According to Hoyle (23 page)

The knife dug into Cage’s throat and he felt the warm lines of blood begin to trickle under his collar. He inhaled sharply and closed his eyes before blinking them back open and looking up at Wash.

Wash glanced down at him furtively. “I’m telling the truth, damn you!” he shouted at Stringer as he struggled against the two men holding him back.

Stringer pulled the knife away and shoved at Cage’s head angrily, then he put his boot in the center of Cage’s back and shoved him all the way to the ground. Cage caught himself with his bound hands before his face could hit the carpeted floor of the salon. He looked up at the marshal, wondering why the man was trying to protect him or Gabriel. Most lawmen Cage knew would have just given them over and begged to be let go.

“Do you know who he is?” Stringer asked Wash with a sneer and a point of his finger down at him as Cage pushed up from the floor. Stringer put his booted heel in the center of Cage’s shoulders again and shoved him back to the ground. “Why are you protecting him when you could save the lives of everyone here by just answering the damn question?” he went on with a gesture at the passengers and ship’s crew who were cowering around the walls of the salon, all under armed guard. Cage knew Stringer didn’t care; he was just grandstanding, using the other hostages against Wash.

Wash glared at Stringer and then let himself take in the people in the salon. The men were looking at him guardedly, and the expressions on the faces of the ladies and the few children silently pleaded with him to do whatever Stringer wanted. Cage watched the stoic marshal struggle with his loyalties. If he could have shouted out the answers to keep Wash from having to do it, he would have just then.

With one last look around him, Wash returned his steady green eyes to Stringer and merely shook his head and set his jaw stubbornly.

Stringer gave Cage’s ribs a kick in frustration and he turned to his second in command; a small, ferrety man with eyes that couldn’t seem to look at just one thing at the same time. Cage recognized him, but couldn’t remember his name. And he didn’t much care to try.

“Take a few men and go to the hold,” Stringer ordered in a harsh whisper he didn’t think Cage could hear. “We got to move before we lose control of this.”

The man nodded and turned away. He beckoned three men to accompany him and they fell in line with an almost military precision. Cage watched them go with a scowl. If this was just about the crates of gold he had watched being loaded back in St. Louis, then Stringer and his men would have come and gone already. They wouldn’t have rounded up the people on the boat and made such a fuss in the first place. That wasn’t how they operated. There was something Cage knew he was missing, and it scared him.

“Why are you doing this?” Wash questioned, obviously thinking along the same lines as Cage.

Stringer looked at him and gave him an amused, somewhat frightening grin. “You know who I am?” he asked evenly as he stepped closer to Wash. Wash leaned back away from him and watched him warily, obviously trying to gauge the correct answer before he spoke.

Most men in the West didn’t want to be known. Many had run from something back East, changed their name, created a new man that they could live out the rest of their lives being. Some men in the West would even draw down on you if you asked them who they were. It was considered bad manners to ask a man’s name, much less
who
he was, or who he had been.

Cage and Gabriel Rose were two men who prayed not to be recognized. They were men it
paid
not to recognize. But some men, mostly foolhardy outlaws and young colts who were too stupid to know any better, wanted their names known. They wanted that dime novel title, that reward poster circulated, and they wanted people to call them out in the streets. Usually, they didn’t live long enough to see it happen.

Wash knew all this, just like Cage did. He seemed to be trying to decide which type of man Bat Stringer was. Finally, he just shook his head in answer to the question.

“I know you don’t,” Stringer cooed to him. “You know why?”

Wash just stared at him, seeing that it was a rhetorical question this time around.

Stringer turned to the passengers and raised his hands. A frightened silence fell on the room. He was an impressive figure, standing tall and foreboding, seeming to loom over Wash and Cage with his hands spread wide.

“There are two known outlaws on this boat with you tonight!” he shouted in a booming voice. “I ain’t one of ’em! One of ’em is right here at my feet, though. You might know him as Whistling Jack Kale!”

Several gasps sounded at the mention of the dreaded outlaw. A lot had been said about Whistling Jack Kale in recent years, but Cage had never paid much attention to the rumors. The man had disappeared nearly a year previous, but the name still stirred terror in the hearts of those who knew it. And a lot of people knew it.

Cage looked around in alarm after Stringer’s words, his stomach roiling in a slow panic. Eyes were on him, looking him over, trying to decide if they believed Stringer or not. Cage had never been more thankful for a new suit of clothes. At least he didn’t look the part of an outlaw just now. He glanced at Wash to find the marshal staring at him in disbelief. Cage shook his head vehemently, denying the accusation.

“You folks going to let this marshal forfeit your lives for the sake of a no-good, murdering owl hoot?” Stringer continued loudly.

“What do you want us to do?” one terrified man called out. “We got womenfolk and children on board!”

“Tell me who the other prisoner is!” Stringer demanded in a voice that boomed through the large room.

Several of the passengers cowered and others shifted restlessly. Cage knew that most of them would have shouted out the answer in a heartbeat if only they had known it. They didn’t understand that Gabriel and Flynn being free and, more importantly, being anonymous and underestimated, was probably their only hope of living through the night.

It wasn’t Stringer’s style to leave crowds of witnesses, no matter what he was telling these people. Usually he came and went and no one was the wiser until they discovered the bank empty or the cattle missing. No one could even draw a picture of him, until now. This endeavor was wholly unlike Stringer, from top to bottom. Cage just didn’t know why. All he knew was that none of these people would make it to port alive if Stringer had his say.

“It’s Dusty Rose,” a man suddenly answered from the far corner of the large room.

Cage’s chin jerked as he turned to look at the man. His hand was bandaged and he stared back at Cage hatefully. Cage recognized him as the man who had drawn down on Gabriel earlier, the man Cage had shot.

