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THE PHANTOM PISTOLEER RIDES AGAIN, part 3

by

Clyde Preston

"I just...well, I'll tell you, Jung-La, I couldn't believe my very eyes!"

It was a beautiful early evening in New York City, a surprisingly warm day finally cooling off as two members of the superteam called The Odds walked leisurely along the Upper West Side border of Central Park, as anonymous in their civilian identities as any pair of beautiful women in clingy spring dresses could be. They swung a couple of shopping bags in their hands, laughing brightly. The one with the untamed mane of blonde hair had been a small town sheriff in Tennessee before coming to the Big Apple to become the queen of the urban jungle. The lankier one with the long, chestnut-brown ponytail had been, up until a year ago, the most legendary masked crimefighter in the Old West. And, the night before, she had just viewed her first pornographic film.

"I mean, there she was," Quincy continued, "There was Terry with - with her sweet little friend I've met before, Karen-"

"Glow-Girl," Jung-la added.

"And - and what they were doing!"

Jung-la bumped her shoulder against Quincy as they walked, "Oh, come on now, sugar! Don't tell me it's nothin' you haven't done before!"

Crimson bloomed in the topmost of Quincy's cheeks and she spoke through an abashed smile that highlighted the adorable space between her two front teeth, "I may've been born a hunnert-and-fifty-three years ago, but I'm no prude. Thirsty Faun and I, well, we could've shown those girls a thing or two-"

"Oh?" Jung-la interjected with a waggle of her eyebrows.

"But that ain't the point!" Quincy blurted, then shut her eyes and corrected herself, "Isn't. Isn't the point. My grammar slips a bit when my blood is up. Daddy always hated that. What I was so struck by wasn't what Terry and Karen were doin' so much as the fact that they put that - that show out there for folks to see!"

"You watched the first part of it, didn't you? Where they explained what they did it for?"

"I did. It was some sort of charity for people in China who got whomped by some tsunami."

"Exactly," Jung-la continued, "And, if it makes you feel any better, Terry took some convincing to do it. But, in the end, she knew it would help those victims a lot more than she, with all her power, could. And it did! It made so much money for those people!"

Quincy looked reluctant to cede the point, "Well, sure, that's good an' all. It's just- This is gonna be one of those times where you just have to shake your head an' say 'a lot has changed while you were gone, Quincy,' but-" She lifted one of her bags for emphasis, "This is a world where there're stores that sell just shoes - shoes that cost more than five head of blue-ribbon beef cattle!" She swung out her arm to indicate the crowds wandering about the park, "A world where folks are too busy shovin' their faces in their little TV-phones to look around at the only patch of green splendor in this whole city! And a world where somebody would willingly put movin' pictures of themselves in the act of, eh, physical congress out into the world, good intentions aside-"

Jung-la had patiently waited through her friend's rant and now she pointedly shook her head, "A lot has changed since you were gone, Quincy." And now she loosed a pent-up laugh and added, "'Physical congress'...!"

Quincy's shoulders drooped from the good-natured ribbing and she sighed, "I don't know how I'll ever be able to look Terry in the eye again..."

It was as she was trying to avoid meeting Jung-la's own overly amused gaze, that Quincy spotted a most welcome sight - and distraction. "Why, hello there, beautiful," she said, instantly dropping her previous discomfort,
turning from her friend and walking toward the hot dog cart just yards away.

This momentarily confused Jung-la who was brushing tears of laughter from her eyes. "Wuh- You can't be hungry again-" And then she saw who Quincy was making a beeline for and it all made sense.

An officer of the NYPD's mounted police had stopped at the hot dog cart and had dismounted his horse to grab a bite. Quincy was already stroking a hand along the animal's withers when Jung-la joined her. "What's her name?" Quincy was asking the officer, who replied in the courteous-but-wary manner of most police while squirting brown mustard onto his hotdog.

"Latoya."

The horse's ears twitched at the sound of her name while also turning its head to peer at Quincy, the look in its enormous black eyes seeming to say, You may continue doing that, strange human.

"Well, she's a sweet thing, aren't you, Latoya?" Upon noticing Jung-la's presence, Quincy animatedly addressed her, "You guys never told me that the local constables rode horses too!"

Jung-la noticed the policeman's subtle reaction to the oddness of Quincy's statement and rushed to explain, "My friend here is visiting from Texas."

