The Whip Read Free

smile: the quick smile, then the slow smile…taking his time at it.
    Charley threw down a large handful of wrapped sweets.
    “Candy,” shouted the boys.
    The candies scattered every which way. One landed in the brim of the banker’s hat.
    “Got it,” shouted one of the older boys as he jumped for it, knocking the hat off the banker’s head. “Sorry, Mr. Sausage Man.”
    The banker seized his disrespected hat from the ground. “My name, Lester, is Mr. Middleton.” He glared all around him.
    Boys were scuffling in the dust, grabbing candies from the dirt and from each other. They were tumbling over and wrestling each other.
    “That’s it, boys. No more candy,” said Charley above the din. “Time to run along. It’s getting late. Must be past your dinner time.”
    The boys began to wander off, the volume of their voices lowering little by little with the distance. Below and behind Charley, the passengers were departing the coach. A winsome female in her voluminous packaging was being extricated with the help of some of the male passengers. As she was lowered through the doorway and her feet touched the ground, she wilted, frail and exhausted from the grueling trip. Two of the men moved in closer to her sides and held her upper arms to buoy her.
    She was whimpering. “Oh goodness, I was jigged, tossed, bounced to the ceiling, tumbled to the floor, wedged against a window, and scattered in all directions.”
    The two young men ushered her down the street…doing the duty of obliging young men, holding between them a gratefully murmuring bouquet.
    Charley watched them go for a moment.
    Off to one side, two girls had arrived and stood in the outermost corolla of the glow cast by the gas lamp, their dresses drained of color in the darkness. They whispered and giggled and touched their hair. Charley glanced over at them. One of them was holding a covered plate. She met his eyes head on, and then, blushing, dropped her eyes down. Charley considered her, considered them both, a tolerant and amused expression on his face.
    Byrne, still sitting on the spare end of the driver’s seat, was feeling his old self again.
    “Now I know why you like being a whip, Charley. I see you have a couple of admirers waiting for your attentions. I have an idea. Why don’t you join me at the saloon for a drink…and bring the girls along with you.”
    “You been drinking too many nips out of your little silver flask, Byrne. Hell, you don’t bring nice girls into a saloon. And look at me…I’m old and ugly enough to be their grandfather. Every run there’s always girls waiting with plates of cookies or some other damn thing. It happens to all the whips. Just part of the job.”
    A loud throat-clearing from the banker and Charley and Byrne began to clamber down from the coach.
    As they disembarked, Charley continued, “But I’ll take you up on that drink. Always end my runs with a shot or two anyways. Tiny’s Saloon is just down the street on your left. Can’t miss it. I’ll be there soon as I’m done here.”
    “Right. See you there after I check into the hotel.”
    Byrne heaved his luggage off the back of the coach and headed down the street.
    Two burly bank guards came out single-file through the door of the bank, reconfigured themselves to walk side by side to the stagecoach, and then stepped forward to remove the armored box from under the driver’s seat.
    Charley walked a few steps to the lamp. He moved with a noticeable limp. Now off the coach and on solid ground, he seemed older, more fragile.
    The guards, carrying the strongbox, vanished into the bank, followed by the banker. The door clicked shut. Now just the two young women were left. They were having a hurried whisper and then one of them, the bold-eyed one, stepped forward into the gaslight right beside Charley, holding out the cloth-covered plate. Her dress was deep blue that set off her eyes, with ribbons shiny and dark green.
    Charley noticed her lips