He eyed each man in turn. “I’ll be going through the front door. Y’all have families waiting for you at home. I don’t want any heroes. I figure these men wouldn’t rest far from their guns. Just because they’re coming out of a sound sleep, don’t assume they’ll go down without a fight.” He rotated the tension from his neck. “Let’s go. They’ve been in there for a couple hours now.”
Walking with a stealth he’d learned from his Potawatomi relatives, Wes approached the cabin and signaled his men to spread out. Despite the moon, the heavily wooded area hid any light. Good for Wes and his men, but bad for identifying the four outlaws.
A quick study through the window gave him a general idea of where they were. In the low burning fire in the hearth, he picked up two curled on the floor, two others on cots, all accounted for. The timbre of the snoring practically shook the walls of the tiny cabin. Wes moved to the front door, his heart speeding up as he readied himself. He’d done this before, but never had he been forced to rely on untrained hands backing him up.
For an instant a picture of Anna seized hold of his mind. Would he die tonight and leave her a widow? He shook himself. He’d learned in war to block out those kinds of thoughts. More than one solider lost his life on the battlefield because he wasn’t focused.
Confident his eyes had adjusted somewhat to the darkness, Wes studied the front door. Not wanting to take a chance on it being stronger than it looked, he aimed his Peacemaker carefully at the latch and fired. He immediately slammed his foot against the door and it went down. “Hands up.”
Within seconds the first bullet flew from one of the outlaws’ guns, missing Wes’s head by inches. He ducked behind a beat-up dresser and returned the fire. His attention was drawn to a man crashing through the roughly cut out back door to head outside. Two shots rang out, and Wes broke out into a sweat, hoping Arnold hadn’t been hit.
Pandemonium reigned as the outlaws scrambled for their weapons, firing wildly in Wes’s direction, apparently not at their best when coming out of a drunken sleep. Avoiding the whizzing bullets from behind his hiding place, Wes shouted, “Drop your guns!”
Two men dove through the windows as more warnings and shots rang out, reverberating through the night air. The fourth man attempted to race to the back door, firing as he went, but Wes let off a shot, and the man went down.
Wes cautiously approached the outlaw, lying on the ground and moaning, holding his leg where blood seeped over his pants, spreading in a pool of darkness.
The sidewinder attempted to crawl toward the weapon he’d dropped. Wes knocked him out with the butt of his gun, then quickly tied the man’s hands behind him. He ran outside where his men were firing at two fugitives racing for the woods.
“What happened?” Wes nodded in the direction of the trees.
“My gun jammed when he leapt from the window,” Jack said, shamefacedly.
Mose’s hand clamped around his bleeding arm. “Just a nick, but it knocked the gun out of my hand.”
“I’m going after them,” Wes declared. “Jack, come with me. You others stay here in case they circle back. One of ‘em is tied up inside. Drag him out here before he wakes up.”
They raced into the thicket, toward the sound of running footsteps through the trees and underbrush. Wes fired two shots at the fleeing criminals, then hunkered down behind a tree to re-load. Nervous at having momentarily lost sight of the targets, he rose and carefully studied the area. Noises in the distance signaled the direction of the outlaws. Wes and Jack continued on in the darkness, pushing leaves and branches out of their path, following for about half a mile, but gradually the sounds faded away.
Goddammit. Two of the Mather gang had managed to escape. Frustrated at having lost them, Wes scrubbed his palm down his sweaty face and stood still, hoping for a rustle of leaves—anything—to tip him off. Nothing but the hoot of owls and flutter of bats sounded in the still night air. He turned and headed back.
As Wes and Jack got within shouting distance of the cabin, Arnold jogged up to them. “One of them’s dead. I got him when he crashed through the back door.”
“I’m just glad he didn’t get you. Any of the other men shot?”
“Just Mose’s nick on the arm, otherwise nothing.”
Wes nodded. “How’s our prisoner?”
“Awake. We tied more rope around him.”
