CHAPTER 8.

The catman sneezed A substantial sneeze which Shook his large dappled body, caused his bowler hat to give a hop, and rattled the entire interior of the stagecoach. "Ah, nothing like it, sir." Giving a contented sigh, he dipped a furry thumb and forefinger again into his silver snuffbox. This pinch of snuff he inserted into his other nostril. "May I offer you a bit of my special blend, sir? It's made up for ... ah ...

ah ... ah ... ahchoo!"

Palma, seated across from the bulky catman, held on to his seat. The ordinary bouncing and swaying of their progress along the dusty road he was just about used to. "No thanks."

"Snuff, sir," said the catman while stuffing the silver box into a vest pocket and brushing specks from his trousers and coat, "snuff is the universal curative. Would you believe I have not had so much as a touch of the gout since I became a user of the miraculous stuff? Nay, nor have I suffered with thegrippe, the quincy, brain fever, or the vapors. I venture to say snuff might well put curly locks back on that gleaming pate of yours, sir."

"So would a wig." Palma settled back in the seat He and the snuff-dipping catman were the only pa.s.sengers on the jolting morning coach. There was woodland unreeling outside, tall trees and shady brush cut across by stripes of sunlight.

"You'll forgive me for suggesting, sir, that you and I may share an interest in common."

Palma touched one of his dangling cameras. "You take pictures as a hobby?"

The catman chuckled. His chuckle shook the coach nearly as much as his sneezes. "Nay, sir, I am no tinkerer with gadgets. At Silcotes Hall, my ancestral home, I have steadfastly refused to allow this and that new mechanism to be installed," he said. "I was alluding, sir, to a probable shared interest in paps."

"Huh?"

"I refer, sir, to bubbies. Or what are more commonly known as b.u.t.terbags, charlies, dugs, poonts, and cabman's rests."

"Oh, you mean t.i.ts?"

"Precisely, sir," said the catman, chuckling and wheezing. "When you bade a forlorn farewell to the amply founted serving wench at the Eye and Finger I could not help but notice the way you gazed at her blubbers, sir."

Palma rubbed at the top of his head. "I guess you might say I'm something of a fount fan ... but I don't like to be the sort of chap who brags about his lady acquaintances."

The catman had turned to watch the forest. "I do hope we don't encounter them," he muttered.

"Now, sir, let us continue our pleasant discussion of mammies."

"Who is them?"

Making a dismissing gesture, the catman said, "Too early in the day to worry about them, sir.... I can understand your reluctance to talk of your most recent affair of the heart. Surely, however, after the pa.s.sage of time one is not-"

"I'm wondering about them," Palma told him. "Before we get to my Life and Loves, explain."

"Surely, sir, you're aware we're traveling through country that is notorious for the number of highwaymen per square mile."

"Highwaymen?"

"Indeed, sir, highwaymen. This forest, dubbed Cut-purse Wood by the local wits, is often crawling with them. I do believe it is a bit early in the day to attract them, which is why I invariably make it a habit whenever I travel away from Silcotes Hall to patronize the most daylight-surrounded coach available."

Palma half stood to gaze out the window. "I hadn't heard about the highwaymen."

"Full many a famed rascal haunts Cutpurse Wood, sir." He took out his silver snuffbox to fondle as he spoke. "There's the infamous Jonathan Hawkes; there was, until he was captured and publicly drawn and quartered, Captain Hardcastle; there is the brutal Squinteye Jim; there's the ruthless Scarlet Angel; there is-"

"That's a sort of feminine name for a highway-man-the Scarlet Angel. Is he perhaps a little bit-"

"The Scarlet Angel is a woman, sir."

"Oh, so?"

"Such a woman as would appeal to b.u.t.terbag fanciers such as ourselves," amplified his fellow pa.s.senger. "It is said she's no more than five and twenty years of age, sir, and that her poonts are most marvelous in both breadth and-"

Bang!

"Yow!"

Bam! Bang!

Palma stood up so fast his head clunked on the coach ceiling. "Hey, somebody just shot our driver clean off his perch.""Whoa! Stop where you are, you moth-ridden nags!" the catman shouted.

The stage came to a clattering stop.

"I very much fear, sir, that we have fallen into the hands of brigands of the road." He swallowed, then ran his p.r.i.c.kly tongue over his lips. Hurriedly he tucked the snuffbox away. "I'll venture to reconnoiter ... By G.o.dfrey, it's the lot of them! There is the infamous Jonathan Hawkes, the brutal Squinteye Jim, and the ruthless Scarlet Angel."

"The Scarlet Angel." Palma stuck his bald head out into the bright woodland morning. "Rumors about her tremendous knockers are true, too true."

"Get that winter melon of a cabeza back inside there, mate!" ordered Squinteye Jim with a wave of one of his blaster pistols.

"You must be the fabled Squinteye Jim." Palma did not withdraw his head. "The very man I am seeking. I'm Palma, the famed photographer, and I've been sent to Cutpurse Wood for the purpose of capturing your visage on film for the pages of Front Page De-tective Magazine and-"

"Back in the stage, melonhead, or you"ve breathed your last!" Squinteye Jim aimed his pistol.

Palma pulled back. "We'd also like a few candid shots of Jonathan Hawkes," he called out into the morning. "Casual stuff, possibly of your burying a sack of loot or-"

"Do you not wish my picture as well?" The Scarlet Angel had dismounted and came to his window. She was a lovely red-haired girl, wearing a green tunic, green riding pants and boots. Two pistols were buckled around her slim waist.

"I don't know," said Palma, eyeing her. "You might tell me who you are and I can check the list of cutthroats, highwaymen, and bravos that Front Page Detective gave me."

