Two for Home

by Tinnean

  Steve felt anger build up in him. He’d run across men like that during the War. “Cover your ears, Charlie.”

  “Why?”

  He covered them himself and spat out a string of curses. It wasn’t at all proper, but he needed to let out his fury.

  Charlie giggled, and Steve realized he hadn’t done a very good job of shielding her ears. She quickly sobered. “We have to get them.”

  “I will. You stay here in camp.”

  “But—”

  “I need you to be in charge. Mrs. Fox isn’t well enough, and her children won’t know what to do if anyone rides into camp. Go get your rifle.”

  She dashed off to their wagon, and Steve turned to get his mare, to find Thomas had tied Socks’s reins to a wagon wheel and now stood there, holding Bella’s halter rope.

  “Good man.”

  Thomas puffed out his little chest.

  Charlie returned, breathless, her rifle in her hands. “Just let those men come riding up,” she said with grim determination. “I’ll shoot the varmints dead.” And Steve had no doubt she would shoot them down.

  “All right, then. You take care of everyone. I’ll get your brothers and Noelle back.”

  She threw her arms around his neck, nearly hitting him in the head with her rifle’s barrel. “Don’t get killed,” she whispered against his neck.

  “I won’t, I promise.” He saddled and bridled Bella, made sure his pistols had rounds in every chamber, and then swung up into the saddle and headed for Willow Crick.

  There was going to be hell to pay, and he was the man to see to it.

  Chapter 15

  Hell to pay. Yep, and wasn’t that the truth of the matter? Steve couldn’t believe how dumb he’d been.

  Bart and Frank were being dragged off to jail when he arrived in town, and the sheriff had been smug about it.

  Steve was no fool, though, and he wasn’t going to react to the bastard.

  “They’re gonna swing, stranger, and there ain’t nothing you can do about it. The good folk of Willow Crick don’t take kindly to getting their streets shot up and honest citizens murdered in broad daylight.”

  A look at Bart and Frank saw they had turned white as a sheet, and Steve watched helplessly as three men hustled them off to jail.

  A crowd began to gather, and Steve attempted to appeal to them.

  “Bart Hall and Frank Thompson are decent men. They’d never shoot at anyone who—” Steve wanted to say who hadn’t deserved it, but he thought better of it. “They wouldn’t do something like that.”

  “Well, they did.”

  “Here, now, what’s going on?” The crowd parted, and a man in a black broadcloth suit came strutting toward them. “McCloud?” He addressed the sheriff.

  “This stranger objects to the necktie party we’re having tomorrow.”

  Tomorrow? Dear God, this situation was even direr than Steve had imagined. “You can’t do that.”

  “Of course we can. This is our town.”

  “What about a trial?”

  “There’s no need for one. We have witnesses as to what happened.”

  The three men had returned, and now they stepped forward and nodded. “That’s right, we did.”

  “You’re lying.” As soon as the words were out of Steve’s mouth, he knew he’d made a gross error. You never called a man a liar unless you were willing to back it up with lead. In spite of the fact he stood by his words and was more than willing to do a little shooting, if he hadn’t been so concerned about his charges, he’d have kept his lip buttoned.

  Steve’s arms were seized long enough for the sheriff to remove his holster. Jehoshaphat, could he have been any more foolish?

  One of the three, obviously the leader, gave him a shove and sneered at him. “They shot first, asshole, and for no reason.”

  “No? What about the men who kidnapped the woman and child?”

  “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “That’s what those two in jail were saying, Mr. Weatherford,” one of the townsfolk said to the man in the suit. “Maybe—”

  “Lies! Asa, Cal, and Luke can vouch for that!” Weatherford announced, and the man who’d spoken up seemed to shrink in on himself. He nodded and stepped back.

  “I’m telling you—” Before Steve could finish his sentence, the one named Cal grabbed his arm. Worried about the four people in his care who were still alive and never one to stand still for being manhandled, Steve lost his temper and took a swing at him.

