Page 7 of Wild Spirit Revival

“Mystic, eh? Not many ladies travel there alone. You sure about this, miss?”

Her jaw tightened. “Quite sure, thank you.”

As she exited the office, ticket in hand, Molly couldn’t shake the feeling her adventure was about to take an unexpected turn. Little did she know, the real challenges were yet to come.

The stagecoach creaked and swayed as Molly settled into her seat, her camera equipment safely stowed beneath. She found herself wedged between the window and a rotund drummer, his leather satchel clutched tightly to his chest. Across from them sat a couple with a young daughter, the child’s excited chatter filling the cramped space.

“Mama, look! Horses!” The little girl bounced on the seat.

Her mother smiled. “Yes, dear. Now, please sit still. It won’t be long until we reach Mystic.”

Molly’s gaze drifted out the window as the coach lurched forward, the rhythmic clop of hooves accompanying their departure from Bozeman. The landscape unfurled before her like a living canvas. Rolling hills gave way to rugged mountains, their peaks shrouded in mist.

“First time to Mystic, miss?” the drummer inquired, his voice jolting Molly from her reverie.

She offered a polite smile. “Yes, it is. I’m a photographer, documenting the frontier.”

The man’s eyebrows shot up. “A lady photographer. I’ve always wanted to try one of those contraptions. My name’s Gus Thornton, traveling salesman extraordinaire,” he said with a wink.

As Gus launched into a tale about his travels selling various wares, Molly’s thoughts drifted back to her encounter with the obnoxious man in Bozeman. His arrogant smirk and dismissive tone still made her blood boil.

“You all right there, miss?” Gus asked, noticing her furrowed brow. “Looks like you’ve bitten into a sour apple.”

Molly forced a laugh. “Just remembering an unpleasant encounter.”

The little girl across from them piped up, “Did a mean person make you sad? Mama says when people are mean, it’s ’cause they’re sad themselves.”

Molly’s expression softened. “Your mama sounds very wise. What’s your name, sweetheart?”

“I’m Mary! We’re going to visit my grandpa in Mystic. Do you have a grandpa there, too?”

As Molly engaged in conversation with Mary and her parents, the stagecoach continued its journey. The passing scenery captivated her, each bend in the road revealing new wonders.

Suddenly, the coach jerked to a halt, nearly throwing Molly from her seat. The driver’s urgent and fearful shout reached them.

“Ladies and gentlemen! We’ve got a problem up ahead.”

The passengers exchanged worried glances as the driver’s words hung in the air. Molly’s heart raced as she peered out the window, straining to see what had caused their sudden stop.

“What kind of problem?” the drummer beside her called out, his voice tinged with anxiety.

The driver’s response was cut short by the sound of hoofbeats approaching. Molly’s breath caught in her throat as she saw three riders emerging from the dust, their faces obscured by bandanas.

“Everybody out!” a gruff voice commanded. “Nice and slow, hands where we can see ’em.”

Mary whimpered, clinging to her mother. Molly’s fingers traced the watch pinned to her dress. Sheriff Foster had returned it to her the night before while she ate supper at the hotel.

Ezra Gibbons, the owner of Bozeman’s livery and stables, had found it on the ground inside one of the stalls. Gibbons had given a description of the man whose horse had been in the stall. It matched with what Molly had provided the sheriff. She was not going to give it up a second time. Quickly, she removed the watch, bent, and slid it into her boot.

As they filed out of the coach, Molly’s eyes darted around, assessing the situation. The lead bandit, a tall man with piercing eyes, dismounted and approached the group.

“All right, folks. No one will get hurt if you do exactly what I say. Place your valuables in this bag, and don’t do anything foolish.”

Molly’s jaw clenched. She couldn’t lose her camera equipment. As the hat made its way down the line, she searched for a way out.

Everyone turned when a commotion erupted from the front of the coach. The driver had managed to pull a hidden revolver, aiming it at the bandits.

“Drop your weapons!” he shouted, his voice steadier now. Beside him, the guard pointed his rifle toward the outlaws. Undeterred, the bandits began firing.

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