Monday Morning Rail
Released under the Creative Commons BY-NC-SA license. Share, modify, and redistribute -- as long as it's attributed and noncommercial, anything goes.
So. I went back and forth on uploading this for a couple of days, but to the relief no doubt of the comrades I was bothering with my fretting here it is. This is my foray into more coarse writing, and stepping outside my comfort zone of witty, cheery people engaging in witty, cheery fits of sexual intercourse. I have the sense that it now occupies a strange middle ground between tawdry and twee, so as always, please respond with criticism and feedback; I am lost in uncharted waters, o wolves.
"Monday Morning Rail," by Rob Baird
To either side, the featureless Colorado prairie swept by in the darkness at sixty miles per hour -- which, to Miles McAllister's way of thinking, was plenty fast enough. From the inside, the eastward gallop of the special had seemed modern and charming; atop a coach car, feeling for handholds, it was all rather less comfortable.
Somewhere behind him, the security guards of the Pueblo Western Bank were tied up and gagged; his men had thrown the boxes of silver bullion off and had, no doubt, already made good their escape. But the stop at Fort Lyon had made him aware that a private car was attached to the end of the Kansas Pacific Sunrise Limited. Private cars meant wealthy people -- and that meant safes, and valuables, and a nice little bonus for Mad Dog McAllister, scourge of the western territories.
Despite the epithet, McAllister was not truly mad. The law had surprised him once (and once only), brushing his teeth in a hotel in Albuquerque. He had leapt from the second story to the ground, firing expertly into the room to suppress the posse while he made his escape. But the sight of a half-naked man, frothing at the mouth and emptying a pair of revolvers into the unassuming hotel he had just vacated by way of a closed window, had shocked the early morning crowd.
That was what people remembered him for -- that, and the daring raids on the trains that slunk from the mines of Colorado with their loads of precious metals. That, and his flair with a revolver. That, and the dashing sweep of his brushy tail.
In the east, ladies with dainty sensibilities and men who craved excitement in their tedious lives came to see the actor Calvin Colton imitate McAllister's adventures. They leafed through tawdry dime novels, and cheered the law on -- all the while secretly hoping for his escape.
Such was the thrilling life of an outlaw. The coyote crouched, flinging himself into the empty air between carriages and landing softly on the last coach before the private car. Yes, McAllister thought, he was not mad -- merely daring. His moccasins were soft on the roof; with luck, nobody would notice his presence.
One more jump brought him onto the roof of the last car on the special. Its windows were lit from within, and he carefully fetched out a small silver mirror from the pocket of his vest, holding it low to peer inside. He saw frilled clothes, dresses, suitcases and -- yes -- a safe. White teeth flashed in an unseen grin. Now it was only a matter of gaining the inside of the car, taking its occupant by surprise, and absconding with the safe. He would have to be stealthy. He would have to be cautious, meticulous, and light upon his feet. He would --
Abruptly the roof of the car gave way beneath him, and he fell nine feet to the floor.
McAllister became aware of two things at the same time. The first was that he was back upon his feet, revolver drawn and cocked. The second was a high-pitched wail of surprise, uttered by the erstwhile solitary inhabitant of the private car. His revolver, McAllister perceived, was trained on her.
"Shut yer mouth," he barked, and when this failed to produce any result he fired once, to the side of her head. "I said --"
The gunshot snapped her from her shock. "Now you wait a minute. Just who do you think you are? What were you doing on the roof?" At first blush, McAllister made her for a tabby, but the intensity of her clear green eyes and the imperious tone in her voice suggested something more refined -- a lynx, perhaps.
Either way, his ears still smarted from her squealing and the gunshot, and he wasn't in much of a mood to argue. "That really ain't yer concern, little girl."
She crossed her stocky arms over her chest. "I'm not a little girl," she shot back. On second glance, he supposed it was possible. She was short, to be sure, and the compactness of her body only added to the effect, but her ample chest -- accented by the tight-laced bodice she wore -- suggested she might have been telling the truth.
"Well, you scream like one."
"Do you even know who I am?"