  As luck would have it, Cal ducked at the same time Weatherford approached, and the blow knocked the officious little man on his ass. That gave Steve a minor sense of satisfaction.

  It also landed him in the cell beside Bart and Frank.

  * * * *

  Bart and Frank paced the cell they shared, passing each other. Frank was pale and gnawed his fingernails.

  “We’ve got to find a way to get out of here and go after Georgie and Chris.” Bart paused from time to time to grasp the bars and give them a shake. They were solid though, and wouldn’t give way.

  Night had fallen, and Steve was just dozing off. Tomorrow would take care of itself—he’d learned that through his years in the army and while he’d been a wagon master.

  Suddenly he heard a voice whisper, “Bart?”

  “George?” Bart scrambled up on his bunk and peered through the bars of his cell. “Thank God you’re okay. You are okay, aren’t you? Those bastards didn’t hurt you?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Noelle?” Frank sounded desperate to know the fate of the young girl. Steve couldn’t blame him. Once those men learned of her sex…Steve shuddered.

  “She’s fine, too. She’s back at the camp. Steve?”

  “He’s in the next cell. Too many people saw what he did for the bastard who runs this town to have an excuse to hang him, too, so Weatherford just plans to have him beaten.” Bart snorted. “He probably intends for Steve to meet his maker anyway. It’ll be three against one, from what we heard.”

  “Have a little faith, Bart,” Steve murmured. He knew how to handle himself in a fistfight, and he wasn’t worried about the outcome. Bart glanced at him over his shoulder and snorted.

  “How are you?” George reached through the bars and clutched Bart’s shoulder.

  “We’re okay.”

  “When is the trial?”

  “What trial?”

  “They’re not—” George ground his teeth together. “Why not?”

  Frank gave a bitter laugh. “Weatherford has too many men who’ll swear we shot first and for no reason. The rest of the townsfolk figure we need hanging.”

  “Dammit, I was there,” George snarled. “No one else was around, and those varmints started shooting first.”

  “Doesn’t matter. The good people of Willow Crick are willing to believe Weatherford.” Frank was taking a casual attitude, but Steve could see the tension in the way he held himself, even though it wasn’t likely George could.

  “But you’re a lawyer.”

  “Like I said, it doesn’t matter.”

  The door to the sheriff’s office flung open. Steve just kept himself from bounding to his feet—George had ducked out of sight, and both Bart and Frank lounged casually on their bunks.

  “What’s all the yacking going on in here?” McCloud demanded.

  “If it’s gonna be our last night, Sheriff, why shouldn’t we talk over old times?”

  “Well, keep it down. I gotta get some rest. It’s gonna be a big day tomorrow.” He smirked, and Steve wished the sheriff was going to be one of the three men he would fight the next day. The sheriff swaggered out of the room, pulled the door shut with a sound of finality, and turned the key in the lock.

  “Sheriff McCloud really feels that was necessary?” Bart snapped.

  “Apparently the man doesn’t have much faith in the security of these cells,” Steve murmured, and Bart and Frank both laughed.

  George must have felt the same
way. He peered through the bars and muttered, “You three must be mighty desperate hombres.”

  Bart climbed back onto his bunk. “Go back to the wagons, Georgie. We’ll figure some way to get us out of here.”

  George was silent for a moment, and then he said, “I’ve got an idea. What time is the hanging?”

  “Weatherford wants to make a big thing of it, so he’s planning sometime in the afternoon.”

  “Okay. Try to get some rest.”

  “George, what are you going to do?”

  George’s voice became Georgie’s, husky and sultry. “I’m gonna see what I can do to get the sheriff to let you go.”

  “George—”

  George whispered a few words only Bart could hear, and then he was gone.

  “Y’know something?” Frank said. “I don’t mind dying so much, knowing Noelle is safe.”

  “I’m glad Georgie is safe, but Frank, we’re not going to die.”

  “Bart’s right,” Steve assured them. “We’re alive, and that gives us a chance.”

  “How do you figure?” Frank demanded.

  “They’re taking me out of this cell tomorrow. I’ll get back to you after the fight and get us all out of here.”