"That's right," Quincy affirmed, "And I just haven't seen a horse in - well, longer than you could imagine." She was now smoothing the silky slope of Latoya's charcoal gray muzzle, the horse bowing its head to allow this. "Is she a Percheron?"

The cop warmed slightly at this, answering around a mouthful of food, "Yeah, and a quarter Arabian. Good eye."

Quincy nodded but still kept her eyes on her new friend, looking deeply into the animal's face. An expression of sadness dawned across Quincy's attractive features. "I know a little about horses," she said without it sounding like a brag, "I think Latoya here's a mite bored and flabby. Do you run her?"

The cop's momentary flash of good humor vanished. "We take excellent care of our horses, ma'am," he said testily.

"No, no, I'm sure you do, deputy-"

"That's 'Officer Ramirez'-"

Jung-la could see this had taken a turn and was reaching for Quincy's arm to escort her away when they heard the sounds. An echoing cluster of "pops" from down the street that, at this distance, might easily be dismissed as the backfiring of a car or even balloons popping, but the trained ears of the two Odds and the NYPD cop recognized those sounds immediately - gunfire!

Officer Ramirez, Quincy and Jung-la looked off down 8th Avenue where, amongst the still-busy street traffic of late rush hour, they could just make out some chaotic activity outside the Hutton-Reich Diamond Exchange. Two men running from the building, trading bullets with a matching pair of security guards. The thieves were better armed, firing back with handheld sub-automatics, spraying in a cone behind them as they ran. One of the security guards and a couple of innocent pedestrians dropped under the fusillade.

Jung-la, her pulse thrumming, turned to Quincy...only to discover that her friend had disappeared. Quincy faded back into view just seconds later, now dressed in the revised, abbreviated version of the Phantom Pistoleer costume designed by their teammate Aideen. Jung-la's jaw dropped and she hissed under her breath in order to keep Ramirez from hearing, "Are you sure?!" Quincy, her eyes sharp, just nodded.

For his part, the police officer was unaware of Quincy's spectral quick-change, his eyes glued to the crime in progress, his radio to his mouth as he made an excited report. So focused was he on this, that he didn't notice the slender masked woman in the cowboy hat swinging herself into the saddle of his mount. Not until he felt the reins jerking out of his hands. He looked up, dumbstruck at the vision before him.

"I'll bring her right back, officer," the masked woman said with a surprisingly masculine growl. She then clucked her tongue and spurred the heavy horse, "Hyup, Latoya! Hyaa!" And all Officer Freddie Ramirez could do was issue a feeble, "Hey - stop!", fumbling for his gun as a half-naked cowgirl rode off on his partner.

Half a block down from the Diamond Exchange, the two armed thieves ran for a souped-up but outwardly unassuming silver Mitsubishi Lancer Evo which idled at the curb. One of the men covered the street with his gun while the other tossed their bags of loot into the back; then both dove into the car while their driver accomplice gunned the gas and peeled away with a cinema-worthy squeal and burnt-rubber smoke trail. The unharmed security guard chose not to risk a shot at the car and instead knelt beside his fallen friend.

The getaway driver, eyes shielded behind sunglasses, expertly steered around the other cars on the avenue, most of whom were already trying to get out of his way. He was a natural with a professional racer's gift for handling his machine; he'd made countless practice runs of his route through every possible configuration of traffic. He was prepared for any contingency - except for the woman on horseback galloping the wrong way down the middle of the street, aiming right for his car.

Had she a moment to spare for reflection, Quincy Burden would have appreciated the bizarre spectacle she was creating, but she was too focused on her movement, her hastily conceived strategy. This wasn't anything like what she had done back in nineteenth century Texas. Instead of driving her beloved stallion Shade along behind stagecoaches and trains, here she was urging a nervous borrowed horse forward on what appeared to every witnessing eye to be a suicide charge at a speeding car. She pulled one of her Colts from its holster, took a negligible half-second to aim, and fired.

The windshield of the car spider-webbed out from the hole made by her bullet, the same bullet that had punched into the shoulder of the car's driver. The impact was blazing hot and slammed him back against his seat, but, even through the onset of intense pain, he recovered his control of the wheel. The Mitsubishi scraped along the side of a parked UPS truck but ricocheted off in a spit of brilliant gold sparks and returned to the center of its lane minus some paint and a side mirror.