The talkative ones were the worst. McAllister was impatient, because he wanted to get at the safe, but he suspected that if he ignored her she would cause a stir, and if people hadn't already heard her screaming he had no doubt she would try her best to rouse them. The coyote sighed in exasperation: "the Queen of Sheba?"
"I'll have you know that I'm Margaret-Clara Wilson, daughter of Horace Wilson -- former governor of the Wyoming Territory and current mayor of Leadville," the woman -- Margaret-Clara -- said curtly. "Who are you? Do you work for the railroad?"
McAllister blinked. With his distinctive bandanna, tattered leather vest and denim jeans -- to say nothing of the silver revolver trained on her -- the notion seemed somewhat ludicrous. "Well," he allowed. "Let's just say the railroad pays my salary."
The gruffness of his answer led her to investigate him more closely, and her ears -- large, and tufted with dark fur -- swept back momentarily. "You're Mad Dog McAllister!"
"Yup. It's me. Now sit," he growled, and gestured with the pistol. She dropped heavily into her chair, eyes still smoldering. "Good girl."
The safe, McAllister discovered to his displeasure, was bolted to the floor of the car. Ira One-Eye might've been able to get it open, with his crowbar, had he not dispersed with the rest of the gang. McAllister could not. He tried to concentrate, but Margaret-Clara was sulking behind him. "It is I," he heard, and turned around.
"What?"
"You said it's me. That's wrong. It should be it is I, if you weren't a rogue and a brigand and a boor. When my father finds out what you've done, he'll --"
"Keep threatenin', me, lady, and yer dad's gonna need a séance for that." He mispronounced the French word, but its meaning was clear enough, and her eyes lost a little of their fire. "Now you want to be a good girl and open up this safe?"
She shook her head.
McAllister growled his irritation, drumming the chipped keratin of his claws along his belt in time to the clicking of the rails from beneath them. The dial stood on '61.' He narrowed his eyes. Could it? Nah, not likely... "You think I can't crack it?" He turned back to Margaret-Clara, fixing her in a steely gaze.
"I think I'd rather see you try than make your life any easier," she told him haughtily.
The coyote examined her again. Her hair was long, brushed immaculately over her shoulders. She wore a loose-fitting dress beneath her bodice, and the fabric gathered in bunches at her arms. Where the fur was exposed, it was the soft grey-brown of a prairie sky right before a tornado, dappled with dark spots all the way down to her paws. It was not her manicured claws but the ring she wore that caught his eye -- a silver band curled around a large red stone. "Yer birthday comin' up next month?"
"What?"
He gestured to the ring. "That rock you got. July birthstone, ain't it? Hell, lady, just 'cause I ain't a scholar don't mean I don't know a thing or two."
"The twenty-second," she admitted -- then her gaze hardened. "But you're not getting my ring, you know. That was a gift from my dad on my sixteenth birthday."
He cocked his pistol deliberately. "If I set my eye on somethin', what you want ain't got a say in the matter. Sixteen," he scoffed. "What was that, last year?"
"I'll have you know, you filthy barbarian dog" -- this last word spat as though it was an insult -- "that I'm almost nineteen, thank-you-very-much."
McAllister did some quick arithmetic in his head, and rolled his yellow eyes. Then he settled down before the safe, spinning the dial back to zero. Clockwise turn to "7," counter-clockwise to "22," clockwise again to "61"; there was a soft click, and he pulled the lever to open the safe wide. "You're welcome," he finally said.
The contents of the safe made it all worthwhile. A pair of flawless silver ingots caught the light in the cabin, tucked snugly next to a few large stacks of bills. On the other side, two boxes looked for all the world like they contained jewelry, and he opened one to withdraw a heavy, emerald-studded silver bracelet. "Put it back," Margaret-Clara said. He turned and discovered a gun pointed at him.
Her paws were trembling, although at the close range that scarcely made any difference. When he hesitated, she drew back the hammer, and McAllister frowned a little. "Now hold on..."
"Put it back or I'll kill you."
The coyote's ears wavered, but his keen eyes narrowed in on the weapon. A Webley, he believed, a British Bull Dog, and... McAllister shook his head, not quite believing his luck. Then he tensed, and sprung at her, grabbing her wrist and slamming it heavily against the wall of the carriage. The jarring impact drew a yelp of surprise from the feline.