  “Are you good enough to take on three men?”

  “Why, yes. I am. Now I suggest we all try to get some rest. Tomorrow will be here soon enough.”

  Chapter 16

  Steve studied the tray of food the sheriff had someone in the town bring in for him. It was a large meal, and he hadn’t eaten since the noon meal the previous day, but he had more sense than to touch anything before him.

  “You’re not gonna eat that, Steve? It looks mighty fine.” Frank stared wistfully at the mounds of eggs, the strips of bacon, the sausage links, the pot of coffee.

  “No. I wouldn’t put it past those bastards to doctor it up so it affects my fighting.”

  “I didn’t even think…Do you want some of ours?” Frank offered him a strip of bacon. “I have the feeling they want us to be aware of every excruciating minute we have that noose around our necks.”

  Steve hesitated.

  “I’ll try it just to make sure.” Bart took the bacon from his friend, folded it in two, and stuffed it in his mouth. He chewed thoughtfully, then swallowed. “It actually tastes pretty good.”

  Steve observed him carefully. After a few minutes he asked, “How do you feel?”

  “Like I wished I knew what Georgie had in mind. You don’t think he’s gonna try to seduce the sheriff, do you?”

  “I doubt it. Will he be all right?”

  “His pa taught him some tricks.” Bart frowned and sat heavily on the edge of the bunk.

  “Bart?” Steve felt cold. Was their food tainted also?

  “Huh?” The young man gazed up at him. “Oh, no, the food is all right. I just hate like hell that my wife has to do whatever it is he plans on doing.”

  “You’re becoming confused, Bart.” Frank patted his friend’s shoulder and slipped Steve a couple of strips of bacon. “Are you sure you can beat them?” he asked.

  Steve accepted the bacon, and when Frank held his cup to the bars between them, managed a couple of swallows of coffee through the bars. “I’m sure.” He poured his own coffee and breakfast into the chamber pot he’d found under his bunk, then replaced the pot far enough back so it wouldn’t be seen.

  “I feel like we should pray,” Frank said. It made sense, since Steve knew Frank’s father was the pastor of the Church of the Beloved Apostle back in New York.

  “Go ahead.” It wouldn’t hurt.

  Frank folded his hands and bowed his head. “Heavenly Father, things aren’t looking good for us. You know we’re innocent. I beseech you to preserve us in our hour of need.” He peeked up at the ceiling, then ducked his head again. “And if you could do a bit of smiting, Lord, we’d much appreciate it. Amen.”

  “Amen.” Both Steve and Bart echoed him.

  Just then the sheriff came to get him, and Steve wasn’t surprised when McCloud’s gaze went straight to the few crumbs left on the empty plate Steve had placed on his bunk. McCloud grinned, his expression smug and satisfied.

  “All right, let’s get going.” He unlocked the cell door and reached for Steve’s arm.

  “You might recall what happened the last time someone put his hands on me, Sheriff.”

  The sheriff shied back, then a black scowl covered his face. “Why ain’t that stuff working?” he muttered under his breath.

  “Wus…wus happening?” Steve slurred and lurched forward, tottering toward the bunk. “I don’t feel so good.”

  “Good luck, Steve,” Frank said, his voice hoarse.

  “Yeah, good luck.” Bart looked pale and concerned.

  “He’s gonna need it,” the sheriff gloated as Steve swayed and staggered. “Luke. Asa. Get your asses in here and get this son of a bitch down to the livery stable.”

  The two men he’d summoned rushed into the cell. They grabbed Steve’s arms and started to haul him out of jail. The sheriff poked him in the back to get him moving.

  Steve was a good-sized man, and he made sure they had to support most of his weight. He also saw to it he stumbled against them and appeared to trip over his own feet. He ducked his head down so they wouldn’t see him grinning as they grumbled about it.

  They were going to be in for one big surprise.

  * * * *

  A crowd had formed in a large ring in front of the livery stable, and Steve could hear some of the men muttering in low tones.