"The fuck-?!" the thief in the passenger's side exclaimed, his face now sprayed with his colleague's blood. He brought the pistol that he had never released from his grip to bear. He shoved his gun hand out of his open window and pointed the weapon at the cowgirl who was now mere yards from their car. He squeezed the trigger and felt the satisfying kick and stutter of a volley of hot lead loosed in a tight arc at his target.

A volley that seemed to have no effect as she galloped on. Had every bullet missed?

There was no time to make sense of that senselessness before a second shot from the masked woman shattered the gunman's hand and sent his pistol clattering onto the street.

This exchange had only occupied a few seconds and the distance between the two barreling objects had nearly closed. The Mitsubishi's driver, teeth gritted against the pain and head already swimming from blood loss, adjusted the vehicle's course, aiming it directly at the woman on the horse and floored the accelerator, less out of certainty that the car would survive the impact and more out of anger and spite.

Quincy knew what was coming, could see the inevitable as clearly as she could see her reflection in the chrome of the car barely a man's length from her. She could feel the physical terror shudder through Latoya and she leaned forward in a jockey's crouch, offering a reassuring stroke along the horse's neck. One final gesture before impact.

The witnesses to this bizarre event, many wisely ducking into nearby storefronts or behind other parked vehicles for cover, stared with dread and perverse fascination as the two bodies - hurtling, metallic construct and galloping, terrified beast - met in the middle of the street. And then collectively gasped as the car drove through the horse and rider as if they were composed of nothing more than smoke.

With no resistance met, the thieves' Mitsubishi sped unchecked across the lanes of 8th Avenue and up onto the curb, the driver belatedly hitting the brakes, effectively reducing their speed from 48 MPH to 33 before slamming into an iron light post that screamed and buckled as the car tried to throw itself around the pole in a sickening hug.

In the distance, police and ambulance sirens broke through the city noise.

Quincy wheeled Latoya about and drove her after the Mitsubishi. The car was hissing, smoking and still. She was nearly at the wreck, Latoya's hooves stamping on broken glass, when the car's rear door opened and the third robber, the only one still conscious after the wreck, stumbled out, eyes wild, hauling the bags of loot from the diamond exchange and making a break for it. None present could discern what exactly this thief thought his chances were as he ran for the modest cover of the park. They were equally thrown by the masked cowgirl's delay in pursuing him.

Of course Quincy saw him, kept an eye on his progress, but she had also become aware of her friend Jung-la poised nearby, freshly changed into her own unmistakable crimefighting outfit which was a scandalously sparse bikini of synthetic tiger pelt. Having observed the entire incident, Jung-la shot a questioning look Quincy's way. Want some help?

In answer to the unspoken query, Quincy rode Latoya up to the Queen of the Urban Jungle and put out a hand. "You think I might borrow your rope, Jung-la?"

With a bemused smirk, Jung-la handed over her specially fabricated length of multi-polymer fiber which normally hung in a wound loop at her waist. As if she had all the time in the world, Quincy deftly tied a hoop at one end, making an expert lariat. Once completed to her satisfaction, she suddenly spurred Latoya into a gallop. The heavy police mount bolted forward, obeying Quincy's urging and taking her up onto the sidewalk and into the park, trampling through the manicured picnic ground on course for the sprinting robber. It would be a safe assumption that none of the witnesses to this chase had ever seen a live rodeo, but on this day they were getting a taste of that world as Quincy drove the borrowed horse towards the running man, twirling the lariat over her head. Almost on top of her target, the thief suddenly cut left - a move that she deftly anticipated, correcting her aim before letting her rope fly.

It was a sight. Not only the sizable loop landing adroitly over the thief's shoulders, but also Quincy's perfectly synchronized reining of Latoya and one-armed yank of the lariat, cinching the loop and pulling the robber off his feet, the bags of stolen goods tumbling right out of his hands as he went down hard. Latoya reared in place and snorted and Quincy slid from the saddle, using both hands now to secure the man on the ground. She tied his wrists together behind his back while he scrabbled with both feet in an effort to pick up and continue on his way.

"You cowboy bitch!" he shouted, spraying saliva.

"You just rest yourself now," she told him in the rougher, deeper voice that came with the mask, "Only place you're bound is the hoosegow." She trained one of her Colts on the thief to underscore her words.