"Give it up," he snarled. Her grip on the revolver tightened,, so he struck her wrist against the wall again, using the weight of the emerald bracelet to lend a little inertia to the strike. "Give it up before I shoot you," he said, voice harsh and predatory.
His grip on her wrist had tightened, iron-like and unyielding, and Margaret-Clara mewled softly. "But..." She struggled, and he had to pin her with his body, pressing her up against the wall of the carriage. Her clothing rustled with her movements, and the air carried the faint scent of her perfume to his nose.
Ignoring this -- trying to, anyway -- McAllister dropped his voice to a feral growl, nudging his sharply pointed muzzle against the base of her broad right ear. "Now remember, lady, my gun's loaded."
She released the Webley, and it fell to the floor with a sharp clang. He shoved her back down and into her chair, stepping back from her and shaking his head.
"Do I need to tie you up, or are you going to behave?"
"I'll behave," she grunted disconsolately.
"Good," he said, and withdrew a burlap sack from under his vest, stuffing first the silver ingots and then the cash money into it quickly.
"Don't --"
He shot her a look, and, ears lowering, the girl quieted, her lower lip protruding in a frown.
The jewelry boxes were a good haul -- bracelets and rings, mostly; her ears were unpierced. That made enough sense, he guessed; it focused attention on the fur that fringed the tops -- which, along with her dusky spots, probably marked the girl as a bobcat. Most of the jewelry was silver, the color of her fur, and he examined each piece in turn before dropping it unceremoniously into his bag. At the clank of metal on metal, he heard Margaret-Clara's voice catch.
"Please -- Mr. Mad Dog, sir -- I..." He turned again, and she shrank back at his gaze -- she had not moved from her previous position. "L-look, you can take my jewelry but... but please, c-can you leave the silver and the money?"
He arched an eyebrow. "Do I look like a charity?"
"N-n-no, it's just... it's not mine."
"Well, not anymore, no."
"It wasn't before. My... my father asked me to take it to the bank office in Wichita. It's the first time he's ever..." Her frown deepened, and he saw her fidgeting with the ruby ring on her finger. "The first time he's ever trusted me with his work affairs. I-I'll do anything, just... please, sir..."
"Respectin' ya an' all, lady, but y'ain't got much on offer 'sides yer stones here."
Margaret-Clara swallowed nervously. "That's not true."
"No?"
"There's... Well. There's..."
Her hesitance made it easy enough to guess what she meant, but he didn't feel like fencing. "There's what? I ain't a damned mindreader."
"Me," she finished, in a quiet murmur, and her ears went back again.
McAllister regarded her curiously. On the one hand, the contents of the safe were quite valuable. On the other, they'd already made off with much more silver, and the spotted feline was rather easy on the eyes. He unfastened the buttons of his Levis and shrugged. "Guess I'll consider that. Why don't you get over here and suck me off."
Either the suggestion itself or the directness of it caught her off guard. "What?"
"I ain't much on asking twice for things," he said, warningly, and after a moment the bobcat slipped from her chair, padding the few steps over and across the room to kneel before him. She brushed the hair back from her face nervously.
Her slightly uneven breath was hot against him through his just-parted jeans; after another brief pause she reached a paw up to pull the fly open wider. Then she closed her eyes, and the coyote let his breath out in a low sigh as he felt the warmth of her tongue caressing the short, silky fur of his sheath.
The bobcat's touch was tentative -- like she had expected something terrible to happen -- but as she brushed over the half-inch of exposed crimson flesh McAllister couldn't help but groan. How long had it been? Weeks? Months? She worked her tongue over him again, slowly, from the base of his sheath to the tip of his swelling length.
Her tongue was warm, and slightly rough; she was working over him in short laps that sent little jolts of pleasure through the coyote's body. He looked down to find that her eyes were open again, slightly wide and focused on his now fully-erect shaft. She had stopped, and when all she did was resume her earlier, hesitant licks he growled softly.