  “Three against one. This is gonna be a slaughter, not a fair fight.”

  “Shut up. This is what he gets for knocking down Mr. Weatherford.”

  “Was there really a woman?” His expression turned wistful. “I ain’t seen a woman in a dog’s age.”

  “How the hell should I know? I was at the damned mine.”

  “Well, if there was, it woulda been nice if he’d let us keep her. Ain’t been a woman in this town since Miss Sadie took her girls and left.”

  “So why do you stay?”

  “Beats the hell out of me.”

  “At least we got some time off to see the fight.”

  “Yeah, but we ain’t gonna get paid.”

  “You better shut your yappers. If Mr. Weatherford hears you, you’ll wind up getting a taste of what this poor sap is gonna get.”

  The men subsided, and Steve wondered about Willow Crick. If there really were no women here, what kept the men from leaving?

  The man Cal was already standing in front of the livery stable, bouncing on his toes, a wild grin on his face. He stalked toward Steve. “He ready?” he asked the men who held his arms.

  He probably means is the doctored food affecting me, Steve thought.

  “Yep. We practically had to drag him here.”

  “Good. Let him go, and let me at him.”

  “He’s all yours.” The other two released Steve’s arms, shoved him forward, knocking his hat off, and then they backed away.

  Steve supposed he should be grateful they didn’t hold onto his arms, not that it would have mattered. Years before he’d left Sycamore Grove for West Point, an old Chinese man had come to the Marriott farm with his woman, looking for work. The woman had a fine hand for needlepoint, and Mother had persuaded Father to take them on. The old man, though…He’d taught Steve some handy fighting moves. These men had no idea what they were letting themselves in for.

  Cal’s face twisted in a sneer of triumph, and he raised his fists, swinging them in a windmill motion while he charged Steve. A blow landed on Steve’s cheek, and he swore under his breath. Instead of stumbling backward, as Cal obviously expected, Steve met the attack with a barrage of blows that sent the man back and back until Steve landed a neat punch to the son of a bitch’s nose.

  Take that! Steve smiled grimly. He’d heard the cartilage crack under that blow.

  Even better, Cal’s feet shot out from under him, and he landed in a pile of manure.

/>   The crowd roared with laughter at the sight of the man staring at his soiled hands, unable to get to his feet. That must have been when Luke and Asa realized it might be a good idea if they helped their friend, because they jumped in to throw some punches of their own.

  Steve had no trouble taking them on, and when a blow sent Asa skidding across the dusty ground to slam into a water trough, he turned his concentration to the one called Luke. Steve realized he might have a problem of his own when the crowd howled their anticipation—while he pummeled Luke, Asa had managed to get to his feet and was somewhere behind Steve’s back.

  From the corner of his eye, he caught a glint of light off what could only be a knife blade, and he knew he was in trouble for sure, even more so when a shot rang out from behind him, and everyone froze and fell silent. He held himself stiffly and waited for a bullet to shatter his spine, shivering in spite of himself as a cold voice said, “Now that I’ve got your attention…”

  There was something about that voice, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. Steve turned cautiously and became as still as the crowd.

  It was Sharps, sitting a huge gray stallion, with a smaller black and white gelding beside him. What was he doing here? Why wasn’t he mounted on the buckskin mare Steve had left with the young man’s father?

  Of course. Sharps must never have gone home. But how had he managed to arrive here in Willow Crick? And what was he doing carrying a banjo on his back? Had he taken up the instrument because Steve played it?

  He pushed the thought aside. As complimentary as it was, he had more important things to keep in mind.

  Sharps angled the horses, placing himself between Steve and the citizens of Willow Crick. The young man’s attention was on the crowd. Did he even realize the man he’d defended was his onetime captain?

  Meanwhile, Weatherford stood with fisted hands and demanded, “Do you know who I am?”

  Steve knew officious men like this who were small in nature if not in stature. They could be vicious, and Steve stepped forward to draw his attention away from the young man.

  However, instead of reacting with caution, Sharps simply appeared bored. “Can’t say as we’ve been introduced.”