According to Hoyle (6 page)

“Hey, fuck you, Mary,” one of the other men shot through the bars that divided them. His voice was deep and sluggish, just like he looked.

Rose’s black eyes slid to stare at the man. “I prefer my partners willing and
able
,” he sneered with an amused glint in his eyes.

The man in the buckskin, who had remained quiet, rolled his eyes and let his head bang against the plank behind him, as if he were used to this sort of exchange and growing tired of it. His louder companion stood and took two steps toward Rose, but his progress was stopped by the chains that attached him to the bars of the cell. Rose raised his chin and, with a smirk, blew another smoke ring toward the man.

The sheriff picked up a carved wooden cane and banged it against the iron bars, shouting at the men to head off the confrontation like he would at animals in a cage.

“Well,” Wash muttered as he turned back to Flynn and nodded. “Let’s get this dog and pony show on the road.”

The sheriff ordered two of his deputies to move the two soldiers to the wagon as a third stood guard over the crowd. No one in the town knew the two soldiers, though, and they merely looked on curiously. Wash took care of the warrants and paperwork as Flynn carefully set his shotgun against the wall and unlocked Rose’s cell. He stepped in with a pair of irons in his hand and nodded at the man.

“Stand up, please,” he requested. He had learned that being civil at the start of transports often made things easier. If the prisoner gave him trouble, then he would give him trouble right back. Until then, a please here and there didn’t hurt anything. He was probably one of only a few officers of the law who believed that, though.

Rose slowly stood and held out his hands, his black eyes following Flynn unerringly. Flynn met his eyes for a moment, trying to get a read on him. Putting on irons was the most difficult task involved with arresting or escorting a prisoner. The heavy cuffs had to be unlocked with a key, placed onto a prisoner’s wrist and closed, then the key had to be inserted again to lock the two pieces of the cuff together. And that was just one hand. If the prisoner had a mind to escape, he would try it during this process.

Out on the street, the loud soldier shouted obscenities at the gathering crowd and a host of boos and hisses arose in response.

“That man certainly has a way with words,” Rose murmured with a smirk.

It was obvious even to Flynn’s ears that Gabriel Rose was an educated man. It wasn’t unusual for a shootist of any reputation to be intelligent; a man had to either have some smarts or be very lucky to survive long enough to make a name for himself. Flynn once more found himself comparing the prisoner to Doc Holliday, who was not only highly educated, but also possessed a streak of common sense; a rare quality amongst college educated folks.

Flynn wondered if any of the rumors about Rose were true. He had the soft-spoken confidence of many of the upper class society types Flynn had come into contact with over the years, but he lacked the pomp and bluster that so many of them had attained from overconfidence or entitlement. Flynn supposed being in jail and accused of murder would do that to anyone, though, no matter how good they were at escaping.

“You got any friends who might be looking to give us trouble?” Flynn asked him as he placed one of the iron loops over Rose’s left wrist and clapped it together. He put the key in and turned it, locking it. His eyes stayed on Rose, but the Englishman merely stared back at him, holding his hands out helpfully as Flynn secured the heavy iron handcuffs.

“I’ve got no friends, Marshal,” Rose answered softly, sounding slightly amused. “I wouldn’t need friends if I were looking to escape,” he added calmly as Flynn slid the second cuff over his other wrist.

Flynn looked up and met Rose’s eyes as he locked the second iron in place with a small clinking sound. There was no joke in the man’s eyes.

“Would you be so kind as to hand me my coat?” Rose asked him politely, his hands still held out in front of him obediently.

Flynn cocked his head at the man, considering, and then he took a careful step back and picked up the thick silk frockcoat that lay over the end of the cot. He kept his eyes on Rose as he patted it down, making certain nothing was hidden amidst the pockets, then he draped it over the iron between Rose’s wrists. He received a nod of thanks in return.

“My hat as well?” the man requested just as Flynn started to back away.

