Flynn pointed for Cage to go join him, and he watched as the big man shuffled over to the wagon obediently. Rose’s eyes followed him, and as Cage sat beside him, their shoulders touched and they were both smiling.
Flynn scowled at them. He couldn’t help but get the feeling that he and Wash had been bamboozled somehow. Rose didn’t seem at all put out over his escape attempt being foiled, nor did he seem upset that he had dragged Cage into deeper trouble. It made Flynn uneasy.
“Sourpuss,” Wash murmured to him from behind.
Flynn actually jumped. He turned around and smacked his friend in the arm for startling him. “Don’t sneak up on a man with a gun.”
“Ow!” Wash cried, but he was laughing as he rubbed at his bad shoulder.
“Sorry!” Flynn winced and placed a hand on Wash’s injured shoulder. “Sorry,” he repeated sincerely. “Keep forgetting.”
“Yeah, I barely know it’s there,” Wash replied wryly. He looked back at Rose and Cage. “Getting irritated at Rose is like barking at a knot, friend. He don’t care, and he likes it that way.”
“Yeah, I know,” Flynn acknowledged with another disgruntled glance at their two prisoners. He kept his hand on Wash’s shoulder.
“They really bother you that much?” Wash asked Flynn bemusedly as he continued to rub at his shoulder. His fingers brushed over Flynn’s inadvertently.
Flynn yanked his hand away and rubbed his fingers over his mouth and chin nervously. “No,” he insisted uncomfortably.
Wash raised a disbelieving eyebrow as he watched the movement of Flynn’s hand. He shook his head. “Let’s get them settled,” he suggested softly as he brushed by Flynn and headed over to the wagon. “I want to get them in the cabins before the other passengers start boarding.”
Flynn closed his eyes and jerked his head to the side irritably. When he opened his eyes again, he found Rose watching him with a small smirk as Wash unlocked his hands from the wagon. Flynn glared at the man briefly before looking away. He pondered the soldiers laboring with their mysterious crates until he could wrangle in his temper.
He had gotten twitchy around Wash lately, and it was all Gabriel Rose’s damn fault. Flynn didn’t know why or how exactly, but he was sure it was.
“That dog ain’t coming, Rose,” Wash was saying sternly when Flynn finally looked back over at them.
“But he can’t swim to New Orleans,” Rose protested in all earnestness.
From what Flynn had seen of the dog’s loyalty, Rose was probably legitimately worried that the mutt would try it.
“Tell him to stay here, then,” Wash told him sensibly.
Rose stared at Wash mutinously for a moment, then his shoulders slumped and he sighed heavily. Flynn watched with the barest hint of sympathy as Rose turned to the dog and pointed for him to go away.
“If you want to go downriver, you have to walk,” Rose said to the dog. “No swimming, you understand? Now, go on.” Koda sat and stared up at him adoringly, completely ignoring the order. “Go on,” Rose repeated. The dog whined and lowered its head, looking up at Rose expectantly. Rose pointed again and the dog slowly turned away, slinking off and whining as he went.
Rose watched him go, then turned to Wash and raised his chin. For a man who had seemed to worry overly much about the dog, he didn’t strike Flynn as being all too upset about finally sending him away. Flynn would have put up more of a fight for his horse, let alone a constant companion like that mutt. He was sure it wasn’t a question of Rose’s character, either. He obviously thought he would see the dog again soon enough. The thought raised the hackles on the back of Flynn’s neck, wondering what Rose had planned for the trip downriver.
He reminded himself to remain suspicious and wary of the Englishman until he was no longer Flynn’s responsibility. It was too easy to be drawn into his charismatic personality and forget that he was a very capable shootist and a clever grifter. Wash had almost fallen for it at the hotel, being convinced to leave them alone.
It had surprised Flynn to discover in the aftermath of that fiasco that Wash was a bit of a romantic. He would never have guessed that before this morning. Flynn watched his fellow marshal with a feeling of what might have been longing as Wash rearranged Cage’s chains and then gathered Rose’s duffel bag. He unceremoniously dumped the heavy bag in Rose’s hands. Flynn looked away again before Wash could catch him watching.
Wash gestured for Rose and Cage to head up the gangplank toward the wooden dock and Flynn. Flynn cleared his throat and turned his head to watch them as they made their way to him.