"Y'ain't gotta groom me, lady." When she didn't take the hint, he rapped her nose lightly with the handle of his gun. "Open yer muzzle." Eyes cast upward, meeting his own, she did as she was told, and he used his free paw to guide the rigid tip of his cock between her parted lips. She flinched, and he laughed hoarsely. "It don't bite -- you don't either, y'hear? Now suck."
The bobcat paused, flicking her tongue lightly over the tip -- he was willing to forgive the momentary failure to follow orders for that, growling in pleasure. Then she closed her lips around the thick meat of his shaft, sucking lightly and working her muzzle forward to take him deeper, inch by inch, her cheeks drawing in snug to either side.
She couldn't quite take him all the way; he was too big for that, and when she started to gag he let her pull back, rocking down on her heels so that his tip slid slickly over the bobcat's palate.
If she wasn't experienced -- he wasn't in the mood to cast aspersions, so who knew? -- the young feline was a natural. She warmed quickly to his size, bobbing her muzzle swiftly along the length she could manage. "That's it," McAllister groaned. "That's a good girl" -- and he swore he could feel her purring around his cock.
His knot was beginning to take form, bumping against her lips; the coyote's breath was quick and ragged, and he found himself bucking a little in time to the bobcat's expert strokes. Thin pulses of his precum painted her tongue and the roof of her muzzle; when she drew back, so that his length nearly slipped from between her lips, she suckled down hard, her tongue working eagerly to clean his tip of the pre that spilled forth.
McAllister gripped one of the bobcat's ears in either paw; when the cold barrel of his pistol touched her, she flinched at first, but recovered gamely, with nothing but a gasp of hot breath over his saliva-slicked cock. Holding her, guiding her movements, his hips bucked in short strokes, trying to get himself deeper into her muzzle -- he heard her give a muffled grunt of surprise, against the taut flesh of his knot.
Then the outlaw groaned the exultation of his pleasure deeply, grinding against the bobcat's muzzle. His shaft jerked quickly, spurting thick canine seed against the back of her throat in strong, warm pulses. She made a soft choking sound, at first, and then he felt her swallow, over and over, as he spent himself in her warm muzzle.
He drew back slowly, letting her recover; he didn't have to tell her to clean him off, she did that on her own. Shuddering as his length fell free, he stepped back, leaning against the wall to support himself. "Yer pretty good at that, little one," he panted.
She seemed taken aback, and then gave him a hesitant, hopeful smile. "Th-thanks. So we're... we're even?"
"I didn't say that."
Her ears flicked, and the bobcat's tongue worked inside her muzzle for a moment. "Can I get a drink of water at least?" She caught the flask he tossed her way deftly, taking a swig. "Is this gin?"
"Can't always trust water."
Margaret-Clara looked at the flask, half-suspiciously, but then took another drink, swallowing theatrically for effect. "I guess."
Keeping his revolver close, McAllister crossed the car to take a seat on the bench that ran along the carriage's window. He patted the cushion, and the bobcat joined him, handing back his flask.
Close up, and without other distractions, he examined her more thoroughly. Her cheekruffs made her look almost comical, and the dappled pattern to her dusky fur was undeniably cute, but there was a sensual undercurrent to the way she moved -- and in any case, all he had to do was close his eyes to picture her little muzzle parted around his rigid shaft, and that did wonders to remove any appearance of innocence.
He found the edge of her dress halfway down her calf, hiking it up quickly to reveal the silvery fur of her legs, covered by stockings. He had half a mind to ask her to remove them, so that he could get a better look -- but he had other things to do.
The fur of her inner thighs was silky, but the bunched fabric of her skirt and petticoat made it impossible to see, and so he had to navigate by feel. Her eyes met his as long as she could, but when he found her garter and knickers she closed them, and a light blush spread through her fur like a prairie wildfire.
He grinned, and slipped his fingers under the thin fabric, tugging it to the side. He found his goal easily; she was dripping wet, the short fur sodden and slick with her obvious arousal. So the blush was an act, too; the coyote growled possessively, and arched his paw to press his index finger deeply into her wet folds. She gasped and stiffened, squeezing around the intruding digit, and when he curled his finger, rubbing teasingly inside her, she squirmed about eagerly.
