The Complete Stuckey's Bridge Trilogy

The Legend of Stuckey’s Bridge

Lori Crane

Smashwords Edition

Lori Crane Entertainment

www.LoriCrane.com

Cover design and formatting by Robert Hess

This book is a work of fiction based on a Mississippi legend and set in historical events. Some names, characters, places, and incidents are from historical accounts. Some names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination.

Copyright © 2013 Lori Crane Entertainment

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or any portion thereof in any form whatsoever. For information, contact LoriCraneAuthor@gmail.com.

Cover photo licensed under the Creative Commons. Permission to use is granted under the GNU Free Documentation License.

ISBN:978-0988354562

eBook ISBN:978-0988354579

Table of Contents

Foreword by Pat Fitzhugh

1942, Lauderdale County, Mississippi

October 5, 1892

Stagecoach Route

The Plan

Chunky River

In Business

The Summers Family

Lack of Evidence

Thaddeus Martin

Levi

Fog

Sheriff Temple Returns

Lantern

Missing Mr. Martin

Run

Another Sheriff Visit

Pocket Watch

Virginia Bridge and Iron Company 1901

Bones

Investigation

The Sheriff Returns

Uproar

More Digging

Evidence

Decisions

Posse

Five Days

1912, Jekyll Island Club

Foreword by Pat Fitzhugh

Amidst the laurel thickets and hickory forests of Lauderdale County, Mississippi, stands a majestic icon of a bygone era. Known as Stuckey’s Bridge, the aging single-lane structure crosses the Chunky River near Savoy. A testament to rural life past, its withering cypress planks and rusting steel truss have stood witness to life's thrills, triumphs, and tragedies for over a century. Rife with the spiritual residue of five generations, the old bridge has, over time, become shrouded in folklore and mystery. Tales of banshees wailing in the woods, catfish devouring swimmers, and travelers gone missing comprise but a small piece of its mystical legacy. Some even believe it harbors ghosts.

A womanly figure dressed in white is said to frequent the mossy riverbank below the bridge on moonlit nights, and a friendly old man often paces back and forth across the bridge and waves his lantern at boats only he can see. Perhaps the most terrifying apparition seen at Stuckey's Bridge, however, is that of a pale elderly man hanging from a noose tied to the structure’s lower frame. The specter hangs motionless for no longer than a minute, and then fades into the night fog. Seconds later, a loud splash is heard. Some feel the splash is the man's body plunging into the water after his noose is cut. Is Stuckey's Bridge haunted, or has it become another victim of wild imaginations and six-packs?

Rooted in legend and lore, every old bridge south of the Mason-Dixon has a dozen tales to tell. But that which is constant is always shifting. Memories deceive, imaginations grow, and stories expand. How many of Dixie’s resident ghosts are really ghosts? What attracted them to a decrepit bridge in rural Mississippi? While tragic events of long ago—wars, accidents, and brutal murders—account for much of the South's ghostly reputation, history has left few clues about

Stuckey's Bridge. Did a tragedy occur at the site and leave behind negative energy that still lingers today? Only the most capable scholars and historians stand a chance of shedding light on the mysterious bridge's elusive past.

Lori Crane, a skillful author and historian from nearby Meridian, Mississippi, grew up hearing tales about Stuckey's Bridge. While she attributes most of the stories to local lore, the possibility of a tragedy having occurred at the site has never left her mind.

Last year, a trip to visit family in the area rekindled her interest in the aging bridge. Little had changed since her last visit. Imaginations and six-packs were still at work, and every pebble, plank, and tree was still allegedly haunted. This intrigued Lori to a point, but trying to coax Casper out from behind a hickory would do little to satisfy her deeper curiosity. She wanted to learn about the tragedy—if one indeed happened—that gave rise to the bridge’s storied reputation. Armed with her laptop, digital recorder, and well-honed research skills, she set out on a mission to peel back the layers of time.

A month into her journey, while sifting through newspaper clippings from an old cedar chest, Lori found an article from the Meridian Weekly Star, dated the fifteenth of August, 1901.

