According to Hoyle (10 page)

B
AT
S
TRINGER
sat astride his horse, waiting outside the telegraph office of the newly settled town of Talmage, Nebraska. The Missouri Pacific Railroad was being run right through the modest town, which made it a busy little point of trade for agricultural and mercantile goods. Lots of new people came through every month, and a few men on horseback riding through town weren’t given a second glance by the few people who called themselves local residents.

Stringer and his men had been all over the damn frozen prairie the last month, following the crates sent out from Fort Richardson after the soldiers had pulled something out of the ground near the Rosebud River. There was a lot of gold in those crates, or so it appeared. The crates were marked and guarded as if they carried ore. Stringer wondered about all that rock he’d watched the soldiers load, though. What could the government possibly want with crates and crates of worthless rock?

The soldiers escorting the shipments were well-armed and on the alert, with far too much firepower for eight men to take on, even men as hard and well-practiced with a gun as the Border Scouts.

The plan from the government man, however, did not require them to take on a battalion of soldiers, as the obnoxious Englishman Gabriel Rose had believed it would. It was a complicated plan, though, one that was taking much more time and manpower than Stringer had anticipated, but it was impressive in its simplicity.

You couldn’t just attack a band of soldiers and steal something without the country taking notice, not even in Nebraska. It could be blamed on hostile Indians, but the trouble with that tack was that most of the hostiles in the area had been cleared out and the ones left wanted land, not gold.

The operation required some finesse and trickery, neither of which were Stringer’s strong-points. He was fortunate, though. He knew that he was better served as a blunt instrument than as a mastermind. Most men didn’t even know that much about themselves. He wished Jack Kale were still around, for more than one reason. He missed the man, even though their last meeting had been a violent one. And Kale had possessed the backbone and the brains to pull something like this off without a hitch.

It was a plot Jack Kale would have liked.

Stringer sighed and glanced around as his men loitered about in front of the telegraph office. The telegraph they were sending today was the first step. They just had to make certain it wouldn’t get sent too soon or the entire thing would be blown.

Frank Alvarado stepped out onto the raised walkway in front of the telegraph office and met Stringer’s eyes. His gaunt face was pinched with exhaustion and stress, and his stringy blond hair looked as if he’d been trying to rip it out. He nodded curtly at Stringer and made his way to the horse tied to the hitching post nearby.

Stringer turned his own horse wordlessly, knowing the rest of his men would follow. They had a lot of work to do now, finding expendable men in the days that were to come.

T
HE
dog was once more following at a distance as they traveled. Flynn carried a pocketful of small stones with him as he rode, and whenever the dog came too close, he would toss one at the mutt to back him up.

Rose had earned himself a new mode of transportation; he walked behind the wagon, tied to the rear axle, as the mule plodded along. His new station in life and the blood that caked behind his ear seemed to have gone a long way toward silencing him.

Flynn had refused to allow Cage to clean the wound, despite the silent pleading the big man managed. It was obvious that Rose and Cage had developed some sort of connection in the short time they had been traveling together. Flynn’s suddenly spiteful nature made him want to separate them for it.

The only words Rose had spoken that day were to insist that he had not intended to escape and wasn’t trying to kill Flynn, only stop him from shooting the dog.

“He’s trained to fetch keys,” he had told them as he’d watched the rest of them eat breakfast. He had not been offered food that morning, nor would he be offered supper if Flynn had anything to say about it. Wash would probably intervene. He was too softhearted, in Flynn’s opinion.

“If you didn’t tell him to do it, why’d you take ’em from him?” Wash had inquired neutrally. It had always been a trait Flynn admired in Wash, his ability to listen to everyone’s side of a story before making a decision about something. It made him a fair man. It made him a good man. But that morning, it just made him annoying.

“Because he’s also trained to get rid of them after he’s done it,” Rose had answered. “And if he had done so, we’d never get the damn things off us, would we? I feared he would get confused and take off with them.”

“Real saint, ain’t ya?” Flynn had growled. He hadn’t been in the mood for any of Rose’s excuses.

