by Abigail Roux
Cage laughed, but he didn’t give Gabriel the satisfaction of knowing he was basically right.
“Perhaps not,” Gabriel said. “Perhaps you’re thinking something more along the lines of what I’m thinking.”
Cage blinked at him in the darkness, wishing he could make out more of Gabriel’s features. He could just barely see the outline of one prominent cheekbone and his well-defined jaw, the mischievous quirk to his lips when he smiled. His black eyes, though, were in shadow. Cage licked his lips and gave a small, questioning jerk of his chin.
Gabriel edged closer, their noses touching. “I was thinking I don’t do poignant good-byes,” he answered, just before pressing his lips gently to Cage’s.
Cage sighed in approval, and Gabriel pressed tighter, kissing him soundly. When he ended it, he moved back only far enough to be able to speak again. Cage worked his fingers under Gabriel’s silk vest and held him there.
“I know you don’t know me from Adam’s cat, Cage, but I refuse to let them take you back East for a trial you’ll never win,” Gabriel declared.
Cage’s lips parted in confusion. He wasn’t sure what it was that had struck Gabriel about him. Perhaps it was the same indefinable kinship he himself felt with the man. Whatever they had between them was strong enough that Gabriel seemed willing to fight for more of it. Cage was too, but not at the expense of escaping only to find themselves on the run in a land where lynching was still the order of the day.
He didn’t want to spend the rest of his life a wanted man.
He shook his head vehemently and gave the chain on his wrist a tug.
“I don’t plan to escape,” Gabriel assured him gently. “Where would we go out here, hmm? There’s nothing but wide-open prairie and cow chips.”
Cage breathed a sigh of relief.
“We’ll have to wait until we reach St. Louis. Make our move then.”
Cage groaned and closed his eyes. He could tell there would be no arguing with the man on this point. He would just have to make certain no one got killed trying to stop him.
Flynn awoke in the early hours of the morning with a jerk. He had heard a noise, a faint one, but one unnatural to his well-trained ears. It had been a rustle of clothing, maybe, or the scrape of a boot heel in the dirt. Wash lay beside him, tense and alert as well.
Very slowly, Flynn turned his head to look at the silhouette of the wagon in the moonlight. Two bundles of men, wrapped in blankets, huddled near wheels, just like they had left them. The dog, though, was trotting away from the dying fire, back toward the wagon.
As he watched him, Flynn saw moonlight glint off something in the dog’s mouth.
His hand immediately went to the saddlebag where he was resting his head, to the flap where the keys to the manacles were kept, and he cursed loudly when he found them missing.
He jumped to his feet and reached for his gun, but he wasn’t wearing his holster. Rose’s hands shot out from under the blanket and grabbed the keys from the dog’s mouth, then he pushed at the dog to urge him away. Flynn gave a hoarse shout of warning. Wash was already standing, shrugging the blanket off his shoulders as he stood and raised his heavy shotgun with one hand. Rose had managed to unlock himself from the chain that restrained him to the wheel and he rolled under the other side of the wagon before Wash could aim the shotgun.
Next to the wheel, still partly under the wagon, Cage curled into a ball and covered his head as if he expected Wash to fire at him even though he’d missed his chance at a clean shot at Rose.
Flynn scrambled for his holsters and yanked his six-shooter out, whirling and trying to spot Rose in the darkness.
He saw nothing and heard nothing of the wily Englishman, but he did see the dog, loping away from the camp. He aimed his Colt and cocked the hammer.
Rose hit him from the side like a ten-pound mallet. They both went rolling in the dirt, dangerously close to the dying embers of the fire, and Flynn’s gun was sent skidding into the night. Flynn struggled to regain his wits before he found himself taking the big jump a little early. He knew Rose was deadly with a gun and even more deadly with a knife. He was just thankful Rose didn’t have either at the moment.
What he did have was the advantage of being on top of Flynn. He was stretching the chain between his manacles tight against Flynn’s throat, pushing down and strangling the life out of him. Flynn could barely see his eyes in the darkness, shining like some demon in the firelight. He gripped the chain and shoved at it, trying to suck air into his chest as lights danced in his vision.
Then the butt of the shotgun hit Rose right under the ear. He toppled sideways without even a grunt. Flynn gasped and put his hands to his throat instinctively, feeling the indentations the chains had made in his skin.