Workers replacing an old wooden bridge over the Chunky River, near Savoy, had discovered more than a dozen bodies buried in the riverbank. The varying state of decomposition among the deceased led Sheriff J. R. Temple to believe the burials had occurred over time, some of them perhaps recently. The peculiar absence of grave markers ruled out the possibility that a cemetery had existed near the early wooden bridge. Temple refused to conduct an inquest or elaborate further. Authorities removed the remains to nearby Concord Cemetery and buried them in a row of graves that remain unmarked to this day.

Lori shifted her research from the current structure to the wooden bridge it replaced. She spent six months perusing legal records, personal manuscripts, and newspaper articles, noting every detail that pertained to the circa-1850 bridge. Each question yielded ten answers; each answer evoked ten new questions. As she painstakingly connected people, circumstances, and fate, a shocking pattern of humility, deception, and death began to emerge.

Then one day, by sheer coincidence, Lori discovered an 1892 newspaper article that revealed the saga's missing piece. Her discovery brought the long-forgotten tragedy at Stuckey's Bridge into clear focus—the man, his deeds, his victims. One final task lay ahead for Lori Crane: to share her wrenching story with the world.

When I first read Lori's manuscript, I congratulated her on penning such a powerful and mesmerizing work of fiction. Only a rough draft, it read like a full-length historical thriller, only better. The main character's guise was genuine, his intentions devious, and his actions deliberate. Although Lori had not told me the piece was fictional, I just assumed as much because nothing so dreadful could ever really happen.

The legend of Stuckey's Bridge is not about ghosts, nor should it be. Haunted locations often hold secrets far more disturbing than the spooks that haunt them. One need not worry about the dead; only the living can harm. The story that follows is about what happened when greed and psychosis met with opportunity, long ago, at Stuckey's Bridge.

Pleasant dreams.

Pat Fitzhugh

Nashville, Tennessee

May 30, 2013

Author of:

The Bell Witch: The Full Account

From Turkey Creek: A Memoir

Ghostly Cries From Dixie

www.patfitzhugh.com

1942, Lauderdale County, Mississippi

Billy yanked up on his fishing pole. His eight-year-old brother asked, Did you catch somethin’?

Billy frowned as he watched the tip of his pole arc. The line grew taut. Naw, I think I’m just snagged, he grumbled.

Oh, I though you got a catfish.

I wish. I think I’m stuck on somethin’. He lifted his pole again, reeling in an inch or two of the line.

Maybe you caught one of Old Man Stuckey’s boots.

Don’t even say that, Bobby. It gives me the creeps.

The warm afternoon sun quickly disappeared behind ominous dark clouds, leaving the boys in an eerie dusk one usually witnesses just before nightfall.

Bobby looked up. It’s gonna rain. You better get that line in so we can go.

Billy looked up, too. A gust of wind caught the front wisp of his brown hair and gave him a chill.

You know, everyone says he’s still here, Bobby snickered.

Who?

Old Man Stuckey.

Yeah, I know, but I’d rather not think about it. Besides, I’m a little busy at the moment. Billy wrinkled his forehead as he tugged on the line again, ever so slowly bringing it closer.

Bobby yelled into the air. Old Man Stuckey, jump in there and unsnag that line. He giggled.

Billy didn’t think it was funny and gave his younger brother a nasty look. Don’t call him, he whispered as if someone might hear him, even though he knew there wasn’t a soul within miles of them.

Bobby rose from his seat on the bank, leaving his line dangling in the murky water. Here, let me help you. He walked in front of Billy and reached out over the river, trying to grab the clear fishing line.

Billy lifted the pole into the air a third time, bending the tip. Whatever it is, it’s coming. It’s just slow.

Maybe it’s the noose they hung him with. Bobby laughed.

Billy didn’t.

The sunny afternoon was transforming into an oncoming storm, and the clouds were rolling in fast—gloomy, thick, menacing clouds. The breeze rustled Billy’s hair again, making him shiver.

To the right of the young boys stood Stuckey’s Bridge—a ninety-year-old bridge, one hundred twelve feet long, with a plank bottom and iron framework across the top. Some people fished from the top of the bridge, but Billy refused to step onto it. Bobby teased him incessantly about his fear of Old Man Stuckey’s ghost, but Billy accepted the teasing and stayed firmly on the bank. The only reason he came out here at all was to catch the big catfish, and they lived under the bridge. As far as he knew, across the river stood nothing but trees and brush and the occasional woodland animal. In his twelve years of life, he never dared go across the bridge to see if there was more.