The sun had grown closer to the horizon in the time since their attack, and the gray dawn revealed one outlaw gagged and tied up, the other one lying still on the ground. Someone had turned him over, his empty eyes staring into the slowly lightening sky, a large hole in his chest.
“Appears Buck was one of the ones who made it out. And from the looks of these two, I’d say the youngest one, Noah, escaped with him.” Wes studied the dead man, unsure if he was Billy or Joe. He’d match him up with the ‘wanted’ posters when he got back to the jail.
Mose gestured toward the woods behind the cabin. “We goin’ after them?” Blood continued to ooze from between his fingers where he held his wound.
“No. We trailed them as far as we could. They know these woods better than we do. It’s best to get these two back to Denton.” Wes nodded toward the prisoner. “No point in leaving him with the local sheriff.”
The men wrapped the dead body in one of the dirty blankets pulled from the cabin, then Wes instructed them to tie the bundle to Nektosha, since he could trust him with the burden. Skittish with the scent of the dead body, the animal bucked and shook his large head, sidestepping with tension until Wes murmured to the horse, calming him down.
Pulling the other man up, Wes shoved him toward a horse. “Let’s go, son. I got a nice jail cell waiting for you, and a circuit judge anxious to string you up.”
The quiet woods rang with muffled curses from the outlaw’s gagged mouth as Wes dragged him to a horse. He hoisted him into the saddle and tied the man’s hands to the horn. “Let’s get out of here before those other two varmints come back and shoot us in the back.”
Buck leaned over, resting his palms on his thighs, his breath misting in the early dawn as he took in gulps of air. The damn marshal had killed one of his boys. In the confusion of the dim room and surprise of the attack, he hadn’t seen who’d been shot. Either Billy or Joe was dead. One gone and the other one most likely headed to the hangman’s noose.
“You all right, Buck?” Noah stood with his hands on his hips, eyeing him.
“‘Course I’m all right.” In one quick move, he backhanded his youngest son. “Why didn’t you shoot that damn marshal?”
Noah rubbed his face. “I couldn’t see ‘em. It was dark.”
“Yeah, well, he saw your brothers.” Buck nudged Noah in the back. “Git movin’, boy. We’ll circle and head back to town.”
“What’re we gonna do about the others?”
Noah cringed as Buck raised his hand again. “Whatta yuh think? We’re going after whoever’s locked up in the Denton jail. Then we’ll see that marshal regrets the day he decided to mess with me and my young’uns.” He spat on the ground. “But first we’re gonna pay the sheriff a visit. He’s the only one who knew where we was.”
Buck’s gut burned with hatred. As it had most of his life. Hatred for his old man who shot Buck’s mother in the face, then made his son clean up the mess and bury her. The three women who’d birthed his three sons were no better−lyin’, cheatin’, stealin’ whores that they were.
His teeth ground together as they walked toward town. That marshal just signed his death warrant by bustin’ in on them, murderin’ one of his boys, then takin’ another. When Buck got through with the man, he’d wish he was never born. And before he slit the throat of that clabberheaded idiot of a sheriff, he’d get all he could from him about the marshal.
This was something that needed to be planned out. No rushin’ in there, shootin’ up the place and gettin’ hisself killed. The marshal would know what pain was, would plead for his life. Just the thought of the man on his knees in the di
rt brought a twitch to Buck’s lips, and a hankerin’ to kick the man in the throat.
After the lawman begged for his life, he’d run his knife under his chin and watch the blood ooze out onto the ground like his boy’s.
Yeah, I have plans for you, marshal.
Chapter Seventeen
Anna tied the yellow ribbon on her bonnet into a bow under her chin and checked her reflection in the mirror. She ran her palms down the front of her dress, over the calico material, smoothing it out. Her gaze traveled lower, to her feet—scuffed brown button up shoes and black stockings—and grinned. She’d turned into a real life re-enactor.
History had never been a passion with her, but interesting enough that she’d visited re-enactment camps a few times. Back then, little did she know one day she’d be one for real. Anna picked up the papers she’d worked so diligently on while Wes had been gone, and headed for the door.