She had thoroughly soaked the fur of his finger, and it made a slick, lewd sound as he pumped it inside her steadily, adding a second after a few strokes with an appreciative, mewling whimper from the cat.
McAllister nipped at her ear, nibbling along the rim and growling to her throatily. "So much for yer princess act, lady." He drove his fingers in sharply, grinding with his palm against her clit and using his body to pin her as her back arched. "Almost could think you wanted me to fuck you all along." At his use of the coarse word, her ear flicked, but he held it in place with his teeth. "Yeah?"
"Y-y-yeah," she murmured brokenly -- he guessed it was hard to be too articulate with his fingers stuffed knuckle-deep in her cunt.
If he had had more patience, the coyote would've pressed her further, making her beg for him -- but his returning arousal took precedence, and he gave her another quick pump of his fingers before withdrawing. He seized her in both paws -- setting his gun down on the cushion; he no longer thought she was likely to make a grab for it -- and drew the bobcat into his lap roughly.
Now her clothing was an obstacle again; he jerked her dress and petticoat up easily enough, but her knickers were held in place by her garter, and that was more difficult to deal with. When he tugged at them and she didn't get the message, McAllister growled, unfolded his knife, and slit the garment with one quick movement, pulling the soaking fabric down her legs until it no longer counted for anything. She started to protest, but he let the growl deepen into something sharper and she backed off. "That's right, you little bitch," he rumbled to her. "Weren't really using 'em anyway."
The bobcat tensed and quivered as he teased the dripping lips of her sex with his cockhead, soaking it in her juices. He was rock-hard, aching for her, and when she started to relax he bucked his hips up sharply to force the whole of his shaft into her.
This was more difficult than he'd expected; she was unbelievably tight, and small enough that it was a snug fit, but with a little effort he was hilted in her and she was settled down in his lap, her arousal soaking the fur of the coyote's crotch and the sheath that bunched up against her lips.
Her ears were drawn back, her muzzle parted and aquiver, and when he lifted her up, gripping her beneath the dress by her round, firm rear, she shivered and rewarded him with a warbling sigh, her tight folds clinging to him like a parting embrace. Then he plunged back into her again -- ramming his thick cock with all the subtlety of driving fence posts -- and again, and again.
She shuddered, and gave a sudden, yowling cry. Then she was squirming desperately, her cunt spasming around him as he pumped into her, and he had to grip her tightly to keep his rough tempo from faltering as he pounded her, rutting her with feral abandon.
Bobcats, the brigand discovered to his chagrin, had very sharp claws. Her first climax spared him, but its resurgence -- a dozen sharp, brutal thrusts later -- saw her sink all the way through his vest, leaving little nicks in his chest as she gripped him helplessly, writhing atop him, muzzle drawn back in a keening mewl of sensation and bliss.
They were making a mess of his jeans, and her no doubt very expensive dress -- to say nothing of the carriage cushions -- staining them with the bobcat's slick juices and the precum the coyote's cock was now spilling in liberal quantities with each deep stroke into her tight pussy. McAllister was vaguely aware of this, and the wet squelch that accompanied his rough thrusts, but it was impossible to be too concerned.
The strain of trying to hold the bobcat in place, however, particularly when she came around him, was wearing on him, and he grabbed her tightly by the hips and bodice, spinning her to press her flat on her back against the bench seat. Now he could pin her, holding her down as his hips drove against her mercilessly.
She drew her stocking-clad legs about him, holding him tightly as he fucked her, his teeth gritted and his yellow eyes going unfocused with lust. She was panting beneath him, her heaving chest a steady rhythm between their close bodies, lost in ecstasy -- but not so lost as to miss the change in tempo of his final thrusts, or the ragged groan the coyote gasped against her tufted ear.
He stiffened up, and pulled back from the prone bobcat with an effort. She gasped as he slipped free, and he told himself there was some disappointment in the sound. Then he snarled, and his cock twitched in short little jerks, ropes of warm cum splashing hotly onto her dress and bodice. One spurt caught the cat's muzzle, and when McAllister slumped to the side, panting raggedly, he watched her clean it with the back of her finger, then suck the digit off with a heady purr.
When he had regained his wits, she was dabbing at her clothes with a handkerchief, eyeing him wearily. "These weren't cheap, you know," she said.
