Mathilda was hot in the face. As she peered out her side view, she saw the others coming in at full gallop.
Well, horse shit.
Leaning out of the old coach, moving the torn and mildew-stained curtains to the side, she pulled out her peacemaker and studied the problem before her.
One.
Two.
Three.
There were three mean-looking fuckers riding their horses after them. Mathilda could tell by the looks on their faces what their intentions were: they would kill Bill and Cody, take her horse, rape her, shoot her, then steal all her things before the sun set.
She pulled herself back in, opening up the chamber. Four bullets. Enough with one to spare. Bill was riding shotgun, so the big coach gun was with him. And sitting next to her knees was Cody’s lever rifle, but Cody had to drive. She knew how to use it though.
Only problem was the riders had to get close enough so they would be in range. She couldntt shoot more than twenty feet maybe with her pistol and the roughness of the road would shorten that distance. The lever rifle needed her to be on still ground because of its heaviness.
Mathilda was no crackshot. To boot, her Colt .45 was older than dirt and needed a thorough cleaning. It was high-time she got a new one for situations like these.
Mathilda shucked off her new hat, the one she'd just bought, and leaned out the old rickety window frame once more. Whistles of confident bullets flew above her. She ducked back into the old stage coach, catching her breath best she could as she heard them hit their target. The horse whinnied in fear and Cody's body fell off the top, bullet holes all over his back and in his head.
Well shit, she thought as the horse began to run in a different direction. Shit and damn, these folks were good.
Mathilda heard Bill holler to her to stay inside, all the while shooting the coach gun and attempting to grasp the fallen reins. Another whistling of bullets followed. Bill fell off the coach and Mathilda felt his body get trampled under the wheels.
She was in trouble. The riders were good shots. Real good shots.
She leaned some out the window again, the dust of the road kicking up and making it hard to focus. It stung her eyes, but she could still see them. They were close. Close enough.
She flipped out her pistol and leaned further out from the window, making her visible to the riders. She aimed and fired, all in a second.
The first one slumped, his horse losing sense of direction and straying off to the side.
Mathilda ducked back in, took a breath, and pivoted herself back out the window, clutching tightly onto the splintering frame of the window. As soon as she saw them in view, she aimed and shot again.
The second fucker dropped off his horse like manure, blood spurting from his throat.
The third rider was moving faster and faster towards her, his own short barrel shot gun coming off his back and being placed in his capable hands.
Mathilda aimed while he was pulling it off, but the third rider wove to the side and out of her view. She ducked in the carriage, slid across the seat, and was about to stick her head out of the window when a sound of mighty thunder split her ears in two.
Suddenly, there was a momentous impact on the wall facing her. Both shotgun bullets tore through the rough frame of the window and hit the dilapidated inside of the coach, knocking Mathilda to the floor.
Fragments from the shotgun shattered the inside wood, making splinters fly every-which-way, hitting Mathilda and cutting her face up.
The rider was right outside the window.
The coach swerved to the side as the terrified horse ran, pulling it away from the rider who was busy trying to reload his shotgun. It was possible the man didn’t have a pistol, that the crackshot whistling bullets belonged to the other two, but Mathilda didn’t want to take that chance. Especially since she had shot them so easy.
All she could hear was the pounding of horse hooves all around her. Her scared horse wasn’t anywhere close to slowing down and the rider beside the coach was following as best he could.
She glanced out.
He had fallen back a ways, struggling with reloading his shotgun. Now was her chance. She brought out her peacemaker. Aimed.
The stage coach jolted and shook as the road became puddled with rocks. Mathilda’s head smacked to the side of the window and the pistol shot out to God knows where.
Shit, she swore to her self. The rider, with a firm grip on his shotgun, started coming up to her coach faster, although with the coach’s horse acting unpredictable, he was still a little unsure how to approach it.
One of the wheels broke loose and the massive deteriorating frame swung about all over the endless dust bowl. Mathilda gripped onto the insides best she could, but she rocked back and forth all in that little box, hitting her head and her shoulders and even cracking a rib.
Blood ran down her face, from the nicks in her skin to the gash on her head. She wiped it out of her eyes using the handkerchief her pa had given her when she left.
The rocky road was merciless to the other wheels as they struggled to find a good balance for the rickety stage coach. In the swaying of the vehicle another wheel broke on the same side, dropping the carriage with a huge thump. As the big box crashed down, still being dragged forward, the horse managed to get loose.
Mathilda rocked over and fell back as the stage coach toppled over, the side with the wheels up and rotating as fast as they could. As the box fell over with a bang, her door swung out then slammed back down with crumpling anger.
With her knees where her head used to be, the first thing she did was reach for her pistol. It had been thrown out of her sweaty hand when the stage coach collapsed. As she heard her frantic horse speed off, its hooves echoing like a ghost in the vast emptiness surrounding her, she heard the rider approach. Mathilda knew she’d have to act fast.
He probably thought she was disoriented. Well she was, but she wasn’t gonna let the bastard use it to his advantage. She stood up in the window before she could even let her head clear.
The pistol in front of her, she shot before she aimed, hitting the man in the shoulder.
Surprised, the rider fell off his horse. The wind knocked out of him as he impacted the dirt below, he struggled to get on his feet. Mathilda grabbed the lever rifle, picked up her skirts, and climbed out of the door.
The thing was heavy as it sucked to her hip but the heaviness was nothing compared to her adrenaline rush. Pulling the lever forward and then snapping it back, she shot at the man on the ground. Then, for good measure, she shot the bastard a couple more times.
She walked up to the body, the life in the man's eyes gone out like candle-light.
Good, she thought. Goddamn that fucker.
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