Wes. A wave of fear washed over her each time she thought of him. He’d been gone for two days and one night. Thirty-four hours. Each one of them dragging, reminding her he could be lying dead right now with a bullet in his head. She shuddered to think of her life if she lost him.
He was the reason the Indian woman had sent her into the past. Wes was everything she ever wanted in a man. Friend, lover and partner, all rolled into one. Well, except for his insistence that she not work. Yet he filled so many empty spots in her, and his integrity eased her fears of abandonment and philandering. Wes was strong where she was weak, and unsure of himself where she was strong. Together they were complete.
The short walk to the newspaper office cleared her mind, the nods and smiles from the townspeople brightening her spirits. Until one of them asked after Wes. Then it was as if a cloud had passed over the sun, leaving her chilled and fearful once again.
It took her a minute to adjust to the dimness of the small office once she entered from the bright sunlight. The smell of printer’s ink and paper filled the small space. A man, much younger than she would have imagined, sat behind a desk, writing furiously. An older man, with dark blue bands holding up the sleeves of his striped shirt, wore a green visor on his head, and plucked letters from cubbyholes in front of him at an amazing speed. She stood transfixed for a moment as he quickly set the type for the next edition of ‘The Denton Times.’
Anna approached the desk and the young man glanced up. “May I help you?”
“Yes. Are you the editor?”
He laid his pencil down and raised his chin, leaning back in his chair. “David Penders, Senior Editor.”
Since there were only two men in the room with no other desk, the emphasis on his ‘title’ amused her. “Then you’re the person I want to speak with.”
He waved his hand in the direction of a wooden chair next to his desk. “Have a seat. Miss . . .”
“Mrs. Anna Shannon.”
“The marshal’s wife?”
She sighed. Maybe she’d always have a hard time being identified as someone’s wife. And one day probably someone’s mother. That thought caused a fluttering in her belly. She might already be pregnant. Too soon to tell, though. And with no little white stick to pee on, she’d have to discover it the old fashioned way—time.
Pushing her wandering thoughts aside, she replied, “Yes. I’m the marshal’s wife.” She leaned forward and placed her papers on the desk. “I’ve written an article on women’s rights that I thought your newspaper might be interested in printing.”
Mr. Penders sat up abruptly, his eyes shining. “Women’s rights?”
Now it was her turn to raise her chin. “Yes. Is there something wrong with that, sir?”
He shook his head. “Not at all. That is exactly what this town needs to move things into the future. I took this job a few weeks ago. Came out from Boston. I can’t believe how backward these people are.”
She swallowed a chuckle. You should see them through my eyes.
Anna inched the papers closer to him. “Here’s my article.”
Mr. Penders pushed his glasses further up on his nose and picked up the sheets. His eyes moved back and forth as he read, shuffling from one page to the next, a slow smile on his lips. He laid the packet in front of him. “You’re a troublemaker, Mrs. Shannon.”
She grinned back. “Just ask my husband.”
He folded his hands together and studied her for a minute. “How would you like a job?”
“A job?”
“Yes. As a reporter.”
“You mean my husband hasn’t been to see you?”
He frowned. “I don’t understand.”
She waved him off. “No matter. Yes. I would love a job as a reporter.”
“I want to build this newspaper into more than a town gossip sheet.” He tapped his finger on her article. “This is just the thing to bring some life to the place. You know, back east there are always controversial essays in the papers.”
Anna burned with excitement. She could be on the forefront of the women’s movement. “What are you looking for in the way of a reporter?”
“I probably used the wrong word. I don’t want you to be a reporter as much as a columnist. Write things like you have here. Contentious articles that will stir things up. In the meantime, I’ll run this in today’s edition.” He stood. “Don’t leave yet.”
Mr. Penders turned toward the man flipping little blocks of letters. “Josh, put that aside and find room on the ‘Editor Speaks’ page for our new columnist, Mrs. Shannon.”
“Excuse me.” Anna tapped the editor on the arm. “Can we use my maiden name?”
His eyebrows rose. “Why would we do that?”
