This was an operation led by someone with
cojones
the size of a bull’s. Flynn knew that part of the appeal of robbing a riverboat was the notoriety it would gain the group of robbers. It certainly hadn’t been done too many times. With this many men, they could have just boarded, overpowered the crew, taken the gold, and left without ever touching a passenger. Hell, Flynn thought maybe they could have done it without being detected by the majority of the people on board. It would have been a straightforward operation, he decided. Get on board, kill anyone guarding the cargo, and then get out fast. No one would be the wiser if it went smoothly.
But they were gathering up witnesses and making a big scene, moving everyone on the boat around and stirring up trouble. Trouble they may or may not have been able to handle. The plan was full of holes and things that could go wrong, which led Flynn to believe they weren’t merely after the gold. They were after something else as well. The only other thing Flynn could think of was the notoriety that would accompany such a feat.
That meant two things to Flynn. One, they weren’t likely to kill many of the passengers, if any of them at all, because they would want witnesses to spread the story about the robbery. And two, anything they could do to further the brashness of their actions, they would do. Killing a US marshal or two was one thing that would appeal to them. Killing a famous shootist and gambler was yet another.
Flynn thought of Gabriel Rose, a.k.a. Dusty Rose, the Desert Flower, famous gunman, gambler, and grifter, locked up in the broom closet, hurt and without a weapon if anyone found him. The chances of him being found were slim, but it could still happen. They would kill him if someone recognized him. Flynn had already seen that Rose’s face was pretty well known. People recognized him. People tried to kill him.
Flynn had seen it with his own eyes, and he was becoming more and more of the opinion that maybe Rose had only acted in self-defense after all.
He’d seen it plenty of times before; a young kid with stars in his eyes challenged someone with a name and a gun just to make his own name famous. It was possible that Rose was an innocent man. Did Flynn have the right to leave him defenseless like he had? Even if he was guilty of killing those two men in a showdown, did Flynn have the right to decide his fate like this? Because it was very nearly a death sentence if someone found him.
The law don’t work like that, Wash had told him.
Flynn crouched down in the shadows and listened intently to the sounds of the riverboat, indecision flooding him. He’d killed men in battle. He’d escorted men to the gallows. But those were different, weren’t they? It hadn’t been his decision to fight that war. It was never his decision to sentence a man to death. His conscience had always been clear.
After a long moment of silence, he cursed in disgust under his breath and glanced back and forth down the causeway. He then began creeping back the way he had come. If they had as many men as Flynn thought, he would need help. It wasn’t a matter of innocent or guilty, he reasoned with himself, it was simple numbers. He couldn’t take them on alone, not if he planned to win the fight.
He reached the closet door and waited, listening to make certain no one was near. He could hear movement and shouting on the deck below, but there was no one close. Slowly, he pushed open the door. The hinges, constantly attacked by the elements, creaked under the pressure. Flynn stopped, his heart pounding as he listened to the shouts from the deck below getting louder. When they died down again, he shoved the door open and stepped inside, turning quickly to close the door behind him.
He was hit from behind with what he thought might have been a broom. The wooden handle snapped with a crack as it made contact with his head, but he was hit again in the lower back with what remained of the handle, and again in the ribs before he could even react. He turned and grabbed at it, trying to stop the next swing before it hit him in the head again.
Rose held the broom’s handle with his one free hand, his grip shockingly strong as Flynn grappled with him in the confined space. Neither man made a sound above a grunt or huff as they struggled, until Flynn finally gasped, “Rose! It’s me!”
Rose tugged on the broom handle one last time and then ceased his struggles. He calmed in the darkness and Flynn warily let the broom handle go. Rose raised it quickly and whacked him one last time. “I know it’s you!” he hissed. “Bastard!”
“Son of a bitch!” Flynn gasped. He grabbed for the broom handle and tossed it against the wall with a muffled curse.
“Shh!” Rose chastised angrily.
“You shh.”
“You left me!” Rose accused, heedless of his own advice. He swung at Flynn again, hitting him with his bare hand this time. Flynn shielded himself and cowered against the door as Rose swiped at him.
“Quit hittin’!” Flynn snapped. “I come back for you, didn’t I? Calm yourself!”