Her green eyes went wide. "Why, I am the Scarlet Angel. Surely I am known to you by reputation?"

Palma eased a sheet of paper out of a tunic pocket, pretended to consult it. "Let's see ...

Scarface Ned, Springheel Jack, Surly Mac, the Terrible Turk. Nope, don't seem to have any Scarlet Angel here, miss. What do you do?"

"Do?" She drew both pistols, thrust them under his nose. "You great blabbering ninny, I'm a highwayperson. I'm the Scarlet Angel. Renowned far and wide."

Palma tucked away the alleged list. "I'm from out of town," he said. "There are degrees of far and wide. Someone may be a somebody right around his hometown, but-"

"You've heard of Jim and Jonathan."

"Sure, they're notorious."

"I'm as notorious as they are."

"Enough gab, mates" Squinteye Jim, his left eye narrowed nearly shut, jerked open the opposite door to grab the catman. "We've got all the goods off the top. Now, let's have a look at you, you feline Midas."

"Me, sir? I am but a poor circuit-riding minister of the Church of the-"

"You're Silcote of Silcotes," Squinteye Jim told him, "and carrying a money belt packed with gold around your fat middle."

"I may be a bit overweight, sir, but it is from an overfondness for hot b.u.t.tered scones and not because-"

"Out with you!" Squinteye Jim pulled Silcote completely out of the stage and dumped him into the roadside brush.

"You've not a bad-looking girl," Palma said to the Scarlet Angel. Too many freckles, though some of our readers might go for that splotched effect."

"Too many! You blabbering b.o.o.by, my freckles are my best feature. Many's the man, and some of them of very high station, who's raved about the very freckles you have scorned. No doubt you've heard of Richard Ferncourt Allen, who was Poet Laureate of Laranja East five years running. It was specifically for me that he composed his touching poem, To His Freckled Shepherdess.' "

"You used to be a shepherdess?"

"Nay, but Richard had a commission to turn out a half dozen pastoral lyrics that season.""Hey there! Slit his gizzard and get it over with, Angel." This was a new voice, deep and cruel.

"In a moment, Johnny, shortly."

"Ha! Feast your eyes on these gold Waldos, Johnny my lad!" roared Squinteye Jim. "This tub of a Silcote is infested with coins."

"Relieve him of them swiftly," ordered Hawkes in his harsh voice, "and sink your dirk into his fuzzy carca.s.s."

Oh, sir," pleaded Silcote, "I would much prefer to remain among the living. Suppose I arrange for you to be given another bag of golden Waldos?"

"Arrange for me to swing from the gallows tree you mean."

To the lovely Scarlet Angel Palma said, "I have the idea you'd be just right for our Brides Magazine. Yeah, I can see you in a tasteful two-page spread demurely dressed in white-"

"Would I not have to be wed to appear in Brides?"

"Not essential. What's important is that fresh, innocent glow you so obviously possess."

"I have tried to retain my innocence in the face of great odds," said the redhead "Ho!" exclaimed Squinteye Jim. "Here's another money pouch hidden in his armpit, and this one bulging with silver Jolines."

"I do wish you'd spare those, sir. They're the proceeds from the Benefit Barn Sale for the Lame and Halt Veterans of the-"

"Kill him first, then search him," suggested Hawkes. "It will spare us all this gab."

"Too bad I won't be able to photograph you," said Palma.

"Why not?" She tapped a camera with the barrel of one of her pistols. "You have all the necessary equipment."

"The big stumbling block, Angel, is my forthcoming demise."

"Oh, I can talk them out of killing you. They owe me a favor for letting them keep the girl scouts from the picnic we raided last month."

Palma grinned. "I'd appreciate your interceding," he said. "Might I ask one more small favor?"

"You have but to put it into words."

"My traveling companion, Squire Silcote, is an essential part of my crew," said Palma. "He holds various pieces of gear, is an expert on lighting."

"Surely Squinteye could hold your things."

"I don't like to dwell on a man's handicaps, Angel, but I need an a.s.sistant with keen vision. A guy who's earned the nickname Squinteye doesn't sound as though-"

The girl said, "Jonathan would never help you, so I guess well have to spare the squire." She walked around the coach.

Squinteye Jim drew out a blood-caked knife from his leather belt. "Prepare to meet-"

"Hold," said the Scarlet Angel.

"What?"

"I wish him alive."

"Gnats! I'm blowed if I'll-"

"He is to live." The girl pointed both the pistols at Squinteye Jim.

"But I've worked myself up to pigsticking this bloke, girl."

"Gather up the money and stand aside, Squint, else I'll fry your liver and lights."

"Here now, Angel! What's all this?" Hawkes strode up to them, a giant man and a good half of him metal. His right arm was aluminum, the top of his head copper, his right leg from the knee down stainless steel. The kilt outfit he favored revealed most of his metallic additions and subst.i.tutions, "I want the hairless one and this one," the girl told him.

"What for?"

"You've no reason to question and nag at me, Johnny. I want them both, that's it,"

Hawkes rubbed his flesh fingers along his silvery arm, "You know I never tire of doing you favors, Angel, and yet-"

"Load up this morning's takings, and let's have no more arguing," she said."Very well." Hawkes gave a brief nod, then walked to his horse.

Palma let out his breath, wiped the sweat from his scalp, and climbed out of the stage.

Squinteye Jim laughed. If you tire of them as swiftly as you've tired of all the rest, Angel," he said, "I'll have the pleasure of slicing them both up before long."

A few moments later they were all ready to depart With Palma mounted on one of the freed coach horses and the squire on another the party rode away along a forest bypath.

"Don't let Squint's remarks unsettle you," said the girl, who rode alongside Palma. "I'm not so fickle as-"