Bobby grabbed the line and took a step back, pulling it as he moved. What the heck you got on here?

When Bobby let go, Billy spun the reel, bringing in the line a foot or so. I don’t know, probably just a branch or some leaves from the bottom.

Well, whatever it is, it’s heavy. Bobby stepped forward to get another handful of the line.

A crow flew overhead, barely maintaining its airborne status in the strong gusts of wind. Billy looked up for a moment, thinking the crow to be a bad omen. His hands began to sweat on the cork handle of his fishing pole. He decided at that very moment it was time to go, and they both needed to bring their lines in quickly. Bobby, I got it from here. You should pull in your line so we can get home. Looks like a big storm comin’.

Bobby looked up at the sky. Yeah, okay. He let go of Billy’s line and walked back over to his fishing spot. A quick movement on the other side of the river caught his eye. What was that?

What was what? said Billy, still concentrating on his line.

Over there. Bobby pointed to the left across the river. I saw somethin’ in the trees.

Billy looked over but didn’t see anything. Probably a possum or somethin’. Then Billy heard something in the brush. He froze.

Bobby heard it, too. I told you I saw somethin’. Maybe a bobcat?

Thunder cracked like a cannon above the boys’ heads and made them jump. Bobby grabbed his pole and frantically reeled his line in. It was quickly growing dark and the wind was increasingly stronger. He watched Billy pull and tug at the line.

It’s almost free, Billy assured him. It’s comin’ faster.

Bobby looked at the other side of the river. Dang! There it is again. There’s somethin’ over there all right.

Billy glanced across the river, but with the dimming light, he couldn’t see anything even if it was there. He pulled his line harder. A twig snapped across the river. Both boys darted their gazes in that direction but saw nothing but darkening woods.

Maybe it’s him! Bobby teased.

Stop it! Don’t be stupid, Bobby.

Billy slowly but deliberately reeled in the line. He pointed the tip of his pole toward the water to keep it from snapping with the weight of the mystery catch, and he kept turning the reel. A drop of rain fell on his forehead, mingled with the nervous sweat on his brow, and gave him another shiver.

Hurry up, Billy. We’re gonna get soaked.

I am hurrying. I don’t want to break my line.

The crow sounded loudly from across the river, and shot straight up above the tree line as fast as an arrow released from a bow. The boys looked that way, knowing something was in the woods, just out of sight. Another branch snapped.

What the heck is that? Bobby sounded nervous, staring into the encroaching darkness on the other side of the river.

Billy didn’t answer. He was absorbed in the blob he was dragging across the top of the murky water.

Bobby looked out at the greenish-brown blob. You got nothin’ but leaves. Let’s go.

Billy pulled the blob onto the edge of the bank and laid his pole on the ground. He moved toward the blob to dislodge his hook, and noticed something shining in the blob. What is that? It’s shimmering. What the…?

Another branch snapped across the river.

Come on, Billy. We gotta go. Now.

Hold on, Billy said as he grabbed a stick and poked into the blob, separating the leaves and muck.

Yes, there was something shiny. Something gold.

Thunder rumbled. A rustling sound came from across the river, making Bobby look in that direction again. Heavy, fat raindrops splattered on their heads, and dead leaves began to whirl around the banks of the river in the increasing winds. It’s something round. The crow cawed noisily. Another twig snapped. It’s a watch. Thunder roared again. On a gold chain. Lightning lit the sky in a jagged pulse for a few short seconds. The wind intensified.

What is that? Bobby asked.

It’s a pocket watch. Billy reached down and rubbed the mud off the front of the watch. He cocked his head to the side and saw a single T embossed in the gold. Simultaneously, the thunder roared, the crow cawed, the rustle across the river grew louder, and to their right, a giant splash scared both boys into standing straight up.

They stared, mouths agape, in the direction of the bridge. Right under it, the water rippled in a circle as if something very, very large had just been dropped off the bridge. Thunder rumbled again. The water rippled more. The boys froze. An inch above the water in the center of the ripple was an eerie green glow. Instead of dissipating as they expanded, the ripples seemed to grow larger and higher in the ever-growing circle, as if the ocean tide was causing waves to come ashore.