“You ever play poker, Marshal Flynn?” Rose drawled quietly as he neared where Flynn stood at the foot of the landing stage. His voice was laced with sarcasm and amusement. “Your bluff is highly impressive.”
Flynn glared after him as he passed by, but said nothing. He refused to let Rose draw him into any discussion even remotely related to his emotions.
Cage followed Rose and glanced at Flynn as he passed him, the look in his eyes close to pity as he made eye contact briefly.
“Shut up,” Flynn grumbled to him as he took the man’s elbow and fell in beside him.
Cage bit his lip, presumably to keep from smiling, and lowered his head.
Flynn glanced over at the man. He shook his head and looked down at the stained oilskin clothing Cage wore. He stopped short and tugged at Cage’s elbow to stop him as they headed up the gangplanks of the landing stage to the steamer.
Cage looked at him worriedly, as if expecting him to change their plans at the last minute, but he stood there obediently waiting for Flynn to speak.
“Hey, Wash,” Flynn called. Wash and Rose turned to look back down at them. “We should get him some new duds if we’re going for laying in the grass,” Flynn suggested as he waved his free hand at Cage. The big Army scout would be very out of place aboard the steamer if he was still wearing these clothes. “He’s going to stick out like a damn sore thumb in these.”
Wash scowled and cocked his head at Cage critically. “You might just be right,” he agreed unhappily. “But we used all our folding money on the passage. What do you want to do, commandeer trousers and boots for him?”
“I wouldn’t be averse to bending an elbow in the saloon while you gents talk this over,” Rose drawled as he squinted up at the sun, as if judging the time.
“Shut up,” Wash and Flynn responded in unison without even looking at the man.
“He’s too big to borrow any of our duds,” Flynn continued to argue. It wasn’t like they had an overabundance of spare clothing anyway.
“I ain’t saying he don’t need new clothes, Flynn, I’m just waiting to hear how you intend to get them,” Wash said patiently.
“If I may,” Rose interjected as he raised one slender finger to get their attention.
“Shut up!” Flynn huffed at him in annoyance. “Maybe we can open a line of credit at the Emporium,” he suggested to Wash with a frown. “Let the government pick up the tab.”
“St. Louis is a lot rougher than it was last time you was here, Flynn,” Wash informed him with a shake of his head. “They don’t take credit from strangers no more, no matter if they’re wearing badges.”
“Marshals?” Rose said as he stepped forward. They both looked at him in irritation. “May I remind you that you have at your convenience a fairly adept player of cards?” he asked them politely. “Perhaps we could take a short bypass to the saloon and I could acquire us additional funds?”
The two marshals stared at him expressionlessly for a moment before looking at each other blankly. Wash finally raised an eyebrow and pursed his lips.
“No,” Flynn said with a shake of his head.
“But
—
”
“Wash, you can’t really be considering
—
”
“I don’t see the harm in it,” Wash interrupted with a shrug. “He knows next time he tries to escape I plan to shoot him, so he won’t try nothing.”
“He’s quite right,” Rose muttered as he rubbed the side of his head. “Besides, Cage needs new clothing and I’m wholly willing to assist,” he added with what seemed like sincerity.
Flynn glared at Rose, trying to see the truth in the words. He was leaning toward believing the man, just this once. He did seem to genuinely care about Cage, to the point that Flynn was now almost positive he had engineered his attempted escape with the express purpose of having Cage charged with helping him. It was entirely possible he’d known if they charged Cage with the crime he’d have to make the trip to New Orleans with them. It made Flynn nervous to think they’d given Rose what he’d wanted.
As wary as he remained about giving Gabriel Rose his head, though, he was also curious. He wanted to see if Rose was as good at the tables as the stories claimed. But he was not about to let his own curiosity cloud his judgment as a lawman.
He shook his head as he met Wash’s eyes. Wash shrugged carelessly. “We’ll see if maybe we can find a place that’ll deal with us on good faith,” he suggested as he took Rose’s arm and began walking back down the gangplank.
Rose sighed heavily and shook his head. “I suppose we could just use
my
line of credit,” he suggested in a slow drawl, as if that option had been an afterthought.
Flynn turned and glared at him.
Rose shrugged innocently. “Perhaps I could even find a new hat,” he mused.
“You’re getting a new hat when you jump out that window after your old one,” Wash told him irritably.