“Calm myself? Go fuck yourself!” Rose practically shouted.
Flynn pounced on him and clapped his hand over his mouth. They tumbled to the ground awkwardly, since Rose’s hand was still attached to the wooden shelves, and Flynn used his weight to restrain him after they landed.
“I’m sorry, all right?” he whispered as Rose struggled weakly beneath him. “I’m sorry I left you, but I seen I was wrong and I come back for you, see? I was wrong to do it.”
Rose snorted against Flynn’s hand and stopped struggling, his black eyes glittering up at Flynn in the near darkness. Flynn slowly removed his hand and Rose glared at him silently.
“Good,” Flynn whispered as a loud bang sounded just below them. They both jumped and Rose shifted, yanking against the irons restlessly. “Now,” Flynn breathed in the eerie silence that settled after the loud sounds, “if we want to see sunrise, we’re going to have to work together. Can I trust you?”
“Trust me?” Rose repeated, his voice incredulous. He yanked at the chain again and narrowed his eyes. “I think the question is: Can I trust you? I’ve not been convicted yet. You tie me up somewhere and leave me to be found, it’s as good as a hangman’s noose!”
“I know. I said I was sorry, all right? Now give me your word,” Flynn demanded.
Rose stared at him stubbornly, jaw set. “Fine,” he finally grunted. “You’ve got my word I won’t handcuff you to a blasted piece of furniture and run off to frolic by myself. Now, let me loose.”
“Rose,” Flynn warned in a growl.
“What do you think they’re going to do, Marshal!” Rose hissed urgently. “A US deputy marshal and a prisoner who refuses to speak when they question him? They won’t believe Cage can’t talk! They’ll kill them both and be done with it! They may have done already, so let me loose and let me help you!”
Flynn stared down at him for a long moment, the truth of his words sinking in with a sickening lurch. He nodded and retrieved the key, unlocking Rose carefully.
“What did you find?” Rose demanded as he shook off the irons and stood with difficulty. His side was caked in dried blood, but he didn’t seem to be favoring it much any longer, even after their little tussle. He bent and picked the handcuffs up again, clutching them in his fist.
“There’s a lot of action below us,” Flynn answered grimly. “I didn’t get much further ’fore my conscience caught up to me.”
“All right, then. We need to reconnoiter,” Rose said as he pointed to the door.
“We need to what?” Flynn asked flatly.
“We need to take a gander at the works, Marshal, have a look-see at the enemy,” Rose clarified wryly, his accent flattening until it sounded almost like Flynn’s. He shoved at him and reached for the door handle, the hand irons jangling in his fist.
“Well, why didn’t you just say that, then?” Flynn muttered as they listened at the door and then carefully exited the closet.
“Americans,” Rose grumbled.
C
AGE
stood out in the hallway with Bat Stringer as their escorts pointed the big man to the cabin Cage and Wash had been sharing. Stringer gave Cage a shove and roughly pushed him into the cabin ahead of him. Cage stumbled, but caught himself before he could run into anything.
Stringer stalked in after him and looked around, frowning as he surveyed the cabin’s interior. Cage could clearly see the chain still connected to one side of the cabin’s berth and the marshal’s badge sitting on the side of the water basin where Wash had set it after washing his face.
And so could Stringer.
Stringer stepped over to the basin and picked up the piece of round metal. Cage had never looked at one too closely, and they were all different depending on what town you were in and which territory had deputized the man wearing it. Most of them were carved out of coins because the government didn’t actually issue them. This was one of those badges, made from a silver Morgan Dollar. It was a simple circle, about one and a half inches wide, with a marshal’s star cut out of the center, connecting the circle with its points.
Stringer palmed it and turned deliberately to look at Cage, shoving the badge into one of his pockets. “Did you go and turn marshal on me, Cage?” he asked quietly.
Cage stared at him and fought back the urge to make a rude gesture. Stringer had known him well enough to understand almost everything he tried to communicate; he would definitely understand those.
Stringer stepped closer to him and snagged his hand. Cage wrenched it away and shoved at him, but Stringer grabbed his wrist again and yanked him forward, then slammed him against the wall of the cabin. Cage was a big man, but Stringer was bigger, and his strength worked to his advantage. It always had. The gun at his hip didn’t hurt either.
