hair. Screaming in terror, the burning outlaw dropped his rifle and jumped straight down into the cold waters of the creek below.

The thick wall of smoke and roaring fire blocked the narrow canyon path completely, halting the remaining bandits in their tracks. George let out a breath he did not realize he was holding. He cracked the whip over the horses, and the stagecoach sped away into the safety of the wilderness.