Wash stood over them both, silhouetted by the moonlight. Flynn stared up at him and struggled to get his breath, speechless and still not quite comprehending what had just happened. He had almost been killed without hardly putting up a fight.
“He got the drop on you, Flynn.” Wash’s tone was neutral. He rested the butt of the shotgun on his hip and pointed the barrel at Rose’s chest.
“I know it, damn you,” Flynn gasped. He finally forced himself to move, trying to cover his embarrassment.
“He was going to shoot my dog,” Rose muttered, his voice hoarse and broken. He held his hands to the side of his head and curled on the ground.
Flynn lumbered to his feet and coughed, looking down at the man with a sneer. “He was helping you escape.”
“He’s a dog, he doesn’t know what escape is. He was just doing what he’s trained,” Rose insisted.
Wash huffed. “Yeah? Well, so are we.”
Bat Stringer sat astride his horse, waiting outside the telegraph office of the newly settled town of Talmage, Nebraska. The Missouri Pacific Railroad ran right through it, which made it a busy little point of trade for agricultural and mercantile goods. Lots of new people came through every day, and a few men on horseback riding into town wouldn’t be given a second glance by the 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 from Fort Robinson after the soldiers had pulled something out of the ground near the Rosebud Creek. 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 gravel?
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 familiar 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 had believed it would. On the surface it was a complicated plan, one that was taking much more time and manpower than Stringer had anticipated, but underneath 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 and food, 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. Most men didn’t even know that much about themselves. He wasn’t the mastermind type, not like Jack Kale had been. He wished 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 the main street. The telegraph they were sending today was the first step. They just had to make certain the telegraph man wouldn’t send i
t too soon or the entire thing would be blown.
Frank stepped out onto the raised walkway in front of the telegraph office and met Stringer’s eyes. His gaunt face was pinched, and his stringy blond hair looked as if he’d been trying to rip it out. He nodded curtly at Stringer—the telegraph had been arranged for the appropriate hour—and made his way to the horse tied to the hitching post nearby.
Stringer turned his own horse without a word, knowing the rest of his men would follow. They had a lot of work to do, finding expendable men in the days that were to come.
The dog was once more following at a distance. 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 wordless 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,” Rose 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 though. He was too softhearted, in Flynn’s opinion.
“If you didn’t tell him to do it, why’d you take ’em?” Wash had asked. 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. It made him a fair man. It made him a good man. But that morning, it had 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 run away 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 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 figured 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.
The 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.
The marshals hadn’t expected trouble, at least not this sort.
Gabriel Rose was exhausted from riding shank’s mare behind the wagon, and Hudson clearly knew it. He clearly also knew that Flynn and Wash had been lulled into a false sense of security by the monotony of the travel. And that neither marshal would be close enough to stop him before he could do Rose in. They were probably going to hang him back East anyway; he had nothing to lose. Obviously, a large rock and an opportunity were all Hudson had been waiting for.
Flynn had been 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 had been following the prisoners with his shotgun, and it wasn’t until Wash shouted that Flynn realized 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, even 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. 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 wondered what sort of life Cage had led up to this point. He certainly seemed used to the short end of the stick.
Cage bent over and picked 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 supported Rose by the elbow as Flynn 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 hairline. “Let’s get these animals tied up.”
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.
“Cage, you feel like eatin’ with the marshals tonight?” Wash asked without even seeming to have considered talking it over with Flynn. Cage watched 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 he’d just proved what he was capable of.
Cage rubbed at his wrists and glanced between the two marshals uncertainly.
“Come on,” Wash said, leading him toward the fire. “Decent man deserves a decent meal.”
Flynn watched them sourly.
“Looks like your partner is taking a liking to the good Army scout.” Rose snorted. “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.
Several 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 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. The hard travel set them behind yet again. When they rolled into St. Louis three days late, they had less than ten minutes to find the Army representatives they were meant to meet to hand over the two men from Fort Riley.
Flynn and Rose had already missed their original paddle wheeler to New Orleans, so Flynn volunteered to handle the prisoner transfer while Wash got Rose settled into a hotel. Flynn and Rose would have to hop the next paddle wheeler available. The cost was troubling, especially since reimbursements were long in coming from the government, but they had more pressing matters to worry about when they limped into St. Louis with their three prisoners, all who were late for their dates with fate.
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 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.
“I’m cowering, Marshal, can’t you tell? If you’ll recall my sage advice of earlier, you hide when you’re about to be shot.”