In a wink, a score of NYPD officers rushed towards them, with Jung-la and a red-faced Officer Ramirez in the lead. Quincy greeted them with, "You got the other two?"

Jung-la nodded, "They're being loaded into ambulances right now. They'll be fine."

As a couple of the officers cuffed the robber and another collected the recovered bags of loot, Ramirez clutched Latoya's reins in one hand and leveled his service piece at Quincy, "Drop your weapons, lady, and put your hands behind your head!"

"What?" Quincy and Jung-la said in unison.

"You're under arrest for the theft of municipal property!"

"'Municipal-?' You mean Latoya?" Quincy was genuinely confused. "I told you I'd bring her right back, safe an' unharmed, and I did just that. She's a fine horse, Officer Ramirez, and I thank you for the loan."

Ramirez was thrown, still holding his gun on Quincy, but looking to his fellow officers for support - which apparently wasn't coming. "You can't just-"

Jung-la retrieved her rope and was winding it as she tried to mediate, "It's all right, officers. This woman here is a new member of The Odds and I can vouch for her. We're all on the same side."

One of the gathered cops gestured with his hand, "At ease, Ramirez."

Ramirez reluctantly lowered his weapon, offering one last weak protest, "But-"

The same cop was now appraising Quincy with something between professional and prurient interest, "A new member of the Odds, huh? And what do we call you?"

Off this, Jung-la turned to Quincy with a look of shared curiosity.

Consequence Burden, born in the tintype world of 1863, slid her Peacemaker back into its well-oiled holster and looked back at her friend and then the questioning police officer, squinting in the falling sunlight as she tipped her hat back and grinned. "You can call me The Phantom Pistoleer."

And with that, she threw a tired but satisfied arm over Jung-la's shoulders and ambled away, the assembled policemen all looking after them.

"You mean, like the guy on the TV show?" Officer Ramirez called at her back.

"More than you know," Quincy called back with a laugh. And perhaps it was a trick of the mind or the wind, but Quincy could've sworn, for just a second, that she caught a snatch of the musical tones of Thirsty Faun at Morning's laugh joining hers.

Her face broke into a smile that would take days to fade.

THE END

Description
body div#devskin0 hr { }

THE PHANTOM PISTOLEER RIDES AGAIN, part 3

by

Clyde Preston

"I just...well, I'll tell you, Jung-La, I couldn't believe my very eyes!"

It was a beautiful early evening in New York City, a surprisingly warm day finally cooling off as two members of the superteam called The Odds walked leisurely along the Upper West Side border of Central Park, as anonymous in their civilian identities as any pair of beautiful women in clingy spring dresses could be. They swung a couple of shopping bags in their hands, laughing brightly. The one with the untamed mane of blonde hair had been a small town sheriff in Tennessee before coming to the Big Apple to become the queen of the urban jungle. The lankier one with the long, chestnut-brown ponytail had been, up until a year ago, the most legendary masked crimefighter in the Old West. And, the night before, she had just viewed her first pornographic film.

"I mean, there she was," Quincy continued, "There was Terry with - with her sweet little friend I've met before, Karen-"

"Glow-Girl," Jung-la added.

"And - and what they were doing!"

Jung-la bumped her shoulder against Quincy as they walked, "Oh, come on now, sugar! Don't tell me it's nothin' you haven't done before!"

Crimson bloomed in the topmost of Quincy's cheeks and she spoke through an abashed smile that highlighted the adorable space between her two front teeth, "I may've been born a hunnert-and-fifty-three years ago, but I'm no prude. Thirsty Faun and I, well, we could've shown those girls a thing or two-"

"Oh?" Jung-la interjected with a waggle of her eyebrows.

"But that ain't the point!" Quincy blurted, then shut her eyes and corrected herself, "Isn't. Isn't the point. My grammar slips a bit when my blood is up. Daddy always hated that. What I was so struck by wasn't what Terry and Karen were doin' so much as the fact that they put that - that show out there for folks to see!"

"You watched the first part of it, didn't you? Where they explained what they did it for?"

"I did. It was some sort of charity for people in China who got whomped by some tsunami."

"Exactly," Jung-la continued, "And, if it makes you feel any better, Terry took some convincing to do it. But, in the end, she knew it would help those victims a lot more than she, with all her power, could. And it did! It made so much money for those people!"