Flynn glared at him. A marshal walked a fine line in these instances. You had to show some kindness and decency in order to get cooperation, but you couldn’t allow yourself to be walked all over.

“It’s a fine hat, I wouldn’t want to leave it behind,” Rose added with a look of sincerity in his dark eyes.

Flynn narrowed his eyes warningly and then reached carefully to the cot and took hold of the bowler hat. He inspected the inner rim, then set it on Rose’s head and stepped back to survey the end result.

“Makes you look like a tenderfoot,” he decided with a sneer.

“And who would want to draw down on some poor tenderfoot in the street, hmm?” Rose drawled in amusement.

Flynn raised an eyebrow, nodding in acknowledgment of the logic. It obviously hadn’t worked too well, though, if Rose had killed someone in a gunfight. He backed out of the cell and reached behind him to retrieve his shotgun, his eyes never leaving Rose as he moved. He cradled it in the crook of his arm and gestured with the barrel for Rose to come out of the cell.

Rose obeyed wordlessly, smiling crookedly as he passed. Everything he did and said made it obvious that he was highly amused by the whole process, as if being considered a dangerous and capable man was something novel to him. Flynn didn’t think him a real threat, but he’d misjudged men before. He preferred to err on the side of caution and be thought a fool by his prisoners than be proved one and bleed.

By the time Flynn led Rose out onto the raised wooden walkway in front of the jail, the two soldiers were loaded and chained to the side slats of the wagon. A large duffel bag lay at the head of the wagon along with them.

“What’s this?” Flynn demanded of the sheriff’s deputies. They all stared at him wordlessly.

“Those are my belongings, Marshal,” Rose answered in that soft, cultured voice that Flynn was beginning to find both annoying and unsettling.

Flynn turned to question the sheriff and found the old man standing a few steps away and looking at him blankly.

“Man ain’t been found guilty yet, Marshal,” the sheriff informed him. “If they clear him of these charges down in New Orleans, he’ll be needing his things to go on his way.”

Flynn stared at the man, nonplussed and vaguely annoyed by the presumption. “If you think he’s so damn innocent, then
—
”

“I think,” Rose interrupted before Flynn could go any further, “this is the good sheriff’s way of saying, ‘Y’all don’t come back now, y’hear?’” he drawled with a suddenly affected southern gentleman’s accent as he looked up and down the main street idly and placed his cigarette back in his mouth.

“Shut up,” Flynn ordered angrily as he shoved Rose off the sidewalk toward the wagon.

Chapter 3

F
LYNN
walked his horse just behind the wagon as Wash handled the mule with his good hand. He watched the three prisoners with detached curiosity, trying to place them each into a familiar peg hole.

The loud soldier, a large man named George Hudson, was little more than a big, dumb animal. He had a shock of thin white-blond hair that fell lank over his forehead, and a scraggly beard, stained brown with tobacco juice and grime. He seemed dirtier than his companion did, but Flynn got the feeling that it had less to do with his recent treatment at the hands of the Army and the law and more to do with a natural grubbiness that some men seemed to have. He had narrow pig eyes and cruel, thin lips, and he hunched as if he was always preparing to lunge and attack.

The other soldier went by the sole name of Cage, though he had not introduced himself as such. He hadn’t introduced himself as anything. He hadn’t, in fact, said a single word. He was smaller than his fellow soldier, but still a larger man than either Flynn or Wash. He was rangy: tall and powerfully built. He sported several days of facial growth and long brown hair, which was tied back at his neck with a leather cord. He would perhaps have been a handsome man in different circumstances. He seemed more bothered by his filthy state than Hudson did, and it was becoming more apparent that, even though they were being transported together, the two soldiers were not companions in any other sense of the word.