Stringer held Cage’s forearm and looked at his wrist, which was bruised and chafed from the hand irons. Stringer’s eyes moved up to meet Cage’s and he smirked. “Finally got yourself caught, did you?” he asked tauntingly, flawlessly understanding the clues he’d gleaned.
Cage yanked away from him and pushed at him, snorting hard through his nose in anger. The men who’d accompanied them moved restlessly, hands on their guns. Stringer waved them off, though.
“Well, we’ll take care of that,” he murmured gleefully as he stepped right back up to Cage, crowding him against the wall. “One bullet to that marshal’s head and you’re a free man again.”
Cage shook his head furtively, hating himself for pleading with a man he had grown to despise. But he knew what Stringer was doing, and playing into it a little wouldn’t hurt anything but Cage’s pride.
“No?” Stringer asked mockingly. “Why not, Cage, you got a thing for the bull? You sure were sharing a bed with him.”
Cage clenched his jaw and shook his head again.
“I didn’t peg him as the type you liked,” Stringer murmured, so low only the two of them could hear him. Stringer stepped closer, trapping Cage against the wall of the cabin. Cage reached up and put a warning hand on his chest. Stringer ignored it and pressed closer, placing his hand on the wall beside Cage’s head. He tapped his fingers against the wall and Cage glanced over at his hand. He looked pointedly at the missing finger of Stringer’s hand and then back to meet his eyes, letting the corner of his mouth curve into a smirk.
“I owe you for that,” Stringer growled, reading even the smallest of Cage’s gestures correctly. “Before the night’s over, I promise you,” he murmured in an oddly intimate voice, “you’ll be missing a lot more than your fingers.”
Cage snarled at him and shoved him, only to be backhanded again and pushed into the wall harder. He licked his bleeding lip and hostilely met Stringer’s eyes. Stringer stepped into him and kissed him roughly. Cage was still for a moment as memories of an old life assaulted him, but then he jerked his head to the side and shoved at Stringer again. His hand moved quickly at Stringer’s belt, searching for a hidden knife or some other type of weapon he might be able to pocket.
Stringer merely laughed at him, pressing their bodies closer.
“What’s wrong, Cage? I don’t hear you complainin’,” Stringer taunted in the same intimate murmur.
Cage gritted his teeth, ready to take more violent steps to stop Stringer before he went further.
“Caporal!” one of the men called breathlessly from outside the cabin.
Stringer met Cage’s eyes for a long moment and then smirked as he stepped away from him. He moved well out of Cage’s reach before glancing toward the door, obviously conscious of how dangerous Cage still was when cornered.
Cage took advantage of the distraction and slid the badge he’d lifted into the pocket of his new trousers. What good it would do him he didn’t know, but it was something.
“What?” Stringer demanded in exasperation when the man who had addressed him didn’t continue.
“Ed run into some trouble upstairs,” the man stuttered, panting as if he had sprinted to find his boss.
Cage’s heart jumped into his throat as hope and dread assailed him all at once. Gabriel and Flynn had been upstairs. Could they be the trouble the man was talking about? Gabriel could certainly make enough trouble if he wanted to.
“What kind of trouble?” Stringer questioned, frowning heavily and taking a step toward the door.
“Someone got away,” the man in the hallway answered with an almost audible shrug.
Stringer’s brow furrowed more and Cage could see the beginnings of a fit of temper forming. Stringer had good control of his temper, usually, but when he lost it there was hell to pay. That had always been one of Cage’s biggest issues with Stringer; he didn’t like hiccups in a plan and could rarely deal with them effectively.
“Where’s Ed?” Stringer demanded through gritted teeth.
“Got his face smashed in,” the man outside answered.
Stringer stood stock still for a long moment, fuming. Cage watched him, back still pressed against the wall, wondering if he would forget his presence altogether with this new problem arising. That, however, was too much to hope for. Stringer reached out and took him by his elbow, jerking him forward and shoving him out of the cabin ahead of him.
“Take me there,” he demanded of his man, gripping Cage’s elbow so tightly that Cage could practically feel his bones protesting.