Quincy looked reluctant to cede the point, "Well, sure, that's good an' all. It's just- This is gonna be one of those times where you just have to shake your head an' say 'a lot has changed while you were gone, Quincy,' but-" She lifted one of her bags for emphasis, "This is a world where there're stores that sell just shoes - shoes that cost more than five head of blue-ribbon beef cattle!" She swung out her arm to indicate the crowds wandering about the park, "A world where folks are too busy shovin' their faces in their little TV-phones to look around at the only patch of green splendor in this whole city! And a world where somebody would willingly put movin' pictures of themselves in the act of, eh, physical congress out into the world, good intentions aside-"

Jung-la had patiently waited through her friend's rant and now she pointedly shook her head, "A lot has changed since you were gone, Quincy." And now she loosed a pent-up laugh and added, "'Physical congress'...!"

Quincy's shoulders drooped from the good-natured ribbing and she sighed, "I don't know how I'll ever be able to look Terry in the eye again..."

It was as she was trying to avoid meeting Jung-la's own overly amused gaze, that Quincy spotted a most welcome sight - and distraction. "Why, hello there, beautiful," she said, instantly dropping her previous discomfort,
turning from her friend and walking toward the hot dog cart just yards away.

This momentarily confused Jung-la who was brushing tears of laughter from her eyes. "Wuh- You can't be hungry again-" And then she saw who Quincy was making a beeline for and it all made sense.

An officer of the NYPD's mounted police had stopped at the hot dog cart and had dismounted his horse to grab a bite. Quincy was already stroking a hand along the animal's withers when Jung-la joined her. "What's her name?" Quincy was asking the officer, who replied in the courteous-but-wary manner of most police while squirting brown mustard onto his hotdog.

"Latoya."

The horse's ears twitched at the sound of her name while also turning its head to peer at Quincy, the look in its enormous black eyes seeming to say, You may continue doing that, strange human.

"Well, she's a sweet thing, aren't you, Latoya?" Upon noticing Jung-la's presence, Quincy animatedly addressed her, "You guys never told me that the local constables rode horses too!"

Jung-la noticed the policeman's subtle reaction to the oddness of Quincy's statement and rushed to explain, "My friend here is visiting from Texas."

"That's right," Quincy affirmed, "And I just haven't seen a horse in - well, longer than you could imagine." She was now smoothing the silky slope of Latoya's charcoal gray muzzle, the horse bowing its head to allow this. "Is she a Percheron?"

The cop warmed slightly at this, answering around a mouthful of food, "Yeah, and a quarter Arabian. Good eye."

Quincy nodded but still kept her eyes on her new friend, looking deeply into the animal's face. An expression of sadness dawned across Quincy's attractive features. "I know a little about horses," she said without it sounding like a brag, "I think Latoya here's a mite bored and flabby. Do you run her?"

The cop's momentary flash of good humor vanished. "We take excellent care of our horses, ma'am," he said testily.

"No, no, I'm sure you do, deputy-"

"That's 'Officer Ramirez'-"

Jung-la could see this had taken a turn and was reaching for Quincy's arm to escort her away when they heard the sounds. An echoing cluster of "pops" from down the street that, at this distance, might easily be dismissed as the backfiring of a car or even balloons popping, but the trained ears of the two Odds and the NYPD cop recognized those sounds immediately - gunfire!

Officer Ramirez, Quincy and Jung-la looked off down 8th Avenue where, amongst the still-busy street traffic of late rush hour, they could just make out some chaotic activity outside the Hutton-Reich Diamond Exchange. Two men running from the building, trading bullets with a matching pair of security guards. The thieves were better armed, firing back with handheld sub-automatics, spraying in a cone behind them as they ran. One of the security guards and a couple of innocent pedestrians dropped under the fusillade.

Jung-la, her pulse thrumming, turned to Quincy...only to discover that her friend had disappeared. Quincy faded back into view just seconds later, now dressed in the revised, abbreviated version of the Phantom Pistoleer costume designed by their teammate Aideen. Jung-la's jaw dropped and she hissed under her breath in order to keep Ramirez from hearing, "Are you sure?!" Quincy, her eyes sharp, just nodded.

For his part, the police officer was unaware of Quincy's spectral quick-change, his eyes glued to the crime in progress, his radio to his mouth as he made an excited report. So focused was he on this, that he didn't notice the slender masked woman in the cowboy hat swinging herself into the saddle of his mount. Not until he felt the reins jerking out of his hands. He looked up, dumbstruck at the vision before him.