The boys didn’t look at each other. They didn’t communicate. They turned at the same time and ran away as fast as their feet would carry them. They didn’t grab their fishing poles. They didn’t look back.

Lightning flashed while raindrops splattered the rocks, turning them from gray to brown. As the storm strengthened, the ripples inched up onto the bank, and little by little, pulled the gold pocket watch back into the murky depths.

October 5, 1892

Come on, Thomas, get up. Emmett kicked him in the ribs, hard.

Thomas sat up on the dry, mustard-colored ground, rubbing his ribs with one hand, and scratching his head with the other. He grimaced at the rude awakening and his throbbing head. He instantly knew last night’s saloon visit would be hell to pay this morning. He looked around, squinting in the early light, for the rest of the men. His head pounded like he had been beat up last night. He loved whiskey, but it was obviously not going to love him back this morning.

Emmett’s brothers, Bob and Grat, were sitting by a small fire, drinking coffee out of tin cups. Bill and Dick were nowhere to be seen. The two were so ornery and drunk last night, Thomas wouldn’t be surprised if they were passed out somewhere back on the road.

He crawled to his feet and leaned back to stretch the kinks from his lower back. Who would have thought thirty would feel so old? He bent over and put on his worn boots, teetering forward with wooziness as he did so. He slowly straightened up and shook his head, attempting to dissipate the alcohol-induced fog.

Here, drink some coffee, barked Grat, holding a tin cup toward him.

That might help, he mumbled.

Grat was the eldest of the brothers at thirty years old. His tanned skin looked like leather and deep wrinkles surrounded his eyes. His attitude was just as gruff, like an old man who had experienced all of life and was bored with it.

Bob was in the middle. He was twenty-three and wanted to be famous. All he ever talked about was Jesse James, and he spent his days trying to come up with a heist that would be so spectacular, it would make his name overshadow his idol’s.

Emmett was the baby. He was only twenty-one, but led the rest of the men around like little puppets. They did everything he said, and Bob always backed him one hundred percent. Emmett and Bob had some grandiose idea that they wanted to go down in history. They wanted to make sure their names became legendary.

Thomas looked into the tin cup and saw it filled with a black sludge they called coffee. He took a sip and wrinkled his nose at the bitterness, and he wandered off to find a place to relieve himself. Their six horses ignored him when he shuffled past, as most people did. Not that he cared.

He wasn’t much to look at. No money, no family, no birthright, just a hung-over, worn-out desperado hanging out with juvenile nitwits who thought they were smarter and more important than they actually were. He figured someday he would kill them all just to teach them a lesson, but someday was probably a long way off. He scratched his chin through the two-day stubble and ran his fingers through his dirty, dark brown hair.

What he lacked in looks, he made up for in charm. He exuded a charisma that could con the wealthiest of men and lift the skirts of the most demure ladies. He wasn’t born with it; he cultivated it, perfected it over the years, and it frequently came in handy. As he relieved himself on a bush behind a rock, he realized he didn’t feel very charming this morning, more like a rattlesnake with a thorn in its belly. He was tired—tired of living in caves, tired of sleeping on the hard ground, but the one thing he was most tired of was these Dalton boys.

For the last two years, the gang made money by robbing trains. The last robbery in Adair back in July was fairly successful. There were eight men on the job that day and they made off with almost seventeen thousand dollars. He thought it went rather well, but the other men didn’t think so. How was he supposed to know there would be US Marshals on the train? Besides, it was only a small gunfight. Two hundred rounds whizzed around their heads, but none of the Dalton gang was injured. All eight men fled scot-free and unharmed, but were forced to hide out in the caves near Tulsa for a couple months, waiting for the heat to die down. Emmett blamed Thomas for the bounty that was now on their heads, but what was he supposed to have done, walk away and let the marshals live? Maybe he should shoot these Dalton boys right now and collect the five-thousand-dollar reward. That would solve most of his problems.

After he finished his business, he headed back to the group. Bill and Dick were back at the campsite. The two were drifters from Texas who joined up with the Dalton boys a few years ago. The five gruff-looking men stood in a circle around the small fire. Thomas could feel the anxiety in the air this morning, though he didn’t know if it was from last night’s whiskey or from the eagerness to get today’s job done.