“But you used them after you took them from him,” Wash had pointed out calmly before Rose could respond to Flynn. “Tried to escape. Tried to kill a US Marshal.”

“I wasn’t trying to kill him. He was going to shoot my dog.”

“I was going to shoot
you
, but you were off hiding amongst the willows, weren’t you?”

“Being shot at is a good reason to duck, Marshal.”

Hudson had laughed as he ate his bacon, enjoying the sideshow more than Flynn thought he ought to have. Cage had sat with his head lowered, as if he thought he was somehow at fault and might receive punishment as well. It had made Flynn wonder just what he and Rose had been talking about under that wagon.

Wash had sat and examined Rose for a long time as he ate the rest of his meal in silence.

Flynn still wondered, as they rode on, what his friend had been contemplating as he stared. The possibilities worried him. Wash had already shown that he had a soft spot for the tractable Cage and his inability to communicate verbally. If he started listening to Rose’s lies as well
—
sympathizing with him
—
then they were in trouble.

They just needed to get to St. Louis before all hell broke loose. After that, Cage and Hudson would be the Army’s problem again and Flynn could always throw Rose in the Mississippi as they headed downriver.

T
HE
next two days went by in relative peace. It wasn’t until the eighth day of travel that the tensions began to boil over and Hudson finally tried to kill Rose.

Flynn obviously had not given the big man quite as much credit as his intelligence warranted, meager though it may have been. Hudson waited until Flynn and Wash had put the three of them to work, gathering fuel for the fire, before he struck. The three prisoners were chained to each other, walking across the flat plains and gathering bits of old, broken wagon and cow chips for the fire. Flynn and Wash knew that, even if they were stupid enough to try to escape, they would have nowhere to go and very little time to get there.

They hadn’t expected trouble, at least not this sort.

Gabriel Rose was exhausted from having to ride shank’s mare behind the wagon, and Hudson knew it. And he knew Flynn and Wash had been lulled into a sense of false security by the monotony of the travel. He also knew that neither marshal would be close enough to stop him before he could do Rose in. They were going to hang him back East anyway; he had nothing to lose. A large enough rock and an opportunity were all he had been waiting for.

Flynn was squatting, trying to coax the fire to life with the dry kindling he had collected, a job Wash couldn’t do with just his one hand. Wash was following the prisoners with his shotgun, and it wasn’t until Wash shouted that Flynn knew anything had happened at all. By the time Flynn got to them, Rose was on the ground with the wound behind his ear bleeding freely once more, and Hudson was on his belly, flailing under Cage’s oilskin moccasin, with the barrel of Wash’s shotgun at the back of his neck.

“What happened?” Flynn asked breathlessly.

“Went at him with a rock,” Wash panted in answer. “Cage took him down.”

Flynn looked up to meet Cage’s eyes. The man stared back at him sedately as he discreetly ground the heel of his foot into Hudson’s spine. Flynn couldn’t think of a thing to say to him. He merely nodded at the silent scout, who nodded in return and removed his foot from Hudson’s back.

They picked Rose up off the ground and Wash examined his head as the Englishman wavered uncertainly. Cage stood as far away as the chains would allow, to give them space. He seemed to know not to crowd either marshal, sensing his size and proximity would make one or both of them feel he was a threat. Flynn again found himself wondering what sort of life Cage had led up to this point. He certainly seemed used to the short end of the stick.

Flynn watched him bend over and pick up Rose’s bowler hat with infinite care. He brushed it off and popped it back into shape, then looked up at Rose with a concerned frown.

It was a sweet, almost innocent gesture that Flynn found fascinating.

Wash held Rose by the elbow until he was certain he wouldn’t fall over as Flynn roughly hauled Hudson to his feet.

“We can’t make ’em both drag behind the wagon,” Flynn muttered in annoyance.

“Rose’ll have to ride,” Wash declared as he examined the bloody cut on Rose’s head. “Let’s get these animals tied up,” he growled in disgust.

As soon as Wash stepped away, Cage stepped forward and placed the hat on Rose’s head. Rose gave him a weak smile and a nod in thanks.