"I'll bring her right back, officer," the masked woman said with a surprisingly masculine growl. She then clucked her tongue and spurred the heavy horse, "Hyup, Latoya! Hyaa!" And all Officer Freddie Ramirez could do was issue a feeble, "Hey - stop!", fumbling for his gun as a half-naked cowgirl rode off on his partner.

Half a block down from the Diamond Exchange, the two armed thieves ran for a souped-up but outwardly unassuming silver Mitsubishi Lancer Evo which idled at the curb. One of the men covered the street with his gun while the other tossed their bags of loot into the back; then both dove into the car while their driver accomplice gunned the gas and peeled away with a cinema-worthy squeal and burnt-rubber smoke trail. The unharmed security guard chose not to risk a shot at the car and instead knelt beside his fallen friend.

The getaway driver, eyes shielded behind sunglasses, expertly steered around the other cars on the avenue, most of whom were already trying to get out of his way. He was a natural with a professional racer's gift for handling his machine; he'd made countless practice runs of his route through every possible configuration of traffic. He was prepared for any contingency - except for the woman on horseback galloping the wrong way down the middle of the street, aiming right for his car.

Had she a moment to spare for reflection, Quincy Burden would have appreciated the bizarre spectacle she was creating, but she was too focused on her movement, her hastily conceived strategy. This wasn't anything like what she had done back in nineteenth century Texas. Instead of driving her beloved stallion Shade along behind stagecoaches and trains, here she was urging a nervous borrowed horse forward on what appeared to every witnessing eye to be a suicide charge at a speeding car. She pulled one of her Colts from its holster, took a negligible half-second to aim, and fired.

The windshield of the car spider-webbed out from the hole made by her bullet, the same bullet that had punched into the shoulder of the car's driver. The impact was blazing hot and slammed him back against his seat, but, even through the onset of intense pain, he recovered his control of the wheel. The Mitsubishi scraped along the side of a parked UPS truck but ricocheted off in a spit of brilliant gold sparks and returned to the center of its lane minus some paint and a side mirror.

"The fuck-?!" the thief in the passenger's side exclaimed, his face now sprayed with his colleague's blood. He brought the pistol that he had never released from his grip to bear. He shoved his gun hand out of his open window and pointed the weapon at the cowgirl who was now mere yards from their car. He squeezed the trigger and felt the satisfying kick and stutter of a volley of hot lead loosed in a tight arc at his target.

A volley that seemed to have no effect as she galloped on. Had every bullet missed?

There was no time to make sense of that senselessness before a second shot from the masked woman shattered the gunman's hand and sent his pistol clattering onto the street.

This exchange had only occupied a few seconds and the distance between the two barreling objects had nearly closed. The Mitsubishi's driver, teeth gritted against the pain and head already swimming from blood loss, adjusted the vehicle's course, aiming it directly at the woman on the horse and floored the accelerator, less out of certainty that the car would survive the impact and more out of anger and spite.

Quincy knew what was coming, could see the inevitable as clearly as she could see her reflection in the chrome of the car barely a man's length from her. She could feel the physical terror shudder through Latoya and she leaned forward in a jockey's crouch, offering a reassuring stroke along the horse's neck. One final gesture before impact.

The witnesses to this bizarre event, many wisely ducking into nearby storefronts or behind other parked vehicles for cover, stared with dread and perverse fascination as the two bodies - hurtling, metallic construct and galloping, terrified beast - met in the middle of the street. And then collectively gasped as the car drove through the horse and rider as if they were composed of nothing more than smoke.

With no resistance met, the thieves' Mitsubishi sped unchecked across the lanes of 8th Avenue and up onto the curb, the driver belatedly hitting the brakes, effectively reducing their speed from 48 MPH to 33 before slamming into an iron light post that screamed and buckled as the car tried to throw itself around the pole in a sickening hug.

In the distance, police and ambulance sirens broke through the city noise.

Quincy wheeled Latoya about and drove her after the Mitsubishi. The car was hissing, smoking and still. She was nearly at the wreck, Latoya's hooves stamping on broken glass, when the car's rear door opened and the third robber, the only one still conscious after the wreck, stumbled out, eyes wild, hauling the bags of loot from the diamond exchange and making a break for it. None present could discern what exactly this thief thought his chances were as he ran for the modest cover of the park. They were equally thrown by the masked cowgirl's delay in pursuing him.