Today would be big. Nothing like this had ever been attempted before. They were going to pull off a heist so huge, they’d be able to leave the country for a while, in hopes the heat would die down and the marshals would stop trailing them. The marshals were relentless in their pursuit, and the boys were tired of being on the run all the time.

Emmett turned toward Thomas as he approached. Listen, we don’t want you to go today.

What do you mean, you don’t want me to go? You can’t pull this off without me. It’s already planned. We need all six of us. He spit on the ground and tossed his empty tin cup at the base of the nearest tree.

Grat was poking the fire with a stick. He stopped poking for a moment as he chimed in. Actually, we decided we no longer want you at all. You’re too wild. I don’t want to get killed robbing a stupid train, and that last conductor you killed, not to mention those US Marshals, could cause us all to lose our heads. I just want to make money; I don’t want to get hung, not because of you.

Bill and Dick nodded in agreement. Bob stood with his hands in his front pockets, staring into the fire. Thomas waited for Bob to speak his mind, for Bob always backed up Emmett in every decision, but no words came.

Thomas looked around the circle, eyeing the men one at a time, wondering, How stupid could they be? If it weren’t for me, they’d all be dead. The thought crossed his mind again that he should kill them all right here, right now.

Then Emmett continued, lowering his voice and using a tone of reason. Listen, you’re too dangerous. You should return to wherever you came from. We don’t want to spend any more time in caves waiting for the heat to die down because of you.

I don’t want to live in caves, either, but y’all need me today. And I’ll tell you something else,—he looked at Grat—if it weren’t for me, you would have all gotten killed in Adair. I saved your butts by taking out those marshals. You wouldn’t have gotten out there alive if not for me, so you owe me somethin’ for that. He pointed his finger at Grat. "And you’re the one wanted for stealin’ horses, so I don’t think it’s me who should be given the title of Wild. Stealin’ horses will get you hung. That’ll cause you to lose your head faster than anything I’ve done."

Thomas turned back to Emmett, who had always been the self-appointed leader of the group. Emmett, I want to do this job today. It’s already planned out. Let me go with you. He kicked a pebble on the ground. And then I’ll leave.

None of the men said another word. They waited for Emmett to make the call.

Emmett lit a cigarette and squinted through the smoke, gazing at the horizon, then exhaled. All right, you can go today, but don’t fire on anyone, and then you leave. He looked around at the other men. No gunfire from anybody today. There may be women on the street. We’ll follow our plan to the letter. We’ll ride in, enter both banks, take the money, and leave. That’s it. No gunfire. Y’all hear me?

The men nodded.

No one’s ever attempted a double bank robbery before, Emmett continued with a smug grin. Today, we will be the toughest and richest men in the whole country.

They put on their hats and holsters in preparation to leave, and hooted and hollered as they mounted their horses to head to Coffeyville.

Thomas shook his head in irritation at their immature behavior.

♦♦♦

When they neared the Kansas town, they stopped on the side of the dusty road to review their plan one final time. The town had a population of two thousand people, all with money in two banks, C. M. Condon & Company Bank and First National Bank, which were located directly across the street from one another in the town plaza.

Emmett passed out fake beards to each of the men. Hopefully, nobody will recognize us from those Wanted posters if we wear these, so we won’t need masks. But don’t throw these away on the ride out. Put them in your pockets. I want everyone who sees us to describe men with beards, and I don’t want anyone finding our disguises discarded outside of town. He placed his fake beard on his face and adjusted it. We will tie our horses to the hitching post in the plaza. Bob, Dick, and I will ride in first and enter Condon Bank, and the rest of you will follow in a few minutes and enter First National. We don’t want to draw attention to ourselves, so we’ll do this quietly. Enter the bank, take the cash, and leave. That’s it. The three of us will ride south to our hideout, and you three will ride north to Independence. We will meet in two weeks in Tulsa and divvy up the cash. Any questions?

The other five men shook their heads.

All right, let’s go.

They donned their beards and casually rode into Coffeyville’s plaza. The morning sun was rising, and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky, so the dry heat of the day was already stifling. The three riders in the front leisurely rode past women carrying parasols to shield themselves from the sun, and they politely nodded and tipped their hats to the ladies.