“Cage, you feel like eatin’ with the marshals tonight?” Wash asked without even looking like he might have thought about talking it over with Flynn. Cage looked at him warily as Wash unlocked him from the chain. He was suddenly free, without irons or chain or bars to restrain him, and he looked to Flynn like he might be uncomfortable with it.

The man had led a hard life, that much was obvious. But Flynn still didn’t like the fact that Wash had just freed him, especially after what he’d just proved he was capable of. He’d taken Hudson down single-handedly, chains and all.

Cage rubbed at his wrists and glanced between the two marshals uncertainly.

“Come on,” Wash said to him, leading him toward the fire. “Decent man deserves a decent meal.”

Flynn watched them sourly. He and Rose stood side-by-side and watched Wash and Cage walk back toward the fire together.

“Looks like your partner is taking a liking to the good army scout,” Rose murmured wryly. “That can’t end pretty for you, Marshal.”

Flynn glared at him, then turned his attention back to Wash. He didn’t even twitch when Rose staggered beside him and dropped to his knees once more.

“Shut up,” Flynn muttered.

S
EVERAL
days of hard travel and five more tussles between Rose and Hudson later, the two marshals arrived with their prisoners in St. Louis. They were all dusty, tired, and slightly murderous. Even Rose, who had remained in a good humor that seemed designed more to irritate his escorts than anything else, had become sullen and silent on the last legs of the trip.

Flynn figured the repeated knocks to his head hadn’t really helped his mood much.

They had missed the train in Kansas City by less than an hour and been forced to decide whether they would hire a riverboat out of their own pocket or keep on toward St. Louis with the wagon. Finally, lack of funds decided it for them, and they telegraphed ahead about the delay, resupplied, and headed on over the Missouri plains. Even with the forewarning they gave of the change of plans, the hard travel set them behind yet again. When they rolled into St. Louis, they had less than ten minutes to find the two Army representatives they were meant to be meeting and hand over the two men from Fort Riley at the scheduled time.

Flynn and Rose had missed their original paddlewheel to New Orleans by a whole three days and would have to hop the next one available. The cost was troubling, especially since reimbursements were long in coming from the government, but they had more pressing matters to worry about as they limped into St. Louis.

Wash stopped the wagon in front of the hotel closest to the river, and Flynn dismounted gingerly. He rolled his head from side to side and tried to work out the stiffness. It was the middle of the day and the streets were crowded. Koda the mutt trotted up onto the raised wooden sidewalk and plopped himself down in the shade, eyes on Rose and nothing else.

Flynn would give the animal something for loyalty, at least.

“This is cruel and unusual punishment, Marshal,” Rose was saying as he lay flat on the planks of the wagon.

“What in the Sam Hill are you doing?” Flynn demanded of him grumpily.

“I’m cowering, Marshal, can’t you tell?” Rose responded, a sarcastic lilt to his words even as he hid. “If you’ll recall my sage advice of earlier, you hide when you’re about to be shot.”

Hudson gave a derogatory snort and kicked him in the ribs indiscreetly. To Flynn’s surprise, Rose didn’t retaliate. He merely looked at the second story windows of the buildings surrounding them in concern and scooted closer to the sideboard of the wagon.

Wash looped the reins over the wagon brake and Flynn stepped over to offer him a hand down. Wash swatted at him and grunted as he hopped off the wagon and landed with a puff of dust.

Flynn glanced over just in time to see Cage stretch across the wagon and take Rose’s coat between the tips of his two longest fingers. The chains wouldn’t allow him to stretch any further, but he managed to grip the heavy silk and tug at it. He got a good hold on it and then spread it over Rose’s face, covering him with difficulty as his irons got in the way.

Flynn and Wash stood watching, nonplussed, as Cage gave Rose’s covered head a little pat and then sat back sedately. When Cage finally looked up at them, he flushed under his protective layer of sun and dirt and shrugged at them. He pointed to the upper windows and then made his fingers into a gun, pointing it down at Rose and pulling the imaginary trigger.