Of course Quincy saw him, kept an eye on his progress, but she had also become aware of her friend Jung-la poised nearby, freshly changed into her own unmistakable crimefighting outfit which was a scandalously sparse bikini of synthetic tiger pelt. Having observed the entire incident, Jung-la shot a questioning look Quincy's way. Want some help?

In answer to the unspoken query, Quincy rode Latoya up to the Queen of the Urban Jungle and put out a hand. "You think I might borrow your rope, Jung-la?"

With a bemused smirk, Jung-la handed over her specially fabricated length of multi-polymer fiber which normally hung in a wound loop at her waist. As if she had all the time in the world, Quincy deftly tied a hoop at one end, making an expert lariat. Once completed to her satisfaction, she suddenly spurred Latoya into a gallop. The heavy police mount bolted forward, obeying Quincy's urging and taking her up onto the sidewalk and into the park, trampling through the manicured picnic ground on course for the sprinting robber. It would be a safe assumption that none of the witnesses to this chase had ever seen a live rodeo, but on this day they were getting a taste of that world as Quincy drove the borrowed horse towards the running man, twirling the lariat over her head. Almost on top of her target, the thief suddenly cut left - a move that she deftly anticipated, correcting her aim before letting her rope fly.

It was a sight. Not only the sizable loop landing adroitly over the thief's shoulders, but also Quincy's perfectly synchronized reining of Latoya and one-armed yank of the lariat, cinching the loop and pulling the robber off his feet, the bags of stolen goods tumbling right out of his hands as he went down hard. Latoya reared in place and snorted and Quincy slid from the saddle, using both hands now to secure the man on the ground. She tied his wrists together behind his back while he scrabbled with both feet in an effort to pick up and continue on his way.

"You cowboy bitch!" he shouted, spraying saliva.

"You just rest yourself now," she told him in the rougher, deeper voice that came with the mask, "Only place you're bound is the hoosegow." She trained one of her Colts on the thief to underscore her words.

In a wink, a score of NYPD officers rushed towards them, with Jung-la and a red-faced Officer Ramirez in the lead. Quincy greeted them with, "You got the other two?"

Jung-la nodded, "They're being loaded into ambulances right now. They'll be fine."

As a couple of the officers cuffed the robber and another collected the recovered bags of loot, Ramirez clutched Latoya's reins in one hand and leveled his service piece at Quincy, "Drop your weapons, lady, and put your hands behind your head!"

"What?" Quincy and Jung-la said in unison.

"You're under arrest for the theft of municipal property!"

"'Municipal-?' You mean Latoya?" Quincy was genuinely confused. "I told you I'd bring her right back, safe an' unharmed, and I did just that. She's a fine horse, Officer Ramirez, and I thank you for the loan."

Ramirez was thrown, still holding his gun on Quincy, but looking to his fellow officers for support - which apparently wasn't coming. "You can't just-"

Jung-la retrieved her rope and was winding it as she tried to mediate, "It's all right, officers. This woman here is a new member of The Odds and I can vouch for her. We're all on the same side."

One of the gathered cops gestured with his hand, "At ease, Ramirez."

Ramirez reluctantly lowered his weapon, offering one last weak protest, "But-"

The same cop was now appraising Quincy with something between professional and prurient interest, "A new member of the Odds, huh? And what do we call you?"

Off this, Jung-la turned to Quincy with a look of shared curiosity.

Consequence Burden, born in the tintype world of 1863, slid her Peacemaker back into its well-oiled holster and looked back at her friend and then the questioning police officer, squinting in the falling sunlight as she tipped her hat back and grinned. "You can call me The Phantom Pistoleer."

And with that, she threw a tired but satisfied arm over Jung-la's shoulders and ambled away, the assembled policemen all looking after them.

"You mean, like the guy on the TV show?" Officer Ramirez called at her back.

"More than you know," Quincy called back with a laugh. And perhaps it was a trick of the mind or the wind, but Quincy could've sworn, for just a second, that she caught a snatch of the musical tones of Thirsty Faun at Morning's laugh joining hers.

Her face broke into a smile that would take days to fade.

THE END