The next trio rode into town a few minutes later, passing small-town shops and stores. Some children kicked a ball in the road; they stopped playing and moved aside as the men came through. The men arrived in the center of town, but the hitching post that was supposed to be in the middle of the plaza wasn’t there. Thomas watched the first trio turn the corner just past the general store, heading into the alley behind the line of shops. The second group continued down the main street, following the leaders, passing the place where the hitching post was supposed to be.

When they all met up in the alley, Bill asked, What the hell happened to the hitching post?

I don’t know. They took it down or moved it or something. Emmett spat, upset that his plan was already going awry.

So, what do we do now? asked Grat.

Emmett thought for a moment and said, Grat, you and Bill go ahead into First National. We’ll follow right behind you into Condon. And Thomas, you stay here in the alley and hold the horses.

I didn’t come all this way to hold the stupid horses, he protested.

You’re lucky we let you come at all, so you don’t really have a choice. Emmett raised his gun toward Thomas’s forehead and pulled back the hammer. Do as you’re told or you’re out right now. Got it?

Thomas jumped down from his horse, moved toward Emmett, and seized his horse’s bridle. He lifted his arm and slowly pushed Emmett’s gun aside with the back of his hand. He stared into Emmett’s eyes and quietly said, Don’t you ever point your gun at me again, or I’ll kill you and collect the bounty on your head. He had a grin on his face, but his tone was venomous and his eyes deadly serious.

Emmett pretended to ignore the threat as he hopped down on the opposite side of his horse and holstered his gun.

All right, let’s go, Emmett said. They all dismounted and moved out.

After what seemed like hours standing in the alley between the general store and an old shed, holding the leads of six stupid horses, Thomas pulled his gold pocket watch from his coat pocket and checked the time. They’ve been gone ten minutes. They should be coming back any second, he thought. He snapped closed the watch and instinctively rubbed the embossed T with his callused thumb. As he placed it back in his pocket, he heard a man’s voice on the street yelling, The banks are being robbed! The banks are being robbed!

Thomas let go of the horses and ran between the buildings to the front corner of the general store to get a better look. He peered around the corner and saw men coming from every direction with guns in their hands. Women and children all disappeared from the street. He chuckled that Emmett would be happy about that. He counted the men—four, seven, nine, twelve, fourteen, fifteen. They were outnumbered by at least three to one. He hadn’t even considered what to do next when he heard the first shot ring out. The next sound was glass shattering.

Armed men stood in the middle of the street, firing into Condon Bank, right through the two large glass windows that read BANK in big white letters. The glass splintered, covering the wooden porch and half of the road. Shots rang out from all directions, as other men arrived and started firing into First National Bank. The air quickly filled with black smoke and the rancid smell of gunpowder.

Thomas placed his hand on his gun but did not draw. He watched to see if any of his comrades were emerging from either bank, but couldn’t see through the thickening smoke. More gunfire rang out. Men yelled. He didn’t recognize the voices. He heard a dog barking incessantly as he watched the show play out in front of him. More men arrived on horseback. There were no fewer than twenty men firing round after round into the banks. There was no way the Dalton boys and the others would get out of those buildings. Not alive, anyway.

Thomas ran back to his horse, jumped up, and rode like the wind through the back streets of town, leaving the gang members to fend for themselves. He was not afraid to die, but he would not do it for the Dalton boys.

♦♦♦

He headed east, and rode all day and into the night. The following morning, he found himself in Joplin, Missouri, where he bought a local newspaper. The headline was most interesting.

Joplin Daily News

October 6, 1892

The Dalton Gang Has Been Exterminated

Coffeyville, Kansas, October 5, 1892

Members of the Dalton Gang were shot down on October 5 in the plaza of Coffeyville. Six gang members rode into town early in the morning and attempted to rob two banks. The marshals’ posse attacked them as they tried to escape. In the battle, four of the desperadoes were killed: Bob and Grat Dalton, Bill Powers, and Dick Broadmore. The fifth, Emmett Dalton, was wounded and taken into custody. The sixth escaped and is being pursued.

Three things struck him after he read the story. First, he wondered where his pursuers were. Second, he was sorely disappointed that he didn’t kill the Dalton boys and collect the reward while he had the chance. And third, he laughed at the fact the names Bob and Emmett Dalton were now as legendary as they’d always wanted them to be.