"Don't you got servants to clean 'em? 'Sides. What'dya expect? You think I was gonna finish up inside ya?"
"I wasn't sure."
McAllister's laugh was a rasping bark. "Had half a mind to, but... reckon we ain't got more'n another fifteen minutes 'til the station."
The bobcat eyed him, as if weighing her options, and then shook her head. "No. We don't have another stop until six in the morning. It's only one now."
He grunted thoughtfully. "Best make use then, huh?"
"We don't have to," she allowed, rubbing firmly at her bodice and then setting the handkerchief aside with a grimace.
"Did I ask?" He took her paw, guiding it to his softening member; she tensed a little at the contact, and he growled. "Aw, Jesus, it ain't gonna hurt you. Didn't see you actin' the part when it was busy in yer cunt, either, huh?"
She splayed her ears out, blushing again. Then she wrapped her paw around him, stroking him softly. Her fur was silky, and the pawpads were smooth and soft -- quite unlike his own, calloused and hard from years of manual labor.
"Yeah, like that... it ain't yer pet rabbit, girl, you don't have to be so damn --"
She gave him a firmer squeeze, and as he started to stiffen up again in her warm grasp he growled encouragingly.
Her thumb, rubbing in insistent circles right at his tip, was heavenly, and he closed his eyes, letting her work both her paws over the swelling thickness of his shaft. She seemed to follow his gasps and growling moans, drawing his arousal forth until at last he gripped her wrist and pulled her away.
"Get up and turn around." She cocked her head questioningly, and the coyote growled in frustration. "Christ. Have to do everything my own damned self." He pulled her to her feet roughly, spinning her around and pressing her up against the carriage window.
With her dress and petticoat bunched up around her waist, he took a moment to admire the bobcat's figure. The spots that ran up her legs to her flanks and lower back framed her inner thighs, and he grinned appreciatively as he nudged her legs apart, stepping behind her and guiding the pointed tip of his cock into position.
When he felt it nudge between her lips, still wet and slick from their earlier activities, he thrust in sharply to claim her body again. She cried out and went rigid, but her hips bucked back against him in reflexive, needy desire, and he bit down on her ear so that his heady growl had nowhere else to go.
He gave the bobcat no quarter, pressing his body flat against her back as he rocked urgently against her upturned rear, her short, fluffy tail pinned in between the pair, twitching erratically. The new angle fetched a series of low, guttural moans from the feline, and he felt her stance weakening with every thrust.
When her quivering legs threatened to give out completely, he snarled at her warningly, slamming her head against the window and holding her there roughly to keep her in place. This brought a moment of clarity, and she steadied herself again, but his next sharp thrust left her hips trembling wildly, her tight walls squeezing and pulsing about his thick member as she panted her release against the window, fogging it with her passionate cries.
He could feel her juices trickling down his pistoning shaft, soaking into his jeans, and it struck him that he would smell of the bobcat for weeks. So, he guessed, would the train car; he grinned, and wrapped his arm about her waist, holding her in place as he fucked her with deep, full strokes. He sunk himself deep inside her with a raw abandon, feeling her walls part slickly around him as he filled her with his aching cock, grunting heatedly with every thrust, his breath ruffling the short fur of the bobcat's ear.
Her lips were starting to tug and caress the base of his knot as his strokes grew sharper and more constrained. It was getting harder and harder to pull out, and the urge to fill the little bobcat with his seed became more difficult to fight off.
Margaret-Clara was starting to squirm as his knot built, not used to such thorough fullness. He was still working it through her lips, with greater difficulty each time, and she gasped softly, struggling with a bit more urgency. "Wait -- h-hold on. Don't --"
"Uh-uh," he growled. "Yer gonna get it, just like any other bitch." Wrapping his paw about her throat right beneath her muzzle, he gave her a warning shake, and her squirming abated. "Good girl," he panted raggedly -- but he held her immobile until he was good and locked within her, just in case.
She gasped with the realization that he was tied to her, and he nipped her ear heatedly, now all but committed to the inevitable. He felt her flexing wetly around him, squeezing at his knot, coaxing his climax forth. The bobcat was unable to keep from moaning lewdly as the coyote behind her bucked a few times, trapped, and then tensed up, his triumphant growl close to her ear going deep and strained.
