Man, I just don’t like Wilkinson for some reason.
No need to bother, though: by the time I had slapped another magazine of bolts into the hopper, the cops had shown up. The surviving ambushers weren’t dumb, so they turned tail and ran the minute the cavalry hove into view. Which meant that they left behind their dead and wounded, but that’s how bandits do.
I went back to retrieve my pepperbox, because that weapon was expensive and I didn’t know if I could replace it in Maysville. It took longer than I expected to find it. Why, we must have been going fifteen miles an hour at one point!
Wilkinson was staring at his luggage when I came back. It was hanging off the side of the stagecoach by one strap, and looked pretty battered, but that’s what luggage is for, right? I wouldn’t really know, because I try to pack light when I’m on the job. Still, it was kind of my fault, so as I came to a stop next to him I said “You gonna need help getting that down the rest of the way?”
As if it had been waiting for me to say that, the last strap gave and the luggage dropped to the ground. The hinges didn’t quite survive the impact, either. Hell, the whole thing practically smashed itself to splinters.
“Guess not,” I said.
Some people are just made to suffer.