I told them they couldn’t do it without me, he mumbled.

He pulled the fake beard from his pocket, crumpled it up in the newspaper, and dropped it in a nearby ditch. He then headed off to find the nearest inn. He wanted to celebrate the end of the Dalton brothers’ era with a soft bed, a hot meal, and the company of a warm woman.

Stagecoach Route

After a month of traveling southeast through Arkansas, he hopped a ferry, crossed the Mississippi River, and left the west behind. Upon crossing the river, he checked into a quaint hostel on the border and was greeted by a sweet little red-headed tart behind the front desk. Her big brown eyes and lightly freckled face lit up when he entered the front door, and he thought she was probably the best sight he had seen in months.

Welcome to the Tunica Inn, she smiled. Her eyes twinkled.

Thank you, miss. I’d like a room for the night.

Certainly, sir. May I have your name on the room register? She pushed an open book across the desk for him to sign.

He signed, Mr. Thomas Banks. Yes, Thomas Banks. He grinned at his own private joke.

She glanced at the register and looked back up at him. Mr. Banks, if you’ll follow me, I’ll be happy to show you to your room.

She moved around the counter toward him, and he admired a glimpse of her ankles as she lifted her skirt to climb the creaking stairs to the left of the desk.

When they reached his room, she said, We offer supper down in the parlor. What time would you like to come down and eat?

I’d like to rest for a while. How about four o’clock?

She nodded. Her skirt made a swishing noise as she smiled and backed out of the doorway. Just before she closed the door, he winked at her and she flooded a deep crimson, which made him glad he chose this particular inn. He would look forward to her company later in the evening.

He tossed his hat on the chair in the corner and looked around. It was a modest yet comfortable room, with the opened window offering a chorus of songbirds in the nearby woods. He listened to them as he dozed off in the soft bed.

When he woke from his nap, he felt like a new man. He pulled out his pocket watch and saw it was only three o’clock, and since he had an hour before his supper would be served, he left the inn and went down to the river to wash up. The water was cool and refreshing and made him feel even better. He knew a good, hot meal would also help his disposition, and an evening cavorting with the little tart would be the icing on the cake.

His mood had definitely improved since he left the company of the Dalton brothers, but he wondered what he would do to occupy his time now that they were gone. He had been with them for almost two years, and felt a mixture of freedom, anticipation, and confusion. He needed to find a way to make money, but he decided to put everything on hold for the rest of the day and ponder the matter tomorrow. For today, he would rest and enjoy his surroundings.

Upon returning to the inn, he noticed a well-appointed carriage parked out front and could feel himself salivating over the treasures its owner must have in his possession. Whoever owns this coach must be very, very wealthy, for seldom does one see a carriage painted so ornately. It wasn’t your average covered wagon. It wasn’t even what he would consider a fancy coach. This was an opulent carriage. It was solid and well built, brightly decorated with meticulously painted gold and brown swirls and lines. He walked all the way around it, touching the hand-carved trim and admiring the fine fabric covering the seats. It even had real windows and curtains. As he admired it, he also noted four handsome stallions tied to pickets in the field to the left of the inn. Yes, wealthy, indeed.

Thomas entered the inn, and saw a rotund man in an expensive waistcoat and top hat speaking with the little tart. That sight didn’t sit well with Thomas, for the tart was already claimed for the evening.

She looked up from her guest register when she heard the jingle of the brass bell on the door. She smiled. Oh, good evening, Mr. Banks. Your supper will be ready in a few minutes. If you would like to have a seat in the parlor, I will bring it right in for you. She raised her eyebrows, awaiting his attention.

He looked into her eyes, wondering if she would like to be his dessert. He nodded and gave her a subtle wink. She bit her lip, blushed, and looked back down at the register.

He entered the parlor to the right of the entryway. The overweight gentleman waddled in behind him and took a seat at a table by the fireplace.

Sir, may I ask if that is your carriage out front?

Why, yes, it is. I rode down from Kansas City, the man said.

Well, it’s very nice. I hope you’re having a pleasant journey. He approached the man’s table. "I’m sorry. I’ve neglected to introduce myself. I’m Thomas Banks, and I must say, I have never seen