His cock pulsed, and the outlaw coyote shuddered in pleasure as he began to spill his seed within the bobcat's squeezing folds, painting the walls of her cunt with spurts of warm canine essence. "Aw, fuck!" he snarled, a guttural oath with all the sincerity of a prayer and none of the civility.
As she felt him claim her, the heat of his cum steadily filling her tight, squeezing pussy, she trembled, and then cried out as she joined him in release. The coyote groaned, biting sharply on her ear as she fluttered around him, milking his cock for the seed he was still pumping into her, grinding his hips against her rear to get it deeper inside.
When they were both spent, limp and formless against the wall of the carriage, he guided her down, letting them both sprawl on the padded bench. "Not bad."
She was still quivering, her chest moving in shallow, hitching pants, and she nodded a wordless acknowledgment of his compliment.
Then he felt her yawn, and the night's activities took their toll on him all at once. He drew his arms around the bobcat, mumbling a possessive growl against her ear, and remained holding her as he slipped into exhausted unconsciousness.
It was a quarter of six when he came to, aware that the train was pulling into the station. His erection had faded while he slept, although his jeans were noticeably darkened with fragrant dampness. Margaret-Clara was already awake, smoothing down the ruffles of her dress to look presentable.
There was a sharp knock at the carriage door, and when Margaret-Clara opened it a sheriff's deputy greeted her. "Are you alright, miss..."
"Margaret-Clara Wilson."
"Miss Wilson, then. There was a robbery -- all the silver bullion we were carrying was stolen last night."
"Really," Margaret-Clara said. "Isn't it your responsibility to prevent things like that?"
"Well, we --" the deputy caught sight of McAllister, and his eyes widened. "Were you -- is that -- you!" he shouted, half-panicked. "Hands on your head!"
Even as McAllister complied, Margaret-Clara spoke up again, her commanding tone returning in full force. "What do you think you're doing?"
"That -- that's the outlaw, Miles McAllister -- Mad Dog McAllister! He's the one they say robbed the train -- he's wanted in six states!"
The bobcat looked between McAllister and the deputy incredulously. "Good God, man, he's nothing of the sort. That's Calvin Colton, the actor -- he plays McAllister in all the sideshows. He was touring in Durango when we met. Now he's headed back to New York, but he offered to give me a private show of his card tricks."
The deputy didn't quite seem convinced, and his ears twitched. "Is that true?"
He seemed to have directed his question at the both of them; McAllister answered, with a low mutter. "I am quite the card."
Margaret-Clara, for her part, was on a roll. "Then, while your men were doing nothing, some... some barbarian knocked in the roof of my car. Calvin used his gun to bluff them away."
"Bluff?" the deputy asked.
"Yeah," McAllister agreed, handing over the Webley. "It's unloaded when I'm traveling."
Either the deputy believed them, or he didn't want to get in a fight with the legend when no backup was around -- but the sudden light in his eyes suggested the former, and he handed the revolver back willingly. "So it's... it's really you? You're Calvin Colton?"
"Yes," McAllister nodded, putting on his best east-coast accent. "It is I."
"I'll be back to ask for an autograph," the deputy promised, and hopped off the car to report to his superiors.
McAllister turned to the bobcat, giving her a curt nod. "Thanks, miss Wilson."
"Clara," she said.
"Miles," he answered, and untied the bandanna from around his neck, handing it over. "A souvenir?"
She took it with a slight smile, folding it carefully. Then, glancing around the car, she caught the glint of something metallic, reaching for it and holding it into the light. She dropped the emerald bracelet into his paw, and he suddenly noticed how well the green and silver mimicked the look of her eyes and fur. "The same. It might be for the best if you were gone by the time he came back."
"I reckon," the coyote agreed. He opened the door and hopped down, feeling the earth between the ties crunching under his moccasins.
"You know, I... I'm on trains quite frequently."
The coyote grinned. "Funny," he said, looking over the length of the special and then out, into the sprawling emptiness beneath the prairie sunrise. "So am I."