“Well, I’m not too sure the marshal will be so happy about this. At least if no one recognizes my name, it will keep the peace.”
“I guess so.” He shrugged. “What name should we use?”
“How about ‘Kay Devlin?’”
Penders glanced at the article. “Didn’t you say your name is Anna?”
“Yes. But Kathryn is my middle name.”
He chuckled. “It’s all right with me. As long as you keep writing articles like this, you can call yourself anything you want to.”
“Thanks.” She stood and gathered her reticule. “How often do you want a column?”
“Every day. I want you to be a big part of the newspaper. Let’s spark a flame here in Denton.” He stuck his hand out and pumped hers, grinning from ear to ear.
Anna left the newspaper office and hurried down the boardwalk, her mind in a whirl. The things she could write about that were so far ahead of this time . . . I could make a name for myself.
Then she stopped abruptly, causing the woman behind her to scoot around, casting her a dirty look. She’d never asked how much the pay was. No matter. She was happy to have a job and to be the voice of the future in 1870s Denton, Kansas. Maybe she would keep this a secret from Wes for a while. A cloud passed over her again at the thought of him off chasing after outlaws, and how soon he would come home.
After several more steps, her attention was drawn to the front of the jailhouse where four horses stood, one of them dancing frantically while Arnold tried to hold onto him. Sweat broke out on her body and her heart dropped to her feet when she realized it was Wes’s horse, and the bundle tied to the skittish horse looked amazingly like a dead body.
Wes!
She raced to the jailhouse, choking on the panic trying to force its way up her throat. The heavy wooden door crashed against the wall as she barreled through it. Wes whipped around, his hand anchored on the arm of a scruffy looking man with his hands tied behind his back. Gulps of air tried to make their way into her lungs, but the little bit she could access wasn’t enough and she sank like a stone to the floor, everything going black.
Wes shoved the outlaw at Jack. “Lock him up.” He reached Anna just as her knees hit the floor. Scooping her limp body in his arms, he carried her to the cot. “Someone get me a glass of water.” He yanked at the strings of her bonnet and eased it off, then o
pened the first few buttons on her dress.
“Anna.” He tapped her cheek, then yelled over his shoulder, “Where’s that water?”
Mose handed him a glass as Wes continued to call to Anna, trying to rouse her. “Honey, wake up.”
Anna’s lids fluttered open, tears sliding down her cheeks. Her eyes sought his and she raised a shaky hand to his face. “I thought you were dead,” she whispered, her chin quivering.
Wes used his knuckle to wipe away the tears. “Nope, darlin’. Not even hurt.”
With both hands pressed against his chest, she pushed him back, glaring through wet eyes. “You scared me to death! Why do you have a dead body strapped to your horse?”
“It’s one of the Mather men. Not sure which one yet. I’m sorry it scared you. Horses don’t like carrying dead bodies, but I knew I could trust Nektosha. I didn’t know you would be outside right at this time.” He smoothed back the damp strands of hair from her forehead.
Anna eased herself up on her elbows. “You know, Marshal, I’ve never fainted before in my life until I met you.”
He held out the glass of water. “Here, drink some of this before you get up.”
Anna took a sip and handed it back. “I’m fine now.” She swung her legs over the side of the cot and stood, stumbling slightly.
“You sure you’re all right?”
“Yes. I think I’ll go on home now.”
Wes cupped her elbow and walked her to the door. “Once I get this all straightened out,” he gestured toward the man shouting from the cell, “I’ll be home.”
Anna nodded and turned to him, rising on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. “I’m glad you’re all in one piece.” She poked him in the chest. “But don’t ever carry a dead body on your horse again.”
Wes returned to his desk and pulled out the ‘wanted’ posters for the Mathers. A quick glance at the man behind the bars confirmed his prisoner was Joe Mather, which meant Billy was dead. And Buck and Noah were still out there, most likely spitting mad at the raid they’d pulled. He shoved the papers back into the drawer and headed outside to join Arnold who was bringing the dead body to the undertaker.
A Tumble Through Time Page 18