Wash lowered his head and shook it sadly. Cage’s heart sank. Now Stringer and his men would know what they were up against and react accordingly. Gabriel and Flynn didn’t have a chance.

Stringer stared at the man who had spoken and then turned to look at Cage. “That true?” he inquired in a deceptively neutral voice.

Cage stared back at him, trying desperately not to give anything away.

“That who you’ve been partnerin’ with these days?” Stringer asked with something close to jealousy. Stringer had always been possessive; Cage knew that all too well. Gabriel was a dead man if he showed his face now, regardless of how false the assumption was that he’d left the Scouts to ride with Dusty Rose. This farce had gone far enough that Cage knew Stringer wouldn’t believe what he said even if he did answer now.

He shook his head in answer anyway.

Stringer stepped closer and viciously backhanded him. “Liar!” he shouted angrily.

Cage didn’t move. He remained on his knees, twisted to the side, with his head hanging and his lower lip welling with blood yet again. He stared at the floor as a cold calm flooded through him. The next time Stringer raised his hand he’d find himself missing another finger.

Stringer stepped closer and bent toward him, whispering in his ear.

“You left us,” Stringer hissed, so low only Cage and the marshal could hear him. “You left me. High and dry, claiming you was tired of the life, you left me. And here I find you runnin’ with Dusty Rose and a marshal’s escort. You think he’s better’n me? Hmm?”

Cage’s gaze rose until he met Wash’s eyes. The man was looking at him with a new glint in his eyes, obviously having decided that Stringer was telling the truth about Cage’s identity, and probably wondering what Cage had really been up to all this time. He had no way of knowing that Cage wasn’t that man anymore. Cage closed his eyes and lowered his head. And who would believe him now anyway?

Stringer straightened up and looked around. “Spread out,” he ordered of several of his men. “Bring Rose here. Alive. I’ve got business with him.”

Chapter 12

“
T
HE
gold’s in the cargo hold,” Flynn told Rose needlessly.

The shootist nodded as they stopped at the end of the deserted corridor on the third deck, and he peered around the corner. He motioned for Flynn to move and they continued until they were certain no one was patrolling the upper levels. It was odd that a search party hadn’t yet formed. Surely, other passengers had been able to escape.

It was an intelligent pre-emptive move on the part of the hijackers, Flynn was beginning to realize, to put all the passengers and crew in one place. On a riverboat there was no need to set a lookout, and with everyone in one central location they could be guarded with a minimum of men while the bulk of the boarding party did the work of hauling the loot. That didn’t explain why they hadn’t just snuck down and offloaded the gold in the middle of the night with nobody the wiser. Flynn was past trying to decide why these men were doing what they were doing.

But it was strange that no one was out looking for errant passengers. It made Flynn’s teeth itch. They knew one thing for certain; the intruders were now aware of his and Rose’s escape, and even though they weren’t searching yet for whatever reason, Flynn knew they could soon be swarming the ship looking for them. He and Rose had to move quickly while they still could and be thankful of the reprieve.

It still made his teeth itch, though.

Rose stopped in a dark corner and knelt, holding his side and breathing hard.

“You okay?” Flynn whispered as he knelt beside him. The ruined material of his fine vest shone dully in the light. He was bleeding again.

But Rose nodded that he was okay, and he winced as he peered out at the approaching fog bank. It seemed their luck had turned. The fog would be to their advantage for now.

“Where is the cargo hold?” Rose asked as he watched the rolling mist.

“What?” Flynn asked as he leaned closer. “It’s below,” he murmured, making an ineffectual gesture toward the bottom of the boat. “Below… decks,” he finally managed as he remembered what the damn floors were called on a ship.

“Yes, Marshal, thank you,” Rose replied flatly. “But how do we get there?”

“I don’t know,” Flynn answered with a shrug. Rose stared at him blankly. “Don’t you?” Flynn asked him in growing alarm.

“Have you seen me being shown the way to the cargo hold at any point in this fiasco?” Rose asked sarcastically. “I don’t know where I’m going!”

“But you said you knew ships!” Flynn hissed angrily.

“I know the
top
parts of ships! As a passenger!” Rose told him, practically spitting out the words as he tried to keep his voice down. “I don’t know what’s on the main deck any more than I know how to play a fiddle!”

Flynn fought hard not to reach out and throttle the man. He closed his eyes to calm himself and breathed deeply. “Just… head down,” he said finally with another point at the floor. “Down.”

Rose rolled his eyes and pushed away from the wall, continuing slowly toward what Flynn hoped were the bowels of the ship.

Voices echoing through the soupy mist stopped them short, and Rose flattened his body against the side of the causeway. Flynn followed suit silently.

“Give me a knife,” Rose hissed urgently.

“What? No!”

“Knife!” Rose demanded as he held out his hand.

Flynn grumbled under his breath and slipped him the Arkansas toothpick he kept in his boot.

He watched with a growing dread as Rose handled the knife. The man took it and expertly twirled the long blade over his fingers, then gripped the handle upside down, holding it backward with the blade resting against his forearm. Flynn had seen some of the Rebel soldiers fight like that during skirmishes, the ones who came from the hills or the bayous, and later the Indians had shown him just how deadly a knife could be, holding their blades upside down in one hand and a tomahawk in the other, twisting round in circles as they slashed at their opponents. It had always struck Flynn as an oddly pretty sort of thing to be so destructive.

The voices began to materialize into shapes as they waited, and Flynn pulled his head back as Rose continued to peer around the corner. There were two men, obviously on some sort of patrol or finally performing the search Flynn had been expecting. They moved slowly, speaking in whispers as they approached the corner where Flynn and Rose were hidden on the other side. Flynn moved next to Rose to peer around the corner again, confident the fog would hide them.