Rose was the one who drew much of Flynn’s attention, though, simply because he found the man so peculiar, a true square peg. The Englishman sat leaning against the side slats of the swaying wagon with his back straight and his long legs stretched out in front of him, crossed at the ankles as he rested his restrained hands in his lap. He seemed oddly at ease. His black eyes had not yet left Hudson, and the big man glared back at him with a hatred Flynn didn’t really understand. They hadn’t been jailed together long enough to have grown to hate each other, he thought, but Flynn supposed some men were quicker to that difficult and dangerous emotion than others.

The wagon wheels protested as Wash pulled the mule up short and slowed the wagon to a stop. Flynn clucked his tongue at his horse and urged him to trot up to the front of the wagon.

“Want to bed down for the night?” Wash suggested as the dying light tried to stretch across the flat land. Night was chasing them, though, and it would be dark soon. “Got the creek right here.”

Flynn turned in his saddle, peering into the distance as he tried to remember how far the next small town was. He didn’t often make the trip from Junction City to St. Louis, and he’d never made it while trying to avoid the larger settlements. He wasn’t too proud to admit that he was out of his element.

“Next town’s another half day’s ride, Marshal,” Rose drawled as if reading his mind.

Flynn turned to glare at the man. “Shut up,” he ordered. The words had become his standard response to anything Rose said to him or to anyone else. The man’s cultured voice just grated him.

Rose chuckled darkly and rolled another cigarette. He had been lighting them almost nonstop the entire trip, trying to ward off the smell of the other two prisoners. He didn’t smoke them much, though, just let the smoke waft around his face, which Flynn thought a phenomenal waste of quality tobacco. His chains clanked as his hands moved, and it was an odd thing to see his long fingers deftly making the papers with his wrists bound together. His black eyes danced in amusement as he ran his tongue along the paper, watching his fellow prisoners as he did so.

Hudson sneered at him and Cage merely shook his head and looked away with a heavy sigh. The silent man was obviously just as tired of the sniping and bickering as Flynn was.

Flynn looked back to Wash and dismounted as Wash stood and wound the reins around the wagon brake. They set up the camp methodically, hobbling the horses and mules and building a fire from the store of firewood they’d brought with them for the trip, trying to have everything set before the cold of night truly fell upon them. Wash started the coffee brewing and unpacked the grease paper packet of bacon as Flynn rummaged through his saddlebags, looking for the tin mugs and plates.

“We could help, Marshals,” Rose offered almost tauntingly as he sat with his back to them, blowing smoke up at the gradually appearing stars. “We promise we won’t run,” he practically sang, the smile evident in his voice.

“Why don’t you just shut your damn bazoo, huh?” Hudson sneered at him. “I’m gettin’ tired of hearing you talk.”

“I’m getting tired of watching you breathe, but you don’t see me doing anything about it,” Rose shot back. “Yet.”

“Shut up!” Wash and Flynn both shouted in unison as they worked.

There was silence as Flynn stoked the fire and, when he glanced back over at the prisoners, Rose was once again chuckling as the big soldier sat and glared at him. The other man, Cage, still sat silent. He was watching them warily, though, as if he expected them to begin fighting any moment.

“What’s your name?” Rose asked him as he brought his cigarette to his lips. His chain clanked when he moved and Flynn glanced over at him again in annoyance.

Cage sighed softly and then glanced at Hudson with obvious chagrin.

Hudson answered for him grudgingly. “Folks calls him Cage.” He didn’t indicate whether that really was the man’s name or if it was just what people called him.

“Cage,” Rose repeated mildly as he lounged in the back of the wagon. “You can call me Gabe, if you like.” It wasn’t exactly a friendly offer, more like Rose was testing the waters.

Cage looked at him warily, seeming to sense the challenge, and then merely nodded in acknowledgement.

Rose brought his cigarette to his lips and inhaled, holding the cigarette from underneath with his thumb and forefinger. He seemed completely relaxed as he sized Cage up.

Flynn didn’t think he had ever seen a prisoner quite as unperturbed as Rose seemed to be. It made him almost nervous, wondering
why
Rose wasn’t worried about his plight. If they found him guilty, he’d hang.