Flynn breathed deeply and looked away, resisting the urge to knock Rose into the river. He remembered hearing that Rose’s family back East had been wealthy. What was the harm in letting him use his own money? It was no skin off their noses.
Flynn sighed and rubbed his face in irritation. “Let’s get this over with, then,” he muttered as he tugged at his silent prisoner’s elbow. “Come on, Cage. We’ll find you something nice and expensive to put on Rose’s tab,” he said with relish as they headed back down the gangplank.
C
AGE
stood back with Flynn, watching with amusement as Gabriel dragged Wash all over the Emporium in search of proper clothing. Cage could appreciate a nice new set of clothes, but he wasn’t what one would call fussy. As long as it fit, he didn’t much care what it looked like.
Gabriel, obviously, had a different view on the matter.
Flynn sighed heavily and restlessly shifted his weight. Cage glanced over at him apologetically, his fingers finding the chain between his hand irons and playing with it nervously.
“Ain’t your fault,” Flynn muttered to him.
Cage snorted quietly. They’d had him measured, an awkward process when the tailor was frightened of the two prisoners and trying to work around the chain that bound Cage’s hands. But of course they didn’t have time to order clothes made for him, and parcels bought off the shelves weren’t going to fit as well as anything tailored. Cage didn’t much care if his clothing came off a shelf, considering he’d been wearing garments he himself had constructed for months, but Gabriel insisted it would make the marshal’s lives easier if Cage looked respectable, and off he’d gone with Cage’s measurements to find pieces he thought suitable.
Cage’s eyes sought him out again, and found Gabriel with Wash at his side, arguing over something on the shelf in front of them. Cage couldn’t tell what it was, but he almost hoped the sensible marshal would win the argument. There was no telling what Gabriel would dress him in if they allowed him to do as he pleased.
“You’re gonna end up in evening dress and ascot,” Flynn said wryly under his breath.
Cage nodded at the mention of an ascot, and he turned to point at Gabriel and Wash. Then he gestured to his neck. Neckwear was probably what they were arguing over. Gabriel would try to get an ascot for him, that was certainly his style, but they usually had to be worn with a stickpin. Cage was surprised that the marshals hadn’t confiscated Gabriel’s stickpin when they first picked him up.
“They’re looking at choke straps, fighting over the stickpin,” Flynn agreed as he looked at Cage with a small smile. “Let’s go hurry this along.”
Cage trailed after him, and was both amused and exasperated to find that they’d been right. Wash and Gabriel were arguing over ties, and even as they approached Wash reached to Gabriel’s neck and pulled the stickpin out of his collar.
Gabriel huffed at him indignantly. “What damage could he possibly do with a stickpin?” he asked Wash as he reached up and yanked at the limp ascot around his neck. He waved it accusingly, as if Wash actually cared that he was less dapper without it.
“
He
might not do any damage with it, but I don’t trust
you
any further than I can throw you,” Wash responded with an easy smile as he waved the stickpin and slid it into the pocket of his vest. “Now pick out a four-in-hand or he’ll go without.”
Gabriel huffed at him and turned back to the shelf where a scant few ties were on display. He looked at the more ordinary ties for a moment, his fingers idly messing with the ascot in his hands, before his eyes drifted to look over the display shelf and he suddenly inhaled sharply and ducked his head to hide behind the free-standing shelf.
“What in the Sam Hill are you doing?” Flynn demanded between gritted teeth. He calmly pushed his jacket back to make the butt of his gun easier to reach. “Get up!”
Cage frowned down at Gabriel in confusion as the man shook his head and knelt on the ground, putting a finger to his lips to shush Flynn. Cage glanced over the display but saw nothing to be alarmed over; just a man in a gray suit, browsing through the rack of dime novels on the far wall. Cage met Wash’s eyes and shrugged in confusion. The imperturbable marshal shrugged back.
“That man over there,” Gabriel whispered to them, pointing over the display. “He tried to kill me once!”
“Shocking,” Wash said wryly.
“He did!”
“Only once?” Flynn asked, his voice taking on the same tone as Wash’s had.
“This is not a joking matter,” Gabriel said as he squatted on the floor at their feet. He put the ascot over his head, as if he could disguise himself with it. “Go over there and arrest him or… something. Oh! Let me shoot him!”